leash, and within minutes, found Belding himself, shot through the base of his skull. A bullet through the central nervous system—dead before he hit the ground.
At noon a courier delivered a registered letter to five major media outlets. Inside the envelope were two sheets of paper. One was another page from Helter Skelter. The other was a letter in which the killer claimed to be the son of Charles Manson.
During the next few hours, every so-called expert the news station could drag out of his lead-lined nuclear-bomb/alien-invasion/Ebola-outbreak underground shelter got his fifteen seconds of fame. We listened to a few of them spout paranoia, then Evelyn started turning down the volume.
Jack lifted a hand to stop her.
Evelyn arched her brows. “What? Don’t tell me you’re buying this son-of-Manson shit.”
“There’s more.” Jack crouched beside the TV set and hit the channel button. Static fuzz filled the screen.
“It’s satellite,” Evelyn said, waving the remote. “In the twenty-first century, we use these. What channel do you want?”
“Just flip through. Look for breaking news.” He checked his watch and frowned. “Surprised it’s not on yet. Leaked two hours ago.”
“What leaked?” I asked.
“No idea. Heard about the letter, called Felix. Quinn said something—”
“Wait!” I’d caught a glimpse of the scrolling text that always accompanied breaking news. “Go back. No…one more. There!”
Evelyn stopped on two dour news anchors. Middle-aged news anchors. Never a good sign. When a network wants a report taken seriously, they always pick bleak and Brylcreemed over bouncy and blond.
“The FBI are refusing to comment, but a source within the department claims that completed DNA analysis on the hair found at the second murder…”
“Hair?” Evelyn cut in. “What hair?”
Jack shook his head and waved her to silence. The announcer droned on, regurgitating the details of the second Helter Skelter murder for all those hermits making their annual pilgrimage into town to get the latest news.
“As for that test, the results apparently confirm that the Helter Skelter killer is, as claimed in his letter, a close blood relative of notorious murderer Charles Manson, who is currently being held…”
Jack shook his head. “Fuck. Thought it was a hoax.”
“What about this hair?” Evelyn said, cranking the volume. “Where did they find a hair?”
The announcer ignored Evelyn and proceeded to ensure that all those hermits knew who Manson was before continuing.
“We take you now to our regional bureau, where reporter Angela Fry is interviewing Dr. Frederick P. Myers, a leading Manson expert—”
“Screw this,” Evelyn said, tossing down the remote. She crossed the room and turned on her computer. “Let’s find out more about this hair.”
The hair had come from a piece of duct tape used on the second victim. An arm hair. The tape had presumably brushed against the killer’s arm.
As for what evidence the FBI could gain from a single arm hair, well, I bet they’d sweated over that themselves for a while. Limb hairs aren’t the most studied source of evidence, and with only one, the results are often inconclusive. They could tell whether it was human or animal, where on the body it came from and whether it had fallen out or been pulled. The big question, though, would be whether they could get DNA evidence from it, but they obviously had.
Once we’d cleared up the hair mystery, I suggested we find that letter. It was probably pure bullshit, but it wouldn’t hurt to see what the killer had to say. We located it on a media Web site.
The letter began without an opening salutation.
You call me the Helter Skelter killer. That name comes from the pages I’ve been leaving, but let me assure you there is nothing “helter skelter” about my methods, as you may have determined. I chose that book not for the title, but for a deeper, more personal reason. My father, Charles Manson, had a vision. My goal was to take that vision to a new level, which I believe I have accomplished. I am now willing to end the killings, in return for a small favor.
It ended there. Evelyn checked copies posted on a few other sites, but they were all the same—stopping before he made his demand.
“He’s playing with us,” I said. “With everyone. Claiming to be related to Manson. Nattering on about taking his vision to a new level. Making unspecified demands. He said just enough to stir up speculation and panic.”
“What’d you find?” Jack asked.
“Huh?”
“Today. Earlier.” He flicked off the television. “Forget this. He wants people to panic? Fine. Doesn’t work on us.”