Parker 02 - The Guilty (22 page)

"What you're saying is, this killer is using Billy the Kid's

old gun--as in
the
Billy the Kid--shoot-'em-up Billy the

Kid--to kill people in New York City."

"Not just random people. He's got a motive, a pattern.

The killer has some sort of connection to either the gun

itself or the Kid."

Hillerman cocked his head and looked at Wallace. The

editor-in-chief hadn't said a word in minutes. Wallace was

between a rock and a hard place: attempting to keep control

of his paper while having to account for his reporter being

eviscerated in articles by their biggest competitor.

"Wallace," Hillerman said. "What do you think?"

Wallace seemed to come to life. "We've already gotten

three calls from Louis Carruthers's office about Jack's ballistics article. Apparently they knew about the similarities

and were hoping to withhold information until further notice."

"But you're saying Henry beat them to the punch."

"That's right."

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187

"And this new information, the possible link between the

killer and the Kid, what have you heard on that?"

"Complete silence from the NYPD," Wallace said. "And

they haven't been silent about anything."

"Which likely means they weren't aware of it," Hillerman

added.

"That's right."

Hillerman again leaned back in his chair, gnawed on the

end of his stogie, then threw the soggy mess into a trash can.

"Here's what we do." His voice was angry, passionate. My

heart was beating faster, my resolve growing stronger. "We

report the living hell out of this story. Henry," he said, "I want

you to chase this down like a goddamn shark smelling blood. I

want you to get Lou Carruthers's office on the line and get the

NYPD's cooperation. Since you seem to have scooped them on

this, they'll give you a big wet one in return for the intel. I want

copy for tomorrow's national edition about both the stolen Winchester and link to Billy the Kid. Just imply there might be a relationship, I don't want anyone jumping to conclusions, but we

need your museum manager to go on the record. You got me?"

"Absolutely," I said.

"Right. Parker, get yourself home and clean up. You look

like you just got mugged in the Gobi desert or something. Hell

of a fucking job, Henry."

"What about Paulina Cole's story?" I asked.

"Fuck Cole," Hillerman said. "Good, honest, unbiased reporting beats out tabloid bullshit any day of the week. You

give our readers something new about this case the
Dispatch

doesn't have, Paulina can pen hatchet jobs until her cooch

defrosts, we'll sell more newspapers. Now get to work."

Wallace and I were out the door before he could fish out

another cigar.

29

I got out of the subway and walked toward my apartment.

The last hour had been a whirlwind of debriefing, notes jotted

down with the penmanship of someone born without opposable thumbs, and the sketches for what I knew would be

a terrific and stunning article.

Jack filled me in on David Loverne's murder, which was

nearly unbearable to listen to. I had to distance myself, look at

the situation objectively, try not to think that the murdered man

we were discussing had once hugged me, shook my hand, even

told me he expected great things from me. Had things turned

out differently, the man might have been my father-in-law.

I tried not to think about how it would leave Mya without

a father.

I tried not to think about Paulina's article, written before

Loverne's death. The two had to be related. I was still stunned

by the audacity and hatred steaming from Paulina's article, but

Wallace assured me that I would face no repercussions from

Gazette
management, and if need be they would defend me,

publicly. I declined. They'd done enough of that already. After

the debriefings, Wallace and I met with the
Gazette'
s legal

team to draft a response for any reporters looking for a quote.

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189

The letter was brief. It said that Paulina's story was careless

and inflammatory, and any more attempts by this allegedly

balanced news organization to libel without facts would be

met with legal reprimands from the
Gazette,
and moral reprimands from readers who wouldn't tolerate muckraking.

That part was BS. Readers
loved
muckraking and, as much

as it pained us, we knew Paulina's article would sell newspapers.

The details of David Loverne's murder were gruesome in

both their brutality and efficiency.

After Paulina's story ran in the
Dispatch,
in which she

alleged that Loverne's history of infidelity would soon come

to light, the press corps descended on the man's apartment

building eager to take photographs of drawn curtains, berate

cleaning ladies and doormen, and try to scrape up the scraps

Paulina had left under the table. When a person was accused

of wrongdoing, people didn't try very hard to photograph

their good side.

Around five o'clock, Loverne left to attend a previously

scheduled fund-raiser. He was swarmed by dozens of reporters. In what would be viewed as a colossal blunder, Loverne

had no private security, and the elderly doorman was easily

overmatched. As Loverne attempted to push his way through,

a lone rifle shot shattered the commotion, blood splashed

against the glass doors, and David Loverne died.

The photographers spent their entire rolls shooting Loverne's body, the blood pouring from his chest, as well as the

rooftop where it seemed the shot had come from. Several photographers even tried to bully their way into that very building

to either catch the culprit or take photographs of the crime

scene before the police arrived. Thankfully that doorman was

a former cop, realized what was going on and locked the doors.

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Jason Pinter

The shooter was long gone. But by the time the police

arrived, hundreds of photos of Loverne's body were circulating among newsrooms, tabloids and the Internet.

I called Curt Sheffield to get the lowdown. He told me one

of the investigating officers mentioned that another note had

been left by the killer, but it was being kept quieter than a

mouse fart. He didn't find it amusing when I asked him if he

could hold a megaphone to the mouse's ass to hear it better.

"Doesn't matter if I tell you," Curt said. "Guy's as vague

as my little sister when I ask her how a date went."

"He didn't leave a note with Jeffrey Lourdes. Now he

changes his tune and leaves one with David Loverne. This is

my ex's
father,
man, cough it up."

"Again," Curt said, "you use this before it's made public,

I'll string you up to a lamppost. The note was just one line.

It read, 'Because I had the power.' That's it."

"'Because I had the power'? That's pretty vague. What's

it mean?"

"You're the reporter," Curt replied. "You ask me, this guy's

been watching too much David Lynch."

As soon as I hung up with Curt, I did a search for that

quote, only adding "William H. Bonney" to the search field.

What came back was most certainly not vague.

In 1878, corrupt sheriff William Brady arrested Billy the

Kid under the auspices of helping the Kid arrest John

Tunstall's killers. When a reporter asked the lawman why he

would arrest Bonney, a seemingly innocent man, Brady

replied simply, "Because I had the power."

The connection was no longer a secret. This killer wanted us

to know he had a foot in the past. The notes and public executions were garnering more media attention than anything I'd seen

since coming to the city. Only not exactly in the way I expected.

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191

The country was captivated by these murders, and the obsession had grown with every shot. Internet sites receiving

millions of hits a day were all but praising the murderer.

Paradis, many said, was single-handedly responsible for the

downfall of popular culture, and, many said, morals and

ethics, as well. David Loverne had long claimed to uphold traditional family values, only in reality he had more sexual

partners than the average Mormon. Mayor Perez--the

intended target--another empty suit full of insincere

promises. Jeffrey Lourdes, once a respected visionary, had

been reduced to common gossip and smut peddler.

I couldn't believe these attitudes were so prevalent, that

murder was being looked at by some as a reasonable means

to an end. But they were. Somehow the man destroying lives

was actually
endearing
himself to the public, by eliminating

those deemed to be making our society ill. When I read those

articles, shook my head at the stories, I knew what the link

was. Why the man was killing who he did.

He was an avenger. A Regulator. Killing those who needed

to be killed for the greater good.

Could there really be such a large portion of the population convinced that these murders were a
good
thing? Was it

just cynical ghouls who would never know what it was like

to lose a daughter, a father, a husband? That the person committing these crimes was not someone to erect a statue for,

but rather a gallows?

I thought about Rex. Something was still troubling me

about our conversation, but in my rush to return to New York

I hadn't been able to follow up. Before I left, he mentioned

a name. Brushy Bill. It sounded familiar for some reason, and

I made a mental note to follow up with Rex later on. I had a

full night ahead of me. I wondered when Amanda would be

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Jason Pinter

home. I missed talking to her, and hoped to God that everything Jack told me the other day could be chalked up to the

ramblings of an old, lonely man. That just because he was

going to die alone didn't mean I would. Amanda had saved

my life; was my life. And I wouldn't give that up without one

hell of a fight.

But then I rounded the corner to my apartment and saw the

one thing I never expected to see. I stopped on a dime. Couldn't

move. I didn't know what to do or what to say. Whether to go

forward and confront it, or to turn and run. The anger inside

me rose up, threatened to consume everything, but her tears,

the misery etched on her face, they drowned it all out.

So when I saw Mya Loverne standing alone in front of my

building, wearing an old sweatshirt, her eyes bleary and red

from crying, I didn't know whether to scream at her, or to

gather her in my arms and tell her everything would be all

right. Like I should have done the night she got hurt. Like I

hadn't done for her since.

"Henry," she sobbed, taking a tentative step toward me. I

couldn't move. All I could do was stare at the woman who'd

shared my bed so many nights, whose hand I'd held and

caressed, who just the other day had thrown me under a bus

driven by Paulina Cole. A girl who had just lost her father to

a heartless monster. I didn't know what to say to this girl. But

then I found myself taking a step forward.

"Henry," she said again, the sobs now racking her small

body. Mya looked like she'd lost at least twenty pounds since

I'd last seen her, and she was a slim girl to begin with. She

looked malnourished, pale, like she had given up on herself.

"Henry, I didn't mean to. I didn't mean to say all those things,

they just happened. Henry, I'm so sorry. Please, my father, I

don't know what to do."

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193

My heart broke as I watched this, this shell of my former

love. I took another step toward her, and she did the same.

"My dad," she cried, her voice interrupted by staccato sobs,

"my dad was
killed.
Oh God, Henry, please say something."

I took another step. I could feel her breath, caught the faint

whiff of perfume sprayed on long ago and never washed off.

Her hair was a ragged mess, her eyes streaked and bloodshot.

"Mya, I'm so sorry for your father...I...he was a good

person."

"I
know
he was good," she shouted. "So why did he have to

die?" She came toward me, didn't hesitate, and suddenly Mya

was leaning against my chest. Not in an embrace, but for support.

There was no strength in her. If I moved she would collapse.

But I didn't move. I couldn't.

"Mya, I'm going to find this guy. I promise. I'm sorry for

everything I've done, everything I did."

She looked up at me. Her eyes blinked twice. She sniffed.

"You told me you would always be there for me," she said.

My stomach burned as I drew in a breath. Then her eyes

opened, I saw a fire in them, as she pounded her fists against

my chest and screamed, "Where were you, Henry? Where

were you when I lost everything? When my fucking father

died?
Where have you been?
"

She brought her fists down on my chest, punching me with