Authors: Teri Riggs
“Nah, it wasn’t you. You were just a tiny thing, walking around with your eyes swollen and red-rimmed, looking for your father, refusing to believe he was gone.”
“You make me sound so pitiful.” “You were back then.”
“I remember the media camped out on our front lawn for days. At the church before the funeral, and afterwards at the cemetery. When a reporter stuck a microphone in my face, you shoved him away. After he got in my face a second time, you punched him.”
“Yeah, I laid him out cold, even with my shoulder in a sling.”
“It took two officers to get you off of him before they hauled your ass away in a squad car.”
She could see it all like it’d happened only yesterday.
Wilder shrugged. “It wasn’t a big deal. The boys in blue and me, we just went and knocked back a couple brews at Flannery’s Pub. The media never knew the difference.”
“You fixed everything, didn’t you?”
“That I did. I got rid of both the media and Internal Affairs.” His fingers stopped tapping. Now, they gripped the steering wheel.
“And four short weeks after Da’s death, Momma killed herself.” Kennedy felt the familiar crushing pain in her chest as she remembered finding her mother dead from an overdose of tranquilizers. During those last four weeks of her life, a depressed Mae O’Brien had spent more time with her stash of pills than with her own little girl. In all of Kennedy’ life, she had never felt so alone.
She’d been bad the morning her mother died. Bored, lonely and missing her father, Kennedy had decided to play dress up in one of his uniforms. Wrapping herself in his pressed brown uniform shirt felt good. She’d shuffled over to her mother’s bed, the hem of the shirt dragging on the floor. His familiar scent still lingered on the cotton cloth as she played. Old Spice, his favorite. The large uniform hat wobbled from side to side on her head as she excitedly shook her mother’s arm.
“Look at me, Momma, I’m Da. Don’t I look like a real policeman?” Kennedy would never forget the look of shock on her mother’s face when she woke up.
Horrified, her mother had sat straight up in the bed and howled like she’d been struck by lightning. When she finally caught her breath, she’d yelled, “Kennedy Marie O’Brien, you take that off right this minute. Don’t you ever get into your father’s things again.”
Tears had welled in her eyes. “Momma? Did I do something bad?”
Momma had pulled her onto her lap. “Sweetie, you’ve got to be a good girl for me for just a while longer. If you’ll try to be the very best little girl ever, Momma will feel better in no time. Can you do that for me?”
“Okay, Momma. I’ll try.”
But her mother had killed herself that afternoon.
She knew it was stupid, but Kennedy couldn’t shake the feeling that she must not have tried her very best to be the best little girl.
Kennedy squeezed her eyes shut, blocking the tears that threatened to fall and embarrass her.
She took a deep breath. “Tell me what you remember about the last guy from the LVTVS newsroom who got mail from a killer.”
“That was some bad shit. Tenuta and Sparks caught the case. They chased the killer for close to a year. Hadley Cox tortured and killed at least a dozen women that we know of. The man was a pervert.
“Cox sent photos and letters to the evening anchor at the station, filling him in on all the gory details of how he murdered and dismembered his victims. Eventually, by using the information in the letters, Jimmy and Sparky got the bastard.”
Kennedy watched Wilder’s face scrunch and nod while he flexed his fingers one at a time. He was doing the math. He finally said, “That was maybe four or five years ago. Cox got the death penalty, but the state never got the pleasure of executing the sick fuck. Somebody else beat them to it by sticking a six-inch shank in his gut one night after lock-down.”
“Why’d Cox send the letters to the news station?”
“He didn’t just send the letters and photos to the news station, he sent them to one specific newscaster. Cox started dropping clues to the anchor to pass on to Jimmy and Sparky. Said he thought the poor, dumb schmucks could use all the help they could get if they ever planned to catch him. He either wanted to be caught or was one cocky son of a bitch who thought no one could touch him.”
“Apparently he was wrong.”
“Damn right he was wrong.”
“What about the newscaster? Who was he and what happened to him?” Kennedy quickly added, “Or her?”
Wilder smiled. “The news anchor’s name was Hershey. Ed Hershey. Like the candy maker. He became quite the celebrity around Vegas. Hell, he became a headline himself for a while.”
“Got his fifteen minutes of fame?”
“Hershey got a little more than fifteen minutes. He did the talk show circuit and made the covers of several magazines. Got him a trophy wife and lots of friends in high places. Did a few commercials that made him some big bucks. He bought a hot little sports car and a large house with a Summerlin zip-code. It was even rumored he was in the running for one of the coveted network anchor spots.” Wilder scratched his head.
“And then... what? Don’t keep me waiting for the grand finale.” Kennedy never did have patience for long, drawn out stories.
“Six weeks after Cox’s trial was over, Hershey’s fame took a nose dive. He became yesterday’s news. Lost his hot-shot friends and his rumored network spot. Without the extra income from interviews and such, Hershey couldn’t make the payments on his new house and had to sell it for a hell of a lot less than he paid for it.
“Good news is he got to keep his hot car, but the poor bastard lost his trophy wife.”
“Obviously she was deeply in love with him,” Kennedy added sarcastically.
“Obviously. Ed Hershey went from being a celebrity to just barely hanging on to his job at LVTVS.”
Kennedy’s voice filled with
disgu
st
.
“He got the royal boot from his own kind? The media doesn’t even cut a break for one of its own? They are a fine fucking bunch.”
Wilder snorted, and then smiled. “Couldn’t have happened to a more
deserving person. Hershey’s a weasel. He about drove Tenuta and Sparks crazy before the Chief Deputy DA could get a court order to make him turn over Cox’s letters to the department and restrict the amount of information he could report on air.”
Kennedy said, “A real humanitarian.”
“Hershey wasn’t the department’s favorite person. Some of the guys wanted to take the prick down almost as badly as they wanted Cox. A few cops even thought he and Hershey deserved to be in a cell together. Fuck freedom of speech.”
Kennedy asked, “So what’s the deal this time? Any ideas come to that allpowerful, all-knowing mind of yours?”
“Beats me. Maybe a copycat. Maybe a prank.” He shrugged. “If the photo or letter’s the real deal, I hope the TV station cooperates this time. Hershey practically guaranteed Cox extra time to murder a few more people by refusing to turn over the letters. He and the station fought the court order to contact Jimmy and Sparky before reading the letters on air. It got nasty for a while.
“Cox started telling Hershey where the bodies of his victims could be found. I thought Jimmy was going to kill Hershey when the Lookie-Lous and media dirt bags made it to a crime scene before anyone from Metro did. A letter with the location of Cox’s latest victim aired without the department even knowing another letter had been received.”
“That’s just wrong, Wilder.”
“It gets worse.”
“No way.”
“I’m afraid so. Pictures of the dead body were broadcast all over the evening newscasts and in special news bulletins before Jimmy and Sparky could notify the victim’s next-of-kin.”
“Ed Hershey sounds like a jewel to me.”
“You really don’t remember all this shit? It was big news.”
“Not all the details. Four and half years ago I was working on getting my detective’s shield. Then Grammy died. I heard the stories about Cox, but to be honest, my mind was focused on other things.”
Wilder said, “I forgot how busy you were when the Cox case was winding down.”
“Time flies.”
“Your grandma was a fine woman, always sent me a bag lunch when I was riding with your grandpa during my Officer I training. She didn’t want Tommy eating junk food and getting a patrol-cop-belly from too much fast food and donuts.”
“Sounds like Grammy.”
“She thought if she kept me fed, I wouldn’t stop for fast food and tempt Tommy to eat junk food with me. Good plan except at least three times a week, Tommy made his own fast food runs, plus, he still ate that day’s sack lunch. I don’t think he ever passed a box of donuts at Metro without grabbing a couple. Your grandma would have boxed his ears if she’d known. Hell, she would have boxed mine for not telling her what the old fart was up to.”
“She kept Grandpa in line all right. At least she tried.”
Kennedy filled Wilder in on her earlier conversation with Sparky.
Furrowed brows and occasional head nods told her he was listening closely.
“Kenny, I’m thinking the dead woman’s purse isn’t going to be showing up anytime soon. We should concentrate on finding other leads.”
“I agree. I searched VICAP and HITS for other prostitute murders, active or cold, with similar M.O.s. And I’ve got to tell you Wilder, there are a lot of murdered prostitutes out there.”
“They’re a vulnerable group. A lot of them runaways, or women with no ties. Usually, no one even notices when they go missing.”
“I also ran a check of known violent offenders who like to prey on the ladies of the night. I’ve got a short list we can start with.”
Kennedy changed the subject. “So, Wilder, what’s in this letter that’s causing all the excitement?”
“Don’t know yet. That’s why we’re heading there to have a look. Guess who received it?”
“What? You’re going to make me beg?”
“Nah, I’ll tell you. The guy getting the letter today is none other than Ed Hershey.”
“Again?” “Yep.”
“Wow. Déjà vu, big time.”
Wilder stopped the car. “Yep. Let’s go see what we’ve got.”
CHAPTER SIX
THE LVTVS STUDIOS WERE LOCATED IN DOWNTOWN LAS VEGAS AT THE CORNER OF CARSON AND MAIN.
Kennedy loved the downtown area... especially at night when the streets were ablaze in walls of neon with enough wattage to blast a hole the size of Texas through the ozone layer. The Fremont Street Experience stretched over an entire four blocks.
At night the pedestrian-only area, also known as Glitter Gulch, provided free six-minute, mind dazzling light shows projected up on a ninety-foot-high canopy. A sensory delight that could be had for free, courtesy of twelve million LED modules and surrounded by two hundred and eight speakers, blasting five-hundred and forty thousand watts of pure, stereophonic, coordinated sound.
The receptionist pointed Kennedy and Wilder toward the small crowd gathered around a desk in the back of the room. The people seemed too busy talking to notice them approach.
Flashing her badge, Kennedy spoke in her best commanding cop voice. “Metro PD. Could everyone please step back?”
Most of the crowd moved. She smiled. Good crowd. “We’re looking for Ed Hershey.”
One man gestured at the desk as the rest sidled away, still within hearing distance. She and Wilder stepped up to the desk where Hershey sat talking to an older man. The older man was a bit on the chunky side and what little hair he had was white and fashioned into a comb over.
The two men were bent over, studying a picture that lay on the desk. Deep in conversation, they didn’t seem to hear Kennedy and Wilder approach. Or heard and chose to ignore them.
“Excuse me,” Wilder said. “We’d like to have a word with Mr. Hershey. I believe he’s got something for us.”
The heavier man straightened up, but stayed in his seat. “Here’s Ed; he’s got the damn thing right here.”
Ed, who Kennedy recognized from the local TV news, kicked his chair back and stood, offering his hand to her.
He looked the same in person as he did on TV. She took Hershey’s hand and introduced herself. His hand was soft, his nails manicured. His eyes narrowed and seemed to burn right through her. She quickly pulled her hand away.
He didn’t react except to turn and shake hands with Wilder, though he couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off of her.
“This is Frank Curtis, my boss.” He sat back down in his chair. “What have you got for us?” Kennedy asked.
“I received this envelope with this picture inside, but no letter. I thought
Metro might be interested in having a look.” He pointed to the photo and
envelope. “Frankie and I aren’t sure if it’s the real deal or not. But, it sure looks
real to me. Real enough to make me nauseous.” He ran a hand across his
stomach.
“Who else has handled the photo?”