There were four. The first was the one in the text message: a woman in a red dress. She appeared dead.
What’s that on her arm? Sandra wondered.
The next photo answered her question: The word “Sonoma” was scrawled there.
Sandra skipped to the next two photos. Another corpse, this time a man’s. Another close-up of a lifeless arm, this one defiled with the word “Sebastopol.”
She was no expert, but the words on the flesh were written in the same blocky style as the address on the envelope. As she re-read the text, Sandra held her right hand with her left to steady them both. A killer may have sent her this phone, and this killer knew her name, her address and where she worked. He had targeted her, just as surely as he had targeted his victims. And why had he sent her the photos? Was he looking to get caught? Or did he just want to be famous?
In addition to her anxiety, she felt curiosity over the killer’s identity – and outrage over what he’d apparently done. Sandra scooped up the phone and headed for the city editor’s desk.
She skipped the greeting. “I think I just got a gift from a killer.”
When her editor, Doug Smith, looked up, Sandra dropped the phone on his desk. “I got this in the mail,” she said. “There are photos on it, I’m pretty sure of dead bodies. And a text.”
Doug stared at the phone but didn’t touch it.
“What do we do with it?” she asked. Then, afraid he might hand over the story to someone with more experience, she added: “This is my story.”
Doug spoke for the first time: “What did the text say?”
“It alerted me to the photos.” She paused. “There was something else. It also says, ‘Do your job. Save a life. One more thing: I pray sic.’ ”
Sandra felt the pressure of the first two lines, and the frustration of not understanding the third. Why “sic”? She also felt that rush she got when she knew she was first on a story.
Even as she contemplated the text, Sandra wondered if there already was another corpse somewhere in the county, with another town marked on its arm. Sandra’s instincts told her that if there wasn’t, there would be. Soon.
Next Time: “Why Sandra?” Detective Brown comes to the newspaper seeking answers.
A native Californian and Sonoma County resident for 25 years, Heather is a graduate of SRJC and UC Berkeley, with a bachelor’s degree in English. She currently works as a copy editor/page designer for The Press Democrat and also writes the TV blog at www.pressdemocrat.com. As a mother of two who works full time, her time isn’t usually her own, but when it is, Heather enjoys reading, writing suspense novels, watching “Walking Dead” and “Game of Thrones,” and taking much-needed naps with her Chihuahua and tabby cat.
Previously: Police reporter Sandra Cordero opens a padded envelope with a red flip phone inside. The phone contains photos of the murder victims in Healdsburg and Sonoma, plus a strange text message: “Do your job. Save a life. One more thing: I pray sic.”
Chapter 5 – Why Sandra?
By LINDA C. McCABE
Sandra stared at the blank computer screen and repeated her mantra, “Deadline. I have a deadline.” She typed “CELL PHONE PHOTOS SHOW SERIAL KILLER IN SONOMA COUNTY.” Looking up from her computer monitor, she noticed Detective Zach Brown emerge from a closed-door meeting with the newspaper’s editors. He was walking toward her with an evidence envelope tucked under one arm.
“Can we go someplace private to talk?”
Sandra nodded and led him to a small conference room. He waited until the door was closed and they were sitting across a table from each other before he asked, “Who else besides you touched this cell phone?”
“No one. I showed it to my editor, but he didn’t touch it.”
“How did you find out there were photos on it?”
“It’s an old cell phone without password protection. As soon as I opened it, I saw a text message alert. I didn’t know until I saw those pictures that the victims had town names scrawled on their arms. Why are you keeping that information from the public?”
“Law enforcement investigations routinely keep certain details secret until the trial.”
“What kind of person would write on a dead body?” asked Sandra.
“I don’t speculate, I investigate.”
“That phone had to have come from the killer. Sending it to the press is pretty brash. Here’s the phone number that sent the text messages,” she said, passing Brown a slip of paper. “You should be able to track down who owns the phone, right?”
“Yes, we can track phone accounts. Off the record, it might only lead us to the phone of one of our victims. We think this red one here might have come from the woman in Healdsburg. We haven’t yet found the phone of the dead man in Sonoma.”
Sandra’s stomach turned at the thought of holding something once belonging to a murder victim. “I thought you said you didn’t speculate.”
“I don’t. How many people in this office would have touched the envelope besides you?”
“Only the guys in the mail room.”
“I will need you and everyone in the mail room who could have touched this envelope to come to the Sheriff’s Department this afternoon to be fingerprinted.”
Sandra swallowed hard.
“Ever had a fingerprint check?” he asked.
“No.”
“After today, your prints will be on file in the federal database just like a common criminal or a school teacher. Tell me, was there any note inside the package?” he asked.
“Nothing, just the phone.”
“Why did you open the package?”
“Because I am a reporter and naturally curious.”
“Curiosity can kill. Ever heard of the Unabomber? He killed and maimed people with bombs sent through the U.S. mail. Our postal regulations changed because of him. This package got through with stamps because it’s lighter than 13 ounces.” He ran a hand over his buzzed scalp. “Why was this addressed to you and not just the newspaper?”
Sandra began fuming. She knew it may have been foolhardy to open the package, but it was outrageous for him to ask her to speculate. “I wrote the article about the murders in Healdsburg and Sonoma. Perhaps the murderer is keeping press clippings.”
“Yours wasn’t the only byline covering the murders.”
“Maybe my writing style.”
“Maybe. Or maybe there is something more behind his choice.”
“His choice?” asked Sandra. “Have you determined the killer is a man?”
Brown gave her a cold stare. “No, I’m simply playing the odds. Most serial killers are heterosexual white males who act alone. But I haven’t eliminated anyone from suspicion. Promise me if you receive any more such packages in the future that you’ll call us so we can open them. We wouldn’t want to read a story about you in the paper.”
She looked at the clock. “I have a deadline soon. What did you say to my editors?”
“I asked them not to run anything about the package or its contents.”
“But the public has a right to know that this killer plans on striking again in Sebastopol. Or at least that’s what those pictures say to me. Why shouldn’t we print that and warn the public?”
“You mean terrorize the public? The public already knows two people have been murdered. Telling them these crimes are linked and that some psycho might strike again will only cause people to live in more fear.”
“It could also save someone’s life,” argued Sandra.
“Are you going to make him famous? Other serial killers have toyed with the media. Son of Sam, the BTK killer, the Zodiac Killer, as well as the Unabomber. You’re the reporter. Just remember it could get dangerous on a personal level.”
“What steps have you taken to prevent a murder in Sebastopol?”
“Off the record, I’ve spoken with the Sebastopol police. They’re aware of the threat. On the record, we aren’t prepared to say these murders are connected.”
There
was a knock on the door, and her editor walked in.
“We came to a decision,” said Doug.
“And?” said Brown.
“I need to talk with Sandra so she can make her deadline. Our editorial assistant will be happy to show you out. I’ll call you soon. We’ll talk.”
Brown scowled, scooped up the evidence envelope and walked out the door.
Doug turned to Sandra. “We decided for now against using the photos. But we want you to mention the phone and a description of those photos, as well as the text message. You’ve got 45 minutes to get something up on the Web.” He gave her a broad smile. “This is a big story. It’s going to shake things up in Sebastopol.”
Next Time: “Close Eye On You.” Brown tracks down Sandra at a bar in Sonoma. The killer is watching.
Linda C. McCabe is the author of “Quest of the Warrior Maid,” an epic historic fantasy set in the time of Charlemagne. She has also had several op-eds published in the Press Democrat, one of which was about the serial killer Wayne Adam Ford. She is a past president of the Redwood Writers branch of the California Writers Club. Linda can be found online at her website www.LindaCMcCabe.com and her blog: lcmccabe.blogspot.com. She lives in Windsor with her husband and teenaged son.
Previously: Brown goes to the newspaper to pick up the red cell phone the killer sent Sandra. He asks why the killer contacted her. Sandra’s editors decide to run a story about the phone and its clues.
Chapter 6 – Close Eye On You
By HEATHER IRWIN
Sandra’s head was buzzing, her fingers icy and stiff as she hit the “Save” button. The pressure to get the story right and to cope with her personal connection to the case had put her into adrenaline overdrive. Not to mention she was already 10 minutes past the deadline Doug had given her.
But the story was done. Readers would wake up to the news that a serial killer was in their midst.
Pulling off her headphones, she shouted across the desk to her editor. “It’s in. At least as in as it’s gonna be tonight.”
As she leaned back, blowing out a sigh of exhaustion, her iPhone lit up. On it was a blurry still-life of her best friend, lipstick smeared, holding a red plastic cup cheering the camera. Abby, on the beer-soaked night they graduated.
She punched the button to take the call. “Abby? Oh, Abs. I need a drink. Stat.”
“So get your sorry ass over here. First round’s on me, Sand,” said Abby. “It’s tequila-thirty and you’re late,” she said.
“Be there before you can lick the salt off the rim,” Sandra said. She flicked her computer screen to “Sleep” mode, grabbed her purse and gave a mock salute to Doug. “I’ll be at Maya. Ping me if you have any questions. But I trust you,” she said, as the editor nodded, head firmly buried in his computer screen.
Driving to Sonoma and parking beside the Plaza, she couldn’t help but shudder at the thought that a dead man had been found there just a few days ago. But what really raised goose bumps was the fact that the killer had reached out to her.
Why me? she asked herself, stepping past the galleries and real estate offices on East Napa Street. I’m no one. I’ve been on the cop beat like 10 minutes, and a killer’s trying to play cat and mouse with me? For an instant the whole thing felt thrilling, like a CSI episode. But Sandra didn’t go for drama, and quickly pushed it out of her head.
Opening the door to Maya at the southeast corner of the Plaza, a blast of cool air hit her cheeks. Followed by the smell of chips, salsa and bad cologne. Okay, so it was one of the few places in Sonoma you could actually get picked up. Abby was already installed on her usual barstool, and waved Sandra over. Four shot glasses sat in front of her. Two were empty.
“Drink up, you’re late,” Abby said. “Then tell me all your troubles, because you look like absolute hell.”
She downed the shots, pounding the glasses one, two, on the well-worn bar, then sifted through the events of the day, barely taking a breath. Abby was always a good listener, especially when she was drunk. But just as Sandra was finishing the recap, Abby’s eyes shifted, widening and looking behind Sandra. “Uh, I think we have company.”
It was Brown. He’d followed her.
“Fancy meeting you here,” he said to Sandra, sidling up to the bar next to her.
“Yeah, fancy that,” Abby said, raising her eyebrow. “Detective Brown, I presume?” Abby had a knack for connecting the dots of Sandra’s life. Having lived in Sonoma County most of her life, she knew most of the players, too. “So wait,” Abby said before the detective could get a word in. “What I can’t figure out in all this is why you’re on the case? Isn’t this something for the local cops?”
Brown flinched. “The town of Sonoma contracts with the Sheriff’s Office for police services. So we handle all their crimes. So Sandra, can we talk somewhere?”
“We can talk right here, Brown,” Sandra said, standing her ground. It had been a long day, and a nosy detective just wasn’t on the agenda.
“Sure. Here’s the deal, kid. I think this guy wants something from you. Maybe even knows you. You jilted anyone around here lately? Maybe played a little too hard to get?” Brown leaned in a bit too close for comfort, with a snakelike grin that Sandra had seen a hundred times from a hundred different guys.
Sandra inhaled, about to level the playing field. She hadn’t worked this hard to have some yokel with a badge start making assumptions.
“Listen,” she started. But before the next word came out, Brown’s head snapped around at the sound of a scream.
“Fire! Fire!” shouted a woman, running into the restaurant. “Call 911! A car just exploded on East Napa!”
An orange glow flickered across the street as flames shot into the air. “Oh sh--,” said Brown, looking out the window. “It’s mine.” He moved toward the door but twisted his gaze back toward Sandra. “That’s your pal out there, isn’t it? He seems to keep a close eye on you.”
Next Time: “Listening In.” The killer sends Sandra searching for a new clue. Brown means to have it.
Heather Irwin is the host of The Press Democrat’s Bite Club Eats, www.biteclubeats.com.
Previously: Sandra goes to Sonoma to meet her best friend Abby for drinks. Detective Brown follows her there to ask her how the killer may know her. Before Sandra can answer, Brown’s car is mysteriously set on fire.
Chapter 7 – Listening In
By ANA MANWARING
Muted French horns sounded from Sandra’s Muzetto bag under her barstool. Abby giggled, shining ringlets bouncing around her ears.
“What’s so funny?” Sandra asked. “Bartender,” she called, holding up two fingers.
“You on a fox hunt,” said Abby, eyes twinkling.
Sandra pulled her iPhone out of the bag and frowned. “Text notification. I don’t recognize the address. Speaking of texts, you’re better than I am at solving puzzles.”
“The next Katie Couric wants my help!” Abby giggled again and fished her iPad from her fringed bag.
“I’ll take whatever help you can give,” Sandra said and wiggled her eyebrows at Abby, “I’m scooping this one.” The drinks arrived. “I’m buying,” she said. The phone trilled. Her frown deepened. “I better read it.”
Abby clinked their glasses. “To your career, girlfriend.”
“Uh-huh,” Sandra hummed, distracted by the text. “Oh, my god! It’s him. The killer.” The blood drained from her face and she dropped her voice as she read, “Good story today. Loved the publicity. A gift—I spared that scrawny Copperfield clerk’s life. No bodies in Sebastopol’s Plaza this time.”
“Holy Moly! Sandi—he was going to kill that kid who works there. The sci-fi guy.”
Sandra bit her lip. Her fingers flew over the tiny on-screen keyboard. She tapped “send” and took a swig off her Lush Champagne. “I asked his name and what he wants.”
Both women glanced at the iPhone, Abby’s face registering shock. “You wrote to a murderer—a serial killer? Are you crazy? What
if he decides to come after you? These texts, they remind me of the Zodiac—”
“—Duh, he’s playing us. He wants attention. Detective Brown wanted to know why he sent the phone to me. Well, I’m the crime beat reporter for the regional paper. Brown practically accused me of knowing this monster. What a—”
“—Well, I did feel a little sorry for him last night when the killer set his car on fire,” Abby said. “Sweet Mustang GT and all. But about the real creep, Do you know him? Maybe one of those total losers from the journalism program. You remember that greasy wannabe—the one who said 9-11 was a government conspiracy?” She took a sip of her Mojito, made a face and flicked on the iPad. “Too sweet. So tell me again what that first message said.”
Sandra recounted the message.
“What does it mean? ‘I pray sic.’” Abby repeated. “Sic? That means: so or such. Or he’s siccing you onto something?” Abby scrunched her face in concentration and typed.
“It doesn’t make any sense. Sic means that a questionable reading of a text is what was intended—or a misspelling. ‘I prey…’?”
“Or an industrial classification system used for statistical purposes. I’ve used it in business reports.” Abby’s voice turned serious.
“Abby, it’s got to be some sort of crossword, an anagram, or—a cipher. Look—” She pulled her notes from the bag. “If you line up the sentences, the last letter of each phrase spells B-E-G. This sick-o wants us to grovel?”
The phone lit up and a new text appeared.
Clue for you. Check public area Sebastopol Copperfield’s. Stop me. Two days. Decode I pray sic in time.
Sandra threw a twenty onto the bar. “Come on!” She called over her shoulder, but Abby was on her heels as they dove out of the bistro and into Sandra’s Ford Focus.
“Check out what I found on the iPad,” Abby said while Sandra backed into a space in front of the bookstore. “The Hindu film we saw, ‘My Name is Kahn.’ Here’s an interview with that cute star. He says ‘let not anyone be hurt is all i pray (sic)’. I don’t guess it’s related, but, well, I hope we stop him.”