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Authors: Jim Gallows
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the girlfriend, you make sure you hammer at this alibi. Make sure you’ve made the right call.’
Jake bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Asher didn’t say ‘
we’ve
made the right call’; it was ‘
you’ve
’. This went wrong, Asher was going to protect himself before his men.
17
Tuesday, 9 p.m.
The room was dark except for the flickering screen. Marcia Lamb led the evening news. Interesting coverage – enjoyable, even.
The first images came from the interstate construction site. A tarpaulin covered the body lying on the ground. A reporter was talking about the police investigation. A suspect had been taken in but released without charge late last night: a large black man who protested his innocence to the camera. Then the clip changed to earlier in the morning, outside the police station.
A group of people was gathered around the door of the station, drinking coffee and smoking. The press were out in force. That mouthy reporter was there. Ford.
There will be more media as it goes on. I know that. It’s a good thing. Necessary.
The screen showed Councilman Mitch Harper on the top step, addressing the press. He was dressed in a dark woollen coat, open to reveal his shirt and tie. The assembled reporters were in a semicircle looking up at him.
It won’t be long now. I’m sure of it. The forces are building. I can’t delay.
The report ended, and the broadcast moved on to the next segment. He was about to turn it off when something stopped him. A name from his past. The Chase Asylum. This was interesting too.
So the old asylum is being demolished? I haven’t thought about that place in years. So many memories … secrets …
The anchor’s voice dripped concern as he said, ‘A second skeleton has been unearthed. It is believed that both skeletons could be the remains of children who died in the very institution which was supposed to protect them.’
The report ended with an appeal for information by the FBI.
If the Feds are involved, they are taking this very seriously. More and more interesting
. The image of the missing man flashed on the screen. It was black and white, and clearly many years out of date. It showed a man in his mid-thirties with thinning hair and eyes that still radiated coldness.
The anchor concluded, ‘Investigators are now looking for Fred Lumley, the warden of the Chase Asylum.’
Old Fred. Who’d have thought?
‘Fred Lumley disappeared several decades ago, and has not been seen since.’
This is all meant to be …
He rubbed his hands together and smiled thoughtfully. ‘This is what you wanted.’
18
Tuesday, 9 p.m.
Jake sat on the sofa, his shoes off, drinking a beer as he watched the news. The way they spun it both interested and repulsed him. They – whoever ‘they’ were – had wasted no time in attaching the most sensational nickname they could think of to the murderer, to match the snowy imagery and stark black and white shots of Christmas trees that seemed to accompany every report.
The Christmas Killer.
And he was fascinated by the news from Springfield.
Downstairs was empty. An air of peace filled the house. As the news went to commercials he heard footsteps on the stairs. Leigh walked in. She was dressed in a robe with stains on it, and looked tired.
‘Babe, you look great,’ he lied. ‘I got us a Chinese.’
She smiled weakly. ‘We ate two hours ago. You have it. Whatever’s left I’ll heat up for lunch tomorrow.’
The Chinese had been his peace offering – so much for that.
‘I got a nice bottle of wine as well,’ he said.
Her smile brightened a little. ‘Now you’re talking!’
‘Tough day?’
‘You could say.’
She walked into the kitchen and came back with two glasses of wine, taking Jake’s beer bottle from him and putting it on the table.
‘Scooch over.’
He straightened up in the sofa, making room for her, and flicked off the TV. She sat down, leaning into him.
‘I could do with a head
Jake bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Asher didn’t say ‘
we’ve
made the right call’; it was ‘
you’ve
’. This went wrong, Asher was going to protect himself before his men.
17
Tuesday, 9 p.m.
The room was dark except for the flickering screen. Marcia Lamb led the evening news. Interesting coverage – enjoyable, even.
The first images came from the interstate construction site. A tarpaulin covered the body lying on the ground. A reporter was talking about the police investigation. A suspect had been taken in but released without charge late last night: a large black man who protested his innocence to the camera. Then the clip changed to earlier in the morning, outside the police station.
A group of people was gathered around the door of the station, drinking coffee and smoking. The press were out in force. That mouthy reporter was there. Ford.
There will be more media as it goes on. I know that. It’s a good thing. Necessary.
The screen showed Councilman Mitch Harper on the top step, addressing the press. He was dressed in a dark woollen coat, open to reveal his shirt and tie. The assembled reporters were in a semicircle looking up at him.
It won’t be long now. I’m sure of it. The forces are building. I can’t delay.
The report ended, and the broadcast moved on to the next segment. He was about to turn it off when something stopped him. A name from his past. The Chase Asylum. This was interesting too.
So the old asylum is being demolished? I haven’t thought about that place in years. So many memories … secrets …
The anchor’s voice dripped concern as he said, ‘A second skeleton has been unearthed. It is believed that both skeletons could be the remains of children who died in the very institution which was supposed to protect them.’
The report ended with an appeal for information by the FBI.
If the Feds are involved, they are taking this very seriously. More and more interesting
. The image of the missing man flashed on the screen. It was black and white, and clearly many years out of date. It showed a man in his mid-thirties with thinning hair and eyes that still radiated coldness.
The anchor concluded, ‘Investigators are now looking for Fred Lumley, the warden of the Chase Asylum.’
Old Fred. Who’d have thought?
‘Fred Lumley disappeared several decades ago, and has not been seen since.’
This is all meant to be …
He rubbed his hands together and smiled thoughtfully. ‘This is what you wanted.’
18
Tuesday, 9 p.m.
Jake sat on the sofa, his shoes off, drinking a beer as he watched the news. The way they spun it both interested and repulsed him. They – whoever ‘they’ were – had wasted no time in attaching the most sensational nickname they could think of to the murderer, to match the snowy imagery and stark black and white shots of Christmas trees that seemed to accompany every report.
The Christmas Killer.
And he was fascinated by the news from Springfield.
Downstairs was empty. An air of peace filled the house. As the news went to commercials he heard footsteps on the stairs. Leigh walked in. She was dressed in a robe with stains on it, and looked tired.
‘Babe, you look great,’ he lied. ‘I got us a Chinese.’
She smiled weakly. ‘We ate two hours ago. You have it. Whatever’s left I’ll heat up for lunch tomorrow.’
The Chinese had been his peace offering – so much for that.
‘I got a nice bottle of wine as well,’ he said.
Her smile brightened a little. ‘Now you’re talking!’
‘Tough day?’
‘You could say.’
She walked into the kitchen and came back with two glasses of wine, taking Jake’s beer bottle from him and putting it on the table.
‘Scooch over.’
He straightened up in the sofa, making room for her, and flicked off the TV. She sat down, leaning into him.
‘I could do with a head
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