The paper was independent, meaning that it was one of the few major dailies in the country that wasn’t part of a corporate chain. A family of timber barons had owned it since the 1960s, having purchased the paper from another family of timber barons. The timber barons had brought in a new publisher, a former public-relations executive from New York named Howard Jenkins, to run the place a few years before, and since then the paper had won three Pulitzers. It was a good thing, Susan figured, because, newsprint aside, there wasn’t a lot of money in being a timber baron anymore.
The fifth floor was so quiet that Susan could hear the water-cooler buzzing. She scanned the main room, where rows of low-walled pens housed the Herald’s news and features staff. A few of the copyeditors sat hunched over their desks, blinking sadly at computer screens. Susan spotted Nedda Carson, the assistant news editor, walking down the hallway with her usual large travel mug of chai in hand.
“They’re in there,” Nedda said, jerking her head toward one of the small meeting rooms.
“Thanks,” Susan said. She could see Ian Harper through the glass panel next to the door. He had been one of Jenkins’s first hires, away from the New York Times, and he was one of the paper’s star editors. She walked over and knocked once on the glass. He looked up and waved her in. The room was small and painted white, with a conference table, four chairs, and a poster encouraging Herald employees to recycle. Ian was perched on the back of one of the chairs. He always perched like that. Susan thought it was because the elevation made him feel powerful. But maybe it was just more comfortable. News editor Clay Lo sat across the table from Ian, his doughy head in one hand, glasses askew. For a minute, Susan thought he was asleep.
“Jesus,” Susan said. “Tell me you haven’t been here all night.”
“We had an editorial meeting at five,” Ian said. He flung his hand at a chair. “Have a seat.” Ian was wearing black jeans, black Converse sneakers, and a black blazer over a faded T-shirt with a picture of John Lennon in front of the Statue of Liberty on it. Most of Ian’s Tshirts were intended to communicate that he was from New York.
Clay looked up and nodded at her, eyes bleary. A cup of coffee from the commissary downstairs sat in front of him. It was the last dregs from the air pot. Susan could see the grounds around the lip of the Styrofoam cup.
She sat down, pulled her reporter’s notebook and a pen out of her purse, set them on the table, and said, “What’s up?”
Ian sighed and touched the sides of his head. It was a gesture intended to indicate thoughtfulness, but Susan knew Ian did it to check that his hair was still tucked back into his neat, short ponytail. “Kristy Mathers,” Ian said, smoothing his temples with his hands. “Fifteen. Lives with her dad. He’s a cabdriver. Didn’t know she was missing until he got home last night. She was last seen heading home from school.”
Susan knew all this from the morning news. “Jefferson High,” she said.
“Yeah,” Ian said. He picked up a Herald mug that sat in front of him, held it for a minute, and then set it back on the table without taking a sip. “Three girls. Three high schools. They’re adding a police detail at each school for security.”
“Are they sure she didn’t just go to meet a boyfriend or head to a sale at Hot Topic or something?” Susan asked.
Ian shook his head. “She was supposed to baby-sit for a neighbor. Never showed. Didn’t call. They’re taking it pretty seriously. What do you know about the Beauty Killer Task Force?”
Susan felt goose bumps rise on her arms at the very mention of the infamous serial killer. She looked from Ian to Clay and then back to Ian. “What does the Beauty Killer have to do with this?” she asked.
“What do you know about the task force?” Ian asked again.
“Gretchen Lowell killed a whole bunch of people,” Susan said. “The Beauty Killer Task Force spent ten years trying to catch her. Then she kidnapped the lead detective on the task force. That was over two years ago. Everyone thought he was dead. I was home for Thanksgiving from grad school when it happened. She turned herself in. Just like that. He almost died. She went to jail. I went back to grad school.” She turned to Clay. “They keep attaching murders to her, though, right? I think they got her to give up something like twenty more victims in the first year after she was arrested. Every month or two, she cops to a new one. She was one of our great psychopaths.” She chuckled nervously. “Great, as in scary, brutal, and cunning, not super-duper.”
Clay folded his hands on the table and looked at Susan meaningfully. “We gave the cops a bit of a hard time.”
Susan nodded. “I remember. They got loads of negative press. There was a lot of frustration and fear. Some very catty op-eds. But in the end, they were heroes. There was that book, right? And like a thousand human-interest stories about Archie Sheridan, hero cop.”
“He’s back,” Ian said.
Susan leaned forward. “Shut up. I thought he was on medical leave.”
“He was. They talked him into coming back to lead the new task force. The mayor thinks he can catch this guy.”
“Like he caught Gretchen Lowell?”
“Without the ‘almost dying’ part, yeah.”