I was so involved in the task that I didn’t notice Moretz had returned. But his story popped up in the news budget half an hour before deadline.
I read it cold, then IM’ed Moretz to summon him into the office. This time he sat, looking like a sullen student summoned to the principal’s office for cheating.
“My God, John, it looks like you were interrogated,” I said.
“It all adds up,” Moretz said. “I’m linked to each of the murders, I’m new in town, and since I got here, the sheet of unsolved crimes has tripled.”
I’d been thinking all that myself, but to hear him say it so calmly made the notion simultaneously more plausible and highly absurd. “You know what they say,” I joked. “Murder is best conducted among strangers.”
“Am I the first murder suspect in the history of print media to cover his own investigation? Is this a violation of journalistic ethics?”
“You’re innocent, aren’t you?” It was a question Hardison apparently hadn’t asked him.
“Yeah,” he said. “And I’m not officially a suspect, of course.”
Still, you couldn’t tell by the article, which painted Moretz as living under a dark cloud of suspicion. After we’d put the edition to bed, I asked Moretz, “So, what kinds of alibis did you give the sheriff?”
“The usual. Working late, watching TV alone in my apartment, going for long walks in the park.”
“Jiminy Christ, that sounds like the kinds of activities a serial killer would list on his resume. And I suppose they have physical evidence linking you to each murder?”
“Well, I was present at each scene, wasn’t I?”
“Good point. I wouldn’t put it past the sheriff to haul you in, even though you’re innocent.”
“Sure. It would get people off his back and he’d show up the state boys by cracking the case while they were still dancing around the Attorney General on jurisdiction issues.” Moretz sounded equal parts cop and equal parts lawyer, with a little mystery novelist and conspiracy theorist thrown in.
“And it would sell a ton of papers,” I said wistfully.
“A win-win,” Moretz agreed. “Would I still be on salary while I was sitting in jail and filing a daily update?”
“There’s a statute that prevents a prisoner from profiting from his crimes.”
“You mean like Lindsay Lohan didn’t? Besides, I wouldn’t be convicted. I’m innocent, remember?”
“You’re right,” I said. “It doesn’t seem fair that everybody benefits from a crime except the criminal. A property owner gets an insurance check, lawyers get more billable hours, police get overtime, and the media sells advertising with scare headlines.”
Moretz squinted. “Chief. You’re serious.”
I shrugged. “We’re here to serve the public.”
And sell papers.
And, if possible, piss off Kelsey Kavanaugh.
To make the plan work, Moretz and I had to drop a little extra evidence. I didn’t want to get him in a situation where he’d be denied bail, but I also needed something strong enough to make him a legitimate suspect.
Finding a pair of clippers in his desk drawer did the trick.
10.
The SBI was a little dubious, noting that such commemorative nail clippers could easily be ordered on the Internet for $4.95 plus shipping. Besides, Moretz was well groomed, despite that darkness about his eyes that made him look slightly wild and unpredictable.
But Hardison ran with it. He announced that “a closer look was being taken” at a person of interest. Kavanaugh broke the story, reporting that John Moretz had been seen leaving the sheriff’s office.
I had to bite my lip a little to see it go out across the Associated Press wire. I could have scooped everyone, of course, but then the smoking gun would have pointed back to me. No, to sell this one, I had to act surprised.
The district attorney even got into it this time. He was a short man with a walrus mustache who was fiercely loyal to the Republican Party. However, he never pushed a
I read it cold, then IM’ed Moretz to summon him into the office. This time he sat, looking like a sullen student summoned to the principal’s office for cheating.
“My God, John, it looks like you were interrogated,” I said.
“It all adds up,” Moretz said. “I’m linked to each of the murders, I’m new in town, and since I got here, the sheet of unsolved crimes has tripled.”
I’d been thinking all that myself, but to hear him say it so calmly made the notion simultaneously more plausible and highly absurd. “You know what they say,” I joked. “Murder is best conducted among strangers.”
“Am I the first murder suspect in the history of print media to cover his own investigation? Is this a violation of journalistic ethics?”
“You’re innocent, aren’t you?” It was a question Hardison apparently hadn’t asked him.
“Yeah,” he said. “And I’m not officially a suspect, of course.”
Still, you couldn’t tell by the article, which painted Moretz as living under a dark cloud of suspicion. After we’d put the edition to bed, I asked Moretz, “So, what kinds of alibis did you give the sheriff?”
“The usual. Working late, watching TV alone in my apartment, going for long walks in the park.”
“Jiminy Christ, that sounds like the kinds of activities a serial killer would list on his resume. And I suppose they have physical evidence linking you to each murder?”
“Well, I was present at each scene, wasn’t I?”
“Good point. I wouldn’t put it past the sheriff to haul you in, even though you’re innocent.”
“Sure. It would get people off his back and he’d show up the state boys by cracking the case while they were still dancing around the Attorney General on jurisdiction issues.” Moretz sounded equal parts cop and equal parts lawyer, with a little mystery novelist and conspiracy theorist thrown in.
“And it would sell a ton of papers,” I said wistfully.
“A win-win,” Moretz agreed. “Would I still be on salary while I was sitting in jail and filing a daily update?”
“There’s a statute that prevents a prisoner from profiting from his crimes.”
“You mean like Lindsay Lohan didn’t? Besides, I wouldn’t be convicted. I’m innocent, remember?”
“You’re right,” I said. “It doesn’t seem fair that everybody benefits from a crime except the criminal. A property owner gets an insurance check, lawyers get more billable hours, police get overtime, and the media sells advertising with scare headlines.”
Moretz squinted. “Chief. You’re serious.”
I shrugged. “We’re here to serve the public.”
And sell papers.
And, if possible, piss off Kelsey Kavanaugh.
To make the plan work, Moretz and I had to drop a little extra evidence. I didn’t want to get him in a situation where he’d be denied bail, but I also needed something strong enough to make him a legitimate suspect.
Finding a pair of clippers in his desk drawer did the trick.
10.
The SBI was a little dubious, noting that such commemorative nail clippers could easily be ordered on the Internet for $4.95 plus shipping. Besides, Moretz was well groomed, despite that darkness about his eyes that made him look slightly wild and unpredictable.
But Hardison ran with it. He announced that “a closer look was being taken” at a person of interest. Kavanaugh broke the story, reporting that John Moretz had been seen leaving the sheriff’s office.
I had to bite my lip a little to see it go out across the Associated Press wire. I could have scooped everyone, of course, but then the smoking gun would have pointed back to me. No, to sell this one, I had to act surprised.
The district attorney even got into it this time. He was a short man with a walrus mustache who was fiercely loyal to the Republican Party. However, he never pushed a
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