Susan dressed for the day in cowboy boots, jeans, a Pixies T-shirt, and a red velvet blazer. She put a reporter’s notebook in the front right pocket of the blazer and two blue Bic ballpoints in the left. She even blow-dried her pink hair and put on makeup.
When she was ready to go, she opened her notebook to a poorly scrawled list of names and telephone numbers that Archie Sheridan had given her. She paused, wondering for a moment what he would think of that first story when it ran, then quashed her anxiety. He was a subject. She was a writer. One story down. Three to go. She dialed the phone.
“Hi,” Susan said brightly. “Is this Debbie Sheridan?”
There was a slight hesitation. “Yes?”
“I’m Susan Ward. With the Herald? Did your husband tell you I might be calling?”
“He mentioned something.”
She didn’t correct the husband thing, thought Susan. She didn’t say, You mean my ex-husband. We’re divorced. I’d have the marriage annulled if I could, the son of a bitch. Susan wrote the word husband in her notebook, followed by a question mark.
She forced a big smile, hoping that Debbie could hear it in her voice. It was an old phone interview trick that Parker had taught her. “Well, I’m writing a profile about him, and I was hoping to ask you a few questions. Just to flesh him out a bit. Give the piece some personality.”
“Can you—can you call me back later?” Debbie asked.
“Sorry. You’re at work, aren’t you? Is there a better time I can call you back?”
There was a pause. “No. I just need to think about it.”
“You mean talk to Archie? Because I asked him, and he said he didn’t mind if I spoke to you.”
“No. No. I just don’t like going over all those memories. Let me give it some thought.” Debbie’s voice warmed. “Call me later, okay?”
“Okay,” Susan agreed ruefully.
She hung up, and immediately dialed the next number on the list before she lost her nerve. Archie’s doctor was unavailable, so Susan left her name and cell phone number with his receptionist.
She heaved a deep sigh, sank back down at the Great Writer’s desk and Googled Gretchen Lowell. Over eighty thousand links came up. She spent a half hour skimming through the interesting ones. It was astonishing how many Web sites were dedicated to the exploits of serial killers.
Susan was staring at an on-line case study recounting the Beauty Killer case investigation when something caught her eye. Gretchen Lowell called 911 to turn herself in and call for an ambulance.
Susan picked up the phone and dialed Ian on his cell.
“I’m in a news meeting,” he answered.
“How do I get a nine-one-one tape?” Susan asked.
“Which one?”
“Gretchen Lowell,” Susan said. “Have you heard it?”
“They didn’t release it. We ran a transcript.”
“I want the actual call. Can I get it?”
Ian made a clucking sound. “Let me try.”
Susan hung up and Googled “Oregon State Penitentiary.” She copied the address of the prison on a piece of paper beside her computer and then opened a Word document. “Dear Ms. Lowell,” she wrote. “I am writing a profile about Detective Archie Sheridan, and I am hoping to ask you a couple of questions.” She worked on the letter for almost twenty minutes. When she was done, she placed it in an envelope, stamped it, and wrote out the address.
She paid a few bills and then drove to the post office and mailed them, along with the letter to the Beauty Killer. Then she drove to Cleveland High School. She wanted to open the next story with some personal anecdote, a memory of her own days at Cleveland. And she thought that going there might bring back some details she could incorporate. But the truth was that she had been avoiding it.
The final bell had just rung and the wide main hallway was thronged with students, cramming items from their lockers into their backpacks, standing in tight groups, making out against the wall, slugging back soft drinks, talking loudly, and hurtling their way out of the building into the light. They moved with the loose-limbed ease of teenagers in their natural setting, something that Susan did not recall ever actually experiencing. The difference between the freshmen and seniors was staggering. The freshmen seemed so young. Which was funny to Susan, because at fourteen she had considered herself very much an adult.
A few of the kids sent sideways glances Susan’s way as she passed. But most didn’t even blink. In their world, pink hair was pretty ordinary. Susan took a few notes for her story, recording details and impressions of the school. Atmosphere.
When she reached the dark brown double doors that led into the theater, she paused for a moment, hand on the door, overcome by a flood of teenage memories. She had left high school behind so long ago; it was amazing to her what mixed emotions the place now conjured. She ran a hand through her hair, put on her best grown-up face, and walked through the doors.