Читать книгу Winterkill - P.H. Turner - Страница 13

9

I was on the phone early to catch my friend in San Antonio before his morning caseload began. Logan Matthews was a clinical psychologist at the University of Texas Med School. I’d gotten to know him when he was a source on a child abuse case I covered. We had a favorite cafe in Alamo Square where we met to share a drink when he was working with me.

“Good morning Logan. Sawyer here. Hope I caught you before your day cranks up. How are you?”

“Quite well, Sawyer. I haven’t heard from you in awhile. You must be working on a story.” He sounded curious. I pictured him sitting in his cluttered office with his mane of unruly white hair sticking up in tufts.

“I’m working on an animal mutilation. I’d buy you a drink in the Square tonight, but I moved to Cheyenne a couple of weeks ago.”

“Cheyenne! I’ll miss our little gatherings.” I heard his chair creak. “Tell me what you’ve got going.”

I summarized the facts. “The testes and tail were taken. What do you think?”

For a while, I only heard his quiet breathing. Finally, he cleared his throat. “He took the symbol of manhood while enjoying the bull’s suffering. Inflicting the pain makes him feel in control and the mutilation is a catharsis for his rage.”

“You sure he’s a man?” I nudged.

“Almost certainly it’s a man. A very angry man with a dangerous psychopathology. He thinks very little of the consequences of what he’s doing and views the animal as existing only to serve his needs.”

“Have you treated any patients like this?”

“I’ve treated a couple of cases, but with very little success. FBI profiles indicate that animal abuse is one of the early traits of serial murderers.”

“Do they all become serial murders?”

“No, not always. What triggers the human mind to act out its thoughts remains a mystery.”

“If taking the testes made him feel in control, what was cutting off the tail about?”

“My dear, some hunters in Africa take the tail and horns from their trophy animals. I don’t put much significance in his taking the animal’s tail. Drawing the peace sign in blood on the side of the animal may have been a sardonic gesture. He may be just thumbing his nose at the police.”

“Could you give me a quick profile of this guy?”

“He’s probably between twenty and fifty, in good shape, and probably knows something about stock ranching. These men can be bright, successful—charismatic even. Then there is the economic angle of killing a rancher’s prize bull. You have a very interesting case. I want you to let me know what happens.”

“I will.”

“One more thing, he’ll mutilate again. Rarely are they able to act out just one time. The rage builds until he’s desperate for release. Be careful following the story, my dear.”

I finished my notes, scribbling a reminder to send a bottle of Chivas to Logan when Clay stuck his head in my office. “Hey, great work covering that mutilation, kiddo. Have you seen the comments on the website? Viewers are guessing about what kind of sick person we got and what’s going to happen next. One guy wants to know who the new good looking reporter is!”

“Thanks. I’ll check the website. I talked to Hunter Kane about Sam’s losing his herd to brucellosis…”

“Tell me about it.” He settled into the one comfortable chair in my office.

“You know much about the disease?”

“Nah.” Clay scratched his head. “Never been around ranching much. I know what happened out at Jordan’s place is standard operating procedure by the government to keep the disease from spreading.”

“I didn’t know much either until I researched it on the web. Brucellosis infects the cow causing her to abort her fetus. Any animal that comes in contact with infected birth fluids gets the disease.” I began to sell my next story. “Buffalo ranchers compete with cattle ranchers to be the meat on the dinner table. You know who else brucellosis slams financially? The hunting business. The elk and big horn sheep are infected, too.”

“Where you goin’ with this? You tossed a bunch of stories on the table.”

“I’ll follow the money. Brucellosis is an economic story affecting ranchers and the hunting business.”

“I like where your head’s at. Keep me in the loop. Anything new on that mutilation? I don’t want to lose viewer interest in Foster’s bull.” He stretched out in his chair. “Hell, it’s even a human interest story. Another guy loses his livelihood. Play that angle, kiddo.”

I was irritated, but ignored the kiddo reference. “I called a source of mine in San Antonio. He’s a psychologist. Logan gave me a profile of a mutilator.”

Clay bit. “What makes a guy do this stuff?”

“The short answer is he’s raging on the inside and needs to control and dominate. Power and money are what this story is about. Who gets to make the most money selling their meat?”

“I like the way your mind works, kiddo, but don’t say it until you have some proof.” He slapped my desk on the way out of the office. “Good hire on my part.” He winked at me over his shoulder. “Hey, update the web story with that psychologist guy’s opinions. We’ll give the audience something new to chew on.”

Kiddo. What the hell does kiddo mean to him? I’m sure no kid.

I tapped into the station’s server with my password and updated Foster’s story. Just the high points to keep the audience interested. I didn’t share Logan’s statement that animal abuse was a trait of serial murderers. I scrolled the comments posted after my story. Herdman05 worried about protecting his herd. Several others hoped the incident was a one-time event.

I logged out of the server and called Ray Foster, waiting a few minutes for him to pick up his phone and drawl out his answers. Talking to Ray was a dead end. Time to talk to Spooner.

After four rings, he answered. “Jake, it’s Sawyer Cahill. I’d like to talk with you about a couple of stories I’m working on.”

“I heard about Foster’s bull.”

“Why don’t we meet? I’ll buy you coffee in the morning and we can talk a few minutes,” I proposed.

“We’re cutting herd and I don’t have any time to meet this week.”

“That’s fine. The offer of coffee stands. I’ll be in touch.”

My email chimed. I looked at the subject line: news for your Foster Ranch story. One click and the message opened. Stay out of it. I recoiled from the monitor. I clicked back to the inbox. Anonymous. Sweat popped out on my forehead and my hands turned to ice. I didn’t want gossip until I could find out a bit more. I called our tech guy. “Mark, I got an anonymous email from an unhappy viewer. Is there any way you can get me the IP address?”

“Yeah, sure. Everyone has an internet address, but if your guy sent it from a public computer, the machine’s address isn’t going to help. Do we need to call the police, Sawyer?”

“Not yet. But can you see if you are able to pull the IP address?”

“Sure. Forward the email to me and I’ll give it a go this afternoon.”

“Email me what you find out.”

I saved the email and printed a copy for my file. Who was this guy? Was he just trying to scare me?

* * * *

Mark’s answer came right before five. My email had come from a computer at the Cheyenne County Library. Dead end. My desk phone rang while I was reading his email. “Hi Sawyer, it’s Mark. I sent you the search results for the IP address. No way to tell who used a public computer over at the library. I’m not real comfortable with that message you got. Sure you don’t want to make it official and call the police?”

“Not yet, Mark. Could be just someone letting off steam.”

“Call me if you need me.”

Dwayne was loafing in my doorway. I stifled a sigh of exasperation. I hadn’t seen much in this guy that made me want to hear from him.

“Heard you had some unhappy viewers. I might be able to help you with that.” He smirked.

How did Dwayne know about the email? “We’re journalists, Dwayne. We don’t broadcast the news to make people happy. We cover the news the public needs to know to make informed decisions. Remember learning that in J-school?”

“I’m the sports director. J-school isn’t in my past. My viewers love my stories.” He simpered. “Check my Facebook page. Friend me if you like.”

“Happy for you, Dwayne.” I loaded up my laptop and grabbed my bag. “I’ll get in touch if I need your help.” I scooted by him and out into the hall.