RATINGS GAME EXCERPT

by Ryan C. Thomas

What the hell have I gotten myself into, thought Stone, as he headed to O’Halloran’s to try and stop the nervous shaking that had taken hold of him since the interview. Blindsided by a goddamn dog hair, how was that for luck? Finding fingerprints or weapons near a dead body, apparently that sort of evidence was too boring for the boys in blue to look for. But drop a dog hair in their hands and look out, the case was going to get cracked and promotions were going to be handed out. How could he have been so stupid?

The familiar stench of cigar greeted him as usual, but this time he found something else unsavory inside. Hardwood was at the bar drinking red wine, a few of the locals hovering around him bugging him about something, no doubt the Casanova Carver news. Furious, Stone slammed his fist down on the bar top next to him and watched as everyone cleared away.

“Stone,” Hardwood said, gallantly as always.

“You stole my story. How’d you do it?”

“It is quite a coincidence isn’t it? Two news anchors…excuse me, two newsmen receiving letters on the same night confessing heinous crimes. What are the odds? Unless it’s the same killer and he sent letters to all the media. It’s perplexing.”

“It’s not the same guy and you know it.”

“Do I? You seem rather perturbed for someone who got as much attention tonight as you did. How many calls have you gotten so far?”

“The Times and Post called my cell while I was walking here, I told them no dice, it’s my story. I haven’t checked my machine at work yet.”

“And yet you’re angry with me. It’s not my fault some deranged soul—or souls as you propose—chose the same day to send us letters. Hell, I get letters all the time from people. Sometimes, yes, even the ramblings of lunatics.”

“But you never read them on the air.”

“This one struck me as urgent.”

“Bullshit, it struck you as a golden opportunity to steal back an audience that was glued to my report. What, someone in your office saw my report and you cut to commercial so you could dig through your mailbag real quick?”

Pat came over and put a glass of whiskey on the counter for Stone. “I took a guess, I did. Dewars on the rocks. And perhaps for it being on the house you could disclose some juicy details about your new story for ol’ Pat. Like Mr. Hardwood here did.”

The drink didn’t steady Stone’s nerves as much as he’d hoped, but it helped. After it settled in his gut, he glared at Hardwood. The sonofabitch would use a story to get any small amount of attention, be it a wink or a blowjob. Getting attention was his livelihood.

“Only a minor detail,” Hardwood said, reassuringly. “Something so that Pat here can impress the ladies.”

“Aye, it’s the talk of the town tonight and Ol’ Patty got the goods. I’ll sell a few black and tans at the promise of inside news, I tell ya. So give me what you got, oh Wesley.”

It was nice to hear his own name again, and so he bit his lip and thought about the possibilities. It didn’t matter what the letter actually said, he decided, if he made something up now it would come true soon enough. But he decided against it on the notion that if Pat knew something before the cops did it wouldn’t take a brain surgeon to make a connection.

“Sorry, Pat. What you heard is what I know.”

“Ol’ Hardwood here confessed that the Casanova Carver named his victim John Donor. Get it?”

“Not really. I thought it was a girl.”

“Ah yes,” said Hardwood, “but don’t we say mankind when referring to both genders. The killer sees the species, not the sex. I left the name out of the report on purpose. Gives me something to use if I ever track him down. If he knows it’s really me, maybe I’ll get an exclusive interview.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I will too.”

“By all means. Such is the freedom of the press. To repeat and reform until every angle has been squeezed.” Stone paid Pat and waited until the bartender left before he spoke again. A group of men walked in and sat down at the table nearby so he spoke low, the first buzz of the night catching up to him.

“Something’s fishy here.”

“Oh please. Sending letters to the media is the oldest trick in the book. The Zodiac killer, the Unabomber. Hell, they all send their deranged musings to us. It’s in the serial killer’s handbook or something. It’s amusing but terribly trite.”

It was then that Hardwood reached for his drink and Stone noticed the cuts on his forearm. They were fresh, the result of something thin and sharp. He’d seen cuts like that before during stories he’d covered, usually on rape victims but more often on the attackers themselves. It never failed that an attacker using a knife cut himself.

“Hurt yourself?”

“Oh, these lacerations? I was hanging a mirror last night and it shattered when I misjudged the hammer. Shame too, it was an antique from my relatives in Portugal.”

Now, what happened next, as Stone sat back slowly and felt his chest tighten, was sort of like emerging from the mental fog that surrounds a dream. Everything became clear real quick.

“You sonofa…Hardwood, you killed that girl.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Not yet I’m not. You did, you killed her. You sick bastard. Killed her for the story. Sonofabitch. You, the great and successful Doug Hardwood, killed her and made up The Casanova Carver.”

From the TV at the end of the bar, there came a riotous burst of canned laughter. The bar patrons followed suit, as did O’Halloran. Stone looked up and saw Branford Marsalis beaming, pointing at Jay Leno as if he’d just one-upped the big-chinned host.

Slowly, calculatingly, Hardwood spun in his barstool and got in Stone’s personal space, their noses practically touching.

“Funny you should bring it up, my sleepy-eyed competitor. I know where you were last night…Wesley. I know about the bum in the building and what you did to him. Care to have a conversation about it?”

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