If there was ever a moment’s doubt about the national appeal of the Phantom Fiend story, it was rapidly put to rest when Toby glided up to the front of Boston Police headquarters at Schroeder Plaza at 8:45 in the morning to drop me off for the commissioner’s press conference.
Television satellite trucks lined Tremont Street on the outskirts of Boston’s Roxbury section, long trucks, huge trucks, with the outsized insignias of various networks — from CNN to FOX News to the big three of NBC, ABC, and CBS — emblazoned on the sides. In the narrow gaps between satellite trucks were the smaller vans owned by affiliate stations in Boston, Hartford, Springfield, Providence, and Portland, Maine.
I swear to God, it was all part of one huge traveling carnival, same trucks driving the same people facing the same pressures to cover the same stories. The only thing that changed was the location, whether a remote Indian reservation in Minnesota for a school shooting, or an Atlanta suburb for a missing bride (not Maggie), or the California coast for the guy who murdered his pregnant wife. Could be Waco, could be Ruby Ridge, could be wherever — and it always was. The only guarantee in this media age is that when one blockbuster story is ending, another one is just gaining legs someplace else. There’s no other choice: the executives at MSNBC aren’t going to broadcast ten hours a day of nothingness, even if it sometimes seems like that’s exactly what they do.
And now the show had traveled to my backyard, courtesy of, well, me, though not really. I was an incidental, if somewhat pivotal player, an unintentional conduit between a murderer and the city that he seemed to be killing off one woman at a time. As I stepped out of the Navigator, I hoped my colleagues from the national press corps could and would leave me the hell alone. I really did. Many reporters — hell, most reporters — would bask in the limelight created by the Phantom Fiend. I didn’t need it. I didn’t want it, not least because I really do have a face made for newspaper work. I would only put up with the publicity if it furthered the cause of me breaking more news.
The sidewalk along Tremont Street outside the glassy headquarters was a sideshow in that aforementioned carnival. One man with hair like Johnny Damon’s, which also meant he had hair like Jesus, was handing out prayer cards and chanting, “God save our city.” A middle-aged woman sold T-shirts that read THE PHANTOM IS A YANKEES FAN. Another young vendor plied shirts that simply said THE PHANTOM SUCKS. A twentysomething guy with dreadlocks sold those cheap plastic bracelets — these were black — that charities are always using now for fund-raising.
“Who benefits from these?” I asked him.
He looked at me carefully for a long moment, shrugged, and said, “I do.”
Good answer. I bought one for two dollars and stuck it in my pocket, yet another contribution to the American Dream.
Speaking of which, by the time I hit the revolving front door, any dream I had of being anonymous in this unfolding story was quickly broken. There were, I don’t know, maybe twenty, probably closer to thirty, reporters and assorted crew members waiting for me in the front lobby, most of them thrusting microphones in my face as they screamed an indecipherable stew of undoubtedly inane questions. I swear I heard someone yell, “Who was your favorite seventies rock band?” That caused me to wonder for a moment when it was that Air Supply hit it really big, but I think that was the eighties.
I kid, for godsakes. I kid.
But not about the two dozen reporters and various cameramen and sound people with the boom mikes so strong they could pick up the rapid beating of my famously oversize heart and beam it clear as day to any fans out there on the moon. The reporters, some of whom I recognized either as old friends or Washington colleagues from my time in the capitol, or from watching TV, quickly surrounded me.
“Have you met the Phantom?” one perfectly coiffed man yelled above the din.
Let’s think about that for a second, perhaps on his behalf, because he obviously had not. Had I met the Phantom Fiend, wouldn’t I have gotten around to reporting that fact in the pages of my beloved Boston Record? Wouldn’t I have let people know on my own? Does he really believe I would have held back on my own employer and readers to first bestow such knowledge on the dozens of daytime viewers of FOX News?
Everyone fell completely silent and stared at me in hopeful expectation of a brilliant or newsworthy answer.
“I have not,” I said, sorry to disappoint, though not really.
“Why not?” a woman shouted.
Okay, so the questions were going to grow increasingly stupid.
“Because he hasn’t chosen to make himself available to me,” I replied, trying not to be terse. “I think he has a pretty good idea that I’m always available to meet with him.”
I started wondering if this was really what I did for a living, what these people were doing to me now, and I took instant pity on anyone I’d ever covered on the wrong side of the microphone and notepad. The necessary patience with the news media alone should qualify every public official for sainthood. Though maybe not.
One sweating cameraman was all but pressing up against me with the tools of his trade, so close that I thought he was going to bang my head on his camera. Another bespectacled scribe, obviously a print reporter, was carefully sizing me up from head to foot as he jotted notes on a legal pad. When I glanced upside down at his writing, I thought I saw the word pecs, but maybe not.
There were more shouted questions — how many times have I heard from him, have I been fully cooperative with police, why do I think he picked me. To that last one I replied, “Because I’m the best reporter I know.” I said this laughing. No one else in this circle jerk even cracked a smile. I made a mental note not to watch what would undoubtedly be the painful coverage on the midday news.
So I added, “I’m kidding. Guys, I’m not the story here, obviously. You know that already. I’m in this by happenstance. Could as easily be any one of you. And everything I know, you’ve already read in the Record. Anything I learn, you’ll read that there as well.” Not a bad little plug for my paper, I thought.
That’s when one second-tier network reporter, a woman with skin so tight and tucked she could have been a spokeswoman for Saran Wrap, said above the noise, “Jack, the police are complaining in this morning’s Traveler that they believe the Record is encouraging the Phantom to work through them, rather than directly with authorities. And by doing this you’re stymieing the investigation. Do you have any comment?”
I hadn’t read that, mostly because I hadn’t read the Traveler yet, which was no great loss lately, given how much they were slashing the budget of that paper. They’d been left so far behind on this story, which should have been right in their wheelhouse, that they were rendered irrelevant. Still, I could feel my face flush, partly in anger that Hal Harrison or Mac Foley would level such a stupid accusation, and partly in embarrassment over my foolish negotiating antics with the Phantom himself, or at least with someone I thought was the Phantom. I reminded myself that the cops wouldn’t have any idea of my attempts at negotiation. They were just trying to get me off the story, dead or alive, it seemed.
I said, “I haven’t seen that, but it sounds exquisitely ridiculous.” After I said this, I wondered, nearly aloud, why it was that I always have to throw in an extra adjective. Or is exquisitely an adverb? Either way, not the point. I continued, “Look, I’m just doing what you guys would all do, and that’s report news. If someone sends you something in the mail or has a message delivered identifying where a murder victim might be, you contact authorities and you report this in your newspaper or on your network. Maybe you try to get a look yourself, to make sure the investigation is proceeding as it should. That’s exactly what the Record has done in all three instances. I’m not sure why the police would have a problem with that.”
A door to an auditorium behind the scrum opened, and a uniformed police officer announced, “Commissioner at the podium in two minutes.” The reporters surged as one toward the opening, pushing their way inside, leaving me alone in the hallway. When they were all inside, I went in as well, notebook in hand, ready to do what I do best, which is report news rather than make it.
What a business, what a life, what a world.
Commissioner Hal Harrison, the man who would be mayor, strode to the podium as if he was about to attack it. He was in the hushed, carpeted media center, the place awash in the soft color blue — royal blue carpet, pale blue walls, men and women in navy blue uniforms, aging newspaper reporters in the frayed blue blazers that count as couture in the realm of words and news.
The gathered media had followed the universal, perhaps natural order of things. The better-dressed television reporters — the women in expensive suits, the men in Brooks Brothers and ties — dominated the front of the room, with the occasional newspaper reporter who hadn’t yet learned of his or her proper — or as is more often the case, improper — place. Behind them, the bulk of the disheveled print reporters in open collars or jean skirts sat with noticeably less practiced postures. Behind them still were the unshaven men in unintentionally low-riding jeans peering through the lenses of a couple of dozen television cameras, often flanked by similar-looking men wielding the aforementioned boom mikes. And behind them were the photographers, known in campaign parlance as the stills. The commissioner’s many police advisers and campaign strategists sat in chairs along the two side walls of the room, their shoes as shiny as the bathroom mirrors at a Holiday Inn.
I took a position, standing, pen and legal pad in hand, in the back of the room, off to the side, with a clean vantage over the masses. The whole thing had the feel of something large, not least for the reason that as Harrison took center stage, a CNN reporter stood on camera in the middle of the room, announcing, “Boston Police Commissioner Hal Harrison is ready to address the issue of whether the Boston Strangler, the most notorious serial killer in the history of the United States, has reappeared after a forty-plus-year absence; we’re carrying this to you live.”
“I’d just like to make a couple of brief comments and announcements, what have you, and then I’ll take a few of your questions,” the commissioner began.
“I’d like to start by saying this is a trying time in Boston, and certainly a challenging time in the Boston Police Department. We don’t like to see one single innocent person killed, never mind three of them, all women. I would like to take a moment to assure the public, particularly women, that we have every available resource dedicated to solving these prior three murders and preventing any future ones, and we are confident on both fronts that that is exactly what will be the case. I would encourage women to exercise appropriate precautions until the perpetrator is identified and apprehended. But as long as people use basic common sense, the city is safe. I repeat: Boston is safe.”
I’ve been to, what, a hundred police press conferences over the years? Maybe two hundred? Probably more. Never once have I heard a police official announce that they are addressing a problem halfheartedly, probably without enough manpower, and with no expectations of making any headway in the investigation anytime soon.
So, translated from police-speak to everyday English, what he’d just said was that he was totally screwed and completely panicked. If he was a woman, he’d stay inside, buy a pair of unneutered rottweilers, then nail plywood over all his windows. But look at the bright side: not dining out at expensive restaurants is probably a good way for the entire female population of Boston to save a few bucks and lose a little weight.
He said, “We have a team of the city’s best and most experienced homicide detectives on the case, around the clock, augmented by detectives and uniformed officers in virtually every other division of this department. We are all pressing our informants for leads. We have additional officers on patrol, keeping their eyes on the city’s neighborhoods. I have canceled official travel plans for the foreseeable future so I can remain in Boston overseeing the investigation.”
Translated: I don’t have the slightest semblance of a clue as to who is offing women at a stunning clip of one every other day, and nor do my tired old detectives in the homicide bureau. Of course, they’re all going to soak me in overtime on this thing, so much so that I don’t have the money left in my budget for the chiefs’ convention at the four-star resort in Cancún.
Real life: “At this time, with acting mayor Mara Laird’s approval, I would also like to offer an award of twenty-five thousand dollars for any information leading to the arrest of the killer of any of the three victims. Believe me, I’m fully aware what’s at stake in this case.”
Translated: The know-nothing acting mayor is so far up my ass on this thing that I can feel her hair tickle my lower intestine, not that she needs to be. My whole political career is at stake. So in utter, total desperation, we’ll simply throw money at the problem in hopes that some street scum turns on some other street scum, alleviating the need for any good detective work.
The commissioner said, “In anticipation of your questions, I’d like to make a few important points. As you know, we discovered the body of Kimberly May in her apartment yesterday, based on a tip to the news media, presumably from the perpetrator of the crime. I encourage each and every journalist in this room and in this city, and probably in this country, if you’ve had any contact with anyone who identifies himself as the killer of these women, or provides information about other possible killings, to please contact us immediately. This is imperative. An investigation with multiple victims unfolding over a lengthy period of time is complicated enough. It becomes unnecessarily complex when the news media plays something less than a constructive role in the investigation. I would remind you that interfering in an active investigation is a prosecutable criminal offense.”
Translated: It’s driving us fucking crazy that we’ve even had to admit there’s a serial murderer on the loose and that we have no idea who or where he is. The fucking media, meaning you, Jack Flynn, should stay the fuck out of our way. Or else.
“With the third victim murdered in similar fashion, we are now pursuing the theory of a single killer, even while we continue to keep all other options open and under investigation. Many of you have posed the question as to whether this could in any way be linked to the killings in the Boston Strangler spree from mid-1962 to early 1964, much as a serial killer in Wichita, Kansas, emerged after two decades of silence and criminal inactivity.”
No translation necessary here. Ten minutes in, he was finally getting interesting, even making news. I hadn’t taken a note yet, but marked my legal pad with the letters BTK — the acronym for “bind, torture, kill,” the self-administered nickname for the Kansan killer who had reached out to the news media some twenty years after his last known slaying.
“That, obviously, is impossible here. The man who confessed to being the Boston Strangler, Albert DeSalvo, was killed in prison in 1973. I personally worked on that case in the early sixties. In the last couple of days, I have gone back and reread key parts of his confession from 1965. I am as convinced now as I was then that DeSalvo was, indeed, the perpetrator of those violent crimes, and what we have now is a copycat killer, seeking fame and press attention that he is receiving, and that consequently is fueling his desire to kill again.”
Translated: Don’t you dare question the good work from the sixties that propelled my rocket ride to the commissioner’s office. And by the way, this whole thing is the news media’s fault.
“We have already consulted with some of the most distinguished and accomplished criminal profilers in the country, who have compiled a psychological composite of the perpetrator of these crimes. As we review and refine it, we will make our findings public. In the meantime, I will say that any suspect is certainly a male, probably someone who lives alone, perhaps grew up in a single-parent household with a strong mother or maybe dominant older sisters, works in a largely unheralded job, craves attention that he doesn’t get in his everyday life, and likely has a criminal record involving other violent crimes. We suspect he’s in his thirties or forties, and for obvious reasons, we believe he has a keen interest in history.”
My cell phone vibrated in my jacket pocket, and I pulled it out, assuming I’d see Peter Martin’s number on the caller ID, Martin thinking I should already have half the story written before the press conference was actually over. But by the time I got the phone in hand, the vibrations had stopped. A notice appeared on the face of the phone informing me that I had a text message. How Modern Age, though not really.
I had a girlfriend for what seemed like the duration of a cup of coffee who used to text-message me every time she wanted sex, which, as it turned out, was quite often, which was good until the day it wasn’t, but that’s not really the point here. I pressed a few buttons and the message appeared on my screen: “The phantom fiend is the boston strangler. i know. i am him. will contact you asap. pf.”
I stared at it in disbelief, and not just because of my confusion over whether “I am him” was proper grammar. I had received two typed notes accompanying the driver’s licenses of fresh murder victims that most assuredly came from the Phantom Fiend, as well as a DVD that could only have come from the Phantom Fiend. In addition, I got the phone call from someone who claimed to be him, though I doubt it, given the result, which was almost my death but instead was that of an innocent bystander. But this, a text message on my cell phone? Could a serial killer who had emerged from forty years of dormancy really be so technologically savvy? Or did a text message even count as technological savviness anymore?
I reread the note again, noticing for the first time that there was an origination number on the bottom of the text message, causing my heart to skip a beat. Maybe the Phantom Fiend wasn’t as savvy as he thought he was. Maybe it was his phone number, easily traceable through cell phone records. Maybe this simple clue, this junior varsity mistake, would break the case, much in the same way Sam Berkowitz’s parking ticket near a murder scene helped break open the Son of Sam spree in New York City.
I reread the message yet again. The commissioner prattled on with the requisite thanks for the widespread cooperation among departments and agencies, even though the Boston Police was constantly at war with the state police and the FBI. Translated: We’re taking control of this thing and if any other agency tries sticking their incompetent and corrupt noses into our investigation, we’ll pummel them senseless.
Fuck the commissioner, fuck his defensive by-the-numbers press conference, fuck his nonsensical blame-the-media strategy. Maybe I should give him exactly what he wanted, I thought: raise my hand and announce, “Sir, I have just received word from the Phantom Fiend that he is, in fact, the Boston Strangler, contrary to the theory that you are pursuing in your own investigation.”
I decided against that. Instead, I stepped out of the room into the lobby, where I had been surrounded by my comrades-in-words twenty minutes earlier and dialed the number that was on the bottom of the message. It rang three times before the recorded voice of a woman came on announcing that this line didn’t take incoming calls, and to please check the number again and try redialing. I did as told, as I occasionally do, with the same result.
Before I could place the next call that I wanted to make, my phone vibrated again, this time with Peter Martin’s number on the caller ID.
“Are you watching this bullshit?” I said, picking up the phone.
“I was,” he said, his tone less calm than it had been the night before. “Right now I’m watching something else. I’m watching a video of Kimberly May’s apartment on a blog site called Hubaloo.com — ‘all the news the Record won’t print.’ They’ve got the entire clip, and they’re showing her body unimpeded — just a dead girl on the web. I don’t know how they got it — a police department leak, or whether your Phantom gave it to them. But right now the site has so many hits that it’s already crashed twice on me while I’m watching.”
“Clever name and slogan,” I said. At the same time, I swore under my breath — stupid goddamned bloggers, freaks of nature who sit around their dingy apartments in ratty bathrobes and black socks posting total crap on the web and thinking it counts as hipster journalism, the next big thing.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Martin said, his tone growing uncharacteristically angry now. “Seeing this makes me truly believe we did the right thing by not running it. The ad people could die because of the dollars we would have made, but not worth it.”
Then he asked, “You on your way back here?” I thought so at the time, so I answered in the affirmative. We hung up and I placed an immediate call to Vinny Mongillo in the newsroom. I asked him to check with his phone company sources on the number that appeared at the bottom of the text message. He put me on hold, came back, and said, “That traces to one of those disposable cells. It was purchased with cash. There’s no name on the account. You’re out of luck.”
“Could you check and see if they know what other calls were made from that phone? Maybe I can track down someone who was called by the owner.”
“Already did, Fair Hair. No other calls to this point.”
“You think they’d be willing to monitor it for future use?”
“They’re already planning on it.”
“Dinner tonight?” I asked.
“Well, now you owe me, so at a place of my choosing. You’re on your way in here? We need to go over the Paul Vasco information. We should be able to pay a call on him at our earliest convenience.”
“Which may well be today. I’ll be in shortly.”
The door to the media room flung open and the reporters and their cameramen poured out en masse. The press conference was over. Within minutes, CNN, FOX News, MSNBC, and, later, the three networks would authoritatively report that the serial killer was profiled by crime analysts as being a history buff in search of attention that he never got in his everyday life, careful and media-savvy, a new Boston Strangler for a new generation.
And that serial killer would soon be telling me things I wasn’t ready to hear.