I took my time answering. “Naw. I went out. I haven’t seen the paper yet today. Who won?”
“Dodgers, five to four. Got three in the ninth. Manousakis hit one into the third deck.” he passed me the paper. Black Arrow killer — murdered seven or eight in AZ and NV over the past two years. Arrow symbol referred to in case notes. Another girl murdered here few weeks ago — similar note found. Investigation shut down by Feds.
I wanted to ask Mac more, but he had that get out of my office light in his eyes.
“Well, it was good to see you, Mac. We’ll have to go catch a game at Candlestick sometime.” I got up to leave.
Mac opened a desk drawer and searched through it. “Oh, Tex, on your way out, could you drop this letter off for me? I’d sure appreciate it.” I took a business card from him and stuck in a pocket.
“No Problem, Mac. I’ll see you around.”
Patty was on the vid-phone and let me leave without the usual double entendres and hollow hints at future trysts. I was eager to look at the card Mac had given me but decided to wait until I reached the relative privacy of my office.
The business card was ragged and cheaply made. It read: Lucas Pernell — Investigative Reporter. The printed number had been crossed out and a new number written in pencil. It didn’t look promising, but Mac hadn’t given it to me for no reason. I punched in the number on my vid-phone.
“Bay City Mirror. Circulation. How may I help you?”
“Lucas Pernell, please.”
The video relay was off, and I assumed that the voice had been computer-generated. Amazingly, it wasn’t. “Who?”
“Pernell. Lucas Pernell.”
“Do you know the extension of the party?”
“No, I don’t. I was just given this number.”
“Please hold.”
Elevator Muzak piped through my Vid-phone speakers. An orchestral version of “Scream at the Sky” from Soundgarden’s final album. An oldie, but a goodie. A voice finally cut in. “Who are you holding for?”
“Lucas Pernell.”
“One moment, please.”
A minute or so later, the phone beeped and yet another voice popped out of my speakers. “This is Pernell.”
“Mr Pernell, my name is Tex Murphy. I’m a PI and a friend of Mac Malden. He gave me this number.”
“Is this some kind of joke? I don’t know any Mac Malden.”
Either this was a big mistake, or maybe Pernell was testing me. “Hmm… maybe I got the name wrong. Anyway I have some notes that might interest you.”
There was a short silence. “These notes… are they sharp, to the point?”
“I guess you could say that.”
“You’re right. And interested. We should meet. I’ll let you know when and where.”
Click.
I spent several hours scanning the internet for references to the Black Arrow Killer, but I couldn’t find anything. I turned off the computer and poured myself a bourbon. My eyes were dry, and my back ached. A nap sounded good. My fax machine beeped and spewed out a single sheet. I tore it off and read the words Twilight. 1 A M.
I’d never experienced the Garden of Earthly Delights that is the Twilight Lounge. It was on the outskirts of New San Francisco. Not quite reputable — not particularly scary. Like a hundred other watering holes, it followed the Lounge Code: dark, not too friendly, and always open. I stepped inside and looked around. I had a pretty good idea what a Lucas Pernell would look like. Glasses, tousled hair, herringbone jacket, khaki trousers, a cheap tie has always loosened and slightly off-centre. There were at least for Lucas Pernell’s in the bar. Fortunately, I must have been the only Tex Murphy.
“You Murphy?”
“Pernell?”
“I’m over here.”
I followed the guy to a table in the far reaches of the lounge — pass the pool tables, pass the dart board. Even past a life-size cut-out of a golden beach vixen and her sweaty beer bottle.
“What do you drink?”
“Bourbon.”
“Well, that’s a good start.”
Pernell caught a waitresses eye, held up two fingers, and pointed at the table. I pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes, shook one to the top, and pulled it out between my teeth. “Can I bum one of those?”
“Sure.” I shook up another smoke and pointed the pack toward Pernell.
We lit up as the waitress set up my first drink and Pernell’s second. My fellow bourbon drinker paid the waitress and waited for her to sway back to the bar.
“Let’s see the business card.”
I pulled out the card Mac had given me. Pernell turned it over and examined it closely. Apparently satisfied, he lit a match and held it up to the card. Fractions of a second short of burning his fingers, he dropped the smoking cinder into the ashtray.
“You said you had notes.”
I produced the two sheets of paper. Pernell first looked at them sceptically, with the air of someone whose patience is being tested. Quickly, though, his grip tightened, and his eyes began to move over the paper. After a moment he looked up at me, sharply. “How did you get these?”
“They were given to me by a client.”
“How did your client get then?
“From a stalker, apparently. What do you think?”
Pernell smiled. He carefully removed his glasses and polished them with his tie. “Look, sorry if I wasn’t too friendly just now. Most of the people I deal with fall into two groups: idiots and imbeciles. I’ve got a waiting list a mile long of crackpots desperate to waste my time. Unfortunately, it’s a necessary waste of time, sifting the grain from the chaff.” he replaced his glasses and picked up the notes. “You, my friend, are one big chunk of grain.”
I buried the smoking end of my cigarette into the black remains of Pernell’s business card. “Why don’t we pretend — for just a second — that I have no idea how important these notes are. You tell me what you know, then I help my client. Sound like a plan?”
“So you don’t know anything about the Black Arrow Killer?”
“Only What Mac Malden told me. Killed a few people in the Southwest a few years ago. Seems to have moved into the Bay area and apparently murdered a girl around here a few weeks ago. That’s all.”
Pernell handed the notes back to me. I folded them and put them back in my pocket. “Well, Malden might know more than that, and he might not. Even if he did, I doubt he tell you. He’d be stupid to.”
“Why?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Humor me.”
Pernell took a swig of bourbon. He looked at me closely, like he was sizing me up, then went on. “When the first bodies turned up in Arizona in the summer of ‘41, the local police tried to keep it off the wires. Didn’t want the bad publicity. So wasn’t until March of ‘42, when three other victims were found, that the story broke big. Turned out that the killer in all five cases had the same MO. He always sent notes to his victims before murdering them. I went down to cover the story and actually got a chance to see one of the notes. It was like these that you gave me. Exactly like these.”
“With the arrow symbol on it.”
“Right. And the block lettering — everything. Now, the police weren’t too keen on releasing the details, since this type of crime could spawn copycat murders. The black arrow symbol was referred to in reports, given the murderer the appelation of the Black Arrow Killer, but the actual symbol was never published. This way, the police would know when the actual killer was involved by this specific arrow symbol.”
“Makes sense.”
“So, anyway, the killer moved on and racked up two more victims in Nevada before the police could catch up. Finally, a girl contacted the police after receiving one of the notes. The cops moved in and made an arrest. Sources tell me that, at that point, the NSA stepped in and completely took over the investigation. Media coverage evaporated. The guy they arrested was named Leroy Kettler, though his name was never officially released.”