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KATARINA WELLS, NWN1 REPORTER: If the Jeffrey Halcomb connection isn’t a bizarre enough twist, early this morning Officer Joshua Morales of Lambert Correctional Facility was found dead at his residence. The officer seems to have stabbed himself in the throat with what appears to be a crucifix he had hanging in his home. This coincides with the artifact used in the death of Graham’s twelve-year-old daughter, suggesting that Morales was also more intimately involved with Jeffrey Halcomb than his job as a prison guard entailed. Officer Morales was the guard on duty when Halcomb took his own life. Lambert Correctional Facility has yet to comment on the case.
We will continue our coverage throughout the day as details unfold. Stay tuned for local weather after the break.
THE BOOK
LOU GAVE THE odd couple standing in front of his table a tentative smile and handed back their signed copy of Jeffrey Halcomb: I Am the Lamb. The Fifth Avenue Barnes & Noble was packed to the gills with readers, and his interview in USA Today hadn’t done much to thin out the crowd. The Halcomb case—from the suicide of Josh Morales to the deaths of Jeffrey, Echo, and Jeanie—had reignited public interest. Lou couldn’t have gotten better publicity if he had bargained his soul.
“You’re very brave,” said the woman. She pursed her plum-colored lips and pushed a few strands of black dyed hair behind her ear. “To switch from true crime to fiction, that’s a big deal. I mean, the whole based-on-a-true-story angle just gives the book such a boost. And writing this in first person . . .”
“Effective,” her male counterpart cut in. He was a good fifty pounds overweight, crushing a half-empty Starbucks Frappuccino cup against a faded Metallica T-shirt. “Creepy as hell, man. Stephen King stuff. Almost like you’re writing as Halcomb, huh? Totally effective.”
“Glad you enjoyed it,” Lou said.
“And the stuff about eternal life, do you really believe that?” The woman’s sudden intensity was endearing, but the dozens of piercings that littered her face made it hard to look her in the eye. Lou didn’t get it, just as he still didn’t quite get cell phones and the Internet and the popularity of reality TV. The psychiatrist had diagnosed him with a form of post-traumatic stress disorder. She said that, in order to deal with the loss of his daughter, he had blocked out his knowledge of the most everyday things. Most of those things were technological, and she couldn’t quite grasp why that was. But the mind is a tricky thing. Anything is possible with PTSD, she said. Just give it time. Things will get better.
But Lou didn’t need things to get better. Things were great. Caroline called him every now and again to scream-weep her way through her own grief. She blamed him entirely for the death of their daughter. Other than seething, she wanted nothing to do with him. Thank God. Mark—whom Lou had deduced was one of Lucas’s closest friends—tried to get in touch, but all it took was a simple I can’t handle this right now to start fading that particular friendship. It was incredible what you could blame on sorrow. Nobody could claim that Lou had changed without looking like an asshole. Of course he’d changed. Look at what he’d been through.
Besides, Lou didn’t want friends. He wanted a family.
“I lost my daughter,” Lou told the couple, his tone level, albeit a bit softer than before. “It’s easier to believe that she’s still around.” Grief was the ideal platform. Everyone wanted to reach out and relate. Everyone wanted to accommodate the sad, suffering poet. It broke down people’s walls. It made them vulnerable in ways they couldn’t imagine.
“And your friend, the cop . . .” the guy said.
“Guard,” the woman corrected.
“Yeah, guard. That’s crazy. Him killing himself, I mean. Just nuts, man.”
“Depends on how you look at it,” Lou said.
Legally, he hadn’t been allowed to write the book as true crime, and he hadn’t been able to reference Josh Morales by name. His editor had insisted they market the book as a fictionalization of actual events, for obvious reasons. Lou hadn’t been crazy about the idea, but if it was the only way to get the book out, so be it. And while Lou hadn’t anticipated Morales going through with suicide, it was a great angle, one he was milking for all it was worth, legality be damned.
“We’ll be talking about that later tonight, if you want to stop in.” Lifting a small square flyer from next to a stack of books, Lou handed it to the couple. “Join me?”
“Wow, yeah, maybe we will,” the woman said, looking over the details printed on the paper.
“Cool, thanks, Mr. Graham,” said the man.
“Please, call me Lou.” He gave them both a wink and waited for them to move on, then let his gaze drift down the crooked line that stretched toward the back end of the store.
As the couple sauntered away, John Cormick ducked back into the mix, placed a fresh can of Coke at Lou’s elbow, and gave him a sturdy pat on the back as he pulled up a chair. “How’s it going, Lou?” he asked. “Really brought out the weirdos with this one, man. Everything from cult fanatics to ghost hunters, huh? Black T-shirts and witchcraft as far as the eye can see.”
Lou smirked. He didn’t like John, but Lucas’s literary agent had been the final piece to the puzzle. Without him, Lou wouldn’t have had the first clue about getting his book published. And so he’d stuck with John, despite the guy getting on his nerves.
“My only complaint is that you didn’t jump on the voodoo bandwagon sooner.” John flashed Lou a megawatt smile, but Lou didn’t return it. “Shit, sorry,” John said. “With all this success, I mean . . . you doing okay, bud? You’ll tell me if you need anything?”
“Sure,” Lou said. “Get me more readers.”
“More?” John barked out a laugh. “I think you’ve got all of Manhattan in here and you want more?”
“More is better,” Lou said. “For the next book.” There wasn’t going to be a next book, but that wasn’t any of John’s business.
“Your own little cult,” John murmured, giving Lou a wink. “Shit, you paid a high enough price. It’s been a long time coming. You deserve it, man.”
John had no idea just how right he was.
“Mr. Graham?” A pretty girl in her early twenties stepped up to the table and gave both him and John a warm smile. “Oh my gosh, hi.” She blushed.
She had hair like Vivi.
Like Avis.
Blond. Soft waves cascading down her back.
“This is so exciting.” She exhaled a nervous laugh. “I’m sorry, I’m just . . .” She covered her mouth with her hand, chuckled into her palm. “I’ve never met a celebrity before. I feel so stupid.”
John rose from his seat, giving Lou room to do his work. Lou gave the girl before him a grin and extended his hand, one that she assumed was reaching for a copy of his book but that caught her hand in his instead. “And what’s your name?” he asked.
“Oh, um, Hilary,” she said, bouncing from one foot to the other. She radiated innocent youth, a purity that paired well with the soft creams and tans of her wardrobe. She pulled her oversized sweater closed, as if shielding herself from her own embarrassing awkwardness.
“Hilary,” he said. “I don’t know . . . you look more like a Harmony to me.”
She blushed at the sentiment, then shrugged off her momentary discomfort. “I think it’s nice that you dedicated the book to your daughter,” she said. “It’s sweet. Family is so important, and I’m so sorry about what happened to you. It’s nice, the idea of her still being around. In a way, I guess it means that we never really die—just move to a different plane of existence, right? God, I’m rambling . . .” She looked down, embarrassed, focusing on the glossy book cover for a moment, a finger tracing the L in Lucas’s name. “It’s comforting to know that our spirits can continue to be, that’s all.”