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Overview
Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist, Bradley Crawford, and his wife, Kristy, are vacationing on an island off the west coast of Canada. But, their dreamy little escape quickly turns into a nightmare.
When their ordeal is over, twenty letters from an infamous killer have changed hands, blazing a trail of cryptic clues that opens a Pandora’s Box.
Once that box is opened, it can’t be closed.
Bradley’s quest to win his third Pulitzer becomes an obsession, especially with a story that begins to take shape as the ‘scoop of the century.’
But, there are others who are also interested in the outcome of his story. The dogged pursuit of a ‘scoop’ by a journalist who just can’t quit leads to a cavalcade of events that will change lives forever.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781988281780 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Sands Press |
| Publication date: | 11/01/2019 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 289 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
His hands trembled as he held the letter. Reading had always been a pleasurable experience for Brad. But, this time, with this particular document, he wasn't quite sure what he was feeling. Was he getting pleasure from this? Or was it morbid fascination? Probably a mixture of both, he decided, as he took a badly needed sip of water. His throat was as dry as sandpaper, and he knew what that usually meant. He was in trouble.
Not imminent trouble, he was fairly sure. But, he knew it would come eventually. Brad had been cursed with the need to know. To discover the answers, to force the illogical into the realm of the logical. Not an easy thing to do. But, for an investigative reporter like Brad, it came naturally.
He wrote under the byline Bradley Crawford. And he sold himself to the highest bidder — kind of a prostitute, if there ever was such a thing in the world of journalism.
Brad never had any trouble selling his stories. And they really couldn't even be described as "stories." More accurately, they were exposés. Brad exposed things. Tore them open. Researched them meticulously. Left no stone unturned. He was a hated and feared man in many circles. Sometimes, he had to wear a disguise and assume fake personas in order to get people to talk to him. He was a detective in the truest sense of the word.
He wasn't hated in all circles, of course. Editors and publishers loved him. Because very few could do what Brad could. A Pulitzer Prize winning journalist — not once, but twice.
The first time, he'd brought an American city to its knees with his shocking disclosures of corruption in the mayor's office.
The second time, only three years after his first win, he'd uncovered the collusion between certain U.S. border control officers and traffickers of illegal Mexican immigrants. Massive payoffs, in both cash and drugs, which resulted in reportedly 25,000 pathetic and desperate souls escaping into the not so welcoming arms of the United States of America over a period of two years. Through covert tunnels and overcrowded trucks.
After both exposés, Brad had received death threats. Being Canadian, he wasn't as easy to reach — but, despite that sense of comfort, he still kept his head up. Living in Toronto gave him the luxury of being far enough away from those two stories that he didn't have to eat and sleep the details. But, once his exposés were published, he was either the toast of the town wherever he went, or the goat who didn't know to leave well enough alone. Depended on the audience.
Notoriety was just something that came with Brad's chosen profession. History hadn't seen too many people quite like him. And, in these modern times, a true reporter was a rarity indeed. The mainstream media wasn't an easy nut to crack. Doors closed fast, and voices became mute. No one seemed to want to ask the tough questions anymore, to tell the public those truths that a legitimate "free press" should want to tell. That eagerness and excitement to publish a controversial story seemed to have faded with time.
The most notorious journalists prior to Brad were Woodward and Bernstein, made famous by the movie, All the President's Men. After that story came out, resulting in the virtual impeachment of Richard Nixon, the news world seemed to change dramatically. Cement walls started popping up everywhere, and the flavor of stories started to change. They became more about scandal and salaciousness rather than hard news.
Rather than holding people accountable.
Brad was old fashioned — he still believed in accountability and still believed that people should care about that.
But with the current state of affairs in the world, it seemed that the news was now sanitized. And the messages seemed disingenuous. There was so much clutter now — it seemed as if there was no room for real news anymore because all of the room was being taken up by stories about celebrities like Beyoncé and JayZ, and whether or not their marriage was really over. Who gives a shit?
Apparently, a lot of people give a shit.
Brad still loved what he did — and he had this "missionary zeal" still etched into his brain; had convinced himself that people still cared about hearing the truth, and still cared about those in power being held accountable.
And if not for people like Brad, who in God's name would hold their fingers to the fire? If not for courageous journalists, how would anyone hear the real news, know the real truth? But in the back of Brad's mind, he did indeed wonder if anyone really cared anymore. As long as the lies and deceit didn't affect their singular little worlds, then life was a happy journey.
He knew he was an idealist, and knew also that he had this old-fashioned sense of truth and justice. That was just Bradley Crawford in a nutshell. And he liked who he was.
Brad also liked how rich he was. Being a famous journalist had earned him a huge income over the years. Even before he became freelance, he'd made his mark. Worked his way up the ladder after graduating from the University of Toronto with a master's of journalism. Moved up fast, becoming managing editor at the Toronto Times before the tender age of thirty. Then he floated a massive loan and executed a leveraged buyout of that national newspaper before his thirty-fifth birthday party. And what a party that was ...
Brad changed the nature of the paper during his tenure as publisher — transformed it from one that relied mainly on fluff stories to a controversial ball-breaker. And he'd even selfishly held onto his job as managing editor while acting as publisher — he wanted to influence the stories, because, after all, it was his fucking newspaper. And he was determined to put his stamp on it.
Five years later, Brad sold the newspaper and pocketed a capital gain of thirty million. Then he was free. Free to pursue. Free to dig and provoke. And free to sell his particular brand of expertise to whoever was willing to pay him.
While Brad was indeed a rich man now, he still expected to be paid. He liked money. And he liked being able to command his worth. Because no one did it better than him.
He turned his attention back to the two-page letter in his hands.
What was this man saying? Why had such an obviously articulate man written what amounted to no more than just a fluffy wishy-washy letter? A letter full of crap — not even worth the effort. But ... there were indeed subtle nuances. Was he trying to say something without coming right out and saying it?
Brad knew that was why his hands were trembling. This nonsensical letter was actually making sense somewhere in his brain. He'd seen enough cryptic phrases in his professional life to understand that the man was talking in code. And doing it from behind the walls of a medium security prison in the great state of Georgia.
He looked up and stared off into space — well, not really in space. Towards the window in the living room of the rented cottage. Which now acted as a mirror because of the darkness that had descended outside. He felt himself falling off into a daydream:
A doomed and dying man, in solitary confinement, hunched over his tiny little desk in a four foot by ten foot cell. Writing like a madman, using his considerable covert skills acquired during his days at the CIA by scribbling in code. Knowing that all of his mail was screened before it was allowed to leave the confines of the pigpen that was now his home. Wondering what he could say, should say — what legacy he could leave behind. And if anyone would care. Brad could see him stretching his considerable muscles, pushing back his thick blonde hair, smiling his sardonic smile as he considered how he was outsmarting his screeners; or as he referred to them in the letter — his "keepers."
The handsome and gentle face that belied the sordid resume: one that contained ten convictions for murder and a suspected forty more. Forty murders that were never proven as they had taken place in foreign lands. The handsome face that could have easily graced the silver screen, but instead was overcome with joy every once in a while, whenever he thought of the son who enjoyed that honor in his place. A son who was now more famous than the father. He probably thought that was only fitting. After all, his son was a bona fide movie star now, and Hal Winters was only the most infamous hitman America had ever created. Some things weren't worth celebrating.
Brad was sure that such thoughts went through the twisted brain of Hal Winters in his dying days.
Suddenly, Brad was jarred out of his daydream. A reflection in the window glass — movement behind him coming from the kitchen. A glamorous image right out of a 50s movie, complete with the sultry pose and the elegant silk nightgown shimmering in the dim moonlight illuminating the room.
Then he heard her voice, which interrupted the film noir fantasy that was filling his imagination. Brad liked fantasies.
"What on earth are you doing?" She giggled. "Sitting there, staring out the window. You can't see anything, darling. It's pitch black outside." Brad turned his head to face her. "Ah ... but I did see you. And while I think you're a gorgeous babe, you've never looked more gorgeous than you did a second ago reflected in the window pane."
In her usual fun-loving way, his beautiful brunette with the voluptuous figure slipped over the back of the couch and executed a soft landing in a perfectly seductive pose. In that same instant Brad rolled onto the floor to give her all the space she needed. Then he knelt on the floor beside the lips that were puckered and waiting. He gently kissed them.
"I thought you were fast asleep, Kristy. The last I heard from you were snores that would awaken the dead."
She leaned in close and kissed him back. "Yeah, right. You love to exaggerate. The only one who snores in this family is you."
Brad lifted himself off the floor and snuggled in beside her on the massive sofa. "I'm so glad I married you. Know why?"
She smiled. "No. But, I'm waiting with bated breath."
"Because at this time of night I can always count on you to make me a sandwich if I say I'm hungry."
"Are you hungry, Brad?"
"Yes, dear, desperately so."
She tickled him under the arms. "Then you'll have to divorce me. I'm done making sandwiches for you at any time of day or night!"
Brad made a face, but she wasn't buying it.
"You're hungry because your brain is trapped in another mystery. Am I right?"
Brad sat up on the edge of the couch. Reached over and picked up the letter that he'd dropped on the floor. "Yeah, I think you're right."
Kristy sat up too, crossed her legs, and tucked her feet underneath her bum. Brad looked at her — amazed that she was able to do that so easily. At fifty years of age, he couldn't even imagine doing that; in fact, he hadn't been able to do that even when he was in his twenties. Having been a triathlete for most of his life, Brad was in very good shape, but his joints had never been able to move the way Kristy's could. The bonus was that their times in the bedroom would usually get pretty interesting. She was double-jointed, which added all sorts of interesting possibilities. For just an instant, a wonderful instant, Brad could feel a stiffening in his crotch as one particular memory popped into his head.
Kristy leaned over his left shoulder and peered down at the letter in his hand. She gently rubbed his arm. "Come to bed and play. I'll even let you pick the fantasy. You won't figure that letter out tonight. Maybe in the morning some brainstorms will come to you."
Brad nodded. "I'm puzzled as to why he let me have this. It's an original too — not a copy."
Kristy snuggled her chin up against his. "He recognized you as soon as we pulled into the driveway. Because of who you are, he was more than happy to take down the vacancy sign."
"Yeah, that's true. He did seem kind of thrilled to have us stay. I can't believe that he and his wife live in that little cabin over there while we're staying here in their house in relative luxury."
"Well, it sounds like they just do that during the season. Here in the Campbell River area of Vancouver Island, summer comes to a quick end. So, I guess they make really good money for the sacrifice of living in that tiny cabin for three or four months."
Brad rubbed Kristy's bare knee. "It's strange — almost as if he followed us to that pub the other night. And I still haven't seen his wife, have you?"
"No, but I know she's in there. I heard some pots and pans banging around in that little kitchen."
"I guess so — weird though, that she hasn't made an appearance yet. I mean, they're only fifty yards away from us. You would think she'd pop over for a quick 'Hi.'"
Kristy kissed Brad on the cheek. "So, how about that offer to come to bed?"
Brad smiled. "In a few minutes. My brain's still going 150 miles an hour. Back to that pub — he seemed to know we were there. He just came in the front door and walked right over to us. Sat down in our booth with that bundle of letters in his hand."
Kristy frowned. "A bit weird, yeah. But, he knew you were a newsman, and there's only one restaurant within ten miles so he probably assumed we'd be there for dinner."
"But, that bundle of letters?"
Kristy chuckled. "Funny how he asked you to choose a number between one and twenty. You chose nine, and he gave you envelope number nine from the pile. What made you choose nine?"
"Just numerology — it's supposed to be my number. But, I wonder what's in the other nineteen."
"He said they were all from Hal Winters."
"Yes, but the letter he gave me isn't addressed to our landlord. It was sent to someone in England — an address in Coventry. Remember, I asked him how he got those letters and he just shook his head and went silent?"
Kristy shifted to the edge of the couch. "I don't know — he must be hoping you'll look into it. But, what can you do now, anyway? The killer's long dead. His death is old news."
Brad turned and gazed into Kristy's green eyes. "Hon, you must know by now that nothing is ever really old news. Everything connects somewhere along the line, and just finds a way to regurgitate."
She ran a hand through his thick hair. "You need a haircut, dear. Let me do it for you tomorrow."
Brad laughed. "No goddamn way! I remember the first time you tried that. It was a disaster."
Kristy protested. "But, I had the wrong scissors. You can trust me now."
"No, I can't. I'll just trust you to keep editing my stuff — you do a splendid job at that, and at least I know that's what you're trained to do."
Brad kissed her on the lips. They both laid their heads back against the couch and began necking like teenagers. He was starting to think that her fantasy in the bedroom suggestion might indeed be a good idea right about now. With some double-jointed extras?
A sudden noise cut short his dreamy thoughts.
They stopped kissing and listened.
Kristy whispered, "What was that?"
The noise came again.
"It sounds like a dog barking."
"Maybe it's at a neighbor's house?"
Brad shook his head. "No, this estate sits on twenty acres of land. There are no neighbors within earshot. Our hosts must have a dog."
A different noise shattered the quiet.
"Jesus, that sounded like a gunshot!"
Brad held onto Kristy's hand. It was trembling. "Maybe they're shooting at gophers or a fox, something like that."
Another sharp report!
In a shaky voice, Kristy whispered, "Brad, let's just ... go to bed and snuggle ... under the covers. I'm ... sure it's nothing."
He pulled her up by the hand and stuffed the letter into his pocket. "You're right — let's go."
Hand in hand, they were heading towards the back bedroom when there was a soft knock at the door.
They stopped dead in their tracks. Brad called out, "Yes, who is it?" "It's me, Brad. Your landlord, Colin."
Brad squeezed Kristy's hand. "Not to worry, it's only Colin."
He walked to the front door and opened it wide. "Colin, you're burning the midnight oil, too. Wanna join us for a nightcap?" Brad sensed that Kristy had followed him to the door, and was breathing down his neck right behind him.
As he adjusted his eyes to the dark outside, he could tell that Colin's face was aghast. Pale, with tear-streaked cheeks.
"Colin, what's wrong? Are you okay?"
"I ... n-need ... that ... l-letter ... b-back."
Brad just stared at him, shocked at what he was seeing and what he was hearing. He reacted on journalistic instinct. "I'm sorry, I can't do that, Colin. You gave it to me. You can make a copy if you want, but I'm a journalist. I can't give it up."
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Letters From A Killer"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Peter Parkin.
Excerpted by permission of Sands Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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