Blood Stone by Michael Lister

Author:Michael Lister [Lister, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pulpwood Press
Published: 2018-01-19T22:00:00+00:00

30

When we reached our vehicle, Daphne Littleton and her camera man were pulling up in their news van.

The camera man was named Stan and everyone referred to him as Stan the Camera Man. He was overweight and slovenly, had long, bush black hair and needed a shave.

Walt looked at me. “Your little friend with the big tits is here.”

“She’s not my friend,” I said. “And she’s not here for me.”

Stan the Camera Man, who also served as Daphne’s driver and security guard—something often needed for the pushy and unpopular reporter—parked behind us, blocking us in on the narrow access road.

“What’re y’all doing back here?” Daphne asked as she jumped out of the van. “Is it another body?”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I said.

“What?” she asked, recoiling at my language and tone.

She had never heard me say anything like that before. Few people had. I rarely if ever spoke that way.

As we were talking, Stan had climbed out of the driver’s door, rushed around the back of the van, opened the panel on the side, and was readying his camera equipment. When he heard the way I spoke to Daphne, he stopped what he was doing and turned toward us.

“How can you sound excited about the prospects of another innocent young woman being tortured and murdered?”

“I didn’t think they were tortured,” she said. “Are they . . . Does he torture them?”

She was obviously asking out of excitement for a new story angle, not concern.

“I’m talking about mental, emotional, psychological torture,” I said. “The unimaginable terror that comes from being abducted, feeling powerless, being held against your will. I’m talking about the horror of knowing you’re going to die.”

“Oooh, that’s good. I can use that.”

“No you can’t,” I said. “But I do have a quote for you.”

“Great. Hold on a minute and let me get my camera. Stan, get over here.”

Stan arrived a moment later, camera on his shoulder, mic held out to her.

She took the mic and thrusted it out toward me.

“We’re rolling,” Stan said.

She turned toward the camera and said, “This is a WSB-TV exclusive. I’m Daphne Littleton. I’m here with two of the police officers working the Stone Cold Killer case. Detective Jordan what can you tell us about the case?”

“That a reporter who derives pleasure from the death of young women is not dissimilar to the psychopath killing them. The two aberrations of humanity are on the same antisocial spectrum.”

“Stop the camera,” Walt said.

Stan didn’t respond.

“Hey. Fatboy. I said stop the camera and move your fuckin’ van. Now.”

Ignoring him, Daphne asked me, “If you’re not back here because of a body . . . Are you interviewing someone? A witness or a suspect? Is it a suspect? Who is it? Does the killer work at the park? Is he in maintenance? What’s his name? The people have a right to hear what he has to say.”

“From a behavioral standpoint,” I said. “The only suspect that fits the profile so far is Daphne Littleton. You should definitely talk to her.

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