Cutline

By Bonnie Hearn Hill

Where is the line between love and obsession?

The body of a San Francisco priest is discovered in Golden Gate Park, and the killer remains at large.

Leta Blackburn, award-winning journalist for the San Francisco Times, would be covering the sensational story and investigating the forensics report that showed the priest was engaged in sexual activities at the time of his murder but she is missing. The police suspect the two events -- her disappearance and the priest s murder -- are related.

Enter 28-year-old, hearing-impaired reporter Geri LaRue, who was to be Leta s roommate and coworker. When a ruthless colleague suggests Geri knows more than she ll admit, Geri turns to prominent psychiatrist Malcolm Piercy for help. All of Leta s notes point to the rarest and most deadly of serial killers: a woman.

Malcolm Piercy is the only one who understands what goes on inside the twisted mind of a predator like the one the papers are calling The Razor Killer, an erotomaniac who believes her victims are in love with her. Malc has reasons of his own for keeping his theory a secret, but he agrees to help Geri. Neither of them knows that the killer is watching, writing one more caption in her head one more cutline where the photograph is gruesome, and the bottom line is death.

Despite their mutual attraction and her own insecurities, Geri teams up with Malc and dives headlong into the world of big city journalism, psychotic murder, and public scandal.

• Language: English
• Publisher: LDLA
• Release date: Sep 24, 2012

Bonnie Hearn Hill

Bonnie Hearn Hill is a California-based writer and a former newspaper editor.

Book preview

CUTLINE

BONNIE HEARN HILL

CUTLINE

Copyright © 2006 by Bonnie Hearn Hill

All rights reserved. Except for use in a review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the author.

All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

Praise for the novels of Bonnie Hearn Hill

Hill gets the reader’s attention with a contemporary issue (is slim the only way to be?), intriguing characters and clever plotting.

--Publisher’s Weekly on Killer Body

Fans . . . will appreciate Hill’s skill in combining first-rate suspense with glamorous characters and a topical story line.

--Booklist on Killer Body

"[Bonnie Hearn Hill] creates more than enough suspense to keep readers intrigued . . .

[a] page-turner."

--Publisher’s Weekly on Intern

"Whoa! Hold on tight. Engrossing, provocative and haunting, Intern is a riveting combination."

--New York Times bestselling author, Mary Jane Clark

A thoroughly enjoyable read with some genuinely colorful characters.

--Romantic Times BOOKclub on Double Exposure

A must-read for authors.

--Bestselling author, Kat Martin on Digital Ink

Before you publish, read this book!

--Bestselling author, Jen Calonita on Digital Ink

This book is dedicated with friendship, love, and cool beans to Genevieve Choate.

Thanks for helping me hear your world.

ONE

The Fat Lady

The cropping determines everything. Every newspaper person knows that.

CUTLINE: Golden Gate Park. Dawn. A shower of silver-green trees against a black, back-lit sky. So solid that sky, so stable. The problem is David.

I am sorry, he says.

Don’t talk like that. We love each other, and we can overcome anything.

Listen to me. You must listen. He puts out his hand, his sleeve draping darkness. Why can’t you hear me? I told you. I made a mistake.

The words tinkle like bells. Something’s wrong. Someone’s making him lie.

Don’t try to fool me, not after all we’ve done.

I told you I’m sorry, he says. I truly am.

He’s afraid to look up. She notices the soft, pale spot of his head and feels herself smile. Bald doesn’t matter when two people love each other.

You wanted it as much as I did. Can’t you feel it, even now?

He moves away, and she knows how difficult it must be for him, reaches out so that he knows it’s okay.

I never meant to hurt you, he says. I didn’t know what was happening until it was too late.

His features fade. What is wrong? Why does everything desert her the moment she begins to love it?

Don’t be silly, David.

 I can’t live with it. I’ve requested a transfer, confessed to someone I trust. I’m never going to see you again.

Of course you are. She reaches out for him.

No. She hates that word. No.

He lifts his hand, then a flash of silver blinds her. Silver so bright she cannot hide from it slashes the night with its vicious blade.

Her lover topples at her feet. For one disoriented moment, she wonders what happened to him, then she looks down at the hideous slash on his throat, the thin, red line, his twisted shadow, and remembers. Oh, no. Not this, not to this wonderful man, their wonderful love. She’d better do something about the razor.

CUTLINE: The body of San Francisco Priest David McCaffrey was discovered today in Golden Gate Park.

Crop out everything but the body. The cropping is everything.

Father, forgive me.

TWO

Saturday

Geri

I’d been standing outside the San Francisco Airport exactly twenty-two minutes when I realized Leta Blackburn wasn’t coming to pick me up, after all.  The wormy feeling reminded me of something way back. Lots of somethings.

Some places make you feel loved. Some places make you feel lost. Some places make you feel nothing at all. As my mama might say, if we were on speaking terms right now, So what did you expect? French fries on the side?

My fellow passengers had drifted away in a tide of bodies that crashed in and rolled out in some predetermined rhythm. I looked at the clock. Twenty-three minutes. What next? I could phone Leta, but phones in noisy places pose some problems for me. Besides, my phone was dead, so there was no way I could call or text.

I could take a cab over there. I’d paid my share of the rent, hadn’t I? Yes, a cab was the best idea. I spotted one and headed toward it, dragging my suitcase behind me.

Leta probably had a good explanation for standing me up. Still, I’ve known lonely lots of different ways, and right then, standing at the airport, watching the last little brown-haired girl get scooped up into her grandma’s arms, brought back every one of them.

The cab driver mumbled something I couldn’t make out, as far back in the seat as I was. I leaned forward.

I’m sorry. I can’t hear you. He twisted farther around in the seat, and finally I could read his lips.

You live here?

I’m a lousy liar, almost compelled to tell the truth regarding the most trivial matters. Some would say that’s a strength, but it works both ways. Moving here, I said.

SoMa?

I thought back to high school, Brave New World, that drug that made everything okay, even when it wasn’t.

He turned back to his driving, the rest of his question lost in traffic.

SoMa. South of Market. My new address, where I would find Leta, who’d in all sincerity, explain how the time had just slipped away, even though we both knew she never let anything worthwhile escape her.

It’s my friend’s place, I said. "Sister of a friend, actually. She’s a reporter at The Times. The thread-bare head pointed straight ahead at the up-and-down street. Me, too, I added, as much for myself as for him. I’m a reporter too."

We skidded to a stoplight in time for him to turn to me and say, Reporter, huh? You hear about that chick who disappeared?

What? I must have squawked the words, because he turned back around even as the cab shot across the green. That’s another thing about not being able to hear too well. You don’t know the sound of your own voice.

The cab driver fumbled next to him and threw a section of the newspaper into the back seat, missing my lap by inches. Read all about it, he said, and turned back to the road, laughing at his own joke.

From above the fold on B-1, Leta Blackburn looked up at me from a thumb-size photo imbedded in a column of type. Reporter Missing, read the headline. Last Interview with Harry Miller.

Leta Blackburn, award-winning reporter. Who’d said I could stay with her until I could find a place of my own. Who’d agreed to show me the ropes at my new job. Who’d promised to keep my secret, because she understood. Leta. Missing. I hung onto the newspaper even after I realized my hands were shaking.

I could barely give the driver instructions to the apartment. The story told me little, only that she'd been missing since Monday, following an interview with actor Harry Miller, fresh out of prison for not being able to rein in his self-abuses. Monday? Why hadn’t somebody called me? What about her sister, Phyllis? Their mom? They weren’t even due back from Europe until next month. Did they know?

 I paid the cab driver and took my bags from him, facing the same double glass doors I’d seen last weekend when I’d come to finalize our plan and check out the apartment. Only then, the entrance to the modern sixteen-story building had seemed elegant. Today it looked open, vulnerable, like a wound.

I felt like an intruder, but I had nowhere else to go. At least the plastic card I swiped in the outside lock still worked. I took the elevator to the twelfth floor and let myself in, not sure what I should do next. Before I could decide, I realized I was not alone in the apartment. Coming out of the bedroom was a man.

I screamed before he showed me his identification.

Sorry if I startled you, ma’am.

I took a deep breath and realized how close I was to losing it. Startled, my ass, I managed. What the hell’s going on?

I don’t make a practice of swearing that early in the day, but this was an exception. The cop’s unscrambled speech made me wonder if hysterical chicks were part of his beat the way the constant checking of facts, names, and places had been to mine as a research geek.

 You must be Ms. LaRue, he said. We found your e-mail.

My first thought was how dare he nose around through Leta’s computer. My second was this was serious, not crossed wires, not missed communication. Leta really was missing. For the first time in my life, I contemplated the meaning of that word. I left several, I said. Text messages too. Have you talked to her family?

Not yet. They’re traveling.

Another officer joined us in the tiny kitchen with its expansive view of the city and the glimpse of blue beyond. Their names were Marshall and Warren. Marshall, the tall one, spoke with a heavy accent of some kind and had a moustache like what Mama would call a sweep broom over his upper lip, making it even more difficult for me to read him.

Texas, I thought. That was the origin of his speech. I can do Texas pretty well. My mama’s people are from there.

 When was the last time you saw her? Warren, the muscular blond, had a clear voice I had little problem discerning. One of those teacher voices.

Last weekend. I came up to look at the apartment and pay my share of the rent.

Marshall’s eyes lit as if he’d caught me in a lie. I knew he was taking in my purple hair and matching clogs. The familiar claustrophobic feeling swept through me like a sudden wave of nausea. I needed to get away from them and out of here or I’d pass out.

 How long have you known her?

Since I was in grade school, I said, then realized that wasn’t what he was really asking. Leta’s sister, Phyllis, and I were roommates at camp and later in college. When I got the job at the newspaper, Leta offered to rent me a room for a while. Said she was gone a lot anyway.

Speaking about Leta like this made my throat tighten. I reverted to a tongue-tied kid and forced myself to enunciate. We weren’t just exchanging facts, here. I fought the urge to choke up, stared out the window. Let her be okay, I thought. But if she were okay, these two cops wouldn’t be scrutinizing me like this, would they?

The Texan asked another question over his moustache. It was like reading in the dark.

Beg your pardon?

Anyone who might want to cause her harm? he said.

I don’t know.

Any boyfriends?

I got the impression she was dating someone.

What had she said or done to give me that impression? She’d mentioned a man, right? My man. That was what I remembered. I’d have to think about it later, once my head was clear of all the words being tossed around this room. It was tough enough just to keep up. When I’m with new people, I always worry about mumbling or mispronouncing a word and sounding like a major loser.

 We didn’t talk much about that kind of thing, I said.

Is Ms. Blackburn the type of person who would just take off?

I realized that I didn’t know the answer. She’s never done it before that I’m aware of. Phyllis, her sister, could probably tell you more.

The Texan lifted a photograph of the three of them their father had taken shortly before his death.

She’s a good-looking woman, he said, and I knew he meant Leta. They always did.

The French have a phrase for Leta’s kind of beauty, jay-nay-something, a phrase that means that they don’t really have a phrase, after all. I didn’t have a clue how to say it, so I didn’t. Instead, I said, They’re all good looking, all three of them.

The cop nodded down at the picture. Virginia in the middle, her skin facelift taut, eyed the photographer with a sly smile, a daughter under each arm. Luminous Leta laughed into the camera, long, auburn hair tangled in the wind. Phyllis, who’d inherited her mother’s looks but not her icy personality, thank goodness, mugged and held her shocking red hair to her head, as if it might blow away.

Close family? he asked.

Very.

Not that I was any expert on close families.

We’ll find them right away. If you hear from them first, or if anything happens, contact us at once.

I’ll keep trying to reach Phyllis, her sister.

She’s deaf, you know.

I hesitated a moment. I’d come here to start a new life. Would discussing my hearing help them find Leta any sooner? We text, I said.

Marshall reached into his pocket and came out with a card. Call us if you think of anything else.

What are you going to do to find her? An innocent enough question, but I could feel him bristle.

Blond officer Warren sighed. Ms. Blackburn is a high-profile reporter. This, on top of the homicide, has us all over the news.

What homicide? I asked.

Don’t you read your own paper? A priest was murdered in Golden Gate Park last week.

I heard, I said. The most public crime always got the most attention. Leta was lucky she rated at all, or she’d be just another name on a missing persons report. Was she working on the story?

No. We checked that out right off. Do you know of anything she might have been covering, something that could have put her in danger?

Now, there was a thought. I tried to recall our conversation of the previous week. We’d been comfortable together, chatted about our families, well, her family, since for all intents and purposes, I don’t have one. Had there been a tenseness in her face? It was difficult to know. Beautiful women hide their pain better than the rest of us. They look good even when they’re going through hell.

I don’t know, I said, feeling like a broken record. Perhaps her editor, Marie Ashley, can tell you.

We’ve talked to Ms. Ashley. You want to look around the apartment, see if anything is missing?

I couldn’t tell you that. This is only the second time I’ve been here.

Okay, Ms. LaRue. We’ll be in touch. Marshall gave a dismissive look around the room.

Do you— I began. Is there any sign that someone hurt her? It was the best I could do. Some reporter I’d be.

At this point, it’s a missing persons case, he said. As I said, she’s a high-profile reporter.

We said a curt goodbye, and finally, I could breathe again. Their presence, the reality of what had happened, had sucked the energy from the room. I needed to unpack, to take a shower. Most of all to look for Leta. But where could I start?

THREE

My first night in San Francisco, not just this month, but in my entire twenty-eight years on the planet, and I faced a strange apartment alone.

I’d swear, if I were a swearing person. Sometimes I am. Here’s how I see it. Some people don’t drink until after five. It makes them feel in control of their addictions. I’m that way about swearing. If I toss off a curse word before noon, it’s like someone who tosses down a martini before lunch. The rest of the day is downhill, and the curse words that follow lack the sharpness of the first.

My room was as empty as the day Leta had shown it to me. Must be a Blackburn trait. Phyllis did the same thing in college. Her idea of tidiness was nothingness. Probably some Zen koan, like the sound of one hand clapping. Home was, to me, at least, a place to park my paperwork, pile up the covers, and cuddle my dog.

My bed and my dog wouldn’t arrive until the following month, by way of Lawrence, my wannabe, should-have been, could-have been lover. How could I ever have agreed to so much time and space between us? Not Lawrence and me. My dog and me. I missed Nathan with every breath and every cold, lonely moment of night spent without him slumped up beside me.

In the meantime, I’d have to sleep on Leta’s bed, not the sofa, as we’d planned originally. I was too jittery for that. As soon as I shut the door behind the cops, I hurried out of the kitchen into her bedroom and looked for the first thing any hearing-impaired person in my situation would. A lock on the inside. Good. I wouldn’t, couldn’t sleep, but maybe I could get a little rest. First, I needed to unpack my laptop and try to find Phyllis. Oh yes, and punch in the building security number on my phone.

I realized then how much I depended on Nathan. When I showered, I watched his doggie-form through the frosted glass. If it moved, I knew someone was at the door. His reactions helped me sort out the important, potentially dangerous noises from those other people take for granted.

Feeling like an intruder, I got ready for bed. Several bars of soap were stacked beneath the bathroom sink, and next to them, a rectangular leather bag, open. Unzipped bags were not a Blackburn trait. I reached into it and pulled out a man’s razor. No, maybe not. Maybe Leta just liked this brand.

No. Also in the bag was a bottle of men’s cologne. I put it back where I’d found it. To do anything else would be like admitting I didn’t think she’d ever come back.

The files beside her bed were another matter. She was a reporter, and she might have some helpful information there. The top drawer contained what appeared to be a tickler file, ideas for stories she might sometime get around to writing.  On top was a study of erotomania. No specific cases, just facts. Erotomania, a delusional disorder, where an individual mistakes feelings in the self for feelings in the other.

 Subjects will go to great lengths to rationalize why the object ignores him/her. May become predatory. Leta had underlined this section of the page and also the author’s name. Dr. Malcolm Piercy, San Francisco, California, author Erotomania: What They Do For Love, scheduled for publication this month.

I put away the file. This had to be Leta’s most recent story. It was the fattest, most overstuffed file of the lot. I took it out and placed it on the desk.

Three black laminated bookshelves lined the wall beside Leta’s cherry-wood sleigh bed. I surveyed the titles and wasn’t all that surprised to realize she’d alphabetized them, by author. For fun, I walked over the third shelf and looked for the P’s. There it was, Dr. Malcolm Piercy’s book. Not the actual book, the publisher’s bound galleys, tucked right next to a folder labeled, Press kit. I opened it, looked at the black-and-white photo of a studious but kind of appealing guy, awfully young looking to be Dr. Anybody.

On an impulse, I reached for my phone and cranked up the volume as high as I could.

Piercy and Stearns. On this day and at this hour, I expected voice mail, not this pleasant sounding woman.

Is Dr. Piercy available?

I’m afraid not. The voice grew less accommodating, as if she’d been expecting someone else. If you’d like to schedule an appointment, please call back, and you’ll be connected to our answering service.

I’m not a patient. I’m a reporter. Just speaking the words made me feel like a liar.

I’m Dr. Stearns, his partner. Could I help you?

I’m calling about Leta Blackburn.

Oh. Yes. Have they found her?

Not yet. Do you know Leta?

Of course. She’s working with Dr. Piercy on a project.

The erotomania story?

Her intake of breath was so audible that I didn’t need the volume cranked up to hear it. I really think you should talk with Dr. Piercy.

I’d like to. When will he be available?

As I said, our practice is closed weekends. I’ll see that he gets your message.

I provided my phone number and thanked Dr. Stearns for her time. Then I flipped open my laptop.

Hello, Dr. Piercy. I tried to call you tonight and spoke briefly with your partner. I’m a newspaper reporter currently staying at Leta Blackburn’s apartment. Would it be possible for us to talk about the story she was working on when she disappeared?

All best,

Geraldine LaRue

Now, why did I do that? No one had called me Geraldine since my last encounter with the foster care system. And I always signed my e-mails with a G, which was my deaf name, performed in person with a crunched-up G with my right hand against my heart.

So, I was starting out my acquaintance with Dr. Piercy as what my Mama would label a phony baloney.

That called for Altoids. I opened the tin. Just picking up one of the powdery white mints can make my mouth water for the sting of them, the same way thinking of cutting open a lemon can make me salivate.  I locked the door from the inside and climbed on the bed, leaving my clothes on. Perhaps the galleys of Dr. Piercy’s book could keep me company tonight. Someone, no doubt Leta, had marked a sentence in the first chapter in yellow highlighter.

The person suffering from this delusion seeks any acknowledgment, including negative, that makes him or her feel connected.

It occurred to me that this wasn’t the best time to be reading about psychos. One more page though, just one more. Another highlighted sentence. Only approximately ten percent of stalkers are erotomaniacs, but most erotomaniacs participate in some form of stalking.

On this happy note, I must have drifted off to sleep.

But not for long.

I awoke, confused, reaching for Nathan, then remembering where I was. What kind of noise had broken through my troubled sleep and tugged me awake? I grabbed the phone from the pillow, eased my body off the bed, and crept toward the door. I was vulnerable. The noises could be something as innocent as someone doing a load of wash next door. Or they could be dangerous. Thank goodness I’d programmed the building’s security number into my phone. I kept my finger on the call button as I approached the door.

Then, as I stood only inches from it, the knob began to turn. Someone was on the other side.

I grabbed the knob, pulled it toward me, even though I knew the door was locked. Still, it turned. The intruder tried to rattle it from the other side.

Who’s there? I let go of the knob and fumbled with my phone.

Leta? A voice? The blaring in my own head? I wasn’t sure.

Something hit the door hard. I screamed again.

Security, answered the voice on the other end of my phone.

I spit out the apartment number. Someone’s broken in. Get up here.

More noises. I tried to make out voices, shouts, and finally the unmistakable tap at the bedroom door. I pressed my cheek against the cool wood.

Security, Miss Blackburn. It came through the door muffled. Could have been the intruder for all I knew.

I’m not Leta Blackburn. I’m her freaking roommate.

Would you open the door, please?

How do I know you’re really security?

An official-looking ID slid under the door. On it was the photograph of the African-American security guard I’d seen the week before.

Who was out there? I asked.

Didn’t see anyone, ma’am. He’d called me that the week before, ticked me off then, too. It had to be the same guy. I opened the door.

Going to have to report this, were the first words out of his mouth.

Officers Warren and Marshall, I replied, trying to appear calm. I have their card in the kitchen. Someone was here, looking for Leta Blackburn.

You sure?

He damn near broke down the door. I looked at the outside panel, splintered and scuffed. See.

It was a man?

I think so.

He cocked his head. You’re not convinced, are you?

Moment-of-truth time, lousy liar that I am.

I’m hearing-impaired. He frowned, lifted a brow as if trying to decide whether