Chapter One
Boston, Massachusetts
Boston Tribune Newsroom
February 2001
"Look, he told the police he did it because theytreated him like ... What'd he keep saying?"
"They treated him like dirt."
"Yeah, dirt. Well, he's also crazy dirt. Come on, Al,let it go."
"No way, Rare. There's more to it than that, I cansmell it." Al tapped the side of his nose. "I want youto go to the lockup and talk to the guy. You got thetalent for it, kiddo. I can trust you to find out what'sgoing on. You're the big talent here, aren't you? Ourtwenty-five-year-old investigative reporter from Wallingford,Delaware? On the big-city paper for only twoyears and you've already got star fever? Runawayarrogance?"
Rafaella ignored that gambit. "The TV people havegone into it more ways than Sunday. It stinks. It's justexploitation and sensationalism now."
"Actually, the TV folk have screamed `psychopath'and dredged up cases from all over the country for afifty-year period."
"Longer. They also dredged up Lizzie Borden, Al,listen, it's a crummy stop. This guy isn't bright. I'veseen him on TV and I've read what he's said. It'spathetic but that's all there is. It's been overdone andI don't want anything to do with any of it." Handsover breasts, legs slightly spread, chin up. The art ofintimidation—quite good, actually, but Al wasn'tmoved. He'd taught Rafe some of his best tricks inthe two years she'd been in his kingdom.
"You ain't got a choice, Rafe, so shut your chopsand get with it. The man's in jail. He's harmless now.Talk to him, talk to his lawyer—a young squirt wholooks like he just lost his pimples—and get the factson this thing. I'm positive there's something everyone'smissed."
"Come on, Al, he murdered, axed, three people—hisfather, mother, and uncle."
"But not his eleven-year-old half-brother. Don't youfind that just a bit intriguing? Puzzling?"
"So the kid was lucky and wasn't home. The kid'sstill missing, right? We've already treated the storyresponsibly. Now you want sensationalism, and I don'twant any part of it. Call that goon over at the Herald,Maury Bates, if you want more gore."
"No, Maury'd scare the guy's socks off."
Rafaella played her ace. "There's no way the policewould let me in to see Freddy Pithoe. No way hisattorney would let me in to see him. No way the D.A.would let me in to see him. You know how touchyeveryone is on a case like this, how scared they allare about anything prejudicial happening. Let a memberof the press in to see the crazy guy charged? Noway at all, Al, and you know the way I work—I'd beknocking on their door, bugging everybody so I couldsee him maybe a half-dozen times. Well, maybe if Ihad to, twice. Yes, twice would be enough."
He had her. She'd talked herself into it. But hedecided to reel her in slowly. It was more fun thatway. "No problem, if it were kept real quiet. BennyMasterson owes me, Rafe. I've already talked to him.You keep it low-key, real low-key, and he'll look theother way. He's cleared you."
"Lieutenant Masterson must owe you his life toallow a reporter in to see Freddy Pithoe. He couldlose his pension, he could get his tail chewed fromhere to Florida. He'd be taking a huge risk. Lord,everyone, including Freddy, would have to be swornto silence."
Al Holbein, managing editor of the Boston Tribune,was more stubborn than Rafaella, and she knew it,plus he had twenty-five more years of practice.
He waved his cigar toward the Tribune's metro editor,Clive Oliver, seated in a sea of assistants and reportersin the middle of the huge, noisy newsroom.There was a near-fistfight at one end, between twosports reporters, and a can of Coke was flying throughthe air from a police reporter to the cooking editor."I've talked to Clive. He bitched, but I told him Ididn't want him to dump any assignments on you untilI told him it was okay." Al reached into his deskdrawer and pulled out a folded slip of paper. "Here'syour new personal password. Only you and I will beable to access anything you write on this story. Don'tshow it to a soul—"
"Come on, Al, you know I don't."
"Yeah, well, don't this time either. I want this thingkept under wraps. As far under wraps as possible."
"The only thing that will be under wraps is what Iwrite. This assignment is probably all over the newsroomby now, probably even down in classified." Sheopened the paper and stared, then laughed. "'Ruffle'?That's my password? Where'd you get that one?"
Al gave her that smile that had seduced Milly Archer,a TV reporter, just six months before. "It's myfavorite potato chip. Now look, Rafe, just maybethere's another Pulitzer in it for you. Who knows?"
That made her laugh. "When was the last time areporter on a big newspaper won a Pulitzer? No, don'ttell me. You've got examples all lined up, don't you?"
"Sure thing. Remember the reporters in Chicagowho ran that sting operation with a bar they openedthemselves without telling the cops? That was a realbeauty, and ..." He paused, a light of wistfulness inhis eyes. "In any case, just maybe you'll find something.Think about how good it'll make you feel. Rememberhow you felt when you cracked that group ofneo-Nazis for the Wallingford Daily News?"
It had felt good, no doubt about that. "Yeah, I waspleased that I was still alive and the jerks hadn'tshoved their swastika armbands down my throat."Then, "All right, Al, you win. I'll go see the guy andtalk to him. I'll try to make him promise he won't tellanyone, including his lawyer, about me. Maybe no onewill know. I'll even try to keep it from being publicknowledge down in classified. Does your infamousnose have any concrete information for me to go on?"
Al always lied cleanly, to his mother, to his women,and to his reporters, so he shook his head promptly,his expression guileless.
Five minutes later, still grumbling, Rafaella Hollandstuffed her oversize canvas bag with notebook, sharpenedpencils, and umbrella, waved good-bye to BuzzAdams, the Tribune's other investigative reporter, andleft for the lockup to interview a twenty-three-year-oldman named Freddy Pithoe, who, in a fit of rage—causeunknown—had wiped out nearly his entire family.His very inexperienced lawyer was going to pleadtemporary insanity—not very bright. Even Rafaellaknew that old Freddy had purchased that ax two daysbefore he did his family in. Premeditation, all the way.He wasn't crazy, at least in the sense his lawyer wasclaiming. Freddy Pithoe was just waiting to get themall together, tell them what he thought of them, andax them. That's what the cops said, what the D.A.said, what the news media said. It was certainly thetake on it that Logan Mansfield, bright and upcomingassistant D.A., shared. He'd made that perfectly clearat great length during a spate of foreplay that had leftRafaella boiling—but not with sexual yearnings.
Al watched Rafaella wind her way through thedesks and reporters and assistants to the wide glassdoors of the Trib's newsroom. She was nearly stomping,her London Fog raincoat flapping. He pushedhimself back in his swivel chair, leaned his headagainst the ratty brown leather cushion that he'd refusedto let Mr. Danforth, owner of the Boston Tribune,replace for five years now, and closed his eyes.He knew that if the anonymous tip he'd gotten fromthat old woman—she'd refused to identify herself—hadany merit, Rafaella would discover it. He'd jokedabout her Pulitzer, but the job she'd done in ferretingout that den of neo-Nazis had been damned impressiveand Mr. Danforth had called Al immediately afterher Pulitzer had been announced. She'd taken a jobwith the Trib a month later. Imagine that viciousbunch using a candy store in a shopping mall in Delawareas a front. Heil Mr. Lazarus Smith. God, what astory that had made, for months. Rare didn't evenhave a sweet tooth for all he knew.
Oh, yes, if there was anything to this thing, she'dfind out what it was. She was tenacious and, moreimportant, had the talent to adapt her style, her approach,even her look, to each situation, to each person,no matter how disparate, no matter how weird.She'd find out why Freddy had almost decapitated hisold man, struck his mother a good three blows in thechest, and very nearly hacked the uncle's two arms off.
Al just had to wait until Rare made the decisionthat she wanted to know. He'd really gotten her goat,and she'd have to work that through for a couple ofhours, most of those hours wanting to punch him out.Then, he guessed, she'd be down at the jail by eleventhis morning. She was good, and under his tutelageshe'd get better. And she'd keep everything underwraps. No one would get in trouble over a reportervisiting a prisoner. Not this time. Al sniffed things out;she felt things in her gut. This time his nose had hada bit of help from an anonymous tip.
If Rafe came up dry, then he'd give her the lead,for what it was worth, but not before. He guessed hiscaller was a neighbor. Rafe would find the neighbor;he didn't have to worry.
Al lit a cigar and looked down at the story GeneMallory, the paper's youngest political analyst, hadwritten on the budget crisis facing the governor. Boringbut top-notch. Attached to the article was a hand-printednote with the names of his sources. Careful,careful Gene, a clean-cut preppie. Al couldn't imaginewhat Rafe saw in him. Gene was a plodder; she wasspontaneous combustion. Al couldn't imagine the twoof them ever sleeping together. Rafe would probablyfall asleep while Gene went through his checklist offoreplay tactics. Al had heard something about a guyin the D.A.'s office. Maybe he was more promising.
Brammerton, Massachusetts
That evening
"Another glass of wine, Gene?"
Gene Mallory shook his head, smiling slightly. "No,I've had enough. Tomorrow's an early day for bothof us, Rafaella." He fiddled with the half of his Italianbreadstick, then said, "I heard about your assignmentto the Pithoe story. All the guys were talking abouthow you and Mr. Holbein were going at each other.No, don't get upset, Rafaella. No one but me knowswhat you were yelling about. I—well, I just happenedto overhear Mr. Holbein say the guy's name and warnyou about secrecy. I won't say a single word, I promise.I'm just surprised Mr. Holbein decided to makeyou do it and not Buzz Adams. It's a dirty mess, everyoneknows the guy's as guilty as heck, andyou're—"
"I'm what, Gene?"
"Well, you weren't raised to mix yourself up withthat sort of garbage. After all, Rafaella, your stepfatheris Charles Winston Rutledge III."
Rafaella slugged down the rest of her wine to keepher mouth shut. She felt tight all over, and the bolus ofwine didn't help. "And you were?" she asked mildly."Raised for garbage?"
"Of course not, but it's more a man's story—goingto the grungy jail, speaking with all those guards andfinally to that maniac. It wasn't part of Mr. Holbein'sbudget. He didn't even mention the story in thenews meeting."
"His name is Al. I've heard him tell you to call himAl. He didn't make the story part of his budget becausehe wants to keep it under wraps, which is veryimportant, critical, as you very well know. However,Sally, the cleaning woman, knows about it. How, Ihaven't the faintest idea. She left a note on my desk.He's got a weak chin. Guilty, I know it."
"Mr. Holbein still should have brought the story upin the news meeting, and he shouldn't have assignedit to you."
Rafaella forced herself not to get mad and tear intoGene. She didn't know what his problem was, but hewas showing himself to be a royal pain in the butt thisevening. She hadn't noticed it so much before. He'dinterested her simply because he was so straight. Andhe was good-looking in a very fair WASP way, andhad a body that was worked to its limit every day.He'd been on the Trib staff for only two and a halfmonths now.
She chose her words carefully. "I can handle anystory that Al dishes out. My sex has nothing to dowith anything. Or my background. Do you think youcan interview men better than you can women?"
"No, of course not, but I'm not certain about awoman psychopath."
He had a point there. "I'm not so sure about amale psychopath either. But I did it with Herr LazarusSmith, if you'll recall. Fascinating stuff, Gene—FreddyPithoe, not old Lazarus." Rafaella forgot her irritationand propped her chin on her folded hands.
"Al was right; he got me so mad I was ready to killhim. Instead I boned up on Freddy, read everythingwe had in the library, then went to see Mr. Pithoe.He didn't want to talk at first. Sullen and blank-faced.It took me ten minutes just to get five words out ofhim. Tomorrow I'll try my little-sister approach. Thatmight make him respond better. I sure hope so. I can'tcount on more than two visits to him."
"I still don't like you dealing with the dregs ofhumanity."
She poured herself some coffee. It brought patience."We're both reporters. We deal with all kinds ofdregs, including the newsroom coffee. You deal withpoliticians---can you get more dicey than that?"
"At least they can all read and write."
"Which makes them all the more dangerous."
"What did the man say?"
Aha, he wanted all the dirt, the hypocrite. "I'mkeeping it under wraps right now. I have to, even withyou. It's the way Al wants it."
Rafaella could tell that Gene was put off by hertonight. She wanted to laugh. He'd winced when shesaid "damn" earlier. She also realized at that momentthat she usually tended to censor herself when she waswith him. She looked at him now, saw the expressionof dissatisfaction that marred his mouth. She was beginningto think she'd been wrong about him. Hewasn't an intellectual, just a bore and a chauvinist.
Thank goodness she hadn't gone to bed with him.He probably would have been mortified in the morningand accused her of having compromised him. Thatmade her smile, and she thought of the message tapedon the wall in the Trib's women's room: BE THE VIRGINOF THE MONTH. STAY HEALTHY.
She was still smiling as she said, "You're right,Gene. Tomorrow's an early day." She rose and walkedto the front closet, hoping he'd follow. He did. Shehelped him on with his fur-lined Burberry and steppedback. He looked at her for a moment, then said goodnight and left.
No good-night kiss for her. This was probably theend of the line with Gene Mallory. No big loss whenyou got right down to it, for either of them.
Rafaella methodically locked the door, slid homethe dead bolt, and fastened the two chain locks. It wasvery likely unnecessary having all this paraphernaliain Brammerton, Massachusetts, but she was a singlewoman living alone. She walked into her living room,furnished with an eclectic collection of NouveauGoodwill, as her mother fondly referred to her trappings,and went to the large bay window. It was quietoutside; snow covered the street and glistened underthe streetlamps.
It was always quiet here in Brammerton. A smalltown some twenty miles southeast of Boston, nearBraintree, Brammerton used to be wildly blue collar.Now it was next to nothing, the paper mill havingclosed its doors in the late eighties and moved elsewhere.There weren't even companionable drunks outsinging at the tops of their lungs on Saturday nights.It wasn't a bit like Boston. There wasn't a single universitywithin Brammerton's city limits, nor had thereever been one. It was a town filling up with retiredpeople and social-security checks.
Rafaella shut off all the lights and went to bed. Itwas her favorite thinking time, those fifteen or so minutesbefore falling asleep. If she had a problem, she'dset it up before she went to sleep, fully expecting asolution to appear the following morning. Solutionsfrequently did appear.
She didn't spare any more time for Gene Mallory.
All her thoughts focused on Freddy Pithoe and whathe hadn't said to her that morning. It could be thatAl's nose was right again, because now her gut wastwisting in that weird way when things weren't actuallyas they were thought to be. She'd carefully read thepolice report and the three shrinks' reports. She'd alsoforced herself to go through the coroner's report andthe crime-lab pictures taken of the three dead familymembers. She thought of those now. Of the informationin them, and more important, of the informationnot in them.
And again and again she found herself coming backto one thing: Why had Freddy axed his family? Rage?Come on, everybody got enraged once in a while. Justworking with Al Holbein got her enraged, but it hadnever occurred to her to take an ax to him. There hadto be a reason. Another thing: Where was Joey Pithoe,Freddy's little brother? There had been speculationthat the boy had seen the carnage and fled for his life.He would turn up, the police thought, soon enough.Poor kid. What chance would he have? They weretrying to find the boy, but they weren't really tryingall that hard.
They had their psychopathic killer. Who cared about a kid?
Rafaella did. Because there was more to it than justFreddy buying that ax and doing in his family. Whysuch mutilation on the mother and the uncle? Sureenough, the near decapitation of the father was gruesome,but it was only one blow. Not multiple cuts likethe other two. Rafaella fell asleep at last. Her dreamswere quite pleasant but there was a recurrent themeof a boy, lost and frightened and—something else,something vague, something churning in her gut.
Rafaella was at the jail the following morning. SergeantHaggerty, a hard-nosed old cop who had beenon the force for nearly thirty years, just gave her abored smile and said she could spend the rest of herlife talking to the crazy scum, he didn't care. But,yeah, he wouldn't say a word to nobody. She knewhe did care, but Lieutenant Masterson had been goodto his word—but for just this visit and that would be it.
Rafaella was sitting in the interview room on theother side of the wire cooping. It was not a dirty room,just depressing, with the peeling light green paint andthe institutional chairs. There wasn't a phone systemhere, just the wire screen separating prisoners fromtheir visitors. Freddy Pithoe was gently shoved intothe room by a blank-faced young guard who'd alreadyseen too much and wanted to protect himself fromseeing any more.
She studied Freddy as she had before. He was themost pathetic young man she'd ever seen in her life.He wasn't scum; he was frightened and nearly overthe edge with what was happening to him.
And in ten minutes she got him to talk, at leasta bit.
He'd bought the ax at his father's request, he toldher. This was familiar ground to him.
"But, Mr. Pithoe, didn't you tell the police that?"she asked, trying to keep her voice calm and pitchedlow; her eyes never wavering from his face.
"Yes, ma'am, but they said I was a fucking liar andcrazy. I told `em again and again, but it didn't matter.They said I was a crazy fucking liar."
"Did your father tell you why he wanted you tobuy the ax?"
Freddy just looked at her, his brow puckering,nearly drawing his thick dark eyebrows together overthe bridge of his nose. "I don't know, ma'am. He justtold me to buy it. That's all, I swear." Then FreddyPithoe said something Rafaella hadn't expected in amillion years. "He sáid he'd beat my fucking head inif I didn't buy the ax."
Rafaella felt a tingling along her backbone, and hergut was playing the marimba. She had to tread carefullynow. "You know, Mr. Pithoe---do you mind if Icall you Freddy?—you can call me Rafaella—youneed to see a doctor. Your left eye is red and kind ofweepy. Did he ever actually beat you?"
"Who?"
Easy now, Rare, easy. "Your father. Did he beatyou?"
Freddy nodded, his expression stolid. "Since I wasa little kid. It weren't just me, though. It was Mamaand my little brother. Pa called Joey a bastard andsaid he was gonna beat the shit out of him. He did,all the time."
"You should have told this to the police."
Freddy gave her a puzzled look. "Why would theywant to know about that? Everybody beats everybody.They wouldn't care."
"What about your lawyer, Mr. Dexter?"
"Mr. Dexter just said I was to keep my mouth shutand don't worry because I was crazy—for about tenminutes I was crazy, he said—something like that."
Freddy Pithoe, twenty-three years old, didn't lookparticularly intelligent with his small dark eyes andthe coarse dark hair. Nor did he look particularlycrazy. His complexion was unnaturally pale, his shouldersslumped, making him appear much shorter thanhis six feet. He'd tried to grow a beard to cover hisreceding chin. It just made it look worse because itwas so splotchy. He was a mess, no doubt about that.An abused mess. And he was telling her the truth. Hedid need to see a doctor about that eye.
"Did you ever go to a doctor, Mr. Pithoe—?"
"You can call me Freddy."
"Thank you. Did you ever see a doctor after yourfather beat you?"
"Oh, no, ma'am. He said I weren't worth it. Oncewhen Uncle Kipper let me have it, he broke my arm,but Pa just bound it up and told me to shut up. It wasjust Mama who had to go and—"
"Do you remember which hospital, Freddy? Howlong ago was it?"
"Yes, ma'am. It were that general place, the emergencyroom."
Mass General. Excellent. Why had none of thiscome out before? Because everyone thinks he's a fuckingliar, that's why.
"Didn't the psychologists ask you about this,Freddy?"
"Yes, ma'am, but I didn't tell `em that Pa beat anyof us."
"But why not?"
"It was just one of their questions on this long sheetof paper. They wanted to know what it really felt liketo sink that ax in my pa's neck, and if my mompleaded with me not to kill her."
Rafaella gagged.
"I didn't like any of `em. One reminded me ofUncle Kipper."
Rafaella had the vagrant thought that if she vomitedin this holding room, no one could tell, it would allblend in. She looked closely at Freddy. Such a mess.
"When did your ma go to the hospital, Freddy?"
He looked blank for about a minute, then said verycarefully, "Fourteen months ago, ma'am. She washurting real bad. Pa told `em her name was MillyMooth. He thought that was real funny."
"Did you ax your father to death?"
"Yeah, sure I did, and the others too."
Rafaella leaned close to him. "I think you're a fuckingliar now, Freddy."
He stared at her, drawing back. "I ain't no fuckingliar, ma'am, I ain't!"
She'd just said the words, not really thinking aboutthem. They'd just come out, and now there was thislook in his eyes. She said more firmly, "Yes you are.Tell me the truth, Freddy. All of it."
He refused to say anything else. He screamed forthe guard, nearly tumbling `off his chair. And he wasrubbing frantically at his eye. Oh, damn. Had sheblown it?
"I'll see you tomorrow, Freddy," she called afterhim. "I'll tell them you need a doctor for that eye."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Impulse by Catherine Coulter. Copyright © 2001 by Catherine Coulter. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Copyright © 2001 by Catherine Coulter. All rights reserved.
