Part 12 (1/2)
”Unger mentioned that you and Channing had corresponded at one time,” Miranda said.
”I was about to get to that, yes. Actually, it was a bit one-sided at first.” He paused as Regan came into the room with a tray. ”Do you need help with that?”
”No, thanks.” She set the tray on the table that stood between the chair in which he sat and the sofa. She proceeded to pour tea and pa.s.s out cups.
”Yes, I received my first letter from Channing about six or seven years ago. Right after the publication of The Killer Next Door. The Killer Next Door.”
”I remember that book,” Will told him as Regan handed him an ice-filled gla.s.s and a bottle of spring water. He thanked her and continued. ”It followed the careers of several serial killers who had committed most of their murders right under the noses of their unsuspecting neighbors.”
”Yes.” Landry nodded. ”People always seem to have this idea that serial murderers are evil-looking men whose very appearance gives them away. The truth is, there is no type; there is no look. It can be-and often is-the boy next door.”
”In every case-at least, in every case you wrote about in that book-when the arrests were made, the neighbors all said, 'But he was such a nice young man. . . .' ”
”Exactly the point of the book,” Landry told him.
”Why did Channing write to you?” Miranda asked.
”Because he'd read the book. He said that at first he'd picked it up because he thought perhaps there was some connection, some psychic nonsense-my middle name happens to be Channing-that our having the same name was a sign that he should read the book. Later I realized he probably meant, his being a serial killer, and my studying, writing about them.”
”He told you he was a killer?” Miranda's eyebrows rose.
”No, no. It wasn't difficult to figure out over time, though. Of course, by the time I figured it out, he'd disappeared.” Landry stirred his tea absently. ”The first letter, he took me to task, telling me where I'd gotten it all wrong.”
”Where you'd gotten what all wrong?”
”I delved quite deeply into the backgrounds of the four men I'd written about, which, of course, one would have to do if one was looking to explain such violent, aberrant behavior. All of these men were from terribly abusive homes, and had all either run away from home or had been shoved out of the nests by the time they were in their early teens. I stressed environment as the determining factor in making them what they had become.”
”And Channing disagreed?” Will asked.
”Channing believed you were born bad and stayed bad. That environment played no part,” Landry explained.
”He must have been in denial.” Miranda set her cup on the saucer. ”You'd think that coming from his background-where his own mother had traded him, as a very young child, for drugs-he'd know d.a.m.ned well what part environment played.”
”Ah, but he never mentioned any of that to me. He spoke of his parents as exemplary folks, loving, kind. Perfect parents,” Landry said.
”Those would have been his foster parents,” Miranda told him. ”They knew of his background and made every effort to help him overcome it. They were, by all accounts, wonderful people. But by the time he'd gotten to them, he'd been irreparably broken.”
”Of course, I didn't know that at the time.” Landry nodded. ”It certainly explains a lot. He was very adamant that I did not know what I was talking about and insisted that I should write another book and admit I was wrong.”
”How many times did he write to you?” Will asked.
”Several times, but he stopped writing when I started asking him questions about how he knew so much about the criminal mind. I invited him here to chat, offered to give him an opportunity to explain his point of view, but I never heard from him again. After a time, I just chalked him up as a crazy and forgot about him,” Landry said. ”Then, a few months ago, I read about his long life of crime, and I looked up the letters-”
”You still have the letters?” Miranda appeared surprised.
”Yes. I don't know why I kept them, frankly. Must have subconsciously suspected I'd hear of him again.”
”May we see them?” Will asked.
”Certainly. They're in my office.” He started to get up, and Regan stopped him.
”I'll get them, Dad. I know exactly where they are.” She turned to Miranda and Will and said, ”I've reviewed them several times over the past few weeks, ironically, in preparation for a new book.”
”R. J. Landry,” Will said. ”You've cowritten several books with your father.”
”Yes.” Regan nodded and appeared to be pleased by the recognition. ”I'll be right back with the letters.”
”She's the real brains.” Landry tilted his head in his daughter's direction. ”Much better writer, much cleaner insights. Sharper instincts . . .”
Regan rolled her eyes and laughed as she left the room.
”Now, tell me, what exactly are you looking for in Channing's letters?” Josh Landry ran a hand through his thick white hair. ”I mean, the man is dead, and I can a.s.sure you he never mentioned a thing about having killed anyone. I would, of course, have gone straight to the police had he done so.”
”We're sure you would have, Mr. Landry, but the truth is, we're not investigating an old murder. We're trying to prevent a future one,” Miranda told him. ”Let me explain . . .”
She proceeded to tell him about the unholy trio who had put into play a game that required each man to kill three people who had, in some way, been a thorn in the side of one of the others.
”Hmmmm.” Landry stroked his chin, his eyes bright as he contemplated the scenario. ”So you think this last fellow, this Lowell, is going to kill three people named by Channing. Interesting.”
Regan came back into the room carrying a red file, which she handed over to Miranda.
”Most of the letters are here,” Regan told her. ”There are several others we're still looking for. I think a few might have been misplaced when Dad hired a new secretary. She moved some files around, and there are some things still missing. But these will give you a start.”
”Thank you.” Miranda opened the folder.
”This Lowell . . . you say he's not the killer type?” Landry directed the question to Will.
”We certainly didn't think so. At least, not until Al Unger was murdered,” Will replied. ”Even our profiler believed that Lowell wouldn't play it out.”
”Wait a minute. What did I miss?” Regan asked. ”Who is Lowell?”
”Archer Lowell,” Miranda said, and repeated the connection of Lowell to Channing.
”Three killers?” Regan's eyebrows raised, and she glanced at her father. ”There's a story for you.”
”Indeed. I admit to being intrigued by what Agent Cahill has shared with us. Now, back to this Lowell fellow. You were saying that your profiler thought he wasn't the killer type. Most people are repelled by the notion of killing, you know. Most normal people, anyway.”
”According to the reports I've heard, Lowell was definitely repelled by the photographs of Giordano's victims,” Miranda told him as she skimmed the contents of the file.
”Then I suppose it needs to be determined what could have coerced this young man to kill,” Landry noted. ”If in fact he did kill Albert Unger. You're certain there was no fourth player?”
”As far as we know, there are only the three involved.”
”Hmmm. Certainly a lot to think about. A real puzzle to be solved.” Landry looked pleased at the prospect.
”Mr. Landry-” Miranda looked up from the letter she was reading ”-Channing says in this letter, 'You need to tell it the way it is. You set it straight, or someday I will set you straight. I hate people like you who think you know, when you don't know. You talk about these things like they are truth, but you do not know the truth. You are getting rich telling lies. My mother always said that liars are found out. Maybe someone should find you out and show you the truth. Maybe someday I will. . . .' ”