More Twisted

the book. Just a weird coincidence. But these reporters and, well, everybody, friends, neighbors . . . They kept yammering on and on about how Andy was to blame.”
    Altman supposed she wasn’t going to like the fact he’d found proof that her husband’s book had probably been the model for the killings.
    She continued, “He’s been getting better lately. Anything about the case could set him back.”
    “I do understand that, ma’am, but you have to see my situation. We’ve got a possibility of catching the killer and your husband could be real helpful . . .”
    The sound on the other end of the line grew muffled and Altman could hear her talking to someone else.
    Quentin Altman wasn’t surprised when she said, “My husband just got back. I’ll put him on.”
    “Hello?” came a soft, uneasy voice. “This’s Andy Carter.”
    Altman identified himself.
    “Were you the policeman I talked to a while back?”
    “Me? No. That might’ve been the case detective. Sergeant Bob Fletcher.”
    “Right. That was the name.”
    So Fletcher had talked to the author. There was no reference in the case file that he recalled. He must’ve missed it. He reiterated to Carter what he’d told the author’s wife and the man said immediately, “I can’t help you. And frankly, I don’t want to . . . . This’s been the worst time of my life.”
    “I appreciate that, sir. But that killer’s still free. And—”
    “But I don’t know anything. I mean, what could I possibly tell you that—”
    “We may have a sample of the killer’s handwriting—we found some notes in a copy of your book that make us think he might’ve written them. And we’d like to compare it to any letters from fans you might’ve received.”
    There was a long pause. Finally the author whispered, “So he did use my book as a model.”
    In a kind voice Altman said, “It’s looking that way, Mr. Carter. The underlined passages are the ones that fit the M.O. of the two murders. I’m afraid they’re identical.”
    Altman heard nothing for a moment then he asked, “Sir, are you all right?”
    The author cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you. I just . . . it’d be too much for me.”
    Quentin Altman often told young officers who worked for him that a detective’s most important trait is persistence. He said in an even voice, “You’re the only one who can help us trace the book back to the killer. He destroyed the library computer so we don’t have the names of who checked out your book. There’s no match on the fingerprints either . . . . I want to catch this man real bad. And I suspect you do too, Mr. Carter. Don’t you, now?”
    There was no response. Finally the faint voice continued, “Do you know that strangers sent me clippings about the killings? Perfect strangers. Hundreds of them. They blamed me. They called my book a ‘blueprint for murder.’ I had to go into the hospital for a month afterwards, I was so depressed . . . . I caused those murders! Don’t you understand that?”
    Altman looked up at Wallace and shook his head.
    The reporter gestured for the phone. Altman figured, Why not?
    “Mr. Carter, there’s a person here I’m going to put on the line. I’d like him to have a word with you.”
    “Who?”
    The cop handed the receiver over and sat back, listening to the one-sided conversation.
    “Hello, Mr. Carter.” The reporter’s gaunt frame hunched over the phone and he gripped the receiver in astonishingly long, strong fingers. “You don’t know me. My name is Wallace Gordon. I’m a fan of your book—I loved it. I’m a reporter for the Tribune here in Greenville . . . . I got that. I understand how you feel—my colleagues step over a lot of lines. But I don’t operate that way. And I know you’re reluctant to get involved here. I’m sure you’ve been through a tough time but let me just say one thing: I’m no talented novelist like you—I’m just a hack journalist—but I am a writer and if I have any important belief in my life it’s in the freedom to write whatever moves us. Now . . . No, please, Mr. Carter, let me finish. I heard that you stopped writing after the murders . . . . Well, you and your talent were as much a victim of those crimes as those women were. You exercised your God-given right to express yourself and a terrible accident happened. That’s how I’d look at this madman: an act of God. You can’t do anything about those