Free The Coldest Fear by Rick Reed Page B

was murdered in a very similar fashion to the victim who was murdered this morning at the Marriott hotel near the airport.
    BLAKE JAMES : Claudine, can you tell us if the name of the first victim has been released by police yet? SETERA: Blake, the police are being very tight-lipped about any of the facts surrounding these two murders.
    I have it on good authority that orders have come from high in the ranks of the police department, telling the officers not to release any information as of yet.
    BLAKE: Do the police suspect a serial killer,
    Claudine?
    SETERA: Too early to say, Blake. Once again, the police are releasing no information, but we will continue to try and find what we can to warn the public.

    Arnold winced at that last remark. Claudine Setera was not playing fair. She knew that the police couldn’t release the name of a victim until they had notified the victim’s family and made a positive identification. But she was making it sound like the police were holding back information that the public needed to be safe from this killer. He would never write an article like that. Never slam the police unnecessarily.
    He flipped the television off and thought about what Jansen had said. It was almost a repeat—word for word—of what Setera had said. Had Jansen called her before he called Arnold?
    Regardless, Claudine Setera hadn’t mentioned the severed hand found at the Sweetser scene. Nor did she seem to know about the eyes taken from the first and second victim, or that an eye was left behind at the second murder, and that one of the crime scene techs said it was blue, and that the second victim didn’t have blue eyes.
    It wasn’t much, and it was his day off. He really didn’t want to go in to work. But then, maybe this was just the right kind of story to get Bernice to notice him more.
    Arnold knew a lot of cops, and so he picked up the telephone and began calling. An hour later he was depressed. Getting information was harder than he had imagined, even for him. Both of these were Jack Murphy’s cases, and no one wanted to step on the wrong side of him. But at least he had verified a few key pieces of information. Enough that he believed his editor, Bob Robertson, would run with the story in the evening paper.
    He picked up the phone one more time and had begun to dial the newspaper when he heard his mother breathing on the extension in her room.
    â€œMother. Please hang up the phone.”
    â€œI need turned, Arnold,” came his mother’s cracked voice.
    I really need to get her a full-time nurse, Arnold thought for the millionth time.

C HAPTER S EVENTEEN
    Lilly Caskins had shown up with a deputy coroner who looked like a pro football player. His arms were as big as Jack’s thighs. Liddell asked, “Think Lilly hired him in case the Suburban breaks down?”
    â€œHe’s big enough to carry you around like a sack of potatoes, Bigfoot,” Jack said.
    The man must have heard the remark because he turned toward the detective and flexed his biceps at them and smiled.
    â€œThat’s really scary, pod’na,” Liddell said.
    â€œWhat’s so scary?”
    â€œLilly hired someone with a sense of humor. That’s not like her,” Liddell said. “And earlier she apologized to you,” he reminded Jack. “What’s going on?”
    â€œMaybe she’s just mellowing,” Jack suggested. “It comes with age, buddy.”
    â€œNah. As old as Little Casket is, the only thing she could do is petrify.”
    â€œI heard that,” Lilly’s voice came from behind them.
    â€œSorry, Lilly,” Liddell said.
    Lilly ignored him and directed the body’s preparation to be removed from the scene and taken to the morgue. When she had left the apartment Jack leaned over and whispered to Liddell, “When you die, you should do it in another county.”
    Liddell nodded agreement.
    There was nothing else for the men