Fifteen minutes later, after a protracted argument with the news department, there was a camera in the Goode Evening office and a news producer with a headset talking rapidly to the newsroom. James was sitting at his desk. His awards had been hastily shoved together on the windowsill just behind him, crushed together to fit in the frame. In front of him was the box.

“Are you ready yet?” he snapped. “How bloody difficult is it to stop them jabbering on for two minutes? I’m trying to hand them a story. Tell them to stop doing the bloody weather and—”

“We’re live in ten,” the person from news said. “And nine, eight, seven . . .”

James composed himself for the countdown and was ready at one.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “just after two in the afternoon, I received this package here in my office at BBC Centre.”

He indicated the box, then held up the piece of yellow paper.

“Inside I found this note, which, as you will hear, I have been instructed to read. I am following the instructions in an attempt to save lives . . .”

He began to read.

From hell.

Mr Goode, I send you half the Kidne I took from one man prasarved it for you tother piece I fried and ate it was very nise. I may send you the bloody knif that took it out if you only wate a whil longer.

The camera panned over to show the contents of the box. Nestled in a wad of bubble wrap was a brownish-red object sealed in a plastic zipper-top bag. The object was about the size of a human fist, and there was no mistaking that it was some kind of an organ.

The camera jerked back to James, who continued reading.

I hav already chose my next acquatence and I am eager for the 9th of november as I am hungry and hav the itch. Please show my lovly Kidne on your show Mr Goode and read my note or I may hav to come quick and take more. . . .

The screen abruptly switched back to the newsroom. Someone, somewhere at the BBC, had pulled the plug. The anchor apologized for the graphic footage.

Inside his office, James Goode went on. The last sentence of the letter was the money sentence, the one he had practiced reading with the most care, the one he had memorized and could say looking right into the camera. This was, he knew, the sentence no one would ever forget. This was his moment.

He read it, unaware that it was being heard only by himself and the two other people in the room.

THE STAR THAT KILLS

THE STAR THAT KILLS

In our lifetime those who kill the newsworld hands them stardom and these are the ways on which I was raised.

—Morrissey,

“The Last of the Famous
International Playboys”

Chapter 16

16