Delivering Death: A Novel (Riley Spartz) (16 page)

“That’s him,” I said.

“So how is he connected to both those cases?” my boss asked.

That was the pivotal question. I looked at Miles—who already knew the answer—and he nodded. Bryce wasn’t going to be happy when he learned we’d cut him out of the loop. But maybe he wouldn’t recognize the slight.

“What I’m about to tell you is very off the record,” I cautioned. “We can’t report this unless we confirm it with a second source. We can’t even talk about it within earshot of anyone else, it’s so very off the record. Understand?”

“Of course I understand. I’m the boss. What’s the big secret?”

So I explained that I believed that the person Leon Akume had informed on was Jack Clemens.

“And now they’re both dead,” Bryce said.

“It would appear so,” I answered.

He handed the letter to Miles. “Check the date.”

Miles’s eyes widened. “So in a matter of days after receiving a request from you for a media interview, Jack is killed.”

“Yep,” I agreed, “but that doesn’t mean the story’s dead.”

W
e were heading up the stairs toward the station’s conference room to speak with Agent Jax. The FBI guy had wanted us to come to headquarters, but Miles had vetoed that idea.

My attorney spent the whole walk to our meeting talking like the lawyer he was. “Remember, I’ll be there the whole time. Don’t speak except to answer a question. Don’t answer any questions unless I authorize you.”

“What about me?” Bryce asked.

“I think it’s best to keep you out of this,” Miles said. “Otherwise, there’s a chance he’ll want to question you, too.”

Bryce seemed disappointed, like the unpopular middle school kid left off the party guest list. “But I’m the boss.”

“That’s right,” Miles said. “You’re the news director. If somebody ends up in jail for not divulging sources or information, we can’t have it be you. After all, look what happened to Jack.”

That remark certainly changed Bryce’s attitude. “Well, good luck. Keep me posted on the latest.” He then left us to take the elevator back to the newsroom, giving me a thumbs-up as the doors closed.

“Jail?” I said to Miles. “Nobody’s going to jail. What about the shield law?” Minnesota has the strongest law in the country allowing journalists to protect confidential sources and unpublished information.

“That’s a state law, not a federal one,” he said. “And the FBI has been known to work outside the rules. Our goal here is to make him go away.”

•  •  •

Agent Jax kept his sunglasses on even though we were indoors in the Channel 3 conference room, probably thinking he held more power if we couldn’t see his eyes. He opened his briefcase and pulled out a copy of my “Dear Jack” letter. “What did Mr. Clemens say in regards to your request?”

I glanced at Miles, and he nodded that it was okay for me to answer.

“If you have the letter, then you know I didn’t get any response,” I said. “Prisons track inmate communications. If Jack had telephoned me, my number would have showed up on his call list. If he’d written to me, prison screeners would have read his reply before it was mailed. So why am I here, telling you what you already know?”

Miles kicked me under the table, signaling me to calm down.

“It just seems peculiar your name would come up in another homicide,” Agent Jax said. “Why did you want to interview him?”

“I’m a journalist. That’s what I get paid to do: interview people.”

“Have you ever met Mr. Clemens in person?”

“Nope. Just followed the news accounts.”

“So what were you hoping to learn?”

We were both dancing around the facts, Agent Jax waltzing slowly back and forth to find out how much I knew.

Me, I was doing the twist.

I could have kept my answers vague, noting how eager viewers always are to hear a white-collar convict whining about life behind bars. But I sensed an opportunity and decided it was time to tango with Agent Jax.

“I wanted to get a sense of how angry he was about Leon Akume ratting him out.” I said.

Miles kicked me again, under the table, this time harder.

“How did you know about that?” Agent Jax asked.

“I’m a journalist. That’s what I get paid to do. Find things out.” Sometimes reporters confirm information by bluffing what they already suspect to be true. That’s what was happening with me and Agent Jax. He was quickly becoming my second source.

“Who told you about Akume and Clemens?” he insisted.

“We’re not going to discuss sources,” Miles said. “Otherwise I’ll shut down this interview.”

Agent Jax ignored him, raising his voice. “Who told you about this? That’s classified. I want the name!”

“You did.”

His eyes widened as he realized what he’d done.

I thanked him for his cooperation. “And tonight Channel 3 will broadcast that Jack Clemens was killed in prison and that the informant who helped build the case against him was Leon Akume, who died violently soon after being released from prison. Would the FBI care to comment?”

A
gent Jax left mad.

His investigation into identity theft had spanned six states and thus far resulted in charges against nine individuals involving thirty million dollars in fraud. He’d dubbed it Operation
Dissimulo
—Latin for “Disguise.” Though neither of us realized it then, he would rue using that particular nickname.

He’d given me this background for context and in an attempt to get me to hold off reporting on the Jack Clemens/Leon Akume link.

“You’d have to trade me something better than that,” I said. But if he had anything, he didn’t offer it up.

Miles escorted him out of the station, while I went to check what kind of file video we had on Jack Clemens besides what I’d used for the auction story. Not much: fifteen seconds of him walking across the street into the courthouse, his arrest mug shot from a year ago, and exteriors of a mansion on White Bear Lake that the government had seized.

Xiong emailed me another mug shot of Jack, this one from the federal prison inmate website. I forwarded it to Malik, who was going to be editing the piece. “He looks thinner,” he observed.

“I suppose knowing you’re headed to the slammer for ten years might make you lose your appetite,” I said.

“Not me,” Malik said. “I’d be chowing down all my favorite foods while I could. Like a bear going into hibernation.”

“Except spring is ten years away.”

“My point exactly. Hey how about your fish art?” Malik asked. “Did you sell it yet?”

“No. The guy’s left a couple messages, but I’ve been too busy to call him back.”

“Does the value increase with Jack Clemens’s death?”

That hadn’t occurred to me. Did his ownership and demise add to the painting’s provenance? The only way to find out might be to call David Johnson. I wondered if he’d heard about the murder. But he didn’t answer his phone, so I hung up before being connected to his voicemail and went back to my desk to finish writing the story linking two murders, more than a thousand miles apart.

B
y the time it was completed, Channel 3’s new set was the size of a penthouse apartment. The news desk was dwarfed by a panoramic screen that covered an entire wall and was flanked by a weather center and sports area. The anchor close-up shot had an unflattering orange background. Across the room was an L-shaped couch for guest interviews, surrounded by brushed metal and faux stone.

Bryce considered it a masterpiece. To me, it was a monstrosity. It was rumored to have cost more than half a million dollars. The price buzz gained credibility when Bryce laid off the teleprompter technicians, presumably to save money.

A massive promotion campaign was underway, and Bryce called a newsroom meeting to announce that after some test runs the new set would be unveiled on air within the week.

“How are we going to read the news without a teleprompter?” Nicole asked.

“Don’t worry,” Bryce said. “As part of the studio makeover we’ve installed a new teleprompter that on-air talent can run with foot pedals.”

“Like one of those old-fashioned sewing machines?” My grandmother had mended clothes on a 1900s Singer treadle, now crammed in the attic at the farm with other junk. I remembered
her getting angry and throwing spools of thread against the wall every time it jammed.

“No,” he said. “This is like driving a Porsche.”

I waited for Scott to lead the argument for common sense. After all, as anchor, he had more at stake in having a functional teleprompter than the rest of us. But he disappointed me by buying into the luxury car comparison. He’d also used a similar product while working in a smaller television market in Indiana. “It wasn’t so bad. You get used to it.”

Bryce gave him a high five and punch in the shoulder, like they were comrades in news. “That’s the spirit I like to see here at Channel 3.”

Our news director sent us all back to work, and Scott and I ended up in the green room fighting over mirror space to put on airbrush makeup before the newscast.

“I can tell you’re mad at me,” he said.

I pretended to be concentrating on perfecting my eyeliner.

“You’re just jealous because I’m going to be featured in the wedding movie and you’re not,” he continued.

That was so far wrong I couldn’t ignore him anymore. “I don’t care about being in the damn movie.”

“Keep telling yourself that, but everyone on the small screen wants to be on the big screen.”

“You think you have movie potential? Prove it, Scott. Let’s hear your line.”

“My line?” he asked.

“Your line from the film. Your big break. Say it.”

“Love,” he stammered. “Love rules. No, love reigns. Yes, that’s it. Love reigns—”

“For cripe’s sake,” I said. “ ‘Love reigns strong here behind me where I’m reporting live amidst a large scale community wedding.’ It’s not even my line and I know it better than you do. Big screen talent? Hah! Without a teleprompter, you’re nothing.”

((SCOTT, BOX))
GOOD EVENING. TONIGHT WE LEAD WITH A CHANNEL 3 EXCLUSIVE IN THE MURDER OF IMPRISONED MULTIMILLION-DOLLAR CROOK JACK CLEMENS.

((SCOTT TWOSHOT))
RILEY SPARTZ JOINS US WITH HER INVESTIGATION.

Scott and I ignored each other during the newscast, each looking straight at the camera. The shots of us side by side appeared stilted. He didn’t thank me for my report about one murder victim informing on another. And I had told the producer that because of the investigative nature of my story, Miles had advised against any live follow-up questions. I simply tagged out the story that prison officials in New Jersey were planning to release more details tomorrow.

•  •  •

Father Mountain called that night, suggesting I stop by for morning Mass as it was the feast day for St. Apollonia. “I have a special homily planned to honor her.”

I hadn’t thought about Apollonia since my dental checkup, probably because my teeth no longer hurt. While I was intrigued to hear his remarks, I actually decided to go to church because I was feeling guilty about snapping at Scott.

Yeah, he was a jerk. But he was Channel 3’s jerk. And that made him my jerk.

T
he church wasn’t crowded, as it would have been for an Ash Wednesday service. I didn’t grab a spot in front because that seemed to falsely imply God and I were tight, but I also didn’t head for the back, because that could be interpreted as hiding something. I knelt down in a middle pew, all the better to blend in with other parishioners.

Because it wasn’t yet Lent, Father Mountain wore a green vestment instead of violet. I caught myself daydreaming during the service, comparing the ornate altar to Channel 3’s new set. But unlike Scott, Father Mountain didn’t need a teleprompter to rock his sermon.

First, he read from a liturgical text. “What energy was thine, Apollonia!”

He reiterated the story of how she voluntarily threw herself into the flames rather than renounce her Lord. “A momentary pain leading thy soul to eternal bliss, nothing when we compare it with the everlasting fire of hell to which grave sinners condemn themselves.”

And then, addressing my previous criticism, he discussed how the difference between martyrdom and suicide comes down to intent. “For Apollonia, her goal was not to bring about her death, but to bring glory to God.”

I still found his explanation fuzzy, but did appreciate when he
spoke of how the Church’s teaching on suicide had changed over the years from condemnation to pity in recognizing the role of psychological distress.

“Reach out to those experiencing inner pain,” he urged. “For they may not bring themselves to ask for help.”

I didn’t appreciate that he seemed to look in my direction during those words. I stuck around after the church was empty to inform him that I was doing fine, but the first thing Father Mountain brought up was the murder investigation involving the teeth. I felt sacrilegious discussing homicide in church, but then glanced up at the Stations of the Cross and remembered the Bible was filled with tales of violent death by man, nature, and even God.

“Any leads?” he asked.

“No, I took your advice and prayed to St. Apollonia, but she yielded no clues.”

“You might be praying for the wrong thing, Riley. The job of prayer is not to give us answers, but to help us find them.”

That tip felt too broad to be useful, and I told him so.

“Ah, you would prefer a faster solution,” he said. “That’s not how faith works. Faith requires a long-term commitment.”

“You mean, like marriage?”

“Well, yes.”

Rather than risk him bringing up my romantic future, I took the conversation in a different direction. “That reminds me of another story in the news.” I told him about covering the protest at the Mall of America and asked about his views on the Catholic Church and same-sex marriage.

Father Mountain paused, looking over at a painted wall. It was no Sistine Chapel, but it was still a lovely depiction of Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus. “I believe the Church needs to work to be more welcoming to all God’s children.”

That wasn’t a definitive answer, but at least he didn’t quote scripture about immorality. I decided this discussion would be too complex to explore before I needed to leave for work.