Innuendo (18 page)

“No, not my Andy. I'm sure of that. Oh, he might have had a few beers with his pals, but no drugs. I know that for a fact.”

Did she? But how could she, Rawlins wondered, be so sure of it? After all, she hadn't suspected her son's sexual orientation.

“What about any kids?” continued Foster. “Did he keep in touch with any of them once he left home?”

She leaned forward, bowing her head into her hands. “Yes. I mean, I don't know for sure, but… but the other boy ran away from home a couple of days after Andy did.”

Rawlins asked, “Other boy?”

She nodded.

“What other boy?”

“The… the Weaver boy. Oh, God, I just wish they'd never met. I don't think any of this would have happened.”

“What are you saying?”

“This boy, the Weaver boy—Jordy Weaver, that's his name. Jordy Weaver. For something like six or seven months before all this happened, you know, before Andy ran away, Jordy was always calling up Andy, always hanging around him. It was like he was obsessed with Andy. He just never left my son alone. And… and…” She wiped her left eye. “And that's who Andy was with that night, with him, with Jordy Weaver.”

Tripping over the name, Rawlins sat there speechless. He'd had no idea, not a clue. They were from the same town in western Minnesota? They hadn't met here in Minneapolis?

“Are you saying that these two boys, Andrew Lyman and Jordy Weaver, ran away together? That they came here to Minneapolis?”

“I never knew for sure because… because I never knew where Andy went, but that's what I always assumed. Like I said, Jordy was obsessed with my boy. He wouldn't let him go.”

Todd's day was like
a moving sidewalk that he got on and couldn't get off. There was the call he'd received from Tim Chase's publicist to set up this evening's meeting, the numerous developments in the story of Andrew Lyman's murder, and then, of course, there was Rawlins.

Rawlins.

It was the one thing that Todd kept coming back to, compulsively so: was there any truth to what Jordy had said about Andrew and Rawlins being involved? All afternoon as Bradley and he dashed around town putting together tonight's story, Todd silently sorted through the past couple of months trying to ascertain if and when and how the two of them could have been carrying on an affair. A Saturday afternoon? That Monday morning? Wednesday nights? Was it even logistically possible? And if it had really happened, what did it mean, if anything?

No, he now thought, as Bradley and he stood on the shore of Lake Harriet waiting for the six o'clock, that wasn't right. It did mean something. It meant the world about Rawlins. It said everything about his ability to stick to their agreement. And it said everything about his integrity, for Andy was barely seventeen, a kid who by all means was still learning to cope and establish his own boundaries. If Rawlins had taken advantage of his position as a mentor, what in the hell did that say about him?

Oh, shit, Todd thought.

He wore a blue shirt with a blue and yellow tie, black pants, and his black leather jacket. In the field he never wore a coat and tie, especially not a suit, because while he wanted to look professional, he wanted to look like what he was, an active investigative reporter.

They'd arrived a little over an hour ago, with Bradley and he setting up the camera by the water's edge and the ENG truck pulling up on the curb and stretching its microwave mast as high as it would go. For the five o'clock Todd had done a VOSOT, where he'd talked live to the recorded pictures for some thirty-five seconds. As VOSOT’s tended to be, it was also a little rougher, more immediate, and after a sound byte from the police chief, the video had come back out to Todd and he'd done a quick tag.

As they now approached the six o'clock, Todd once again ran the IFB wire up the inside of his jacket, pulled it through the back of his collar, and placed the earpiece snugly in his right ear. Not more than two seconds later, the quiet, distant voice of the news director, speaking from Golden Valley, said, “Voice check, please.”

Todd raised his stick mike, and said, “Good evening, this is Todd Mills reporting live from—”

“That's perfect, Todd.”

The six P.M. line producer cut in, saying, “We're two minutes away.”

In front of him Bradley was peering into his Betacam, which rested on a large aluminum tripod. From the camera a thick snake of a cable stretched across the ground, then awkwardly across the pedestrian and bicycle paths to the ENG truck. Per usual, a crowd had gathered, this group numbering around fifteen and growing.

“Is my tie all the way up, Bradley?”

“Your tie is perfect.”

He turned, glanced briefly over the lake, where a gentle wind was sending an endless army of ripples across the surface. With that, the small hill on the opposite shore, and the sunset, it would be the perfect backdrop. In his mind he reviewed all that he had learned today, from the specifics of Andrew's bloody demise, to a better picture of his home life, to, of course, the most important item, the object the police divers had pulled from this lake. Yes, whatever a reporter learned most recently was always the first information, the thing you gave right off the top. From the inside of his jacket he then pulled his notebook and read through his notes once, twice. The producer, who had these things back-timed to the second, had told Todd that he couldn't afford more than a ten-second intro to precede the one minute fifteen-second package.

“We're ten from the top,” said the line producer as coolly as a flight controller.

Yes, everything was perfectly timed, had to be. A second of dead air on TV was more like an hour, a disaster to be avoided at any cost. And, at least on the computer line up, this was how this thing was scheduled to transpire: anchor toss, Todd intro, package, tag, ad lib.

“Five from the top.”

Todd glanced at the base of the tripod, saw the small monitor aimed up toward him. A second later a color bar appeared. Moments after that, the end of the national news came on. As soon as that concluded, WLAK’s star anchor, Tom Rivers, appeared, always dapper and now in a navy blue suit with an off-white shirt—a truly white one was much too stark, too contrasty under the lights—and a tasteful tie with ribbons of blue and red. That full head of hair, those big white teeth, the perfect cadence of his voice—every time he was on camera it was obvious why he was worth millions, particularly in the Twin Cities, which had one of the three highest production values in the country.

“Good evening, this is the WLAK evening news, and I'm Tom Rivers. Our stories tonight include the latest on the plans to put a freeway bridge over the scenic St. Croix River, the latest on the upcoming gubernatorial race, and our lead story, an important development in the murder of a teenager in south Minneapolis.” He turned to stare into another camera, and, reading the TelePrompTer, said, “As we reported last night, shortly after nine P.M. yesterday evening police were summoned to an apartment building just off Twenty-fifth and Bryant Avenue South, where they discovered the body of a young man, Andrew Lyman, who was—”

A throaty, secret agent—like voice in Todd's earpiece said, “Ten to you.”

“—killed by an apparent knife wound to the throat. For the very latest developments, we now join our investigative reporter, Todd Mills, at Lake Harriet.”

“Five to you.”

Tossing it to Todd, Tom Rivers said, “Todd, I understand some important evidence has been discovered. What can you tell us about it?”

“Well, Tom,” said Todd, looking straight into the lens because he was full on camera, “following up on a tip, the police came here to Lake Harriet shortly after noon today.” Offering his roll cue, Todd said, “And what they discovered beneath these waters may very well prove to be the weapon used to kill Andrew Lyman.”

Todd held his position as they cut to the package that Bradley and he had earlier put together. They began, of course, with the few shots Bradley had been able to catch of the police boats on the lake, and then the camera panned the crowd of gawkers, men and women, walkers and bikers, kids and dogs. The clip showed two women with a stroller, a couple of women in nylon jogging suits, a few men, including one guy with sunglasses and a shaved head. As the images went by, Todd went into detail how a hunting knife had been found in about twenty feet of water. It was still too early to tell if they could get any fingerprints from the weapon, but early testing by the police indicated that the blade had been recently exposed to blood. At this point the police were not inclined to speculate, but many thought it might in fact be linked to the murder.

His eyes on the monitor beneath Bradley's camera, Todd now loosely watched as the package, with his recorded voice-over married to the tape, played on. There was a bit of last night's real estate and the crowd gathered around the apartment building, as well as the all-but-required shots of the bagged body being carted out. The package continued with some personal information on Andrew Lyman, including his athletic abilities and his popularity, both of which Todd had garnered from one of Andrew's former teachers, then cut briefly to a shot of the Domain of Queers. The piece then wrapped with the shot of the police chief and his sound byte asking anyone with any information to please come forward.

The line producer cued Todd, and then Todd lifted his mike. The package concluded exactly according to schedule, and they came back out to Todd for a live, on-camera tag.

“Tom, I find this story especially sad,” began Todd, “because several months ago I personally met Andrew Lyman, and found him a bright, energetic, and handsome young man, eager to complete his high school requirements. Instead, a young man is now dead in what police are describing as a very brutal crime.”

Beginning the ad lib, which was essentially just a Q & A, Rivers said, “Can you tell us where you met the victim?”

Oh, brother, thought Todd when he heard the question through his earpiece. What did Rivers think, that they'd met in a sauna? Under the bushes? Or was Rivers just trying to do it, make Todd say all over again that he was gay? Shit, didn't the entire world already know?

“Certainly. I met him when I gave a talk at the Domain of Queers, which is a center for gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender youth.”

“My understanding is that there are a number of runaways there. Is that correct? Had Andrew Lyman run away from home?”

Even though Todd knew that Andrew's split from his family had been most acrimonious, WLAK lawyers had advised against broadcasting that information not out of good taste, but out of fear of offending the family and tempting legal fate. Evidently, though, Rivers hadn't gotten that information. Or had spaced it, which would have surprised no one at WLAK.

With no choice, Todd walked around the issue as gingerly as he could, saying, “Tom, I've been told only that Andrew had not been in contact with his family and that news of his death came as a total shock to his parents.”

“I'm sure it did. You mentioned that the police went down to Lake Harriet to follow up on a tip. Can you tell me anything more about that?”

“My understanding is that they received an anonymous tip call from someone who'd been down at the lake and seen something rather mysterious. The police aren't saying anything more, but evidently that is what's behind the police chief's request for anyone with information to come forward. In the hope of learning more, they want the tip caller to come forward and identify him or herself.”

“I see. And thank you, Todd, for a most interesting report.” Rivers paused, turned back toward the first camera, and said, “In other news today—”

As Todd stood quite still, he heard the slight snap as the audio transmission was broken, then looked down and saw the image on the monitor disappear.

Raising his head from behind the camera, Bradley said, “You're clear, Todd.”

Todd lowered the mike, rocked his head from side to side until his neck cracked, and then carefully lifted the earpiece from his right ear. Okay, he thought, that was done, now on to the next, a quick dinner with Rawlins. And then wine with one of the most popular stars in the world.

They met at D’Amico
& Sons, an upscale Italian deli on Hennepin Avenue South with a tall ceiling, open kitchen, dark woodwork, and a faint resemblance to things Tuscan. When Todd saw Rawlins push through the double glass doors he saw not the familiar man he was attracted to, but a near stranger who looked preoccupied and distant.

And the first thing that Rawlins uttered was, “You look tired, Todd.”

Todd wanted to say, no, I'm just stressed. Stressed about you. About us. About where we're going.

“Yeah, I am exhausted,” he replied instead. “You look it too.”

“Tell me about it.”

They knew the routine, and they moved silently to the large arching glass display case and studied the very nineties array of salads, sandwiches, salamis, and olives. For a long indecisive moment Todd looked at them all, the roasted vegetables, the couscous salad, the chicken and feta rotelle, and realized he just didn't care.

“Do you know what you'd like?” asked a server, a tall, young woman with a body like a boy's and cropped blond hair tucked beneath a black baseball cap emblazoned with D’AMICO & SONS.