Killing Kate: A Novel (Riley Spartz Book 4) (7 page)

He then took another call. “Very unprofessional,” a man said. “She must have been faking it for ratings.”

“Interesting theory,” the host said. “Next caller.”

“I wonder if she might have been on drugs,” a younger woman said. “Lots of times addicts can’t control their emotions. I hope the station has her drug tested before they put her on the air again.”

Just then my cell phone rang and my parent’s southern Minnesota phone number came up on my screen. That particular radio signal could be heard all the way down to the farm. So, certain that they were listening, I let their call roll to voice mail. Besides needing a break from my news cohorts, I couldn’t face my family at that moment.

The host kept up more of the same, so I reached for the radio knob to find another station. Music, not talk. Suddenly I stopped because the next voice I heard sounded very familiar.

“You people have got nothing better to do than criticize other people who are doing the best they can. Well, I’m Riley Spartz’s mother, and I want to tell you that she’s the finest daughter any parents could ask for. And we are so proud of her. Why, when she was a little girl—”

I hit the radio Off button. Burying my face in a newspaper I found on the backseat of the car, I closed my eyes and tried to cry for Kate. But couldn’t.

I honked my car horn twice and saw the geese scatter, but got no real satisfaction from their bewilderment. I had even more of a reason to avoid returning to work now, because if Malik knew of the radio broadcast, so did the rest of the newsroom.

I needed space, not hooting.

To kill time, I drove toward Kate’s neighborhood—the opposite direction from Channel 3. I was hoping proximity might bring answers, but the street seemed quiet and ordinary except for the plywood still nailed across the front window of her house.
Then I played back events from the day of the murder and got an idea for a follow-up story. This would give me something to talk about when Noreen brought up the radio show.

“I’ve requested the 9-1-1 call from the homicide, Noreen. The transcript might yield something.”

“Hardly,” she snorted.

Broadcasting 911 tapes used to be routine for Minnesota news organizations and added drama to a story, be it a murder, tornado, or bridge collapse.

“If you’d checked with me first, Riley, I’d have told you not to even bother.”

She was referring to a law change fifteen years earlier that made the actual audio portion of 911 calls private. The change was due to local news stations’ repeated broadcasts of a father’s distraught call after discovering his son had murdered their entire family. The audio was uncomfortable to hear. But that didn’t stop radio or TV channels from playing it over and over.

Callers now need to sign media releases before their voices can be aired. Even if they say yes, by the time all the details are sorted out and permissions granted, the news value is usually nil.

“I’d still like to learn more about the circumstances of how her body was discovered, Noreen. The cops are keeping quiet about that.”

As soon as I got back to my desk after being reamed on the radio, I had emailed a formal release application to the Minneapolis police public information officer. “Under the Minnesota Data Practices Law, I am requesting the 911 records regarding the murder of Kate Warner.” To speed things up, I included the date, address, and approximate time the homicide was reported.

It was all I could think of to take my mind off Buddy. An hour later, I called the police PIO to make sure he’d seen the 911 request.

“Yeah, I have it right here, Ms. Spartz, but you know we have ten days to respond to any public records request.”

His smart-aleck tone made me want to throw the phone against the floor, but I stayed cool. “That may be the letter of the law. But you and I both know it’s not the spirit. The ten-day clause was designed for onerous demands seeking hundreds of pages of documents needing to be redacted. What I’m asking for is simple, and clearly public.”

“Yes, but someone needs to listen to the call and transcribe it. That takes time on our end. And may well cost you money.”

“Channel 3 is willing to pay all reasonable expenses, but my bet is that the homicide team has already processed the call. All you probably need to do is pull the page from the file.”

“I suppose you expect it today.” He spoke slow and heavy, like my request was a major burden.

“If it’s not too much trouble.” I reminded him a killer was running loose and media attention might help solve the case.

“I’ll have to get back to you.”

That meant he was going to check with the chief. While I prepared myself for a ten-day wait, I called the farm. My parents had also left a message on my office phone bewailing the radio show’s exploitation of my live shot. If I didn’t return their call, they’d visit me. Or worse, they’d visit the radio station and end up as talk-show guests.

After five rings, I was almost ready to give up when my mother picked up the phone. “Riley, we’re so glad to hear from you. We’ve been worried.”

“Worried? What do you have to worry about, Mom?”

She and Dad were retired. Church and lunch were the highlights of their day. For city folks, dinner might rank first, but living on a farm is all about the noon meal.

“Well, you of course, Riley. We watched your story last night. We know how disheartened you must be. We just want you to know we’re here for you.”

“Absolutely,” I heard my dad pitch in. “And we know just the thing to cheer you up.”

I hated even thinking what they might have in mind. “I’m fine,” I insisted. “Everything I need I have. The only thing I’m ever lacking is a good story.”

“A puppy!” they both yelled together. “Kloeckner’s dog just had a litter.”

I spent the next ten minutes reminding my parents that I worked full-time in a demanding job with unpredictable hours, and trying to convince them that if they drove two hours from the farm to surprise me with a puppy on my doorstep I would never forgive them.

They were the ones who needed canine company. Their old farm dog, Lucky, had gone to the big doghouse in the sky. But they claimed they missed him too much to replace him so soon.

But all farms need yard dogs to bark an alarm when a stranger drives in and to keep small animals like skunks and groundhogs away from the main house.

“You get yourselves a puppy,” I said, “and I’ll come visit. I promise.”

M
y email showed a message from the Minneapolis Police Department telling me they had complied with my data request. I was confused to find transcripts of not one, but two 911 calls.

The first came at 11:36
AM
.

Caller: “Someone is breaking into my neighbor’s house. He threw a chair through the window. Now he’s climbing inside. Hurry.”

Dispatcher: “You’re saying an intruder is in your neighbor’s house?”

Caller: “Yes. Please hurry.”

Dispatcher: “Is anyone else home there?”

Caller: “Possibly. Her name is Kate. She works at home but lives alone. He’s still inside.”

The dispatcher then went on to check the address of the break-in, assure the caller that a squad was being dispatched, and get the neighbor’s name. Until then, I hadn’t even known if the caller was male or female.

Caller: “My name is Melinda Gordon. I’m very worried. I can’t believe this is happening in broad daylight. Please hurry.”

Dispatcher: “I’d like you to stay on the line with me until officers arrive. Let me know if you see the suspect leave.”

Caller: “Do you want his license plate number?”

Dispatcher: “Can you see his vehicle?”

Caller: “Yes, it’s a reddish-brown SUV, parked on the street in from of her house and has Minnesota plates.”

The caller then recited a short series of numbers and letters.

The dispatcher repeated them for confirmation.

Caller: “I hear a siren. I see a police car.”

Dispatcher: “Thank you for calling in your information. I’m going to disconnect now.”

By the time Malik and I had arrived at the crime scene, the street was lined with various law enforcement vehicles and other media. I didn’t recall seeing that particular SUV, but it might not have registered in my mind with all the commotion. I wondered why the police hadn’t perp-walked a cuffed suspect out the door in front of all the cameras that day. That usually makes the public feel safer.

I turned to the next transcript and got some insight.

The second call came at 11:38
AM
, two minutes after the first, obviously answered by another dispatcher.

Caller: “Help. I need an ambulance. My girlfriend needs help. I think she’s dead.”

The dispatcher confirmed that the emergency was happening at a specific address because 911 technology automatically pulls up metro street addresses on the screen along with homeowner information.

Caller: “I don’t know the exact address. I just know it’s near West Diamond Lake Road and Pillsbury Avenue South. You got to send an ambulance, but it might be too late already. I’m sure it’s—”

Dispatcher: “What is your name, sir?”

Caller: “My name is—Wait, I hear someone outside. I wonder if the man who attacked her is still here—”

The transcript ended there, but if I ever got access to the actual audio, I’d expect to hear some background noise like “Police, freeze, hands in the air” before the phone was hung up.

•    •    •

I called up some file tape of the murder scene on my computer screen and the only vehicle in the driveway was the medical examiner van. No reddish-brown SUV parked anywhere along the street. By the time Malik and I had arrived, the male caller on the phone had apparently been released by police and left the scene or been hauled off to jail and had his vehicle towed.

“Can you pop a name and address for me?” I handed Lee Xiong, Channel 3’s resident computer genius, a sheet of paper with the license plate number.

“I’m very busy.”

He was always busy. As more news staff were cut, his duties increased. Computer-assisted reporting for my investigative stories was a small fraction of his job description; most of his time was now spent managing the station’s website and figuring how to score online hits—an Internet version of ratings that could be used for a new source of ad revenue. The latest media trend was encouraging viewer participation with story comments via computer. Xiong was also responsible for monitoring those comments for slander and profanity. No wonder he was very busy.

“The guy could be a murderer.” Women were often murdered by boyfriends. So it was worth a check. “Could be a new lead story for six.”

Xiong preferred communicating by email or phone, not face-to-face. People made him uncomfortable. It wasn’t often he mustered the nerve for a date, though I frequently reminded him that all he had to do to get women interested socially was to tell them he worked in TV news. His generation of Hmong, raised in the United States, was caught between courtship cultures.

“You don’t have to be on the air yourself,” I’d assure him. “They’ll settle for you telling them what the rest of us are really like off camera. Hey, I trust your discretion.”

I could have simply sent him an email with my instructions, but when I had time, I figured making Xiong talk to me directly was good training for him. As well as getting my request bumped to the top of the pile to speed my departure. But instead of looking grateful, he looked like he’d do anything to make me gone.

“Check back in five minutes,” he said.

“Check by in five minutes,
Riley
,” I said. “Women like it when you call them by name.”

So he repeated himself for practice and I gave him space.

He had built a big-brotherish computer database of Minnesota license plate numbers, driver’s licenses, hunting and fishing licenses, and all sorts of other public data on private citizens. If that didn’t find me the boyfriend’s name, I’d go back to the cops and push the issue. My sense was that names of 911 callers were public information unless they came from a confidential informant or a sexual assault victim.

Because I told Xiong I’d be out in the field, he texted me the name and address registered to the vehicle. Charles Heyden. But that wasn’t my first stop. I drove to Kate’s neighborhood to check out the house from where the first call to police came.

I remembered the stucco two-story with birch trees in the front yard from the murder day. Knocking, but getting no answer. Melinda Gordon must not have wanted to talk to the media then, but might have changed her mind since. I always give witnesses the benefit of the doubt.

This time, it might have helped that I didn’t have a cameraman following me. A pretty woman about ten years younger than me was in the front yard raking leaves while a baby boy bounced in a springy chair.

I introduced myself with a media pass and explained I’d like to talk to her about her 911 call. “I have a copy of the transcript and know all about the man crashing the chair though the window. I’d like to compliment you on how composed you stayed on the line with police during the whole ordeal.”

She seemed a little uneasy talking to me and looked back and forth down the block to see if anyone might be watching us. I suggested perhaps we move inside. To my surprise, she agreed.

Once in the kitchen, Melinda handed baby Johnny over to me and poured us each a cold drink from the refrigerator. Johnny held a sippy cup with chubby fingers and gummed a soda cracker. I made a goo-goo face at him to loosen things up with his mom.

“So, Melinda, what happened at Kate’s after the police arrived?”

“Two squads arrived within seconds of each other. One blocked the man’s car so he couldn’t back out of the driveway. Both officers drew guns and crouched by the broken window. They jumped inside and I couldn’t see anything else. It was very dramatic. Just like on TV. Oh sorry, I didn’t mean anything by that.”

I waved her off just as the phone rang. She checked the caller ID and rolled her eyes before saying, “Hello.” After listening briefly, she replied, “Just company. I’ll call you back later.” Another pause, and I heard her say, “I understand. Thanks.” Then she hung up.