Killing Kate: A Novel (Riley Spartz Book 4) (8 page)

“That was my mother-in-law,” she explained. “She wanted to know who was visiting.”

Mine was the only vehicle parked near their house. “How would she know you had a guest?”

“She lives next door,” she said, without much enthusiasm.

“You moved next to your mother-in-law?” I asked.

She shook her head. “We lived here first. She moved next to us. Every time we have company, she calls to ask who.”

“That could be annoying.”

“Sometimes she wants to come over and meet them.” She gave me a warning look.

I wrinkled my nose and shook my head. She’d probably bring a pan of bars, and want to hear about life in the world of television
news. As much as I craved a warm brownie, that wasn’t a conversation I enjoyed much these days. Especially not with amateurs.

“Every time the baby cries, she calls to say, ‘I hear Johnny. What’s wrong now?’ ”

Johnny seemed content in my arms. Any chance I had to hug a baby these days, I took. Now I felt pressure not to disturb him or grandma would show up demanding an explanation.

“Just now she used the excuse that she wanted to make sure I was safe. After what happened to Kate.”

“Under the circumstances,” I said, “her concern might be understandable.” I decided to get back to business. “What about the man inside Kate’s house? Did you see him leave?”

“Yes, about ten or fifteen minutes later the door opened and he came out.”

“Was he handcuffed?”

“No, but one of the cops escorted him to his vehicle. The squad pulled away and the SUV followed him. Pretty soon more cops showed up, then the media.”

“I was in that crowd that day.” I didn’t mention her not answering the door.

“My mother-in-law had been shopping and missed all the initial excitement. She was disappointed she didn’t get to be the one to call 9-1-1.”

“Let’s hope she never has to.”

Just then Johnny started squirming, then screaming. I handed him back to mom, who held him against her shoulder and patted his back.

“Hurry, Melinda, calm him before grandma surprises us.”

She laughed. “You don’t believe me, do you? Just watch.”

“Did she surprise you when she moved in?”

“We had some warning. Our neighbor’s house went into foreclosure soon after I became pregnant. My husband’s mom insisted it was an omen. He convinced me she would make our life
easier because he’s an attorney and often works late hours and travels.”

My parents lived a comfortable hundred-plus miles away. I tried to imagine us separated by only twenty yards and a couple of walls. Luckily they wouldn’t ever consider moving from the farm. My folks were determined to die on that land. As for family meddling, all I had to endure was an occasional surprise visit because they didn’t want to call ahead and be a “bother.”

Now I had to worry about them bringing a dog along.

The doorbell rang. We could see an older woman standing outside holding a plate of cookies. “I hear Johnny.”

She traded the plate for the baby, who quieted almost immediately. Then she sat down and made herself comfortable. Melinda introduced us and when Cheryl Gordon learned I worked in news, she wanted to know more. Especially about her neighbor’s murder.

“So unsettling,” she said. “I never dreamed such a horrible thing could happen when I moved onto this street. It’s important we all stay vigilant.” She looked at her daughter-in-law.

It occurred to me that, since Cheryl kept tabs on the block, she might have noticed anything unusual at Kate’s house before the murder.

“You seem quite observant,” I said. “You probably could have been a reporter yourself.” She looked thrilled with the compliment. “How well did you know Kate?” I didn’t share that I had a past connection with the family. That wasn’t the kind of gossip I wanted spread around the neighborhood.

“We always said hello at the mailbox,” she said. I nodded to keep encouraging her. “She was excited anytime she received a paycheck. And she’d just been out on a few dates with a young man named Chuck.”

I checked the text message on my cell phone.
CHARLES HEYDEN
.

J
ust as Kate’s house didn’t look like the kind of place a homicide would happen, her boyfriend’s house didn’t look like the kind of place a killer would live. It oozed ordinary rather than eerie.

My plan was to do a drive-by, not a door-knock, but the garage was open and sure enough, the vehicle inside had the correct license plate.

“Can you run a criminal background check, Xiong?”

I didn’t want to waltz into the den of a possible killer without knowing whether he’d ever been charged with any violent crimes.

Journalists don’t have the ability to search criminal records nationwide—you need a friendly cop for that kind of favor, real friendly, because running that kind of check leaves a trace and could get sources in trouble later as leaks if they can’t justify the inquiry.

But statewide, Xiong assured me, the guy came up clean.

I parked one block down, so as not to look too obvious. Then I texted Malik the address with a message that I’d call him in an hour. This way, if I vanished, he’d know where to hunt first.

My knuckles were inches from the door when it opened. I stumbled to avoid hitting a tall man in the chest.

“What do you want?” He must have watched me walk up the driveway and seemed to think I was there to sell him something.

“Hello, Mr. Heyden, I’ve come to talk about your friend Kate and tell you how sorry I am about her death.” I started to introduce myself as a reporter, but that wasn’t necessary.

“I watch enough TV to know who you are.” I gave a silent kudos to the Channel 3 promotion department when he continued with, “You’re that reporter they thought killed the gossip guy.”

Few people had the brazenness to bring up that episode straight to my face. “You’re right. They did arrest me. Ends up, they were mistaken.”

He shrugged like maybe he believed me or maybe not. “How’d you find me?” He seemed a little suspicious. “Did the cops tell you?”

“Police aren’t talking much. I got your license plate from a witness, then your name came easy. I thought you might appreciate some company.”

“I guess. You can call me Chuck.” Chuck stuck his head out the door, like he was checking to make sure I was alone. He motioned for me to come inside. “Let’s talk in here where the game’s on.”

My gut sensed he wanted information from me as much I did from him. So I followed him inside. That move might have been a bit reckless, but he seemed to think me capable of murder, so that might put us on par with each other because my first impression was he might be one of those killers the neighbors later describe as “quiet.”

His living room resembled a north woods cabin except for the far wall, which had a big-screen television tuned to a Twins game at the team’s new stadium. I hadn’t been out to the field yet, so was more curious about the ballpark layout than the score.

Chuck moved a laptop computer from the couch to make room for me.

“So, Chuck, what do you do for work?” Usually a safe opening question.

“I’m a technical writer,” he said. “I clarify jargon.”

“So what kind of things do you write?”

He explained he worked at home writing annual reports and instruction manuals for several corporate and government clients.

“Some assembly required, huh?” I said. But he didn’t react to the joke.

My plan was to let him speak next, but he was apparently busy watching baseball and pressing buttons on an unconventional remote control. So after a couple minutes of silence, I decided to try sympathizing to gain his attention.

“I hear you found Kate’s body. That must have been rough.”

“Wish I hadn’t.”

“Do you remember much?”

“I’m trying not to.”

A man of few words. I nudged him toward conversation, so Chuck finally offered an explanation. “She didn’t answer when I knocked, and I would have just left, except I glanced through the window along the top of the door.”

Sure enough, he was tall enough to sneak a peak without looking like he was casing the place.

“She was lying on the floor.”

I paused to see if he’d add anything, but he didn’t. “Door unlocked?” I asked, not letting on I already knew where his story was headed.

“Nope.” He shook his head. “I crashed through the front window with a patio chair. I wanted to check if she was still alive. But she wasn’t, so I called the cops. And waited. Some of them think I did it.”

“Really?” That allowed me to play a card that few other journalists could. “I know what that’s like. I even spent a night behind bars, so I understand better than most folks that cops can make mistakes.”

“Your case was all over the news,” he said.

“So we sort of have something in common. Have they read you your rights yet? You know, you have the right to remain silent . . . all that stuff?”

“Nope.”

“They’re probably holding off as long as they can. Once they do that makes it harder for the police to question you without an attorney.”

Chuck nodded again, like he was making mental notes. “You got an attorney yet?” I asked.

“I know a pretty good one.”

“Nope, I thought that would just make me look more guilty. They wanted to question me downtown, away from the scene. Mostly about where I was during the time Kate was killed.”

“So where were you?”

“Watching TV.”

“Here, at home?”

“Yeah.”

“Anybody with you?”

“Nope.”

That was a bummer of an alibi.

I helped myself to a bowl of pretzels on an end table to avoiding having to respond further. While I chewed, I thought.

I could see why investigators were looking at him as a suspect. He knew the victim. That’s usually the case in homicides. And sometimes smart killers “find” the body. It’s a convenient way to explain how their DNA wound up at the crime scene.

Chuck seemed like he might be one of those killers who are better thinkers than talkers, possibly shrewd enough to have thought this whole scenario through. Although his next statement changed my mind about his judgment.

“They also wanted my fingerprints and saliva. That way they could eliminate me as the killer.”

That would also make it easier to convict him without having
to go through the bother of a subpoena, but I refrained from saying that out loud.

“What was Kate like?” I asked.

Chuck didn’t answer right away. Maybe because the question was complicated or maybe because the Twins and White Sox were now tied.

“She was a nice enough girl,” he said.

I was hoping for something a little more personal, but the term “boyfriend” might have been an exaggeration regarding him. He explained that they had met a few weeks earlier while standing in line at the post office. He was buying stamps and she was mailing a large padded envelope. They both worked at home, so they had that in common.

“Usually nice girls don’t pay much attention to me.” He had a receding hairline and a paunchy waistline. “But now that she’s dead, I kind of wish we hadn’t met. Wasn’t worth the trouble.”

Just then Chuck reached over and pressed the remote again. His action didn’t affect the TV channel or volume, but gave me a way to change the subject away from murder.

“What are you doing with that thing?” I asked.

“Oh, this? I forgot to ask how old you are.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“You’re a visitor. They want to know how old you are. I already punched in that you’re female.”

A few seconds passed before I understood that I was staring at one of the most powerful tools of modern television: a people meter.

I’d never actually seen one before, and it was all I could do to refrain from grabbing it and switching it to Channel 3. Then I realized the remote only confirmed
who
was watching; the small black box hooked directly to the television confirmed
what
was being watched. Networks, TV stations, and advertisers paid dearly for that combination of ratings data.

In the Twin Cities, barely six hundred people meters represented the viewing habits of 3.5 million people. How Chuck Heyden landed in this secret society of Nielsen families, I didn’t know; but for a TV reporter, meeting him was like winning the ratings lottery.

So to keep tight, I told him my age. Then casually asked if we could see what else was on TV, maybe even check Channel 3.

“No, I want the game.”

Chuck explained that when he watched television, every fifteen minutes he had to press an OK button to verify he was still watching.

If more than forty minutes passed without him confirming, red lights flashed rapidly.

He signed a two-year contract last fall to divulge his male TV viewing habits, and for such privileged information, Nielsen paid him twenty-five bucks a month.

“Don’t tell them I told you any of this,” he said. “We’re supposed to keep quiet.”

“I know. I know. Believe me, they’ll never hear from me.”

So I conspired against Nielsen, and promised to keep in touch about Kate’s murder. Whether he was guilty or not, meeting him was going to make Channel 3 an overnight news sensation. Just as soon as I got back to the station and told Noreen.

“You what?” she screamed. “You met with a Nielsen family?”

“He was more like a Nielsen individual,” I explained.

She was more upset about that part of the encounter than she was about me sitting on a couch all cozy with a possible killer. “You could get us flagged.”

“Flagged” was slang for when Nielsen put an asterisk after the station’s ratings; this indicated to advertisers that the sample might have been tampered with or otherwise tainted.

“I didn’t find out about it right away,” I said. “Suddenly I realize he’s holding a people meter.”

Noreen radiated fury, but she was also quite curious about the device and its functions.

“Don’t you understand?” I said. “This means we can report that Chuck may have a better alibi than the cops think. The Nielsen data could actually corroborate that he was home watching TV during the murder.”