Stalking Susan (12 page)

“Whatever,” she scolded me. “Don’t let it happen again. And I think Miles is right. You’ve become a part of the story. We need to assign another reporter.”

Just when I thought nothing worse could happen, she told me to give the tapes to Mike Flagg. “His dumpster-diving story fell through and he needs another project.”

W
HEN
I
GOT
back to my desk I had a message from my sister, peeved. Okay outraged, because, in her words, I used her kids as “pedophile bait.” She had still been at work when I finally brought Darcy and Davy home. Fortunately, their dad was lying on the couch watching a cable show on bass fishing, not the news. One of Robyn’s friends probably saw my niece and nephew on Channel 3 and ratted me out; more likely, the kids couldn’t keep a secret.

Thanksgiving dinner could be tense this year.

A
ND NO MENTION
of Halloween would be honest without disclosing a horror that had been haunting me for the last week. I tried not thinking about it, and I definitely didn’t say it out loud. As if denial would keep it from happening and shield me from blame.

If there was a Susan killer, what if the publicity my story would stir up stirred him up?

Right now he didn’t seem to pose a physical danger. So the loftiest rationalization I might use to defend airing the
SUSANS
story—“warning the public”—wasn’t quite valid. I had to fall back on “examining the competence of the police” and “bringing closure to the families.” All very good and fine reasons unless the killer struck again. Or a new killer got inspiration.

CHAPTER 19

T
he first production snafu came when Noreen refused to air the
SUSANS
story on the anniversary date.

“We’re not wasting it then,” she said. “That’s a Saturday. Our lowest-rated show of the week. Everybody’s out on the town. Nobody’s home in front of the tube. Especially not our younger viewers.”

Advertisers particularly covet viewers in the 18–49 age bracket. For once, no argument from me. Nobody wanted a 40 share more than I did. If Noreen could scheme up some strategy to help make that happen, well, that might help explain why she was the boss. She and the promotion manager shuffled the November lineup on a wall-sized calendar and slated the story for the sixth, to kick off the first Sunday night of the book, following the network’s powerhouse prime-time lineup.

“If we can build on those numbers, that will help our overall rating for the month,” she said. “Also any follow-up stories will benefit us as the book unfolds. Riley, start crashing.”

A deadline.

Some folks need drugs or alcohol for exhilaration. Me, I get high on deadlines. And that’s good because smoke makes me cough, needles scare me, and I’m inept at swallowing pills.

For writing inspiration, I pushed away visions of viewers and concentrated on the victims. Propped against my office walls, the
SUSANS
boards displayed a photo of each woman. Their eyes seemingly watched as I told their stories.

Susan Redding—a doctor’s wife with a secret lover who may or may not have killed her.

Susan Chenowith—a waitress who never made it in to work the next day.

Susan Moreno—a teenage hooker living and dying on the edge.

Susan Niemczyk—a schoolteacher bent on suicide. Or was she?

I was in a zone when I wrote
SUSANS
, or when the story wrote itself. The words fell onto the pages that easily.

((RILEY/TRACK))

A DEADLY ANNIVERSARY

IS APPROACHING.

Television news scripts are typed, all caps, in a two-inch-wide column on the right side of the page. The caps allow for easy reading on the teleprompter. The width times out to about a second a line, enabling newscast producers to estimate the time block needed for the story. Novels measure in pages, newspapers measure in inches, TV measures in minutes and seconds.

A CHANNEL
3

INVESTIGATION INTO

THE VIOLENT DEATHS

OF FOUR MINNESOTA

WOMEN HAS DISCOVERED

EERIE PARALLELS THAT

MIGHT SIMPLY BE A

STRING OF STRANGE

COINCIDENCES…OR

THAT MIGHT BE MUCH

MORE.

The left side of the page is reserved for editing instructions, location of specific video shots, and names of the talking heads in the story. As I related the dates and facts of each case, I dropped in sound bites from the interviews.

((SOUND/MOM/TEARS))

SOMETIMES I WATCH MEN

ON THE STREET AND

WONDER, WAS IT HIM?

OR WAS IT HIM?

((SOUND/FATHER))

I’D KILL THE GUY IF I

KNEW.

SUSANS
was enterprise work, not some feature story spoon-fed to the media by government or corporate press releases. That meant the station lawyer had a hand in vetting it, but because Channel 3 was merely questioning the competence of the police, not pointing a finger at a specific suspect or a big advertiser, script review went relatively smoothly.

IS THIS MAN SERVING A

LIFE SENTENCE FOR A

CRIME HE DIDN’T

COMMIT?

SUSAN CHENOWITH

WORE THIS RAINCOAT

THE NIGHT SHE

DISAPPEARED.

WHEN HER BODY WAS

DISCOVERED…THE

RAINCOAT WAS MISSING.

EXACTLY ONE YEAR

LATER…SUSAN MORENO

WAS FOUND DEAD…

WEARING A RAINCOAT

HER FRIENDS AND FAMILY

SAY SHE NEVER OWNED.

IN THE POCKET…THIS

BUTTON.

COMPARE IT TO THE

BUTTONS ON SUSAN

CHENOWITH’S SWEATER.

I used a split-screen effect to show the button next to a button from Susan Chenowith’s sweater. Perfect match. Then the camera pushed in for a close-up.

LOOK CLOSELY AT THIS

CRIME SCENE PHOTO AND

YOU’LL SEE ONE OF HER

SWEATER BUTTONS IS

MISSING.

For the chief, a mere button morphed into a smoking gun.

One minute after I left the news set, my desk phone started ringing. Chief Capacasa was on the other end of the line, steamed. He’d handled scandal before, self-made, family-made, and media-made. A pro at massaging negative news, he understood that the
SUSANS
story was potentially more damaging than the time he had deflected rumors that his cousin in Chicago used to be Mafia muscle.

The last time I saw Vince Capacasa, he was chuckling as he packed the raincoat back in the evidence box. He had assumed no match, no story. But don’t forget what happens when you assume.

“We had a deal!” The chief wasn’t chuckling now. He bellowed. “You weren’t supposed to run that story.”

“No. We had a deal I wouldn’t air unless I could prove a connection between the killings. I believe I’ve met that burden.”

“You didn’t tell me about the button!”

“I didn’t realize what it meant until later.”

Not exactly. The moment my mind made the connection, I also knew that I’d never get that videotape out of the cop shop and back to Channel 3 if the chief sensed that the button held any significance.

“You had the same information I had, Chief. And better access to the evidence. Let’s do an interview tomorrow, talking about what this means to your investigation.”

“An interview? You can’t be serious. I’m never talking to you again!”

“You can look like you’re cooperating, or you can look like you’re stonewalling.”

He slammed the phone down. I leaned back in my chair, savoring the pleasant sensation of checkmate.

CHAPTER 20

T
he next morning the front desk phoned. Said I had a package. I bounded out of the newsroom to claim a glass vase covered in purple tissue paper. I’d received a slew of bouquets at Boyer’s funeral, but none since. My sister had pressed some of the petals in the scrapbook. The perennials I’d replanted outside. The rest I’d donated to the nursing home where his father lived.

Boyer wasn’t the kind of guy who sent flowers. He made his own traditions. Valentine’s Day he’d walk through the door carrying a life-sized chocolate gun in a gold foil box. Once I had suggested I’d bring home the candy if he would send me a dozen roses.

But he had a fatalistic view on flowers. “Why would I send you something that’s just going to die?”

“Flowers are romantic,” I told him. “A sentimental gesture of temporary beauty. Besides, it reminds other men at the office that I’m taken.”

“Don’t they know I carry a gun? I imagine that would be more effective than flowers. Point these guys out at the next company party.”

Back at my desk, I eagerly tore away the tissue paper. I gasped at a bouquet of dead lilies.

“No card?” Malik asked.

“No card,” I answered.

No fingerprints either. Mine were the only ones the crime lab techs later found on the vase. The receptionist had briefly stepped away from her station and missed seeing the delivery.

Clearly someone was unhappy about the
SUSANS
story, but the list of suspects was long and my time was short. The middle of sweeps is no time to rest on your laurels, not even if your story delivers a veiled threat and a 37 share.

When I had walked in an hour earlier, the number was highlighted on the overnight ratings sheet posted on the newsroom bulletin board. Through her glass office, Noreen put her phone down long enough to wildly wave me over.

“Congrats on the overnights,” she said. I simply nodded. Not 40, but closer than Channel 3 had come since the firebomb killed my husband. And since June wasn’t a ratings month, Noreen had forgotten all about that.

She wanted a follow-up story. ASAP. “We can promote the hell out of this.”

I was eager to comply.
SUSANS
wasn’t meant to be a stand-alone piece. I was counting on new tips to push the investigation into new directions.

But first I had to chase the dog cremation story. We’d used Malik’s first and middle names and his cell phone number as the contact with the veterinary clinic. That morning, one week to the day that we had dropped off Lucky, Malik received a message from Dr. Petit.

“Lucky’s ashes are ready. Please call to arrange a time to pick them up.”

This time Malik wore a glasses cam. A pinhole camera was concealed in the nose bridge between the plastic lenses. The frames needed to be thick enough to hide both the camera and a thin cable that ran through one arm of the glasses, so Malik looked a little like Buddy Holly. The cable then ran under his hair, behind his collar, and down his back to a fanny pack with battery and recorder.

“You’re
sure
these are Lucky’s ashes?” I asked Dr. Petit. His tie, featuring a chihuahua in a sombrero, distracted me for a second.

“Absolutely.”

We sat around a conference table. I glanced over at Malik, who stared steadily at Dr. Petit through the glasses. The vet pushed a small cardboard box toward me.

“It’s such a comfort to know Lucky’s ashes are safe,” I told him. Now I regretted not spending an extra fifty bucks on an urn. That would have been a nice prop on the news set.

“You have my word. It’s a special service we offer our pet families during difficult times. I hope to see you again under less painful circumstances.”

“I’m certain we’ll meet again.”

Quite certain. But I made no promises that our next meeting might not be under even more painful circumstances, once he learned we worked for Channel 3.

Our local cremation expert confirmed that, as with Fluffy’s box, the contents of Lucky’s box contained no animal cremains. They were likely the same mixture of cat litter and landscape pebbles that the Texas lab had identified. We stopped by FedEx to overnight Lucky’s ashes so they could be tested as well.

Back at Channel 3, I had a message to call Dusty Foster’s defense attorney. He had breaking news: based on our story he’d managed to get a Duluth judge to order a hearing on whether DNA testing of some old evidence should be allowed. Exactly the kind of follow-up Noreen wanted.

We made the drive to Duluth that night, so we could roll tape first thing in the morning.

“A blood spot on Dusty’s shirt was introduced at the trial,” his attorney said. “The prosecution argued it was the victim’s blood. Dusty testified he cut himself shaving. Lab work confirmed it was type O human blood, but both he and the victim had type O. We were hoping for reasonable doubt, but the jury went for guilty.”

“To be fair,” I argued, “your client did have motive and opportunity.”

“Yeah, but I think the blood influenced their verdict.”

“How is this test different?” I asked.

“Fifteen years ago it was too small a sample for further forensic testing, but science has improved since then and a lab might now be able to tell us whose blood it was or wasn’t. If it really is my client’s blood, I’ll argue for a new trial.”

I was skeptical. “Would you get it?”

“Maybe, but as far as I’m concerned, the best evidence of his innocence is his alibi for the other homicides.”

All day Channel 3 promoted the story for all it was worth and then some.

TONIGHT AT TEN, A NEW

DEVELOPMENT IN THE

SUSANS STORY…IS A

CONVICTED MURDERER

ONE STEP CLOSER TO

FREEDOM?

FIND OUT TONIGHT ON

CHANNEL 3.

Even I thought we were laying on the hype a little thick, but that didn’t stop me from applying more pressure on the Minneapolis police. After my set piece, the anchor turned to me on a scripted two-shot.

((ANCHOR/TWO-SHOT))

RILEY, TWO OF THE

MURDERS HAPPENED IN

MINNEAPOLIS…WHAT

ARE POLICE HERE

DOING TO

MOVE THE

INVESTIGATION

FORWARD?

The camera switched to a close-up shot of me.

((RILEY, CU))

THEY AREN’T SAYING…

BUT CHANNEL 3 HAS

LEARNED THAT THE

MAYOR’S OFFICE HAS

RECEIVED DOZENS OF

CALLS FROM CONCERNED

CITIZENS…MANY OF

THEM NAMED SUSAN.

That last bit of info came from our political reporter, who hadn’t seen the mayor that mad since a blizzard had threatened Minneapolis the same weekend the city hosted the Super Bowl.

Both telephone lines were ringing as I walked back into my office. My flashing voice mail light indicated they weren’t the first viewers trying to reach me since the report ended three minutes earlier. When a story gets especially hot, some reporters prefer to let the machine take the heat, and they’ll return select calls later; but telephone roulette doesn’t scare me. I picked up the receiver, hit one of the lines, and smoothly said, “This is Riley Spartz, Channel 3.”

“This is Karl Skubic, mayor of Minneapolis.” His voice was agitated, not smooth.

“Hey, Mayor, thanks for returning my call.”

I’d left a message with his media guy yesterday, ostensibly seeking city reaction to the
SUSANS
story in an on-camera interview, but really hoping to watch him squirm under the lights when I asked about his relationship to the first victim. The mayor had skillfully deflected that by declining the interview request through his press peons and refusing to take my call. I considered calling him on the secret number he’d given me Halloween night but decided to save that for a special occasion.

“Can we tape that interview tomorrow morning?” I remained cool and professional.

That stopped him, as he weighed the drawbacks to continuing our conversation.

“No. That’s not why I’m calling. I just want to say, and I’m sure you’re not aware of it, but it seems to me the current path you’re on is less likely to help law enforcement and more likely to make our city seem unsafe.”

“You’re welcome to say that on camera, Mayor. We’ll put it on the air.”

“I really think it’s better to leave it to the police to make any appropriate comments. I’m certainly not going to impede their investigation.”

While he continued with a canned speech about citizen responsibility to the community, I pondered the pros and cons of bringing up his college sweetheart. So far I had left that part out of the stories. It was such a loaded fact, I knew it would make the station attorney bonkers. We were nowhere close to meeting the legal burden of actually throwing a veil of suspicion on anyone, even a public figure like the mayor. True, a politician doesn’t get as much libel protection as a private citizen, but realistically I knew we wouldn’t be putting his Susan connection on the air anytime soon—if ever. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t bring it up right now, phrasing it in the form of a question, just to make him sweat.

“Mayor Skubic, why exactly did you and Susan Redding break up?”

No answer. He was so quiet I felt sure he stopped breathing. People often confuse action with drama, but silence can be even more dramatic. I finally broke the stillness because I didn’t want him to hang up. “It sounded like kind of a volatile relationship. Was it?”

I deliberately used the word “volatile.” First, because I was fishing and wasn’t sure what I was hoping to find. Second, “volatile” is a good bait word because it sounds worse than its actual meaning, which is “unstable or changeable.” And tell me what relationship between a man and a woman isn’t that?

Our phone connection ended with a click and a dial tone. A whimper, not a slam.

Sometimes, if I’m honest with myself, I have to admit I’m the kind of reporter who deserves an occasional bouquet of dead flowers.

But not twice in one week.