Stalking Susan (24 page)

CHAPTER 36

I
dreamed my husband wrapped his arms around me and held me against his chest, and I felt safe. We laughed about all the fun things we would do when we grew old.

Once we talked about buying an RV and driving across America. We’d get one of those colorful U.S. maps with the stick-on states and glue it to the side of the camper, adding a new state each time we crossed a border. We debated whether we could count states we’d already visited together, or whether we could only count ones we’d visited in the RV. Would the map be a record of the RV’s travels or ours?

“You know what’s been my favorite state so far?” Boyer teased me.

I shrugged, expecting him to say Nevada.

“The state of arousal.” He reached his hand under my shirt. “Followed closely by the state of undress.”

I reached for him and kept reaching until I reached the edge of the bed and realized I was alone. I drifted in and out of sleep, contemplating the states I had visited without him.

The state of shock. The state of denial. The state of despair.

I burrowed under the blankets and slept hours and hours more until the next morning when I untangled myself from the blankets, fumbled for the TV remote, and clicked on the news. I scrambled out of bed as soon as my brain comprehended what my ears were hearing.

((MIKE/LIVE))

THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT

THE DNA TEST MEANS…

THE BLOOD ON

DUSTY FOSTER’S

SHIRT BELONGED TO

SUSAN REDDING…

THAT MAKES HIM

HER KILLER…

SO MUCH FOR HIS

CUT-MYSELF-SHAVING

EXCUSE.

((DOUBLE BOX/ANCHOR))

WHAT ABOUT ALL

THE PROTESTERS

WE’VE HEARD SO MUCH

ABOUT…

ARE THEY STILL

OUTSIDE THE PRISON?

((MIKE/LIVE))

NOPE. AS YOU CAN SEE,

THEY PACKED UP AND

LEFT AS SOON AS WORD

GOT OUT THEIR CAUSE

WAS LOST. THIS IS

MICHAEL FLAGG

REPORTING LIVE FROM

OAK PARK HEIGHTS

PRISON…BACK TO YOU.

I rushed downtown to the newsroom to see Noreen.

“What do you mean, why didn’t we call you?” Noreen fumed. “You weren’t answering your home phone, your cell phone, or even your door.”

She had a point. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Things have been crazy. I’ve been crazy. I couldn’t think about news.”

“Tell me about it. Since your buddy was arrested for killing one of our city’s elected leaders, our ratings have plunged. The target of your vet investigation was mauled to death outside your house. No telling what the viewer backlash is going to be. Plus, us playing up that innocent man behind bars crap is going to hurt.”

True, the numbers were down the last few nights, but it was too early to panic. After all, viewers are fickle. These salacious developments could actually increase our ratings. Then Channel 3 would face criticism for tabloid journalism and profiting from tragedy.

“It can’t always be about ratings, Noreen. Sometimes it has to be about our search for the truth.”

“In November ratings are the truth. This is a news station, not a philosophy class. I should never have listened to you about those old murders. You’ve mangled this whole investigation, so don’t lecture me about truth.”

Noreen’s ranting was more off the charts than usual, but what hurt most was Miles, sitting in her office, nodding his head. “We’re way out on a legal limb here, Riley. Your bailing out Garnett won’t help matters if Susan Victor’s family sues us.”

“Viewers think you’re in cahoots with the killer,” Noreen said. “I’m about ready to fire you.”

“We can’t fire her,” Miles insisted. “That could make things even worse for us in court. Like admitting we’re screwups. We need to wrap ourselves in the First Amendment and argue the public’s right to know.”

Miles’s presence while Noreen chewed me out was deliberate. If opposing counsel ever deposed her or me over this mess, we could claim attorney-client privilege for anything being said right now.

“The problem,” Miles continued, “is that you’ve gone from being an objective journalist to a subjective newsmaker. You’re part of the story now, so you can’t cover it.”

He lifted his hands in a gesture of regret just as Noreen snapped her fingers in a gesture of inspiration.

“Newsmaker?” she said. “That gives me an idea. Viewers expect to hear from newsmakers. Maybe keeping Riley quiet has been a mistake. We might win them back if they get the inside scoop straight from her lips.” She came to a decision. “You’ll do a live on-set interview tonight.”

“I thought I was off the story.”

“Oh, you’re not going to conduct this interview. You’re going to be on the receiving end. You’ll answer the questions put to you, just like any other newsmaker. Other than that, you’ll keep your mouth shut.”

She picked up her phone and dialed the promotion department.

M
Y DESK PHONE
rang. A woman’s recorded voice said, “You have a collect call from Oak Park Heights State Prison—”

I slammed down the receiver.

About thirty seconds later the same voice gave me the same spiel, but when she got to the part about accepting the charges, I reconsidered, what the hell, and answered yes.

The only words out of Dusty’s mouth: “You can’t blame me for trying.” Then he laughed and hung up.

I tried thinking about whiskers on kittens, but all I could think about was what a chump I was.

Then I realized that I still had a mission: to clear the name of an innocent man. Except the man’s name was not Dusty Foster. His name was Nick Garnett.

Unless I was wrong about that one, too.

L
OOSE ENDS.

Even though technically I wasn’t covering the
SUSANS
story anymore I still wanted to find a clue that would break the case wide open. So, back home, I scanned the
SUSANS
boards looking for promising loose ends that might unravel other secrets.

Sometimes journalists get lucky, like buying gas across the street from where a bank robbery is under way and filming the getaway scene. But I usually make my own luck by reverting to the basics: rechecking documents and going back to the same sources over and over and over one last time. Competitors and colleagues who find that part of the job tedious often gripe about my “luck.” But sometimes the result is such a doozy that a B story is elevated to an A story. Right now, I was just hoping for a passing grade.

I moved the Susan Redding board away from the others and determined some anomalies: aside from being the only Susan murdered by Dusty, she was also the only married Susan, and the only one who hadn’t been re-dressed by her killer. Clearly she was a false lead and not the victim of any supposed serial killer. Her name had led us down a false path. Dr. Redding had been right: his wife’s homicide was not connected to the others.

Waitress Susan’s and Suicide Susan’s families had been cooperative. I didn’t think they were holding anything back. But when I got to Sinner Susan’s board, I stopped. Her fanatic father might be worth another visit. He was definitely a loose end.

T
HROUGH THE KITCHEN
blinds, I saw Tim Moreno with his head bowed over a table for lunch. He saw me outside and opened the door before I even knocked. Not because I was the answer to his prayers, but because he wanted to get rid of me as quickly as possible.

“You’re back, TV lady. What do you want?”

I was happy to keep our conversation on the front steps.

“Good morning, Mr. Moreno. I was doing some further research on your daughter’s death and…” I often used that line when approaching people. No big deal. Just doing some research. Nothing to get excited about.

Except he did get excited. “Where did you get that?” His voice dropped a notch, sounding almost hollow.

“I was talking—”

“No. Where did you get this?” He ripped the Susan pendant from around my neck, breaking the chain.

“Ow. That hurt. You can’t have that.” I tried grabbing it back, but he clutched it tightly in his fist.

“It belongs to me. This was my grandmother’s, then my mother’s, then my daughter’s.” His eyes bulged. “I’m sure the whore pawned it. How much did you pay?”

“Wait a minute. Your daughter used to wear this?”

“I gave it to her when she turned sixteen. It was against my better judgment, but she insisted it was her due.”

“Did Susan wear it often?” I asked.

“She promised never to take it off. But when she died, it was nowhere to be found. It wasn’t on her body, or in any of her belongings. God has returned it to me.” He crossed himself. “I’m not giving it back.” He grasped the pendant and held it next to his heart. “Ever.” He went inside and turned the dead bolt. “Go away, TV lady,” he called from the other side of the door.

I drove toward the cop shop, not to report a jewelry theft, but because the Susan pendant was suddenly important evidence.

Could Tim Moreno be the killer? His daughter was a murder victim and his family pendant had shown up on the body of another victim. Moreno might be looking like a prime suspect if not for the fact that the killer had also played musical raincoats. And now musical necklaces.

When I looked in the rearview mirror, I noticed a nasty red welt where the chain had cut across my neck.

C
HIEF
C
APACASA SMIRKED
as he waved me into his office. “Sounds like you’re on the skids with that Duluth appeal.” Once again he wore the obnoxious checkmate expression on his face.

“I understand, Chief,” I said. “You need to rub it in. So get it over with. Feel better.”

“I told you.” He leaned back in his chair. “What you’re searching for doesn’t exist. There’s no single killer stalking Susans.”

“What about the raincoat? That actually ties Susan Chenowith with Susan Moreno. And that’s why I’m here. Was Susan Victor missing any personal item? Or was any clothing item found with her that didn’t belong to her?”

The chief froze as if that question was the last thing he had expected from me. “How did you know? Did Garnett tell you?”

Now I was the flustered one. “What are you talking about?”

“Garnett. Did he tell you about the glove?”

“What glove? Was she missing a glove?”

“We found a man’s glove in Susan Victor’s car. Next to her body. The matching glove was in Garnett’s car.”

Suddenly I knew what a splitting headache felt like.

“So don’t worry your pretty little head about raincoats and buttons,” he said. “It’s much easier solving one murder at a time. And this one’s nailed. Garnett’s going down. Careful you don’t go down with him.”

I recalled the image of a flashlight in my front yard and Garnett mumbling something about missing a glove.

“Maybe he lost a glove and…maybe the killer…” My stammering sounded lame, even to me.

“All right, that’s it. Beat it. I’ve had enough of your conspiracy and framing theories. Sometimes the most obvious answer is the answer.”

I tried telling him the reason I had come downtown: the Susan pendant. But the chief wasn’t in any mood to listen further. In truth, he didn’t need to; if the “smoking glove” evidence was everything he claimed, his case was closed.

“Beat it,” he repeated.

When I got home, I added
MATCHING GLOVE
to the growing list under Garnett’s name, then kicked the board hard enough to sail it across the room.

So much for clearing an innocent man’s name.

Just like the O.J. Simpson case, this one was all coming down to a glove. Remember the defense line “If the glove doesn’t fit, you must acquit”? Well, I could hear the prosecutor already practicing this closing, “If his glove’s the mate, guilty his fate.”