Stalking Susan (26 page)

CHAPTER 37

“
S
ome of them even think you’re in a satanic cult!” Noreen waved the call sheet in my face the next morning.

The station receptionists have the tiresome task of logging each viewer call into categories. Some viewers call to rant that we’re too politically liberal; others call to criticize us for sucking up to the president so blatantly. Too much sex in prime time is also a frequent complaint. But last night I was the only category, and the calls continued this morning from viewers who couldn’t get through last night to register their complaints. No one called to compliment me on my interesting ear accessory.

“How could you wear such a thing?” Noreen continued. She threw the dragon in her wastebasket and it made an angry clunk. I made a mental note to definitely try expensing it as a set prop. “What were you thinking?”

“I was just trying to attract younger viewers with some funky jewelry.”

Noreen paused, weighed my defense, then discarded it. “I don’t believe it. You’re up to something. And where do you get off putting that thing on and forgetting your IFB?”

Of course I claimed to have forgotten it. Better that they think me inattentive than insubordinate.

“And you ignored your wrap cue,” she continued.

“I’m sorry, I just felt more needed to be said.”

Miles decided it was time to speak up. “Unfortunately, it was the part we agreed you’d stay away from. You promised not to publicly criticize the police investigation. We had a deal. I’m not sure I can trust you.”

“I’m sorry, Miles. I feel real bad about that.”

“Bad? You feel bad?” Noreen said. “You’re going to feel worse than bad. You’re going to feel fired.”

Fired was Noreen’s favorite F-word. But I’d already apologized several times and didn’t want to grovel further, so I kept quiet, betting she wouldn’t actually fire me until sweeps ended, especially since the numbers had been up last night.

“Right now, you’re off our investigative team. Hell with it, you’re off our shows altogether. Don’t come back until I tell you to come back. And don’t hold your breath for that either.”

“Maybe I should just quit.” I folded my arms over my chest and leaned back in my chair, gambling she wouldn’t call my bluff.

“Maybe you should.” Noreen stretched forward, across her desk, in a silent, powerful dare. I know a defining moment when I face one. I also knew if I folded she would own my soul. She already owned my body and mind, sixty-plus hours a week, bought and paid for in bimonthly checks. As our eyes locked, I realized my soul was not for sale.

“Fine.” I spit out the word. “And they’re called newscasts, not shows!”

My last words as I stomped out of her office were not as satisfying as I had long imagined they might be.

I
’D JUST PACKED
a couple of Emmy awards in a moving box when Chief Capacasa bypassed the station switchboard and called my desk directly to scream about obstruction of justice.

“How did you know about that dragon?” he yelled.

“I found the body, remember?”

He launched into a tirade about tampering with evidence until I assured him I had removed nothing from the scene.

“I went out and bought my own dragon, Chief. And we wouldn’t be having this conversation if you didn’t agree there was something suspicious about the earring.”

He listened without interrupting as I explained the raincoat, the Susan necklace, and how I viewed the killer’s game. “He’s taking a souvenir from each Susan and one year later placing it on the next victim. It’s actually quite clever. This way if he’s ever caught for one murder, there’s not a whole drawer of trophies tying him to others.”

But Chief Capacasa called my theory “murder psychobabble” and wouldn’t back off from the suspect he had already charged: Nick Garnett. As further punishment for publicly criticizing his homicide investigation, he yanked the extra cop patrols from my neighborhood. After all, he explained, the Susan killer was lying in a local hospital bed, not a threat to me or anyone.

I
ALMOST DIDN’T
pick up the phone when I walked through my front door and the caller ID showed Redding on the other end, making an audio house call from Duluth. I changed my mind for two reasons. First, I hoped to smooth over the misunderstanding about the camera outside the cop shop the other day. Second, without Garnett, without Shep, and now without work, I felt isolated.

That outlook lasted only about thirty seconds because, of course, Redding wanted to revel in the Dusty Foster disaster.

“I never had a doubt,” he gloated. “But I’m a trained professional in these matters; you’re simply a TV reporter.”

“Trained in what? Murder investigations?”

“No, human psychology.”

Over the last forty-eight hours I had listened to numerous people telling me I told you so. What was one more? Apparently, one too many.

“I’ve had it.” I guess I sort of snapped. “For somebody who is supposed to be tuned in to other people’s feelings, you are incredibly self-centered.”

“Why? Because all I can think about is my deceased wife?”

Oh right. I had run him through the wringer on that. “Please, I’m sorry. I guess I’m just a little punchy with everything that’s happening.”

“Yes, I heard about that pit bull business. Nasty. How is your friend?”

“He and Shep will recover. But actually I buried the lead. The cops found a glove by Susan Victor’s body. They found the matching one in Garnett’s car.”

“That certainly complicates matters. Or uncomplicates them depending on where you stand.”

“That’s the thing. My reporter gut still tells me he’s innocent. Why would he tip me to the
SUSANS
story if he’s the murderer? And if he’s a killer, why save my life? Why put himself between me and a pit bull? Why not use me as a human shield and escape without a scratch? You’re the psychiatrist, you’re the one who understands human behavior, you tell me.”

“Human behavior is seldom as simple as all or nothing,” he explained. “It’s not unheard-of for a serial killer to be a good family man or a respected professional. And denial helps us protect relationships we value. We block out things we don’t want to see. Or hear.”

I knew he was referring to me. So I changed the subject.

“Garnett mentioned something a while back about losing a glove by my house. You didn’t notice one that night you were over?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“I think the killer planted it to set Garnett up. Just like luring him to the murder location with the phone call.”

Redding gave an impatient sigh. The kind of sound effect I sometimes made when I had a viewer on the line who wouldn’t give up about some dubious conspiracy theory she wanted Channel 3 to investigate.

“What do the authorities say about your hypothesis?” he asked.

“That I’m nuts. Hey, remember when we talked about the killer playing a game? Putting items from one victim onto another? I think he used the Susan necklace I was wearing the other day.”

“Indeed?”

“But the chief’s too mad to listen. He even pulled the police drive-bys from my house.”

“Are you concerned for your safety? Would you like me to drive down?”

“No. I’ll be fine.”

“I saw your interview last night. I don’t remember much of what you said, but that was certainly a mesmerizing earring you wore.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” I had just logged on to my computer and was looking at the very image Redding referred to on the Minneapolis newspaper Web site. Me, on set, the dragon clinging to my ear. I wrapped up my conversation with Redding and turned my attention to the paper’s local gossip columnist.

Please, I thought, let it say something like this: “Fire-breathing news director Noreen Banks overreacts as TV reporter Riley Spartz models a medieval look in contemporary times.”

Instead, I read: “Channel 3 reporter Riley Spartz reportedly fired for violating the station’s on-air dress code.”

Hmmm. I didn’t even know we had a dress code. And I really should demand a correction. After all, I hadn’t been fired. I had quit.

O
N DEADLINE,
I file by pile. So piles of
SUSANS
notes lay scattered across the floor of my living room. As I bent down to pick up the Suicide Susan stack, I noticed some papers that must have slid under the couch earlier. I pulled them out and read the education conference schedule for her doomed trip to Rochester.

Susan Niemczyk had marked some of the panels specializing in adolescent behavior. “Talking Them into Learning” dealt with motivating teen study habits. “Education Funding at the Local and State Level” seemed like a boring, but job-required seminar. She had circled and starred one titled “Outreach Techniques for the Street-Savvy Teen.” Listed among the panelists: Dr. Brent Redding.

I almost dropped to the floor.

I didn’t need Sherlock Holmes to connect the dots for me. And I knew just how Philip Trent felt when his dinner companion casually revealed he had shot Manderson.

I grabbed a marker and started a new suspect board, with a new list of clues.

SUSPECT/DR. BRENT REDDING

NIEMCZYK CONFERENCE SPEAKER

Seems like the kind of thing Redding might have mentioned during our nighttime stroll around the lake. Unless he had something to hide.

What did I know about the Susan killer?
The date November 19 is significant to him. The name Susan is also significant.

And I realized Dr. Redding was someone whose life had changed forever on November 19. And to whom the name Susan meant something very special.

I added those clues to Redding’s suspect board.

NOVEMBER 19 SIGNIFICANT

SUSAN NAME SIGNIFICANT

Next I wrote
CHENOWITH/MORENO ALIBI?
because I realized that after the presence of Susan Redding’s DNA had confirmed Dusty’s guilt, Redding’s whereabouts for his own wife’s murder no longer took him out of the suspect mix for the other homicides.

Susan Redding’s murder might be related after all. Perhaps the case did start with her, but in a manner I had never envisioned. Perhaps her death had triggered an annual chain reaction of violence.

Then I scanned the rest of my notes, pausing at the 1993 Susan gap—no body found. I tried to remember if that was the year that Redding had claimed to have checked into a clinic…was it to avoid killing himself, or to avoid killing another Susan?

I recollected his intense interest as he had reached for the Susan necklace I wore. His fingers inches from my neck. Maybe he wondered if I was now playing a game with him. More than victory might be at stake. If that was the case, I needed backup.

I set pride aside and dialed Noreen.

“Why are you telling me this?” she said. “You don’t work here anymore. So stop trying to build a criminal case against everyone you meet. You’re seeing suspects under every rock. And you better not go around repeating this wild innuendo about Dr. Redding. He’ll sue us from here to eternity!”

“But he was in Rochester at the same conference Susan Niemczyk—” I tried repeating the headline news. “He had opportunity.”

“Big deal. Fifty psychiatrists probably spoke there. He probably can’t even remember all the conferences he speaks at, especially going back ten years. You were wrong about the mayor. You were wrong about Dusty Foster. You’re probably wrong about this Garnett guy you have a blind spot for. And you’re wrong to think we want to touch this story ever again.”

Noreen hung up.

I felt a little foolish. Opportunity means nothing without motive. Why would Dr. Redding kill women? Maybe I
was
seeing suspects under every rock. After all, barely a week ago I’d built up a fairly convincing scenario around Mayor Skubic. My headache was back. I walked to the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. I knew from the other night it was not well stocked. Behind the Band-Aids and shaving lotion I found an outdated bottle with a couple of prescription painkillers left over from when Boyer had sprained an ankle playing hoops with his jock buddies. I turned the cover until it clicked and it was like a light clicking on in my head.

The container fell from my hand and the pills scattered across the tile floor as I raced back to Redding’s board to add another note:
DOCTOR/PRESCRIPTION DRUGS.
None of the other suspects was a psychiatrist with easy access to barbiturates, the kind of prescription drugs that had killed Suicide Susan.

CHAPTER 38

T
he list of clues might not be enough for a jury to convict on homicide charges, but they were more than enough to make Dr. Redding a person of interest to the authorities. Except the authorities remained disinterested in anyone beyond their prime suspect, Nick Garnett.

The hospital staff wouldn’t let me see him. And an armed police officer guarded his room. They had moved Garnett from intensive care that morning, and he was heavily sedated, in no condition to hear about the latest developments or help me land irrefutable proof that Dr. Redding was a serial killer.

“Come back tomorrow,” the nurse told me.

So I spent the afternoon escaping to the movies, though it wasn’t the same without Garnett. I nearly turned back when I saw
Wait Until Dark
advertised on the Lagoon Theater marquee, but I told myself sometimes it helps to be reminded there are people worse off than you. Like Audrey Hepburn’s blind character. Susy Hendrix. At least I didn’t have to worry about going home and playing cat and mouse against a psychopath with matches.

But when the smooth thug told our heroine, “Damn it, you act as if you’re in kindergarten. This is a big bad world, full of mean people, where nasty things happen,” the 1967 movie line sure resonated with me.

In the dark, in the back of the theater, I mouthed Susy’s words as she replied, “Now you tell me.”

I had just pulled the Mustang into my garage when my cell phone rang. The phone number was unfamiliar, but I answered it anyway. Sam Fox, Susan Moreno’s old street boyfriend, said hello back. Working the floor at Best Buy, he was calling to tell me he had just watched me on the late afternoon news on more than a dozen giant HDTV screens. I wasn’t impressed because, one, I no longer worked at Channel 3. Two, because TV ratings are determined by televisions in households, not televisions in hotels or businesses, so no matter how many Best Buy sets are tuned to a particular show, it has no impact on a TV station’s bottom line.

“Lucky I still had your card,” he said. “I’m calling about the guy walking next to you in the shot.” The man he described sounded a lot like Redding, probably from the tape Mike Flagg had snared the other day.

“What about him?” I unlocked the back door, walked inside, and threw my purse on the counter. I’d just spent the last couple hours watching a blind woman fight to survive by concentrating on her other senses to discern the odors of cigarettes and cologne and the sounds of squeaky shoes and rustling window shades. Like Susy, I almost felt someone was watching me. I shrugged my paranoia away and repeated my question to Sam, “What about him?”

“He was some county shrink Susan went to before she died.”

“What?” I dropped to a chair at the kitchen table and gave him my total attention.

“Yeah, as part of her probation the judge ordered her to visit him every month. She brought me along once to sit in on a session. Seemed like an okay guy.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah, he seemed okay to me.”

“No, I mean are you certain it’s the same man?”

“Absolutely. Hey, I got a customer now. Gotta go. He’s stroking a sixty-inch plasma.” Sam hung up, clueless, not realizing he had just scored a big one for the knuckleheads. A jury would likely convict on his evidence.

In most murder mystery novels, the heroine doesn’t figure out who the killer is until he points a gun at her head. I silently congratulated myself for being smarter than most fictional protagonists, then smiled as I walked over to the
SUSANS
charts, wrote this latest clue on the Dr. Redding board and starred it.

I still regret not having had adequate time to relish the special “aha” nature of the moment because it turned so quickly into an “oh shit” moment.

First, I spied newly delivered flowers arranged in a crystal vase on the center of my living room table. Bleeding hearts.

Then Redding stepped between me and the door and held out a key.
My
spare key. “Bottom of the bird feeder.” He winked.

As I reached for the key, he reached for my cell phone, hit
power-off
, and put it in his shirt pocket. “Let’s take your mind off work. Doctor’s orders.”

If Garnett were here, he’d turn to me now and say, “I got a bad feeling about this.” And I’d reply, “Harrison Ford.” But I’d probably fumble the actual movie title since Han Solo was in almost constant peril throughout the first three
Star Wars
films and it was easy to confuse them. Of course, if Garnett were here, neither of us would have a bad feeling about anything, because we’d outnumber Redding two to one and Garnett would be packing a light saber, I mean a gun.

I sensed danger, but I’d been alone with Redding before and nothing lethal had transpired. Although now, thinking back, plenty of witnesses had seen us together that night outside my house. That certainly could have cramped his style. So I put on my smile with teeth and decided to play dumb.

“You didn’t have to drive all the way down from Duluth.” I patted his arm. “I told you I’m fine.”

No role-playing for Redding. He picked up Shep’s leash from the table and flexed it. “It is regrettable. You were a worthy opponent. Too worthy I’m afraid.”

“Brent.” For the first time, I used his first name. “You don’t need to do this.”

“Unfortunately, I do. You’re too close. And you talk too much. The necklace, the earring, I can’t risk your speaking with the authorities again. Especially not now.” He gestured toward the
SUSANS
boards leaning against the wall. The one with his name and clues stood in front.

SUSPECT/DR. BRENT REDDING

NIEMCZYK CONFERENCE SPEAKER

NOVEMBER 19 SIGNIFICANT

SUSAN NAME SIGNIFICANT

CHENOWITH/MORENO ALIBI?

DOCTOR/PRESCRIPTION DRUGS

*DR./PATIENT CONNECTION TO SUSAN MORENO*

Redding tapped the last line, the one I’d freshly written after my phone call; the “aha” one. “This list is not something I can allow you to share with anyone outside this room.”

He pivoted, quickly looping the dog leash around my neck and yanked, but I ducked and deflected before he could tighten it. Slowly he advanced, and slowly I backed up, so neither of us made much progress toward our ultimate goal: him homicide, me escape. I broke the pattern, darting past him to where the Bible lay on the coffee table next to my portable phone.

“Have you read chapter thirteen of Daniel?” I tried distracting him.

For centuries leaders have debated whether it is better to disarm one’s enemy with a Bible or with a sword. A metaphor for persuasion versus force. Philosophy aside, if a sword had been handy, I would have reached for it. Instead I grabbed the Word of God. The Bible can and has been used as a psychological weapon. Today I used it as a physical one.

I smacked the cover hard against Redding’s ear. When he stumbled I used that second to grab the phone off the table to dial 911. The average police response time in my neighborhood is about three minutes. For a true emergency, I knew they could cut the time in half without my even uttering a word. All I needed to do was hit four buttons and squad cars would race to my address. One push to turn the phone on. Then 9…1…1.

Nope. He had taken the kitchen phone off the hook. Instead of a dial tone I got a useless beeping noise. I threw the telephone at his smirking face. He remained between me and the door, so I took the stairs, two at a time.

Even though the hardware was flimsy, I locked my bedroom door. I didn’t bother going for the window, I knew it was stuck. Painted shut by the previous owner. Redding was cracking the wood off the hinges just as I rolled under the bed, reaching for my dead husband’s Glock.

I moved my hands along the carpet in every direction. But the light was dim, and instead of metal, all I hit was dog hair, dust bunnies, and lost socks. I squandered the tiniest microsecond regretting not keeping the gun under my pillow.

Redding dropped to the floor after me. His eyes stared at mine. He looked like Jack Nicholson in
The Shining.
I half expected him to yell, “Here’s Johnny!”

Instead he clawed at my face, so I bit down on his hand, breaking the skin. Redding swore. His vocabulary didn’t sound so academic now. My teeth clenched hard against his knuckles until his fingernails ground into my nose. He pushed himself up and moved to the other end of the bed. There he grabbed my foot and tried dragging me out. My sock slipped off in his hand. I used that brief interlude to clutch onto the bed frame and kick. Hard.

Unfortunately, I kicked the gun out from under the bed.