by Amanda Lamb
I parked across the street and sat in my car, watching the commotion. Nobody noticed me amidst the frenzy of activity. What now? I wasn’t there in my official capacity as a journalist, but everyone would assume otherwise. I knew I should call Keri and let her know what was going on so she and her photographer could come get video of the search, but there were so many ethical entanglements for me in this case that I had no idea how to unravel them.
Out my driver’s side window, I saw Kojak leaning up against the brick wall in the back of the restaurant, sucking on a lollipop and staring down at his phone. I wanted to get his attention, but he was facing in the other direction, and he was too far away for me to yell at him without getting other people’s attention. So I took advantage of his phone-centered gaze and texted him. He jerked his head up and swiveled his neck in both directions until he spotted me in my silver SUV wedged in between two unmarked cop cars across the street. He put his phone in his pocket and started toward me.
Kojak opened the passenger door and slid into the seat, glancing around. I could see the sweat pouring in droplets from his forehead onto the black frames of his Wayfarers. I guessed he must have been standing outside for a while.
“This is too fresh right now. You don’t need to be here,” he said, with a nervous catch in his voice that I had never heard before. “I’m trying to keep you out of this whole thing. But you need to work with me here. You need to get out of here before someone spots you.”
“I get it. I know. And I appreciate what you’re trying to do for me but I need to know what the hell is going on. Why are they here? Do they really think Maria had something to do with Tanner’s murder?”
“Apparently Major Crimes got a call earlier today from a dude out in the country. He and his wife bought an old freezer from the restaurant two days ago. They told him they were replacing all their old freezers with new models. Bought it on Craigslist. Came to Oak City and loaded it up in his old pickup truck and hauled it home. Anyway, got the thing to his house, plugged it in in his garage. A few days later, his wife decides to put some stuff in it. Opens it up, and its real small inside, smaller than he expected from looking at it on the outside. But then he thinks about the great deal he got, and decides to let it go. Still something ain’t right. The bottom is uneven, and everything is sitting kind of funny inside the thing. So he pries up the white panel at the bottom of the freezer and finds something in a bloody plastic bag. At first, he thinks it’s some leftover meat that somehow got caught underneath the panel. But it’s not, guess what it is.
“I’ve got no idea. A gun? Money?”
“Nope, better than that.”
“No frigging idea. Just tell me. I don’t have time for jokes today.”
“No joke. Just about the strongest piece of evidence I’ve ever seen in a murder case. It was a hand—a hand they think belongs to one Tanner Pope.”
15
The Hum
I felt old and tired as I drove through the city streets across town to get to Suzanne’s house. I looked in the rearview mirror and could see the short, curly broken hairs surrounding my face from years of harsh ponytail wearing. They used to look charming, even endearing. Now they just made me look weary.
I lost a lot of weight when Adam was dying, and it wasn’t flattering. It made my cheeks hollow and my eyes sink into my skull. My skin, once elastic and healthy, sagged because it had nowhere to go. I eventually gained the weight back, but the formerly youthful, ruddy glow that used to define my face was replaced by an unbecoming grayish pallor. I had neglected my health, and it was time to get back to taking care of myself.
It occurred to me that maybe I needed some sun, a vacation with the kids, in a tropical paradise where I could put my phone down and just look at the water. Water had always been my go-to for healing. How long had it been since I took the kids to the beach? Too long. Not since Adam died. I made a mental note to look at our calendar and schedule a beach trip for the kids’ summer break.
I still didn’t know what I was going to say to Suzanne. I also didn’t know how I was going to slip into her house undetected, past the throngs of media people outside. Part of me wanted to advise her to just speak to them, and then they would go away. But with so many unanswered questions, it felt prudent as her friend to tell her to hold off. I knew how easily people’s intentions could be manipulated by an unfortunate placement of words during in an interview. Throughout my career I had tried hard to discern people’s intentions during interviews. I tried to honor those intentions by making sure their words matched them. I often asked people to repeat their statements when I didn’t think this match was achieved. I wanted to give them another chance to say what they really meant.
When I pulled onto Suzanne’s street, I slowed to avoid hitting the cars parked haphazardly on both sides. When I got closer to her house, I could hear the hum of the news vans, their generators powering the huge transmitting masts that reached high into the night sky. They were parked near Suzanne’s driveway, and blocked my view of the front of her house. I decided to pass the house and try to find a parking spot away from the fray.
I glanced over at Suzanne’s well-lit, white brick home. It looked like every light in the house was on, like she was preparing for a party rather than a press invasion. Reporters and photographers gathered in a U-shape around the front steps of the home. It confused me for a second. Why they were all on her private property without her permission. Normally we stood in the street so no one could accuse us of trespassing. But then I noticed someone at the top of the steps, on the edge of the porch. It was Suzanne. I could barely make her out behind the large bouquet of microphones attached to the top of a metal stand in front of her. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Suzanne Parker was holding a press conference.
O
I finally found a parking space about a quarter mile from the home, and pulled into it. I was lucky to find two spots where I could glide in. It was a long walk, but I figured the cover of darkness would give me anonymity as I approached the house. If my media colleagues saw me go inside, they would assume I was scooping them—getting what we called a sit-down or one-on-one interview with Suzanne. This was always better than interviewing someone at a press conference and getting the same sound bites everyone else was getting.
I crept down the street, the distant glow of the photographers’ lights looking like a constellation of stars that had fallen to earth and wound up at the foot of Suzanne’s steps. As I got closer, I could see she was reading from a small yellow legal pad, and then looking up. Next to her was a slighter woman, also brunette, who had her hand on the middle of Suzanne’s back. I assumed this was Suzanne’s sister, Jessie, from Chicago.
As I approached the sidewalk, I saw the petite woman I assumed was the sister put her hand up in a stop motion to the crowd. She grabbed Suzanne’s shoulder, spun her around, and steered her back inside the house like a robot. The group began to disperse towards their news vans. I spotted Keri in the distance, with a photographer named Marcus. They headed toward their van, which was parked in the street, right next to Suzanne’s mailbox. I was glad had Keri ignored my suggestion to stay away. I would have felt horrible if she had missed the press conference.
I could only imagine what Suzanne’s neighbors must be thinking of the chaos on their street. People always threatened to call the police on us, telling us we had no right to be camped out in front of their homes. Under the law, we did have the right to be on a public street and shoot what we could see from that vantage point. But even though we had the legal right, it didn’t always feel right.
I decided to text Suzanne and tell her I was there, hoping she could tell me how to get into her house without coming in through the front door.
“I’m here. Don’t want to run into other media. Do you have a back door?”
I sat there in the shadows, wondering why in the world Suzanne would have held a press conference after I had advised her not to talk to the media. My pride was dented, because I
expected her to follow my advice. On the other hand, I guessed she felt like she had nothing to lose. Maybe it was cathartic for her to talk about it.
Side flagstone path, right side of the house if you’re facing it. Hug house. Winds to back door. Meet you there, Suzanne’s text read.
I replied “K,” and then, crossed a neighbor’s lawn to stay away from her well-lit driveway, which looked more like a tarmac waiting for a plane to land. I scurried with my head down, trying not to be spotted by anyone I knew. Just as I rounded the back corner of Suzanne’s house, a door that led onto a back porch swung open. In a thin shaft of light from the open door, I could see the woman from the press conference, a diminutive brunette with high cheekbones—the woman I assumed was Suzanne’s sister even though they looked nothing alike. She was wearing black leggings, an oversized gray shirt, and black sandals. She reached down the porch steps and extended a hand to me as she held the door open with the other.
“You must be Maddie.,” She smiled. “I’ve heard a lot about you, that you’ve been very helpful to Suzanne.”
“You must be her sister.” I managed a smile that I wasn’t sure she could see in the darkness.
I grabbed her left hand in an awkward fingertip shake.
“No.” She chuckled, as she ushered me up the stairs and into the screened porch. “I could see why you might think that, though. Jessie, her sister, is still on her way here from Chicago. Her plane lands in about an hour. I’m Suzanne’s lawyer.”
“Lawyer?” I said, with more surprise than I intended, mostly because the woman was dressed so casually and seemed so comfortable in Suzanne’s home more like a close friend than an attorney. “Why does she need a lawyer?”
We were still standing in the near pitch darkness of the back porch. Even though I was closer to her now, we had moved away from the shaft of light, and I could barely distinguish her outline. I strained to see her eyes as they caught the light coming from behind the ajar porch door.
“I’m pretty sure you know the answer to that one,” the woman replied, smugly, her formerly friendly tone morphing into battle mode. “Her husband is dead. They don’t have a suspect. She was in the process of leaving him. Not a good scenario. She needs to protect herself.”
I stood there quietly, thinking about how this tiny lamb of a woman appeared to be more of a wolf. I could picture her in the courtroom, her stature tricking people into thinking she was not a formidable opponent. And then, without warning, she would pounce, bringing her fury to the unsuspecting person on the witness stand before he or she even knew what was going on. She was here to protect Suzanne, and no one was getting by her if she had anything to say about it. Even me.
“Come on in,” the little lamb said, too cheerfully. “Suzanne has been waiting for you. You didn’t bring a camera or any kind of recording device with you, did you? I know you’re a journalist. Can’t be too careful,” the wolf said.
“No, nothing like that. I am here as a friend, not as a reporter.” I tried my best not to sound insulted by her question.
People like this woman really pushed my buttons. People who casually wielded passive aggression like a machete. I was used to handling arrogant gatekeepers. I knew better than to let her see my hand. I had to remain cool and try to win her over.
I followed her into a posh den that looked like something out of a Restoration Hardware catalog. Suzanne was sitting on the biggest wraparound white couch I had ever seen. In front of her was a massive, distressed wooden coffee table that held nothing on it but a large octagonal silver bowl. Above the table hung a modern light fixture with about a thousand tiny glass crystals dangling from it.
Suzanne looked like she came with the Restoration Hardware showroom. Her long jet-black hair was flat ironed and cascaded across her shoulders. Her eyes were accented with black liner, and she wore her trademark bright red lipstick. She was wearing a tight-fitting, black jersey dress cinched with a simple back belt with a silver clasp. She stood to hug me when I walked into the room, reaching out as I approached. Her face looked genuinely relieved.
“Maddie, you’re really here, in person!”
“Well, I didn’t want you to be alone until your sister arrived, but I guess you already have company.” I nodded at the wolf, trying not to sound too annoyed, and then gave Suzanne a sincere hug.
I sat on the couch, feeling frumpier than ever in my conservative black dress pants, modest flowy white blouse, and black flats.
“Oh, you mean Shandra?” Suzanne gestured grandly to the wolf, who had perched herself at the far end of the couch.
Shandra was staring at her phone like she wasn’t listening to us, even though I knew she most certainly was.
“She’s an old friend from college. She’s done a bunch of legal work for me. She was in the process of working on my divorce settlement. She felt like it would be prudent to get out ahead of this thing. So we just released a statement.”
“What did it say, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“You know, the usual stuff people say in situations like this. I want to find out who murdered my husband, the father of my son. Justice needs to be served in this case. We need the public’s help to catch the killer. Blah, blah, blah.”
Blah, blah, blah? Who says that when they’re talking about a murder? I was starting to feel uncomfortable, between Suzanne’s flippant tone and Shandra’s scrutiny.
“Shandra said it would make them go away, the reporters. They’ve been camping out here since Tanner’s name went public this afternoon, leaving their water bottles and fast food wrappers in the street, shining their bright lights in everyone’s faces, and taking up all the parking. My neighbors must be furious.” Suzanne waved her hand in an exaggerated gesture toward the street.
Again I found it strange that her perception about the media’s disrespect for her neighborhood was anywhere near the top of her list of concerns
“How is Winston?”
“Devastated. Poor little guy. I sent him to his friend’s house. I didn’t want him to be in the middle of this chaos.”
“He’s not here! Don’t you think he needs you right now?”
“You know how resilient kids are. He’ll get through this. I’ll get him counseling if he needs it.”
I didn’t like how this visit was going. I went to Suzanne’s house expecting to comfort someone who was grieving, but instead I found someone who seemed inconvenienced by the whole thing. I knew Suzanne had no love lost for Tanner, but her son had lost his father. Her misplaced flippancy sent a chill down my spine. Had I misjudged this woman completely? Was she secretly happy that someone had taken care of her problem by getting rid of Tanner? I decided I couldn’t be there one more minute.
“Well, it looks like you and Shandra have everything under control here. And your sister is on the way, so I think you’re in good hands. I just wanted to stop by and make sure you were okay.,” I stood from the couch.
“You don’t have to go. Stay, have a drink. You will love my sister. She’s a trip.”
I was already walking toward the back door, her voice trailing after me. I had no interest in making this a girls’ night. Nothing about this situation felt right.
“No, really, I can’t stay. My babysitter agreed to stay late again with the kids. I really need to get home and relieve her.”
Suzanne spun me around and pulled me in for another hug, holding on tightly this time. It lasted about three seconds too long. I was starting to feel like I might scream if she didn’t pull away soon. She finally let go and backed away from me.
“You have been so helpful to me in so many ways. I don’t know how I can ever repay you,” she said, pretending not to notice my awkwardness.
She put her hands on my shoulders.
“I didn’t do anything. Just listened.”
“Listening is just what I needed. It’s so important. Few people know how to do it well. I guess that’s why you’re a good journalist. You are a good listener. It’s your job,” Su
zanne chuckled, manically.
I left the way I came in, through the back porch and into the dark night. I zigzagged across the neighbor’s yard, wanting to get as much distance between myself and Suzanne as I could.
I was a good listener, that was true, but I had a growing feeling that there was something I wasn’t hearing.
O
“So this giraffe gave birth at a zoo somewhere in the Midwest. It was all caught on tape—the birth, the pregnancy. The whole thing went viral. People became obsessed with it. So Dex wants you to use the video and find some psychologist to talk about why it was such a phenomenon, why people are so hooked on this. Are they looking for something to distract them from all the horrible things going on in the world?”
“Really?” I sat on my screened-in porch, sipping coffee and looking out at my neighbor’s free-range chickens walking up and down an embankment right on the edge of my property line. I could never understand how they just stayed in her yard and didn’t wander off into the street, but she explained to me that they stayed where the food was, not unlike human beings.
“It’s either that, or the lady trying to save some eagles in a nest near Griffin Lake. The Wildlife Commission is about to do a controlled burn to get rid of underbrush, decrease the wildfire risk. The eaglets can’t fly Yet so they’ll be collateral damage. While they’re not on the endangered species list, they have something called protected status. But apparently state wildlife officials can override that for the burn.”
I watched the chickens pecking at the ground, looking for food, I assumed. Maybe my neighbor wasn’t feeding them like she should. They hung around with one duck that we all called Chuck because he thought he was a chicken. The chicken-duck lost his duck family to a hungry fox, so our neighbors put Chuck in with the chickens and he never looked back.
Janie said, “But I think Dex really wants the giraffe thing since she just gave birth today. We can do the eagle story tomorrow.”
