Stalking Susan

by Julie Kramer

  “You’re terrible.”

  “I’m not joking. Look at the stats. Look at their mug shots. But my hunch is that deep down, our unsub is a show-off.”

  “I thought you thought he was a cop.”

  “Cops are the ultimate show-offs,” he answered. “Though that’s not why I think he might be blue. Our guy left no DNA, nothing for the forensic team. Might suggest some familiarity with crime scenes. Could be on the processing end, like a cop, or could be on the receiving end, like a con.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Might have been questioned in an earlier crime, like rape. Might have had to give samples. Might have even spent time in prison. Might have learned how to be more careful next time.”

  I was absorbing this information, playing with it in my mind, as Garnett continued.

  “There’s another reason he might have a law enforcement connection.” He lowered his voice. “The year after the second Susan, I set up an anniversary stakeout around Lake Calhoun. Waited all night with a couple of unmarked squads.”

  “And?” I pressed.

  “Nothing. All quiet. Nobody died that night, at least not from foul play. But some of the guys at the local precinct were joking about it ahead of time, thought it was a waste of time. If the killer was one of us, he might have heard about the sting. Chief didn’t think it was a good use of resources. After that, I kept it hush-hush.”

  “Hush-hush?”

  “Every November 19, from midnight till dawn, I go on stakeout cruising the lakes. But not this year. This year, I’m retired.”

  “If this were an Agatha Christie book, you’d be the killer because you’re the least likely suspect.”

  As Garnett smiled, he shrugged his shoulders. “Better check me out, Riley. Like I said, he might be a cop.”

  CHAPTER 8

  SUSAN CHENOWITH 1991

  SUSAN MORENO 1992

  RE-DRESSED

  RE-DRESSED

  I had just written RE-DRESSED under both victims’ names on the SUSAN charts the next morning when I heard my office door open. Noreen Banks stood there, unsmiling, her arms folded over her chest. She cleared her throat to ensure my complete attention.

  The most disconcerting thing about having Noreen as my boss wasn’t that she was younger, but that she was more attractive. Good-looking enough to be in front of a camera, or even behind an anchor desk. Black hair. White skin. Ruby lips. Stunning like Snow White, but with a heart like the Wicked Queen. Noreen must have sensed viewers would detect that flaw, so when a management job opened early in her career, she took that path and never looked back.

  She had little tolerance for her reporters and anchors looking hagged out on the air; if she could look like a million bucks, so could the talent.

  “Well, Riley Spartz, perhaps you’d like to tell me what you’re working on?” She spoke in a staccato fashion, clipping each word like a TV remote control.

  “A 40 share,” I answered. Now I had her complete attention.

  In TV news, a 40 share is the Super Bowl of ratings. It means 40 percent of the television sets being watched in your market are tuned to your story. I used to score the big four-oh a couple times a year, but with the increase in cable and satellite programming, along with online news, competition is intense, a 40 share scarce. Noreen looked understandably skeptical; while a Minnesota Vikings–Green Bay Packers football game could still deliver even a 60 share audience, holding those viewers through a newscast never happened.

  “I heard you were shooting yesterday,” she said. “You know I give you enormous latitude to chase leads, but when equipment and other staff are involved, I need to approve the story first. It’s a question of resources.”

  “I understand completely.” I spoke in my smoothest Miss Congeniality voice. “An opportunity came up yesterday, a family was willing to go on camera and I wanted to move fast before they changed their mind. I was hoping to catch you after the morning meeting.”

  I spent the next ten minutes bringing her up to speed on the Susan story, steering her through the characters, driving home the emotion. Five seconds later, she slammed the brakes on the whole thing.

  “No. I don’t like it.”

  “What? What’s not to like? Come on, Noreen. It’s got mystery, it’s got suspense, it’s got November written all over it.”

  November is one of the three major ratings months in television. Some folks call it “sweeps” others call it “The Book” and they’re not talking about the Bible either. During those weeks, stations try to spike the numbers by heavily promoting exclusive stories. Higher ratings mean higher commercial rates. Ka-ching. Ka-ching.

  “You know how I feel about showcasing senseless violence,” she said. “It also seems dicey. You’re always talking about how critical the first forty-eight hours are after a homicide, how if the police don’t nail it by then, forget it. These cases are more than a decade old. It doesn’t sound like the police even care anymore. Why should we?”

  I didn’t know whether to be more amazed that she actually remembered anything I said, or that she twisted my words to dismiss the Susans.

  “Noreen, we should especially care in cases where the cops don’t. So victims aren’t forgotten. So justice has its day. I already have the story,” I insisted, over and over. “This isn’t a question of throwing a lot of time and money at something that might not make air. This cold case is hot. And it’s ours.”

  I almost said mine. That would have blown it right there. I needed her to think of us as a team and I needed that to happen now. Once we moved to a formal story meeting with her minions, they would echo her objections, fawn over her decisions, and make it impossible for me to change her mind.

  “This is the kind of story where we might take some heat from the cops, Noreen. I need you behind me. Without your support, this story might go untold and families might be left without any closure. You’re right, we shouldn’t jump on it just because it’s a ratings bonanza. But we shouldn’t turn our back on it either because it might be difficult. There’s a chance to do some good here.”

  My news director paused as if flipping a mental coin. Heads, do the right thing. Tails, do what’s easy and uncontroversial.

  “All right. All right.” Noreen finally caved. “There probably are a lot of viewers named Susan. Good thing it’s not something like Mildred or Priscilla. We’ll slate it for the November book. There’s still some open nights because most of the staff’s been working on folos to the broken bridge, but frankly unless someone leaks something juicy, there’s not enough fresh elements there to fill sweeps.”

  The biggest story in Minnesota history and I had sat it out. If I hadn’t been depressed before, I certainly was then. Like viewers across the country, I’d watched the life-and-death stories of rescue and recovery unfold on live television, followed by finger-pointing and politics. Now it was a matter of waiting for the National Transportation Safety Board to determine the cause. Then the media could jump back into the blame game.

  “You need to work on something besides this old murder case,” Noreen continued. “I know you’re just getting back, but I need you to turn more than one project for November.”

  “Absolutely.” I reverted back to my smooth Miss Congeniality voice. “I’ll make some calls and work up a list of story ideas by the end of the day.”

  “Actually, Riley, I already have an idea for you.”

  This couldn’t be good. Noreen was a desk head, meaning she had little experience in the field, thus no idea of what it really took to get a story on the air.

  “I was going through the tip calls,” she continued.

  This could only be bad. I knew what kinds of calls came in on the station tip line: neighbors yelling about barking dogs, old ladies complaining about kids knocking over garbage cans, a whole lot of he said/she said from shoppers who didn’t save their receipts.

  I tried a subtle evasion tactic. “I hate to just swoop in and take the good tips before any of th
e other reporters get a chance.”

  “Don’t worry,” Noreen said. “I checked with them and they’re too busy, so it’s all yours.”

  “Thanks.” I’ll bet they’re too busy, I thought as I practiced my closemouthed smile. I’ll bet they turned it down because they knew a dog when they smelled one. “What is it?”

  “A man took his dog to be cremated and thinks he didn’t get the right ashes back. See what you can find out. Do some undercover string or something. Put them to the test. You love those kinds of stories.”

  “You want me to kill someone’s pet as part of a consumer test?”

  “No. That would be bad for the station’s image. It’s traumatic for an owner when a pet dies, so if someone’s deceiving people, we need to put a stop to it. You’re the reporter, you figure it out.”

  She handed me a computer printout of story tips. One circled in red. Name. Phone. Something about a dog. I promised to get right on it.

  “There’s something else we need to discuss,” Noreen said. “Please come with me.”

  Ominous. I followed her through the newsroom, past the assignment desk to her fishbowl office with the glass walls on each side to allow the troops to see, but not hear, her hard at work. That didn’t stop those outside the glass from trying to read the lips, facial expressions, and body language of those inside the glass. So I put on my poker face, took a chair across from her desk, folded my hands on my lap, and waited for her to begin.

  “This is an important ratings book for the station, but it’s also an important ratings book for Riley Spartz. I want to remind you that your contract is up in ninety days.”

  That explained why she wanted me on her turf for this conversation. I was glad I was wearing makeup.

  “Under the contract terms, I have to notify you at this point whether or not we intend to re-sign you.”

  My contract was not the standard TV news boilerplate. It was a four-year deal negotiated by Noreen’s predecessor, who valued investigative stories above all others. What he viewed as a shrewd move to prevent me from jumping to the competition, she viewed as a sweetheart deal.

  My contract kept me out of the clutches of the newsroom assignment desk and put me in a special projects unit where I worked on longer, high-impact stories. That meant, unless the sky was falling, I didn’t have to chase storm clouds or liquor store holdups and I didn’t have to report live shots on the first day back to school. It was the difference between being a pawn on a chessboard and being a bishop. Oops, the queen was speaking.

  “We do intend to renegotiate, but I want to be clear that I can’t offer you the same contract in terms of money or assignment. We’re looking at changing direction here at Channel 3.”

  Do not think about this now, I told myself. Think about something else. Think about whiskers on kittens. No, I reconsidered, that’s probably what Noreen was thinking about. So I thought about a 40 share instead, thanked her for letting me know where she stood, and walked outside for some fresh air.

  CHAPTER 9

  Law enforcement widows are well provided for, so while I didn’t need Channel 3’s paycheck, I needed the job just the same. Since I didn’t have anyone to come home to, work was a reason not to come home.

  I realized that I’d been a widow almost as long as I’d been a wife.

  Plenty of women in this world are prettier, smarter, and sexier than I am. But I’m a good package. My single days had stretched on—not because I was short on men—but because I was short on time. A loose woman on a tight schedule, that was me. Dinner dates fell victim to spot news. I was desperately seeking love at first sight, and it just wasn’t happening. I was beginning to write off the whole concept as an urban myth.

  I wound up marrying Hugh Boyer because I was afraid to fly.

  I’d known Boyer on the beat for a few years. Our paths had crossed on several road tragedies where I watched him reduce twisted metal to math and assign blame. Like a truck driver who dozed off after too many hours behind the wheel. Or a teen who hit the brakes too late because of a cell phone call. Even a cop who collided with a day care van during a high-speed chase. Boyer gave answers to families in grief.

  We were friendly, sometimes flirty, but there was no simmering undercurrent of longing. I’m not sure why not. I know women who would have deliberately driven into a speed trap just for a chance to meet a tall, lean law enforcement machine like Hugh Boyer.

  Certainly Hugh posed a conflict of interest professionally. Journalists aren’t supposed to get involved with people we might end up covering as news. But I could have rationalized my way around that. After all, ethics didn’t stop me from ultimately marrying the guy. I think I was just too busy writing scripts, taping stand-ups, and doing live shots to imagine him without his uniform. My day was spent on deadline; by night, I was dead tired.

  “These skid marks tell the story,” I once explained to viewers, as I knelt in the center lane of a busy blacktop road while traffic whizzed uncomfortably close to me and the camera.

  As I started enterprising my own stories, the car crashes got handed off to rookies. I hadn’t seen Boyer for more than a year. Fate in the form of a late-night 911 call brought us together.

  “I’ve…I’ve been hit by a deer…I mean I hit a deer,” I sobbed to the emergency operator from my cell phone.

  One minute I was driving, okay speeding, down Highway 96 near Dellwood. The next minute I had venison frying on the hood of my car. My windshield shattered, a hoof hit me in the shoulder, and the deer’s head stuck through the glass on the passenger side. My attacker had antlers, so I knew I’d landed a buck. The deer shuddered and thrashed a couple times, then was still.

  I gave my location over the phone, then touched my face. Sticky. Blood from the broken glass. Thousands of Minnesota motorists hit deer each year; hundreds are injured; a handful killed. Belted in, I wasn’t badly hurt, but I was as freaked out as I had ever been because the deer seemed to be staring accusingly into my eyes.

  Boyer was the closest unit, so he was dispatched to “assist hysterical motorist who hit deer.”

  I struggled to open the door because my hands were slippery. I fell out of the car and tumbled into a muddy ditch just as Boyer pulled up. He parked his squad car so the headlights shone in my direction, then rushed over, helping me to my feet. I started crying harder and he held me tight until I calmed.

  “I’m bloody,” I apologized. As I looked up, we recognized each other. It should have been one of those magic moments when two people become one in the moonlight. But then he opened his mouth, and not to kiss me, either.

  “Want me to call a tow truck or a camera?” He had an annoying habit of thinking he was funny when he wasn’t. “Did you get the license plate on that deer?”

  “Shut up, Boyer.” I pushed him away. Now I was steady, no longer shaky. “Good thing you’re a cop ’cause you couldn’t make it as a comedian.”

  “Good thing I got thick skin. Thick as deer hide.” He whistled when he saw the size of the stag. “Nice rack,” he said. “The deer. Don’t want any complaints about comments offensive to women.”

  “None taken,” I said, stiffly. “Just get Bambi off my car.”

  He counted the antler tips one at a time. “Wow. A ten-pointer. Drivers are allowed to keep a deer if they hit it. Nice trophy. Good eating.”

  His eyes sparkled at the prospect, but I didn’t want to see a deer ever again. Dead or alive. The idea of consuming my attacker was revolting.

  “Don’t have to decide right now.” He opened his trunk and unrolled a tarp. “I’ll write you out a possession permit.” I turned away when I saw him take out a large hunting knife to gut the animal. “You can think it over.”

  He hoisted the deer onto his shoulders and dumped it in back. Slammed the lid. Turned to me and said, “Maybe we ought to stop at the ER and have you checked out.”

  Boyer let me ride shotgun, but wouldn’t turn on the lights, even though I asked politely. While he radioed to have my ca
r towed to a body shop, I called the station to explain my vehicle versus venison encounter and let them know I wouldn’t be in the next day. The emergency room doctor gave me two stitches over my left eyebrow, determined I had no concussion, and then sent me home to rest. It was past midnight when Boyer and I pulled into my driveway.

  “Thanks, Boyer. I’d ask you in for coffee, but you probably have miles to patrol before you sleep.”

  “Actually, I got off a couple hours ago.”

  “Above and beyond. Now I feel guilty. You definitely deserve coffee.”

  “I didn’t have anywhere I needed to be.”

  “Do you have anywhere you need to be now?”

  He followed me inside to the kitchen. We both grabbed a Summit beer from the fridge and headed for the living room. He admired my painting of a bare-breasted mermaid hanging over the fireplace and I admired his gun. I hit the gas switch for flames and was rewarded with instant atmosphere. Between laughs and liquor we became entangled on the couch.

  The fire shone on our faces, and for the second time that night we had a chance at a Hollywood moment. This time, instead of saying something stupid, he kissed me. And I kissed back. Forget love at first sight, this was love at first…well, touch.

  I SHOOK HIM awake early the next morning and made him move his patrol car a half mile away so my neighbor Mrs. Fredericks wouldn’t think I was sleeping with a cop.

  “Let’s do something this weekend.” He put his arms around my waist as I stood at the kitchen counter buttering toast.

  “I’m out of town,” I replied. “Investigative reporters’ conference in Las Vegas.”

  His disappointment seemed genuine, and that cheered me.

  “It really is a lot of work once you get there, but it’s the getting there that’s the hardest part.”

  “Need a ride to the airport?” he asked.

  “What I might need is to have you put me on the plane at gunpoint. But I suppose airline security might have a problem with that.”