Stalking Susan

by Julie Kramer

  “Can I go talk to my crew?” I motioned to our overnight photographer, but two street cops kept him back.

  The officer in charge told me to stay put. “Chief says you’re not going anywhere till he gets here.”

  The victim seemed familiar. I had a vague sense we had met before, but couldn’t remember where. Suddenly I felt sick. I banged urgently on the window with my fists until my guard opened the door. I threw up on his shoes. He swore but left the door ajar so I could get some air, or in case I needed to barf again.

  I had already briefed the assignment desk dispatcher about the crime, so even though our photog couldn’t see the victim, he zoomed in on a shot of the vehicle’s license plate before the chief ordered an officer to drape a cloth over the name SUSAN.

  Channel 3 got exclusive video of that move, too. Perhaps a visual metaphor for a cover-up?

  I watched Malik pull up next to the perimeter. Some park police kept him from entering the crime scene. My cell phone rang. I saw his number on the screen, but the officer guarding me confiscated my cell phone. I worried he might find my crime scene photo, but he just slipped the phone in his pocket. A minute later I heard the same muffled ring. This time the cop smiled and pressed the power-off button. I scowled for show, but inside I smiled, too, knowing my evidence was safer that way.

  “Chief says no phone calls till he figures out if you’re a witness or a suspect.”

  I remembered Garnett, asleep on my couch. I had an unsettling feeling I might have pulled a Philip Trent, collecting evidence but drawing the wrong conclusion. Garnett’s words from last month echoed back: “Better check me out, Riley. Like I said, he might be a cop.”

  The killer might be a cop. Oh boy. I had a bad feeling in my stomach and it was more than nausea.

  “I need to talk to the chief right away,” I said. “It’s important.”

  The cop recoiled from my vomit breath, put a portable radio to his lips for some chatter, then stuck his head back inside. “Chief certainly wants to talk. Downtown. Right now he’s got a dead body that outranks you.”

  He slammed the door. I pounded on the window, but this time he ignored me. Police emergency lights reflected red off his glasses.

  DURING THE NEXT ten minutes news vans from all the other stations arrived. They’d heard the code for medical examiner come over the police scanners and knew that meant death, sometimes foul play. They also knew the call usually meant news, so they plowed through snow banks, hiked cameras onto their shoulders, and sprayed the scene with video. Routine, for all they knew. Could be just a drug deal gone bad. The deceased a victim of an at-risk lifestyle, worth maybe twenty seconds of airtime.

  Only those of us from Channel 3 grasped that we were looking at a story that would dominate our newscasts, and theirs, for days.

  “I need to stop at my house,” I insisted as the squad car pulled out of the parking lot. The officer kept his eyes on the road, his hands on the steering wheel, and his mouth shut. I pounded on the divider glass. “There’s someone there I need to check on.”

  “None of your tricks,” he said. “My orders are to transport you downtown. Tell it to the detectives.”

  Unfortunately for the detectives, my lawyer was waiting at the cop shop and refused to let them interview me until he and I had spoken first. More minutes passed. I pictured Garnett waking and finding both me and his car gone. A quick trip to the drugstore had turned my world from calm to chaos.

  How much information journalists should share with law enforcement is a gray area within the First Amendment. The usual answer is none—we’re not an arm of the police. Our job is to put facts on the air, not turn them over to the cops. The police are free to conduct their own investigations, but frequently when they go after reporter notes and sources, it’s not because of an urgent danger, but because they’re too lazy to do the grunt work themselves.

  Media attorneys will usually insist on a subpoena before allowing their clients to reveal anything and will often take the fight to court to resist disclosing unbroadcast material.

  There are exceptions: clearly a journalist who witnesses a crime has the same obligation as any citizen; also if the police truly have no other means of getting the information, a judge will usually direct the media to turn it over. That gets messy and usually takes time. But in the case of a slain city official, no judge would pause longer than five seconds before signing such an order.

  So when Miles learned the details of how I’d spent the last couple hours, he caved on the First Amendment like cement on a marshmallow and made me pony up what I knew to the cops.

  By then my knee-jerk reaction (that Garnett must be involved in the murder) was battling my gut reaction (that Garnett was incapable of such a crime). My gut was winning, so I tried soft-pedaling his involvement, figuring I’d sort it out with him later. But the facts of just how I had discovered Susan Victor’s body were pretty damning. After all, it was almost as though Garnett had drawn me a map to the crime scene.

  When Chief Capacasa heard the GPS story, he sent a police team that broke down the back door of my house, handcuffed a disheveled former homicide detective, and nearly shot a possibly rabid German shepherd.

  When Noreen got the full scoop, she didn’t just pull me off the case; she pulled me off the air. Even more wretched, she assigned the story to Mike Flagg.

  The worst part: it got a 42 share.

  CHAPTER 32

  Susan Victor learned the hard way that not all publicity is good publicity. It was her body I found in Minnehaha Park. In a grisly trifecta, the city councilwoman led all the newscasts on all the television stations all day long. Being dead, she derived no political benefit.

  Verifying a suspect’s whereabouts is so much easier the day after a homicide than the decade after.

  Mayor Skubic had hosted a fund-raiser on the night of November 19. Surrounded by dozens of campaign contributors, there didn’t seem to be much doubt anymore who the killer wasn’t.

  It sure wasn’t Dusty Foster, who had an ironclad alibi for this one, too. The next day an even larger group of sympathizers joined his mother to protest that he be immediately released from Oak Park Heights State Prison.

  It wasn’t even Susan Moreno’s fervent father. Turns out, during snowstorms he volunteers for the night shift at his church’s homeless shelter.

  I was also in the clear. I may have discovered her lifeless body, but the medical examiner determined that Susan Victor had died while I was reporting live on the ten o’clock news, watched by hundreds of thousands of viewers.

  The only one without a solid alibi was Garnett.

  Garnett refused to talk—to me anyway. But in his statement to police he claimed an anonymous caller promising information in the SUSANS cases had offered to meet him at Minnehaha Park at midnight. He maintained he had driven aimlessly much of the evening, watching the clock and cursing me, but when he had arrived, the parking lot was empty. The caller never showed. Was he framed? A police insider told me the caller’s number traced to a downtown pay phone. One of the investigators speculated that Garnett might have made the mysterious call himself, so if the cops ever checked, his cell phone records would back up his story.

  But if he was the killer, why come to my house afterward? Unless perhaps to stage an alibi?

  THE STORM DUMPED six inches of snow on the Twin Cities, normally not enough to cancel schools, but coupled with the cumbersome detours from the bridge collapse, traffic was snarled to a standstill.

  Instead of shoveling I stomped a meager path from my front door to the road. Malik’s vehicle had four-wheel drive, so while rush hour took ages, at least we didn’t worry about getting stuck on a side street. After all the trouble I went through to get to work, bad news awaited me at Channel 3.

  I was under orders to stay home.

  “I can work on other stories,” I argued to Noreen.

  “I don’t think so,” she countered, and as usual the general manager backed her up, and so did Miles.
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  “This raises all sorts of legal issues,” he said.

  “Ethical ones, too,” Noreen added. “So we want you to lay low until this settles down. Don’t worry, you’ll still be paid.”

  “I’m not worried about that. I’m worried about my reputation as a journalist. Taking me off the story is one thing, but taking me off the air implies I’ve done something wrong.”

  “Can’t be helped,” Noreen said. “The station’s image could be damaged long term. Remember, a city councilwoman is dead. A city councilwoman who was critical of your reporting. Our role is going to be examined. If your source winds up being the killer, we could all be in deep trouble.”

  I hated that she had a valid point.

  None of us mentioned the numbers. But the numbers hung in the back of each of our minds, and the minds of the rest of the newsroom, watching our meeting unfold through the glass walls of Noreen’s fishbowl. The November sweeps were exceptional. No one at Channel 3 wanted to jeopardize those numbers.

  Our competitors would undoubtedly pressure Nielsen to flag the book, which would mean placing an asterisk next to our score to alert advertisers that the number might be tainted. That usually happens only if a television station offers prizes to viewers or promotes a story about what it’s like being a Nielsen family to entice viewers with ratings meters or diaries to tune in at ten. But even if the other stations succeeded, a flag wouldn’t necessarily impact sales, and that’s all my bosses really cared about.

  “New viewers are sampling us this month,” the GM said, apparently seeing a need to spell out the reality of station revenue to me since I was part of the news department and we sometimes seem obtuse about making money. “We can’t chance scaring them away. There’s too much at stake down the road. If we turn around our numbers, that gives us the means to do more public service programming.”

  “Also don’t talk to the cops anymore unless I’m there,” Miles cautioned. “In fact, you probably should stay away from this Garnett guy, too.”

  “Right now that’s not a problem,” I said, “since he’s behind bars.”

  I was feeling increasingly conflicted about my role in Garnett’s arrest. Had I betrayed a friend? Or had I harbored a killer? “I do consider him a friend. And I do feel somewhat responsible for him being in jail, so if he ever calls me, I’m going to answer.”

  “I advise against this,” Miles said.

  “Actually,” Noreen countered, “I wouldn’t mind an interview with him. He’s clearly the ‘get’ to get. Viewers will tune in big-time for his side of the story.”

  “Well, he’s not going to want to get got,” I said. “And I won’t set him up.”

  “Obviously you can’t do the actual interview,” Noreen said. “You have too many conflicts of interest. But you could land it and hand it off to Mike Flagg.” She winked at me like we were coconspirators, plotting which cute boy to ask to the Sadie dance.

  I tried explaining why I wouldn’t sacrifice Garnett as a ratings lamb. “Nick Garnett has been a top source for me and Channel 3 for years. We owe him something more.”

  “Not if he’s a murderer we don’t,” Noreen answered.

  She had me there.

  Even though I snitched on him, deep down I believed Garnett innocent. Why would he bring me the SUSANS story if he was the killer? It made no sense. Unless he wanted to be stopped. Unless he wanted to win my attention. Hadn’t he warned me that a cop might be behind all this? Was he bragging when he said that? Was he playing a deadly game?

  Maybe I was naive, giving him the benefit for old times’ sake. But I didn’t think so. The evidence was not conclusive.

  If all the cops could do was place him at the crime scene, that wouldn’t be enough for a guilty verdict. Though it might be enough probable cause for the county attorney to charge him with Susan Victor’s murder. That would buy investigators time to develop their case before it went to trial. Right now, authorities couldn’t hold him for more than thirty-six hours without charging him with something. I figured they wouldn’t file any earlier than they had to, but clearly the legal clock was ticking. Twelve hours down…twenty-four hours left to clear his name before things got complicated.

  MALIK HELPED ME move the SUSANS boards and boxes from my office to my house. As far as I was concerned, since I was still on the payroll, I was still on the job.

  Again, the eyes of the Susans—Redding, Chenowith, Moreno, and Niemczyk—seemingly watched me as I propped their boards against my living room wall.

  Add to them Susan Victor—a politician who had gambled her life and lost.

  They didn’t resemble one another. They didn’t share backgrounds. They didn’t have anything in common but the dates of their deaths and, of course, their names. Each board listed facts about each case. Locations. Occupations. Family relationships. Clues like the raincoat and the suicide notes. What was I missing?

  I noticed something shiny stuck between the pages of a stack of documents and pulled out Suicide Susan’s engraved pendant. I polished it on my shirt and impulsively put it around my neck. I didn’t do anything so melodramatic as vow to wear it until the real killer was found, but I did pledge to keep up the search. Besides saying SUSAN, I felt the necklace was also saying, “Don’t forget us.”

  I was still admiring the piece in the mirror when I heard someone outside on the porch.

  Toby and Shep. I gave the big dog a big hug. Now I had to do the big sell on Toby to get Shep back. Animal control officers got Toby’s phone number off the tags on Shep’s collar after the police broke into my house.

  “Shep could have been shot,” Toby said. “I’m not sure him staying with you is such a good idea.”

  “Come on, Toby, nothing like that will ever happen again.”

  “I loaned him to you for protection, but maybe I need to protect Shep.”

  “It was a fluke, Toby. Besides, Channel 3 put me on leave and I really need the company.”

  I meant those words. As if on cue, Shep brushed against my legs, whined like a puppy, and gazed imploringly at his master with warm, brown, dog shit eyes. Good boy.

  “Well,” Toby relented, “he seems to feel at home with you. I suppose it’s safe now that that friend of yours is in jail. Who would have ever thought he was the killer? Shep is usually such a good judge of character.”

  “I don’t think Garnett did it.”

  “The police seem to.”

  “The police just want to close the case. It’s an embarrassment to them. They don’t want to look further.”

  “Maybe you’re the one who doesn’t want to face the truth. Sometimes people deceive us. That’s why I stick with animals.”

  Toby petted Shep good-bye and left me with my qualms and the disturbing realization that he could be right about deception.

  Dusty Foster’s name was written on Susan Redding’s board. Even though it broke my heart, I added Nick Garnett’s name to Susan Victor’s. Then I wrote the latest clues under his name.

  SUSPECT/NICK GARNETT

  GPS

  PHONE CALL?

  I needed to stay objective. I needed to stay focused. Truth never comes from wishful thinking. Truth sometimes comes from eliminating what is false. I stepped back to look at the big picture. To look at the pattern.

  SUSAN REDDING

  1990

  SUSAN CHENOWITH

  1991

  SUSAN MORENO

  1992

  SUSAN NIEMCZYK

  1994

  SUSAN VICTOR

  2007

  What was I missing? Help me, Sherlock.

  OVERNIGHT MY MIND found the answer.

  I was missing a Susan. For the pattern to hold, I should have a dead body between the years 1992 and 1994. So I telephoned Xiong and asked him where it was.

  “Noreen says you are not on the project anymore,” he answered. “She told the newsroom if anything changes on the SUSANS story we need to bring it to her, not you.”

  “Please, Xiong, I’m just
on leave. It’s not like I was suspended or fired. I need to double-check that you didn’t find any unusual Susan deaths on our date in 1993.”

  “I gave you all I found.”

  “I know. But if you could look again and call me if you discover anything suspicious.”

  Xiong reluctantly agreed just as the doorbell rang. I looked out my bedroom window and saw Mike Flagg on my front steps. So much for Garnett’s theory that bad guys never ring doorbells. I hadn’t invited him over—not this morning, not any morning. I turned the shower on so I’d have an excuse to keep our meeting short.

  “What are you doing here?” I greeted him in my old bathrobe, even though he wasn’t a close friend.

  He handed me my newspaper. “Ever think maybe I came to see how you’re doing?”

  “Really?”

  “No. Noreen assigned the SUSANS story to me. I went to your office to review your notes and couldn’t find anything.” He peered behind me and saw the SUSANS boards in full display in my living room. “I see why. Mind if I have a look?”

  “Yes, I do mind.” I blocked his path. When he tried to push past me, Shep lowered his ears and raised his voice. A bark, not a growl, but definitely firm. “The notes are mine.”

  “Those notes belong to the station,” Flagg said.

  Technically he was right about work product, but nothing in my contract said I had to take orders from him.

  “Well, I still work there and I’m still using them. You want to take over the story, you develop your own leads. Or better yet, develop your own story instead of poaching on mine.”

  “I’m just doing what I was assigned to do. If you hadn’t messed this story up, I wouldn’t have gotten a piece of it.”

  “I was just getting ready to take a shower.” Yes, running water was faintly audible. “You’ll have to leave.”

  Shep interpreted my raised voice as a signal to chase my visitor outside. I didn’t praise him or scold him; I threw him a doggie treat shaped like a miniature steak.