Stalking Susan

by Julie Kramer

  An idea was forming in the back of my mind. It hinged on a lot of things going right.

  “I need copies of this photo, plus the one with the dragon cropped tight.”

  Xiong hit print.

  I ENTERED THROUGH a doorway under a neon sign reading BODY PIERCING, and walked into an alternate world.

  A young man with a shaved head, a ring in his nose, two studs through an eyebrow, several earrings, and a silver loop through his lower lip greeted me with more scorn than enthusiasm. When he spoke, a metal ball flashed from his tongue. Clearly he was not just a salesclerk; he was also a model.

  I’m no matronly suburban mom, and while I certainly appeared tamer than his usual clientele, I am curious and by trade like to ask questions.

  The piercing parlor behind a closed door was off-limits to all but patients, he explained. Was I interested?

  I shook my head. My ears were already pierced. “Maybe later.”

  So he obliged me with a brief tour of the jewelry counters. The “above the chin” section took up the most room. He pivoted and motioned to the “above the waist” selection.

  “Navels?” I asked.

  “And nipples.” With a naughty wink, he pulled a flat box from under the counter and offered to show me the “below the waist” inventory.

  “Toes?”

  He looked at me with exasperation. “Higher.”

  Lower than navels; higher than toes. He seemed to be staring at my crotch. My eyes dropped to his belt, but before he could model any of his more intimate inventory, I gave him my shopping agenda.

  “I’m looking for an ear loop that doesn’t require actual piercing.”

  “Amateur.” I could tell he didn’t think I was worth the bother. But since I was his only customer, he was stuck with me.

  “I’m looking for something exotic.” He directed me to a corner shelf. And then I saw it, displayed on black velvet, under black light. The dragon. Exactly like the one in Susan Victor’s death photo. Except for one small detail. This dragon was gold, not silver.

  My finger shook as I pointed. “May I see that piece?”

  He shrugged and opened the case.

  “Do you carry it in silver?”

  “No.”

  A minute later the dragon was wrapped around my left outer ear. Head and wings framing the top, tail clinging around the bottom.

  “Do you sell many?” I asked.

  “You’re the first. Just got it in stock.”

  It was time to decide whether to implement my plan. Susan Victor was my most recent link to the killer. My gut told me the dragon might be key to smoking him out. If I could spook him, he might make a mistake. Unhinged, he might be easier to identify.

  I looked away from the mirror and reached for my purse. “I’ll take it.”

  None of the jewelry had price tags, which left the salesclerk free to gouge me more than three hundred bucks, after emphasizing that the piece was genuine 10 karat gold. I figured the odds of expensing the dragon to Channel 3 were nil, but paid anyway. At my next stop, the local hardware store, I purchased a can of silver spray paint.

  WITH TEN MINUTES to air, I clipped the now silver dragon to my ear. As the newscast went to a commercial break, I walked to the set, took my chair, and waited for my debrief.

  “Stand by!” the floor director called as he pointed his hand toward the anchor and me. That’s our cue to sit up straight and pay attention ’cause we’re going live in ten seconds. I used the time to push my hair behind my ear so as to boldly display the dragon.

  A red light on one of the three studio cameras turned green, so I knew I was unstoppable. Our anchor, Tom McHale, read an intro reminding viewers, without making it seem too braggy, that within the last week I’d found one dead body in a park and another down the block from my house—the first strangled by an unknown assailant, the other mauled to death by an attack dog. Both victims connected to two stories I’d broken earlier this month.

  ((ANCHOR TWO-SHOT))

  CHANNEL 3 REPORTER

  RILEY SPARTZ…

  AT THE CENTER

  OF ALL THIS

  CONTROVERSY…

  JOINS US NOW…

  LIVE…

  TO ANSWER

  QUESTIONS.

  Tom was startled when he turned to interview me. He couldn’t help noticing the dragon since it was practically breathing fire in his face. He stammered his first question, then started over.

  ((ANCHOR TWO-SHOT))

  RILEY, THE STATION HAS

  RECEIVED TONS OF

  VIEWER CALLS

  WANTING TO KNOW

  ABOUT YOUR

  INVOLVEMENT.

  WHY HAVE YOU

  STAYED SILENT UNTIL

  NOW?

  Miles had helped me craft this answer.

  ((RILEY CU))

  AS A WITNESS…

  I NEEDED TO

  SPEAK WITH LAW

  ENFORCEMENT

  IN THE EARLY DAYS

  OF THESE CASES.

  THE STATION FELT

  IT BEST NOT

  TO GO PUBLIC

  WITH INFORMATION

  THAT MIGHT

  IMPEDE THE

  AUTHORITIES’

  INVESTIGATIONS…

  SO EVEN TODAY…

  I AM LIMITED

  IN WHAT

  I CAN SAY.

  The floor director couldn’t speak because we were on the air, so he frantically pointed to his ear, trying to alert me about the odd jewelry on my ear and get me to remove it while the camera was on an anchor close-up.

  I knew he was following orders from the control booth. But I couldn’t hear all the fuss myself because I had neglected to put in my IFB—interruptible frequency broadcast—a small custom-molded earpiece reporters and anchors wear so they can hear the newscast while sitting on the set or so the producer has a direct way to yell at them out in the field without the viewers noticing.

  Every time the tech crew switched cameras to minimize my left ear, I would awkwardly tilt my head to better display the dragon. Tom and I continued the interview. I explained that, yes, I had bailed Nick Garnett out of jail and thus wouldn’t be able to cover the SUSANS story as a journalist anymore. And that, yes, the pit bull attack had actually been directed at me for exposing a corrupt veterinarian. I didn’t bring up the significance of the dragon; that would be something only the killer would know about. I wanted to taunt the killer. I wanted him to know I knew about the dragon and was upping the stakes. But I didn’t want anyone else to guess the importance, because that would make it impossible to weed out copycats, thus tainting the police investigation.

  The four minutes passed quickly. The floor director gave me time cues by hand, since it was obvious I either wasn’t receiving or was ignoring the audio cues. As he twirled his hand to give us a wrap—meaning we needed to stop talking NOW—I realized I needed to say one more thing and unfortunately it was the one thing Miles warned me not to say.

  ((RILEY CU))

  OUR BEST CLUE

  TO CATCHING

  THE SUSAN KILLER

  MAY BE THE NAME

  AND THE DATE…

  THEY LIKELY

  HOLD A SPECIAL

  SIGNIFICANCE

  TO THE KILLER.

  SO IF YOU KNOW

  SOMEONE FOR

  WHOM THE NAME

  “SUSAN” AND THE

  DATE “NOVEMBER 19”

  HAS A

  SPECIAL MEANING…

  CALL OUR

  TIP LINE.

  Tom wasn’t just a news reader; he knew enough to follow up with the obvious.

  ((ANCHOR TWO-SHOT))

  BUT RILEY,

  HAVEN’T POLICE

  ALREADY ARRESTED

  AND CHARGED

  NICK GARNETT?

  IT DOESN’T SOUND

  TO ME LIKE THEY’RE

  REALLY LOOKING

  FOR NEW

  SUSPECTS.

  By now the floor director was waving his
arm like an eggbeater. Since this wasn’t the Academy Awards and news producers aren’t used to cutting off the talent midsentence, the folks in the control booth sat helplessly as the seconds turned to minutes and I explained that accused is not the same as convicted, and that I personally did not believe the city had seen the last of this particular serial killer.

  Without any music, without any tease, the newscast slammed to black. The tape room rolled a commercial, and the control room went out of control. Our meteorologist took my seat, but during the break I could hear Tom arguing, “What did you expect me to do? Rip it off her ear on live television?” The producer and director were screaming that the only way to get the news off on time now was to cut most of weather and half of sports.

  THEY ALSO HAD to dump a thirty-second car dealer commercial. That move meant losing serious money, so I knew I’d be in serious trouble the next morning. And as the news producer recited a litany of my TV sins, it seemed quite probable that Noreen would indeed send me straight to broadcast hell.

  CHAPTER 37

  “Some 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.

  ON 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.