Outburst

by R. D. Zimmerman

  “Yes?” she said through the glass.

  The best way was to be terribly up-front about it, and he took a deep breath and said, “I was wondering if I could speak to you for a few minutes about Mark Forrest?”

  “I've already talked to the police. I've already told them everything I know.” Her brow crinkled in suspicion. “Who are you anyway?”

  So Rawlins had been here. Yesterday afternoon either he'd come out here or had sent someone else. Was this then a waste of time?

  “My name is Todd Mills. I'm from WLAK TV,” he said.

  “Oh.”

  Evidently Todd needed no further introduction. Too midwestern to simply slough him off, she unlocked the door and pulled it open, her eyes running over him. And as she sized him up, Todd studied her as well. No, he realized with a sense of relief, this wasn't a family member. This woman, short with pale skin and plain glasses and wearing blue pants and a white blouse, was sullen, even visibly sad, but her eyes weren't red or watery.

  “Sure, I recognize you. You're on Channel Ten,” she said, her voice direct and even. “I'm Anna Johnson. I was Mark's landlady.”

  “He lived here in this house?”

  “Sure. He rented my apartment.”

  Todd glanced over her shoulder, saw the oak staircase, another predominant feature of these homes. “You have an apartment here in the house?”

  “Yes, up on the third floor. There's a staircase out back. It's not a big apartment, but it's nice and clean. Mark, bless him, moved in almost a year ago. Nice fellow. Did all my shoveling last winter, and did a real good job too.” She paused, then said, “I've been wondering if any of you reporters would come around.”

  “I'm the first?” Todd casually asked, quite curious to know if the competition had been around.

  “Yep.” She peered past him toward the street. “Say, I don't want any cameras snooping around my house, okay?”

  “Don't worry, I'm here by myself. I'm just trying to understand what happened.”

  “It's just awful, isn't it?” she said, raising one hand to her chin and shaking her head. “Nice kid like him. A police officer too. I was so happy to have him living here, to have a cop living in my house. And here he gets himself killed!”

  “Yeah, it's terrible.” Todd hesitated, wondered if she knew Mark was gay. “Could you tell me if any guys used to come around? You know, if Mark had any particularly close male friends?”

  “Like a boyfriend? That's what the police asked too. And I told them no, not that I ever saw. Oh, I knew Mark was gay, but I didn't give a bit about that. All that I cared was that he took good care of the apartment, which he certainly did. He was a nice, quiet fellow.”

  “So you don't remember any guys visiting Mark?”

  “No, not any that come to mind. You see, it's small up there, real small. A room with a bed and a kitchenette and bath, that's it. Not much room for entertaining, really. But it's cheap. And Mark took it because he said he was saving up to buy a house. That's what he wanted to do, buy his own place.”

  “Of course.” Already sensing this was going to be a bust, Todd asked, “So you don't remember anyone coming around? You never heard anybody else up there, particularly not in the last few weeks?”

  “Nope, not at all. And I would've heard it too. You have to understand, this place is built as tight as a drum. There's a wood floor up there—all maple—and I would've heard if he'd had anyone with him. But he never did. All I ever heard was just one set of footsteps.”

  “I see,” said Todd, quite certain that she had in fact been listening.

  He asked her a handful of other questions—was he on time with his rent, was he recently gone more than usual?—none of which shed any light. Then, as discouraged as he was desperate, Todd thanked her and slowly made his way down the front walk and back to his vehicle.

  Okay, he pondered, now what?

  As he passed around the front of his Cherokee, he looked up and saw a white piece of paper pinned between the windshield and the wiper blade. He immediately scanned the street up and down, but saw not a single car speeding off. He then searched the yards on both sides of the block. No one, not even a dog. Weird, he thought. He'd been standing right up on that porch, right on Anna Johnson's threshold, and he hadn't heard or noticed a thing out here.

  His heart filling with dread, Todd reached for the paper, which was folded in half. But rather than announcing a neighborhood meeting or garage sale, as Todd so hoped, there was one simple typed line that read: Don't forget, asshole, he's still the bait for a trap that you set.

  20

  It was enough to make Todd nauseous, but Rawlins took it in professional stride and told him not to worry.

  They met at the curb right outside City Hall, and when Todd passed him the note, which he had handled as little as possible, Rawlins slipped it directly into a plastic bag. With the hope that they could recover a fingerprint, Rawlins said he was going right down to forensics. Speechless, Todd then watched as Rawlins disappeared back into the massive granite building, finding solace only in the fact that Rawlins was, for the time being at least, safely ensconced behind the brutally thick walls of the city's heart.

  When Todd finally got to the station shortly before noon, it was clear that the story of Sergeant Forrest's murder was going to sink to the number-two spot on the midday news. Todd, however, couldn't have cared less.

  Going directly to his office, he shut his door and sat there, his mind racing for a way to defuse this. Hoping that Forrest's killer would phone, he took virtually every one of his calls, letting none slip into Voice Mail. Then again, undoubtedly the man who had gunned down Mark Forrest and taken a shot at Rawlins suspected that Todd's home and work phones were tapped, as they most definitely had been since eight that morning. Under police advice—namely Rawlins's—any call coming into Todd's office or his cellular phone was immediately traced. Not wanting to lose anything, Todd took it one step further and had a small tape recorder on hand virtually all afternoon. Any time either of his phones rang, the first thing he did was slap the small suction cup with the microphone onto the receiver.

  “That's cool, very cool,” said Nan, the producer, loving the idea. “Get me a recording of a cop killer's voice, and, no prob, I'll make sure you lead ‘em all—the five, six, and ten o'clock.”

  But no such call came.

  As it was, Todd busied himself the rest of the day getting as much information as possible about Mark Forrest. First he called Q Monthly and requested the back issue on gay cops, which they said they'd dig out. Following that, he spoke with a public-relations person at the Minneapolis park police, then with Lieutenant Adams, Forrest's superior, and finally with two other police officers who had worked side by side with Forrest and could vouch for his character. Simply, everyone gushed about what a great guy he'd been and how terrible this was, the shooting. By all accounts Park Police Officer Mark Forrest was beloved, a farm boy who worked hard, was without question totally honest, and who got along with everyone. He had no temper, not that anyone knew of. And he'd never been reprimanded, not by any means. That he was gay was almost beside the point. And, no, no one knew if Mark had been dating anyone, least of all some guy with brown hair.

  Todd jotted it all down, and it all fit. What everyone said about Mark Forrest matched Todd's initial impressions of the handsome young man Todd had met briefly on the Stone Arch Bridge. Knowing nothing of Forrest's family, Todd had no choice but to be obnoxiously aggressive. He found out where Forrest's mother and father lived, and while all of his instincts told him he should just grab a photographer and head out there, he was reticent to leave the station in case a call came in from the self-identified killer. Instead, he sent Bradley to the farm just outside of Faribault, and he got some footage of the grieving mother and father as they climbed in a car and hurried away.

  At the end of the day, unfortunately, Todd had learned nothing new, at least not of any real significance, and he found himself fixated on when Forrest
's killer might next emerge. And what he would do. Unbelievable, thought Todd, cursing himself for the hundredth time. He'd been standing right up there on that porch, and that jerk had slithered right on by.

  A mere forty minutes before the 5:00 P.M. news, a gas main ruptured in northeast Minneapolis, the explosion ripping open a street. And while no one was killed, a half dozen people, including two kids on bikes, were injured. No doubt about it, it made for very dramatic coverage, and a reporter and photographer rushed to the scene. The 5:00 P.M. news opened with live shots of ambulances screaming down the street, steaming pavement, a ten-foot-deep crater, and, among other things, a bent bike.

  “The good news,” concluded the evening anchor, Tom Rivers, with his perfectly great broadcaster's voice, “is that at this point none of the injuries appears serious or life-threatening.”

  At the back of Studio A, Todd was given the cue, and he slipped past the news director, who sat at a bank of computers directing the robotic cameras. Moving toward the news set, Todd stepped over the cables, passed the floor director, then took his position at a desk some fifteen feet to the right of Tom Rivers.

  “We'll be having updates throughout this broadcast,” continued Rivers. “One of our reporters is now on the way to Hennepin County Medical Center, so we'll keep you posted on the status of those injured.”

  Todd, tonight wearing a navy-blue sport coat, light-blue shirt, and a solid blue tie, sat down, slipped in his earpiece, and straightened his tie.

  A motherlike voice squawked in his ear, “Smooth the front of your hair, Todd.”

  He did as he was told, then stared straight into the monitor.

  “Good,” Nan said approvingly.

  Todd glanced over at Tom Rivers, saw the anchor look down at a sheaf of papers that was nothing more than a prop, then look up at the TelePrompTer. Okay, thought Todd, here goes.

  Staring at the monitor, Rivers read, “Meanwhile, the murder of Minneapolis Park Police Officer Mark Forrest, who was gunned down two days ago on the Stone Arch Bridge in downtown Minneapolis, continues to occupy the full attention of the Minneapolis police force. Here to give us an update is WLAK's investigative reporter, Todd Mills, who in fact witnessed the brutal slaying.” Tossing it, he said, “Todd?”

  The floor director cued Todd, pointing to him just as a light atop the robotic camera flashed red.

  “As of this moment, police continue to search for a suspect in the shooting,” began Todd, trying to make things sound interesting but knowing all too well the only real news was that Officer Mark Forrest was still dead.

  He then launched into a very brief recap of the story, using part of the Stone Arch Bridge package and explaining how it was not until the following day that Forrest's body was actually found. As a clip of the family farm outside Faribault played, Todd continued, telling how Mark Forrest had left behind two very devoted parents. And then he reported again on the strange phone call he'd received last night from the man who claimed to be the true killer. Certainly, said Todd, that was one of the stranger twists in this story.

  In the lobby of the WLAK station, Renee Rogers sat at the main switchboard, thumbing through the latest issue of McCall's. In her late fifties, she had pale skin that was very finely etched with wrinkles, professionally dyed auburn hair, and she wore a gray pantsuit with a pink blouse. Having worked at WLAK for nearly seventeen years, she knew this was both the easiest and longest part of the day. By and large the phones quit ringing right before five, yet she had to sit there until six. Things could be worse, she thought, steadying the carefully placed telephone headset as her head tilted back with a big yawn.

  The lobby of Channel 10 was an expansive, two-story space, recently redone, the walls painted a slick silver, the floor covered with red carpeting. Renee found it cold and stark, though of course no one asked her and of course she told no one, for she prided herself on knowing her place. If—and granted, she knew that was a big if—someone ever asked, however, among other things she didn't like the four white leather couches surrounding the glass coffee table in the middle of the waiting area. And she really didn't like the shiny black laminate surface of her station. Kind of tacky, not to mention that it showed each and every fingerprint. On the other hand, the video wall, a collection of a dozen screens synchronized to show one image—that of WLAK's continuous broadcast—was rather amazing. The only disadvantage was that she had a tendency to watch what was up there and it made it hard for her to do her work, especially when the soaps were on. Good thing, at least, that the volume was always kept next to nothing.

  Glancing up from a recipe claiming to be the world's best non-fat lemon poppyseed pound cake, she saw the larger-than-life image of Todd Mills filling the screen. She squinted. Handsome. And nice. Always in a rush though. Hard to believe he was gay—certainly didn't look it. Or, as her twenty-year-old niece said, “Oh, for cute, but what a waste, ya know?”

  The board in front of her started ringing, and Renee punched a button and said into her headset, “Good afternoon, WLAK Channel 10. How may I direct your call?”

  The faint voice on the other end asked, “Would you please write this down?”

  Renee's brow wrinkled. “This is WLAK. How may I direct your call?”

  “Just write this down, if you'd be so kind.”

  “I'm sorry, I—”

  “Please,” said the caller, his voice nervous, even breathless. “I know this is Channel Ten. That's who I'm calling. I just need you to do something for me, all right?”

  Renee had had them all. Every type of caller, from the First Lady's personal secretary to a neo-Nazi with a bomb threat. Grace, she thought. That's what you're hired for. You're the first voice of WLAK. And above and beyond everything you have to be polite. Fortunately, that's what she was, yet another native Minnesotan who, no matter what, could always force herself to sound natural and completely unruffled.

  “Is there someone you'd like to speak with?” asked Renee, glancing up at the video wall as Todd Mills continued his report.

  “I'd just like you to pass on a message. I want you to write it down.”

  A message. Okay, Renee thought, now we're getting somewhere. A lot of people just wanted to talk or, more precisely, to rant and rave about something WLAK did. Others wanted to leave a message but didn't want to get dumped into Voice Mail, and she couldn't say she blamed them either. Technology just kept getting more impersonal by the day, and she for one hated it.

  “Yes, of course,” said Renee. “Who is this for?”

  “Write this down. Five-five-five, R-B-G.”

  Whoever this nut was, she thought, he certainly couldn't listen very well. Nevertheless, Renee did exactly as she was instructed.

  “Read that back to me,” demanded the caller.

  Good Lord, thought Renee. The nerve. If this person had called even twenty minutes ago, Renee wouldn't have had the time for these kinds of shenanigans. Eager to be done with it, though, Renee did as commanded.

  “Five-five-five, R-B-G.”

  “Yes, exactly,” said the caller. “Now, you give that to your reporter, to Todd Mills. Tell him that's the car I saw driving away the other night, the night that poor young policeman was killed.”

  “Oh,” gasped Renee, realizing what this was about and just what she had to do. “Just wait, just wait one minute while I—”

  “You don't understand, I can't get involved.”

  There was a click on the other end as the man hung up.

  Todd came out of Studio A, gently shutting the door behind him as the news continued live, and she was there, the woman from the front desk. The receptionist—what was her name? And as soon as he saw her standing in the corridor, her eyes moving anxiously about, the headset still perched in her hair with its cord dangling nearly to her knees, his gut clutched.

  “Say now, Mr. Mills, a call just—”

  “Oh, Jesus, did I miss him?”

  “What?” She glanced down at the paper in her hand, then up. “Well …�
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  Desperate, Todd demanded, “Who was it?”

  “A man. I don't know his name. He didn't say. He wouldn't. Didn't want to get involved. No, actually, he said he couldn't get involved, whatever that means. Anyway, he just wanted me to give you this.”

  A piece of paper was thrust at Todd, which he took. “What is this? What—”

  “A license-plate number,” said the receptionist nervously. “That's … tha's what he said anyway.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The caller, the man on the phone. It was a tip caller, and he said he saw a strange car the other night. You know, the night the policeman was killed down by the river. That's the license-plate number.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “I … I tried to keep him on the line, but—”

  This could be it, the break they needed, and Todd started to dash off. “Thanks!”

  “Sure, you bet. Just doin' my job.”

  As he hurried away, Todd couldn't believe it, this good luck. Who knew what this might prove to be, but what if this was it, the killer's car? And what if, by the grace of God, they were able to catch him before he struck again?

  He stopped, called to the woman walking down the hall, saying, “Wait—” But what was her name?

  The receptionist stopped, turned around, clutching the cord dangling from her headset. “Renee. That's me. Renee.”

  “Yes, of course. Did the caller say anything else? Anything else at all?”

  “No. No, not really, he just told me to write that number down and give it to you, that's all.”

  “But you're sure it was a man?”

  “Well, I certainly think so. It sure sounded like a man anyway. I'm sorry I couldn't get more information. He just kinda hung up on me.”

  “This is great. This is wonderful. Thank you very much, Renee.”

  “You bet.”

  With that he took off, darting down the narrow hall, around the corner, then into the newsroom, that expansive space filled with a mass of cubicles. Looking at the piece of paper in hand as he headed toward his office, he thought that, yes, this certainly looked like a Minnesota license plate. It had the appropriate sequence of numbers and letters anyway. Now it was just a matter of getting an ID on the plates, which Todd knew would be no problem.