Killing Kate: A Novel (Riley Spartz Book 4)

by Julie Kramer

  Dolezal always congratulated the man on his ancestry, but privately doubted the lineage.

  All this made Nanna important among the residents and staff. Occasionally some of the seniors needed legal work and a few had even become clients of the firm because of the ease of Dolezal handling their paperwork.

  He enjoyed taking Nanna for a drive in her older model Ford Taurus just to make sure the car didn’t sit too long between trips. Other times, if she didn’t feel like riding the road, she encouraged him to take the car by himself and bring it back serviced.

  “You like driving for me, don’t you, Karl?”

  “Very much, Nanna.”

  “You must care for my car because one day it will be yours.”

  The Taurus was nothing special, but Karl Dolezal had reason to appreciate driving a vehicle registered to an eighty-two-year-old woman.

  “I raised you well, Karl.” She squeezed his hand in contentment. “You make me proud.”

  He only hoped she died before ever learning the truth.

  CHAPTER 34

  ((ANCHOR SOT))

  POLICE ARE KEEPING QUIET

  ABOUT WHETHER THE MAN

  RELEASED FROM JAIL IN THE

  MURDER OF THE EROTIC AUTHOR

  REMAINS A SUSPECT OR IF THEIR

  INVESTIGATION HAS TAKEN A NEW DIRECTION.

  Back at my desk, I started cranking out the story while sixteen email messages waited for attention. I opened one labeled BUDDY’S REAL FAMILY. It was a note from Barbara Avise, a woman claiming to be Keith Avise’s ex-wife and Buddy’s true owner.

  Please call me and I will tell you the bona fide story.

  The last thing I wanted was to hear any more about the egg man’s personal life. Not hard to understand him having an ex; I figured whatever her story was, she was better off alone. Parties in nasty divorces sometimes try to get the media involved for revenge. I always strived to steer clear of such motives and not let one spouse use me to bad-mouth the other on our air.

  Barbara had included two attachments she described as a photo of her and Buddy, plus legal documents supporting her claim. Declining to look at either, I sent a polite reply expressing sorrow for her loss and explaining that station staff aren’t allowed to open attachments from unknown sources. As you know, Barb, Buddy’s death affected me deeply, but I feel Channel 3 has told his story. Wishing her the best, I hit Send and finished my script for that night’s newscast.

  ((ANCHOR TWOSHOT))

  CHANNEL 3’S INVESTIGATIVE

  REPORTER . . . RILEY SPARTZ . . .

  JOINS US NOW WITH THE STORY.

  I’d phoned Laura on my way back from the jail to let her know about the police not filing murder charges against Chuck.

  She sounded upset. “Does this mean my sister’s killer is going free?”

  “I don’t know what it means, Laura. I’m not sure the cops even know. I just didn’t want you to hear it cold on TV.”

  I kept my word to Garnett not to mention any possibility of a serial killer. But I did put my photo of Kate’s crime scene outline in the story, because after all, that belonged to me.

  ((RILEY SOT/PIX))

  CHANNEL 3 HAS LEARNED THAT

  POLICE ARE PUZZLED ABOUT THIS

  CHALK OUTLINE DRAWN AROUND

  THE VICTIM’S BODY AND ARE

  TRYING TO DETERMINE WHETHER

  IT WAS MADE BY AN OFFICER AT

  THE SCENE . . . OR PERHAPS LEFT

  BY THE KILLER.

  I recorded my voice track and went back to work, this time concentrating on my Angel of Death theory. While I’d promised Garnett I wouldn’t broadcast the other cases, we had no agreement that I wouldn’t investigate them.

  I taped a map of the Midwest on the wall of my office and starred Ames, Iowa, and Madison, Wisconsin, with a red marker. Because I had a time line and because both cities were small enough that homicides were infrequent, I was confident I could identify the correct homicides even without the victims’ names.

  I did a computer search of the local newspapers in Ames for murders in the past year. Two popped. I disregarded an elderly man who died in an arson fire and concentrated on a young woman beaten to death in her garage a couple of months ago. I wrote her name—Kathy Loecher—and her date of death on a Post-it and stuck it on the map.

  I repeated the search for Madison and found only one murder. Maggie Agnes killed in her home a few months earlier. I added those details to the map, then printed the news accounts of both cases and put them in a file folder.

  I also marked a red star on Minneapolis—the freshest lead. The feds would be converging soon, if only to discount the conjecture. I printed out a photo of Kate and taped it to the map.

  I thought back on my last question to Garnett as he unloaded his suitcase from my car trunk outside the airport terminal. I was trying to understand the killer’s motivation.

  “What do you think this chalk outline business is about, Nick? Do you think the murderer might have always wanted to be a cop?”

  All he would offer up was that anything’s possible. Then he turned back and whispered in my ear, “It’s also possible he is a cop. But whatever he does for his day job, when he’s not out killing, he’s smarter than most serials. So leave this one to the pros.”

  I chose that moment to plant a big kiss on his lips, as a means of saying good-bye and ending the conversation.

  The television monitor on my desk was tuned to the station’s in-house feed, which showed what the news control booth could see in the studio. Sophie sat at the anchor desk in the newsroom recording brief promos of the most interesting, but not necessarily important, reports. The purpose of promotion was to alert viewers to stories they might not expect to see on the news and convince them to tune in for the details.

  A floor director walked into the shot to tweak Sophie’s microphone and point out which camera she’d be reading. I noticed Chuck’s release was included in the day’s lineup, and the facts were essentially correct, so I turned off the monitor to concentrate on my homicide cases.

  The next hour was spent on the phone offering my condolences to the families of the two murdered women in Wisconsin and Iowa and arranging for them to email me photographs of the victims.

  “What did she do for a living?” I asked in each case.

  The only things the women appeared to have in common, besides their deaths, were their age and occupation—both were waitresses in their early twenties.

  “Do you know if the police have any suspects?”

  Neither family seemed to have a grasp on the status of the investigation, nor were they media savvy enough to question why a television station was calling about a homicide so far outside its viewing area.

  The police departments of Ames and Madison weren’t quite so dense.

  “What station are you with again?” and “Why are you calling about this case?” were the first words out of their mouths. It was like they were channeling each other.

  I tried taking an academic approach. “Channel 3 is conducting a study about homicides in the Midwest during the last six months. I’d like to confirm whether your case is still open.”

  Yes from both jurisdictions.

  “Have there been any arrests?”

  No to either.

  “Do you have any suspects whose descriptions you’d like us to broadcast?”

  No witness saw anyone leaving the scene in either case. As with most homicides, their leads involved investigating people who knew the victims.

  “Did anything strike you unusual about the crime scene?”

  Neither detective offered up any details about the chalk outline, so they may not have realized three cases could be connected, or they might have been keeping that clue quiet as something only the killer would know.

  The investigator in Madison mentioned that blunt force trauma was not typical.

  “When it comes to homicide, the leading cause of death is gunshots, followed by stabbing, strangulation, then
blunt objects. The fact that the assailant chose to beat his victim isn’t the norm according to murder stats.”

  I thanked him for his perspective. And asked if either body appeared to be posed.

  Both departments declined to answer.

  “Did there appear to be any markings on or around the body?”

  Neither investigator responded. One told me he had to get back to work soon. The other asked how much longer my survey was going to take. I wrapped up the interviews with a final question.

  “If our station decides to feature this case in our story, would you or someone within your department be available for a camera interview?”

  Both answered maybe, typical when it came to cops. So far, no breaks in the cases, but at least they were now familiar with me, and didn’t hang up.

  I stuck a photo of the Black Angel next to Iowa City because the statue added intrigue to my murder map. To keep honest, I added a big question mark to the picture and tried to think of what other connections the area might have to any of the homicides.

  While I’d never heard of the cemetery before, the University of Iowa, besides being a sports rival of the University of Minnesota, was internationally known for its prestigious writers’ workshop.

  Because Kate turned out to be an author and had used a Black Angel as a character in one of her books, I was guessing she might have attended the university, its campus less than two miles from the graveyard. If so, that might be further evidence of a link.

  I called the university records department and asked to verify attendance on a former student. I had her date of birth from the police report of her murder.

  “No degree was conferred,” the office voice said.

  “Excuse me?” I asked.

  “She never graduated.”

  “I realize that,” I bluffed. “I’d just like details of when she attended, and what classes she took.”

  The voice said Kate Warner attended two semesters, four years earlier. “That’s all the information I’m allowed to release.” Then she hung up.

  Kate might have recognized her style of writing did not fit the university’s literary bent. Or the university might have recognized this for her.

  CHAPTER 35

  The station’s front-door receptionist paged me on the overhead speaker while I was on the phone with the Secret Service learning about the crime of counterfeiting. Besides protecting our president, the agency is also in charge of protecting the physical integrity of U.S. currency.

  “When it comes to bad bills, we’re more interested in the printer than the passer,” I’d just been told. “Sometimes they’re the same, but often the passer can lead us to the money ring.”

  Now I had a visitor in the lobby.

  My news experience told me that seldom did any good story ever walk in cold through the front door. Usually just nut jobs who thought that was how best to get on TV. Or outraged viewers who wanted to complain in your face about why you kept mispronouncing a particular surname or city.

  I told the Secret Service agent I’d like to call them back to arrange an on-camera interview.

  “Did you get a name for this visitor?” I asked the receptionist.

  “Yes, Barbara Avise. She has a package she wants to give you.”

  I closed my eyes and thought, damn. For this I cut a source short. She must have printed out the attachments I didn’t want to open. Either that or she wanted to throw an egg at me, just like her ex-husband.

  “Can you tell her I’m in a meeting and just take the package?”

  I heard her repeat that line and another voice answer that she didn’t mind waiting. They were the worst. She’d figure her wait had earned her a lengthy one-on-one, and would probably want to pitch the story by reading the documents out loud to me. If I left her sitting there and ducked out through the back alley, she’d lambast me on my Facebook page. Then Fitz would add one more transgression to my file. “I’ll be out when I can.”

  I sorted through my emails and saw both families had sent photos of the murder victims. I sent replies thanking them and promising to stay in touch. Then I hit Print, adding the pictures to my wall map of murder.

  Finally I gave up and went out to make Barbara go away. I walked by the assignment desk and asked Ozzie to rescue me if I wasn’t back in ten minutes.

  “Make it sound like I’m in big trouble if I don’t come with you, okay?”

  He nodded without much enthusiasm.

  A middle-aged woman clutched a manila envelope as she watched a network soap opera in the lobby. Her face lit with optimism when she saw me walk through the door.

  “Hello, you must be Barbara Avise. I’m Riley Spartz.”

  As much as I wanted to snarl at her for being pushy, I also wanted to spend the least amount of time necessary with her. So I sat down on the couch across from her and started in with business.

  “Again, I want to tell you how sorry I am about Buddy’s death. I’ll look through your materials, but I’m not sure there’s much more Channel 3 can do.”

  I reached for the envelope, but she held tight. “Let me just review a few things for you.”

  She pulled out a holiday card of her and Buddy, in front of a Christmas tree, wearing matching Santa hats. “I know how important pictures are in TV news. And I want you to have a nice one of Buddy, from happier times.”

  She was right about visuals, but seasonal backdrops are never popular with newsrooms. We much prefer neutral photos, but sometimes our graphics designers can fix things.

  “I loved that dog.” She choked up a bit. Then she handed over a pile of legal documents. “Now here are my divorce papers.”

  I saw it coming—marital wars. “I can understand how you and your ex-husband may not be on the best of terms, but most of our viewers already hate his guts. And frankly, I don’t want to get any further involved in his life.”

  “I loved that dog.” She was starting to repeat herself.

  I glanced at my watch, a couple more minutes before I could expect Ozzie. “I’m sure you cared for him deeply, Barb. I didn’t know him long, but even I thought he was special.”

  “I raised Buddy from a pup. I was the one who fed him and filled his water dish. I was the one who walked him each morning and night. I should have had sole custody.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When Keith and I split up, he vowed to take my dog from me. He didn’t want guardianship because he loved Buddy; he did it to hurt me. And rather than deciding what was in Buddy’s best interest, the judge treated him like a piece of furniture.”

  She pointed to one of the divorce papers that resembled a calendar. “Our negotiation became contentious. Here’s a copy of our doggie visitation agreement. We had to share custody, and alternate weeks with a dog swap.”

  She teared up as she talked about how glad Buddy always was to see her, and how he never wanted to get in the car with her ex-husband. “I just knew he wasn’t being treated well. If Buddy could have talked . . .”

  I didn’t interrupt as she wiped her eyes, but I worried her tears might be contagious. The last thing I wanted was the two of us crying in the lobby over her dead dog. She pulled a gold chain from under her blouse, hanging from it I recognized Buddy’s dog tag.

  “I tried going back to court,” she continued, “but was told to stop wasting the judge’s time. If the court had only listened to me, Buddy would be alive today.”

  Her face welled up with cheesy emotion just as Ozzie came out to tell me they needed me to go chase a school bus crash in Anoka. I figured Noreen must have fed him the line.

  “I’m in the middle of something, Ozzie. Can you get someone else this one time?”

  “No, everybody else is already assigned.”

  I motioned toward Barb with my head. “I really need to finish up here.”

  He shook his head. “You’ll have to handle it later.”

  I guessed he was playing bad cop, thinking I wanted to come across as the good cop. What he
didn’t know was, I really did have a few more questions for my visitor. What I didn’t know was, there really was a school bus crash.

  A minute later, Ozzie made me understand I needed to head to the crash scene with a photographer now. I promised Barb I would look over her file, discuss it with my boss, but I couldn’t guarantee anything would end up on the air.

  “I’ll call you later.” I handed her a business card.

  “I understand all that, but you need to understand this.” She dropped her voice low, and surprised me with her next words. “Buddy’s death was no accident. Buddy was murdered.”

  CHAPTER 36

  On the drive north, I filled Malik in about the latest on Buddy’s dysfunctional family life. “She sounds a little nuts to me,” he said. “But so did the other guy.”

  “You and me both. But I better keep Noreen in the loop or I’m headed for trouble. She has a soft spot for this story.”

  I told him how I’d been impudent with our consultant who wanted me to shed tears on a regular basis as I covered the news.

  “Maybe this crash will be worth crying over, Riley.”

  “No way. I’m a professional journalist, and I intend to act that way.”

  Suddenly we saw traffic backed up ahead. Police were on the scene; so was an ambulance. Plenty of flashing lights to shoot.

  Any time a school bus is involved in a crash, a crew needs to be dispatched. Often the accident becomes the day’s lead—if children are killed, if the driver is drunk, if the bus wasn’t properly maintained and its brakes failed. Lots of factors can make for a compelling story.

  But not this time. An SUV rear-ended the bus, but it ended up being one of those accidents that looked worse than it was. No serious injuries, although a couple students were being transported to Unity Hospital to be checked.

  I didn’t blame Ozzie for the chase. No news organization can wait for all the answers before heading out to cover breaking news. We’d be beat every time. Malik and I taped some interviews, crash video, a standup, and headed back to the station with a story that might merit a minute in the second section of the newscast unless something better came along. Then it would be busted down to twenty seconds flat.