by Julie Kramer
“I’m much more spontaneous than you, Nick. No job is more impromptu than covering news.”
“Well, spontaneity has its time and place.”
And while I didn’t say it out loud, I never forget that I once married a man I barely knew for a week. And those vows were the height of spontaneity.
Garnett and I didn’t talk much about my deceased husband, Hugh Boyer. They’d known each other casually in law enforcement circles, and he was among the hundreds of uniforms who drove bumper to bumper to his funeral. Bringing up Hugh would bring up the topic of marriage, and that wasn’t something I wanted to discuss over the phone.
“Since you’re suspended from work,” he said, “you have more flexibility to travel right now. You could research those body scanners on your way to see me.”
“But tomorrow I’m back in the news saddle, so I guess our fantasies are going to have to play out a thousand miles apart. In the meantime, I’m back to ghosting sex.”
“Well, you know what they say, women need a reason for having sex,” he said, “men just need a place.”
“Well, as much as I’d like to use that adage in my erotic prose, I believe Billy Crystal in City Slickers, 1981, said it first.”
And then I suddenly came up with the perfect steamy outcome to Sexpocalpyse. I promised Garnett to read it to him when I finished. And he whispered a few sweet nothings to me before wishing me a productive night without writer’s block.
So I wrote and rewrote.
“How’s it going, Riley?” Laura tapped on the door to make sure I was still typing.
I ignored her because I was in the middle of a tense scene.
“Are you still awake?”
“Leave me alone, Laura.”
I had a feeling book clubs might enjoy discussing my ending and even sharing private passions.
I only hoped my parents would never find out I wrote it, nor any of their church friends. Or my bosses at Channel 3. They’d probably invoke the unsuitability clause in my contract to fire me. I didn’t think they’d settle for a one-day suspension.
CHAPTER 51
I stayed up much too late. Laura was zonked on the couch when I finally wrote The End. I was tired of typing. I was tiring of her company. I was just plain tired.
Crawling under the blankets, I think I fell asleep before my eyelids shut. By the time I yawned and stretched myself alert, the newsroom huddle was long over. When I arrived at the station, I pretended thinking I’d been scheduled for the afternoon shift. The bosses couldn’t really yell at me because my story was marked for the late news, and the producer wanted me live on the set.
That made a plenty full day.
((SOPHIE BOX))
CHANNEL 3 HAS DISCOVERED
A POSSIBLE CLUE IN A FOUR-
STATE SERIAL KILLER CASE THAT
SUGGESTS THE MURDERER MIGHT
HAVE TIES TO THE TWIN CITIES.
((SOPHIE TWOSHOT))
RILEY SPARTZ JOINS US WITH
MORE ON THE INVESTIGATION.
Even though Chuck’s ratings value as a viewer was gone, I had called him to watch anyway, hoping his girlfriend might have mentioned the email threat to him.
((RILEY CU))
CERTAINLY ONE OF THE
VICTIMS . . . KATE WARNER . . . IS
LOCAL, HOWEVER, POLICE HAVE
MAINTAINED NOTHING SUGGESTS
THE KILLER IS.
((RILEY NAT))
BUT CHANNEL 3 WAS SENT AN
ONLINE MESSAGE THAT MIRRORS
AN EMAIL MESSAGE SENT TO
WARNER BEFORE HER MURDER . . .
THE TEXT OF BOTH READS
“TAUNTING TERESA IS TEMPTING
DEATH.”
BOTH WERE SENT FROM
COMPUTERS AT THE MINNEAPOLIS
PUBLIC LIBRARY, PRESUMABLY
FROM TWO ACCOUNTS WHERE
PATRONS FORGOT TO SIGN OFF.
THE STATION’S MESSAGE
APPEARED IN A VIEWER COMMENT
FOLLOWING A STORY I REPORTED
NOTING THE SIMILARITY BETWEEN
THE SHAPE OF THE BLACK ANGEL
STATUE OF IOWA CITY AND CHALK
OUTLINES AROUND THE BODIES OF
THE THREE HOMICIDES.
To get viewers’ attention, I like holding up props on set and explaining their importance. Noreen’s favorite props are baby animals. For this story, I used the Black Angel Lace book. The cover would have been considered too risqué for the early newscasts, but this was past ten PM.
((RILEY HOLD UP BOOK))
THE SAME MESSAGE, “TAUNTING
TERESA IS TEMPTING DEATH”
ALSO APPEARED HANDWRITTEN
IN THE FRONT OF A BOOK KATE
WARNER WROTE TITLED BLACK
ANGEL LACE . . . THAT I FOUND IN
HER HOUSE . . . WHERE SHE WAS
MURDERED.
Sophie and I had gone over a couple of questions for her to ask me on the set, so news control cut to a twoshot of us.
“Riley, have you been able to compare the handwriting in the book to Kate’s?”
“Yes, Sophie, we found known samples of her handwriting and it appears quite different from the inscription in the book.”
“Any idea who Teresa might be?”
“The only Teresa reference I’ve come across in this entire investigation is the name of the woman who commissioned the Black Angel cemetery marker nearly a hundred years ago: Teresa Dolezal Feldevert.”
My phone was ringing as I reached my desk. Chief Capacasa was on the other end of the line . . . furious. He was yelling so loud it was hard to hear what he was saying, but finally he quieted enough for me to understand him. But even then I could feel his anger from the other end of downtown.
“Listen, you should have come to us with that information rather than blasting it all over the air.”
“Why, Chief? So you can feed my work to the competition?”
I was looking for assurance that that was all a misunderstanding and would never happen again, but he ignored my question.
“I am putting you on notice, Ms. Spartz, that my team is drawing up a search warrant right now and will be demanding the murder victim’s computer and inscribed book first thing in the morning, just as soon as we can get a judge to sign off on it.”
I was about to tell him not to bother with a warrant, that I’d just hand the items over to the homicide department. But I remembered Miles, the station attorney, was firm on not giving up tapes, notes or any evidence without a subpoena or a warrant. And sometimes not even then.
Channel 3’d been involved in First Amendment court battles before. We’d won some, lost some. As a compromise, I decided to recommend to Miles that we simply comply with the search warrant and turn over the items. If we appealed, the cops would argue they had no other means of obtaining this specific evidence. They’d be right, and the judge would order us to acquiesce. Viewers might assume we were thwarting law enforcement and protecting a killer, all in the name of freedom of the press. At least that’s what the police would argue to the public.
So I told the chief, “Fine, I’ll be waiting.”
CHAPTER 52
Dolezal watched as Riley Spartz waved the book with his handwriting on television in front of a world of admirers. He smiled at the recognition of his effort, especially grateful his work was not attributed to an undeserving.
He remembered mailing the package to his victim on a trip to Iowa City as a signal to expect him. The book proved that he knew Kate Warner was Desiree Fleur. The inscription and postmark warned of his wrath over her disrespect of his dear Black Angel.
He had arrived at Kate’s house after dark. He’d been observing her long enough to know she sometimes had a male visitor, but not this night. She opened the front door for him when she saw he held a legal document from the office, supposedly requiring her signature. He followed her inside, hitting the lock behind him while she hunted for a pen.
“I have one here,” he assu
red her, as he pulled the bloodstained bat from his briefcase.
That’s when she understood why he came wearing gloves. Kate tried fleeing, but found the legend firm. No escaping the curse of the Black Angel.
CHAPTER 53
After Chief Capacasa’s tirade, I called Noreen and Miles at their homes to brief them about the sudden police interest in our story.
Now we were sitting in the news director’s office before most of the rest of the staff had arrived, except Xiong. I’d asked him to come in early and download everything from Kate’s computer so we’d have a copy.
Black Angel Lace and the laptop were now sitting on top of Noreen’s desk. She turned the cover facedown, confirming my belief she had issues about sex.
“I agree,” Miles said. “If the police have a legal subpoena, we will comply and turn over the items they seek. If we balk, they may approach the sister and technically the material belongs to her.”
“We can report handing the stuff to law enforcement, can’t we?” Noreen asked.
“Certainly,” he answered.
I ad-libbed a news lead so we could all be on the same page.
((RILEY SOT))
CHANNEL 3 HAS PROVIDED
EVIDENCE TO THE MINNEAPOLIS POLICE THAT AUTHORITIES
BELIEVE MIGHT BE CONNECTED TO
THE MURDER OF A LOCAL AUTHOR.
Noreen looked at Miles for approval as he nodded at the gist of the script. Over the loudspeaker, we heard a voice call out, “Riley Spartz, you have a visitor at the back door.”
“I’ll escort them here,” Miles said.
“Let me get a camera in position first,” I replied. “I want video of them carrying out the book and computer.”
I had hoped they’d send a uniformed officer for better TV, but instead Detective Delmonico, in plainclothes, showed up with a badge and paperwork.
Miles reviewed the subpoena with lawyer eyes, and signed the correct line. Malik rolled the whole encounter on video while I tried to chat with the homicide detective about the direction of the murder investigation.
“Do you think this message connects the killer to the Black Angel statue or to the Twin Cities?” I asked.
Seeing he didn’t have to be polite to gain cooperation, he ignored me. He did sign the subpoena, indicating the station had complied with the request. Then he handed a copy to our attorney, and picked up the computer and book. He had also wanted the “Taunting Teresa” comment from the Channel 3 website, but Miles told him it was available to the public online.
Malik and I trailed him out the door until he climbed into a unmarked vehicle, me asking questions, Malik shooting tape.
“Did he tell you anything?” Noreen asked when we returned.
“No,” I said, “but let’s see how far they get without the password.”
The neighborhood mother-in-law called me an hour later to report the police were back on the street in front of Kate’s house. They’d stretched yellow-and-black crime scene tape around the property again.
“Did they say why?” A murder investigation stays open until the case is solved. But once a crime scene is cleared, the cops are generally finished with that location.
“They just told me to keep my eyes on the block and call if I noticed anything unusual,” she said. “But I have to go now. I hear Johnny crying.”
Access to the crime scene via Laura was the main advantage I had over the other media. That relationship had gotten me the angel chalk outline and more. The police were unlikely to talk to me about the current situation with the property. But as the homeowner, Laura had rights. They might be forced to discuss it with her.
“I’m uncomfortable around the police,” Laura told me as we sat at my kitchen table. “I don’t want to meet with them.”
“I’ll be with you,” I assured her. “Remember, the longer that crime scene tape stays up, the harder it’s going to be to sell the house.”
That argument convinced her.
“It’s best we get this resolved before the weekend,” I said, telling her to grab her purse and I’d drive downtown. She fumbled with an oversized bag stuffed with papers and climbed into the car. On the way, she thanked me for writing the ending to her sister’s book.
“Did you read it?” I guess I was fishing for praise as a novelist, rather than a journalist.
“No. I sent it to her editor and Mary Kay said the part about the afterlife was just what the story needed.”
“Did you tell her about me?”
“No, you’re the ghost.” But she promised to pay me something for my time once money settled.
I was starting to think this ghost business wasn’t so glamorous after all.
Not sure what kind of reception Laura and I would get at the cop shop, I pulled into the Government Center parking ramp rather than risk getting ticketed at a street meter. The station might pay for the fine and tow for a photographer’s vehicle because of all the heavy gear it carted, but never a reporter’s.
Prepared for a waiting game, the last thing I expected was to be settled outside the chief’s office and told he’d be with us shortly. We were even offered coffee while we waited. The chief was a known chess master and I amused myself by moving carved pieces around an antique board he kept on display in the reception area.
When Laura and I were finally shown in, I greeted the chief, introduced Laura, and asked if the homicide squad had any luck obtaining surveillance video of the library computer banks from the days the “Taunting Teresa” emails were sent.
“The video was erased.” The chief was pissed, more at me than the library. “The latest tape, the day before our request. Perhaps if you’d come to us right away, they might have proven useful.”
I wanted to answer with something like, Perhaps, if I hadn’t been suspended by idiots at the station. But I thought it best to keep quiet about that happening.
Instead, I changed the subject by mentioning Laura had some questions about how long her sister’s house would remain a crime scene.
“The homicide team is working on that,” he said. “But I’m also interested in how long you’re going to remain in Minneapolis, Ms. Warner.” He stared at Laura. He knew I wasn’t going anywhere, though he probably wished I’d leave.
Laura squirmed, but stayed silent. It seemed an unwelcoming question from a Minnesotan.
“I’m only asking,” the chief said, “because trouble seems to follow you.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked. “Laura’s been nothing but cooperative throughout this homicide investigation. Her sister’s death has nothing to do with her.”
“Probably not.” Then Chief Capacasa explained that they’d received a call from a local man who saw Laura on the news and claimed she had filed a false police report many years ago. An allegation of rape. “And he still harbors quite a grudge.”
Clearly the chief was looking to surprise us. And it worked.
Laura said nothing, so I figured I had to speak up for her.
“She made a mistake, Chief. That was a long time ago, and really has nothing to do with the current situation.”
Laura looked grateful for my mediation and mimicked my answer. “Yes, a mistake that I’ve regretted ever since.”
The chief leaned over his desk toward her, like a dare for her to pay attention. “Did you make the same mistake in Omaha, Des Moines, Madison, Phoenix, and Houston?”
I was much more confused than Laura by his implication.
The chief kept talking. “We’ve done some digging on your background, Ms. Warner. While there’s a national crime database of suspect arrests, there’s no such record of victim reports. Which makes tracking such information difficult. So instead of one-stop checking, we had to contact law enforcement in towns where you’ve lived. In most all of them, you’ve claimed to have been raped. I don’t buy those odds.”
He explained that sometimes she’d accused men by name, and they’d land in a legal jam, their reputations a mess, before being clea
red. Other times, she simply reported an assailant’s general physical description and various men would be hauled in for questioning. Once she had even been found guilty of falsely reporting a crime. No jail time, but the judge had urged her to seek help.
“That and your old college pal got us on track,” he continued. “I don’t know if you’re looking for sympathy or revenge. But you’re not getting either here. Because we’re on to you.”
His speech stunned me. I didn’t buy those odds either. And knowing Laura, I could believe she was disturbed about sex. Her lies confirmed it. So did her attitude toward her sister’s writing. What the chief outlined was a suspicious pattern of misconduct.
The chief turned to me with a gleam of triumph. “Don’t say I never give you a story.”
Laura didn’t talk much during the car ride back to my place. She mostly just cried. “It’s not like he said, Riley.”
Though his lecture humiliated me, I believed the chief’s words more than I did Laura. She may have felt betrayed by life, but once again I felt betrayed by her.
I found myself wondering what’s up with the Warner women, sex and secrets? One sister felt comfortable enough with the subject to write erotica. But only under a pen name. The other appeared to be trying to settle an old score by crying rape. Over and over.
I dropped my old college friend off at the curb outside my house, told her I needed some space, and that our roommate arrangement must come to an end.
“I want you gone when I get back,” I said.
CHAPTER 54
That night Dolezal watched from outside long enough to be convinced the TV reporter was alone inside. One shadow only. The house grew still, as did the rest of the street. He picked up his bag of tools and crept from the neighboring porch across the backyard, tingling with expectation and confidence.
As a journalist, she might try to get him to open up about his feelings. Perhaps to convince him to abandon his mission. To stall the preordained. But he had made a promise that no slick reporter could subvert. So there seemed little point in listening.
