by Julie Kramer
HERE LIVE IN FEAR WE OR
SOMEONE WE LOVE WILL BE NEXT.
After also voicing a track and shooting a standup, I could have called it a news day and headed back to the Twin Cities. But because I keep an extra set of socks and underwear tucked in my shoulder bag, I suggested continuing south that night and returning the next day.
“I could bring back a Walden story,” I said. “By then we might know his fate. I can at least get some fresh video and sound from hunters.”
Bryce agreed, provided I do a phoner—a live telephone report covered with video. Not the most interesting means of storytelling, but a cheap way to transmit information.
These were the final hours of bear hunting season and the woods would be full of blaze orange. Radio collar or not, Walden was an attractive target.
So was I. So was anybody tromping in the dark thicket.
With hunting fever at a frenzy, I vetoed any idea of going undercover in the underbrush. I figured folks with guns on deadline would shoot anything that moved. I decided instead to interview hunters as they gassed up their pickups or filled their thermoses with coffee. I even attempted an artistic shot down the barrel of a gun.
I feared for this one bear against masses of camouflage.
But Walden had supporters. Protesters had arrived in town with signs and chants to oppose the hunting of research bears.
If Walden was shot in the waning minutes of bear hunting season, the hunter who landed him would be required to report his trophy to the state. I’d then report that as news. And such a controversial kill would absolutely mean the lead, especially since Bryce was bullish on this bear story.
And if Walden survived the night, that would also be news. But certainly not the lead. Even so, I was rooting for the bear.
CHAPTER 45
I meant to chase Walden more to please my boss. But outside of town, a white billboard with no message caught my attention. No doubt this was the one in the buzz. I pulled over, then walked closer to inspect. The paint looked dry, but the work fresh. Spatters covered brown grass below.
I stretched upward to try to touch my palm against the lower edge of the sign just to feel closer to Sarah, but fell short. “I will keep your picture in the news,” I silently vowed.
The surface was cold and bumpy in places. Sloppy whitewash work got the job done fast. The goal was to obliterate the message completely, not to create art.
Whoever did the deed must have used a very long paint roller to reach the top. And waited until late at night when traffic was sparse. Could one person have worked alone? Probably. But the chore would have been easier with a lookout.
I checked my watch and saw less than twenty minutes stood between me and my phoner about bear season. The beauty of a phoner was that it could be done anywhere—provided you had cell service. I checked and had four bars. I ran across the road and took a picture of the blank billboard with my cell phone, then unpacked the station camera and tripod to get a wide moving video pan of the billboard. Through the viewfinder I saw a law enforcement vehicle drive into screen. Technically I shouldn’t have stopped there.
Sheriff Eide rolled down the window. “What’s new in news?” he asked.
I was relieved to see him behind the wheel, figuring I had just avoided a ticket. “You might know better than me, Sheriff. What can you tell me about the situation here?” I waved my hand at the blank sign.
He explained that because advertising was slow, the billboard company agreed to donate space for a public-service sign asking for clues about Sarah. “It was barely up forty-eight hours.”
“Do you have a picture of what it looked like prior to the vandalism?” I asked.
He showed me one on his cell phone and emailed it to me so I could give viewers a before and after.
The weather was chilly, and he noticed I wasn’t wearing a coat. He invited me to sit in the car with him and chat. Backseat of course. The invite gave me a sense we might be getting along better, and I decided to capitalize on that in the hopes of obtaining more facts about the case. I climbed in, hearing the auto lock behind me as I shut the door.
“I hope folks driving by don’t think I’m under arrest, Sheriff.”
“That’s a risk you’ll have to take,” he said.
The back of the squad car was certainly warmer, and I voiced my appreciation. He opened a Plexiglas window in the security divider so we could talk more easily. I told him I actually was in town to cover the bear hunt and would probably stay at the bed-and-breakfast that night to await the fate of Walden.
“I just hope all the hunters don’t end up shooting each other,” he said. “We have enough work.”
The billboard was surrounded by farm fields and highway. Nothing to distract from the contracted message. Not a gas station or convenience store around, so there was no hope of surveillance camera footage of the vandalism.
“Any witnesses, Sheriff?”
“Nope.”
“So how are you going to prove who did this?”
“Oh, we know who did it,” he said.
“Amish?” I asked.
“Definitely.”
“But you can’t charge a whole community for the actions of one.”
“We have all the proof we need which one,” he said.
“Really?” I said. “I’m impressed. How did you come by this information?”
“The Amish aren’t into lying, Riley. When we asked Gideon Yoder who might have done such a thing, he came right out and admitted he had.”
“Are you going to charge him with anything?”
“We’re going to give him a pass this time.” But the sheriff said he stressed to Gideon that Sarah’s picture was going back up on the billboard as their top clue and it better stay there.
“I told him if we had another round of whitewash, his mug shot would be the next graven image he’d have to worry about.”
He agreed to let me shoot a brief interview with him about Sarah’s murder. For interest (and to stay warm) I framed his face from the backseat of the squad.
We discussed the overnight billboard paint-a-thon and he gave me a couple useful lines about how this homicide presented certain challenges because of the Amish angle.
“When do you expect the DNA results from Brian Kueppers?”
The sheriff seemed surprised. “How did you hear about that?”
“I’m a reporter,” I reminded him. “It’s my job.”
“We’re not going to be talking about any DNA business.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m not going to be reporting it. What kind of DNA did you find on the victim’s body?”
“Who have you been talking to?” he said.
“My sources are my business, Sheriff. Was it blood, saliva, semen?”
He wasn’t answering so I pulled an old investigative reporter trick and startled him with an unanticipated question.
“Instead, how about we talk about the brouhaha over the gun permit for your buddy, Roger Alton? Would you have granted one to him if he wasn’t a campaign contributor?”
The sheriff scowled. “Turn the camera off.”
When elected officials say things like that, journalists just push harder. Sort of a reflex move.
“Do you think someone who has a problem with alcohol should be allowed to carry a gun in public?”
He ordered me to hand over the videotape. He even tried to reach through the divider and grab the camera.
“I’m not giving you my video, Sheriff. Are you crazy?”
I turned to protect the camera, but kept it rolling as I scrambled to escape the squad car. I went for the door handles but no luck. Locked was locked. “Sheriff, let me out.” I tried to sound like I was warning him.
Instead, he slid the middle security window shut, signaling that our conversation was over. Then he put the vehicle in gear and started driving.
“Let me out.” I banged on the Plexiglas, but he ignored me. I tried screaming louder in case he couldn’t hear be
cause of the partition. “Where are you taking me?”
“Headquarters.” He kept his eyes on the road and didn’t look back at me.
“Headquarters? Do you mean jail?”
Jail was ten miles away, in Preston, the next town over. I didn’t have time for jail. I had a phoner due in about six minutes.
“Sheriff Eide, I’m scheduled for a live phone report on the bear hunt any minute. So stop this craziness.”
I could see part of his face in the rearview mirror and he looked amused. “Maybe a little cell time will help you think more clearly.”
“You can’t put me in jail for asking questions, Sheriff. That’s what reporters do. And you can’t just leave my car on the side of the road like that.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll have it towed.”
That threat was enough to get me on the phone to Miles Lewis, Channel 3’s media attorney. Our connection was scratchy.
“Where did you say you were?” he asked.
When he finally understood I was locked in the back of a squad car being hauled to the Fillmore County Jail at high speed, he said he’d find Bryce and call me right back.
This was the first time I’d dealt with Miles on business since the newsroom bloodbath. He was off work for a while, healing from a bullet wound to the stomach and the trauma of seeing Noreen take a bullet in the head. I wanted to ask how he was feeling, but in case the spree killing wasn’t on his mind just then, I didn’t want to remind him of it.
Even though I escaped the gunfire, I couldn’t escape the memories and doubted he could either. Talking about that day with Miles might help us both, but not over the phone. That kind of dialogue seemed best face to face.
I banged my fist against the plastic wall again. “Sheriff Eide, let’s talk!”
Just then my phone vibrated. It was Miles and Bryce. On speakerphone in the news director’s office.
“Riley, aren’t you supposed to be doing a phoner on bear hunting in a couple minutes?” Bryce asked.
“Yes, but instead of talking about bears, I think the anchor should tell viewers I’m reporting live en route to jail. Then toss to me, and I’ll take it from there.”
I summarized the current situation. Difficult, because I had to compromise between being heard over the road noise and not letting the sheriff overhear us. I decided to opt for speaking up, figuring there was nothing I could say that the lawman didn’t already know.
In the background, Bryce was filling the control booth in on the changes and telling them to kill the bear video set to run under my phone report. “Naked audio.”
“The tape contains no real smoking gun,” I told them. “The sheriff comes across as unprofessional in the interview, especially when he tries grabbing for the camera, but this campaign is probably too small-town for us to air a story anyway.”
“Doesn’t matter. Don’t give up the tape,” Miles said. “They have no legal right to it. And we need to stay consistent.”
When Sheriff Eide realized I had someone on the other end of the line, he turned the siren on full blast to try to drown out our conversation, then accelerated.
“What if they try to take it by force?” I was yelling now to be heard.
“Can you substitute a different video?” Miles suggested. “Bait and switch?”
I explained the other camera disc was in an equipment bag in my car. “This is all I have.”
Then Bryce chirped in with an idea. “Put it somewhere they can’t find it. Put it in your bra.”
I didn’t have a better idea, so I took Bryce’s advice, even if it was a little creepy coming from my boss.
“Thirty seconds to air.” The control booth was giving me my countdown. “Stand by, Riley.”
Just then the sheriff drove into the law enforcement parking lot and started down a ramp under the building. My cell signal died. And with it, my live phoner died, too.
CHAPTER 46
Sheriff Eide unlocked the squad’s rear door and motioned for me to climb out. “Hand me the videotape. And this can all be over.”
The videodisc poked me from where I had stuffed it into my bra. He asked for the tape one more time, and again I refused, giving him a brief lesson about freedom of the press and the public’s right to know that he seemed to tune out.
My worry was that he would make me trade the backseat for a jail cell, my camera for handcuffs. Just then, an office worker rushed in and motioned that the sheriff had a phone call upstairs. I hoped Miles had just finished screaming at the Fillmore County Attorney, demanding my release.
Before leaving, Sheriff Eide instructed a young female jailer in a tan uniform to pat me down and keep watch. She didn’t feel the disc, luckily. That reminded me of the plus-sized Minneapolis woman who had hidden a stolen fur coat in her underwear for three days in jail while being questioned by police for the theft. Since no one had tried to fingerprint me or take a mug shot, I figured I wasn’t technically under arrest. But not wanting to be accused of fleeing law enforcement, I stayed put, still clutching my controversial camera.
I glanced at my watch, hoping within the next few minutes Sheriff Eide would learn that taking me into custody was a real bad idea. Thirty seconds later, the door opened and the young jailer was telling me I was free to go.
Eleven minutes was all it took. Apparently the sheriff and I weren’t on goodbye terms. She didn’t mention anything about a camera or videotape, so neither did I. Instead I asked about my car.
“What car?” she responded.
I told her the road where I’d last seen my vehicle. She shrugged and told me to check there. The keys were in my pocket and I hoped I’d remembered to lock the doors. By now the sky was dark. Fillmore County was too rural for taxi service, and the Fillmore County Sheriff’s Department too busy to give rides to media troublemakers.
I had only one transportation option, and hated using it.
My parents said they’d leave immediately.
• • •
When Bryce and Miles finally heard me play the sheriff’s audio over the phone, they couldn’t believe the flap. Bryce had hoped Channel 3 might air a news story about my time in custody, making me seem heroic. But the whole thing, even me, sounded silly. And as the top elected law enforcement official in the county, the sheriff answered only to the public.
“The county attorney pretty much dismissed it all as a misunderstanding,” Miles said. “And we really have no one to complain to formally. So we might not want to make a fuss over this just now.”
I agreed. As a journalist, I had to be careful not to come across as a crybaby in cop circles, as that could affect future sources and stories.
For now, Miles and Bryce had decided our best move was to pretend the fuss never happened—although Bryce admitted the whitewashed billboard had created some intrigue.
“We can always report this video skirmish later, in the context of the murder investigation, if the DNA becomes newsworthy,” Bryce said. “As for this election, just because it’s nasty doesn’t make it news.”
“I wouldn’t mind doing a story saying authorities have found DNA and already one suspect is being tested voluntarily,” I said. “Of course, unless he was charged we couldn’t name him.”
Well, legally we could, but most news organizations had an ethical rule about waiting for charges to be filed before reporting a suspect’s name.
But right now, my boss still wanted me in position in southeast Minnesota to report on our bear’s fate the next day. When it came to firepower versus fur, the odds were against Walden. If he died wearing his research collar, he’d become a bear martyr. If he lived, he’d become a bear legend.
CHAPTER 47
My car was still sitting on the side of the road—looking abandoned under the moonlight. My parents pulled behind so their headlights illuminated the scene. A parking ticket was stuck under the wipers and someone had stolen the tripod from the side of the road.
The entire drive over, my mom and dad ranted about the in
dignity of me being hauled to jail in the back of a squad car.
“That’s treating you like a criminal,” she said. “Then he has the nerve to try to take your video. That’s stealing!”
“So much for protect and serve,” my father said.
“Mom and Dad, it was a mix-up.” The last thing I needed was them spreading this gossip around. “Let’s just keep this between us.”
When they heard I was on the bear beat and not driving back to the Twin Cities right away, they wanted me to sleep overnight at the farm. “Then you can see Husky.”
I wanted to, but needed to snoop around town a bit longer before turning in, so it made more sense to stay there. “But maybe leave the front door open in case I can’t get a room.”
• • •
Sans tripod, I shot some night video of the billboard, using a flashlight for mystery effect. Then I went dark and leaned against the hood of the car trying to imagine the tension Gideon must have felt splashing paint over his dead sister’s face.
Was Sarah watching from Amish heaven? Did she want him to stop painting over her face? Or was she relieved not to have her image displayed to the world in the place where she died?
For a minute the wind blew softly and I soaked up the quiet night. But then a faint sound caught my attention. A nostalgic clip-clop that I recognized as horses’ hooves. A buggy approached, visible only by a hanging kerosene lantern—the most conservative (and dangerous) of all lighting for Amish travel.
I turned the car headlights on, so my car would be visible. And when the buggy drew close, I discovered my murder victim’s brother holding the reins of the horse.
“Hello, Gideon.” I figured he must be checking to see if her picture had been replaced yet. A paint can on the floor of the buggy convinced me I was right.
I reached over and petted his horse’s neck, wishing I had an apple or sugar cube in my pocket.
“Sheriff Eide tells me you were our nocturnal artist. I was having an internal debate whether your sister would have approved or disapproved. What do you think?”
I didn’t expect much of an answer from him, so I was surprised when I got one. “Pictures are sins of pride. We Amish prefer to be remembered by the lives we lived, and not the way we looked.”
