by Julie Kramer
I recalled Ike’s initial sales pitch. “No two Amish quilts are alike. Each is as unique as a fingerprint.” If forensics came up a bust, could ownership of the quilt itself identify the killer?
The quilt belonged to either the victim or the killer. If it belonged to the victim: dead end. But if it belonged to the killer, might someone else recognize it?
I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and took a picture of the quilt.
• • •
The quilt story was the lead for ten. While Bryce wasn’t interested in Amish culture, and was still mad at me about the missing camera, he appreciated the visual nature of the quilt.
((ANCHOR BOX))
TONIGHT WE BRING YOU AN
EXCLUSIVE CLUE IN THE AMISH
MURDER, A CLUE CHANNEL 3
BROUGHT TO THE ATTENTION OF
LAW ENFORCEMENT.
((TWOSHOT))
RILEY SPARTZ JOINS US NOW WITH
THE DETAILS.
((RILEY CU))
WHEN THE BODY OF SARAH
YODER WAS DISCOVERED IN A
SINKHOLE, DETECTIVES WERE
OPERATING ON THE THEORY SHE
HAD BEEN DUMPED THERE NAKED.
TODAY CHANNEL 3 LEARNED
THAT THE BODY WAS WRAPPED
IN A QUILT, THEN DUMPED.
INVESTIGATORS ARE NOW
EXAMINING THE BEDDING FOR
FORENSIC EVIDENCE.
((RILEY QUILT SHOT))
HERE IS A PHOTO OF THAT QUILT.
I HAVE SEEN IT UP CLOSE AND
IT IS HANDMADE AND QUITE
DISTINCTIVE. IF YOU HAVE
EVER SEEN THIS QUILT PLEASE
CONTACT LAW ENFORCEMENT.
Because there wasn’t much video to pair with the quilt story, the newscast producer thought it best that the anchor debrief me in a question-and-answer session to get the rest of the facts out.
(RILEY ANCHOR DEBRIEF)
RILEY, HOW DID THIS QUILT COME
OUT OF NOWHERE? AND WHY THE
CONFUSION AS TO WHETHER THE
BODY WAS NAKED OR NOT?
((RILEY CU))
HERE’S WHERE THE STORY
GETS A BIT INCREDIBLE: JOSH
KUEPPERS, THE BOY WHO FELL
IN THE SINKHOLE, USED THE
QUILT TO KEEP WARM THAT
NIGHT. IN THE FLURRY OF THE
RESCUE, THE QUILT WENT HOME
WITH HIM. THIS ALL CAME TO
LIGHT WHILE I WAS VISITING
THEIR FARM. I ADVISED THEM TO
TURN THE QUILT OVER TO LAW
ENFORCEMENT AND THEY DID SO.
I found it ironic that pictures were playing such an important role in this case. First, pictures of a face. Now a quilt.
CHAPTER 59
The next morning I was taping a photo of the quilt to the war wall in my office when the front desk called to ask if I was expecting a guest. I wasn’t.
“Well, you have one. What is your name again? Thao Pheng.”
The biggest change at Channel 3 following the spree killing was that off-duty police officers now manned the front and back doors. They flaunted handguns and Tasers and did not seem afraid to use them.
“Thao Pheng?” I repeated. “Never heard of him. What does he want?”
Part of the new security rules said that employees were to alert the front desk of any scheduled visitors. Such precautions made the station’s general manager feel he was making the building safer, but that change wouldn’t have prevented the newsroom disaster.
The shooter was expected. The shooting wasn’t.
“He says it’s important that he speak to you,” the guard said.
“Can you press him for more details?” I said. “This is sort of a bad time for me to meet.”
The security guards also stressed that if an employee did not know the walk-up guest, they should meet in a public place, outside the station. That way, the coffee shop up the street could be shot up instead of Channel 3.
These restrictions made it harder for sources to show up spontaneously, like a few years ago when a snitch talked his way into the TV station and handed me a lead story about the chief.
We became friends, and when he wasn’t behind bars, he helped me nail news. Once he confided to me that he didn’t mind getting arrested in one of the northern metro counties because a lady jailer there liked having sex with him in his cell. Thinking he was just trying to impress me, I ignored him. A year later, that county attorney charged one of the jailers with having sex with inmates. The story could have been mine if I hadn’t been skeptical.
But that caliber of source didn’t happen often and I was about to tell the desk I was busy when the guard blurted out that the man wanted to talk to me about the quilt.
“The quilt?” I said. “Tell him I’ll be right out.”
Thao Pheng was a young Asian man, dressed a bit funky. Because I didn’t know my new source’s backstory, I invited him to chat over a cup of coffee down the block. His English was good, but he definitely had an accent. We were just getting settled when he began insisting that his pog had made the quilt in my report just as his pog made many quilts. And he was reluctant to call the police, so he had come to me.
I decided he was a whacko. Plenty of them out there wanting to get on TV.
“Pog?” I asked.
He looked flustered and then explained that pog was Hmong for grandmother. “Will I be rewarded for this information?”
I should have guessed. He wanted money.
His grandmother couldn’t possibly have made the quilt. Thao Pheng was clearly Hmong and the quilt was clearly Amish. I was familiar with exquisite Hmong handwork, which traditionally depicted story lines of animals, refugees, and famous Laotian landmarks. The quilt in question was an early American pattern.
I pulled up the picture of it on my cell phone and showed him the screen. “This quilt.”
He pointed at it with confidence. “Yes, that one. My pog sewed it.”
“But isn’t your pog—grandmother—Hmong?”
With more than 40,000 Hmong citizens, St. Paul is home to the largest urban Hmong population in the United States. They started settling in Minnesota more than thirty years ago after living in refugee camps in Thailand following the Vietnam war.
“Certainly, she is Hmong. Why do you ask?”
I explained that this particular quilt was an Amish design, not a Hmong design.
“Of course,” he agreed, countering that his grandmother was a talented seamstress who sewed whatever buyers wanted. “She has a flair for the needle.”
My bewilderment grew. “Who does she quilt for?”
He explained that a man bought her quilts and those of other Hmong and sold them in his store.
“Where is his store?”
He shrugged. “Far.” He waved his hand. “Not here.”
“May I speak to your grandmother?” Clearly, he hadn’t been expecting that question. “Before this goes any further, I need her to verify that she created the quilt.”
I didn’t say it right then, but I was thinking I would require more than simply her word. I’d need to be put in touch with her buyer.
Thao Pheng stepped aside to make a cell phone call. By the time he hung up, a plan was in place. We exchanged phone numbers and he gave me a time and an address to meet his pog that night.
CHAPTER 60
I had two reasons for coaxing Lee Xiong—the newsroom’s computer genius—into going along with me to the quilt meeting. First, as my guide to Hmong culture, he could keep me from committing a social blunder on a sensitive story. Like what had happened with the Amish early on.
Second, much of my day was spent worrying that this whole “grandmother” story was concocted by the killer to get me alone and find out what I knew.
Thao Pheng had showed up at the station almost immediately after the quilt hit air. And his story was a little vague on why he hadn’t simply gone to the police. I hoped this was just my reporter pa
ranoia, because I was doubtful Xiong could provide much physical protection if the situation turned tense.
Normally he took the bus home to St. Paul after work and did the crossword puzzle during rush-hour traffic. But he agreed to ride along with me and give me a crash course on Hmong elders and etiquette.
“Do not look her directly in the eye,” he said. “That is rude. Do not assume she is hiding something because she does not look you in the eye. Lack of eye contact shows respect.”
He ran through a list of other dos and don’ts. No staring. No handshakes. Sit, don’t stand. Smile, don’t laugh. If offered food or drink, take a bite or sip. Do not say “no.” No is insulting.
“It is polite to ask if it is spiritually well before entering a Hmong home—nej puas caiv os—but I will handle that,” he said.
That seemed wise. “She may not speak English,” I said. “So you might have to translate.”
“What is it you wish to learn? Perhaps I should handle the talking.”
This was bold of Xiong. Normally he was a timid, geeky sort of guy who wore sweater vests and followed orders. Now he was essentially telling me things might go better if I kept my mouth shut and put him in charge.
Conceding that he could be right, I briefed him on our ultimate goal: tracing ownership of the quilt. “Like following the money. Or a paper trail.”
Xiong seemed enthused at the prospect of partnering up on the ground and I realized his job very seldom let him leave the newsroom. As our computer projects producer, he was invaluable to the staff, but invisible to viewers.
My only fear was that he harbored a secret wish to broadcast on the air. I had enough competition from within the newsroom ranks.
• • •
Many Hmong settled in St. Paul’s old Frogtown neighborhood, west of the state capitol. The area was gritty, but the housing stock was cheap. Crime has since gone down, and the community now boasts some of the best Asian food in the city.
The moment Xiong and I were ushered into the basement of an old two-story home where Thao’s grandmother lived, I had no problem believing she’d made the quilt.
A row of tables were covered with colorful fabric scraps and threads. A tray of sewing needles were on one side. There was no sewing machine in sight. Organization was clear. Amazing hand-stitched quilts hung all over on the walls, and no two alike. I fingered a blue one, with small colored blocks, in awe. The precise detail represented hours of work.
Strangely, they all looked Amish, not Hmong.
Thao seemed unhappy that Xiong had accompanied me, but I presented him as a work colleague, there to help with the story.
I was glad to have him along because, from the introductions, Thao’s pog did indeed speak little English, and I would have been nervous relying on Thao to translate.
Xiong and I were invited to sit. The gesture encouraged me. She was wearing a traditional Hmong hat of many colors. I was sporting a stylish scarf because I was still self-conscious about my haircut.
“Tell her I love her hat.” I pointed to my own as he interpreted.
She seemed pleased by the flattery, but did not look us in the eye.
“Compliment her on her stitching,” I said.
Xiong spoke quietly and sincerely. She responded briefly and courteously.
“Ask why she is not sewing in the style of the Hmong,” I said. “But make it clear we are simply curious and not upset.”
After a few minutes of back and forth, Xiong essentially reiterated the same story her grandson had told earlier in the day. “She says Hmong work is not worth as much as Amish work. So she sews Amish.”
Just then Thao excused himself—both in Hmong and English—to take a phone call in another room.
“Does that make her sad, not sewing in her custom?”
I knew how much tradition meant to the Hmong. This was a trait they shared with the Amish. Despite coming from opposite ends of the earth, the two cultures had much in common: cloistered societies that deeply value agriculture and religion.
The main difference between the two cultures was that the Hmong are more integrated with the outside community. Their children attend public schools. They run for public office. And they watch plenty of TV.
Xiong translated her answer: “She enjoys her work and the man who buys her quilts pays well. He also pays other relatives to sew and weave baskets. A good family craft business to support them.”
I handed her my cell phone with the picture of the quilt. “See if she recognizes this one.”
“She says this quilt was a personal favorite,” he said. “She is honored you appreciate her workmanship.”
I told Xiong to see what he could find out about the buyer. Within a few minutes, he reported that the man came once a month, always paid cash, and that a pick-up was scheduled for the following evening. That was why she had so much stock available.
“Do you have enough detail on time and place that we could watch for his arrival?” He assured me he did. I didn’t suggest a camera interview because that might make our encounter too worrisome for her. If the quilt ended up being a crucial clue, I’d come back later for sound.
I told him to discuss other matters so we appeared to have broad interests.
As we were prepared to leave, Thao’s pog pulled a stunning log cabin quilt from a corner pile and handed it to me. The texture and detailed stitching tempted me.
“It’s beautiful, but I can’t afford it,” I said.
Xiong explained that the quilt was a present.
“Oh no, I can’t accept such a gift.”
Xiong reminded me that saying “no” was rude.
“But you know I can’t take such an expensive item. Explain that the station has strict rules without me coming off as insulting.”
He did his best, but I still detected Pog’s disappointment. “Tell her I promise to return someday to purchase one.”
I suspected I would have slept well under that quilt, but the station had a firm payola policy designed to keep people from buying news. Thus, while I could buy sources lunch, they could not buy me lunch. And I reminded myself that Ike was off in Ohio, selecting a special quilt for us, anyway.
As we left, Xiong and I continued this animated discussion until we found Thao standing in the alley behind the house where we were parked. He hung up abruptly. And again, brought up the subject of a reward.
“TV stations don’t give rewards or pay for news, Thao.” But I assured him that if the quilt lead panned out, we’d tell the police about his involvement. “We will give you credit then, but it’s best you stay quiet now. Certainly do not tell the buyer that you have spoken to us. That might upset him and he might stop doing business with your grandmother.”
“But I need money now.” He said it like he meant it, his fingers curled into fists.
“We don’t have any cash with us.” I held my purse against my body and started walking backward toward my car. Just as I was regretting dragging Xiong into this clash, I heard an odd sound, and turning, saw him posed in some sort of martial arts stance. Suddenly, Xiong threw a stylish kick in the air and ordered me to start the car. I scrambled for my keys, climbed behind the wheel, and revved the engine.
Even though he was short, Xiong looked imposing with his legs spread wide and his arms stiffly raised. He said something to Thao that I didn’t understand and performed a threatening, yet graceful, spin, feet extended. Thao turned congenial; Xiong turned back into a geek. And we drove away without any further trouble.
“I’m impressed,” I said. “I thought Hmong were peaceful farmers. Where did you learn those maneuvers?”
He explained that Lawj Xeeb—a form of martial arts—was part of the Hmong heritage. “Many have forgotten, but my father taught me and his father taught him and so it has been for my family.”
“Maybe you could teach me?” Normally I use words as weapons, but I’ve been in enough tight scrapes where throwing a good whack could be more powerful.
Xiong
looked doubtful. “Lawj Xeeb takes much dedication.” Then he indicated I should take the next left turn to drop him off at his house.
My phone showed a * text had come in an hour earlier, but it was too late for me to help Nicole. The good part about spending a lot of time working in the field was that I didn’t have to go into Bryce’s office.
CHAPTER 61
The following evening, I parked an unmarked station van up the alley and out of sight, but where I still had a clear view of the Hmong family’s back door.
Xiong came along again, not just for company, but for protection. He made me promise not to divulge his martial arts powers. He believed secret skills were best kept secret.
In the Channel 3 basement garage, I made him show me a slow-motion version of his kick. I practiced the move a few times, but I could tell by the look on his face, I had some more work to do.
“Riley, you have other talents.”
I didn’t tell Bryce about the fake Amish quilts or what I was up to, just in case nothing panned out. No one objected when I took a Channel 3 camera home under the guise of wanting to familiarize myself with its many features.
We parked on the street, Xiong slouched down in the middle row of seats, car keys in hand, in case we needed to leave in a hurry, and I crouched way in the back, camera poised.
We waited in the shadows. Enough light shone from a lamppost for a decent shot most of the time. After a while, it started to snow.
“Are you sure about the time, Xiong?”
“That’s what she said.”
Twenty minutes later, we heard a large truck backing into the alley. I hit record on the camera. Rear-end lights glowed and a tailgate came down. I watched the back of a dark figure entering the house. The truck was licensed in Minnesota and I shot the number so we could run the plates for ownership records later.
A couple of people started loading boxes into the truck. I zoomed in with the camera lens to catch the colorful pattern of a quilt in an open box. I also caught a glimpse of a Hmong woman, younger than Thao’s pog.
The clouds had shifted, and moonlight made another face recognizable. I had to be seeing things. Perhaps subconsciously, my thumb hit stop on the camera because I didn’t want proof that Ike Hochstetler, my new boyfriend, was the man loading the truck.
