by Julie Kramer
“What time is it now?” she kept asking.
“Shhh, Mom. Not yet.”
She worried our guy might not show. She worried Dad might doze off. But I knew all that worry was because there was the potential for shots to be fired.
CHAPTER 75
The SUV was five minutes early. Malik spotted him first.
“Is that him? Is that him?” Mom asked.
“Shhh. No talking,” I warned. And to my surprise, she grew quiet.
While we had a dim view, we couldn’t hear anything. The state cops didn’t want Dad to be wired by us. They made it clear, the operation belonged to them, not us. After all, they were the ones armed with loaded guns. Them and Roger. All we had to shoot was a camera. I was beginning to swear this was a misguided idea, casting my dad as bait. Across the road from the action, I feared the worst. I think all three of us did.
Then, within minutes, the sting was over.
My dad had the camera. Roger had the money. The cops had Roger.
They pressed him against the side of the vehicle, searched and cuffed him. If they found a gun, we couldn’t tell. Not even with Malik’s special low-light lens.
I would have liked to stand next to Roger to get a sense whether he was the man with the scissors at the Lamplight the other night. I remembered that assailant also had facial hair. But I honestly couldn’t gauge either of my attackers’ heights, since I was being held down during the entire ordeal.
Staying on our side of the road, Malik and I ran up to the squad car driven by one of the investigators to try to land an interview. But when I got to the side window, instead of pulling out the handheld microphone from my purse, I mistakenly grabbed the rubber spatula I’d been using for the doomed food-testing story. That got me no respect or sound. Just the tail end of the vehicle disappearing into the night.
Roger wasn’t being transported to the nearby Fillmore County Jail. They were taking him up to the Olmsted County Jail in Rochester for questioning. The cops had verified that the serial number on the camera did in fact match the one on my police report. So Roger had some explaining to do.
Except he was kind of drunk.
And instead of demanding an attorney after they read him his rights, Roger apparently started bragging about how, yeah, he and the sheriff had cut that damn TV reporter’s hair and stolen her camera.
“Sweet,” he said. “Everybody thought Amish did it.”
I didn’t find all that out until later. And much later, when I watched the interrogation room videotape of the investigator questioning him, their back-and-forth was mildly disturbing.
Roger swayed at the table during his interview.
“Me and Ed flipped a coin to see who got to use the scissors,” he said. “I won.”
“So stealing the camera was your main plan?” the detective asked.
“Yep. Ed wanted the video. He said I could have the camera. Where is my camera anyway? Oh wait, I sold it. Where is my money?”
((ANCHOR BOX))
CHANNEL 3’S OWN RILEY SPARTZ
IS AT THE CENTER OF A STOLEN
CAMERA CASE THAT MIGHT BE
CONNECTED TO A COUNTY SHERIFF
IN SOUTHERN MINNESOTA.
At the time, all I knew was the camera was ours again and Channel 3 had an explosive story.
When we tried to get a reaction from the sheriff, we learned he was also being questioned. Technically, he wasn’t under arrest. And his mug shot wasn’t on file yet. All that would come later. As would the other troubling development in the Sarah Yoder homicide that Sheriff Eide was keeping quiet from his constituents.
While the DNA tests had come back negative for Brian Kueppers, the results had also come back negative for Ike Hochstetler.
The sheriff had been so set on solving a murder before the election that when the science didn’t match, he figured it best to wait until voters had gone to the polls and reelected him before breaking the news that a killer still roamed free.
CHAPTER 76
The counterfeit Amish scandal had angered the residents of Harmony, but infamy can be good for business. This was normally a slow time for tourists, but the town was booming. Visitors were also delighted by the weather. Mild temperatures had melted much of the early snowfall and dry leaves and grass now loomed over the southeastern corner of Minnesota.
Malik and I had both spent the night at the Lamplight. My parents had wanted us to stay out at the farm, but I had an errand to finish in Harmony. The way I had left things with Gideon Yoder was ugly. I wanted to return cool and apologetic for my remarks regarding him and my hair.
We drove in the yard and I headed toward the barn. He was standing by the dairy cows, using a gas engine to operate some milking machinery. I didn’t want to start an argument, so I motioned him outside, away from the noise.
He followed but did not look pleased to see me. I expected him to order me gone immediately, so I spoke fast. “I’m sorry, Gideon.”
He seemed surprised at my comment, and I kept talking so my message would be clear.
“I’m not here to pick another fight,” I said. “I accused you of some things that weren’t true. All that stuff I said about my hair and camera, I jumped to conclusions about you and that wasn’t fair.”
He stared at me like he suspected that this might be a trick. Because he remained quiet, I had to continue talking. “I just wanted to apologize, Gideon. And end things on a better note between us.”
Then he held out his hand, and we shook. “I forgive you,” he said.
Being forgiven by Gideon made me uncomfortable. And thanking him seemed too weird. So I just nodded. He walked toward the house and I walked back to the van. Each to our very separate lives. Neither wanting to meet up again.
Malik rolled down the window when I got close. “How’d it go? I saw the handshake.”
“Yeah, okay.” The forgiving part really bothered me. Made me feel like a loser. But I sort of was. I wanted to be a good sport and not look back, but I heard rushed footsteps on the porch and curiosity kicked in. Miriam was standing next to Gideon, not realizing her voice carried across the yard.
“What did the English want?” she asked.
We couldn’t understand his answer.
“Apologize?” Her voice sounded disbelieving. “She apologized?”
Gideon nodded and we heard him say something about cameras and cutting hair.
“Did she ask about Sarah?”
He shook his head. “Maybe at last, Mamm, it is finished.” They both went inside and shut the door.
Even worse was when we drove down the road and met Hannah walking to school. She was in a hurry and couldn’t dawdle, because the bell was already ringing. But when she saw me wave, she raced over to the van, calling, “Hallo.”
“Did you bring me a picture of my sister?” she asked.
I had completely forgotten. But clearly my promise had stuck in her mind.
“I’m sorry, Hannah. I didn’t realize I would be coming out this way so I don’t have one along. But I will bring it next time.”
I stopped short of saying, “I promise,” because I’d already promised once and she’d seen a test of my reliability.
“How are you doing without her?” I knew Amish often didn’t discuss the dead after burial, and sensed this might be proving difficult for her. In fact, I was certain she wanted to talk about Sarah.
“Hannah?” I wished the two of us were alone, without Malik. Maybe then we’d make better headway.
But the school bell rang again and she looked past us like we were annoying English tourists, and ran away swinging her lunch pail.
CHAPTER 77
My paper towel had just landed in the trash when Nicole entered the ladies’ room at the station in a rush. Seconds later she was retching, her head over a toilet.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
Normally the desk dislikes us going home sick. But reporters throwing up on air are even more unpopular, so I suggested that m
aybe she should head home.
“No, Riley, I’ll be fine.” She glanced under the stalls. “Are we alone?”
“Totally.” I handed her a wet towel for her face. “Maybe we should go next door to the greenroom and spiff you up. The lighting is much better there.”
“It happened again, Riley. Just like you said.”
I didn’t follow her immediately. But then I understood. “Did he?”
“Yes, he sexted me again. Do you want to see … him?” She reached in her purse for her phone.
“No, Nicole, absolutely not. Put it away.” With a row of toilets handy, a picture of Bryce would be enough to make me barf, too.
We discussed her next move. “Right now, Nicole, he could claim a single incident. A misunderstanding. That he hit the wrong Send button. That someone hacked his account. I think he’ll continue messing with you, and you’ll build a stronger harassment case against him if you wait.”
“I’m not sure what I want to do,” she said. “There’s so much that could go wrong.”
We discussed her biggest fear. If she reported him, any investigation might get messy. She could be labeled within the television industry as a troublemaker.
“I don’t have a heavy-hitter news reputation to fall back on like you, Riley. I’m just a rookie. I could lose my career over this.”
“But it’s also possible women at other stations might come forward with the same story,” I said. “Believe me, he sexts me, and he’s finished.”
“Maybe that’s why he’s bothering me instead of you,” she said. “Maybe he senses I’m a coward.”
“You may be cautious, but you’re no coward. And he doesn’t realize we’re a team.”
Nicole decided to keep quiet for now. And since all the evidence was hers, that was her call. I decided not to pressure her, but simply advised her to hold on to the texts.
I also threw in a little undercover training. “The next time you go into his office, videotape the encounter with your cell phone.” I showed her how to tuck her phone in her purse pocket with the lens sticking up. “Set your bag on the table across from his desk. Let Bryce do the talking, and get him to confirm that’s him in the photo.”
Just then the GM’s assistant came in. We shut up and turned on the faucets and washed our hands. Because the water was cool, and our topic of conversation had been on the slimy side, I used plenty of soap.
While scrubbing, I remembered seeing references in the restaurant inspection reports to water temperature. I realized public bathrooms must have codes of how hot is too hot and how cold is too cold when it came to water. I wondered how many famous buildings around town met the standards. It wasn’t food, but it might be easier to win Bryce’s approval.
• • •
As I walked through the Minneapolis skyway to the city health department I daydreamed about how best to handle Bryce. I was torn between two films in which women teach men a lesson. Nine to Five versus The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. I fantasized about imprisoning Bryce at home and running the newsroom my way in his absence. But there was a certain appeal in obtaining revenge by tattooing something mean on his torso.
• • •
The Minneapolis health inspector who had helped me with the restaurant files sympathized when he heard my story wasn’t working out. I didn’t tell him about the advertiser angle. I was ashamed to let anyone outside the station know.
But when he heard I was interested in water temperatures in public bathrooms, he loaned me a professional digital thermometer and told me the water needed to be between 110 and 130 degrees. Not too hot and not too cold.
“To kill germs, right?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Water doesn’t kill germs.” He explained that comfortable water temperatures make people more likely to wash hands, preventing the spread of illness. “It’s the soap and scrubbing that removes germs.”
So on my way back to Channel 3, I checked water temperatures at the bathrooms in city hall, the library, and the courthouse. As soon as I got back to the station I went straight to the ladies’ room.
Aha, I thought to myself. Too cold. Just as I suspected.
A few minutes later I was telling Bryce my plan for checking bathroom water temperature at the state capitol, the Minnesota Zoo, even the airport. “This should be easy, we simply report the numbers. And the good part is government agencies can’t sue the media.”
Then I told him the punch line.
((RILEY SOT))
AND AMONG THE BUILDINGS WE
TESTED WAS CHANNEL 3. AND
GUESS WHAT WE FOUND IN OUR
LADIES’ ROOM? THE WATER WAS
TOO COLD BY TEN DEGREES.
“We’re not running that,” Bryce said.
“Viewers love it when we admit our own flaws,” I said. “And besides, maybe we’ll get the problem fixed around here.”
But my boss had his own idea. “If the whole point of the story is to encourage viewers to wash hands, let’s set up hidden cameras in public bathrooms and do a ‘gotcha’ when they don’t.”
This was such a bad plan, I didn’t know where to begin. So I stuck to the basics. “The legality of hidden camera use hinges on whether the person being recorded has a reasonable expectation of privacy. Nowhere would the expectation of privacy be higher than in a bathroom. If we aired someone not washing their hands, and us confronting them about it, they could sue us for invasion of privacy and would probably end up owning the television station.”
I could tell Bryce wasn’t sure whether to believe me or not. He picked up his phone and dialed an extension. “Miles, don’t come down. Just answer one question. Can we put hidden cameras in public restrooms to see if people wash hands?” I couldn’t hear Miles’s answer, but Bryce hung up almost immediately.
“I’ll have to get back to you about the water temperature story, Riley.”
For the first time in any of our closed-door office meetings, Bryce kept to his side of the desk. Probably smart, because if he’d come within an arm’s reach of me, instead of slapping a high five, he’d have landed a black eye.
CHAPTER 78
Fumbling for a calculator to double-check my mileage expenses, I found Sarah’s journal in my desk drawer. Even though the language was foreign, turning the pages took me back to Harmony and her murder.
That reminded me of her forensic drawing. I made a couple photocopies of it and tucked them in my bag in case I ever crossed paths with her little sister again.
Homicides—even when solved—always leave unanswered questions.
I considered mailing Sarah’s notebook to her mother anonymously. Let her think angels sent her daughter’s final words from heaven.
I called Garnett. As a security official in our nation’s capital, he might have a colleague who spoke German, although Arabic and Chinese were more highly valued in government these days.
“Hi, honey,” I said.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing, why do you assume something is wrong just because I call? Maybe I’m just missing you.”
“Are you?” he asked.
“Yeah, Nick. I am.”
I realized that was the truth. And at that moment, if he had suggested we spend the rest of our lives together, I would have said yes. But our conversation didn’t venture in that direction.
“You usually don’t call during the day unless there’s a problem, Riley.”
He sounded busy and that broke any romantic mood, so I stuck to business.
“Well, I need some advice. You don’t know anybody who can translate German, do you?”
“I do, but so do you. What do you need?”
I told him about Sarah’s notebook, and he told me cops like diaries in violent crimes to help establish victimology.
“If your homicide had been unsolved, I’d have said you hit the jackpot because fewer people keep such records anymore. Facebook is the diary of today.”
“Except, Nick, I can’t read any of wh
at Sarah wrote. It really is a secret diary.”
Then he told me about a free online website that translates different languages. English to German. German to English. Italian, Russian, Spanish.
“The wording might not always be perfect,” he said. “But it’s probably good enough for your purpose.”
We said our goodbyes and I searched the Internet. The website was slick. “Ja, Deutsch,” I said, selecting the German-to-English program. Typing Sarah’s last entry was awkward because the letters did not come naturally to my fingers. Luckily she had beautiful penmanship that was easy to read.
2. Oktober
Ich habe beschlossen, dass ich morgen zur Polizei gehe. Ich habe keine Angst, die Wahrheit zu offenbaren. Soll er sich doch verteidigen.
I hit the translate key and immediately Sarah’s story unfolded.
“I have decided tomorrow I will go to the English law. I am not afraid to reveal the truth. Let him be judged.”
Her last account verified what we had suspected. Sarah had discovered the fraud under way at Everything Amish. I imagined she felt conflicted. If she lost her job, she might be forced to return home. How Ike found out she was preparing to turn him in was irrelevant.
But since I was snooping and this online translation was so simple, I decided to keep typing because the whole process made me feel like a foreign agent.
1. Oktober
Die Arbeit im Geschäft ist nicht, was ich erwartet habe. Aber nächste Woche habe ich genug Geld, um mein neues Leben anzufangen.
“The store work is not what I expected. But next week I will have money to start my new life.”
Translating was addictive. Instant gratification.
September 30—Sarah wrote about a man preparing to leave for war—presumably Brian Kueppers—and shopping for a gift for his wife. He promised to come back with her to pick out a table.
Er fragte, ob ich wirklich amisch sei. Ich wusste nicht, was ich sagen sollte. Bin ich amisch?
“He asked if I was real Amish. I didn’t know how to answer. Am I?”
