Delivering Death: A Novel (Riley Spartz) (12 page)

“No. I felt rushed. Like I was just a formality. But here now, with you, it feels like someone is finally listening to my pain.”

“That assures me that I’m doing my job right.” We’d spent the last hour together. She talking, me taking notes. She was an articulate interview. “How crowded was the courtroom? Any friends of Leon around?”

“Basically empty. No spectators. Just me and him, the attorneys, the judge and other court employees.”

“Did you look at each other that day?”

“Yeah, I looked at him. I was hoping he might look ashamed or at least sorry. But his arms were crossed, and he smiled the whole time I spoke.”

“Really? What kind of smile?”

“Bold. He had more at stake than me, yet I was more nervous. We had a stare down, but I looked away first.” She looked away from me then, seemingly reliving that moment. “Afterward, when he got such a lenient sentence, I blamed myself for not doing better on the stand.”

“You did fine. Akume and the feds already had a deal. Nothing you said was going to make any difference.” I changed the subject because my questions were making her dejected. A sob might be near, and there was no point in letting her get all emotional unless a camera was rolling. “You mentioned school. What were you studying?”

“I wanted to be a doctor.”

“That’s an admirable profession. It’s a path that takes a lot of dedication, both before and after getting your degree.”

“I had the grades and the passion. I got robbed by Leon Akume.”

“Well, you certainly did. What would you think about doing a camera interview about identity theft? It would warn people about the problem.”

That suggestion made her uncomfortable. “I don’t want people to know I’m a loser.”

“You’re not a loser,” I said.

“They’ll think I am,” she insisted. “I work in a funeral home, and that’s only because my aunt knows one of the owners. I’m surrounded by dead people. Most of my time is spent mopping floors and loading and unloading caskets and flowers from vans. I dreamed of saving people, not burying them.”

That sounded like a dismal way to make a living. But while she put a negative spin on her job, I tried staying positive. “Funerals give solace to those in despair and are an important part of our culture. Don’t downplay your contributions. You are helping people, just in a different way.”

“I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but it just wasn’t my dream.”

“Lisa, there may not have been an audience listening to your story in that courtroom, but I can guarantee, plenty of folks will be watching and rooting for you when they hear your story on Channel 3.”

I left with a “maybe” regarding an interview, but internally confident the next time we met would be in front of a camera and lights. On the street, I noticed an old clunker parked in front of her building and reminded myself that my life, most days, was pretty good.

•  •  •

Benny called me on my way back to the station to thank me for keeping his name and Jack Clemens’s out of my informant story.

“No need to thank me,” I said. “That was our deal. But I am working on confirming the information another way.”

“Good luck with that. But I did hear something about Jack that you might be interested in. The government is auctioning off some of his possessions in a couple days. It’s open to the public. It’ll probably attract a fun crowd. Might be worth some news.”

“Really? Are you going?”

“Me, buy used? Especially linked to a jerk like him? I may be a lawyer, but I have an image to protect.”

“Hmmm. Maybe some of his friends will show up.”

“Are you kidding? He’s a man without friends. Besides, this is lower-end stuff. His cars, Rolexes, and top art were already sent to speciality auction houses. This is more like what a rich person
would donate to Goodwill.
You
might even be able to afford something.”

•  •  •

Back in the newsroom, Bryce’s office door was closed and through the glass wall I saw him scrolling down his computer screen. I tapped and he waved me inside. Soon I was pitching the auction story, again not mentioning my growing interest in Jack Clemens. He was intrigued with the idea of watching the spoils of fraud sold to the highest bidder “unless something better breaks.”

I also told him about Lisa and her firsthand experience with identity fraud, and his reaction was much the same. But I pushed him on the concept that viewers care about crime victims, especially if there was a chance they could end up like them.

“She humanizes the identity-theft problem,” I said. “We can use Leon Akume’s murder as a news peg.”

“Will she cry?” he asked, bluntly.

That was a hard question to answer. Even though I did suspect Lisa was in need of a good cry, that did not assure the interview would deliver that on-air magic TV photographers refer to as “sound up tears.” But I told Bryce what all news directors wanted to hear when discussing crime victims in these circumstances. “Absolutely.”

A
n email from the Department of Natural Resources was waiting in my inbox when I returned to the station, part of my goal to put a wider scope on the trapping story. I’d requested copies of state paperwork documenting the number of dogs killed in body grip traps since the season opened last fall. Attached were twenty-seven Trap Incident Reports from across Minnesota.

Thirteen dogs were killed; eight were injured seriously enough to require veterinary care. Most of the accidents happened on public land, but not all involved hunting dogs off in deep woods or far fields. Several were simply folks walking their pets in public parks or near trails. One even took place in the metro area. The DNR had determined that all the traps had been legally set—under the current regulations.

The names of the animal owners had been blacked out, for privacy, I was told. That didn’t deter me. The data was sound. I was confident that with specific dates and locations, I’d find enough people to interview for Bryce to approve the story.

I’d also figured out a way to get around the problem of pictures. I’d simply tell viewers the photographs were too disturbing to show. Imagination can be even more effective than reality.

•  •  •

Nicole closed the door to my office and told me that her efforts to get the Mall of America to give Channel 3 a wedding exclusive had failed badly.

“Their media spokesperson, Velma, laughed at me,” Nicole said. “She told me all credentialed media will receive the same access. I’m so embarrassed. What am I going to tell Bryce?”

“Tell him it’s a no-go,” I said, “but that you’ll do your best to make your stories stand out from the rest of the competition.”

“That won’t be good enough for him.”

I could see she was beginning to panic, so tried a little gallows humor. “Then offer to get married with the rest of the pack. It can be an arranged marriage between you and one lucky viewer. Bryce is big on reporter-participation stories.”

“Stop joking, Riley. He’s going to be upset. I wish I’d steered clear of the whole wedding business.”

I told her to stop acting like a nervous bride. “He’d probably have made you cover it anyway. At least this way you get credit for being a team player.”

“Well, I’m going to wait until the huddle to tell him the bad news. That way he’ll have to act civil in front of witnesses.”

“Don’t bet on it, Nicole. The odds were always against landing that scoop. But for him to recognize that would be admitting he was off base. That doesn’t sound like the boss we know.”

But Bryce surprised us. Instead of spouting off, he merely acted disappointed in Nicole and mentioned her “inexperience.” Then he scrutinized the rest of the news staff. “Does anybody else think they have what it takes to negotiate an exclusive deal here?”

Nobody responded.

“Then I guess I’ll have to show you journalists how it’s done.” He excused himself from the huddle, turning the day’s coverage decisions over to Ozzie and the newscast producers.

We all looked at each other and toward the glass-walled office where Bryce was already on the phone. I remember thinking, no good can come of that. Hours later, I learned I was right.

I missed the afternoon huddle while chasing a story about a milk truck rolling over in a freeway tunnel and blocking traffic, but I heard plenty, starting with a text from Nicole:
CAN U TALK? BRYCE GOT MOA EXCLUSIVE.

I phoned her immediately. She skipped hello and went straight to the problem. “Riley, I feel like such a washout.”

“I don’t believe Bryce. The mall would never agree.”

“He says he took a business approach. Apparently, the corporation that owns Channel 3 also owns the studio making the wedding movie. Somehow he convinced them to only allow our news cameras. Synergy, he called it. And cross-promotion.”

Bryce’s business brain was trumping our journalism skills. “Well, Nicole, at least you have an exclusive.”

“Not anymore. Scott wants to cover the story and Bryce thinks it’s the perfect way to showcase Channel 3’s new anchor. He dumped me.”

I’m always aware of audio, and noticed her voice had turned from miffed to truly mournful in five seconds.

I took her out for a drink that night and tried to tell her that working for a television station was a lot like being wed to someone you could never please. “Think of it as a job, not a relationship. Lot less hurt feelings down the road.”

“Is that what you do?” she asked.

“No. In my mind I’m married to my job; that’s why I’m so messed up when it comes to finding true love. But it’s not too late for you.”

“Do you really believe that, Riley?”

“About me or you?

“Both.”

I wasn’t sure how to answer, so we sat there for a few minutes, not talking, before heading to our cars and home. In bed, while I channel-surfed between newscasts, I had to admit true love might have slipped away from me.

I
nmate 16780-59 hadn’t received a letter since his prison relocation, so the Channel 3 stationery made him anxious. The envelope already had been opened by prison screeners to make sure it contained no drugs, money, or sexually explicit material.

Dear Mr. Clemens,

I am a television reporter in Minneapolis and have been following your court case since it unfolded. I am interested in conducting an interview with you regarding your situation. I’d be happy to accept a collect phone call to answer any questions you may have and work out any visiting details with prison authorities. I look forward to hearing from you and hope that you have been able to follow the news back home.

Sincerely,

Riley Spartz

Channel 3

The note contained both desk and cell-phone numbers, and the writer’s email and snail mail addresses. He recognized the reporter’s name, could visualize her face, and had no doubt she was who she claimed.

He was glad to not be forgotten, but realized an interview was impossible.

As he considered the implications of the letter, he started coughing and had difficulty stopping until he laid down on his bunk. His chest felt tight. He knew he needed to make a call, but not to the TV station. He didn’t want his cellmate finding the letter and asking questions, so he folded it several times and stuck it under his mattress.

•  •  •

Scarface passed him the burner phone and Inmate 16780-59 dialed the number, slowly, as if he wasn’t sure this was a good idea.

“Jack,” said the voice on the other end of the line, “something going on?”

He summarized the letter from the reporter. “Do you think she knows?”

The voice was silent. This was not something either of them had anticipated. “You must not communicate with her. No interviews. That would ruin all our plans.”

“I know. I know.”

“You need to stay calm.”

“I’m feeling jumpy, is all. What if she knows?”

“I will take care of this, Jack,” the voice said. “I promise.”

And then the line went dead.

O
pen wide,” Dr. Mendes said.

I’d scheduled my dental appointment like I’d promised him, and told Ozzie I’d be a little late for work. Turned out, I would be a lot late.

“I’m sorry, Riley, but you have a cavity,” my dentist said.

“A cavity? I haven’t had a cavity for years.” Teeth were important in TV news.

“That’s why we urge patients to have regular checkups.” His voice had an I-told-you-so tone. “Seriously, didn’t this tooth bother you at all?” He poked it with a pointy tool and I winced.

“I thought it was psychosomatic pain, related to that earlier story we discussed.” I tried to stay obscure about the teeth in the mail because I didn’t want to gross out the young woman having work done on her mouth across the hall.

“No, it’s the real thing. And you need a filling.”

Another patient had canceled at the last minute, so we decided to finish the job then. I closed my eyes as he stuck a needle in my jaw. My mouth grew numb and during the drilling sound I tried imagining myself in the production studio where work was being completed on the new set instead of my teeth.

“You’re good to go.” Dr. Mendes gave me his usual parting lecture about not forgetting to brush and floss. “Any questions?”

“Well actually, I do have one about that other matter.”

He knew what I was talking about. The other day, the teeth had just been teeth. Now they were evidence in a homicide. Banter was unseemly. “Let’s continue this discussion in my office.”

I’d never been in his back office before. I didn’t even know he had one. A couple of white plaster of paris teeth molds sat on a desk along with a photo of his son’s championship soccer team. He was the coach, so I was about to congratulate him on the win when a gilded picture stuck in the corner of his dental diploma caught my attention.

It was St. Apollonia.

A different depiction of the martyr than the one I’d seen, this image showed a pale woman in heavy Renaissance garb with one hand against her mouth and the other holding a set of pliers. Dr. Mendes gave me the same history as Father Mountain, minus the religious debate.