Delivering Death: A Novel (Riley Spartz) (9 page)

Out in the field, I had no teleprompter as crutch and had to rely on memory for the parts that weren’t prerecorded and covered by video.

((RILEY, LIVE))
INVESTIGATORS HAVE LINKED THE CONTENTS OF A PACKAGE I RECEIVED TO A RECENT HOMICIDE THAT I REPORTED FROM THIS VERY SPOT ONE WEEK AGO.

I stopped writing to open an email from Xiong that confirmed his progress in fleshing out the background of our homicide victim. The highlight: twenty-five-year-old Leon Paul Akume had been released from the Federal Prison Camp in Duluth two days prior to his murder after serving time for fraud. Leon had little time to enjoy his stint of freedom before his teeth were torn from his jaw. Xiong had included the name of a possible relative, but the number he was able to track down had been disconnected.

((RILEY, SOT))
THE VICTIM . . . LEON PAUL AKUME . . . WAS FOUND NEAR THIS DUMPSTER . . . DURING HIS AUTOPSY, AUTHORITIES DISCOVERED HE WAS MISSING SOMETHING—HIS TEETH. AND THAT’S WHAT SHOWED UP IN MY MAIL.

I TURNED THIS EVIDENCE OVER TO THE POLICE AFTER
FIRST SHOWING THE TEETH TO A LOCAL DENTIST.

((DENTIST, SOT))
NO DOUBT IN MY MIND THE TEETH ARE HUMAN.

((RILEY CLOSE-UP))
THE POLICE HAVE RELEASED NO MOTIVE FOR THE MURDER, THOUGH CHANNEL 3 HAS LEARNED THE VICTIM WAS RELEASED FROM PRISON RECENTLY. WHY SEND SUCH A GRISLY CLUE TO US? WE HAVE NO IDEA.

As I skimmed back through my script and stored it, I realized there was someone else who might have additional insight about the victim. Toby Elness, an animal rights activist, was serving a manslaughter sentence in the same prison for his role in a misguided plan to bomb wind turbines to protect migrating bats. Toby had started out as a news source regarding a pet cremation scam, and we’d later become pals. I’d introduced him to his former wife, my previous news director, Noreen Banks. Even after their divorce, she’d continued to visit him in prison and care for all the animals he’d adopted. After her death, I’d found homes for their menagerie.

Reaching out to him meant facing up to self-reproach. He and I hadn’t spoken for months. He had sent me a letter, desperate for a visit, but I’d written back that regretfully, I was swamped with work. Even I could admit it was a lame excuse, but we’d both changed. Toby’s extremist cronies also shunned him, but for an entirely different reason. They wanted to avoid their names appearing on any government watch lists.

Seeing him meant a two-hour drive north to Duluth. I called the prison and learned that I remained on Toby Elness’s visitor list and that the next visiting day was tomorrow. I hated myself for reaching out to him now just because I needed something. But I did it anyway.

The Duluth prison camp housed under a thousand inmates, but Toby was a social butterfly. I had a hunch he might have run into Leon before the young man’s death and was interested in his impressions. Toby was an odd one, but he was also astute, one of the qualities that first drew me to him—that and his quest for justice.

He reminded me of an eco–Don Quixote. I’d taken him once to see a stage performance of
Man of La Mancha
and we’d left the theater, arm in arm, singing of righting unrightable wrongs.

((RILEY, GRAPHIC))
IF YOU KNOW SOMETHING ABOUT THIS HOMICIDE, PLEASE CONTACT THE MINNEAPOLIS POLICE.

I added the final line to my piece and forwarded the script to the newscast producer before leaving for mirror, makeup, and my live shot . . . the melody of “The Impossible Dream” stuck in my head. Even though I’d tagged out the Akume murder story with the police phone number, I hoped viewers might call the station directly with tips.

After all, somebody out there must care about Leon Paul Akume—and I wanted to be the first one on the case.

I
drove north, toward Lake Superior the next morning, tracking a hundred-fifty miles on my odometer before reaching the prison gate. No cameras were allowed, so I made the trip alone, in the name of research. I didn’t mind. The weather was clear, the roads dry, the radio reception good. I was glad to have a break from Channel 3.

A uniformed woman in the guard shack flipped through some papers before circling my name and allowing me to enter the grounds of the Duluth Federal Prison Camp.

After I stuck my purse and cell phone in a wall locker, another guard searched to make sure I wasn’t bringing in contraband. They didn’t just mean drugs or weapons. Smuggling in a newspaper, cash, or even chewing gum, could get a visitor booted permanently and could also land the inmate in trouble.

But prisoners who followed the rules enjoyed an easy sentence.
Forbes
magazine had recently ranked it among the top-dozen cushiest prisons to do time. The place was a minimum-security detention facility without guard towers or even a fence. Visitors and inmates weren’t separated by glass partitions, gathering together on couches or around tables in a large community room instead.

Toby and I relaxed on some upholstered chairs and checked each other out. “How are Blackie and Husky doing?” I wasn’t
surprised that he asked about the welfare of the dogs that had once been his before asking about me. Animals always topped his priority list.

“They’re happy to be farm dogs.” Usually, when someone says a dog went “to live on a farm,” they’re being euphemistic. But Toby trusted me, and had met my parents. “I was actually down visiting them over the weekend, but something nasty happened.”

I told him about finding the dead collie with the trap snapped across her throat. “Even my boss said it was too gruesome to air.”

Toby had long opposed trapping and disagreed about shielding viewers from grim reality. “Sometimes you have to expose ugliness to bring change. Viewers should see the cruelty of these devices, like you did. Very few animals survive body grip traps. Most die within a minute, their windpipe crushed. No chance to even whimper for help. At least with leghold traps, if the wrong animal is caught, release is an option.”

I told him about the other missing dogs.

“Odds are, they’re dead,” he replied. “Shoot, shovel, shut up.”

“Excuse me?” I said.

He repeated the line. “Shoot. Shovel. Shut up. Some trappers kill unwanted animals and bury the evidence. Happens to protected species that are pests, or pets that get in the way. One of those hush-hush things.”

He explained that when it came to trapping, some hunters were siding with animal rights activists. “Enough hunting dogs have been killed while tracking through the woods with their owners that lawmakers are being pushed to pass restrictions.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Requiring the traps to be five feet off the ground on a tree or pole. That way, climbing animals like raccoons could still be caught but dogs wouldn’t become victims.” Toby encouraged me to check state records. “The DNR is supposed to be keeping statistics. Even one dog’s death is too many, but you might be surprised how many you find.”

Tony’s passion reminded me why I was glad we were still in touch. I loosened up as he chatted about a prison program in which he helped train dogs for disabled people. Then we discussed the earliest he might get out for good behavior. Finally I brought up the real reason for my visit: Leon Akume.

“Sure, I know who he is.” Toby leaned forward and lowered his voice so the other visitors couldn’t hear our conversation. “Everybody does. He’s a snitch.”

“A snitch?” I whispered back.

“Someone who rats out other people.”

“I know what a snitch is.” In news, we call them “sources” to make them sound noble. Suddenly Leon’s murder and lack of teeth had an obvious and punitive motive. “So who’d he squeal on?”

“He was serving time for some kind of credit card fraud,” Toby said. “Word out was that he flipped for a shorter sentence and nicer digs. That’s how he ended up here instead of somewhere fierce.”

“Did you know him at all?” I asked.

“We used the same dentist. But then, everyone here does. That’s how I first met him. We had back-to-back appointments.”

That explained how the cops were able to identify the teeth in the envelope as Leon’s so quickly. The prison likely had sent current dental X-rays of his mouth to Minneapolis Police when informed about the unusual circumstance of his murder.

So I told Toby the latest on his former fellow inmate. “He’s dead.”

Judging Toby’s emotions was difficult because his face resembled a perpetually sad bassett hound even when he was perfectly content. Though he and Leon weren’t buddies, I could tell he was upset by the savagery of his murder when a throaty gasp escaped his droopy jowls.

“Hush,” I said, noting that other visitors were glancing in our direction, including a family with young children. “We don’t
want to attract unwelcome attention here. If anyone asks what’s wrong, tell them you got bad news about one of your dogs.”

He gripped the arms of the chair before calming down. “I feel awful, Riley. I’d run into Leon Akume now and then, and he’d try to chat, but I’d steer clear because of his reputation.”

“Reputation?”

“For informing. Whether it was true or not, nobody wanted to risk being his friend.”

“He must have looked forward to his release.”

“That’s the funny thing. I can’t wait to be out of here. I count the days—four hundred eighty-seven still to go. But he once mentioned not caring about going back to the real world.”

“What do you think he meant?”

“I don’t know. Some of the guys here sort of dig it. Especially those who don’t have real family. We got comfy quarters. Easy jobs. Decent food. Free health care. Every once in a while someone jokes that it’s better than working for a living. But now I’m wondering if he felt safer inside than outside.”

I pondered that morose concept much of the drive home, and speculated how Leon had spent his last hours of life. In hiding? If so, he hadn’t been good enough. Trying to gain an upper hand over those he feared? Again, failure. His final minutes were, perhaps, filled with excruciating dread. The kind that would make any man grit his teeth.

On my return trip, I stopped in Hinckley, the halfway point between Duluth and the Twin Cities. A bakery off the freeway was famous for caramel rolls, and even though I sensed St. Apollonia’s displeasure, I bought one to go.

Her revenge came when a news story over the radio reported that a recent poll showed America’s trust in TV news was at an all-time low.

W
hen the courthouse opened the next morning, I was waiting outside to retrieve Leon Akume’s conviction file from the records counter. Normally, I merely skim through the legal paperwork and photocopy the juicy parts to save the station money. But in this case, I wasn’t sure which documents might be key, so I paid for the entire folder.

I tucked the pages in my black shoulder bag and made a second stop at the cop shop to check their criminal records, which typically contain extra details, but this counter clerk told me that Leon Akume’s file was “not available.”

“Why not?” I asked, even though I already suspected the answer.

“It’s part of an active criminal investigation.”

The homicide cops had closed the police file while they searched for Akume’s killer, but luckily they hadn’t thought to pull the court records.

•  •  •

I waved the file at Ozzie, who was on the phone at the assignment desk, this time explaining to a viewer that daylight saving time wouldn’t kick in for another month.

“I’m working on a follow-up to the teeth murder,” I told him.

He nodded that he heard me and I headed back to my office and hung my coat on a hook on the back of the door. Reading
through the documents was discouraging, because I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for. But I quickly perked up when I saw a grand jury indictment alleging that Leon had been part of a multimillion-dollar identity-theft ring.

Even though he pleaded guilty to a lesser crime, I was surprised he hadn’t received a longer prison term. But the file reflected a delay between his charges and his sentencing. That hinted that perhaps Toby’s buzz might be correct—perhaps Leon was attempting to work a deal by leaking information on other criminal colleagues. Too late for him to go scot-free, but sufficient for a reduced penalty.

I taped Leon’s mug shot to a white board hanging on my office wall where I like to track complicated stories, then started to make a chart with dates, names, and arrows.

I called the federal prosecutor who had handled the case. “What can you tell me about Leon Paul Akume?”

“Now you’re interested,” he fumed. “Last year I tried to get some media coverage about identity fraud, but nobody cared.”

“Well, I care now.”

“You’re only interested because there’s a dead body. You want details, call homicide.” Then he slammed down the phone.

His criticism was spot-on. There’s no way Channel 3 would give me time to chase financial crime unless the case involved armed bank robbers holding hostages. We aren’t CNBC; our audience isn’t into business and math.

When TV journalists say, “If it bleeds, it leads,” they’re talking about real blood, not companies bleeding money or making a killing in the stock market. That’s not entirely the media’s fault. Unless it’s their own checking account, viewers are more attracted to loss of life than financial losses.

But Leon Akume’s murder combined both.

•  •  •

My legwork on the case continued with a call to Detective Delmonico, which ended poorly.

“I told you I’d stay in touch. Remember?” I said. “Just checking to see if you got any leads regarding our murder victim after last night’s story? I’m pushing for a follow-up on tonight’s news, but I need something fresh.”

“Sorry, Riley, can’t help you. Not my case.”

“Since when? You’re the lead homicide detective.”

“Not anymore. The feds are claiming jurisdiction. Everything has to go through them.”

“How did they manage to make a federal case out of this murder?”

“You’ll have to ask them,” he said.

“Can you give me some direction here?”

“I don’t dare.”

Typically, murder is not a federal crime. Unless . . . and that word covers a lot of ground.