Killing Kate: A Novel (Riley Spartz Book 4) (18 page)

Then she explained that while the network was winning prime-time ratings, Channel 3 was failing to hold those viewers for its late newscast. “We’re losing our lead-in audience. That means my job is on the line. Which means your job is on the line.”

My job was always on the line, so talk like that didn’t scare me. But clearly this unease was a new feeling for Noreen.

“Well, we can do an interesting story about who gets custody of a beloved pet during a divorce,” I said. “We can examine how the courts work. We can interview the attorneys, maybe even the judge in this case.”

“Does this woman have any home video of Buddy?”

“I’ll certainly ask. She gave me the impression he was the child she never had. No doubt, she’ll go on camera. And we can let her
make the claim that had Buddy been placed in her care, he’d still be alive today.”

Noreen nodded. “We might even do an online poll asking viewers what they think regarding pet custody.”

I didn’t answer because I question the accuracy of that method of surveying, since the respondents select themselves rather than being randomly chosen. But the polls had proven popular with viewers, so I had no hope of changing Noreen’s mind.

Then my boss stood up, like she was getting ready to leave. Instead, she walked over to my murder map.

“What’s this?”

I tried to think of a convincing lie, but because Noreen and I were getting along so well, I told her the truth about the significance of the chalk outline around Kate’s body. And the other murders. And even my hunch that the killer was turning the dead into angels.

“Maybe he thinks he’s giving them an afterlife,” I said.

“How long have you been working on this?”

“About twenty-four hours, Noreen. But all my info is off the record, so we can’t air anything, except for tonight’s piece where I showed the crime scene photo. That should make the homicide cops play ball with me.”

She didn’t answer.

“Noreen, I made a deal.”

“When do you think we can break this story?”

“I’m working on it. I’ll let you know as soon as it’s a go. The best about this one is there’s bound to be follow-ups.”

“We better not get beat.”

I assured her we were the only media anywhere close, and that balancing strong journalism with Chuck’s people meter, we had a reasonable chance of winning the household ratings.

“What about the demos?” she asked.

I shrugged. The demos were the only numbers news directors cared about these days. But no one had a ratings crystal ball.

K
arl Dolezal felt certain the TV reporter had noticed him, that their eyes had connected intimately as they passed each other in the downtown skyway. When he watched the news that night, he had no doubt.

Broadcasting the outline of his Black Angel on the news was a dare for him to come after her. And he would. On his terms.

He vowed that very soon he would know what car she drove, where she parked, and, most important, where she lived. But since she was aware of him, he must remain cautious.

His agenda made him restless. He turned off the television, climbed out of bed, and paced back and forth. He took the broken bat from the display case and kissed it.

Then he printed a picture of Riley Spartz from his computer. He wrapped it tight around the bat, imagining the wood against her skin and bone . . . but decided keeping the paper prop was unnecessary and unwise. Instead, he ran her photo through a shredder, then stuck the colored confetti inside his pillowcase.

Dolezal crawled back under the covers.

He reached for the stack of Desiree Fleur books he kept on the floor by his bed—not
Black Angel Lace
, he’d banned that one from his living quarters—and reread favorite passages about
characters who cajole, caress, and chase their companions until all are satisfied.

He remembered how fate introduced him to Kate Warner. Upon learning that a legal client was an author, he had no idea that he would connect with her writing in such a powerful way, becoming her biggest fan. Until she disrespected his Black Angel. That was like a kiss from Judas.

I
went to sleep dreaming of scooping the other media in town on the serial killer case, but woke up discovering I’d been robbed.

The sky was still dark when Noreen called, screaming at me to turn my television to Channel 8 and keep my phone line open.

Chief Capacasa, in a rare live television interview, was giving my story to our morning competitor under a gaudy EXCLUSIVE banner.

“We believe this latest Minneapolis murder is connected to two others in the Midwest.” He spoke with authority. “Ames, Iowa, and Madison, Wisconsin, are the other locations.”

“What ties them together?” Channel 8’s morning anchor, Jenny Turrentine, asked.

I never liked her. Not just because she was beating me on my own case, or because she looked stunning in the wee hours of the morning, but because whenever our paths crossed she made a point of telling me how much she had enjoyed watching my stories when she was growing up.

She and I both knew her remarks weren’t meant to cheer me, but to remind me that she was young and—at thirty-six—I was old.

And television was a young person’s game.

Meanwhile, the chief kept talking. “The victims were all women, and their manner of death, blunt force trauma, was similar.”

“But there must be something more specific, Chief.” Jenny leaned forward in anticipation. “Do you have DNA from the killer?”

DNA is a magic word that makes viewers look up from their breakfast. They forget they’re watching a morning newscast and think they’re tuned to a prime-time crime drama. DNA makes the cops sound smart and an arrest sound imminent.

“We have evidence linking the three cases, but don’t want to release too much just now,” the chief said. “We’ll hold a news conference later today and keep the public updated as best we can.” He essentially wrapped up his own interview, leaving the anchor to thank him and toss to the commercial break.

“You and your off-the-record deal. How come he’s on their air and not on ours?” Noreen asked.

“I’m not sure.” But I had deep suspicions that it might have something to do with the chief showing me who’s boss. “But I’ll find out.”

“It’s too late now. Channel 8 is stealing our story. I pay you to find news before it ends up on our competitor’s air. You better come up with something good or I’m going to hand the case off to someone who can.”

No sense in reminding Noreen that she didn’t even care about this murder last week. That was irrelevant now because, in the world of news, timing is everything. Today’s lame-duck report can be tomorrow’s golden goose story. So I limped into the station to try to salvage my investigation.

“May I speak to the chief, please? This is Riley Spartz from Channel 3.”

I didn’t expect to be patched through, and I wasn’t. But I went
through the motions because journalists can’t simply assume people don’t want to talk to us. We make the call and make them shoot us down.

“Could you please ask him to call me?”

Chief Capacasa’s secretary explained that her boss would be happy to answer my questions at the news conference along with the rest of the media, but until then I should expect no comment on their murder investigation.

Garnett apologized for the story getting away.

“Sorry doesn’t help me with my boss,” I said. “And it doesn’t help you with me.”

I couldn’t decide whether I was sad or angry, so opted for both. Our relationship seemed to swing from extremes. Living under the same roof seemed less and less likely as long as we both held jobs with conflicting goals.

“I’ll see what I can find out, Riley, but it doesn’t make much sense that the chief would go public with word of a serial killer. His administration prefers shouting good news and ignoring bad.”

“I’ll certainly ask him about that philosophy at the news conference,” I said. “But I’m not sure how forthcoming he’ll be.”

“That’s also strange,” Garnett answered. “The chief hates the mechanics of news conferences. Oh, he enjoys being on television, but under his own conditions. He hates a crowd of lights and cameras and questions.”

“So do I. I much prefer one-on-one interviews. I should have landed this one. He hosed me.”

“I’ll see what I can find out,” Garnett repeated.

There was a silence on his end. Like he was lingering. Maybe even contemplating signing off with a reassurance of amour, but I feared such a good-bye would only ignite a lover’s quarrel. So I quickly thanked him and hung up.

•    •    •

Xiong sensed my anxiety and tried to cheer me with some humorous perspective sent in an email link. My YouTube video, crying over a dead dog, seemed to have peaked just short of a million hits.

But now the online TV news insider buzz was all about a Las Vegas morning news anchor team standing by for a live casino implosion during their newscast. They droned on about how exciting this event was going to be . . . when the control booth suddenly cut away from the view of the casino to a shot of their meteorologist in the weather center.

Just then the casino blew, and they missed it.

The pair’s mortified meltdown, which showed them ripping script paper and slamming the news desk, trumped any memory of my tears. My fault was showing emotion; theirs was showing incompetence.

I replied “thnks” to Xiong, and started scripting what I knew of the serial killer story. I’d sent an order for graphic maps and photos of the victims so the women’s faces could pop onto the screen as I read their names. Sounded slick, but by the end of the day, our competition would look the same.

Because the chief was holding the news conference at noon, and because Channel 3 had a noon newscast, Noreen’s plan was to carry part of the event live.

As Malik and I drove over to the police station to set up, my cell phone rang. Garnett on the other end.

“I think I know what happened, Riley.”

“I’m on my way over to the news conference. Talk fast.”

“That’s what I’m calling about. The FBI is moving in. They’re taking over the murder investigation. The chief’s trying to bigfoot the feds to show the citizens of Minneapolis how tough he is.”

“Will the FBI be at the news conference?”

“Uncertain, they dislike the media more than the chief does. Behind the scenes, there’ll be some pushing and shoving going on for control.”

That scenario could be newsworthy on its own. “Before you became a fed, Nick, you’d have been pushing them too.” I bid him good-bye as we pulled up outside city hall.

The local TV and radio stations, along with both area newspapers, gathered as well. A few were carrying the video on their websites, but we were the only ones actually broadcasting the feed live because no one else had a newscast scheduled at that time. TV news directors know that if they cut into afternoon soaps their message better be to take cover for weather or war.

I was scheduled for the lead story, but that wasn’t saying much since it wasn’t quite noon and most news of the day hadn’t happened yet.

The hope in the control booth was that by the time I’d given the story background for the viewers and we’d rolled some file tape of the crime scene, Chief Capacasa would be standing at attention by a podium decorated with mic flags advertising each station in attendance. So I turned off my cell phone and started to fill air.

((RILEY LIVE))
I’M RILEY SPARTZ LIVE HERE AT
THE MINNEAPOLIS POLICE STATION
WHERE WE’RE WAITING FOR
THE LATEST ON A MURDER CITY
OFFICIALS SAY MAY BE THE WORK
OF A SERIAL KILLER.

Two minutes stretched after the hour, but still no chief. In my ear, the noon producer finally gave me a wrap. I went with our live event contingency plan.

((RILEY LIVE))
WE’LL CONTINUE TO STAND BY
HERE AND BRING YOU THAT NEWS
CONFERENCE WHEN IT BEGINS . . .
TILL THEN . . . I’M RILEY SPARTZ
AT THE MINNEAPOLIS POLICE
STATION.

More orders came barking through my earpiece from the newscast producer. “I’m checking, I’m checking,” I said. Channel 3 then ran through the first section of stories and went black to the commercial break.

Just then the police chief arrived to make good his promise to make news. Because none of the other stations were carrying the news conference live, they didn’t particularly care when he started talking, and even had reason to delay it past the end of our newscast. Jenny Turrentine, who had scored that morning’s exclusive for Channel 8, tried to stall the chief during his march to the front of the room by confirming how to spell his last name. C-a-p-a-c-a-s-a.

I didn’t panic because Channel 3 was still in commercial anyway, but I gave news control a thirty-second time cue to keep them sharp. I heard them scrambling as the chief stepped behind the podium. Usually he wore a suit and tie, but today he was in full dress blue uniform to impress the citizens of Minneapolis and look more like a law enforcement agent than a politician.

“Standby,” I told news control, signaling Malik to keep his camera off me and on the chief. The anchor desk would have to introduce him in a double box as the station took the news conference live out of the break.

The chief began to speak. “Minneapolis police believe a recent local homicide is connected to two others in the Midwest.”

Commercial just ended in my ear, so I knew we’d missed the chief’s opening remark. I could hear our anchor scrambling.

((ANCHOR LIVE))
THAT NEWS CONFERENCE WE
TOLD YOU ABOUT EARLIER IS
JUST GETTING UNDER WAY NOW.
HERE’S THE MINNEAPOLIS CHIEF
OF POLICE.

“Does this mean a serial killer?” the Channel 8 anchor blurted out the question, wanting to get her voice on a competitor’s air.

“Yes,” the chief answered. “But we want to assure our citizens that these cases are widely scattered, and we believe the killer has moved on and poses no immediate threat here.”

A wall of reporter questions moved across the room.

“What links the cases?”

“Do you have DNA from the killer?”