Shunning Sarah (27 page)

“And if it matches ours,” I said, “we can contact authorities and probably report the theft as news.”

If we retrieved the camera, our status with Bryce would definitely improve, because the station had self-insured camera equipment and the loss was coming out of the news budget. I had to return my parents’ car soon anyway, and I could also bring Husky along and drop him off at the farm so I could get a dog break.

“Want to take a road trip, Malik?” The only problem was I might be recognized by the person selling the camera. “You’ll have to call, get the address, and set up an appointment. Also get approval from Bryce, because my last meeting with him went bad.”

He gave me a thumbs-up. But then, because Malik had been on air recently, I started worrying he might look familiar, too. We could both wear disguises, but ordinary folks from around the area might be less suspicious customers than out-of-town strangers.

“Let’s send my mom and dad to check the serial number.”

So I called them on my newly purchased cell phone.

•   •   •

Malik brought the same model of video camera along as a prop, to show my parents where the serial number was located—on the bottom, near the battery compartment.

“I can’t read the numbers very well,” Mom said. “They’re too tiny.”

“My eyes are okay,” Dad said. “It’s my knees that are bad.”

I wrote the digits of the serial number on his palm.

“If the numbers correspond, offer to write our dealer a check. I’m guessing he’ll insist on cash, and you’ll have to meet him another time.” I handed Dad a twenty-dollar bill. “See if he’ll take this as a deposit.”

The Craigslist seller didn’t give out any home address, just arranged for a get-together in a parking lot by the town swimming pool. Off season, the area was deserted.

Malik and I parked the van across the street and waited with the camera ready to shoot. My parents sat in the pickup with a wireless microphone hidden under Dad’s jacket. I had them face the dashboard toward the road so they had good visibility and so did we.

An Amish buggy drove by with a beardless man inside, but didn’t stop. I wondered if he’d circle back. I checked the video. Malik had recorded a close-up and the driver was definitely not Gideon.

Just then a dark-green sport utility vehicle pulled into the lot alongside the pickup and rolled down the window.

“Quick,” I said. “Get the license plate.”

He read the numbers and letters out loud. I called the newsroom for Xiong and asked him to track the owner from our computer vehicle database.

The driver handed the camera over to my mother on the passenger
side. She tried to practice pointing and shooting. Then she passed it over to my dad. “Here, honey, you try.”

While he fumbled, I heard her asking the guy how old the camera was and how good a picture did it take. I had told her to try and distract him while Dad was looking for the serial number.

His voice wasn’t clear because he was so far from the hidden microphone, but sounded like he was saying, “First rate, lady.”

“We’ll take it,” Dad said.

That was our cue that the numbers matched. The camera belonged to Channel 3 and had been stolen from me.

Then Xiong texted me that the SUV belonged to Roger Alton. That name sounded familiar. Xiong included an address in Preston, Minnesota. He also sent the man’s height and weight information from the separate driver’s license database.

My parents had already agreed to pay the thousand dollars, even though my mom, a garage-sale buff, had wanted to see how low she could negotiate.

“I’ll write you a check,” Mom said. “Who should I make it out to?”

Thieves don’t want checks in case they bounce; they also don’t like giving out their names to buyers or having to endorse the check later.

“Didn’t you bring any real money?” The guy’s voice was louder now, full of incredulity.

“No one carries that much cash,” Mom answered. “What if we were robbed?”

Dad offered him the twenty from his wallet as a deposit. “How ’bout we come back to meet you later? We just need to make a quick trip to the Farmers State Bank of Adams.”

The guy agreed to come back that evening at six unless he got another offer. They handed the camera back through the truck window and he took off.

Thirty seconds later, Malik and I waved them over.

“Good job,” I said. “So the numbers matched?”

My dad affirmed the match with a proud nod.

We knew a crime had been committed. And we had a suspect.

Just then a Fillmore County Sheriff’s vehicle raced by and I remembered where I’d heard the name before.

Roger Alton was Sheriff Eide’s election pal. And besides carrying money, he also carried a gun. So he might not be the type of adversary I wanted my parents to face alone.

“He smelled like booze,” my mom said.

I had to admit that I might have been wrong to blame Gideon for cutting my hair and filching my camera. The scene at the Lamplight Inn replayed in my mind. One man clean shaven, the other bearded. Both in wide-brimmed hats. A dark room. Then it hit me.

The Amish weren’t the only ones around these parts opposed to cameras. Early that same day, Sheriff Eide had tried to steal the video from me in the back of his squad.

The sheriff had a smooth face. The man in the truck definitely sported whiskers. And plain Amish hats were easy to find in tourist country.

I realized the whole attack was a ruse to take my camera. The pair had concocted the ambush based on the latest news about the renegade Amish group. His buddy probably agreed to help to avoid any controversy with his name. So Sheriff Eide got the video, and Roger got the camera.

I got a bad haircut. And now I was getting a worse headache.

R
eporting the stolen merchandise posed a problem. I could hardly call the Fillmore County Sheriff for help. And Bryce had told Malik and me to get the camera back free, and absolutely not pay a grand. After all, the equipment belonged to us.

“I didn’t bring any cash along,” Malik said. “Did you?”

I shook my head. “No big bucks. And none of the ATM machines will let me withdraw a thousand dollars.”

My parents offered to run to their bank and get the money. I decided we might need a stack of greenbacks for a prop, so I thanked them and sent them off. Dad drove the pickup and Mom took the car they’d loaned to me. Husky curled up in the backseat for a reunion with the farm dogs.

Then I remembered Deputy Laura Schaefer, the sheriff’s election challenger. Her night shift hadn’t started yet, but maybe I could catch her at home.

“Darn, not listed,” I told Malik.

Cops often put their work addresses on vehicle registrations or driver’s licenses because they don’t want bad guys knowing where they live. I explained the new problem to Xiong, and within a few minutes he’d found a home address for her in our hunting-license database. Police don’t want to risk that piece of mail getting lost. And apparently Laura liked to hunt.

•   •   •

A Schaefer campaign sign stood next to the mailbox, so I figured I was at the right place. When I knocked, I couldn’t tell from her face if she was dissing me or genuinely didn’t recognize me again.

“Sorry to bother you at home, Deputy Schaefer.”

“Regardless, Ms. Spartz, I don’t start patrol until seven.”

“I can tell you’re off duty.” She was dressed like a normal person, not like a cop. Out of uniform, not armed with gun or hammer, she looked good enough for my job. Maybe even better, with her flowing hair.

“And I can save you time,” she continued. “We haven’t found your camera. And Gideon Yoder didn’t know what I was talking about when I grilled him about your attack.”

Without leads, I could see how the investigation might have stalled. “Well, Deputy, we can actually save
you
time.” I turned to let Malik reveal our big news.

“We found the video camera!” he proclaimed.

She looked plenty confused now. “Then why are you bothering me?”

“It’s been stolen,” Malik said. “And we need help recovering it.”

“And the theft is your case.” I explained about Roger Alton, Craigslist, and my parents. “He’s coming back tonight for the money.”

That scenario made her pause. “The cost of that camera would definitely push the crime into a felony zone,” she said. “And felons can’t be granted gun permits.”

“That will be the least of his problems,” I said. “Because Roger didn’t do it alone.
Two
men attacked me. That’s why I’m coming to you.”

Her eyes narrowed and she followed my implication.

“Earlier that same day,” I continued, “a man wanted the video in my camera. And tried to take it from me himself. Looks like he might have gotten it after all.”

“The sheriff?” she said. “I heard something about the two of you and a skirmish.”

“I had mentioned to him where I’d be staying that night. Guess I might be a witness on a couple levels.”

Malik turned on his camera, gave her some earbuds, and played the fresh video of my parents and Roger trying to lock in the camera sale.

“I’ll also need to talk to your parents,” Deputy Schaefer said. “Now. It’ll be getting dark in a few hours. We don’t have much time.”

M
y parents waiting in a dark truck for a man with a camera didn’t bother me. I did that all the time. A man with a gun was something else.

But my dad insisted. I think he wanted something to brag about to his pals down at the American Legion. “And besides, I already have the cash.” He’d flashed ten crisp one-hundred-dollar bills at us.

He wanted to bring his own gun along, but Deputy Schaefer refused. “I’ll be in the back of the pickup for insurance. Make the handoff. We’ll take it from there. The fewer guns on-site, the better.”

She had assembled a team from the state Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. Because of the connection between the sheriff and the suspect, they had arrived to take charge of the stolen-goods sting.

Malik and I parked the van across the street even though the light was bad. My mom was with us, fussing about being left out of the real action.

“But if I’m not there,” Mom said, “our guy might get suspicious.”

“He’ll probably just be relieved.” I suspected the real reason she wanted in was to boast to her Red Hat ladies. “You have a good seat here, Mom. They don’t want a crowd.”

Normally Channel 3 wouldn’t get to be on the front lines of a law-enforcement undercover operation, but our camera was at stake, as was my father. We had been warned not to cross the road no matter what happened, and to keep our vehicle lights off.

Bryce had wanted to dispatch a second TV crew, but I thought that would spook the cops and get us evicted from the case.

“If it all goes down well,” I said, “you can send someone else to cover the news.”

Being the victim of the camera theft made it unwise for me to actually report the story. All sorts of conflicts of interest abounded. But without me, the station would never have the access.

The clock read forty-five minutes before showtime. Malik and I had waited in undercover vans plenty of times during our news careers. We were used to the tedium. Surveillance was also easier for him because he could pee in a bottle. Not that he would do that with my mother along. But having to hold my bladder was not nearly as bad as having to listen to her chatter.

“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.

T
he 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.