Stalking Susan (19 page)

“Karl Skubic,” he muttered under his breath.

What a strange mind-game association, I thought. A rat appears and he thinks of Mayor Skubic. Later, I would ask his professional opinion about this coincidence, but I didn’t want to interrupt him right now. He seemed on the verge of disclosing the secret I had suspected.

“He was a court-ordered case. Hot-tempered, even for a hockey player. We worked on anger management issues. Susan came in for a couples session. He had been charged with assaulting her. If he had no further violations for the next year, the case would be dismissed and he would have no criminal record.

“I could lose my license for telling you.”

M
ALIK MUST HAVE
picked up the news cruiser because my driveway was empty when we returned. Redding walked me to the door. Between that courtesy, the rose, and the hand-holding, the evening was starting to feel too much like a date. Thankfully, I heard a firm growl from inside.

“I’d invite you in, but then I’d hate for you to have to run to the ER for stitches this late.”

“He’s quite the chaperone,” Redding replied.

Then I dodged what looked like an incoming kiss on the lips, receiving a peck on the cheek instead. Much too much like a date. But at least I had a missing piece of the
SUSANS
puzzle. Except I had traded my deepest shame to a blabbermouth shrink.

Just then, headlights from another vehicle shone on us. Garnett climbed out of his Crown Vic—once a cop always a cop—and waved as he walked across the yard, giving my guest the once-over.

“Just checking to see how you’re doing,” he called out.

“Fine,” I answered. “Thanks for the concern, but I’m ready to turn in.” I didn’t mind Redding thinking I had personal security, but Garnett appeared to be more like a babysitter than a bodyguard.

“Not interrupting anything, am I?” The jovial tone in his voice made me suspect he’d seen our bungled buss.

“Nope. Just saying good night.”

I introduced Garnett as an old friend and Redding as a new friend. Then I left them alone, standing on the front porch, to size each other up.

When I got inside, I scratched Shep behind his watchdog ears, tossed him a crunchy biscuit, and whispered, “Good doggie.”

Outside I heard raised voices but couldn’t make out what either man was saying.

CHAPTER 28

J
udge Melina Fuentes ruled from the bench in her northern Minnesota courtroom. That’s fairly unusual even though she’d reviewed each side’s written briefs prior to the hearing. Most judges prefer to carefully craft their orders behind closed doors. Not Judge Fuentes. Like a breezy game show host, she enjoyed an audience. And today the stands were full.

The gist of the defense argument: Mr. Foster was paying a high price for a crime he didn’t commit. The state has the means to put these suspicions to rest.

The gist of the prosecution argument: Everyone is entitled to their day in court and Mr. Foster already had his. The state has neither the time nor the money to reinvestigate every conviction.

The judge picked door number one.

“Enough time has been wasted,” she said. “Either Mr. Foster is guilty, or he’s not. Run the blood test and let’s find out. I don’t like this specter of doubt hanging over a murder case. Mr. Foster’s motion deals with a very specific evidentiary issue under quite exceptional circumstances. Reopening this case does not obligate the state in future criminal matters.”

As her gavel banged down, I experienced an unsettling premonition of falling ratings. Absurd, because Channel 3 would be promoting yet another
SUSANS
lead for tonight during
Oprah, Wheel of Fortune,
and a prime-time drama showcasing thin women in thinner plots. The judge’s ruling called for expedited testing. With the new state crime lab, that meant the results might be back before sweeps month ended. So mathematically, we couldn’t lose.

M
INNESOTA DOESN’T ALLOW
cameras in court, so besides Malik and me, the assignment desk also sent a station artist to Duluth to cover the hearing. While a new pair of ears on a long road trip makes old war stories fresh again, it also means some subjects are off limits. So Malik and I couldn’t talk about Noreen, or Redding, or Shep.

While Malik drove north, our artist added shadows to her sketches and I scrawled out a script in longhand.

A CONVICTED

SUSAN KILLER

IS ONE STEP CLOSER

TO FREEDOM

TODAY FOLLOWING

A JUDGE’S ORDER

THAT THE STATE

CONDUCT NEW TESTS

ON AN OLD PIECE

OF EVIDENCE…

AT ISSUE…

WHETHER

BLOODSTAINS

ON A SHIRT WORN

BY THE KILLER

MATCH HIS DNA

OR HIS VICTIM’S.

I switched the dial to Minnesota Public Radio and heard an echo. The host was interviewing the prosecutor and defense attorney in the Susan Redding story.
My
story. If highbrow public radio was jumping onboard, that proved
SUSANS
no longer belonged with News of the Weird.

“But if Dusty Foster is guilty, who’s killing these other women?” Good question. Damn. A semi blew by, the radio turned static, and I missed the answer. Probably just a lot of political hemming and hawing, but I would have liked to have heard the drivel just the same.

“Does the victim’s family support reopening the case?”

“Definitely not,” the prosecutor replied. “I spoke to her husband earlier today. He believes the right man is in prison and wants him to remain there.” Thanks for nothing, Redding.

The host thanked both lawyers for their time and introduced her next guest: Minneapolis City Councilwoman Susan Victor.

“My name might be Susan, but I speak for all women, and we’re tired of the media using fear to spike ratings.”

“Hey,” I said, “you don’t speak for me.”

“Channel 3’s coverage has been reprehensible.” She knew how to stay on message. “If they truly care about the safety of women, they shouldn’t campaign to free killers.”

“Hasn’t she had enough exposure?” To Malik’s amusement, I lost my cool. “It’s not like she’s up for reelection this year. Doesn’t she realize how lame she sounds?”

“Maybe she thinks any publicity is good publicity,” he said.

“Tell it to Dr. Petit.”

But we couldn’t because Petit remained missing.

His absence didn’t bother Noreen. She figured with the vet bogged down under his own legal problems, he wouldn’t have time to cause any trouble for us.

Over the phone I cautioned Noreen to drop that attitude. “Don’t let Miles hear you talking like that.” I had called her from the road to get script approval for the Dusty Foster story so Malik could begin editing as soon as he got back and shot the court sketches.

“If he sues us,” I continued, “we want to maintain we were just doing our job as journalists. You don’t want him to be able to cry malice.”

His attorney would salivate over the chance to argue that besides doing a defamatory story about his client, Channel 3 purposely tried to create legal difficulties for him so he would be too busy to defend his reputation by suing us. I didn’t really think he would come after us in court, but if he did, I didn’t want this conversation coming up during a deposition. No point in giving the jury a reason to pile on punitive damages.

“You spend too much time worrying about what-ifs,” Noreen said. “Why don’t you worry about where your next story is coming from?”

“If I have to waste time on lawsuits, that’s time I can’t spend on next stories,” I pointed out. “The best way to avoid being sued is to be prepared to be sued. If the vet clinic goes under, he’ll try to make us pay.”

S
HEP INSPECTED THE
front and back doors and the windows. He even checked under my bed while I brushed my teeth. His devotion impressed me until I realized he was searching for a plastic kitty chew toy.

“What do you think, Shep? Time for bed?”

I was talking to a dog. Like I expected an answer. Is this what happens when people don’t have people for friends?

It’s hard to sleep alone when you’re used to company. I’ve tried a dark room, a night-light, white noise, and even a glass of wine at night. But for real sound sleep, nothing beats a big dog with sharp teeth lying next to your bed.

Shep’s heavy breathing reminded me of Boyer so I slept hard and I slept deep, but I couldn’t sleep through the barking and snarling that woke me a few hours later.

Downstairs, Shep growled with authority. “The Hound of the Baskervilles” came to mind, but then I remembered Holmes deduced that the significance of the hound lay not in his bark, but in his silence.

Not so with Shep. His front paws rested on the window looking onto the backyard. His lips curled back from his jaws and he barked like he was leading the Holidazzle Parade. Whoever lurked out there, it wasn’t Toby Elness. I called for Shep; he wouldn’t budge. I turned on an exterior light, saw nothing, even when I pressed my face against the glass. I heard Shep’s toenails skid across the wood floor as he raced to a side window. His voice alternated between a menacing rumble and a frantic roar.

I deliberated whether to pick up the phone and dial 911 or rush upstairs and grab Boyer’s gun from under the bed. He had never fired the weapon in the line of duty; few cops have. But that didn’t mean, under the right circumstances, I wouldn’t pull the trigger first and ask questions later. A .40-caliber Glock is a manly gun. I recalled the weight of the pistol in my hand. Boyer had assured me I could handle the gun because its heft absorbs most of the kick. Keeping one eye on the window, I took a step toward the stairs. Then, abruptly, as if a canine all clear signal had sounded, Shep shut up.

Whether he sensed a robber or a raccoon, I couldn’t tell, but since they both wore masks, no way was I going out to check. No way was I going back to sleep either. Shep picked up a worn rawhide bone and followed me into the kitchen. He gnawed his prize while I heated a mug of skim milk in the microwave. I stirred in some chocolate mix and was just squirting whipped cream from a can when he dropped what he was chewing and stood by the front door. His muscles tensed and deep in his throat a silent growl became audible.

A few seconds later I heard a knock at the door. Probably one of the neighbors complaining about the noise. No use ignoring the knock; every light in the house clearly broadcast I was awake. Anyway, Shep, my fortress of fur and force, remained on high alert.

“It’s me,” Garnett called from the porch. Shep calmed, his bark turning to a soft whimper. I opened the door.

“Boy, am I relieved to see you,” I said, even though he smelled like alcohol. “There’s nobody else I’d prefer standing with on my porch at four in the morning, especially this morning. How did you know things were crazy?”

“I felt a great disturbance in the force.”

“Damn. You know I can’t keep the
Star Wars
movies straight.” I let him inside. “But I don’t think you drove all this way at this time of the night just to quiz me about Sir Alec Guinness,
Star Wars: A New Hope,
1977?”

“Obi-Wan has taught you well.”

“Nice transition to Darth Vader, but I’ve got bigger problems than figuring out whether you’re quoting
A New Hope
or
Empire Strikes Back.
”

I filled him in on Shep’s nocturnal sortie, pointing out the window where all the commotion had started. Hours from dawn, the night was dead black.

“Give me a flashlight,” he said. “Let’s have a look.”

The three of us ambled outside like a trio of blind mice. Garnett shined the beam back and forth across the front yard.

“See anything?” I asked.

“Last night I lost a glove.” He continued to scan the ground. “Didn’t find one did you?”

“Forget it. I’ll buy you a new pair.”

Shep interrupted us with a joyous yelp and appeared to follow an invisible trail toward the rear of the house. We scrambled to keep up. He lifted his nose from the ground under the big picture window and barked as if to declare victory. Then the big lout picked up something in his mouth and moved away from us, chewing.

“Stop him!” Garnett called. “Don’t let him eat that!”

He herded Shep my way. A piece of raw meat draped over the dog’s lips. I grabbed it and jerked, breaking a fingernail as I dug into the sinewy tissue. Shep growled at me, baring his teeth, not wanting to surrender it. “Bad dog,” I scolded him as we played tug-of-war.

Garnett gave his tail a sharp tug. Shep twisted to nip at him and accidentally dropped his prize. I dove for it and held the meat over my head while he jumped at me.

To Shep, it was a tasty, unexpected treat. But Garnett and I knew a Trojan steak when we saw one.

“Whoever was here knows you have a dog. And they’d rather you didn’t.”

“It’s poisoned, right?”

“No doubt in my mind.”

Shep sulked as I tossed the meat in the garbage can. “It was a cheap cut,” I assured him. “Round or chuck steak at best. Certainly not a tenderloin.” I’m a cattleman’s daughter. I know these things.

When we returned, Garnett was bent down, examining the ground underneath the window.

He motioned me over next to him and shined the light down on several footprints. They were average in size, about a men’s size ten shoe. Garnett scrutinized our tracks. Mine too small, his just right, but the mystery tracks had a smooth grid compared to his rough soles.

“Here’s your company.”

G
ARNETT HELPED HIMSELF
to beer for breakfast. I was spending more personal time with him than ever before and worried he might have a drinking problem. I tossed Shep a dried pig’s ear to make him forget about the poisoned steak.

I sat at the kitchen table, outlining the Mayor Skubic/
SUSANS
links, in case the DNA testing changed the status quo. Freeing an innocent man from prison can be exhilarating, but so is pointing the finger at a guilty one. The mayor remained a tempting target, but Garnett thought my aim might be off.

“He doesn’t have the talent to get away with it. White-collar crime, yes. Nothing this dark.”

“He had a relationship with Susan Redding,” I insisted.

“Old news,” Garnett countered.

“A violent relationship.”

“Perhaps, but again, way past tense.”

“He was in Duluth the day of the murder.”

“That helps.”

“We have the Polaroid.” I set a copy on top of the file so he could look past her bruises, and into her eyes. “A handwriting analyst confirmed she wrote the words on the back.” Laura Robins had given me an old yearbook with a sample. Damning words:
KARL SKUBIC DID THIS
. “We can’t use their names, but two sources corroborated he beat her up.”

“Who besides the girlfriend?”

I deliberately waited for him to take another swallow before saying, “Her husband.”

“What?” he gagged. Now I had Garnett’s full attention. “Maybe I
was
interrupting something last night.”

“Just business.”

“Looked pretty cozy for business.”

I ignored his remark. “What did you think of Redding?”

“Didn’t like him.”

“Professionally or personally?”

“Both levels. Guy didn’t feel right. Little too arrogant.”

“Maybe you didn’t give him a chance.” I explained about Susan Redding, Karl Skubic, and the sealed assault records. Garnett’s eyes narrowed. By the time I finished, he thought less of Redding than of Mayor Skubic.

“Doesn’t say much about his character that he’s telling you this.”

“Maybe he’s a fan of the truth.”

“He’s no fan of ethics.” He banged his bottle down and pushed his chair away from the table. “He’s violating a very strict professional code and I have to wonder, why? Especially since he tells any reporter who calls him up that he’s satisfied with the verdict in his wife’s murder.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to express public doubt.”

“Maybe he’s looking to settle an old score.”

“He’s had years to do that,” I reminded him.

“He’s never had a vehicle for revenge till now.”

“I don’t think that’s his motive.”