Stalking Susan (22 page)

Technically he was right about work product, but nothing in my contract said I had to take orders from him.

“Well, I still work there and I’m still using them. You want to take over the story, you develop your own leads. Or better yet, develop your own story instead of poaching on mine.”

“I’m just doing what I was assigned to do. If you hadn’t messed this story up, I wouldn’t have gotten a piece of it.”

“I was just getting ready to take a shower.” Yes, running water was faintly audible. “You’ll have to leave.”

Shep interpreted my raised voice as a signal to chase my visitor outside. I didn’t praise him or scold him; I threw him a doggie treat shaped like a miniature steak.

I started the coffeepot, and as it brewed I thought I heard voices. I feared I might be losing my mind to stress and fatigue until I glanced out the window and saw Mike Flagg still parked in my driveway.

“I’m telling Noreen!” He shook his fist through the open window of his car, then leaned on the horn. “I’m telling!”

By now Mrs. Fredericks was also looking out her window, shaking her head. I ignored Mike and went upstairs and showered under now cold water. I wrapped towels around my hair and body and unfolded the
Star Tribune
for news on Susan Victor’s murder.

Attorney Benny Walsh was defending Garnett. Walsh wasn’t a local legal legend like Ron Meshbesher, but he was on his way. Despite what viewers see on prime-time television dramas, murder defendants are hardly ever acquitted. Yet Walsh had succeeded in obtaining not guilty verdicts twice in the last two years. None were high-profile homicides so he wasn’t a household name, but the legal community recognized him as a player.

I dialed his office. When I got him on the line, I asked how Garnett was doing.

“With friends like you?” he said.

“It’s not the way it seems. I need to talk to him, but he won’t see me.”

“Actually, I’ve advised him not to see you. And I require my clients to follow my advice. If he disregards my advice, he can find a new lawyer.”

He hung up. I hit redial. The phone rang until a polite voice came on the line and informed me that Mr. Walsh was in a meeting and couldn’t be disturbed.

“W
E’D RATHER YOU
come downtown, ma’am.”

My front porch was a happening place this morning. A couple of plainclothes Minneapolis detectives insisted I accompany them for another round of questioning. They flashed their badges to show they meant business.

“Just a minute,” I told them.

I ran upstairs to change, making sure the jacket I grabbed didn’t sport a Channel 3 logo. I had a direct order not to talk to the cops without Miles present. Since Noreen had heard him give the order, I called and asked him to meet me at the police station. Then I refilled Shep’s food and water dishes, reminded him to be a good dog, and climbed into the back of the unmarked squad car.

The suits didn’t say anything during the five-mile drive. I didn’t either. So if they hoped I’d get nervous and let something damning slip, they suffered their disappointment in professional silence.

Chief Capacasa didn’t demonstrate the same restraint. “You got a lot of nerve.” He paced back and forth, then slammed a notebook against the wall. “Pulling this kind of stunt.”

The first few minutes he’d sat quietly in the corner of the windowless interrogation room while the suits asked me questions. His outburst was directed at my lawyer, who had advised me not to answer the last three questions because they dealt with my role as a journalist rather than a crime witness. I didn’t blame the chief. I figured that Miles was just playing tough to make up for being such a patsy before.

“I don’t want to hear about the shield law,” the chief ranted. “I don’t want to hear about unaired video. I don’t want to hear about reporters’ notes. I just want to hear the facts of what happened.”

“Garnett didn’t do it,” I said.

“Your opinion, not fact.” He softened his approach, pulled a chair up next to me and rested his chin on his hand. “You’re probably feeling a little foolish. After all, this guy was your buddy. But how about me? I assign a cop to find a killer and he becomes the suspect. I’m taking a lot of grief over this, too.”

“I’ve already told you everything I know. You don’t have enough to charge him.”

Even if they found Garnett’s DNA at the scene of the two dead Minneapolis Susans, that didn’t mean anything. No one disputed he was there. But was he there to investigate or to cover his tracks?

“I’ve got more than you know.”

Did he? Hard to tell. If citizens lie to the cops, they can be charged with obstruction. But no law prevents cops from lying to witnesses or suspects during an interrogation. A lying cop who lands a confession is likely to land a commendation from his superiors. I didn’t worry about making a blunder because, even though the chief didn’t believe me, I wasn’t holding anything back because I didn’t know anything.

I
FELT STICKY
and smelly. I had left home in such a hurry, I had forgotten niceties like deodorant. Either that or the police Q and A was more nerve-racking than I realized. I was leaning over for a drink at a water fountain near the building exit when Dr. Redding walked around the corner.

“Riley, what are you doing here?” he asked me.

“The cops just wanted to go over the other night again,” I said. “See if my memory remained consistent once the hysteria died down.”

“How horrible for you to find her body.” He placed his hands on my shoulders as if to hold me steady, even though I wasn’t shaking. “If you ever want to talk about it, I’m here for you.”

Redding may have meant well, but at the moment his offer held little appeal. Reporters would rather ask a victim the standard “How did you feel?” than answer such questions themselves.

So I put him off. “I’m dealing with it by not talking about it any more than I have to,” I explained. “So far that seems to be working. But why are you here? You’re spending so much time in Minneapolis; it must be hard on your practice in Duluth.”

“A colleague takes over my cases when I’m out of town,” the doctor said. “As for today, the investigators wanted to discuss whether my wife and Nick Garnett knew each other.”

This was not news I wanted to hear. “What did you tell the police?”

“I told them that to my knowledge they had never met. I also told them my wife’s killer has already been tried, convicted, and incarcerated.”

“Hmmm, they’re probably keeping their options open till that DNA test comes back. That means they’re focusing on Garnett, even in the other Susan cases.”

“I’m sorry,” Redding said. “You must feel terribly torn because he’s a friend.”

“That’s the funny part.” I even smiled when I said it. “I’m not torn at all. I’m totally convinced of his innocence.”

“Denial can be a powerful emotion.” Redding opened the door and we walked outside. “I’ll drive you back to the station.”

“Actually, I’m working at home now. I’ve moved all my notes there. And I’m not in denial. If he was a murderer, I’d be able to tell.” Sure I would, just like Dusty Foster’s mother.

Redding didn’t answer. He reached out to touch the pendant around my neck and stroked it between his fingers. “Are you thinking of changing your name?”

“No. I just thought it might bring me luck. I could use some.”

“Susan is not the luckiest name right now.”

“I know, but—”

Just then I noticed a television camera across the street from us. Redding turned and saw it, too. I recognized one of our photographers, rolling with glee, anticipating that “exclusive” bug on his videotape tonight. Next to him, Mike Flagg smirked, giving me a thumbs-up, though I knew he longed to use a different finger and would have if there hadn’t been a crowd.

No arguing them out of the video. The picture of Redding had news value. He had taken special pains to keep his face private. I imagined the promo.

WHAT DID THE

HUSBAND OF A DEAD

SUSAN TELL POLICE?

FIND OUT TONIGHT AT

TEN.

Or perhaps this one:

WHO IS THIS MYSTERY

MAN AND WHAT IS HIS

ROLE IN THE SUSANS

STORY? FIND OUT

ONLY ON CHANNEL 3.

Either way, Redding was outed. I felt like a curse on the men around me. Boyer. Garnett. Redding. I hooked my fingers through the crook of his arm, but he jerked away and dashed back inside.

Later I realized he blamed me for the photo op, thinking I’d set him up.

CHAPTER 33

P
redictably, Garnett’s attorney, Benny Walsh, waived the reading of the criminal complaint. Nothing to be gained by making Garnett stand in the middle of the courtroom in an orange jumpsuit any longer than was necessary.

Late yesterday the Hennepin County Attorney charged him with second-degree murder in the death of Susan Victor. Next month the prosecutor would ask a grand jury for a first-degree indictment.

Garnett had been in a courtroom plenty of times as witness and spectator, but never as a suspect. He looked scruffy and unshaven and was shifting his weight from one foot to the other. I wished he’d turn and catch my eye. But he didn’t even look in my direction.

Today’s hearing was to establish two things: whether the government had enough evidence to hold Garnett, and if so, what bail, if any, should be set.

“I’m going to let the complaint stand,” the judge said, “but I’m warning you, you better have more before the probable cause hearing.”

The complaint outlined the government’s evidence. The GPS documentation was the centerpiece, along with the fact that Garnett couldn’t corroborate his alibi for the night of the murder. A search of his apartment turned up newspaper clippings about the old Susan murders, plus recent ones about Susan Victor’s criticism. The clips didn’t seem suspicious to me—after all, he had been investigating the cases for more than a decade and I knew him to be a pack rat. The surprise: he’d apparently argued with the murder victim at city hall a few days before her death. A council aide overheard him cautioning her not to minimize the criminal dangers women face.

“The state is requesting no bail,” the prosecutor said. He didn’t want Garnett to buy his way out of jail while awaiting trial. Not entirely reasonable.

“In that case,” Walsh said, “the defendant requests to be released on his own recognizance.” He wanted Garnett released without having to post any money at all. Not entirely reasonable, either.

“Mr. Garnett is an upstanding citizen,” Walsh continued. “A longtime member of the law enforcement community, he’s currently employed, has family in the area, and could assist in his own defense, provided he’s not incarcerated. Incidentally, we dispute that he played any role in the victim’s death.”

“You’ll have your day for that,” the judge said. “I am inclined to set bail. As for the amount—”

“Your honor,” the prosecutor interjected, “the state requests one million dollars. This is a heinous murder case involving a city official.”

“Mr. Garnett does not have vast savings,” Walsh countered. “We would ask—”

“Bail is set at $250,000.” The judge banged his gavel and two courthouse deputies led Garnett away.

“C
AN HE AFFORD
bail?” Walsh repeated my question. “He can’t even afford me. I’m giving him a cut rate, basically defending him for the publicity.”

“Aren’t you simply awesome,” I said.

“Yes.” He checked the daybook on his desk. “And talented.” He scribbled the date of the probable cause hearing. “And brilliant.”

Garnett had two kids in college and was paying alimony to his ex who still lived in their house and probably wasn’t inclined to take out a home equity loan to spring him from jail.

Bail works two ways: Garnett could either put up $250,000 in cash or property until the end of his trial or pay 10 percent for a bail bond. The first way he would get his money back, provided he didn’t skip town. The second way cost a nonrefundable twenty-five grand.

I called my accountant and told him I needed a quarter of a million bucks. I figured Boyer wouldn’t mind. He’d always liked Garnett.

F
OUR HOURS LATER
we faced each other for the first time since our jinxed kiss.

“I didn’t do it,” Garnett said.

“You don’t have to tell me. I got two hundred fifty grand that says you didn’t do it.”

“Thanks.”

Garnett was sore that the jail wouldn’t return his gun when he bailed out. The clerk gave him a receipt instead, explaining that the authorities aren’t in the business of rearming accused murderers. “Come back when you’re acquitted,” he sneered.

“Let’s just go,” I said. “Your attorney can sort it out. You’re not going to need your gun anytime soon.”

Minneapolis City Hall and the jail share the same turret-towered stone building. Garnett waited inside while I hailed a cab. To find one I walked across the street to the Hennepin County Government Center. Taxicabs are not plentiful in Minneapolis. Bus routes are inconvenient. Light rail limited. We’re a city of commuters who like driving alone, even though gas prices are edging three bucks a gallon.

“Where to?” the cabbie asked.

Once word leaked out Garnett had made bail, the media would stake out his south Minneapolis apartment. He’d be stuck without a car because the police had confiscated his Crown Vic for forensic tests. I gave the cabbie my address.

“You don’t mind?” Garnett asked.

“Not at all. My accountant insists I keep a close eye on you.”

Shep greeted my houseguest with a generous slobber. Clearly the big dog didn’t sense danger from Garnett. A flashing light on my telephone told me a message waited. I hit
play
and heard Noreen’s voice on a day-old message.

“Mike Flagg tells me you won’t share your notes. Now listen, we’ve been through all this. The next time he comes to your house I want you to hand everything over to him. Don’t think I won’t suspend you, either!” The call concluded with a slamming noise.

Garnett and I looked at each other. I held my palms upward and raised my eyebrows. “Welcome to the inside world of TV news.”

He started to crack a smile when the phone rang again. The caller ID read
UNKNOWN
, so odds were it came from Channel 3. I decided to screen it. Good thing because I heard Noreen’s voice once more.

“Hey, there’s a crazy rumor you bailed Garnett out. That better not be true. Don’t think I won’t fire you, either!” Another slamming noise followed.

“I’m on administrative leave myself,” he said.

“Administrative leave sounds lovely this time of year.”

Garnett had been jumpy since he left jail, still watching his back. As he walked over to the
SUSANS
boards, he slowly reverted to detective mode, reviewing each, pausing longest at Susan Victor’s, where his name was listed.

“Sorry,” I said.

“Don’t apologize. It’s a homicide war room.”

“Ready for battle, or do you need a prewar nap?” I handed him a marker.

“I don’t want to discourage you,” Garnett said. “But serial killers are seldom caught by detective work.”

I paused to glare at him suspiciously. “What do you mean?”

“They’re much more likely to be caught by something like a routine traffic stop or a victim who escapes.” At least he had the decency to look sheepish.

“You waited until now to tell me this?”

He sort of shrugged, but started writing. “No reason we shouldn’t keep trying.” He wrote one word on the Susan Victor board:

SUSAN VICTOR

COPYCAT?

“Copycat?” I said.

“Yep, we may have a copycat killer. It’s certainly possible because all the angles—method, date, name—were publicized.” He added the words
PRIOR MURDERS PUBLIC
to the board. “It’s easy for a copycat to imitate a serialist’s MO,” he said. Neither of us said anything for a minute or so. Then Garnett continued, “But there are a couple of key differences between this murder and the others.”

“There are?” I asked.

Garnett pointed to my earlier notations. “I see you heard about my anonymous phone call.”

“You’re not my only police source,” I said. “So is it true? Did someone give you the address of the murder scene ahead of time?”

“Yeah, Riley, but the parking lot was empty when I got there. The killer must have moved the SUV and body there after I left in order to set me up. Which means our culprit is making this personal between me and him. He didn’t try to influence any of the other investigations.”

Garnett stared at the Susan Victor board and pondered whether the killer and he might have met, and added another line:
PRIOR MURDERS PUBLIC. KILLER/GARNETT PERSONAL CONNECTION?

I pondered this theory, but it didn’t seem to fit with any of the other Susan homicides. I told him so.

“Perhaps,” Garnett said, “but the killer also broke pattern with his last victim. Susan Victor was somebody. Unlike the others, she would be missed. This murder guaranteed front-page headlines.”

“So you think we have a new killer?”

“I think we have to consider that possibility. Would anyone else want her dead?” Garnett next wrote
POLITICAL ENEMIES?
under her name.

“Politics doesn’t usually end in murder,” I said.

“That’s why we’re also going to look at her personal life. Would any relatives benefit from her death? They might want to use the Susan anniversary to cover their tracks.”

“I’m not convinced it’s not the same killer. We have to consider she practically dared him to come after her.”

“So he was showing off?” He added
SHOWOFF KILLER?
to the list. “Interesting. I always felt a showoff factor was involved.”

I opened a box of files. “Help me look through these. If the station takes them back, I want to be sure we didn’t miss anything important.”

Giving a source, much less a suspect, free access to reporter notes is highly taboo, but minor compared to some of my other recent journalistic infractions. What I lacked in ethics, I made up for in organization. Each murder had its own file, plus I had transcript interviews, death certificates, and police records. We spread the mess across the floor and started on one end, preparing to work the documents for inscribed clues.

Garnett’s stomach growled a few minutes later. He checked the refrigerator and cupboards, but came up empty-handed.

“I’ll call for a pizza,” I said.

“Not that. All they fed us in jail was heavy carbs. Pizza. Spaghetti. Mac and cheese. I need steak.”

“We don’t have time for steak. We’ll celebrate with steak once we get your charges dismissed.”

We compromised on a neighborhood Chinese take-out place.

“Do you want to come with me or wait here?” I grabbed my car keys.

“I’ll come along. I need some air. And I can’t hide forever.”

A little voice deep inside told me it probably wasn’t smart to be alone with him without protection, and since Shep loved car rides, I grabbed his leash. After all, trusting Garnett with my money was different from trusting him with my life.