Delivering Death: A Novel (Riley Spartz) (19 page)

I tuned out my boss, and the rest of the day’s discussion of news, weather, and sports, instead pondering the mystery man and his connection to Jack. Theirs was not the kind of deal struck by strangers. Does the price of freedom increase or decrease as the end of life nears? I imagined the two men negotiating a furtive contract more binding than wedding vows.
Till death us do part.

Back in my office I reached for the phone. The first call was to Lisa. I felt terrible bailing on her identity-theft interview yet again. Last time, she sounded disappointed. This time, she was mildly perturbed. I worried that my window to tell her story was closing.

“So do you want to try again tomorrow?” she offered.

“I really hope so,” I answered. “But I have to chase down this other lead concerning the prison murder of that guy impersonating Jack Clemens.”

I explained how the genealogy was also linked to her—that Leon, the man who ripped her off, had snitched on Jack. “It’s the circle of crime.”

“So you’ll call me?” she asked.

“Absolutely.”

The list of people I was supposed to phone was growing. David Johnson had left another message about the fish painting. But Agent Jax was a higher priority, so he was my next call. He didn’t answer.

“Riley Spartz here at Channel 3. Just checking to see if you’ve had any leads from area cancer clinics about the identity of our John Doe prisoner.”

((RILEY, BOX))
CHANNEL 3 HAS LEARNED THAT THE MYSTERY MAN POSING AS JACK CLEMENS IN PRISON HAD TERMINAL CANCER.

My first time with the new teleprompter was rough. My foot-eye coordination sucked. The script stalled when my heel got caught in the pedal, so I had to ad-lib my way before my voice package rolled—risky because TV investigations are vetted line by line, and messing up or skipping a word can change the meaning of a story. After all, there were only three letters’ difference between guilty and not guilty.

((RILEY, SOT))
FEDERAL AGENTS HAVE
CIRCULATED HIS PICTURE TO CANCER CLINICS . . . APPARENTLY HOPING SOMEONE MIGHT RECOGNIZE HIM AS A PATIENT.

I finished out the story asking viewers to contact authorities if they knew the man’s identity, but skipped giving them the number because I had lost my place with the teleprompter.

Afterward I asked Nicole for any tips, and she told me to remember to kick off my shoes under the set. “Seriously, ask Scott to do it. He runs the teleprompter for me.”

“Really? Did you ask or did he offer?”

“He offered, and didn’t seem to mind,” she said. “The speed was fine. He has to read so much, he’s a real pedal pro.”

He hadn’t suggested helping me, so I figured he was waiting for me to beg. But that would never happen. I’d rather learn braille and follow my script with my fingertips.

B
y the end of her interview the next day, Lisa had cried in all the right places.

Bryce was very proud of me when I showed him the video. “Nobody gets tears the way you do, Riley. I wish I knew your secret.”

If I told him, he wouldn’t understand. Some journalists think they can bully a victim into crying, but it doesn’t work that way. People only cry on camera when they trust a reporter enough to forget about the camera. Bryce would never be able to muster enough empathy to make that happen.

While tears can make good TV, a paper trail isn’t very visual. Malik shot video of stacks of bills and credit card statements crooks had racked up in Lisa’s name, casual shots of her at home, and exteriors of the University of Minnesota, where she had attended school.

The owner of Rest in Peace Funeral Home, where she worked in Columbia Heights, an inner-ring suburb just north of Minneapolis, agreed to let us follow Lisa on the job, but only videotape-approved areas. “Our clients trust us to protect their privacy.” That meant no taking pictures of corpses, which was fine with me. I’d seen enough dead people in my news career.

He ended up giving us a tour of the mortuary. “We offer once-in-a-lifetime service,” he said.

I complimented him on his “deadpan” delivery and we were off to a good start. He took me on a tour through their showroom—a display of half a dozen caskets in various price ranges. The exteriors were smooth and shiny. The lids were open to display embroidered satin interiors. It had the feel of an auto dealership, except with no test drives allowed.

Malik rolled video while Lisa vacuumed carpets in the public places, then mopped floors in the back areas. We passed a giant steel refrigerator where bodies were kept awaiting burial, but that stayed closed. So did another door marked
STORAGE.
A hearse pulled into the garage and Malik shot Lisa helping load a casket amid vases of flowers.

“Ahead of us is the embalming room,” our guide explained. The name conjured up dread and a sign on that door read:
DANGER
—
FLAMMABLE LIQUIDS
—
NO SMOKING
. The warning puzzled me.

“Embalming fluid is very flammable,” I was told.

The room was empty, so we were allowed to videotape Lisa wiping a low white table on wheels. A tray beside it gave the illusion we were in an operating room. And in a way, we were. Prior to a viewing, a body would be prepared by draining blood and injecting embalming fluid to slow decomposition so the deceased would appear natural when friends and relatives said their extended good-byes.

As a Muslim, Malik was fascinated by all the fuss. “We bury our dead within twenty-four hours, to hasten their meeting Allah, and thus have no need for embalming. We lay the bodies in the ground without caskets on their right side to face Mecca.”

The owner spoke of a growing interest in what he called “green” funerals by non-Muslims, but said that while the practice was not required by law in Minnesota, embalming was the norm for most funerals.

“Don’t forget to take care of the embalming fluid,” he told Lisa, who carried three plastic bottles of pink and orange liquids from the counter to a cabinet, then turned a key to lock the door.

“Why does it need special security?” I asked.

“In case we have a break-in,” the owner answered. “We can’t take chances.”

“But why would anyone steal embalming fluid?”

“To get a longer high.” He explained about a drug trend called “wet”—marijuana or cigarettes dipped in embalming fluid, dried, then smoked. “It’s an unpredictable drug and can even cause users to lose consciousness or turn violent.”

That sounded like an interesting story by itself, if I could verify the problem with the cops. I already had some video and sound ready to go. I promised Lisa I’d let her know when her story would air. I still needed to fit some research in around my other news assignments to give the story breadth, but having a real victim was the centerpiece.

The owner turned on overhead bluish ultraviolet lights, telling us the heat helped sanitize the embalming room. But it gave the place a creepy, paranormal feel, and I was anxious to leave. Other than the front sitting rooms for mourners, the place had no windows for natural light.

Lisa and I walked out together, and I could tell that she felt better about herself. She seemed confident, even proud. My experience as a journalist has taught me that crime victims who speak out often suffer less than those who stay silent.

I hoped that would be the case with Lisa.

I
alerted my parents that my trapping story was running on the late news that night. Even though it was not the kind of upbeat animal story that television stations traditionally push, Bryce could see the potential for impact, so he ran a dual promotion:
“Tune in for an exclusive investigation from Channel 3’s new set. The life you save may be your dog’s.”

((STAN CU))
LIKE HUNTING, TRAPPING IS AN OUTDOOR TRADITION IN MINNESOTA. BUT AS RILEY SPARTZ TELLS US . . . NOT JUST WILD ANIMALS ARE AT RISK . . . YOUR PET DOG COULD FALL VICTIM TO A CRUEL DEATH THAT YOU MAY BE POWERLESS TO PREVENT.

I opened the story by holding up an actual trap as a prop.

((RILEY HOLD PROP ON SET))
THIS IS CALLED A BODY GRIP
TRAP . . . IT MAY NOT LOOK LIKE MUCH . . . BUT IT CAN BREAK AN ANIMAL’S NECK, KILLING IT INSTANTLY.

I’d prerecorded my voice on the package so I didn’t have to read so much teleprompter.

((RILEY TRACK))
IT’S A POPULAR TRAP FOR CATCHING RACCOONS, BOBCATS AND OTHER WILDLIFE SOUGHT FOR THEIR PELTS.

((RILEY GRAPHIC))
BUT A CHANNEL 3 INVESTIGATION HAS FOUND THAT AT LEAST 13 DOGS HAVE BEEN KILLED SINCE TRAPPING SEASON BEGAN LAST FALL . . . AND MANY OTHERS INJURED.

((OWNER 1/SOT))
ALL I HEARD WAS A SNAP. THEN MY PUPPY WAS DEAD.

((OWNER 2/SOT))
MY DOG WAS MY BEST FRIEND. WE WERE OUT HUNTING TOGETHER. I TRIED TO GET THE TRAP OFF HIS NECK,
BUT HE WAS DEAD IN LESS THAN 30 SECONDS.

((OWNER 3/SOT))
MY DOG WAS KILLED, AND THEY TOLD ME THE TRAP WAS PERFECTLY LEGAL. AND I SHOULD HAVE KEPT MY PET ON A LEASH.

((RILEY, CU))
PICTURES OF METAL TRAPS CLAMPED TIGHT ON THE THROATS OF DOGS ARE TOO DISTURBING TO SHOW YOU.

I was counting on viewers shuddering at those words.

((RILEY SOT))
ANIMAL RIGHTS ACTIVISTS AND HUNTERS ARE PUSHING FOR A LAW REQUIRING BODY GRIP TRAPS TO BE ELEVATED FIVE FEET ABOVE THE GROUND OR SUBMERGED UNDERWATER TO AVOID KILLING DOGS. BUT TRAPPING ORGANIZATIONS ARE RELUCTANT TO COMPROMISE.

((TRAPPER SOT))
YOU CAN’T OUTLAW EVERYTHING.
CONSIDERING THE AMOUNT OF TRAPS SET, THE NUMBER OF DOGS KILLED IS SMALL.

The studio camera cut to a wide shot of Scott and me at the anchor desk. I handed him one of the traps.

((RILEY TWOSHOT))
THIS IS THE TYPE OF TRAP WE’VE BEEN TALKING ABOUT. SEE HOW FAR YOU CAN PRY IT.

Scott was in top shape. He wrestled with the trap’s spring but could barely open it.

((SCOTT, TWOSHOT))
WOW, IMAGINE THAT SLAMMING AGAINST THE WINDPIPE OF A FAMILY PET. NOT EVEN I COULD GET IT OFF IN TIME.

Next, I handed him a leghold trap and explained how, if a nontarget animal was caught, at least it could be freed.

This was the kind of story that was unlikely to change adamant minds, so I was pleased when I got back to my desk to find a voice message from Phil McCarthy, my old classmate, and a member of the Minnesota House environmental and natural resources committee. “I’ll sponsor that bill for the elevated traps. Let’s see what kind of support we can get.”

V
iewer feedback on the new set was consistent: they hated it.

“This is Minnesota, not Miami.” “Folks here aren’t into glitz unless it’s the Holidazzle Parade.”

Bryce didn’t seem concerned. “Older viewers may not appreciate it, but they don’t deliver advertising revenue. Our new look will pay off by attracting a younger demographic and those viewers will be the foundation for Channel 3’s success.”

The station continued running promo after promo about the new set, but it was all flash and no substance—like an action movie trailer without the car chases.

•  •  •

I was still contemplating the idea of building a friendship with David. Neither of us knew much about the other, so it was refreshing to be around someone who couldn’t throw my past in my face. That’s part of the reason I was in no rush to part with the fish painting.

This time, we ordered lunch at The Oak Grill on the twelfth floor of Macy’s—formerly Dayton’s—department store. The restaurant, best known for its popovers, was a downtown tradition with dark paneling and white linen.

I steered our conversation away from me even though David was modest and didn’t like to go on about himself. “Enough with
TV news. Tell me something about you. How about your childhood.”

“Well, I hadn’t been back to Minnesota for nearly twenty years, but I still consider it my home, and your artwork reminded me of fishing with my dad. But it also reflected a bigger world beyond Minnesota. I felt like it was a visual balance of the two most important parts of my life.”

His voice sounded so sentimental I was about ready to give him the painting for free. Small talk became more of a struggle with the “deal” still out there, unresolved.

“So where were you born, David?”

“Southern part of the state,” he answered. “I grew up in Austin.”

“Really? I was raised south of Austin, on a corn and cattle farm along the Iowa border. What did your family do?”

He seemed startled by our shared history. “Well, like most of the town, my father worked at the Hormel plant.”

Those words should have bonded us like high school sweethearts meeting decades after graduation. I should have imagined taking him home to introduce him to my parents. But the minute he uttered the name Hormel, I knew something was off.

His pronunciation or rather,
mispronunciation,
of Austin’s corporate giant might have seemed minor, but it made me nervous enough to reach for my cell phone and pretend to read a text message.

“Excuse me, David. I need to call the newsroom. I’ll be back in a moment.”

I left him at our table near the antique fireplace and headed out to front of the restaurant. I reached Xiong on speed dial back at Channel 3 to ask him to check a name for me from his computer databases.

“Something odd just happened,” I told him. “I don’t have time to explain, but I need to confirm a Minnesota birth certificate for someone from Mower County. Probably during the early 1960s.
Name of David Johnson. I don’t know a middle name. Yeah, I know, there’s tons of Johnsons there.”

Xiong verified the spelling. “I will call you back.”

“Thanks. I don’t want to be a jerk here, but I need this fast. The guy I’m inquiring about is waiting for me to return for lunch.”

I grew tense as I waited for Xiong’s report. Maybe David had lived away from Minnesota so long, he’d left his roots behind. Yet if his father had actually worked at Hormel during that time period, I was convinced there was no way he could forget how the locals spoke. Five minutes later, my cell phone buzzed with Xiong on the other end. “I have information for you. David Nathan Johnson was born July 25, 1963, at 1:36
PM
at Austin Medical Center. Parents were—”