Delivering Death: A Novel (Riley Spartz) (25 page)

“Freeze, Jack.”

He wailed again, kicking his foot. “What is this thing?”

“It’s for trapping vermin. Like you.”

I’d set the trap near the back door, under a coating of snow, after being burglarized. Because the yard was fenced, and the season was winter, I didn’t worry about stray dogs falling victim.

The outline of the trap under snow was just barely visible to me in the dark at the bottom of the porch steps. Jack hadn’t had a clue he was walking into an ambush. Usually when journalists
refer to trapping someone, it means catching them in a lie during an on-camera interview. This was even more satisfying.

I wanted to call 911, but my cell phone was miles away and I had no landline inside. A snow shovel was leaning near the back door of the house. Shoot. Shovel. Shut up. Even more than the gun, it reminded me that I was armed and dangerous.

“Don’t move,” I warned him. “I swear I’ll shoot you.”

Jack kept struggling to pry open the trap and free himself. But if Scott wasn’t strong enough, Jack sure wasn’t. As he thrashed about in the snow, he shrieked again, this time even louder. His hand was now stuck in the steel leghold trap.

I held the gun over my head and discharged a few rounds straight in the air, being careful not to empty the chamber, but hoping someone would call the police to report “shots fired.”

Jack started yelling for help in a shrill voice, because he knew the gun still contained enough ammo to put him out of his misery like trappers do to wounded animals.

“Oh, stop being such a baby,” I said. “It’s not like I ripped your teeth out of your mouth. Did Leon cry like you? Answer me.”

“What do you mean?” Jack was now curled up in a ball, an arm protecting his head, afraid I’d fire. “I didn’t kill him.”

“And what about your
ding zui
? Substitute criminal? How’d you pull that murder off?”

“I had nothing to do with that either. I’m innocent.”

“Tell it to the cops. They should be here soon. You had motive, opportunity, and a puffy coat.”

I fired another shot in the air, but otherwise forced myself to remain still. Help came much quicker than I had expected. Within a minute, I heard sirens and seconds later, flashing red lights surrounded my house. And finally, neighbors emerged from their homes and their suppers to see what was unfolding.

I set the handgun on the porch steps, far out of Jack’s reach. “Back here,” I called out, arms in the air so the cops wouldn’t shoot me first and ask questions later.

A couple of officers in blue arrived to secure the scene. They were impressed when I introduced them to Jack Clemens as he continued to flail around amidst the snow and steel.

He was yelling something about wanting me charged with assault when Xiong raced up, hugging me tight.

When I hadn’t showed up at the car, he called my cell phone. A stranger walking her terrier in the neighborhood answered, saying she heard it ringing on the ground. The only explanation Xiong could come up with for my disappearance was not that I’d found Jack’s car, but that Jack had found me.

“I told the police I feared you had been abducted and gave them the license plate number,” he said. “They put it in their camera search system as most wanted high priority.”

Apparently a bridge camera had recorded the silver car getting off my freeway exit in real time. Xiong deduced we might be headed to my house and squads were dispatched about the same time Jack pulled into my driveway.

He whimpered as the cops removed the metal traps from his hand and foot. They slapped handcuffs on him even though his fingers had red sores across the knuckles. His ankle was swollen and bruised as he limped to the back of the squad car demanding to stop at the hospital for an X-ray.

J
ack continued to deny having anything to do with Leon Akume’s murder. The police theorized he’d sent the package to a TV station for grisly kicks.

He had motive and opportunity for the homicide. He lacked an alibi. Yet authorities had no real evidence to pin the crime on him other than the puffy coat. And apparently hundreds of people were likely to have one just like it in their wardrobe.

Clearing the case wasn’t important, because anyone at his court sentencing who could do fourth-grade math knew that if you added up his age and his new sentence, even just for the escape charges, Jack Clemens would never leave prison alive.

For now he was being housed in a rural county jail north of the Twin Cities until his ankle was healed enough to transport him to a maximum-security federal facility.

•  •  •

Della Sax, who had performed Leon’s autopsy, removed his picture from her murder wall, even without an official conviction. “I need space for all the new ones being plotted.”

We celebrated by sharing caramel cappuccinos and war stories in her office. “You were lucky, Riley. I’d hate to have your photo on my wall.”

“I’d hate to be on your wall.” I made her promise that if anything
bad ever happened to me, she would never stop searching for my killer.

“Stop that kind of morbid talk,” she said. “Any fun plans coming up?”

I smiled and laughed in anticipation.

“You can tell me,” she said. “Date, perhaps?”

“Not exactly.” I hadn’t heard from Nick Garnett since throwing the drink in his face. And I didn’t expect to.

Phil McCarthy had left a message saying that he was going to ask me out again after the legislative session was over. “It won’t be a conflict of interest then.”

I had nixed any hopes he had of a romantic relationship, leaving him a message back. “Reporter-source is all we’ll ever be to each other.”

I spared Della all those negative vibes. “Actually, I’m being celebrated as a hero tomorrow night.”

The Minnesota Trappers Society was presenting me with their Lifetime Achievement Award at their annual banquet. I’d been added to the evening program because they wanted a celebrity face for how traps can keep society safe. I agreed to attend once I learned the menu offered a choice of chicken or beef, not possum or raccoon.

I’d already drafted my acceptance speech.
I might not be alive today, but for a body grip trap.
But the trappers didn’t know that I was planning to urge support for the elevated restrictions to protect dogs from the deadly devices.

“Are your parents driving up from the farm to cheer?” she asked.

“Yes, they’ll be spending the night at my place.”

We’d be sitting with the president of the trapping organization and his wife, and I was supposed to bring three more guests to fill the table. That’s when I realized my circle of friends was limited. Many were married with children, their evenings spent at basketball games and school plays. Chasing TV news took up
too much of my time to find new ones. Toby was still in prison. Nicole and Malik were scheduled to work that night, but I convinced Bryce to let them cover the ceremony for the late news, and they were glad for the free dinner.

That left one seat. I thought about asking Phil, presenting it as lawmaker research, but figured my parents would read too much into that invitation. I couldn’t risk my mom telling all her friends back home something crazy like we were engaged. Though there could be an upside: I figured spending an evening with my parents would dissuade Phil from ever asking me out again.

Lisa called just then to check on the status of her identity-theft story. It had been lost in the brouhaha following Jack’s arrest. I told her my news director had assured me her piece was slotted for next week.

While we were chatting about our jobs, I mentioned my upcoming award. “Would you like to sit at my banquet table?”

“Really?” Lisa was thrilled to be included. She’d been in a better mood since Jack was back in custody and Akume’s murder had been resolved. I offered to pick her up on my way.

•  •  •

Lisa and my mom got along fabulously at dinner. The wife of the trapping president was a little disconcerted because the two kept talking about funerals. I nudged Mom once when she went into too much detail regarding open versus closed caskets and how to ensure looking good for burial.

The Minnesota Trappers Society applauded as I described using traps in my backyard to snare Jack Clemens. Even though their members didn’t agree with trapping restrictions, they were good sports and were even including a profile of me on their Who’s Who in Minnesota Trappers website.

Their president unveiled a campaign encouraging more people to use traps for personal protection. Their slogan:
SAFER THAN GUNS
.

I was presented with a lovely silver medal reading Lifetime Achievement in Trapping. They fastened it on a chain around my neck, and I posed for pictures. Nicole had taken me shopping for a navy-colored sleeveless sheath dress and black stiletto heels, and managed to finally convince me that panty hose were passé—even during the winter.

The Trappers Society tried giving me a beaver fur coat, which I declined. “I’m sorry, this is much too extravagant.”

Before I could stop her, my mother accepted it on my behalf. All the trappers in the room gave her a standing ovation as she modeled it around the banquet room.

M
om and Lisa sat in the back of the car on the way home, laughing like gal pals. If Lisa hadn’t been a third her age, I think my mom would have invited her to join her Red Hat Ladies Club.

Dad and I sat in the front, not saying anything.

I dropped Lisa off at her place and told her she could come to Channel 3 the night her story aired and watch it from the news control room.

“Meeting you, Riley, has been the best thing to happen to me in a long time.”

I parked in front of my house because it was easier for my parents to get in that door with my dad’s bad knee. My mom pulled the beaver coat tight around her, then spotted something shiny on the backseat.

“Riley, you dropped your trapping medal.”

“No, I have it here.” I held it up in all its glory.

“Then what’s this?” She handed a necklace to me.

The sterling silver pendant on a neck chain showcased a woman’s face with a halo around her head. I squinted to read the embossed words. Across the top,
SAINT APOLLONIA
; along the bottom,
PRAY FOR US
. On the back of the jewelry, Lisa Melby’s name was engraved.

“Lisa must have dropped it.” I stuck it in my pocket. “I’ll give it back when I see her.

I got my parents settled for the night, and then looked at the pendant again. I was raised Catholic, but had never heard of this obscure saint until a couple weeks ago. Now, every time I turned around, she was waving a set of pliers at me. She might not be trying to pull my teeth, but she was jerking my chain.

Then I remembered what Father Mountain had said about not praying to saints for answers, but for helping in finding them. Might this be a clue? So I said a silent prayer to St. Apollonia, whose appeal was broader than I’d ever imagined. I’d since learned that artist Andy Warhol, the pope of pop, had printed colorful lithographs in her honor that have been displayed in museums around the world.

That Lisa would possess such a medallion still seemed odd based on our brief acquaintance. What did I actually know about her? Certainly, she had been a victim of identity theft. That much was corroborated, but I needed to dig further.

M
y mom fixed blueberry pancakes for breakfast on my stove while we waited until after rush hour traffic cleared for my parents to climb into the pickup truck and head south to the farm.

Leon Akume’s court file was in a stack of paperwork on my desk at the station. I phoned the court reporter with the case number and she verified that Lisa’s testimony had not been transcribed.

“You’re the first request. If you pay the fee, I can have it for you in a couple days.”

“Any chance we could speed it up?” I asked.

“Part of the time and cost depends on how long the witness was on the stand.”

From Lisa’s description, it sounded like the prosecutor had wrapped her fast, so I figured the transcription wouldn’t take too long or be too expensive. “Call me when it’s ready. This is one of those ASAP situations.”

She agreed to try to complete it by the end of the day.

•  •  •

Lisa’s transcript was five pages of fresh ink on crisp paper. I skimmed through the boring parts about her swearing to tell the truth and the prosecutor establishing her background until she started talking about broken dreams.

LISA MELBY: It’s not like when someone steals your car and you can fix a dent. My life is ruined, and my reputation can never be restored. I discover new roadblocks every time I apply for credit, an apartment, or a job. I have to convince strangers all over again that I’m not a deadbeat or even worse, a thief. This man deserves to go to prison for a long time for what he did, not just to me, but to so many others. I worked hard and took out loans to put myself through school to become a dentist. And now that will never happen.

Those words stopped me. I even went back to reread the line. In her interview with me, Lisa had claimed to be studying for a medical degree. Could the court reporter have transcribed it wrong? Could I have remembered it wrong? I checked the videotape and she definitely said “doctor.” Could Lisa have simply misspoken?

I might have given her the benefit of doubt, except for two things: the pendant in my pocket exalting St. Apollonia and the manner in which Leon died.

My next call was to the registrar’s office at the University of Minnesota and confirmed it: Lisa had been a dental student for her one semester there.

T
he police were content to lump Akume’s murder in with Jack Clemens’s crimes, so I knew they would be no help.

Lisa wasn’t at her apartment, nor was her car on her street. Outside the Rest in Peace Funeral Home, her vehicle was the only one in the parking lot. Lights were on in the back of the building, so I figured she must be cleaning. I pounded on the back door for more than a minute before she answered.