Delivering Death: A Novel (Riley Spartz) (7 page)

“No, thanks.” Dan put his hand around his son’s shoulder and walked away.

“What about the other two missing pets?” I asked. “Did they get trapped, too?”

Wayne tugged nervously at the striped tail sewn on his raccoon skin hat. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

None of us believed him. The masked face above his own face made him look sneaky.

B
ryce was overseeing early construction of the new studio set the next morning when I gave him the bad word on curfew kids at the Mall of America. The sounds of heavy nail pounding and sawing interrupted our discussion, so my news director simply gestured his displeasure with a frown while turning his attention back on the building crew.

When the noise lulled, I told Bryce about the dead dog and showed him the gruesome picture of the trap clenched over the collie’s face.

“It took two strong men to pull apart the springs and finally remove it,” I said. “No animal would stand a chance against such a device.”

“We can’t show that photo on the air,” Bryce said. “Too disturbing.”

I’ve always found it strange that the same people who complain about stories featuring dead animals seem to have no problem with stories about dead people. But I knew what he meant. We couldn’t do the story without airing the picture and we couldn’t air the picture without offending most of our viewers. So, end of story. Or was it?

“I did some research, Bryce, and the use of these body grip traps is controversial. Maybe I should do a little more digging, especially since viewers tune in for animal stories.”

“Not dead-animal stories, Riley. Happy ones. Tales of dogs traveling hundreds of miles to be reunited with their owner. Cats dressed in holiday costumes. Baby owls being rescued. Find me some animal news at the Mall of America that will spike our ratings and then we’ll talk.”

As much as I wanted to avoid crossing paths with Garnett, I also wanted to keep my job. So I tried playing chummy with my boss, even though I was certain he’d blow off my next idea.

“This has nothing to do with animals and hasn’t been confirmed, but I got a sense the mall is planning another crazy wedding. Anything to land national media attention.”

“What kind of wedding?” he asked.

“They do a stunt wedding every few years.” Since he hadn’t been in Minnesota long enough to see the mall’s public relations machine in action, I tried to give him some perspective. “Couples married on the Ferris wheel. An arranged-marriage wedding. I-do’s by the aquarium. They want to make the rest of the country envision the mall as a destination point for their big day. Sort of like Vegas without the casinos.”

I started chuckling, figuring this was something my news director and I could yuk up together, sharing the absurdity. “Bride and grooms sometimes get a free ride on the roller coaster,” I continued. “Couples with weak stomachs can opt for the merry-go-round instead.”

Then I realized Bryce wasn’t laughing. He was enthralled. “You can really get married at the Mall of America?”

“Absolutely.” I raised my voice as the hammering on set again blended with the buzz of electric sawing. “Thousands of ceremonies have been performed there. You can shop for a wedding just like you shop for tennis shoes or a computer. They even have their own chapel.”

Bryce yelled something, but the construction noise drowned out his words. I pointed to one ear and shook my head, so we left the production studio for the newsroom.

“So what kind of wedding are we talking about this time?” he said.

“I’m not sure there actually is one. I just overheard the Mall of America’s PR and security people chatting, but believe me, if it’s a go, they won’t keep it secret. That place lusts for publicity.”

“A wedding, huh?” Bryce’s face was glowing like a new bride.

“None of this is for sure.” I regretted deviating from my standard policy of never telling a news director about a specific story unless it was solid. Otherwise they felt robbed if you couldn’t deliver.

Just then my cell phone rang, displaying the number for the city of Minneapolis switchboard, and giving me an escape from my boss.

I
was summoned to the Minneapolis police chief’s office by his secretary. She sounded charming but ambiguous. I knew Chief Vince Capacasa generally kept his distance from the media unless there was something in it for him. My guess was the city’s top cop wanted to leak negative happenings at city hall, so I stopped by at the suggested time and was ushered right in.

The chief was yelling into the phone. “If you don’t like it, change the law.” He hung up, abruptly.

“Anyone I know?” I asked.

“Mayor Skubic. He’s mad about the police license plate–tracking data and wants it made private.”

Thousands of vehicle plates and their public locations are scanned each day in Minneapolis by cameras mounted on squad cars and freeway bridges to help cops find wanted vehicles in real time—stolen cars or drivers with warrants out. Under the law, the data was deemed public and is stored for a year. A political fuss was underway because most of the licenses belonged to law-abiding citizens, not criminals.

“Not everyone wants the files private,” I said. “Didn’t some auto dealer recently buy the plate location records of a car the owner had stopped making payments on so he could repossess the vehicle?”

The mayor had appointed Capacasa to the job of police chief
years ago, but it was no secret the two were often at odds. Even though their offices were in the same building, they seldom met face-to-face. I waited to see if the chief had anything to add to the license flap, but that didn’t seem the reason for my visit.

So I tried a little small talk. “How’s the game going, Chief? Who’s ahead?”

I motioned to a chessboard on a corner table where, it was well known, he continuously played a long-distance match with a murderer serving life in Minnesota’s highest-security prison.

“He thinks he’s beating me,” the chief answered, “but I know I’m winning.”

The two men snail-mailed moves to each other, so their competition advanced slowly. The chief, a chess master who had no shortage of law-abiding opponents, wouldn’t disclose his motive for the game, but many of us in the media figured the two might have a side bet involving a confession about other unsolved homicides.

A knock at the door came just then, and Detective Delmonico entered, followed by a man in a dark suit. He seemed familiar, but avoided looking at me. Then I recognized him as an FBI agent I’d tangled with on a couple crime stories that fell under federal jurisdiction. I could never remember his name—FBI guys tend to look the same from the ground on up, from their black shoes to their short haircuts. If we had been outside, and he’d been wearing dark glasses, I probably wouldn’t have pegged him at all.

“I believe we’ve met before.” I introduced myself to both men anyway. “Riley Spartz, Channel 3 News.”

Delmonico shook my hand without giving any indication he and I had seen each other lately.

The FBI guy paused, but couldn’t refuse to divulge his name without confirming he was a true jerk. “Agent Jax, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

Now that I remembered him, I liked him even less. He always
gave his investigations Latin names to make them—and him—sound important.

He and Delmonico pulled up chairs around a conference table and joined me near the chief’s desk. The meeting was a tad unconventional. When it comes to law enforcement, feds and locals aren’t historically great collaborators, sharing some of the same tensions as television networks and affiliate stations.

Most police consider the FBI a one-way street when it comes to sharing information, while the feds fault police chiefs and sheriffs for being territorial. The players sometimes make a show of lining up together for news conferences, especially if the topic is terrorism, but much of the time they try to ignore each other.

Figuring this gathering had news potential, I leaned back to listen to what they had to say. Turns out, they wanted me to do the talking.

“Tell us what you know about this man.” Delmonico held out a mug shot.

I reached for the picture. The man in the photo looked confident, despite his circumstances, though his eyes and smile seemed to hint at something furtive.

To me, he was a stranger. “I don’t know anything about him.”

“Hmmmm. We’ll see.” Chief Capacasa took control of the interview, maintaining eye contact with me as he asked the next question. “Was he a source of yours?”

“If he was, I’m not sure I’d tell you.”

My answer didn’t please my audience. “You don’t need to worry about protecting his anonymity.” Capacasa drummed his fingers impatiently against the desk. “He’s dead.”

With that news, I saw no point in playing coy. I realized I was on the verge of landing a scoop. After all, I was the only reporter in the room, and no one had mentioned anything about our discussion being off the record. Even if they had, I don’t think I would have agreed to that kind of deal. I like to know more about what I’m trading silence for first.

“I’ve never seen him before.” If the cops had the guy’s mug, they also had his name. I knew the system enough to make them squirm. “Why don’t you just tell me who he is? Maybe this will go faster.”

“Leon Akume,” Delmonico said. “His name is Leon Paul Akume.”

That info didn’t help. I tried to concentrate, closing my eyes as I repeated Leon Paul Akume to myself a few times. Ten seconds later, I opened my eyes and shrugged. “No. Never heard of him.”

“Then why did you have his teeth?” the chief asked.

“So that’s what this is about.”

I hadn’t expected the teeth to be identified so quickly. Forensics usually take more time because of the crime lab backlog. The teeth must be high priority. I stared at the mug shot again and tried to imagine Leon Akume without his cocky smile.

I glanced toward Delmonico, wishing he’d given me a head’s up. “Certainly you read my statement. The teeth came in a package in the mail.”

“But why you?” Delmonico asked. “What’s your connection?”

“I have no idea, Detective,” I said. “But for you to pull this identification together so fast, makes me think you already suspected whose mouth the teeth belonged in when I dropped them off. Why don’t you tell me what else you know about Mr. Akume?”

Delmonico glanced over at Capacasa, who glared in the direction of the FBI guy. That move seemed odd to me. Even though we were sitting in the chief’s office, who was actually in charge of this investigation?

“Agent Jax, what’s your interest in this case?” I asked.

“That remains to be seen.” His arms were crossed and he spoke in a grave voice as if discussing something important—a national security issue, maybe.

But I didn’t believe him. I had the feeling the three men had deliberated their plan earlier and saw no option other than to
share some information with me. If there was a chance I held a clue, they had to take it.

“So how long’s our guy been dead?” I prompted them.

“About a week,” the homicide cop said, explaining that the body had been found near a Dumpster in an alley in north Minneapolis.

The details sounded familiar. “Exactly where did this happen?” I asked.

“The Hawthorne neighborhood. A few blocks from Farview Park.”

“I was there.”

“We know.” All three men answered simultaneously, making me feel outnumbered—three to one.

That part of the city was best known for vacant houses and drive-by shootings. I’d reported a routine live shot about the homicide a week or so ago and remembered standing just outside the yellow-and-black crime-scene tape with gawkers. Not much information had been available for viewers. No victim name, no suspects; the only witness was a homeless man who had discovered the corpse while foraging through garbage from alley to alley. I remembered him being disheveled, shaken, and too intoxicated for our on-camera interview. Who could blame him?

The only official comment from the police attributed the cause of death to foul play. Worthless. None of the other stations even showed up, figuring it just another gang killing.

“Your station was apparently the only one to send a live team,” the chief said. “Any idea why?”

“Different news judgment or crew availability,” I answered. “Happens frequently. News coverage is subjective.”

That really wasn’t the entire truth. The homicide had been delegated to me as a punishment, but I was too proud to let that gossip loose in cop circles.

The murder was the kind of no-brainer live shot given to new hires or that would have been busted down to a thirty-second
voice-over because of its geography. I had been promised a day off the street to work on an in-depth report about nurses stealing drugs from patients, but Bryce and I had clashed during the news huddle, and when word of the homicide came over the police scanners, he ordered me out the door and sandwiched my live shot in the second block of the newscast. Definitely, a dis.

I hadn’t given the homicide another thought since then. Neither had the assignment desk. And until now, the cops hadn’t acted like they gave a damn either.

“No one on the scene mentioned the corpse lacking teeth,” I said. “That might have turned it into a lead story.”

“That word didn’t come until the autopsy,” Delmonico responded.

“Even later,” I said, “that fact would have guaranteed another round of publicity.”

My initial reaction was that the cops seemed to have been trying to keep this homicide quiet. Sacrificing media coverage for a closemouthed approach meant forgoing tips from the public. But why? Unless they already had a suspect in mind. “Any leads?”

“Just the postmark,” Delmonico said.

He spread several large photographs across the chief’s desk. They came from an exterior surveillance camera and each showed the same post office mailbox. Vehicles appeared beside the box in most of the pictures. While the plate numbers were visible, who was driving and what they dropped in the slot remained a mystery.

In three photos, people carried manila envelopes similar to the one the teeth came in. An older man walking a small dog. A teenage girl in a sweatshirt. A figure in a hooded winter parka who couldn’t be recognized as either a man or a woman.