Killing Kate: A Novel (Riley Spartz Book 4) (17 page)

I thanked him for his perspective. And asked if either body appeared to be posed.

Both departments declined to answer.

“Did there appear to be any markings on or around the body?”

Neither investigator responded. One told me he had to get back to work soon. The other asked how much longer my survey was going to take. I wrapped up the interviews with a final question.

“If our station decides to feature this case in our story, would you or someone within your department be available for a camera interview?”

Both answered maybe, typical when it came to cops. So far, no breaks in the cases, but at least they were now familiar with me, and didn’t hang up.

I stuck a photo of the Black Angel next to Iowa City because the statue added intrigue to my murder map. To keep honest, I
added a big question mark to the picture and tried to think of what other connections the area might have to any of the homicides.

While I’d never heard of the cemetery before, the University of Iowa, besides being a sports rival of the University of Minnesota, was internationally known for its prestigious writers’ workshop.

Because Kate turned out to be an author and had used a Black Angel as a character in one of her books, I was guessing she might have attended the university, its campus less than two miles from the graveyard. If so, that might be further evidence of a link.

I called the university records department and asked to verify attendance on a former student. I had her date of birth from the police report of her murder.

“No degree was conferred,” the office voice said.

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“She never graduated.”

“I realize that,” I bluffed. “I’d just like details of when she attended, and what classes she took.”

The voice said Kate Warner attended two semesters, four years earlier. “That’s all the information I’m allowed to release.” Then she hung up.

Kate might have recognized her style of writing did not fit the university’s literary bent. Or the university might have recognized this for her.

T
he station’s front-door receptionist paged me on the overhead speaker while I was on the phone with the Secret Service learning about the crime of counterfeiting. Besides protecting our president, the agency is also in charge of protecting the physical integrity of U.S. currency.

“When it comes to bad bills, we’re more interested in the printer than the passer,” I’d just been told. “Sometimes they’re the same, but often the passer can lead us to the money ring.”

Now I had a visitor in the lobby.

My news experience told me that seldom did any good story ever walk in cold through the front door. Usually just nut jobs who thought that was how best to get on TV. Or outraged viewers who wanted to complain in your face about why you kept mispronouncing a particular surname or city.

I told the Secret Service agent I’d like to call them back to arrange an on-camera interview.

“Did you get a name for this visitor?” I asked the receptionist.

“Yes, Barbara Avise. She has a package she wants to give you.”

I closed my eyes and thought, damn. For this I cut a source short. She must have printed out the attachments I didn’t want to open. Either that or she wanted to throw an egg at me, just like her ex-husband.

“Can you tell her I’m in a meeting and just take the package?”

I heard her repeat that line and another voice answer that she didn’t mind waiting. They were the worst. She’d figure her wait had earned her a lengthy one-on-one, and would probably want to pitch the story by reading the documents out loud to me. If I left her sitting there and ducked out through the back alley, she’d lambast me on my Facebook page. Then Fitz would add one more transgression to my file. “I’ll be out when I can.”

I sorted through my emails and saw both families had sent photos of the murder victims. I sent replies thanking them and promising to stay in touch. Then I hit Print, adding the pictures to my wall map of murder.

Finally I gave up and went out to make Barbara go away. I walked by the assignment desk and asked Ozzie to rescue me if I wasn’t back in ten minutes.

“Make it sound like I’m in big trouble if I don’t come with you, okay?”

He nodded without much enthusiasm.

A middle-aged woman clutched a manila envelope as she watched a network soap opera in the lobby. Her face lit with optimism when she saw me walk through the door.

“Hello, you must be Barbara Avise. I’m Riley Spartz.”

As much as I wanted to snarl at her for being pushy, I also wanted to spend the least amount of time necessary with her. So I sat down on the couch across from her and started in with business.

“Again, I want to tell you how sorry I am about Buddy’s death. I’ll look through your materials, but I’m not sure there’s much more Channel 3 can do.”

I reached for the envelope, but she held tight. “Let me just review a few things for you.”

She pulled out a holiday card of her and Buddy, in front of a Christmas tree, wearing matching Santa hats. “I know how important
pictures are in TV news. And I want you to have a nice one of Buddy, from happier times.”

She was right about visuals, but seasonal backdrops are never popular with newsrooms. We much prefer neutral photos, but sometimes our graphics designers can fix things.

“I loved that dog.” She choked up a bit. Then she handed over a pile of legal documents. “Now here are my divorce papers.”

I saw it coming—marital wars. “I can understand how you and your ex-husband may not be on the best of terms, but most of our viewers already hate his guts. And frankly, I don’t want to get any further involved in his life.”

“I loved that dog.” She was starting to repeat herself.

I glanced at my watch, a couple more minutes before I could expect Ozzie. “I’m sure you cared for him deeply, Barb. I didn’t know him long, but even I thought he was special.”

“I raised Buddy from a pup. I was the one who fed him and filled his water dish. I was the one who walked him each morning and night. I should have had sole custody.”

“What do you mean?”

“When Keith and I split up, he vowed to take my dog from me. He didn’t want guardianship because he loved Buddy; he did it to hurt me. And rather than deciding what was in Buddy’s best interest, the judge treated him like a piece of furniture.”

She pointed to one of the divorce papers that resembled a calendar. “Our negotiation became contentious. Here’s a copy of our doggie visitation agreement. We had to share custody, and alternate weeks with a dog swap.”

She teared up as she talked about how glad Buddy always was to see her, and how he never wanted to get in the car with her ex-husband. “I just knew he wasn’t being treated well. If Buddy could have talked . . .”

I didn’t interrupt as she wiped her eyes, but I worried her tears might be contagious. The last thing I wanted was the two of us crying in the lobby over her dead dog. She pulled a gold chain
from under her blouse, hanging from it I recognized Buddy’s dog tag.

“I tried going back to court,” she continued, “but was told to stop wasting the judge’s time. If the court had only listened to me, Buddy would be alive today.”

Her face welled up with cheesy emotion just as Ozzie came out to tell me they needed me to go chase a school bus crash in Anoka. I figured Noreen must have fed him the line.

“I’m in the middle of something, Ozzie. Can you get someone else this one time?”

“No, everybody else is already assigned.”

I motioned toward Barb with my head. “I really need to finish up here.”

He shook his head. “You’ll have to handle it later.”

I guessed he was playing bad cop, thinking I wanted to come across as the good cop. What he didn’t know was, I really did have a few more questions for my visitor. What I didn’t know was, there really was a school bus crash.

A minute later, Ozzie made me understand I needed to head to the crash scene with a photographer now. I promised Barb I would look over her file, discuss it with my boss, but I couldn’t guarantee anything would end up on the air.

“I’ll call you later.” I handed her a business card.

“I understand all that, but you need to understand this.” She dropped her voice low, and surprised me with her next words. “Buddy’s death was no accident. Buddy was murdered.”

O
n the drive north, I filled Malik in about the latest on Buddy’s dysfunctional family life. “She sounds a little nuts to me,” he said. “But so did the other guy.”

“You and me both. But I better keep Noreen in the loop or I’m headed for trouble. She has a soft spot for this story.”

I told him how I’d been impudent with our consultant who wanted me to shed tears on a regular basis as I covered the news.

“Maybe this crash will be worth crying over, Riley.”

“No way. I’m a professional journalist, and I intend to act that way.”

Suddenly we saw traffic backed up ahead. Police were on the scene; so was an ambulance. Plenty of flashing lights to shoot.

Any time a school bus is involved in a crash, a crew needs to be dispatched. Often the accident becomes the day’s lead—if children are killed, if the driver is drunk, if the bus wasn’t properly maintained and its brakes failed. Lots of factors can make for a compelling story.

But not this time. An SUV rear-ended the bus, but it ended up being one of those accidents that looked worse than it was. No serious injuries, although a couple students were being transported to Unity Hospital to be checked.

I didn’t blame Ozzie for the chase. No news organization can wait for all the answers before heading out to cover breaking news. We’d be beat every time. Malik and I taped some interviews, crash video, a standup, and headed back to the station with a story that might merit a minute in the second section of the newscast unless something better came along. Then it would be busted down to twenty seconds flat.

My voice mail message light flashed at my desk. Barb had more to add about her deceased pet.

“I watched your stories about Buddy,” she said. “Only one thing stood in the way of authorities charging him with a felony. One word.
Intentional.
I don’t think Keith lacked intent at all. I think he left Buddy in that hot truck on purpose to kill him and break my heart.

“That prosecutor you interviewed said the dog’s owner had suffered enough. I disagree. Keith needs to suffer much more.”

Barb delivered the words with plenty of punch, and would probably be an excellent sound bite . . . if any of what she said was true. I reached for her divorce folder and began to read.

After the news, Noreen poked her head through my office door. She seemed to want to sit, so I cleared papers from a chair to make room for her. Any time she sought me out, I always knew there was a good chance she was going to fire me. I figured this must not be the day, because if she was going to sack me, she’d do it in her own office so the rest of the newsroom could watch and fear.

She started out with girl chat. Like did I have plans for the coming weekend? This kind of question never bodes well from a boss. She was probably setting me up to cover a Saturday news shift.

I was about to make up some prior social commitment when she got to the point. She needed a house sitter. Or rather, a dog sitter. She was going out of town for a news directors’ conference and hoped I might watch her menagerie. When she and Toby split up, she assumed responsibility for her dalmatian, plus a consortium of cats, dogs, fish, and birds that Toby raised in a country house just outside the western suburbs.

“The only ones that really need supervision are the dogs,” she said. “So if you’d rather, I could drop them off at your place.”

She must have been desperate if she was asking me for this favor. I was the only friend she and Toby had in common. I guess I shared some of the credit for their marriage as well as blame for their divorce. They fell in love because of me and a story, and broke up because of me and a story.

“So we’re talking Speckles, Blackie, and Husky?”

Husky was quiet and always seemed fond of me, and I liked those traits in a dog. As for the others, Blackie was a little more aggressive and Speckles a little high-strung. But if it was only a weekend . . .

She nodded.

“Okay, Noreen, I’ll do it.”

“Really?”

I told her I’d let her know later if I wanted to sit at her place or mine. “In the meantime, let’s talk about pet custody.”

“What’s to discuss? Obviously I kept the animals. Prisoners aren’t allowed pets.”

Toby’s longtime concern for animal rights had got him in trouble with the law, and I had reported the crime for which he was now serving a five-year sentence. Surprisingly, that didn’t mean we weren’t still friends. And I knew that hearing I took care of his animals would please him.

“I’m not talking about your pets, I’m talking about Buddy.” She looked perplexed, so I showed her the holiday photo of Barbara Avise and her bowwow.

“Who’s this?”

“She claims
she’s
Buddy’s owner.” I told her about the accusations Barb was making. And that so far, the divorce documents seemed to corroborate a nasty custody battle over their dog.

“Whether her ex meant to kill Buddy or not gets tricky,” I said. “I’m not sure her allegation is reportable unless we come up with some actual evidence, or criminal charges are filed against him. Otherwise we’re just letting one spouse bad-mouth the other.”

Noreen had mixed feelings about that assessment, probably because of her unwavering conviction that viewers care deeply about animal stories. “I don’t see us as picking one spouse over the other. A dog died and there are unanswered questions. We have a responsibility to the public and to Buddy to follow up.”

I reminded her of my clash with Keith Avise outside the station. “I’m not sure I should be the one interviewing him. Maybe it’s better if we hand the story off to someone else.”

“But it’s an extremely promotable story, Riley. And viewers associate you with it because of the video of you holding Buddy. Putting another reporter on it could confuse them about which channel to watch.”