Killing Kate: A Novel (Riley Spartz Book 4) (20 page)

Malik snickered behind me, but I shut him up with a well-practiced glare.

“The Black Angel has stood in this spot for ninety-nine years,” she said. “Almost a century of intrigue.”

I nodded to show I was paying attention. “How old are you by the way, Carole?”

“I’m eighty-one,” she said, proudly. “Plenty old enough to know what I’m talking about.”

“That’s what we like to hear,” Malik said as he clipped a microphone to her neckline. “You’re my kind of expert.”

“But the angel outranks you,” I joked. “So give us the basics.”

“The statue stands watch over three sets of human remains.” She held up three fingers, then did a countdown. “The first is Teresa’s husband.” She explained that she had commissioned the statue following his death, for five thousand dollars. “That would cost well over a hundred grand today, but her husband left her a wealthy woman.”

Malik whistled in admiration. “Angels don’t come cheap.”

“The second remains are those of her son.” According to Carole, seventeen-year-old Eddie Dolezal had died from meningitis twenty years before the angel’s arrival, and was buried in the cemetery under a custom-made tree-stump monument; Teresa moved his body and concrete marker next to the angel so her family would be together after death.

I’d wondered about the significance of the tree stump at the foot of the statue. “It symbolizes a life cut short,” she explained.

The final line of Eddie’s inscription read,
Do not weep for me, dear mother. I am at peace in my cool grave.

“And finally, Teresa makes three.” Carole’s most interesting insight was that while Teresa’s year of birth—1836—appears on the Black Angel’s platform, her year of death is blank.

Malik crouched to shoot a close-up of the strange enigma.

“So is she dead or not dead?” I asked.

“She died in 1924, but the real debate is not over her death, but the mystery concerning the angel’s sinister color metamorphosis.”

“What are the leading theories?”

“You mean besides oxidation?”

“Well, yeah. But we’re most curious about the supernatural secrets.”

“One view has the angel turning black after being struck by lightning the night of Teresa’s funeral,” she said. “But most of the conjecture centers around a curse of evil—and rumors of infidelity or murder. Legend speculates that Teresa cheated on the memory of her husband, or perhaps that her son died by her hand; thus the blackness serves as a reminder of her sins and a warning to stay clear of her grave.”

“Wide-ranging gossip,” I said. “I understand she moved to Iowa as a widow, and didn’t marry the man buried here until years after Eddie passed away. How did she support herself and son?”

“That’s an interesting question,” Carole said, “and leads to another reason some townsfolk back then may have felt the angel’s hue change as evidence of her own malevolence.”

“She was a prostitute?” I asked.

She shook her head. “No, Teresa was a midwife. She built a thriving practice.”

I didn’t understand what she was implying. “So she helped women give birth. What’s so bad about that? Were doctors jealous of her business?”

Carole paused before answering. “At that time, many midwives also performed abortions, of course illegal back then.”

Now I understood why Teresa Dolezal Feldevert might have seemed controversial to certain neighbors.

“While that’s not one of the romantic rumors cited in current superstition, decades ago it no doubt caused tongue-wagging and promoted fear that pregnant women who walked beneath the angel’s wings would miscarry.”

Malik looked at me, with apparent misgivings over our earlier jesting. He lowered his camera. “How about us? Would she consider us intruders?”

“Only if you show disrespect,” she answered.

“We promise to behave,” I said. “But what happens to visitors who don’t?”

“Finis. Tales abound of people who kiss under the angel and die inexplicable deaths. Generations have believed that only virgins will be spared from the angel’s wrath. Kissing the statue itself is considered a fatal breach of etiquette.”

Malik motioned upward, toward the right hand of the angel. “What happened here?” The statue’s hand appeared scarred—fingers missing. Malik showed me a close-up through his view-finder.

“Over the years, the monument has been desecrated by souvenir hunters. That’s upset the community, thus the police and neighbors try to keep a closer watch on the cemetery, especially Halloween nights.”

“So what do you think, Carole? Does the Black Angel evoke evil?”

“Enough baffling anecdotes persist that I don’t know what to believe, and I don’t think anyone else does either. Some narratives recollect that in her final years, Teresa Dolezal Feldevert felt such shame over the color transformation of her family symbol that she would come to the cemetery in a wheelchair and try to scrape the blackness off the statue.”

The image was pathetic. And visual. As a television reporter I regretted not being able to capture her futile action.

“But it didn’t work,” I said.

“No, it didn’t.”

The blackness remained obvious.

D
olezal froze while watching Channel 3 unfold the history of Teresa Dolezal Feldevert and the Black Angel.

((RILEY STANDUP))
NO ONE KNOWS WHETHER THE
DESIGN OF THE STATUE AND
THE DRAWING LEFT BEHIND
AT THE MURDER SCENES
ARE HAPPENSTANCE . . . OR A
MESSAGE FROM A KILLER. . . .
BUT TOWNSFOLK HAVE LONG
BEEN IN AGREEMENT THAT
THE BLACK ANGEL IS AMONG
THE MOST HAUNTED SITES IN
THE MIDWEST . . . RILEY SPARTZ
REPORTING, FROM IOWA CITY.

He thought the reporter’s delivery irreverent and was determined to put her on notice for her sins. Riley Spartz couldn’t claim he didn’t warn her.

•    •    •

To please Noreen and stack the numbers our way, I’d called Chuck ahead of time so he could tune in and stay up to date on any development involving Kate’s death. Channel 3 had promoted the Black Angel story throughout the network’s prime-time crime dramas.

It proved a good fit. From my news desk the next morning, I called up the overnight numbers and saw a twelve rating—a high Nielsen score in these days of shrinking commercial television audiences.

On my bulletin board, I’d pinned the black feather that I’d picked up from the Iowa cemetery. It oozed mystery, reminding me the case remained unsolved.

Then I clicked to the station’s website and admired a picture of the Black Angel statue dominating the page next to the Channel 3 logo. I looked for Internet feedback and already saw more than a dozen comments from viewers. That would also please Noreen. Two of the commenters discussed plans to visit Iowa City as tourists and wanted to know if Oakland Cemetery was open to the public. Others complimented me for an intriguing tale. A couple thought it was a big waste of time since ghosts don’t exist.

One comment gave me chills and a flashback: “Taunting Teresa is tempting death.”

I mashed through piles of junk on my desk, looking for the
Black Angel Lace
book that I’d taken from Kate’s house. I finally found the steamy tale hidden under a stack of files on the floor by my feet. I guess I hadn’t wanted the racy cover visible.

Just as I recalled, the title page bore the same line now up on my computer screen.
Taunting Teresa is tempting death
.

For research, I looked up the origin of the name “Teresa” and discovered it Greek for “reaper.” And I found myself thinking grim reaper.

•    •    •

“Can you tell where the comment came from?” I asked Xiong.

“An email account or, even better, a physical street address?”

“I will work on it. I will contact you.”

That was his way of telling me to move along. So I left him undisturbed, but eager for a cyber chase.

I checked the newsroom refrigerator to see if there might be any abandoned leftovers that wouldn’t give me food poisoning. Everything looked risky. My cell phone vibrated, showing Chuck Heyden on the other end. Even though I’d given him that number on our first visit, he’d never called me, I’d always called him.

“My alibi is no good,” he said.

“What do you mean?” I headed back to my office in case I needed to take notes.

He explained that Benny, his attorney, had just received the people meter records from Nielsen. “I didn’t push the buttons when I was supposed to.”

“You mean you didn’t register your viewing every fifteen minutes?”

“I guess not.”

This was bad for Chuck. Not only was the device not a witness to his whereabouts, it was evidence against him. Once again I had the feeling I might be talking to Kate’s killer.

“You still believe me, don’t you?” he asked.

“Sure, Chuck.”

I didn’t know what else to say, but apparently it wasn’t convincing enough.

“You don’t really sound like you do.”

“Well, let’s think about this a moment,” I said. “The first thing the cops are going to wonder is, Why didn’t you push the buttons?”

Chuck paused, and I found myself wishing I could read his face, not just his voice. “I must have fallen asleep.”

“Well, that clears up that confusion, Chuck.” Claiming to be asleep during a homicide is a poor defense for a suspect, but I figured I’d let Benny explain that nuance to Chuck. “Keep me posted if you hear anything new, and I’ll do the same.”

“Nielsen wants the equipment back.”

He meant the people meter. That didn’t surprise me; secrecy is part of the Nielsen family contract. I just hoped Chuck hadn’t mentioned me by name.

“Do whatever your attorney tells you to do,” I advised him.

As soon as we said good-bye, I hit speed dial for Benny.

His opening line was contemptuous. “Thanks for that murder referral, Riley.”

“Chuck just called me.”

“So you know your pal’s high-tech alibi isn’t holding up.”

“It seemed worth a try,” I said. “If the records had confirmed he was sitting in front of his TV at the time of the murder, that would have been an interesting, and newsworthy, argument.”

“Yep, but now I represent a client who’s likely guilty.”

“That’s never bothered you before.”

“I cut him a deal on my fee that now I wish I hadn’t. This case could end up being a lot of work. Especially if he is a serial killer.”

“But the cops don’t have even one homicide case yet, Benny. Before they can charge Chuck, they’d have to link him to these other murders as well.”

“Being he works at home, and lives alone, there’s not a lot of eyewitnesses to corroborate his statements. When I asked him where he was on the dates of those murders, he couldn’t give me much beyond ‘home watching TV.’ And we’ve seen how well that can be proved. Oh except one of the nights he thought he was at his now dead girlfriend’s house.”

And so it all comes back to Kate.

•    •    •

As for my “Taunting Teresa,” Xiong replied by email with a jargon of IP addresses and host names, but his bottom line: the message was sent around half past ten that morning from the downtown Minneapolis branch of the Hennepin County Library system, about three quarters of a mile from the station. He also included the email address from where it was dispatched, but his note warned me not to be hopeful.

“Often patrons of public computers forget to sign off, and their accounts are temporarily hijacked by others. That is quite possible in the case of your communication.”

I knew what he said was true, but I needed some kind of break on this story and so wanted the email to match the sender. I don’t appreciate smart killers who hide their tracks. Give me the dumb ones who leave fingerprints, DNA, or even a signed confession behind. I’d learned on the job.

I sent a “thanks” email to the viewer (keeping it gender neutral) for commenting on my Black Angel story and asking if they’d like to discuss the idea more.

These days, journalists don’t have to do much on-site library research, except for very old newspaper archives. So rather than get into a debate with the assignment desk, I simply called out that I was grabbing lunch. Ozzie waved me off.

I didn’t bother taking the skyway—it didn’t hook to either the station or the library—instead I just marched down the mall like downtown belonged to me. In a way, it did. I’d worked at the station longer than I’d lived anywhere except the farm.

A woman in charge at the library service desk recognized me, but declined my request to see the video surveillance tape from any of the library cameras.

“Someone sent a comment to Channel 3 from the library’s computers,” I said. “I’d like to find out who.” Because I had the time of day of the transmission, I figured it might be easy to track.

She shook her head like that would never happen. “Patron
library records are all private. Whenever books are returned the file is erased and not even staff can tell who has checked out what.”

“But what if one patron jumps in another’s Internet account? That would seem to be an invasion of privacy.”

“I’m afraid we can’t help you, Ms. Spartz. We only deal with court orders. Library patron privacy is essential to the exercise of free speech and thought. If you feel like this is a matter of grave importance, contact the police.”

She turned and went back to work.

I went over to a bank of library computers to gauge how easy it might be to temporarily poach another’s account. All the empty spots had been signed out, but I logged in anyway to check my email.

I found a reply from the Taunting Teresa account, puzzled about my remarks concerning an angel, discounting knowing anyone named Teresa, but delighted to hear from a real-live TV reporter. She mentioned living in some downtown apartments, included her name, phone number, and a request to bring her Red Hat Ladies Club to tour Channel 3.

I
stopped at the drugstore on Nicollet Mall near the station for some lip balm. The customer in front of me paid at the cash register with a hundred-dollar bill. I waited until he was out the door before acting nosy.

“Can I see that hundred-dollar bill?” I asked the clerk.