Killing Kate: A Novel (Riley Spartz Book 4) (6 page)

Because of our past, I probably should have simply thanked him for his insight and headed back to the station. After all, we both came out winners. I snagged a decent sound bite for the news and he got to show the taxpayers of Minneapolis that he cares about justice for dead dogs.

Instead, I brought up Kate’s homicide because it seemed unlikely I’d get another chance with a camera rolling and because nobody from the department had returned my phone call. I knew the camera was still hot because Malik knew better than
to turn it off until I specifically said “We’re done here.” We’ve worked together long enough to have a system to avoid interview regrets.

“So, Chief, while we’re here, anything new on the Kate Warner investigation?”

“When there is, we’ll let you know.”

I sensed he wanted to snarl, but police work involves balancing politics as well as chasing criminals. The city was tracking more murders this year than anytime since 1995 when the
New York Times
dubbed the city “Murderapolis.” Capacasa understood he better watch his mouth.

“Which of your homicide teams sketched the chalk fairy at the murder scene?” I asked.

His eyes narrowed at my audacity in implying a mistake might have been made in the investigation. More likely, he was angry because I knew about the mistake and he had no idea who my source was.

Moments like this always reminded me that his name sounded like a mafia cousin. Vinnie Capacasa. That name resonated mob muscle. I didn’t actually expect an answer to my question; I just wanted him to know I was plugged into the case. Not surprisingly, he wanted to make it clear who was in charge.

“That homicide remains an active case which can’t be commented on. Doing so could jeopardize the investigation.”

“But Chief, couldn’t the case already be jeopardized if the crime scene’s been contaminated by your people? Have your guys given the defense a potential out?”

That’s when he stood up and walked away with the station’s high-priced wireless microphone still clipped handily to his lapel.

“Whoo, Chief,” Malik yelled. “Need the mic back.”

Chief Capacasa ripped it off, flinging the electronic device to the floor . . . as if he was throwing down a gauntlet. And even though he never looked back, we both knew he was.

L
assie was the world’s most famous collie.

Rin Tin Tin, the most celebrated German shepherd.

I’d always considered Old Yeller the most notable of dead dogs, until I cried my eyes out reading
Marley and Me.

But then Buddy came along. And live, on the air, I lost it.

The anchors led the newscast with how journalists prefer to lead with good news and how unfortunate it is when good news turns bad.

Then they tossed to me to explain to viewers what they were talking about.

I’d scripted my story to read smoothly on the teleprompter. The narrow column of copy times out to a second a line to make it easy to gauge story length, and so the anchor’s eyes don’t shift back and forth. My piece should have been routine.

((RILEY LIVE))
EARLIER TONIGHT, I TOLD YOU
HOW A DOG NAMED BUDDY WAS
RESCUED FROM A HOT PICKUP
TRUCK. SO MANY OF YOU CALLED
THE STATION ROOTING FOR HIM . . .

Just then my throat got tight and I started choking up.

((RILEY LIVE))
BUT NEWS STORIES DON’T ALWAYS
END THE WAY WE WANT . . .

My voice got raspy. It wasn’t a question of knowing what to say—I had a script—it was getting the words out. The harder I tried to enunciate the more constricted my speech became.

((RILEY LIVE))
TONIGHT I HAVE TO REPORT
THAT BUDDY . . . THAT BUDDY . . .
BUDDY . . . BUDDY HAS DIED.

During the course of my news career, I must have reported a hundred grievous deaths of people—young and old, rich and poor. Most of them decent folks who didn’t deserve their lives to end violently.

Never once did I break down on the air.

But unlike Buddy, I hadn’t held any of those victims in my arms hours before their demise. The memory of his scratchy fur against my chin suddenly reminded me of Shep, a German shepherd who’d risked his life to save mine, and was now a star member of the police K-9 unit. And I couldn’t help thinking, What if Shep had died?

By then I was crying too hard to talk.

In my earpiece, I heard the producer tell the director to kill my mic and cut back to the anchors. Sophie jumped in to finish reading my story about how Buddy’s official cause of death was heatstroke.

T
he next morning, all of Channel 3 gasped when they saw how many viewers had essentially watched Buddy’s obituary and my meltdown the night before. The ratings resembled the days before cable TV and the Internet shrunk network audiences.

Television stations realize they can’t be first every day. Their measure of success is how well they retain their network lead-in audience. If they build on that viewership, ad revenue increases and everyone keeps their jobs. But if the numbers reflect a significant drop-off, that means trouble. And Channel 3 had shown a pattern of problems lately.

So at the assignment meeting that morning, Noreen reveled in the numbers as concrete proof of her superior news instincts and management skill.

“Keep the Buddy story alive,” she ordered. “Viewers will be expecting a follow-up report tonight. Don’t disappoint them.”

No one mentioned my blubbering on the set. All of Channel 3 seemed embarrassed by my behavior. My hope was that they had made a pact never to mention my on-air collapse again.

After the meeting, I followed Noreen back to her office to try to keep Kate’s homicide on her radar. My hunch was we could have a more candid conversation behind closed doors.

“I’ll check with the county attorney this morning, Noreen, and see if she anticipates any harsher charges against Buddy’s owner.”

Either way, we could pass that off as news.

“I’m not going to ask what happened last night,” Noreen said, “You just need to assure me you’re going to be able to hold it together on this story.”

“I can’t explain it either, but it won’t happen again. Ever.”

I suspected that because she was an animal lover, Noreen was going easier on me than she might have otherwise. I thanked her for being so understanding. It wasn’t a line I ever expected to say to her, because she’d never been understanding before. Our track record regarding job evaluations was shaky.

She nodded in agreement and impatience, clearly wanting me to move along so she could begin her real boss business of running the newsroom.

“I’m getting the feeling there might be something unusual going on with the Kate Warner murder,” I said. “I want to dig around a little more.”

I didn’t go into the specifics of the chalk fairy, because I generally don’t like getting news directors all fired up over a specific story element unless I know it’s reportable. Especially these days during media struggles. TV managers don’t have much of an attention span. They want things NOW.

No time for hope; only time for results. And if I bring up an intriguing prospect, but don’t deliver . . . that gets labeled failure fast.

So Noreen essentially reminded me of her long-held news theory that dead dogs often deliver more viewers than dead people.

“You show me how that murder will improve our household numbers or demographic ratings and I’m happy to revisit this discussion, but our research shows that viewers are tired of hearing about so much crime. If you find an obvious news development, such as an arrest, then we’ll talk.”

So I silently counted to three, as in Channel 3, thanked her for her time, and walked down to the Hennepin County Government Center to talk to the county attorney about options for prosecuting Buddy’s owner.

After a few minutes of predictable chitchat about how the news was going downhill, it was clear that Melissa Kreimer, unlike my boss, definitely cared more about dead people than dead dogs. I didn’t mention that voters and viewers might be more inclined to agree with Noreen, but it was clear the police chief had a better grasp on how to manipulate the media than did the county attorney.

“The key to the state’s animal cruelty laws are the words ‘intentionally violates,’ “ Kreimer said. “I don’t think for a minute this man intended to kill his dog. That’s why we have a separate law about leaving unattended pets in a motor vehicle. And that’s the law most applicable in this case.”

She agreed to meet me downstairs in the building atrium for a quick question-answer on camera. Most television interviews in the building were done there rather than having news crews taking all the equipment upstairs through security. Malik had already set up the tripod, and natural light from the overhead windows made artificial lighting unnecessary.

Kreimer gave me a usable sound bite of how fair laws balance priorities between society and Buddy’s owner.

“While the monetary fine seems minimal in this case,” she said, “let’s keep in mind the owner also has to pay to repair his vehicle windows, and the cost for transportation and medical care for the animal. Plus, he no longer has a dog.”

Maybe all that was enough suffering for Keith Avise, but my gut told me the county attorney might be in for a surprise when she heard from the general public. Kreimer didn’t seem familiar with recent world outrage when a British woman dumped a cat in a garbage can explaining, “It’s just a cat.”

As much as I disagreed with Noreen about many of her news
decisions, they often proved canny. I imagined her anchor lead-in on my story.

((ANCHOR CU))
AUTHORITIES SAY BUDDY WAS
JUST
A DOG AND HIS DEATH IS
ONLY
A PETTY MISDEMEANOR . . .
BUT OUR PEOPLE-ON-THE-STREET
INTERVIEWS SHOW A DIFFERENT
PERSPECTIVE.

Because of staff cuts, the assignment desk was starting to keep closer tabs on those of us who work in the field. They constantly want to know
where
we are
when
and
who
we are doing
what
with while chasing stories. To be a good news trooper, I called to report that my interview was finished, my photographer clear. Ozzie immediately dispatched Malik to shoot a jackknifed semi that was clogging up traffic on the freeway.

Then he dropped a whammy and told me that someone had posted my Buddy blubbering episode on YouTube last night.

“You’ve got nearly 100,000 hits.” He kept his voice neutral, but I couldn’t imagine the station would be pleased. “I just wanted to warn you before you heard the news from someone else.”

“Like Noreen?”

“Yeah.”

“Is she looking for me?”

“Waiting for you.”

“I’ll grab an early lunch.”

Ozzie gave me the go-ahead because even if breaking news was lacking, we were still allowed to break for lunch. I actually didn’t feel like eating, but I couldn’t face my station colleagues just then. Most of the staff would be constantly refreshing their computer screens to keep track of my YouTube hits. Getting the newscasts on the air might be as challenging as when MTV first
came along and instead of writing scripts, the news producers were glued to Billy Joel and Michael Jackson.

I swung by Ed’s liquor store to see if he was facing any fallout from his gun wielding antics in the parking lot as we tried to save Buddy.

“Nope, sweetie, most folks don’t know me, and those that do, well, it’s actually helping my reputation as a tough guy. Ain’t none of them going to mess with me, though I don’t ever expect to pull that trigger again.”

If he’d seen my debacle covering Buddy’s death, he didn’t mention it, though he had heard that the dog didn’t survive and shared some harsh words about his owner not suitable for television audiences.

“He had some similar things to say about me and the media when I tried to land an interview,” I said.

Ed laughed. “Nothing you haven’t heard before on the job.” He reached under the counter. “Here’s something to improve your spirits.” He pulled out a case of Nordeast beer. “Found a few on the truck this morning.”

I thanked Ed for watching out for me, and imagined how cheered Garnett would be to pop the cap off a cold bottle during his visit. Offhand, I couldn’t think of any movie quotes concerning beer, but I was sure he could.

I still didn’t want to head back to Channel 3, so I parked near Lake of the Isles and looked out over the water, forcing myself to concentrate on pleasant matters in life. But for those of us in the news business, disagreeable issues come more naturally to mind. Plenty of Canada geese hobbled and honked along the shore, and some even approached my vehicle to hiss. I felt lectured by angry birds.

My cell phone rang. It was Malik. “Turn on the radio.”

Almost immediately, I wished I hadn’t.

T
he host of the top-rated radio talk show in the Twin Cities was inviting listeners to call in and vote on whether my sobbing live on the air was “human” or “unprofessional.”

He was urging people to view it on YouTube if they hadn’t been watching our news the night before, but for those without a computer handy, he gave a pretty vivid description and played the audio over the radio airwaves.

“Those of you familiar with the local media scene will recognize Channel 3’s Riley Spartz as one tough news cookie. She can have bullets flying over her head and she won’t cry. So what’s up here? A couple days ago she covered a woman’s murder. No tears there. But now, bawling like a baby.”

He opened the phone lines, and took the first call.

“I was happy she showed some emotion,” an older-sounding woman said. “Sometimes I get the feeling that those reporters, they don’t really care about the stories they cover. For them, it’s just a paycheck.”

“Yes, but this particular reporter has covered a lot of crime stories,” the host said. “And we haven’t seen her show such passion for those victims. Does a dog deserve tears more than, say, a missing child? Or a murdered babysitter?”

“Well, you have a point there,” she conceded.