Missing Mark (13 page)

“What do you mean?” Madeline asked.

So I explained about Mark’s mother also being on board for the story and how she gave me his laptop and was going to let me dig through his belongings for possible leads into why and how her only son vanished. I remember thinking that bit of news should also ensure the Post family’s continued assistance.

All three Posts smiled. Madeline, gratefully. Vivian, nervously. Roderick, skeptically. For a brief flash, they reminded me of the trio of monkeys who saw, spoke, and heard no evil.

A
T HOME
, I refilled Shep’s water dish, gave him a scratch behind the ears and a good-doggy pep talk. Then I walked to the bookshelves which showcased my collection of classical literature. I pulled a slender volume of horror off the top shelf and considered whether Vivian had intentionally named her children after the doomed siblings in “The Fall of the House of Usher.”

Probably just a crazy coincidence, but I thought it best not to ask. Especially since Poe had hinted at an incest theme in that particular masterpiece.

I actually felt sorry for Vivian. She seemed like one of those people who are well-meaning but make terrible first impressions. The rich don’t have to work at being cordial the way the rest of us do.

But when I crawled under the covers that night and opened my Edgar Allan Poe book, I shuddered as I read of the mysterious sensitivity affliction befalling the Ushers until their entire family line was consumed.

  spent most of the next day transcribing tape interviews, so by late afternoon, my mail slot in the newsroom was crammed full of paper. I carried the stack back to my desk without much enthusiasm because nothing good seems to come by mail these days. Not snail mail anyway. All the good news comes by e-mail.

And my paycheck is deposited straight to my bank. Most of my personal bills are paid online directly through my checking account. So I hardly ever touch money. My remaining bills I route to Channel 3 since I prefer to keep my home address private and wasn’t sure how long I’d stay in my new place. I separated nuisance mail from that with news value. Most government agencies even send news releases by e-mail now to save on postage and paper, so there wasn’t much from the stack of paper that didn’t end up in the trash. Less news, more junk.

One envelope didn’t have a return address, but that wasn’t unusual; often tipsters want to remain anonymous. Sometimes they’re blowing the whistle on a crooked employer and fear retribution. Sometimes they’re launching political dirty tricks and need to cover their tracks. Sometimes they just want to whine about a news story but don’t have the guts to sign their name.

This letter writer’s reason was none of the above and became clear the minute I unfolded the note, made up of words cut from newspaper headlines and glued to a sheet of paper. Primitive in a high-tech age.

FISH SHOULD BE FREE AND NOT ON DISPLAY IN
GLASS CELLS. WE WILL RELEASE BIG MOUTH
BILLY INTO THE WILD AS A LESSON NOT TO
IMPRISON NATURE’S CREATURES.

THE ANIMAL LIBERATION FRONT

I wasn’t sure if the note was genuine or a joke, but I wished my fingerprints weren’t on it.

I phoned Malik to bring his camera to my office. He’d left the station five minutes earlier and was not pleased to turn around in rush-hour traffic. His wife, Missy, no doubt had supper ready and the kids were waiting for him to walk through the door so they could yell “Daddy! Daddy!” and rush him with hugs and kisses.

“Do I have to?” he asked. I’d probably understand his reluctance better if I had what he had waiting at home.

“Overtime,” I answered. Usually raising Malik’s paycheck raised his spirits. But this didn’t seem to be one of those times. Missy must be grilling steaks.

“Can you really not do it?” I asked. “Or do you just not want to do it. Honest, it’ll be worth it when you see what came in the mail.”

“You always say nothing good comes in the mail anymore.”

“Well, I was wrong.”

So he returned and when he looked beyond my giddy smile and saw the makeshift note, Malik gave me a big thumbs-up.

A mere sheet of paper… not only did its cut-and-paste message spell out a fascinating criminal motive; it spelled a turning point in the investigation. And for a television news station in the midst of sweeps, that combination can also be spelled ratings.

There’s a saying in the news biz: When you don’t have a lot to shoot, shoot a lot of it. So Malik shot a full tape of the letter from every conceivable angle, in close-ups and wide shots, carefully arranged on a piece of black velvet. To look classy.

First he photographed the pasted words straight on, then with a pan and a zoom, later with some fancy-focus moves. He also videotaped each word individually in case we wanted to edit together a quick-cut montage for variety. The envelope had a Minneapolis postmark with a downtown zip code, so he spent several minutes shooting the hell out of that, too.

When he finished, I called Noreen and told her I had something to show her. She was busy watching the end of the six o’clock news and wanted me to just bring it to her office. I said no. She said this better be good. And she said it in her I’m-the-boss-and-you’re-not voice.

She walked into my office, took one look, made a joyful noise, and called our media lawyer, Miles Lewis. His first words after he arrived back at the station were, “Have you called the authorities yet?”

“It could be a fake,” I said. “I’d hate to cry wolf over a fish. Let the cops watch it on the news. If they want it, they can call us.”

“But I’d hate airing it if it’s a hoax,” Noreen said. “Then we’d look stupid.”

“The validity of the note is for law enforcement to decide, not us,” Miles said. “We have what could be evidence of a crime. We need to turn it over.”

His decision didn’t surprise me.

That’s why I made sure we videotaped it before he arrived. The last thing I needed was the cops arriving with their hands out for the letter while we were still setting up lights. Lately, I’d caught myself thinking like a lawyer. An unpleasant but increasingly necessary part of the job of an investigative reporter.

While I silently congratulated myself for being one step ahead of Miles, he continued laying down the law, or rather, his interpretation of it. “If the police shrug it off, then you can do whatever you want. But they get first crack.”

“Can we still air the story?” Noreen asked.

I sure thought so. “If the cops want the note for their investigation, that gives our story credibility.” Once a story has legs, it’s easier to run.

Miles agreed with my news analysis. “As for airing it, that’s an editorial decision, not a legal one. Air it or don’t air it. I’m just telling you at some point you need to offer it to law enforcement.”

Noreen and I both nodded at the same time. An unusual enough occurrence that we looked at each other with surprise and suspicion.

Miles wanted to count heads. “Right now, do only the four of us know about this letter?”

Malik had been so quiet in the corner, I’d forgotten all about him. He preferred avoiding legalese debates. “Just the four of us,” I repeated.

Miles warned us to try and keep this development quiet in the newsroom until we made a decision about our coverage. That might be difficult, I thought to myself, the other staff already had to be wondering what was going on in my office. Anytime Miles showed up, that usually meant trouble.

Most of his lawyering took place in an upstairs office, poring over the fine print of contracts or negotiating personal-services terms with valued employees. He typically only came down to the newsroom for script review. Playing First Amendment attorney made him proud he went to law school.

Noreen dialed the Bloomington police. I listened as she explained that we had received information that might be related to their missing-fish investigation at the Mall of America.

“It concerns the Animal Liberation Front.” She hung up the phone and told us an officer was on his way.

Using two pencils as chopsticks, I carried the note from my office to the conference room, stopping first at the photocopy machine. I didn’t want any cop looking longingly at other boxes or files stacked in my office and showing up later with a search warrant.

While we waited, I Googled the Animal Liberation Front, otherwise known as ALF. I already knew this wasn’t the first time the international animal rights group had been linked with plots to free animals. But I was surprised at how frequently they’d struck in Minnesota, which indicated a strong following in the state.

The group claimed responsibility for numerous ecoterrorism acts starting a decade ago when they raided a University of Minnesota lab to free more than a hundred research animals, mostly mice. According to campus officials they caused $2 million in damage, which works out to about $20,000 a mouse. I know freedom isn’t free, but to me that price tag seemed steep.

I pulled some news file tape from the incident and saw crime-scene video around a large campus building with police cars parked outside. ALF provided the media with interior shots of cages upturned and broken laboratory equipment. In a sound bite from a news conference, a university researcher contended that the attack set Alzheimer’s studies back years.

Looking online for other cases, I noticed that a few years ago a related animal rights group set fire to a genetic research center under construction at the U of M, resulting in more than $600,000 in damage. More file tape for me. And since then, the Animal Liberation Front had freed thousands of minks from local fur farms (Minnesota being the third-largest fur-farming state in the nation).

When the Bloomington detective arrived, he wasn’t alone. An FBI agent accompanied him, acting all law and orderly. Neither cracked a smile when I asked if they were fishing for clues or casting for suspects. Both drifted to the note and envelope in the center of the conference table like leeches to blood.

I’d already forgotten the FBI guy’s name because his kind are generally uncooperative with the media, though I’d stuck his card in my purse.

“Has anyone touched this?” he asked.

I raised my hand. “It was addressed to me so I opened it.”

“We’ll be needing to fingerprint you.”

“We’ll get back to you on that,” Miles said in his big-shot attorney voice. The last thing I wanted was for the feds to have my prints on file. I wouldn’t put it past them to already have my name on some watch list or another.

The FBI guy scowled and explained that the Animal Liberation Front was the nation’s most destructive domestic terrorism group and our country needed the cooperation of all of its citizens to put a halt to their sabotage.

“We’re talking about a fish,” I said. “Shouldn’t you guys be worrying more about Al Qaeda?”

“Terrorism is terrorism,” he responded.

Noreen motioned for me to be quiet, which was actually good advice because I was about to inquire where that FBI attitude had been in the weeks leading up to September 11, 2001. Zacarias Moussaoui, considered the twentieth hijacker, was locked up in a Minnesota jail after a flight-school manager tipped the feds that his newest student wasn’t interested in learning how to land an airplane. FBI headquarters had messed up big-time in refusing to search his computer. It wasn’t a moment they liked being reminded about.

Now the FBI guy was asking us not to air our lead. The Blooming-ton cop nodded in agreement, although the feds were clearly taking charge of the investigation.

“We’re a news organization,” Noreen said. Good for her. The late news was still a good two hours away. Plenty of time to make air. “No one’s life is in jeopardy. I’m not sure we can comply with your request.”