Missing Mark (8 page)

((RILEY/NAT))
TWO ARMED INTRUDERS
BROKE INTO UNDERWATER
ADVENTURES AND
SMASHED AQUARIUMS …
LEAVING FISH
FLOUNDERING… NO
MOTIVE HAS YET BEEN DETERMINED …

The weekend news anchor, Erin Jackson, followed up with a planned question about an Underwater Adventure story a few months earlier in which a large tiger shark named Jesse tried to eat a smaller shark. The little shark survived only because a rescue team wrenched it, literally, from the jaws of death. Because a visitor’s cell-phone camera captured the drama, the shark exhibit broke attendance records by using the gripping photo in all their publicity.

Channel 3 was always anxious for any chance to rerun that particular image.

((ANCHOR Q&A))
AND HOW ABOUT THOSE
TWO SHARKS, RILEY …
WERE THEY AMONG
THE SURVIVORS?
((RILEY SOT/FILE TAPE))
YES, ERIN,
THEY’RE JUST FINE … NO
SHARKS OR OTHER
SALTWATER CREATURES
PERISHED IN TODAY’S
ATTACK … BUT MANY
OF THE MORE FRAGILE
FRESHWATER FISH WERE
NOT SO FORTUNATE … AND
THE FINAL DEATH
TALLY HAS YET TO BE
RELEASED.

I did my early newscast as a live shot without a hitch or glitch, filling a solid two and a half minutes about the tragic loss of fish life. But instead of letting me do the late news back on set at the station, like we’d agreed on earlier, the producer insisted I again go live in front of the Mall of America. Even though it was now dark outside. Even though it was now raining. And most insulting, even though the action was long over.

But that’s TV news.

oreen called me into her office the following Monday morning to admire a spike in the Saturday overnights and attribute it to my coverage of the fish story. Saturday usually has fewer news viewers than any other night of the week, but I declined the compliment because my coverage was really no different than my competitors’.

Then her motive became clear.

“You’ve been doing such a great job on spot news lately” she continued, “with the police shooting and the fish attack, I’m wondering if that’s a better place for you this May.”

She smiled like she was offering me a promotion. But her smile was insincere.

In the world of TV news, on-air talent succeeds by projecting warmth. That trait didn’t come naturally to Noreen, which probably explained why, even with her beauteous looks, she gravitated to management instead of anchoring. Viewers can sense a false performer. For bosses, a cool demeanor counts more and what subordinates think counts for nothing.

“No,” I answered, wasting no words on subtlety.

There’s nothing subtle about spot, or breaking, news. It’s News of the Obvious. Fire. Plane crash. Bank robbery. High on adrenaline and low on brains. Reporting live for a minute-thirty on whatever the latest news development is or was hours earlier, often fed to you by the newscast producer off the wire. It’s usually an entry-level job for rookies with lots of energy and little experience.

I’d been there, done that.

“No,” I repeated. “I have a job. I’m an investigative reporter.”

“I see. Well then, Riley, show me your investigation.”

Just then we heard an overhead page calling, “Riley Spartz, you have a guest in the front lobby.”

Normally I’d roll my eyes because I wasn’t expecting anyone and I have a theory, proven numerous times over the course of my career, that nothing good ever walks through the front door. Exclusives don’t come that easily. Mystery guests are usually viewers who are so angry that they’re determined to yell at you in person. Or those who can’t understand why their story idea has been rejected by every news outlet in the market. But instead of rolling my eyes, I decided to embrace this mystery guest as my lucky break.

“Can we please talk later, Noreen? I really need to meet with this source. It’s important.”

She waved me off, but reminded me that we weren’t finished.

V
IVIAN
P
OST, THE
mother of the almost-bride, declined an offer to come into the Channel 3 newsroom and sit down, preferring to conduct matters in the station lobby where she informed me that she only had a minute to spare because her car was out front waiting to take her shopping.

Her wide blue eyes matched her daughter’s, but Mrs. Post looked young to have a child Madeline’s age. And fit. In a fight she could probably take me. And she had to be mid-forties. At least ten years older than me. Not a sign of gray in her dark hair. She smelled good in an expensive sort of way.

“I’m sorry for your pain—” I started out expressing sorrow for all she and her family had been through these many months, but she dismissed me as one might dismiss a servant, if one had a servant.

“Whatever Madeline’s told you, I’m here to tell you our family doesn’t care to be featured on your program. So thank you for your time and good day.” She turned to leave.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Post.”

Working in television, I’ve developed a high tolerance for bitchiness. Give or take. But her manner was so high and mighty that I made a mental note to tell the security desk to post her picture and not buzz her into the station again without an appointment.

“It doesn’t work that way,” I said. “I don’t need your permission to broadcast this story.”

No need to tell her that
NEVER WORN
hadn’t even been slated on the May board. But I’d already shot tape, done research, and one way or another, I intended the missing-groom story to see air.

“Well,” she answered, “I’m sure my lawyers won’t have any trouble getting a court order preventing you.”

“I think they just might.”

I tried explaining the concept of the First Amendment. But just as I got to
Near vs. Minnesota
(1931), the most significant Supreme Court decision involving prior restraint and establishing that the government cannot prohibit publication, Vivian was climbing into a black Mercedes, the door held open by a young man in a dark suit.

“The ruling was upheld again in the Pentagon Papers case!” I yelled as the vehicle pulled away.

So bottom line, we’d win in court. If we got to court. But Noreen would be loath to spend legal fees on a story she didn’t believe in. Especially facing the current newsroom economics. So I needed to make her a believer before she ordained me Channel 3’s spot-news machine.

I walked around the outside of the station and went in the back door by the guard desk so Noreen wouldn’t see me sneaking past her office.

Back at my desk, I started to map out the missing-groom story to see what still needed to be done. I wrote Madeline’s and Mark’s names on a wall board along with data I’d collected. I’d not been able to run their names and dates of birth through the national crime records because I needed a cooperative police source to do that check. Since Nick Garnett had traded his police badge for corporate life, that proved elusive.

As soon as I wrote “hell,” I felt I probably was a bit harsh regarding Madeline’s mother. Her formidable style might have come more from being a single parent than from being filthy rich. Checking the newspaper archives, I found an obituary and brief story about Madeline’s father’s death. He died on the eleventh hole, seeking shelter under a tree during a sudden thunderstorm.

Mr. Post had owned several car dealerships in the Twin Cities, so his marriage to Vivian blended old money with new.

Examining my lists on the board, I realized I needed to learn more about Mark. He was still a mystery. I pulled his and Madeline’s engagement announcement from my file and noted that his mother lived just outside of Hudson, Wisconsin.

Getting no answer at her home, I checked for florists in the area and soon located her at work. Surprised by my call, she welcomed a visit to discuss her missing son. So twenty minutes later, Malik and I were on our way to the cheesehead state.

By the time we got to the
YOU ARE LEAVING MINNESOTA
sign, he was dozing in the passenger seat while I drove over the St. Croix River. Malik preferred that division of travel duties—him sleeping, me driving. He claimed it kept him sharp when it came time to shoot video. He’d learned to sleep on command in the army and practiced that skill anytime he could. I didn’t really mind because it gave me time to brainstorm without having to listen to chatter about his home life. And his soft, pleasant snore soothed my racing mind.

The trees along the riverbank were turning green and the wind was brisk enough for whitecaps on the water. No boats in either direction. I turned north just after the
WELCOME TO WISCONSIN
sign.

I dialed Madeline because I wanted to fill her in on my meeting with her mother before her mother brainwashed her against me.

“I probably shouldn’t have told Mother about the story,” Madeline said. “But we’re very close. In some ways, she’s more like a big sister than a mom. ‘A big, bossy sister,’ I like to tease her. But she feels it’s not healthy for families to keep secrets. They only cause heartache.”

“She’s so right,” I said.

I often use a similar tactic to get reluctant interviewees to open up. And how could I argue that Madeline should keep secrets from her mother but share them with me?

So I decided to keep my current destination secret from her. The last thing I needed was Mrs. Post contacting Mrs. Lefevre and shutting her down before I even reached the front door.

“It sounds like you and your mother don’t necessarily have to agree on everything, as long as you’re upfront about it.” I was testing to see if Madeline was still on board with my investigation into her fiancé’s disappearance.

“Absolutely, Riley,” she said. “I love her dearly, but if it was up to Mother I’d still be living at home.”

That didn’t sound like much of a life to me. After all, I’d met Mother. And while I didn’t need the mother of the bride’s cooperation for my story, the bride herself was essential.

“So we’re still cool then, right, Madeline?”

“Right. I’ve thought about this a lot over the last couple of days, Riley, and whatever reason Mark vanished, knowing can’t be worse than not knowing.”

That philosophy certainly made sense then. But at that moment, I had no clue how this story might unfold. So when I assured Madeline that her decision was sound and promised to tell her the truth, no matter what I discovered, I sincerely believed it was the best course.