Outburst (29 page)

Moving on through a maze of hallways and gates, all that Kris was aware of was the buzzing of locks, the clanging of doors.

“Right here,” he said, pushing Kris into a room.

Stumbling into a small, windowless chamber with a low ceiling, Kris focused on a woman standing there. Tall and thin, a narrow face with short brown hair. Yes, attractive too. And it ran through Kris's mind:
T?
No. She sensed it as quickly as she thought it. The shoulders are too narrow, the hips too big, the feet too small. This one's a dyke. But who?

The door behind them shut, and only then did Kris notice the small table with two chairs, one on each side.

“Good morning, Kris. My name's Janice Gray, and I'm—”

“Let me guess,” interrupted Kris. “You're my new attorney.”

Bristling, the woman looked her up and down, then after a long moment finally said, “That depends.”

“You know my attorney, Joan Ryan, don't you? She sent you, didn't she?”

“No.”

Her brow knit, Kris asked, “Then why the hell are you here?”

“Let's just say I'm a transgender ally.”

“Oh, for quaint. SuperDyke to the rescue—I'm saved,” quipped Kris. “Heavens, you are a dyke, aren't you?”

“Fuck off.”

“Yep, you are,” she said with a nervous laugh. “So tell me, how're you gonna get me out of here?”

“No,” said Janice, shaking her head and crossing her arms. “That's not how I work. First of all, you're the one in a shitload of trouble. Second, I haven't decided whether or not to take you on.”

“Well, in that case, doll, I'm not sure if I want you either.” Kris studied her, wondered if Janice could get her off as Joan had. “In fact, before I even let you think of representing me, I want

you to take a good look at me. God knows I look like shit, but check me out from head to toe. Just do it … that's right, that's good. Now look straight into these eyes of mine and tell me one thing: Do you see a sicko psycho killer?”

The big news that
all the media—radio, television, newspaper—were covering was the discovery of the raincoat in the trunk of Christopher Kenney's Oldsmobile. And not just any old yellow raincoat, but a yellow raincoat with blood on it. Like a lynch mob, the media was working itself into a frenzy, with some of the local radio talk-show hosts speculating that this was it, the cops had their killer and Kenney would be locked away for the rest of his or her or its life. The only question remaining was where to incarcerate him, the men's or the women's prison? Or how about the pound? One disc jockey even told the first Christopher Kenney joke: “How many drag queens does it take to kill a …”

Todd wanted more, of course, for his story tonight. More precisely, he wanted something different. Determined to get just that, after lunch he sat down in his office and tried Maureen Shea's number another time.

And once again he got the energetic message:
“Hi, this is Maureen Shea. I'm away from the phone, but leave a message and I'll get back to you, hopefully within the hour. Thanks, and have a great day!”

Still trying to figure out why he knew her name, he hung up without leaving a message. He most definitely wanted to talk with her, but what was this bit about calling back within the hour, and why hadn't she? Either it was a ploy of some sort or she was avoiding him, which was a distinct possibility. He guessed that in the message he'd already left he shouldn't have told her that he was from WLAK; letting someone know he was from the media usually worked for him. In this case, though, Todd suspected it wasn't.

He was just rolling his chair across the small room when his cellular phone, lying by his computer, started to ring. He looked at it, hoped this was one of the calls he was waiting for, and grabbed it.

“Hi, this is Todd Mills.”

“Hello, this is the operator. Will you accept a collect call from Ron Ravell?”

“Absolutely.”

Thrilled, Todd reached for a pen and pad. Now the trick wouldn't simply be keeping him on the line, but also getting him to cooperate. He'd kill to get this guy on film.

The connection went through, and Todd jumped right in, saying, “Hi, Mr. Ravell. Thank you very much for calling back.”

“Sure …” replied the hesitant voice. “But who are you?” A bit of silence. “And what do you want?”

“My name is Todd Mills, and I'm an investigative reporter for WLAK TV in Minneapolis. I called this morning trying to reach Ron Ravell, the younger brother of Police Officer Dave Ravell. Am I speaking to the right person?”

“Yes, but—”

Wanting to hook him and hook him fast, Todd interrupted, saying, “I'm wondering if you'd be willing to answer a few questions for me about Christopher Louis Kenney, the man who was accused of murdering your brother?”

There was a long, cautious pause, a deep breath. “Like what?”

“Last night Christopher Kenney was arrested here in Minneapolis in conjunction with—”

“Oh, my God,” Ron Ravell gasped, his voice cracking. “He did it again, didn't he? He killed another cop, right?”

“It hasn't been proven yet, of course, but a police officer was murdered several days ago, and it appears that Kenney will be charged with that crime.”

They talked for nearly fifteen minutes, Todd running through the whole situation, then scribbling down nearly every detail he could get from Ravell.

“Ron,” said Todd as they wrapped up their conversation, “I'd very much like to get you on camera. Would you be willing to do that?”

“Sure, but how? I mean, I'm out in California. What are you going to do, come out here?”

“Actually, our operations department could set up some satellite time with WLAK's affiliate out there in L.A., and then we'd be able to shoot you directly from there. Would you be willing? It wouldn't take very long. I'd be here at WLAK, and all you'd have to do is go into the studio out there.”

After some hesitation Ron Ravell agreed, and while Todd was hoping they could still do it that afternoon, on such short notice it couldn't be set up until that evening at nine Central Standard Time. In the ensuing time Todd dashed downtown for the formal tape-recorded interview that Rawlins had requested, then hurried back and pulled together an update for the six o'clock news.

And now he sat in one of the large edit bays, a dimly lit glassed-in booth filled with monitors and control boards and taping equipment. If all went as it was supposed to, the satellite connection with WLAK's affiliate would take place in just thirty seconds.

On the other side of the edit bay, Bradley focused a Betacam—a new 300-A that needed hardly any light because of a new microchip—and said, “Okay, we're all set.”

“Great,” replied Todd, who now wore a blue oxford shirt and a navy and yellow striped tie. “Can you leave it running, or do you need to stay?”

“Oh, I'll stay,” he said, squinting as he made the last adjustments. “I just want to make sure you keep in focus.”

Todd had no idea, of course, what type of interview Ron Ravell would be—he had sounded reticent on the phone, so he might not be too forthcoming—which was why Todd had decided on a reversal. Having himself taped as well, Todd had learned the hard way, would give him a few extra guarantees. If in response to a question like “Do you think Kenney should be put away for life?” Ravell merely replied with a nonanswer like “Well …” or “Yes, but …” or simply “Absolutely,” then at least they'd be able to edit in Todd and his words, which would give context to the reply. After all, Todd never did any self-editing during an actual interview like this. It wasn't until later, once they had it all on tape, that Bradley and he would go over this whole thing frame by frame, picking and choosing, cutting and butting one thing up against another, to get just the right play.

Turning his attention to the router switches, Todd flicked one of the black buttons and saw the monitor in front of him fill with snow. Suddenly the screen went from a blizzard to a rainbow of colored bars, indicating that the uplink to the satellite was taking place. Immediately thereafter the L.A. station's call letters appeared and the ten-second countdown began. Todd quickly shoved a Beta tape into a recorder and picked up not an earpiece but a telephone receiver. He had all of ten minutes for the interview, which was about as long a satellite interview as he ever conducted, and all he hoped to snag in that time was a sound byte of some sort from Ron Ravell. If he didn't get a pithy, dramatic statement in that time—his personal rule was never one longer than nineteen seconds—he wouldn't get one no matter how long the interview.

Suddenly the colored bars vanished and the image of a young man appeared on the monitor before Todd. He was a nice-enough looking guy, chestnut hair, striking eyebrows, and a broad, clear face. Seated in what looked like the L.A. station's newsroom, he wore a blue sport jacket and a tie and white shirt.

“Hi, Ron, it's me, Todd Mills.”

Spooked by the clarity of the sound, Ron jumped and looked around as if a ghost had just whispered in his ear. With his right hand he then nervously pressed the earpiece deeper into his ear, while with his left he touched the lav mike pinned to the lapel of his sport coat.

“You look great,” said Todd into the phone as he stared at the monitor. “I can see you perfectly.”

“Oh, good,” replied Ron, glancing around, not sure what to do. “Hi.”

“I'm sorry you can't see me, too, but all you have to do is look right into the camera,” instructed Todd.

Ron's hands settled back into his lap and he turned his eyes straight ahead. “Sure.”

“That's perfect. I just want to say thank you for coming today. I really appreciate it.”

“Of course.”

This wasn't good, thought Todd. He had to get him talking. Get him to reply in more complete statements. And so Todd continued the banter.

“Did you have any trouble finding the station?”

“No. No, I knew right where it was.”

“Good. And what's the weather like out there?”

“Warm.”

“Smoggy?”

“No, not too bad.”

“Well, it's hotter than hell out here,” said Todd, avoiding Minnesota's most famous, or rather infamous, quality: winter. “Humid, too, which I can't stand.”

Ron smiled. “That's what I hear, that it can get pretty bad out there in the summer.”

And then, boom: “Ron, I can't imagine what it's like to lose a brother to violence.”

It was Todd's method, his trick. Relax them, get them to loosen their guard, then hit them with a horribly honest yet horribly sympathetic statement. And it worked. Just like a surgeon sticking in a knife at the opportune moment, Todd's words cut through any defenses Ron Ravell might have had, slicing through to Ron's true thoughts and feelings.

Right off the bat Ravell blurted a sound byte Todd had only dreamed of getting: “It's been awful. Christopher Kenney is a monster, a cold-blooded murderer, and I'll never forgive him for killing my brother.”

It shocked even Todd that he got something so easily and so quickly, and for a moment he didn't know what to do. That was it. All he needed. The next instant, though, a rush of excitement whizzed through him. This was a hot one. And instinctively he knew there was more where that came from.

He countered, “Los Angeles officials, however, ruled that

your brother died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. Why do you believe otherwise?”

“There was no way Dave would have killed himself. Dave was just sixteen months older than me and we were very close. He was upset over his recent divorce, but that was it.”

Okay, thought Todd. He wanted to get him to say it again, what Todd had earlier read about. It was tacky and insensitive of Todd to ask, but he pushed aside any hesitation. He had a job to do. If Ron got pissed off and ended the interview, then so be it. Todd already had what he needed.

“Ron, was your brother gay?”

Ravell's brow wrinkled downward, and then he said it just the way he had a couple of years ago for the papers: “Maybe, maybe not. But I can tell you one thing for sure: Dave didn't kill himself over questions of his sexuality.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I'm gay, and Dave had virtually no problems with it. Who knows, maybe he was struggling with some sexuality issues. He never mentioned anything, but there are plenty of families where all the kids are gay.”

“So you're quite certain—”

“I'm quite certain,” interrupted Ravell, springing to verbosity as if he'd been waiting desperately for this opportunity, “that Dave was murdered by that drag queen.”

“Christopher Louis Kenney?”

“Yes. Dave was killed in that pervert's apartment, and I'm quite certain that Kenney was the one who fired the gun at my brother.”

Suddenly Todd found himself in the position of trying to keep up with Ravell, and staring at the monitor, he said, “As I told you earlier, Christopher Kenney was arrested just last night in Minneapolis in conjunction with the murder of Minneapolis Park Police Officer Mark Forrest.”

“I'm not surprised.”

“But why do you think your brother was murdered, Ron, when the Los Angeles authorities believe otherwise?”