Silencing Sam (12 page)

This time I didn't object to either the moniker or the metaphor, figuring he was probably right.

“Any good sound?” I asked.

“Not really. Afterward, a newspaper editor gave me a short bite about waiting for justice, but no one else wanted to go on camera.”

Clay leaned against the wall because squeezing a second chair inside was impossible. Another wide shot came up on-screen, and I reflected that for all his bluster, Sam must have led a lonely life to have such a bleak turnout at a highly publicized funeral.

Was he mean because he was lonely? Or was he lonely because he was mean? The “Piercing Eyes” newspaper logo sat propped against another easel on the other side of the casket but gave no clue to the answer.

A minister gave a generic talk about how unfair life and death can be. He didn't include any personal anecdotes about Sam, probably because they'd never met. But he also didn't quote any Bible verses about gossips being the root of all evil.

Something caught my eye, and if Clay hadn't been watching with me just then, I'd have stopped the video, because one of the floral arrangements seemed almost identical to the wildflower bouquet I'd received at the station. Luis had shot a close-up of the sympathy card but didn't hold still long enough for me to read it.

Then the camera panned across the audience, but the angle was mostly the backs of heads; individual mourners were hard to identify. I recognized a homicide detective off in one corner. Standard procedure.

A good-looking man whom I didn't recognize sat in the center front row. He wore his suit dark, his hair slicked, and his expression sober. Perfect funeral attire.

On one side of him sat the Minneapolis newspaper's top editor. Next to her, another editor whom I'd met once before, but I couldn't remember his name. They had come to support the soul of their fallen comrade.

A couple rows behind them, I was surprised to see Rolf Hedberg sitting beside a couple of other print reporters. After his inflammatory remarks about Sam, showing up for his funeral seemed almost hypocritical. But I know from personal experience that it's much easier to badmouth people when they're alive than dead. This might have been Rolf's way of making amends.

On the other side of the good-looking man sat a well-dressed elderly couple. I assumed they were Sam's parents, until the older gentleman turned his head.

I gasped in recognition, almost hyperventilating. Clay kept asking me what was going on. But I stayed mum because sitting in the front row of Sam Pierce's funeral were my parents.

“What do you see?” He shook my shoulders. “Tell me.”

I shook my head, pretending to be choking; I might not have been able to keep up the ruse much longer, but a shrill scream came from down the hall toward the newsroom.

We both scrambled to open the door and get there first. After all, a scream can mean news.

Clay beat me by about a second and a half. Not bad considering he was a decade younger.

When I got around the corner to the coffeemaker counter, I saw Sophie, our lead news anchor, standing in front of an open refrigerator … a dead bat by her feet.

A small crowd had gathered, including Noreen. Frankly, I was relieved all the fuss was just about the bat and nobody was actually going postal with a gun.

“Where did it come from?” A photographer nudged it gingerly with his foot.

“Did it bite you?” a newscast producer asked.

Sophie shuddered as she pointed toward the freezer.

“Calm down, everyone.” I stepped forward, picking up the bat. “It's only a bat. I'm using it for a story. No big deal.”

Everyone drew back like it was a vampire.

“Where did you get it?” Noreen asked. “How can you be sure it doesn't have rabies?”

Rabies? Visions of Old Yeller's lunging jaws replaced Dracula's fangs.

“I found the bat by one of the wind turbines,” I explained. “It was dead. So were a bunch of other bats. I want to investigate what's killing them.”

“Sophie, did you touch it with your bare hands?” Noreen asked.

“No,” our anchor answered. “I pulled out some frozen leftovers and it fell out and scared me.”

“I don't see the problem,” I said. “This bat was dead when I found it, and it's still dead.”

I waved the frozen bat to emphasize my point. The crowd drew back farther, even the men.

“We had a rabies case down in Texas,” Clay said, “where a man contracted the disease from a dead cow's spit.”

“Exactly,” Noreen said. “Rabies is spread by saliva.”

“Victim died a horrible death,” Clay continued. “Hallucinations. Thirsty, yet terrified by the sight of water. No cure once you're past the incubation period. I stay as far away from bats as I can.”

I'm sure Clay was trying to be helpful, but I didn't appreciate that level of detail just then. Especially when he started speculating about a series of painful injections in the stomach.

“Riley, put the bat in here.” Noreen held out a small cardboard box that used to hold copy paper. I dropped the bat inside. She used a paper towel to cover it with ice from the freezer. “Now go wash your hands, Riley. Check them for open sores. Then meet me in my office.”

Noreen turned to our assignment editor and said, “Ozzie, call the Minnesota Health Department and tell them we need a bat tested for rabies ASAP.”

Then she instructed the station janitor to clean out the refrigerator and freezer and throw out all food. I expected my news colleagues to grumble over that last order, but no one did.

A few minutes later, Noreen was chewing me out in her office as the rest of the newsroom watched in fascination through the glass walls.

“What were you thinking?” She shook her arms wildly. “Bats are almost synonymous with rabies. How could you even take such a chance? This is really the last thing I need to deal with right now.”

“I'm sorry, Noreen,” I said. “All I thought about was the possibility I might be onto an interesting story about bats and wind turbines. Bats are dying out there, but they don't seem to be damaged by the blades.”

My boss glanced into the bat box that sat on her desk, next to a wedding photo of her and a local animal rights activist, whose long face resembled that of a basset hound. Long before he became her husband, Toby Elness was a source of mine, and I had a hunch that if Noreen mentioned this bat mystery to him, he'd push her to cover it.

“I brought the bat back so we could have it autopsied, Noreen. I know how much you value animal stories. Honestly, I thought you'd be pleased.”

“You know I care about animals, Riley. But viewers tune in to see likable creatures. Huggable ones that make us smile. I'm not sure they're going to care if bats are dying. Between rabies and vampires, not too many people are fond of bats.”

“But they kill mosquitoes. And viewers hate them even more.”

Noreen paused as if weighing that fact for promotional value here in mosquito-heavy Minnesota.

Then Ozzie stuck his head in her office. “The health department says they don't need the whole bat for testing. Just the head will do.”

“Tell them we're sending the entire bat,” Noreen said.

“Then they want us to take it to the University of Minnesota's Veterinary Diagnostic Lab,” Ozzie said. “They'll remove the brain and send it to the health department for the rabies test.”

Noreen handed me the box and told me to drive it over to the lab.

“Should I take Malik along to shoot the process? If the bat ends up having rabies, maybe we should do a story about it. We could show promo video of me getting rabies shots.”

Noreen's eyes got bright and shiny, like they do when she hears a fresh, voyeuristic idea she thinks might draw viewers to our channel.

When we got to the veterinary lab, the receptionist gave me a form to fill out, told me to leave the bat, and said that I'd get a call later that day or early the next regarding the test results.

“Is there someone I could speak with now?” I asked. “I'm from Channel 3 and we'd like to follow the fate of our bat with our camera.” I motioned toward Malik, who was standing off to the side.

After a few minutes, a man in a white lab coat introduced himself as Dr. Howard Stang. I was a little wary of veterinarians after clashing with one in a pet cremation scam a while back.

But I explained the situation, and he led us back through an “Authorized Personnel Only” door, down a long hallway to a room with bright lights and medical equipment.

Malik clipped a wireless microphone on him and Dr. Stang put on rubber gloves and laid the bat on a stainless-steel counter next to a large knife.

“Bats found dead have a higher risk of carrying rabies,” he said. “So you're wise to get it tested, at the least to eliminate the possibility of the disease, which I'm sure you know is fatal—if left untreated.”

“The bat may have rabies,” I conceded. “But I don't think that's what killed it.” I told him about the wind turbines and the dead bat bodies below. “Beyond the rabies question, can you find the cause of death for this bat?”

As a veterinarian, he shared my curiosity and assured me he'd see what he could learn. Malik shot some cover of him handling the bat, but we left when it was time to remove its head.

• • •

When I got home that night, my parents' pickup truck was parked in my driveway, and they were sitting—overdressed—on the porch of my house. I didn't even know my dad owned a black suit, one reason I didn't recognize him right away on the funeral tape.

“Surprise!” My mom held up a loaf of rhubarb bread covered in plastic wrap that looked like it had been in the backseat too long.

“We came to cheer you up and show family support,” Dad said.

“Well, you two sure look nice for the occasion.” I plopped down across from them on a lawn chair. “I hope you didn't get gussied up just for me.”

They glanced at each other a bit nervously. Dad, in a wicker chair, started rocking back and forth.

“We thought while we were in the Twin Cities, we should go shopping,” Mom said.

Dad nodded proudly. “How do you like my new tie?”

“Can it.” Clearly, they had each other's backs. “I know you crashed Sam's funeral. Just promise me you didn't kill him.”

“Why would we kill him?” Mom asked.

“I don't know,” I answered. “Perhaps some crazy notion of protecting your daughter's reputation? Why would you go to his funeral?”

“We came to help find his killer,” Dad said.

“Dad, leave it to the cops to do their job. You and Mom are just going to make things worse.”

“But you're always saying if the cops don't catch the killer in the first days, forget it,” Mom said.

“And you're always saying the cops sometimes get tunnel vision on one particular suspect and don't cast a wide enough net,” Dad added.

So much for my thinking all these years that my parents never heard a word I said. “Yeah, but I'm also always saying investigating is no job for amateurs.”

Then I remembered that small-town folks are keen observers … of their neighbors as well as strangers. Maybe my parents could be sources.

“So did you two learn anything useful at the funeral today?” After all, they did have a front-row seat on the action.

Dad shook his head. “It didn't really go like we expected.”

“People kept telling us how sorry they were,” Mom said.

“Yeah, Riley, everyone thought we were Sam's parents.”

For about ten seconds, I couldn't breathe again.

It could be worse, I thought, consoling myself with the Minnesota all-purpose reaction to trouble. “Please don't tell me you told them you were
my
parents.”

“Of course not,” Dad said. “We were undercover.”

“Yeah,” said Mom. “We just played along.”

Now I pictured an even worse scenario, because the way I was raised, things can always be worse. “Please don't tell me you told them you
were
Sam's parents.”

“No, certainly not. We let them think whatever they wanted to think,” Mom said.

“One man said he wished we could have reconciled with Sam before his death,” Dad said.

“What did he mean?” I asked.

“We figured he must have been estranged from his family,” Mom said.

Interesting. That could explain the low turnout for his burial.

“He gave me his business card,” Dad said, “and told me to call him if I ever wanted to know what my son was really like.”

I took the card and noted a downtown Minneapolis business address. I put it in my pocket.

“Is it okay if we stay the night?” Mom asked.

“We don't want to drive back so far in the dark,” Dad added.

I shook my head and unlocked the front door. “Oh, get in the house, you two.”

Dad picked up an old suitcase and stumbled inside, bad knees and all.

I didn't tell them I was a little uneasy about the dark myself these days and actually welcomed some overnight company. And I sure didn't mention the word “rabies.”

The bat didn't have rabies.

A merely dead bat isn't as newsworthy as a rabid bat, particularly if a television reporter isn't having a long needle waved at her on camera. But Malik and I still went back to the lab to interview Dr. Stang about the animal's cause of death.

“It's puzzling,” the veterinarian explained. “Your bat died of internal injuries consistent with barotrauma.”

“What's that?” I asked.

“It's when a sudden drop in air pressure causes a mammal's lungs to expand rapidly to the point of rupturing. It leads to fatal internal hemorrhaging.”

“In English, you mean its lungs exploded?” I asked.

“Yes. I've never actually seen anything like it before; it's similar to divers getting the bends. You say there were others?”