Silencing Sam (19 page)

That wasn't exactly how I'd hoped to work the conversation. But hanging up the phone wasn't an option since, technically, I was the caller. Neither was feigning perplexity, since the traffic cop had obviously ratted me out.

“Had a couple questions I hoped to ask him,” I said. “But our paths never crossed.”

“'Cause he was dead,” he replied.

“Well, that does explain a lot.” And made me glad I hadn't wasted more time on futile surveillance or left my fingerprints on the front gate.

“What kind of questions did you have for him?” he asked.

“How about you tell me about the note?” I tried to sound confident, like I had something to bargain with.

He wasn't buying it. “Maybe if you tell me why for the second time in a week, somebody's shot and your name has come up.”

That was the problem with working in television. Everybody knew your business. So I explained Fallon's resentment of Sam and ownership of a handgun.

“I just wanted to find out where he was that night and if there might be a revenge motive out there.”

The cop made a comment about homicide investigation not being my job.

“Since that's the case,” I said, “have you thought about calling Minneapolis police and comparing your suicide gun to their murder bullets to try linking the two crime scenes?”

A strong sigh of exasperation came over the phone as he explained that my connection had already prompted his curiosity, and not over murder-suicide, but rather double homicide. Lucky for me, he explained, the shootings came from two entirely different makes of guns; Sam was killed with a Glock and Fallon with a Sig Sauer. And Fallon's weapon was laying next to his dead body.

“So when it comes to our suicide and murder victims,” he said, “I think we can rule out any direct tie between
them.
”

I didn't like the emphasis he put on “them” but thanked him for his help. As for me, I was starting to wish he hadn't called Minneapolis homicide, because every time another Sam suspect was eliminated it made me stick out more.

The only name still standing on my list of people who hated
Sam and carried guns was Buzz Stolee. And no way was I offering any new suspect to the cops without a taped confession or eyewitness interview. And frankly, while Buzz certainly ranked as an NBA scamp, I wasn't sure anymore whether he had a killer instinct off court.

This hypothesis that I could search computer records to find the killer was hitting a dead end. In the movies, when journalists embark down a path to solve a murder, a combination of brilliant insight and dumb luck does the job. Hollywood leaves out all the wasted paths that lead nowhere.

My office seemed dark and stuffy, so I wandered over to the assignment-desk board to see if anything big had happened in the last hour that I'd missed. It hadn't.

Clay waved me over to his desk, told me he'd reached Sam's father, and said no way was he going to Chicago to interview such creepy church people.

“Not even going to ask the boss for an out-of-town trip,” he said. “So I reckon you and me have nothing to feud about.”

“That bad?” As long as they'd be willing to go on camera, it seemed like they must have had something to say.

Oh, they did. “Between you and me, missy, that old man seems to think his boy's better off dead.”

Sounded like Texan hyperbole. “What did he actually say?”

Clay looked down at some scrawled notes. “‘Homosexuality is a sin. Our son has taken a path against the natural order. As we speak, he is burning in hell for his perversions.'”

If those quotes hadn't jived with how Jeremy described Sam's folks over lunch, I would have accused Clay of making them up. He might have sensed my skepticism because he pointed out he had it all written down in black and white.

“I'm telling you,” Clay insisted, “we Texans aren't big on all this gay marriage talk, but this dad's mean as a rattlesnake.”

I was just starting to admire Clay's wild metaphors when a thought hit me. “Do you think he might have killed Sam?”

My blurting that out surprised Clay. Even me. Honest, I don't know where it came from. Probably from him comparing Sam's father to a venomous reptile.

Filicide, the murder of one's own child, usually is an impulsive act with young children as victims. For Sam's parents to travel more than four hundred miles to gun down their adult son because they were homophobic seemed a trifle cold-blooded for such a supposedly God-fearing couple.

But Clay still hadn't answered. I should have just let it drop and pretended I was kidding; instead, I pushed too far.

“Well, crime reporter, what do you think?” I asked. “You're the one who talked to them.”

“What do I think? I think you're crazy as a loon. That's your state bird, right? Now I know why.”

That's when I started fearing that clearing my name of Sam's murder might be a losing battle, similar to Don Quixote tilting at windmills.

Toby left a message asking to meet me at the dog park north of Minneapolis–St. Paul International Airport. He didn't say why, but it was a relief to get outside.

It wasn't an official city park, rather eighty acres of land where the Metropolitan Airports Commission let owners exercise their pets off leashes because the activity helped deter car break-ins in their parking lots.

Toby was already playing catch with two of his dogs, Husky and Blackie, when I arrived. He handed me a tennis ball, and I threw a bouncy toss for Husky. He fetched, I piled on some “good doggie” praise, and we repeated the maneuver.

After a week of cool, gloomy days, I welcomed the warmth of Indian summer. Colorful yellow, red, and orange trees lined one side of the property by a small lake. An airport runway bordered the opposite end. Visitors could almost forget they were in the middle of a major city, except for commercial airplanes taking off and landing constantly.

The property wasn't completely fenced, so owners were cautioned not to let their pets run loose unless they could be recalled. That and scooping poop were the only real rules. About a dozen other dogs were frolicking in the area.

“How are you doing these days, Toby?” Toby had the type of face that always looked sad, even on his wedding day. But on this day his whole being slumped, from his shoulders to his walk to his voice.

“Same as always,” he replied.

I felt obligated to ask but was actually relieved he didn't volunteer any details. I figured he and Noreen might be having marital issues and I didn't want to play mediator. Working for her was bad enough; I couldn't imagine being married to her.

Toby was starting to sweat and laid his jacket over a fence. He cautioned me to avoid tossing the ball into a marshy corner because he didn't want muddy dogs in his Jeep.

Then Toby got to the point of our visit. “I have another wind-bombing lead for you.”

I paused, wondering where this might lead.

“Worms,” he answered.

“Worms?” I wasn't sure I'd heard him right. “Like crawling in the dirt? Earthworms?”

He nodded, explaining that worms till the soil and help plants grow.

“I'm a farm girl, Toby. I know all about worms, but what does this have to do with the wind farms?”

“I met an animal activist who believes the vibrations from wind turbines harm worms.”

Toby had always been strange, and some of the people he hung around with were even stranger.

“It's true.” Toby sensed I had some doubt. “He believes worms are a vital link in the food chain but are overlooked because they dwell underground.”

That probably was true, but it might also have something to do with worms being slimy. “You should have brought him along, Toby. When can we meet?”

That's when Toby told me the man preferred to keep his work quiet “until the time was right.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“He wants to finish his research first.”

Toby was coy when I asked for contact information. I knew how protective these animal rights folk were of each other. I might have pushed harder, but in the distance we noticed a K-9 van pulling into the parking lot.

A uniformed officer stepped out with his canine companion, a chocolate Labrador. Various law enforcement agencies used the park to exercise their four-legged partners. The man unleashed the dog and he raced off in the field.

As they got closer, I recognized Larry Moore, the deputy searching the wind farm with his explosives-detection dog, Scout.

“Anything new happening with the turbine investigation?” I didn't expect him to reveal anything juicy, and he didn't.

“Scout and I just take it one smell at a time. Hoping we never have another day like that last one at the wind farm.”

I introduced Larry to Toby and pointed out his pooch pair, playing in dog heaven as the red tail of a DC-9 roared overhead. “Toby is one of the most sincere animal lovers I know,” I said. “Not just dogs, but all creatures.”

Larry called Scout over. On slow days, he dropped by the park to give his Lab a workout, for her body and her nose. The deputy tossed a spent shell casing far into the grass and ordered her to seek.

Scout took off like the bullet she was chasing. In just over a minute she was sitting patiently on target. We all walked over and spotted the shiny object on the ground. She looked up expectantly with faint drool on her jaw; Larry reached into his pocket and rewarded her with a snack and praise.

“She's fed when she finds explosives,” I explained to Toby.

Larry nodded and threw another shell casing, this time farther out, in fallen leaves. Again, he gave the command. Scout took off.

“That's remarkable training,” Toby replied as we walked in
her direction. He was impressed by working dogs and had even donated my favorite, Shep, to the St. Paul Police narcotics unit, where his powerful nose for drugs made him a star. “Some dogs thrive on the excitement and structure of working for law enforcement.”

“Scout was being trained as a guide dog for the blind,” Larry said. “But she was too curious. This job is a better fit.”

The men chatted some more as we approached Scout. Toby respected her as a professional too much to try to pet her. Larry pulled out another treat, and we offered our verbal admiration for her hit.

Toby needed to return home, so he grabbed his coat, called Husky and Blackie, and came back to say good-bye.

Scout approached Toby, smelled his jacket, and sat down in front of him.

“He can tell you're a true pal, Toby,” I said. “He likes you much better than me.”

While Toby smiled and headed back to his pickup truck, Larry passed a snack to Scout.

“I'm surprised your friend is a hunter,” he said. “Him being so fond of animals.”

“Toby's no hunter,” I answered.

“Scout alerted at his coat. I figured it must smell like gunpowder.”

Toby. Explosives. I couldn't get the thought out of my mind on the way back to the station. It might just have been a coincidence, or it might have been more. I knew some members of the Animal Liberation Front believed a blast was the best way to deliver a message, but I had always told myself Toby was more reasonable. And I truly believed he understood the power of the media. After all, we first met when he suspected a veterinarian
of a pet cremation scam. Toby didn't bomb the guy's office—he came to me.

I couldn't approach his friends. They didn't trust me. I couldn't approach his wife. He didn't trust her. Well, not enough to confide this kind of a blowup. And if I did share my doubts with Noreen, ended up wrong, and ruined their marriage … I'd be out of a job.

As I stepped into the station elevator, one of the guys from sales followed me just as the doors closed. News and sales staffs generally don't mix, so I ignored him. But he didn't take the hint.

Over the last few months, I'd developed a consumer series that involved reporting restaurant scores by city health inspectors. Viewers loved the hundred-point system, and the series didn't require much work or expense and landed respectable ratings. Just the kind of story bosses eat up.

“Are you planning another of those food inspector stories?” the sales guy asked.

“I don't discuss what projects I'm working on.” Actually, new restaurant data would be available in another week, and Xiong would start crunching the numbers. “Especially not to your department.”

“Well, in the interests of the struggling media climate these days, you should be aware of the need to stay on good terms with station clients.” Then he listed three large restaurant chains that advertise on Channel 3. “Just to help you use some discretion.”

It was a blatant attempt at advertising coercion. What made
it unusual was it came from within the station. Usually the advertisers issued their own ultimatums to reporters.

“You're not allowed to talk to me,” I told him.

I got off the elevator and took the steps downstairs straight to Noreen's office and repeated our conversation.

“Can you imagine, Noreen, what it would do to our credibility if we left advertisers who scored poorly off the list?”

Then I sat back and waited for her to call his boss and raise hell. But that didn't happen.

“Riley, the budget is very tight right now.” So Noreen suggested that for the time being, instead of airing restaurant inspections, it might be better if I focused on investigating government agencies.

She didn't bother explaining why and didn't even have to … I already knew it was because the government doesn't advertise and can't sue the media. It makes them an easy mark for journalists.

“I understand completely,” I said. “Do you?” She didn't answer, but I noted that she couldn't look me in the eye.

I'd always been proud that Channel 3, historically, didn't take guff from anyone.