Silencing Sam (31 page)

That gave me ample time to head over to his house. I brought along a tuna-noodle hot dish as a prop. No one answered the door when I knocked or appeared to be home when I pressed my face against a window.

An elderly neighbor, watering some mums on his porch, asked if he could help. It was his way of letting me know he had his eye on the place. That's what neighbors do.

“I'm looking for the lady of the house,” I said.

“The guy lives alone.”

“You're sure?”

“Sure as shootin'. You should know. He works at your station.”

That was the problem with being on TV. People recognize you. Usually at inconvenient times. Ordinary folks often wish for star status, but in truth, it's more tiresome than titillating. In retrospect, I should have worn a disguise.

“Have you ever seen this woman?” I showed him the picture
of Jolene. If she was around, and if he was as nosy as he acted, I figured they'd have crossed paths.

“Can't say I have.”

Just because Clay's wife didn't come to the door or hobnob with the neighbors didn't mean she was dead. Plenty of psychopaths keep victims locked in basements or hidden in backyards—too controlled to attempt escape. Sometimes not found until eighteen years later.

Trouble surrounded me, but I'd always felt safe within the walls of Channel 3. With Clay now working down the hall, I felt vulnerable.

But I had a bigger problem than even I knew. I didn't realize that Clay's neighbor had told him that I'd stopped by his house, flashing a picture of a pretty woman with blond hair.

I was on to Clay, but I didn't know Clay was on to me. Not until I walked into my office and found him sitting in my chair.

“You need to keep your nose out of my hankie,” he said.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

He'd obviously rifled through my desk because he held out the picture of his wife. Then his fist crumbled it into a little ball, and when he walked past me, I got chills. The bad kind.

I vowed to keep my distance from Clay. Not talk to him. Or sit by him. If he continued to approach me, I'd accuse him of sexual harassment. Noreen was more likely to believe him a chauvinist pig than a murderer.

Sleep and food should have been higher priorities; instead I started organizing a list of all the scoops Clay had reported in the headless homicide.

He'd been first with the news that the victim had been decapitated. Then blond. Later the manicure and pedicure. And out of thin air, he'd pronounced the head and body a DNA match.

These were things only the killer would know. Unless the
police leaked them. Which they'd repeatedly denied. My gut had always doubted Clay could have recruited such a well-connected source so quickly. But seeing him cozy with the police chief, I'd wavered. Now I was back to thinking I was right the first time and that Clay Burrel might give a whole new meaning to the term “dead air.”

All I needed was some evidence. Because as far as Noreen, the police, and even my own attorney felt, I was the delusional man of La Mancha obsessed with seeing murderers around every corner.

Some news consultants think reading a teleprompter comes naturally. Either the camera loves you or it doesn't. Others consider it an acquired skill. I sided with the latter and was getting feedback from the newsroom producers and technicians that my delivery was improving with each show. And my ad libs between weather and sports were more conversational, as well.

I'd gone over that day's scripts earlier and everything seemed straightforward. Now I noticed that instead of being a taped news package, Clay's story about an increase in assaults on city buses had been turned into a set piece. Which meant he and I would sit together at the anchor desk while I debriefed him about the story, violating both vows I had made.

“Don't you think Clay's story might be better as a live shot?” I asked the producer. “He could stand outside next to the bus stop with the highest crime rate.” Then, at least, I wouldn't have to sit next to him.

“Too late,” she said, “the newscast is already formatted. Plus, we're trying to evolve beyond that live-for-live's-sake mentality.”

I wanted to ask, “Since when?” Channel 3 had repeatedly
made me stand in pouring rain just to go live outside some dark building where something had happened ten hours earlier.

“How about if Clay did a taped news package instead?” I asked. Then I wouldn't have to talk to him. Or sit by him.

The producer continued to explain that they'd roll some video over part of the interview but basically wanted me to ask Clay questions about bus safety for a couple of minutes.

“Maybe the two of you can even radiate a little on-screen chemistry,” she said.

That didn't even deserve an answer.

During the first segment, I told viewers about baseball moving out of the Metrodome, how recent home foreclosures meant an increase in pets being surrendered to animal shelters, and various controversies over whether our mayor should run for governor or our governor should run for president.

During the commercial break, Clay put a cushion on his chair so he could tower over me on the air. If I wasn't giving him the silent treatment, I'd have made an observation about how women may be able to anchor the network news, but if a man and woman appear together on the set, the man has to look taller.

Instead I ignored him, stared straight at the camera, and read the story intro.

((RILEY, CU))

ASSAULTS ON MINNEAPOLIS

BUSES ARE SURGING THIS

YEAR, AND RIDERS ARE

DEMANDING ACTION.

((TWOSHOT, RILEY/CLAY))

CLAY BURREL JOINS US NOW

WITH MORE ON THE

PROBLEM.

((CLAY, CU))

POLICE SAY GANG MEMBERS

ARE FIGHTING OVER PUBLIC

TRANSPORTATION AND

BYSTANDERS ARE GETTING

CAUGHT IN THE MIDDLE.

He waited for me to throw him a question, but I just nodded and sat there, like he was supposed to do more talking. As he stammered something about the Metropolitan Transit Commission holding a public hearing, the producer yelled in my ear for me to ask him how serious most of the injuries were.

Instead, I asked if anybody had ever been murdered on a city bus.

He stumbled and mentioned certain bus stops being the scene of several shootings.

The floor director signaled for me to turn to Clay while I spoke to him. I realized my camera angle was wrong, but looking at Clay Burrel was the last thing I wanted. Then I considered that maybe my eyes on his was the last thing he wanted. So I turned, stared at his face, and decided to push for answers.

“What motivates killers, Clay?”

His eyes gleamed, and his fingers tapped the news set. I was grateful a vast audience of viewers was watching us and we were not alone in the alley behind the station.

“You've brought us so many exclusives from the crime beat, Clay. You must have a theory about what drives killers.”

“Wrap,” the producer said in my ear. The floor director frantically gave me a circular hand signal that meant stop talking. I ignored both cues, wondering how far I could push things before news control went black.

I was about to ask what the latest was on the headless homicide, but that wasn't necessary because suddenly Clay was telling
viewers that we were taking a break and would be back in just a moment.

“What the hell was that?” the producer said. “That segment was a debacle.”

I pretended to be puzzled. “You wanted some on-air chemistry.”

We couldn't argue further because I had just received a standby cue to come back and toss to weather. While the seven-day forecast was stretched across the screen, Noreen and Clay were locked in a frantic discussion off to the side. It was hard to tell who was more agitated.

“What was I supposed to do,” I heard Clay say, “remind her she was the one accused of murder?”

I bid the viewers good night, then prepared for a major admonishment. I got it from all directions. Noreen yanked me off the late news that night, subbing our weekend anchor. She praised Clay for his handling of a difficult situation and scolded me for going rogue. Then she told me that maybe I wasn't suited to sit in the anchor chair if I couldn't be a team player. As usual, the rest of the newsroom watched the action, mesmerized, through her glass walls.

Clay gave me no chance to be alone with Noreen. Even though my side of the story wasn't terribly persuasive, I still would have liked a chance to tell it. But she dismissed us both.

More interesting yet, I noticed my boss wasn't wearing her wedding ring. And the photo of Toby she kept on her desk was missing. I had a hunch about the problem, but that was the kind of girl talk I didn't dare bring up with Clay in the room.

Even though I ordered him to keep back, Clay followed me down the hall to my office, shaking his head. I raced ahead and locked the door, me on the inside, him on the outside.

I heard a soft tap-tap. “We need to come to an understanding, little lady.”

“I understand everything I need to.” I spoke with the confidence that comes from having two inches of solid wood between us. My voice was loud enough for him to hear but low enough that nobody else did.

“Don't be too sure. Something tells me you ain't got the sense God gave a turkey. And you know what happens to turkeys.”

If he was referring to having their heads chopped off at Thanksgiving … well, after the headless homicide, I couldn't take that simply as an idle threat.

“You stay away from me, Clay Burrel.” At the very least, I feared another blood-splattered nightmare involving poultry.

A fist banged once against my door, then the hallway was silent.

I started locking my office, even if I was just going down the hall. I wouldn't go into the ladies' room alone. And I made the station security guard walk me to my car that night, even though it was parked in the basement. He considered me paranoid.

Things can always get worse, and the next day they did.

Police went through the garbage Dumpsters behind Channel 3 and found a handgun. A Glock. Cops don't need search warrants to root through trash that's been placed outside.

Clay broke the story, because he was just arriving at work while it was unfolding.

((CLAY LIVE))

POLICE SAY AN ANONYMOUS

TIPSTER CLAIMED TO HAVE

SEEN CHANNEL 3 REPORTER

RILEY SPARTZ LEANING

SUSPICIOUSLY INTO THIS

DUMPSTER IN THE ALLEY

BEHIND THE STATION.

Benny later got word that the recovered firearm was the murder weapon that killed the gossip columnist. It had been wiped clean.

“Even if I had shot Sam,” I told my lawyer, “you don't think I'd be so stupid as to put the gun in the trash where I work?”

“Let's not make that argument the centerpiece of your defense.”

I could tell that Benny was beginning to think he had a guilty client and was just defending me for the money.

“Doesn't anybody wonder why there's so much evidence against me?” I asked him. “At some point, doesn't that become a little suspicious?”

He shook his head. “I've never heard of a prosecutor dropping charges against a perpetrator because their case was too strong.”

“Do you think I did it?”

“Never ask your attorney that question. You might not like the answer. We never ask our clients for the same reason.”

My boss may have hated me, but the people meters loved me. And our overnight news ratings were tanking since my ouster from the anchor desk. I figured I had at most forty-eight hours before Noreen dragged me back in front of the teleprompter, so I'd better enjoy my reporting time in the field while I could.

My dad called to say that something was happening at the wind farm. Lots of security. Limos. Dark suits. Dark glasses. Even snipers.

I called Wide Open Spaces to see if this was the protection their officials had been alluding to earlier. If so, it seemed a belated gesture of security overkill. The energy company blamed the fuss on the Secret Service. Apparently the king of Saudi Arabia and members of the royal family wanted to tour an American wind farm up close before they flew home.

“A little field trip to check out their energy competition,” the manager said. “We're happy to assist.”

Visualizing Middle Eastern royalty walking amid giant wind turbines, the station decided that a picture was worth, if not a thousand words, at least thirty seconds of video.

Being out of town would also keep me out of reach of Clay.
I'd made knowing where he was part of my routine. And I had nothing to worry about today. The assignment desk told me that my story could run a little longer than usual because Clay had just gone home sick.

The FAA had closed off airspace around the wind farm. So again, no Channel 3 chopper. Malik and I drove fast, not sure if we'd even make it for the money shot.

Predictably, Malik insisted on napping during the drive. So I used the time on the road to call Sally, my Texas Facebook friend, and tell her I could find no trace of Jolene.

She thanked me for staying in touch. “That other reporter promised to call back but never did.”

I couldn't believe it. After all I had done for her, she was talking to other media. I was plenty pissed. “What other reporter?” I asked.

She said he was called Sam Pierce.

I wasn't sure I could drive straight the rest of the way, I was so shocked.

Apparently, the gossip columnist had cold-called Sally, looking for scuttle on Clay his first week on the job. So that's how he always got dirt on the new reporters. Probably phoned door-to-door in their old neighborhood until he found something embarrassing.

“What did you tell Sam about Clay's marriage?”

“That I couldn't reach my friend.” She paused like she was replaying the conversation in her mind. “That it seemed strange she wouldn't have called me once they got settled.”