Stalking Susan (14 page)

L
AURA ALREADY HAD
a table at a college snack bar a few blocks from Channel 3. From my perspective, it’s an ideal place to meet a source: close and cheap, no waitresses to interrupt, students seldom notice outsiders, and there’s usually plenty of room to spread out papers.

“This takes me back in time,” Laura said.

“You didn’t sound like you wanted to be wined and dined, and we can hang here without attracting attention. Kids aren’t big news viewers, so no one’s going to recognize me and wonder what we’re up to.”

Curious about why she wanted this meeting, I brought up Dr. Redding, just to get her talking. “He seems to have a high opinion of himself.”

She laughed. “Oh, did he talk down to you? Don’t take it personally. That’s just his nature.”

“He must be more approachable with patients.”

“As long as infidelity isn’t an issue.”

“What do you mean?”

“A friend of mine was a patient of his. She was married and having an affair with a colleague. When she confided that during therapy, he dropped her.”

“Sounds rather judgmental for his line of work.”

“His ego took a bruising after Susan was killed. Not so much that she died, but the public spectacle of murder and the shame of her doing it with the gardener. Let’s just say I think he has trust issues with women.”

“So he never remarried?”

“No. If a public function requires he attend in the company of a woman, he shows up with someone suitable. But they are pretty interchangeable, and I don’t get the impression he considers any of them special.”

I paused now to let her lead the conversation. She didn’t disappoint me. “Last time we talked, you asked if I had any doubt Dusty Foster killed Susan.”

“And the last time we talked, you told me you didn’t.”

“I do now.”

She’d seen the news coverage of the protesters outside Oak Park Heights Prison the night before. They had chanted for justice and waved signs reading
FREE DUSTY FOSTER
and
HE’S NO SUSAN KILLER.
Barely a couple dozen of them, but because the camera crew shot the scene tight, from different angles, on air it looked like a crowd.

Among them, Dusty’s mom. She spoke convincingly of his innocence in a live interview. “Do you think I’d be able to visit my son and look him in the eye if I thought he was a cold-blooded killer?” Our new nightside reporter covered the story with such enthusiasm it seemed inevitable the metal doors should clank open and Dusty walk free before the newscast ended.

As I watched the coverage I again recalled
Trent’s Last Case,
one of my favorite reporter mysteries, and thought about how close an innocent man comes to ruin in that classic tale. Even I found myself asking if perhaps Dusty Foster might have gotten himself in a jam so perilous even the truth could not save him.

That tableau also shook Laura’s conviction and made her dial my number. Now she pulled a manila envelope from her purse and pushed it across the table. Inside, a faded Polaroid photo of a young Susan Redding with a black eye and bruised face. On the back, a handwritten note read “Karl Skubic did this.” It was signed “Susan O’Keefe” and dated 1985.

“She gave this to me years ago and told me to hang on to it, just in case.”

“How come you never gave it to the police?” I asked.

“At the time of her murder, it seemed clear Foster did it. I had no doubt. The police had no doubt. Why muddy the case? Why muddy Skubic’s future? Susan had expressed no fear of Karl since then. They hardly ever saw each other, but if their paths crossed socially, they were both cordial. The picture was from another lifetime.”

“But now?”

“But now I don’t know what to think.” Tears clung to the corners of her eyes. Stubbornly she blinked them back. “Karl Skubic was in Duluth the day of her murder. And these killings have continued while Foster has been locked away. I can’t go to the police now; he’s the mayor of Minneapolis. I know how these things work—he owns the police chief.”

City politics aren’t as inescapable as all that, but Laura had a point. And it certainly explained why Mayor Skubic might have wanted to get behind the police tape at the Minneapolis Susan murder scenes. I had written his field trips off as curiosity or ego. Garnett had been concerned the mayor might unintentionally contaminate the crime scene with his DNA, but what if that had been his goal all along? To establish an explanation for why his DNA might turn up?

“I might need you to do a camera interview,” I told Laura.

“Sorry. The photo is the best I can do.”

It was plenty. For now.

B
ACK AT THE
station I made a color copy of the Polaroid, front and back, on Channel 3 letterhead, scrawled “When do you want to do that interview?” and signed my name. I put the sheet in an envelope, addressed it to Mayor Karl Skubic, wrote
PERSONAL
on the front, and dropped it in the mail.

I hid the original under my computer monitor.

Most likely, Miles would play heavy and nix airing the photo. Decades old, probably unrelated to the murder case, but still it gave me an opportunity to mess with the mayor. That’s worth something in this business.

Then I dialed the secret cell phone number he had given me Halloween night.

CHAPTER 23

G
arnett admired my chutzpah with the Polaroid.

But deep down we doubted Mayor Skubic was the killer. And the station attorney was adamant about not naming the mayor in a suspect context unless we’d already proven the wrong man was convicted. Those types of perfect endings happen in books and movies, but seldom in TV news. Darn the need for facts. That’s also why I had no fear about arranging a breakfast date with the mayor later in the week. The mayor had no fear either; he thought he was meeting a Halloween honey to cure his broken heart.

“You could be setting up an interesting showdown,” Garnett said. “I’m just not sure if it’s going to be between you and the mayor, the mayor and the first lady, or the mayor and the police chief.”

I reached Garnett on his cell phone as he walked past the Paul Bunyan flume, getting a feel for what passes as normal at the Mall of America’s giant indoor amusement park. Too busy to meet him, I was caught in the “chain and chase” phase of sweeps, either chained to my desk writing a script, or chasing frantically to nail a final story element.

“I’ll worry about that later. Right now, I’m crashing on another script. And nowhere is it going to include the name Susan.”

As I began outlining, I relived the crackle of the Taser and the crash to the ground, realizing the dog story might actually have a perfect movie ending. Write. Rewrite. Edit. Re-edit. The next couple of days passed in a blur until Malik called me for what we hoped would be the final screening before air that night.

“What do you think?” I whispered as Noreen and Miles walked in. “Is it any good?”

“It’s better than good,” he answered. “It’s done.”

((RILEY, LEAD-IN))

FOR MANY OF US, OUR

PETS ARE LIKE OUR

FAMILY.

CREMATION IS

BECOMING ONE OF

THE MOST POPULAR

WAYS TO HONOR A

DECEASED DOG OR

CAT.

BUT HOW CAN YOU

BE SURE YOU’RE

GETTING YOUR

MONEY’S WORTH?

…AND YOUR PET

IS GETTING THE

FINAL RESTING

PLACE IT

DESERVES?

I started the story broadly, a classic consumer investigative spin designed to draw the viewer along, to make them worry “This could happen to me.” Then I introduced our everyman, Toby Elness, someone viewers could relate to, as long as they didn’t catch on that he was missing a few screws.

((TOBY ELNESS SOT/COVER

W/ FLUFFY PIX))

I NEED TO KNOW

WHAT HAPPENED TO

FLUFFY.

((VOICE TRACK)))

TO TOBY ELNESS,

FLUFFY WASN’T JUST

A DOG.

FLUFFY WAS FAMILY…

AND TOBY WAS

HAUNTED BY HIS

DOUBTS THAT FLUFFY’S

ASHES WEREN’T THE

REAL THING.

((TOBY ELNESS SOT))

I HAVE SUSPICIONS, BUT

NO PROOF.

((STAND-UP))

SO CHANNEL 3 SET OUT

TO INVESTIGATE…

WE WENT UNDERCOVER

WITH HIDDEN

CAMERAS…WE

FOLLOWED THE

MONEY TRAIL…WE

FOLLOWED THE

PAPER TRAIL…WE

DID SCIENTIFIC

TESTING…

ALL TO EXPOSE A PET

CREMATION SCAM

THAT WILL MAKE YOU

SICK TO YOUR STOMACH.

Now I was embarrassing even myself, with every TV investigative technique and cliché rolled together. I could feel viewers on the edge of their seat, waiting to see if we could deliver.

((UNDERCOVER

PIX/COUNT $$))

20–40–60–80–100–120–140–

160
BUCKS.

((VOICE TRACK))

FIRST WE PAID DR.

KEITH PETIT…A

LOCAL

VETERINARIAN…

160
DOLLARS FOR AN

INDIVIDUAL

CREMATION FOR A DOG

WE FOUND DEAD

ALONG A COUNTRY

ROAD.

HE’S THE SAME VET WHO

HANDLED FLUFFY’S

CREMATION.

((PETIT/SOT))

CREMATION IS A

FITTING CLOSURE TO

A PET’S LIFE.

WE TAKE SPECIAL CARE

TO MAKE SURE THE

ASHES OF YOUR PET

ARE NOT BLENDED

WITH THOSE OF ANY

OTHER PET. THAT’S

THE PROMISE I MAKE

TO YOU.

((VOICE TRACK))

IT’S THE SAME PROMISE

HE MADE TO TOBY

ELNESS.

((TOBY/WIPE TEARS))

I JUST HOPE NOTHING

BAD HAPPENED TO

FLUFFY.

((VOICE TRACK))

BUT IT APPEARS TO

HAVE BEEN A BROKEN

PROMISE.

LABORATORY TESTS

SHOW THE ASHES OF

BOTH OUR DOG AND

TOBY’S DOG ARE

BOGUS…

A COMBINATION OF

PEBBLES AND CAT LITTER.

WHAT HAPPENED

TO OUR PETS?

CHANNEL 3 SET UP

SURVEILLANCE OUTSIDE

DR. PETIT’S VET OFFICE…

THIS IS WHAT OUR

HIDDEN CAMERAS SAW.

I’d already mentioned the hidden cameras once, but repetition is an effective investigative scripting technique. Tell the viewers what you’re going to tell them; tell them; and tell them again.

((NAT/SOT TRUCK))

THE BODIES OF

NUMEROUS PETS,

INCLUDING OUR DOG…

DUMPED

INTO THE BACK OF

THIS TRUCK…

TAKEN PAST THIS

GATE AND NEVER SEEN

AGAIN.

SO WHAT IS THIS

MYSTERIOUS

BUILDING? IT’S NOT

A CREMATORIUM…

IT’S A RENDERING

PLANT…WHERE

ANIMAL CORPSES

ARE MELTED DOWN

AND MADE INTO PET

FOOD AND EVEN…

LIPSTICK.

I smacked my lips together and paused just before I said the word “lipstick.”

DR. PETIT DIDN’T

WANT THIS STORY

TOLD…

HE WENT TO GREAT

LENGTHS TO

STOP US.

No surprise, I ended the piece with the Taser video and the “Why are you cheating people?” sound. An explosive finale to a tabloid-style investigation. I finished up with a live on set tag, reading an excerpt from a nasty letter from Dr. Petit’s attorney warning what would happen if we besmirched his client’s reputation.

Miles laughed when he first read the letter and said, “Bring it on.” Of course, I knew he was looking forward to the billing hours.

T
EN VOICE MAIL
messages awaited me when I got to my desk the next morning.

The first, a crank call with only a dog barking. Sounded like a big dog. I deleted it.

I also deleted the one from Toby Elness. He offered me the pick of the litter from his next batch of puppies or kittens, my choice.

I forwarded a blistering call from Dr. Petit to Noreen and Miles. We’d already posted his picture at the station security desk with a warning not to let him in the building.

The message from Dr. Redding sounded almost conciliatory. Bottom line: he had seen the dog story on satellite in Duluth and figured anyone who would go to that much trouble for man’s best friend couldn’t be all bad. He left a cell phone number and an offer to meet again. Since he was back in Minneapolis. I hit
save
.

The next two tip calls I deleted and ignored. One viewer wanted me to set up hidden cameras to catch his neighbor letting his dog crap on the sidewalk without cleaning up after him. The other complained that the media only covered bad news, and why didn’t we do any stories about all the good veterinarians out there.

Garnett had called. He asked me to swing by his office later. We hadn’t seen each other for a week but had been in touch daily, bouncing Susan theories back and forth.

Minneapolis councilwoman Susan Victor had phoned next. As a Susan herself, she felt confident and qualified to vouch for the safety of the city. She told me she would be fielding questions during a news conference at three that afternoon at city hall. I e-mailed the info to the assignment desk, with a note that I’d cover it.

The barking dog with the deep voice was back. Erase.

Noreen left the last message. It was an “attagirl,” congratulating me on last night’s cremation story and reminding me it was her idea.

Oh, and I buried the lead: dogs got a 39 share. I’d glanced at the overnights on my way in, not particularly proud that, going strictly by the numbers, our viewers seemed to care more about dead animals than dead women.