Stalking Susan (25 page)

The glove made all my “evidence” seem amateur hour. The glove represented the difference between corroboration and conjecture. The glove was just the kind of clue that could break the case wide open. But because technically I wasn’t covering the
SUSANS
anymore, I didn’t bother to tell Channel 3 about this latest twist. Let them source the damn story themselves.

“D
O YOU STILL
have that photo-enhancing software?” I asked Xiong.

He nodded and continued working on his computer, not bothering to make eye contact.

“I have a project that I need ASAP.” He nodded again, indicating he had heard me, but nothing I said merited a verbal response. “It’s a cell phone picture. I’m hoping you can sharpen it up a little.”

I pulled a chair next to his desk and e-mailed the photo from my phone to his computer.

He opened it and gasped in disgust, as if I had videotaped a despised dictator hanging from a noose. “I hope this is not what I think it is.”

“It is,” I answered. “But I needed it as evidence.”

“Does Noreen know?”

“Not yet. It’s not like we’re going to put it on the air. In fact, I’d forgotten all about it until the the other day. I don’t want to freak her out unless it ends up being important.”

“Do not bring me into this. This is not a project I want involvement in.”

“I just need a little help. The quality is sort of dark and blurry.” Not so dark and blurry that Susan Victor’s eyes didn’t seem to pop spookily off the screen. “I need to see more detail on her clothing and surroundings.”

Xiong closed the screen and didn’t answer.

“Please,” I whispered. “It might be crucial. I can’t go to anyone else.”

He pressed his lips together tightly. “Come back in an hour.”

W
HEN
I
RETURNED,
Xiong had pasted a small black bar over Susan Victor’s eyes. I liked it. He had pulled the photo full screen. Not perfect, but a clear improvement.

“Cell cameras do not take the best pictures,” he explained. “Especially not in low light.”

The victim, like the other Susans, was clothed. I didn’t see any sign of a glove. But that didn’t mean one wasn’t there. If I had framed the shot wider, it might have been visible on the seat beside her. What drew my attention was a large earring on her left ear. Her right ear was bare.

“Can you make that earring any clearer?” I asked Xiong.

He cropped and enlarged it. A distinctive silver dragon looped around her ear. A long dragon neck stretched over the rim while a curved tail hugged her lobe. In between, flared wings.

An unusual selection for a conservative politician. Raincoat. Pendant. I wondered if the killer might have planted the dragon on Susan Victor’s body as part of his trophy game. That might mean there was another dead Susan out there somewhere.

“I’ve never seen anything like it.” I pointed to the strange jewelry. And then I remembered the flowers on my porch. Dragon. Snapdragon.

“It’s an ear cuff,” Xiong said. “It clips on the side of your ear. My girlfriend wears some.”

“She wears dragons?”

“No, she has other designs, but she purchases them at an uptown store called Eternity Piercing.”

I didn’t know whether to be more surprised that Xiong had a girlfriend or that she was funky. But I suppose plenty of enterprising chicks might be looking for the next computer genius to found a Microsoft or a YouTube.

An idea was forming in the back of my mind. It hinged on a lot of things going right.

“I need copies of this photo, plus the one with the dragon cropped tight.”

Xiong hit
print
.

I
ENTERED THROUGH
a doorway under a neon sign reading
BODY PIERCING,
and walked into an alternate world.

A young man with a shaved head, a ring in his nose, two studs through an eyebrow, several earrings, and a silver loop through his lower lip greeted me with more scorn than enthusiasm. When he spoke, a metal ball flashed from his tongue. Clearly he was not just a salesclerk; he was also a model.

I’m no matronly suburban mom, and while I certainly appeared tamer than his usual clientele, I am curious and by trade like to ask questions.

The piercing parlor behind a closed door was off-limits to all but patients, he explained. Was I interested?

I shook my head. My ears were already pierced. “Maybe later.”

So he obliged me with a brief tour of the jewelry counters. The “above the chin” section took up the most room. He pivoted and motioned to the “above the waist” selection.

“Navels?” I asked.

“And nipples.” With a naughty wink, he pulled a flat box from under the counter and offered to show me the “below the waist” inventory.

“Toes?”

He looked at me with exasperation. “Higher.”

Lower than navels; higher than toes. He seemed to be staring at my crotch. My eyes dropped to his belt, but before he could model any of his more intimate inventory, I gave him my shopping agenda.

“I’m looking for an ear loop that doesn’t require actual piercing.”

“Amateur.” I could tell he didn’t think I was worth the bother. But since I was his only customer, he was stuck with me.

“I’m looking for something exotic.” He directed me to a corner shelf. And then I saw it, displayed on black velvet, under black light. The dragon. Exactly like the one in Susan Victor’s death photo. Except for one small detail. This dragon was gold, not silver.

My finger shook as I pointed. “May I see that piece?”

He shrugged and opened the case.

“Do you carry it in silver?”

“No.”

A minute later the dragon was wrapped around my left outer ear. Head and wings framing the top, tail clinging around the bottom.

“Do you sell many?” I asked.

“You’re the first. Just got it in stock.”

It was time to decide whether to implement my plan. Susan Victor was my most recent link to the killer. My gut told me the dragon might be key to smoking him out. If I could spook him, he might make a mistake. Unhinged, he might be easier to identify.

I looked away from the mirror and reached for my purse. “I’ll take it.”

None of the jewelry had price tags, which left the salesclerk free to gouge me more than three hundred bucks, after emphasizing that the piece was genuine 10 karat gold. I figured the odds of expensing the dragon to Channel 3 were nil, but paid anyway. At my next stop, the local hardware store, I purchased a can of silver spray paint.

W
ITH TEN MINUTES
to air, I clipped the now silver dragon to my ear. As the newscast went to a commercial break, I walked to the set, took my chair, and waited for my debrief.

“Stand by!” the floor director called as he pointed his hand toward the anchor and me. That’s our cue to sit up straight and pay attention ’cause we’re going live in ten seconds. I used the time to push my hair behind my ear so as to boldly display the dragon.

A red light on one of the three studio cameras turned green, so I knew I was unstoppable. Our anchor, Tom McHale, read an intro reminding viewers, without making it seem too braggy, that within the last week I’d found one dead body in a park and another down the block from my house—the first strangled by an unknown assailant, the other mauled to death by an attack dog. Both victims connected to two stories I’d broken earlier this month.

((ANCHOR TWO-SHOT))

CHANNEL 3 REPORTER

RILEY SPARTZ…

AT THE CENTER

OF ALL THIS

CONTROVERSY…

JOINS US NOW…

LIVE…

TO ANSWER

QUESTIONS.

Tom was startled when he turned to interview me. He couldn’t help noticing the dragon since it was practically breathing fire in his face. He stammered his first question, then started over.

((ANCHOR TWO-SHOT))

RILEY, THE STATION HAS

RECEIVED TONS OF

VIEWER CALLS

WANTING TO KNOW

ABOUT YOUR

INVOLVEMENT.

WHY HAVE YOU

STAYED SILENT UNTIL

NOW?

Miles had helped me craft this answer.

((RILEY CU))

AS A WITNESS…

I NEEDED TO

SPEAK WITH LAW

ENFORCEMENT

IN THE EARLY DAYS

OF THESE CASES.

THE STATION FELT

IT BEST NOT

TO GO PUBLIC

WITH INFORMATION

THAT MIGHT

IMPEDE THE

AUTHORITIES’

INVESTIGATIONS…

SO EVEN TODAY…

I AM LIMITED

IN WHAT

I CAN SAY.

The floor director couldn’t speak because we were on the air, so he frantically pointed to his ear, trying to alert me about the odd jewelry on my ear and get me to remove it while the camera was on an anchor close-up.

I knew he was following orders from the control booth. But I couldn’t hear all the fuss myself because I had neglected to put in my IFB—interruptible frequency broadcast—a small custom-molded earpiece reporters and anchors wear so they can hear the newscast while sitting on the set or so the producer has a direct way to yell at them out in the field without the viewers noticing.

Every time the tech crew switched cameras to minimize my left ear, I would awkwardly tilt my head to better display the dragon. Tom and I continued the interview. I explained that, yes, I had bailed Nick Garnett out of jail and thus wouldn’t be able to cover the
SUSANS
story as a journalist anymore. And that, yes, the pit bull attack had actually been directed at me for exposing a corrupt veterinarian. I didn’t bring up the significance of the dragon; that would be something only the killer would know about. I wanted to taunt the killer. I wanted him to know I knew about the dragon and was upping the stakes. But I didn’t want anyone else to guess the importance, because that would make it impossible to weed out copycats, thus tainting the police investigation.

The four minutes passed quickly. The floor director gave me time cues by hand, since it was obvious I either wasn’t receiving or was ignoring the audio cues. As he twirled his hand to give us a wrap—meaning we needed to stop talking NOW—I realized I needed to say one more thing and unfortunately it was the one thing Miles warned me not to say.

((RILEY CU))

OUR BEST CLUE

TO CATCHING

THE SUSAN KILLER

MAY BE THE NAME

AND THE DATE…

THEY LIKELY

HOLD A SPECIAL

SIGNIFICANCE

TO THE KILLER.

SO IF YOU KNOW

SOMEONE FOR

WHOM THE NAME

“
SUSAN” AND THE

DATE “NOVEMBER 19”

HAS A

SPECIAL MEANING…

CALL OUR

TIP LINE.

Tom wasn’t just a news reader; he knew enough to follow up with the obvious.

((ANCHOR TWO-SHOT))

BUT RILEY,

HAVEN’T POLICE

ALREADY ARRESTED

AND CHARGED

NICK GARNETT?

IT DOESN’T SOUND

TO ME LIKE THEY’RE

REALLY LOOKING

FOR NEW

SUSPECTS.

By now the floor director was waving his arm like an eggbeater. Since this wasn’t the Academy Awards and news producers aren’t used to cutting off the talent midsentence, the folks in the control booth sat helplessly as the seconds turned to minutes and I explained that accused is not the same as convicted, and that I personally did not believe the city had seen the last of this particular serial killer.

Without any music, without any tease, the newscast slammed to black. The tape room rolled a commercial, and the control room went out of control. Our meteorologist took my seat, but during the break I could hear Tom arguing, “What did you expect me to do? Rip it off her ear on live television?” The producer and director were screaming that the only way to get the news off on time now was to cut most of weather and half of sports.

T
HEY ALSO HAD
to dump a thirty-second car dealer commercial. That move meant losing serious money, so I knew I’d be in serious trouble the next morning. And as the news producer recited a litany of my TV sins, it seemed quite probable that Noreen would indeed send me straight to broadcast hell.