Stalking Susan

by Julie Kramer

  The cops in this case clearly had more evidence to work with than did the detectives working the other SUSAN cases. The body had been left where it had fallen, not dumped elsewhere. The crime scene was indoors, easy to secure. And witnesses whispered about a secret lover with a predictable motive.

  “Sorry to bring up these memories after so long.” I was speaking to Laura Robins, the friend who had found Susan Redding’s body. I dialed the phone number listed on her police statement, expecting it to be outdated. She answered on the first ring.

  “This is a surprise, but I’ll try to answer some questions. Why are you calling now?”

  “I’m comparing and contrasting some other murders that happened around that time. Other cases, other women, some similarities. You’d be surprised how vulnerable we all are to violence.” I didn’t want to get too specific right away. “How long did you know Susan?”

  “Are you going to put what I say on TV?”

  “Right now I’m just trying to get some background on the case. I’ve already talked to Lieutenant Dex, but I’m looking for some personal insight. For me to include what you say on TV, I’d have to interview you on camera. I’m not exactly sure where this story is headed, but if you told me something and it ended up being important, I would probably call you back and ask if you’d be willing to do that. That’s not a decision you have to make yet. Right now, it’s just you and me talking.”

  “All right, I just wasn’t sure how that worked. Susan knew more about the TV business.”

  “Really, how’s that?”

  “She worked as a reporter at one of the local stations here in town. It was only for a year, right out of college. What she really wanted to do was work her way up to the anchor desk, but her boss pretty much told her to forget it.”

  “With her looks? She’d be a standout in a small market like Duluth.”

  “She sure was, but she had a squeaky little girl voice that was real irritating. I was her friend, so I got used to it, but her boss said no market was small enough to overlook that.”

  “Yeah, most people don’t realize it, but in broadcasting, voice can matter more than face.” I was fortunate to be an alto.

  “She complained about the long hours and bad pay. Susan barely made ten grand a year. Can you believe it?”

  Sadly, that was a typical paycheck in small-market television stations then, and the economics aren’t much better today. As market size goes up, so does the money. New York is market 1. Minneapolis is market 15. Duluth is market 137. North Platte, Nebraska, is market 209. The smaller the market, the bigger the number. In markets under 100, a station receptionist can earn more per hour than a rookie reporter, yet a news director might get a hundred audition tapes for a single general assignment reporter opening.

  “She also griped about having to write her own copy,” Laura continued.

  That was also typical of many new hires. Just one of the reasons most wouldn’t last.

  “What was Susan like as a person? Everyone remarks on her appearance. I’d like to get beyond that.”

  “Susan never let anyone forget she was a beauty queen. As the years went on, it got tiresome. I mean it wasn’t like she was Miss America.”

  “Did you ever have any doubt Dusty Foster did it?”

  “None. She told me he was possessive. She wanted to end it but was afraid he’d tell her husband. That seemed to worry her more than anything.”

  “Did she have other affairs?”

  “If she had cheated before, she didn’t tell me. Your mayor knows more about her early years.”

  “My mayor?”

  “Mayor Skubic in Minneapolis.”

  “What does he have to do with any of this?”

  “He was her college sweetheart.”

  “Really? Karl Skubic?”

  “They were both UMD Bulldogs. He played hockey, she was on the ski team. He drove up for the college fund-raising dinner the night her body was found. We had all reserved a table together. He was disappointed she didn’t show.”

  “OF ALL THE gin joints in all the towns in all the world she walks into mine.” Nick Garnett held a beer at the bar in Hooters at the Mall of America.

  “Humphrey Bogart, Casablanca, 1942. What are you doing in Hooters?”

  “I’m a man. What are you doing in Hooters?”

  “Looking for you. Your surveillance duo ratted you out.”

  “Technically, I’m still on duty. There’ve been complaints about some of the clientele and a certain lack of management response. I figured I’d sit back and get a firsthand look. Of course, you’re blowing my cover.”

  “Sorry, hope nothing else gets blown here. I realize the view isn’t as good back in the corner, but maybe we can talk shop for a minute.”

  He picked up his beer and a plate of chicken wings and mozzarella sticks and we shuffled over to an empty table. I ordered a glass of house red.

  “Here’s that Duluth case I was telling you about.” I handed him a copy of the Susan Redding file, and he went straight for the crime scene photos. A wide shot and close-up showed her body sprawled on the bedroom floor.

  “Oh look, the chalk fairy,” he said, scornfully.

  “The what?”

  “See the chalk outline around her body? Amateurs. They’re lucky the judge didn’t rule the photos inadmissible.”

  “What’s wrong? I’ve seen that on TV.”

  “Just what we need, cops getting homicide investigative training from Hollywood. It’s important that the first officers who arrive preserve the scene and not change anything until after the photos have been taken. When the detective arrives and asks, ‘Who contaminated the crime scene?’ suddenly nobody wants to take credit. Must have been the chalk fairy.”

  “Sounds like something from Neverland.”

  “Well, if you’re waiting for me to say, ‘Do you believe in fairies? Clap your hands,’ forget it. The only time it’s permissible to make a chalk outline is if the body has to be moved before the scene can be processed. Like the victim is still alive and an officer gets there just ahead of the ambulance. Obviously we don’t want anyone going from ‘likely to die’ to dead while we wait for a camera.”

  Garnett slid the photos back inside the file. “I’ll read through this, see if anything jumps out.”

  “I might have another.”

  “Another drink?”

  “Another Susan.” I filled him in on Susan Niemczyk, the Rochester suicide. So far there wasn’t much to tell. “Might be nothing.”

  “Might.” Garnett nodded. “But if it’s something, more cases could make the pattern clearer.”

  “Or more complicated.”

  “Those would be the two possibilities.”

  Sherlock Holmes’s satisfaction in battling Professor Moriarty came from a yearning to confront an antagonist who was his intellectual equal. Not me, I hankered for dumb villains.

  “Why am I always involved with smart bad guys?” I asked Garnett. “Why can’t I investigate more idiots?”

  “Comes down to math,” he said. “Remember? The police catch the idiots in the first forty-eight hours after a crime. We don’t need the media for those cases. By the time you get involved, the dunces are already behind bars.”

  I threw down a few bucks for a tip. Garnett gave the waitress a once-over and uncharacteristically left a five spot. Even though the timing didn’t feel right, I blurted out a question that had been bothering me.

  “Nick, why did you quit the cop shop? You belong in the field, not in a shopping mall.”

  He raised an eyebrow, as if in disdain. “This isn’t just any shopping mall. This is the Mall of America.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I had my reasons.”

  “What reasons were they?”

  “My reasons.”

  When reading his mind didn’t work I tried staring him down. Nothing.

  “If they ever become your reasons,” he said, “you’ll be the first to know.”


  CHAPTER 14

  Another e-mail from Xiong, another death certificate. It was like being spammed by the grim reaper. Rochester police officer James Anderson died three years ago, across the river in Hudson, Wisconsin. Heart attack.

  Since dead men tell no tales, that left me no choice—I would have to call Susan Niemczyk’s family.

  I dreaded calling families of suicides. Media doesn’t usually treat these deaths as news, so I worried about stirring up feelings of guilt, especially after so many years. Talking to families of homicides—solved or unsolved—didn’t bother me at all. I told myself I was bringing closure, and in one case I had even brought justice.

  I deviated from my normal method and made first contact by telephone instead of cold knocking on the door because I wanted them to feel in control. It’s easier to slam down a phone than to slam a door in someone’s face. After about ten rings I was ready to hang up when Susan Niemczyk’s mother finally answered. I introduced myself and earned a long pause. To fill the silence, I explained my interest in her daughter’s death.

  “I’m so sorry to be calling after all this time.” I concluded my pitch and waited, this time for her to fill the silence, or to hang up. Her words finally came, but hesitantly, as if each was an ordeal.

  “Susan’s death was a final exit suicide. I don’t approve, but I’ve accepted it.”

  I was confused. “What do you mean, final exit?”

  Again, she spoke slowly. “You really don’t know?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “If you had called back then, I wouldn’t have talked. I couldn’t have talked.”

  She agreed to let me stop by at seven that night and ask some questions. I thanked her, then I dialed Garnett.

  “Ever hear of a final exit suicide?” I asked him.

  “Yeah. Surge of them in the first couple years after the book came out.”

  “What book are we talking about?”

  “Called Final Exit. Written by the guy who founded the Hemlock Society. Tells terminal cases how to bag it. Literally. Why do you want to know?”

  “It might be related to that new Susan I was telling you about. Susan Niemczyk.”

  “Okay. Do some research and call me when you’re up to speed.”

  I found plenty of background online. Final Exit had topped the New York Times Best Sellers list in 1991. It was a how-to guide for an individual to end his or her life. The recommended tools seemed to be a combination of prescription drugs, alcohol, and a plastic bag over the face. Occasionally a murderer tried to stage the crime scene to look like just such a suicide.

  Malik stuck his head in my office. “Still got that ten o’clock shoot?” The clock read 9:35 a.m.

  “Yeah, I just got distracted for a minute. Let’s get moving.”

  We headed for the basement garage, climbed in the van, and drove toward the northern suburbs. We pulled into the driveway of the Happy Paws Resting Stop. Besides being a lovely pet cemetery, the establishment also offered cremation services. I fumbled around in the backseat before finding Fluffy’s box of ashes. “Keep your voice low and respectful,” I warned Malik.

  Charles Raverty owned Happy Paws and had agreed to examine Fluffy’s ashes and give us his expert opinion. He also happened to be the past president of the Pet Cremation Society of America. Malik had the camera rolling when Raverty opened the box of ashes.

  “What’s this?” he asked. “Some joke?”

  “Dog ashes,” I answered. “One of our viewers paid 160 bucks for them.”

  “These are not cremains.” His voice was definitive. “This is some kind of cruel scam.”

  I explained the history of the ashes, and then he explained the vulnerability pet owners face when the time comes to put down a beloved companion animal. He also gave me the name of a Texas laboratory that could analyze the ashes for us. Raverty agreed to keep quiet until we had a chance to talk to our veterinarian. I smiled, anticipating that interview.

  “What’s next?” As we drove away, Malik drew me back to our current dilemma. “Want to go talk to the vet?”

  “Not yet,” I replied. “We need to sting him first. Know anybody with a dying pet they wouldn’t mind letting us play guinea pig with?”

  “I’m making a prediction right now. That ain’t going to happen.”

  “Wait, we might not need it. I just got an idea. Keep driving.”

  “What direction?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Just head out of town.”

  We drove till we ran out of blacktop and hit gravel. Then we drove some more.

  MALIK AND I sat in the front of the van outside Dr. Petit’s vet office, having a minor disagreement on our next course of action.

  “I’ll wear the watch,” he insisted. “You carry the dog.”

  “No, you carry the dog, I’ll wear the watch.”

  “The camera’s in the watch and I’m the photographer, so I should wear the watch. You’ll probably just end up tilting the watch wrong and shooting the ceiling.”

  That was a common problem with hidden cameras. In this case, that would be especially unfortunate because we wouldn’t easily get a second chance.

  We had driven nearly fifty miles of country roads before we had happened upon Lucky, our roadkill collie. I didn’t want to risk ruining the shot, so I agreed to let Malik wear the watch.

  We had actually been looking for a cat, or a smaller dog, but after driving by dead raccoons, woodchucks, and even a Canada goose we felt lucky to find the collie. We convinced ourselves this could be lucky for him, too. So we named him Lucky and crossed our fingers. He had no collar. The farmer down the road didn’t recognize him, but explained that city folk often dumped unwanted pets in the country to fend for themselves.

  “This way, at least, he’ll get a decent burial,” Malik said.

  “Actually,” I admitted, “he might not get a decent burial, but whatever happens can’t be worse than rotting by the side of the road.”

  MALIK’S PHOTOGRAPHY GEAR and Lucky’s body took up most of the space in the back of the van, but I crawled in anyway for a quick change. I pulled a ratty sweatshirt over my head, pushed my hair up under a baseball cap, and put on a pair of dark glasses to cover my presumably red, swollen eyes.

  Malik put on the watch cam, checked the pinhole lens, and made sure the black cable ran from the watch up his shirtsleeve, and then down into a waist pack where he kept the recorder and battery. Then he opened the back hatch of the van and placed Lucky in my arms.

  I struggled to get my balance, and made a pouty face at Malik. “Dr. Petit’s going to think you’re a jerk making me carry a heavy dog all by myself.”

  “I’m going to tell him you insisted ’cause he was your dog, sort of like Old Yeller.”

  He put his finger to his lips, hit the record button on the camera, and zipped the fanny pack shut. That’s our “tape’s rolling” signal to zip our lips.

  Many TV crews have seen their careers end because of what was said on the outtakes of hidden camera footage. Libel lawsuits have been lost, not because of what was reported in the actual story, but because of what the reporters or photographers said while they were walking in to get the story or walking out after they got the story.

  Viewers see only what the station broadcasts, but jurors may see all the raw tapes and hear plaintiff’s lawyers argue not just about hidden cameras, but about hidden motives. Talk like “I really want to get these guys” or “Wasn’t it great when that slimeball lied?” or “This is going to push the ratings through the roof!” will make a jury pile on punitive damages faster than the judge can pound his gavel for order in the court.

  So Malik and I avoided any chitchat as we walked into Dr. Petit’s veterinary clinic. The receptionist took one look at Lucky and quickly ushered us through the waiting room, past a lady holding a tabby cat and past a man with a colorful bird in a cage. Dead dogs probably aren’t good for business.

  I glanced at my watch as we waited in a small room witho
ut windows. Lucky’s body lay on a metal table covered with white paper. A Purina Dog Chow poster featuring small photos of different breeds hung on the wall along with a copy of Dr. Petit’s veterinary diploma.

  As the minutes ticked away we became nervous. We had an hour-long tape and we had already used at least ten minutes of it. We were gambling we could wrap up the shoot before the tape ran out. Our other option was to try to rewind the tape now, before anyone came into the room. I shook my head at Malik, not wanting to risk being caught with a camera in the clinic. We’d also be wasting Lucky.

  Another five minutes passed. Malik coughed and gestured toward the bag. It was a tough call. I was on the verge of signaling to him to rewind when the door suddenly opened.

  “Who have we here?” Dr. Petit’s eyes opened wide. His head seemed too wide for his body. He looked like a tall, skinny owl. His voice dripped with sympathy. A couple times during our visit I coyly pretended not to hear him so he’d repeat himself so we could make sure the hidden microphone picked up our exchange. Malik placed his elbow on a table as a makeshift tripod and rested his chin on his hand. The watch stayed steady, pointed at Dr. Petit.

  “A terrible end to a fine animal,” the veterinarian said. His calm, professional manner contrasted with the comical necktie he wore featuring a dog chasing a cat up a tree.

  We informed Dr. Petit that we were friends of Toby Elness, that Lucky had been hit by a car, and that we were hoping he could help us get him cremated. All true. He assured us he would handle the arrangements for an individual cremation, and that we could pick up the ashes in a week.

  “Some people like to keep the ashes as a physical reminder of their pet,” Dr. Petit said. “Others prefer to scatter them somewhere special. Cremation is a wonderful way for you to honor Lucky.”

  We knew Dr. Petit didn’t have a crematorium in his office, so we waited outside to see where he would take Lucky. Malik’s camera was perched on a tripod in the back of the van, but there was no action. We parked so we could see the front and back doors of the clinic. Closing time came and went; we watched him and his staff lock up and leave.