by Julie Kramer
With a setup like that, I could hardly wait to press play. A battered garbage truck was parked by the back door of the vet office. A short, fat man came out with an armload of something. I couldn’t tell what it was until he flung it into the back of the truck.
“Was that a dead cat?” I asked.
“It sure wasn’t a flying squirrel,” Malik answered. “Kind of bent and crooked though.”
The man went back inside and came out again and threw another dead cat. Rigor mortis had made its corpse bent and crooked, too. The man wore a tight T-shirt. Each time he flung an animal corpse into the truck, his shirt pulled up and revealed a floppy belly. His jeans rode below his protruding stomach, so when he turned away from the camera, we got an eyeful of his butt crack.
“I told you it was disgusting,” Malik reminded me. “Talk about a wardrobe malfunction.”
Next the man tossed a small mixed-breed dog, its limbs frozen at right angles. He followed up with the mangled corpse of a pit bull. When the man came out again, he carried a larger load that I had no trouble recognizing: Lucky. His body hung limp. Rigor mortis must have passed. The man heaved Lucky into the back hatch, slammed the rusty gate shut, then climbed in the driver’s seat.
Malik had followed the truck and shot similar stops outside an animal shelter as well as an agricultural university where the man struggled to load a dead sheep. He drove out of town, and, for reasons I couldn’t fathom, stopped to toss in a roadkill skunk, then finally pulled into a fenced area in an industrial park. A large chimney spewed grey smoke from a warehouse. Malik stayed back, but the camera zoomed in until we could read the sign: VALLEY RENDERING PLANT.
I HAD JUST finished some Internet research on “rendering plants” and “pets” when Noreen buzzed me to come to her office for a story update.
Since she asked for it, I gave it to her, in greater detail than usual. Bottom line: instead of getting an individual cremation, Lucky was part of a mass meltdown, and likely turned into lipstick, cement, ink, or perhaps (dramatic pause) even pet food. “It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there,” I said, concluding my presentation.
Her face ashen, Noreen waved me out of her office. It didn’t take an investigative reporter to see she lacked the stomach for this part of our business. About ten minutes later, feeling a twinge of guilt, I went back to remind her about the circle of life and that even some old horses went to the glue factory when their time ran out. But my news director was nowhere to be found.
“Where’s Noreen?” I asked Lynn.
“She went home sick.”
So I called it a day, climbed into my Mustang, and went home, too. Cars meant more to Boyer than to me, so as a wedding gift I let him trade in my newly repaired Jetta for faster wheels. I gunned the gas fondly, just thinking of him.
I phoned Garnett from the car and asked him to look closely at Dr. Redding’s alibi for his wife’s murder.
“He seems awfully tight with the Duluth investigator and adamantly opposed to reopening the case,” I said. “I’d like to make sure nobody overlooked the obvious.”
“I’m one step ahead of you. The husband was definitely meeting with patients in Hennepin County when his wife was killed. One hundred forty miles from the scene of the crime. Multiple witnesses. Hate to say this, Riley, but the guy they got behind bars looks good to me.”
“Yeah, well, I’m going to keep digging. Seems like the three Susans have to be connected somehow. And if they are, I don’t see how Dusty Foster can be guilty.”
I also filled him in on Susan Niemczyk, or Suicide Susan as I called her—not the most sensitive nickname, but the four cases had started to blur together, and I needed to keep them straight in my mind.
So Susan Redding became Duluth Susan.
Susan Chenowith, Waitress Susan.
Susan Moreno, Sinner Susan.
It may sound cold, but journalists often develop verbal shorthand for story subjects, not to be callous, just expedient. It’s a solid solution as long as you don’t put any nicknames in writing and you learn to bite your tongue around outsiders.
Because it was so dissimilar to the others, I was tempted to discard the Niemczyk case, especially since I had done some research and learned that victims of Huntington’s disease have a suicide rate nearly eight times the national average. Odds were, Suicide Susan did kill herself. But the Suicide Susan box beckoned me to the living room where I left it the night before. I cleared off an old Shaker coffee table so I could sort the papers into piles.
Amid old magazines I found a scrapbook my sister made after Boyer’s funeral. I had paged through it once with her looking on, murmured the proper appreciation, and hadn’t opened it since. She had included funeral photos, condolence cards and letters sent by friends and family, news articles detailing the tragedy and obituaries from the Star Tribune and the Pioneer Press.
“Minnesota State Patrol Sgt. Hugh Boyer died in the line of duty June 13, 2006.”
June 13, 2006—the date of our second wedding anniversary.
Boyer and I were packed for a trip to Chicago to celebrate two years of mostly wedded bliss, actually make that one year and 364 days. He’d tuned up the car for the eight-hour drive…when a story I was working on threw a wrench in our travel plans.
“Just two more days,” I pleaded.
I had a pattern going on a consumer fraud investigation and needed to play out one more sting for the whole thing to tie together. A delay meant a break in the pattern and I’d have to start all over, which might scrub the whole project. “This story is so close to going from a B to an A,” I told him. “Then I won’t have to sweat about work all summer.” In this exigent business, you’re only as good as your last story, and my last story was just so-so.
“What about us?” Boyer asked.
“Us will always be there. Chicago will still be there two days from now.”
“I don’t want to wait two days. I’ve got the time off. You’ve got the time off. We’ve even got tickets to the Cubs game.”
“I know. I know. But I’ve got two weeks invested in this story.”
“Yeah, and I’ve got two years invested in this marriage and I want my annual payoff.” He grabbed me, kissed my neck, and playfully nudged me toward the door.
“Please, honey,” I said. “We can still celebrate tomorrow night and just hit the road a little later. Romantic dinner, candles, champagne.” I kissed him back and seductively nudged him away from the door. “I could wear your uniform.”
“Forget it.” He turned away and headed up the stairs. “If you’re going to work, I’m going to work. I’ll take the Iron Range trip with the gov tomorrow. I’ll see you in two days. Maybe you’ll be ready to leave by then.”
We went to bed angry.
SUICIDE SUSAN’S COPY of the book Final Exit was not page worn, which made her death seem impulsive instead of deliberate. Her suicide notes were exactly by the book, as her sister, Sharon, described. I glanced at the education conference schedule, then set it aside to read the police and autopsy reports.
Susan had washed down Seconal and phenobarbital, strong sedatives, with a great deal of vodka. Then she had placed a plastic bag over her face. The maid found her in her hotel bed the next morning. Susan was fully dressed. The dead bolt had not been turned. The medical examiner determined she had probably had sexual intercourse the day she died, though he found no semen on her body. His report said her pelvic area was swollen and red. A flag to me, since the woman Susan Niemczyk’s mother and sister described didn’t seem prone to one-night stands.
The police had looked for homicide clues, but hotel rooms pose special investigative problems. With so many people passing through, fingerprint, hair, and fiber evidence can be hard to connect to anyone except a registered guest or hotel employee.
Hotel bedspreads aren’t usually washed between guests, so it’s not unusual to find multiple semen stains from previous trysts. My colleague Mike Flagg had even aired a sweeps piece on that very topic and foun
d five stars didn’t guarantee clean linen. He rented local hotel rooms ranging from sleazy to swanky, shined ultraviolet lights on the bedspreads to spot the stains, then followed up with chemical analysis. He even called a raunchy talk radio guy the morning of his airdate to promo the piece with bawdy guy humor.
I started a board for Suicide Susan.
SUSAN NIEMCZYK
AGE: 36
TEACHER
BLONDE
HUNTINGTON’S DISEASE
SUICIDE/FINAL EXIT
ROCHESTER HOTEL
In the bottom of the box I found the Susan pendant along with a convention nametag reading HELLO MY NAME IS SUSAN NIEMCZYK. I held the items in my hands, recalling the name SUSAN pinned to a waitress’s blouse, and SUSAN tattooed on a runaway’s arm. Could they have been advertisements, attracting a killer’s interest?
CHAPTER 17
Normally I wear contact lenses, but this morning I was wearing my brainy-girl glasses for my meeting with Police Chief Vince Capacasa at the cop shop. I wanted to impress him as a serious journalist.
“You can’t be serious?” the chief said. “Evidence stays in the property room. Evidence is not a prop for TV ratings. No raincoat. Now move along.”
A marble chess set sat on the credenza behind his desk. I also noticed a game already in progress on his computer screen; his long-distance opponent probably on hold until I left.
“Now Chief,” I began.
Chiefs dig it when reporters call them Chief. They view each utterance as a frank admission that they outrank you.
“I’m coming to you for help,” I continued.
Appealing for help that only they can provide also appeals to their ego.
“Open investigation,” he told me. “No comment.”
“This story might enable you to close your investigation.”
Often if the cops think there’s something in it for them, they’ll play ball.
“Unlikely. Move along,” he repeated.
None of my tactics was working, so I dangled a chance to go off the record.
“This is not an ambush. I didn’t come here with a photographer to try to catch you unprepared about a cold case. The door’s shut. It’s just you and me in here, Chief.” I emphasized his title again.
“Don’t you have some live shot you need to get to?” he asked, sarcastically. “The TCF Bank in the Cub Foods in White Bear Lake got robbed today. Why don’t you stand out in front of it and talk about dye packs and an undisclosed amount of money?”
“You’d just love it if I reported about crime outside of Minneapolis.” I leaned across his desk and stared him straight in the eye. If they won’t play softball, sometimes you have to play hardball. “You can’t get rid of me that easily. This story is slated for air. You can look like you’re cooperating, or you can look like you’re stonewalling.”
He leaned across his desk and held my gaze. Our faces were about a foot apart. Once again, I was glad I was wearing makeup.
“If you have evidence of a crime, you’re legally obligated to turn it over.”
“I don’t have evidence. All I have is a hunch.”
“Maybe you should just tell me your hunch instead of worrying your pretty little head.”
So much for the power of brainy-girl glasses. The chief leaned back in his chair, the pleased expression of checkmate on his face.
Damn it. I was going to have to level with him.
“REMEMBER OUR DEAL,” the chief said. “No match. No story.”
He’d scoffed at my theory that the raincoat found on Sinner Susan actually belonged to Waitress Susan.
“And if it does match,” I answered, “I have a story and you have a serial killer.”
Much better deal for me. If I lost I’d simply scramble for another sweeps story. But if he lost he’d be fending off political trouble forever because serial killers don’t just kill people; they kill tourism. And right now the movers and shakers of the Twin Cities were preparing to host the Republican National Convention. Traditionally, Minnesota’s considered a Democratic stronghold; but Republicans have bigger expense accounts. And Scandinavians are nothing if not practical.
The chief unfolded the raincoat and laid it on the conference table. Most definitely an anticlimactic moment. The label read London Fog and it looked like virtually every other London Fog raincoat ever sewn. Nothing unique. Nothing memorable. Certainly nothing identifiable. I had a feeling this showdown might end badly for me.
“Can you check the pockets?”
I had promised not to touch anything; the chief had promised to let us roll tape. Malik knew the drill: no matter what the cops said during the next few minutes, he was not to stop rolling unless I said so.
One at a time, the chief turned the four pockets inside out. Empty. Empty. Empty. A blue button.
“That’s all,” said the chief. “Satisfied?”
The room was quiet. My mind was reaching. For what, I didn’t know, but I sensed I was close to something critical.
The button was small and royal blue. It clearly did not belong with the raincoat. Color crime scene photos slowly came into focus in the back of my mind and transformed into one of those rare “aha” moments. Waitress Susan lay dead in the alley, wearing a blue and brown buttoned-up sweater. One button was missing. A small royal blue button.
“I’m satisfied.”
CHAPTER 18
I suppose it’s egotistical to think you can recognize evil by staring it in the eye, but it panned out for me five years ago in the case of a missing seven-year-old girl down by Mankato. Her mom’s boyfriend postered the town with her picture, and he organized extensive searches. He also creeped me out big-time during an interview, and I sensed he was hiding something. Ends up, it was her body.
Identifying a villain with eye contact—it’s just a theory—is certainly not foolproof. And the truth is, I’d been fooled more times than not. There had been the Munchausen mom in Brainerd, Minnesota, four years ago. She looked me straight in the eye and swore she had no idea why her daughter was always sick. I believed her. And don’t remind me about that high-flying St. Paul attorney who killed his wife last Valentine’s Day. He was so the perfect source: so charming, so connected, so good on camera. I never once sensed scoundrel in his soul.
Despite my uneven track record, I still wanted to test my premise on Mayor Skubic. I couldn’t shake his personal connection with the first Susan and his proximity to the crime. The trick was looking deep into his eyes without him smelling suspicion. I knew just the right time and place.
Mayor Skubic would be home Halloween night, handing out treats to the kiddies and handshakes to their parents. In Minnesota all politicians from the governor on down view Halloween as prime campaign time, second only to donning a plaid shirt and sweating in a Fourth of July parade. Some elected officials also help serve Thanksgiving dinner in homeless shelters, but that’s because they’re hoping to get on TV on a slow news day, not because they expect to win an election with the indigent vote.
When I offered to take my niece and nephew trick-or-treating, my sister, Robyn, seemed skeptical.
“Aren’t you busy with ratings?” During sweeps I usually swept family under the rug. But with no kids of my own, and none likely now, I missed them.
“I can take one night off. I haven’t seen them for ages.”
“Come on, Mom,” pleaded Darcy, age seven. “We never get to do anything.”
I cheated by having them listen in on the upstairs phone.
“Robyn, maybe you can offer to work that night and trade for a Saturday off.” She’s a nurse at a local hospital and, like me, works her share of weekends.
“Please, Mom, can we?” asked five-year-old Davy.
“All right,” she agreed.
So I had my props. All I needed was a costume.
Mayor Skubic was dressed in a white hockey goalie mask, like Jason in the horror film Friday the 13th. Elsewhere that might be a poor costume choice for a politician. Mo
st go for Uncle Sam or a rubber mask of whoever’s currently occupying the White House. But Skubic had been a college hockey hero and hockey rules in Minnesota. One of our competitors once aired a story showing undercover video of underage hockey jocks buying drinks in a local sports bar without getting carded. Viewers called in angry at the station for violating the players’ privacy. So no surprise, nobody seemed bothered that one night a year the mayor resembled a serial killer. The rest of the year he resembled a paunchy, aging athlete, but that didn’t require any special costume.
His mask made eye contact more difficult than I had expected. I was glad I went with my second choice for Halloween costume. I had almost worn a Lone Ranger mask and Boyer’s State Patrol uniform with my hair tucked under his hat. Instead I put on a nurse’s uniform I spotted hanging in my sister’s coat closet when I picked up the kids. I added a toy stethoscope that belonged to my niece, a big red wig Boyer had given me as a joke, a white half mask, and a heavy dose of fuchsia lipstick. Not a chance I’d be recognized. Especially not as part of this trio. Davy wore a coonskin cap and a fringed suede shirt my sister had sewn. Darcy wore a tiara and a yellow princess dress. They both carried pillow cases in anticipation of a heavy haul of candy.
Halloween is no time for an elected official to go cheap with tiny Tootsie Rolls or SweeTarts. Mayor Skubic shrewdly handed out full-size candy bars made by Minnesota-based Pearson Candies. He curtsied in front of Darcy, gave her a Nut Goodie and tossed a Salted Nut Roll in Davy’s bag while singing about Davy Crockett, a rifle-wielding politician and king of the wild frontier.
When my turn came, the mayor held my toy stethoscope against his heart. “I think it might be broken,” he said.
“It’s not real,” I answered.
“I meant my heart.” He dropped something in my bag. Later I found a Skubic campaign button and his business card with a phone number scribbled on the back. I’d rather have a Mint Pattie.
So what did I see in his eyes?
We had maintained eye contact for less than ten seconds. He looked away first, not that it was a contest. His eyes definitely burned—but most likely from a jack-o’-lantern reflecting from the kitchen bay window—not with evil, but reflecting his supposedly broken heart.