Song of Suzies

by Dave Balcom

  “What’s the matter?” the woman on the phone asked in surprise.

  “No, I’m sorry, but that’s just the exact same date our Suzanne went missing six years later... it’s a quirk of the calendar system is all.”

  “It’s the last Saturday of summer most years,” she added.

  “There’s that...” I was musing, but roused myself, “Ms. Howard, Rita, could I trouble you to fax those clips to me?”

  “You think there’s a connection between our Sue and your Suzanne other than the day they went missing?”

  “I do. I believe your Sue is also dead and buried, just like Suzanne was. And I believe they died at the same hand, but I don’t know how to prove that.”

  “You have to try,” she said, sounding thoughtful as well.

  “I’ll need your clips if I’m going to prove anything to the FBI that will result in their launching an investigation.”

  “I’ll send them overnight, will that work?”

  “Certainly. And I thank you.”

  “You’re not done thanking me. I expect a complete share on whatever story you develop, and I don’t expect to be more than the time difference behind you when I publish.”

  “That’s a deal, and I still thank you.”

  She chuckled, “If you get to the bottom of Sue’s disappearance, even if you’re right and she’s dead, you’ll get the thanks of every thinking person in the Eastern Sierra, Mr. Stanton.”

  “Your clips will certainly help.”

  After I hung up, I went out to the newsroom and just stood there, in the middle, and waited. Like slow motion dominoes, heads started lifting up and turning until every eye in the place was looking at me. I spoke in an even, gentle voice, “Can you all hear me?”

  There were nods all around. “I’m sorry for my outburst a few minutes ago. I don’t want anyone to dream up some scenario that isn’t true. I’m working on a story and I got a huge, positive break and lost my composure. Please excuse me. I’m not ready to talk about this story; I really want to, but it would be premature. Please return to your own work and don’t worry about me, okay?”

  There were nods again around the room, and I walked down the hall to Doug’s office.

  I raised an eyebrow at Harriet, and she waved me on, “He has a new ‘open door’ policy. I don’t know what’s come over him.”

  I closed the door as I walked into the office. He was bent over a report of some sort, and slowly raised his head, adjusting his glasses. “What’s up?”

  “First, I’m as excited as I’ve been, maybe ever, so I can’t wait to tell you this, but it’s going to come out in a stream...” I paused for a breath and thought for a second about my center, and then I sat down.

  Doug sat back in his chair and waited.

  “Suzanne is not the first young female high school track star called ‘Sue’ to mysteriously disappear in this country. In nineteen seventy-seven, a young woman in Bishop, California, disappeared, and has never been seen again.

  “Becky Sue Tischman, an Ohio State hurdles champion from Monterey, Ohio, disappeared off the street in nineteen eighty, and she has never been heard from or seen again.”

  Doug was squinting at me again, and his glasses were up on his forehead. “Every three years?” And then he smiled. “You never worked in Ohio or California, did you?”

  “And despite what you may think, I don’t move every three years; I haven’t moved from here yet...”

  “Good point, I’m just thinking ahead to the firestorm you’re going to set off with a story like this...”

  “That’s a little down the road. This is the first call from the story on the cover of the Inlander that you participated in.”

  He leaned forward and picked up his Inlander. “I haven’t had time to read it yet. How did I come off?”

  “Like someone who knows that the newsroom is more than a necessary evil of the business.”

  He winced at that, and I went on, “You actually came off sounding quite knowledgeable. But the key thing is that it generated a call from a small newspaper in California. We’ll need to wait to see if we get any others before I think about a story.

  “I’ve got the editor there overnighting clips on the Sue Nichols story, and Mark Boles is sending me his stuff ... with ours, we can see just how similar these all are, and then I think we’ll take them to the FBI and perhaps get them to unleash their power on this.”

  “After we print a story, though, right? We’re not going to hide our light under the proverbial bushel, are we?”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “No, sir; but we can’t go to press prematurely. We have to be certain. The cost of an error is immeasurable.”

  42

  The next call came just after noon on Thursday. I had just finished marking up that day’s edition for the “Good, Bad and Ugly” board when I heard my phone buzz. “Mr. Stanton? Line one, please.”

  “Jim Stanton here, how may I help you?”

  “Mr. Stanton? I’m Lou Hayes, a retired copy editor with the Press Telegram in Long Beach, California. I saw your story in the Inlander, and it reminded me... you’re investigating a murder, aren’t you?

  “We are. You have the right number. Mr. Hayes, is it?”

  “Just Lou is all right. I used to work the night regional desk at the P-T. I retired in the winter of seventy-five, but I still have friends there, and one of them, the dayside managing editor for news, brings me all the gossip and a copy of the Inlander every month. I saw your story, and it reminded me of Sue Anne Greene...”

  My heart took a leap and I must have made a sound, because I heard him ask, “Are you all right? Hello?”

  “I’m here; you gave me a sort of shock, Mr. Hayes.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. It’s just that Sue Anne’s story was one of the craziest I’ve ever covered – you know how it is on the desk like that, you get calls from stringers and you take ’em over the phone and rewrite ’em... they kinda become your stories, you know?”

  “I can only imagine, Lou.”

  “So I get this call from our Huntington Beach stringer, and she reports that the Greene kid, a California State Champion long jumper, was missing since the thirty-first. So I took all the information she had and started asking her all the questions she should have asked the cops, but of course she hadn’t.

  “But she knew the Greene family and she knew Sue Anne and so she was ready to rule out a fling with a fella or a gal, hell, this is California, right?”

  “She was never seen or heard from again, right?” I cut to the chase.

  “That’s a fact. She disappeared into thin air, just like your gal and that one in Ohio...”

  “And the girl in Bishop.” I ended the sentence.

  I could hear the awe in Hayes’s voice, “Holy shit.”

  “Lou, can your friend at the paper send me copies of the clip file on Sue Anne?”

  “I’m sure he could, but so could I, at least the first stories. I have ’em all here. I always kept clips on the stories I worked. I’ll send them to you by overnight if you want.”

  “That would be great. I can reimburse you for the postage...”

  He interrupted me, “No need, but if you ever catch somebody, you have to share the story with the P-T and send me the complete clip file. Fair?”

  “Sounds fair enough. Make sure your package contains your phone and address, and the name and contact info on your friend at the paper, okay?”

  “You got it, Mr. Stanton. You catch this sucker, you hear?”

  “We’ll do our best.”

  43

  By the end of the following week, I had poured over all three clip files. There had been no more calls, and as the newsroom was clearing out for the weekend, I took the files to the conference room and put the big table to use.

  There were photographs of the smiling young athletes, winning races, wearing medals – all of them had enjoyed local press coverage of their high school careers.

  As I reread
the initial coverage of each case, it dawned on me that it was the same story in each case; only the victim’s name had changed. These were all high-achieving young women who were living lives of integrity, sacrifice and dedication that boded well for their futures.

  And each of them was doing this in a community where violent crime against youngsters was a rarity. Every community has an underbelly of crime. Drunken assault, petty theft, drug and spouse abuse are common on the police blotter everywhere. Armed robbery and murder were rarer in these communities than in cities. Abductions and murders are shocking and unbelievable for most of the people in towns like the ones in these files.

  In each clip file the letters to the editor spoke directly to that community denial. And in each case the police took an undue amount of criticism. In no other instances had the perpetrator made any kind of contact with the community.

  I had to wonder if indeed that contact had been made, but those other editors were savvy enough to keep it their secret.

  I called the day-side managing editor in Riverside, CA. “Peters,” he said after the first ring.

  “Mr. Peters, my name is Jim Stanton, I’m the managing editor at...”

  “I know who you are, Mr. Stanton. Lou Hayes told me he was sending a clip file to you after reading the Inlander. I read that story, but I didn’t make the connection to Sue Anne. Have you guys found anything yet?”

  “No, nothing. I was wondering, though, if you or the newspaper or anyone connected to her story ever heard from someone claiming to be the perp?”

  “Not that I know of. Shit, did that happen to you guys?”

  “Repeatedly. In fact this caller has threatened to make my daughter or wife disappear if I don’t keep the story alive.”

  “Really? That sounds like somebody who’s pissed at your police force.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I just know that the cops in Huntington Beach took holy hell from the community when they couldn’t figure out what happened to Sue Anne. The chief finally left as did the lead detective on the case. They were constantly being harassed wherever they went in town. I don’t remember much about the original story, but I remember the stories about the fallout. It came almost a year later... Sue Anne’s kind of thing doesn’t happen there, and the people were scared and angry.”

  I thanked him as I looked at the clock and realized that he was probably on deadline. “I’m sorry to interrupt you on deadline, I’ll get out of your hair. Thanks for the time.”

  “No problem. It’s pretty slow here right now; it won’t pick up until the night guys hit the streets – a Friday night in Long Beach, whoop-de-doo!”

  I shared his laugh and signed off. After I hung up I just sat there thinking about the conversation. I couldn’t make heads or tails out of what I knew of these four murders that spread over a decade.

  I went to the blackboard and started a timeline. Name, date of disappearance, location: Our Suzanne went missing on August 27 of ’83. Becky Sue Tischman of Cincinnati went off the chart on August 30, of ’80; Sue Nichols of Bishop disappeared August 27... I stopped and stared at the chart that was forming.

  In our library and found the “Calendar file.” Each year, the newsroom’s twelve-month planning calendar was put up in December for the coming year. The staff with earned vacation to use started making plans for their time off after periods – such as elections season, graduation season and the like where no vacation was allowed – had been eliminated.

  After the first of the year, the old calendar was taken down and filed. I looked at the target years and by the time I got to 1977, I knew that Sue Nichols had disappeared on the final Saturday of August, just like the ones after, and just like Sue Anne Greene of Huntington Beach.

  I had read the stories about infamous serial killers such as Ted Bundy, and I understood that they acted out in cyclic fashion. They could cope on the memories of their latest victim for a period of time, and then they’d need a new actor in their twisted fantasy. But three years? To the day?

  I knew I had to get this information in the hands of the federal authorities, and I knew that I wasn’t going to receive a warm reception at the local cop shop.

  I went to the press room and found a roll end of newsprint, and brought it back to the conference room. I completed the chart with Sue Anne’s date, August 31, 1974. Then I carefully stapled the newsprint over the blackboard and carefully marked it: “Please don’t remove” in large black letters.

  I put my files away in my credenza and called Sandy at home. There was no answer and that gave me a start until I remembered that one of her friends was going shopping with her and the kids after work.

  I decided to head home. I had much to think about.

  44

  On Monday morning, after a dawn walk, I stopped at the police department on my way to the paper.

  “Morning, Sergeant, is Max in yet this morning?”

  “Mornin’, Jim!” Sergeant Martin Murphy was an older officer with a permanent smile and a twinkle, and he worked overtime doing his impression of an old-time Irish cop. “Nay, of course not. His highness doesn’t deign to visit the place ’til he’s had his morning cup, now does he?”

  I laughed at his obvious attempt at a brogue. “What time would you expect him?”

  “Oh, any minute, actually,” the deskman nodded. “He starts early and stays late, that one.”

  I looked at my watch. “Any coffee here ’bouts a guy might sip while he waits?”

  “You know where it is, laddie. You’ve spent enough time here.”

  I went into the squad room where a huge urn was simmering and pulled a Styrofoam cup for myself. I paged through my memory of the times I’d sat in this building, waiting word on one story or another as I filled in for a vacationing or an otherwise-occupied Cindy Shaul.

  Hennessey brought me out of my reverie. “What brings you here so early in the day, Mr. Stanton?”

  “I wanted to share some information with you; get your thoughts on it.”

  “Chasing another headline?” He asked with no sign of hospitality.

  “That’s what I do. Is there somewhere we can sit?”

  “I told you before that I won’t be part of your scandal mongering, Stanton. I meant it then and I mean it now. If you have a complaint to lodge, tell it to the sergeant and he’ll get it into the proper channels.”

  “You don’t want to know that Suzanne wasn’t the only young woman to disappear as she did?”

  “Hell, everyone who knows anything knows that young women disappear all the time all over this country. It’s only here in the Finger Lakes that self-aggrandizing editors try to carve their careers out of the tragedy.”

  I put my coffee cup in the trash, and headed for the door, “Okay, Max, but don’t forget that I came to you first.”

  It was just six a.m. and Jay Knight was fishing news releases out of the overnight box as I let myself into the newspaper.

  “Mornin’, Jim.”

  “Mornin’ yourself; anything there but overnight scores?”

  He was sorting through the papers, and looked up with a grin, “Just the grist of my morning mill.”

  In the newsroom. Mary and Randy were at the universal desk. She was trolling the wire service for her pages, and Randy was reading copy that had been turned in the previous night. The reporters who wrote those stories would be in later if at all, depending on their schedules.

  In the composing room I found them putting final touches on advertisements that were being placed on pages. Those pages waiting for final approval before being sent to the camera room were stacked next to the cupboard-like door that connected to that department. I grabbed a blue marker and started checking the pages.

  The pages were built on a grid sheet that was printed in the same blue as the marker, a blue that is invisible to the camera. The stories and photos were stuck to the sheets by wax that was applied to the back of each. I checked each story to ensure the bottom of one column matched
the top of the next column; that the cutlines under the photos matched the images; and I read the headlines, one word at a time, backwards – few mistakes were as embarrassing as misspelled words in large type.

  I also scanned the ads for glaring errors, and finally checked the folio lines at the top of the page to ensure that they were correct. I initialed the page, put it into the blind closet that connected the composing department with the camera-plate room, and checked it off on a list posted next to the door.

  When I’d processed all the pages, I went to my seat at the desk and reviewed the updated news budget that Randy had left for me. I wanted to be in my office, working on Suzanne’s story, but I forced myself to focus on the tasks in front of me. I checked my pulse and my center. I was raring to go.

  After the paper was put to bed, I brought Randy, Cindy, Marge Wilson and Louie Mitchell into the conference room, and started to explain my findings about Suzanne and the other Sues. I had closed the blinds on the window overlooking the newsroom, and had just begun to talk when there was a light rap on the door.

  Randy hopped up to open it, and found Fritz Crawford standing there with a sheepish grin on his face and his camera hanging about his neck. “There’s got to be art involved here, doesn’t there?”

  It was the perfect comment by a perfect actor to lighten the moment. We all had a laugh, invited him in, and I got to business.

  I laid out the history of my search, and I showed them the timeline on the blackboard.

  “Where’s this going?” Randy asked in awe.

  “Can we report this?” Cindy asked right on top of him.

  “How could we not?” Marge whispered.

  “Let me get a look at those other Sues,” Fritz said with gusto.

  I couldn’t help it, their enthusiasm was gratifying, but I kept an even keel. “We’ve got things to do in answer to all of that. First, we need to contact the FBI and see if they agree with the basic conclusion that these cases are all related.”