Killing Kate: A Novel (Riley Spartz Book 4)

by Julie Kramer

  ((RILEY CU))

  THE DOG’S NAME IS BUDDY AND

  THIS CROWD BEHIND ME IS

  ALL ROOTING FOR HIM TO PULL

  THROUGH THIS.

  ((RILEY NAT))

  IT’S IMPORTANT TO REMEMBER

  THAT ON HOT DAYS LIKE THIS,

  MINUTES CAN MEAN DEATH INSIDE

  A SWELTERING VEHICLE. THE

  OWNER SAID HE WAS TAKING CARE

  OF SOME PAPERWORK AT THE

  BANK AND LOST TRACK OF TIME.

  ((DOG OWNER SOT))

  THIS IS NOBODY’S BUSINESS BUT

  MY OWN. ALL YOU PEOPLE SHOULD

  JUST GO BACK TO YOUR OWN LIVES.

  ((RILEY LIVE))

  THE OWNER—KEITH AVISE—WAS

  TICKETED FOR ANIMAL CRUELTY.

  Then the director called for a split screen so Sophie could show viewers how much she also cared about animals by asking me questions.

  ((ANCHOR DOUBLE BOX))

  RILEY, WHAT’S THE LATEST UPDATE

  WITH BUDDY?

  ((RILEY DOUBLE BOX))

  BUDDY HAS BEEN TAKEN TO THE

  EMERGENCY ROOM AT THE U OF

  M VETERINARY HOSPITAL AND

  WE’RE AWAITING WORD ON HIS

  CONDITION.

  ((ANCHOR DOUBLE BOX))

  WELL, HERE’S HOPING BUDDY

  WILL BE WELL ENOUGH TO JOIN US

  LIVE HERE AT THE STATION FOR

  TOMORROW’S NEWS.

  When I returned to the newsroom an hour later, Noreen greeted me with a high five—a salute typically reserved if a story increases the network’s lead in audience in the “overnight” ratings. We wouldn’t know the actual numbers until morning, but Noreen clearly was optimistic the hot car story hooked viewers.

  Right then I appreciated, rather than resented, the glass walls of her office. Usually the rest of the newsroom watched as she berated me for perceived blunders. But not tonight.

  She was pleased not just because I nailed an exclusive on a piece with buzz, but because I helped save a dog, and she loved dogs. It had been a long time since Noreen had been this happy with me.

  “Keep an eye on this one,” she said. “Those shots of you holding the dog means we own this story.”

  That meant Channel 3 could air that video in prime-time promotions to suck in even more viewers for our late news. It was generally understood in the world of television news that animal stories meant ratings, and ratings meant money. Noreen championed coverage of new zoo baby bears and dolphins and heaped praise on photographers who captured video of duck families crossing the road in traffic.

  “Riley, make sure our camera is there when Buddy’s released from the hospital.”

  Just then, my cell phone vibrated. The number came from within the Minneapolis Police Department. Usually I had to hound them for information, but this call could be a response to a message I left regarding the crime scene of Kate’s slaying.

  “Just a minute, Noreen. This could be a break in that murder.”

  “We’ve done our job there, Riley. And I’m more than a little pissed at you for latching on to another murder, but am willing to overlook it because you enterprised this dog story.”

  I tilted my head, pretending I didn’t know what she was talking about in regards to the homicide, but she continued to rant. “Unless there’s an arrest in the killing, move on to something else. Maybe that gambling scandal with the youth sports association.”

  None of the newscast producers seemed eager for a homicide follow-up during the huddle that morning, but I thought they could be swayed to keep Kate’s story alive if I landed a scoop. That’s how I had bought time this afternoon to meet with the victim’s sister at the crime scene. Unfortunately, Laura had nixed any interview idea, so I had tried reconnecting with the cops.

  I answered my cell phone. “Riley Spartz here.”

  “Officer Paul Schultze.” Instead of police homicide, the voice belonged to the street cop who responded to the dog-in-the-car call. By habit, I’d handed him my card at the scene.

  “Just wanted to tell you the dog didn’t make it.” Somber. He sounded like he needed to share his disappointment with someone.

  “Oh no, that’s terrible.” I tapped the side of Noreen’s computer to get her attention as she checked her email. DOG DIED I mouthed while covering the phone with my hand.

  “Yeah, the vet ended up having to euthanize him,” the officer said. “Poor mutt.”

  Noreen mouthed back WHAT?

  “Couldn’t they do anything to help?” I scribbled DEAD DOG on the back of an envelope and handed it to Noreen.

  “Apparently not. The vet says heatstroke took its toll.”

  “Can I do a camera interview with you about it? I know our viewers will care deeply.” And so will my boss. And so did I . . . after all, I held that dying dog in my arms.

  Bye Bye Buddy.

  “That all has to be cleared with Chief Capacasa,” he said.

  “I understand.”

  I sure did. If anyone from the police department was going to be featured on the news, it was going to be The Chief. That is, unless the media was pushing for details concerning an excessive force allegation involving one of his officers versus an unarmed college student. The department’s communications officer faced the spotlight in those types of cases.

  “I appreciate the update, Officer Schultze. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Are you talking about the dog in the car?” The words were out of Noreen’s mouth before I even pressed the Off button on my phone. I nodded. “Buddy didn’t make it.” My stomach felt nauseous.

  Noreen’s lips curled. Her pride over Channel 3 playing a role in saving one of the earth’s creatures had vanished. But she still had a means of revenge not available to most people.

  She stuck her head out of her office. “Listen up, everyone. New lead story for ten.”

  CHAPTER 8

  He stroked the jagged wood of the broken bat before wedging the shards against the matching half and putting it back in the trophy case.

  The office wooden bat softball team had needed one more player that day, more than a year ago. They stuck him in right field and hoped no hits came anywhere near. He struck out each time at bat, never making contact with the ball.

  Then came the cliché bottom of the ninth . . . tie game . . . two outs . . . a man on third . . . he was up. On the bench, he saw his teammates rolling their eyes and sighing in defeat, certain they were about to lose the game to the company marketing department.

  He swung at the first pitch and heard a crack. He was more aware the bat had splintered than that the hit was fair. His colleagues screamed for him to run.

  The blooping line drive bounced off the shortstop’s glove and rolled to the second baseman, who also bobbled it. Even with the errors, he barely beat the throw to first, but by then the man on third had scored.

  That’s how he won the game. Or how his opponents lost it. And just as a winning pitcher is awarded the game ball, he was presented with the victory bat . . . or what was left of it. He didn’t care it was broken, that flaw mirrored him. The bat was wounded on the outside like he was wounded on the inside. Both shattered. One physically, the other emotionally.

  And each time he attacked a woman with the remains of it, his swing felt like a home run. If he concentrated, he could still make the cheers echo in his ears while they bled.

  So far, he was playing four for four. He wished he could brag about his record like other men did in sports bars, but that would have to wait until he testified in court, impressing jurors and journalists with his brilliance. Then off to prison, where his swagger would be envied by other inmates who served their time as nobodies.

  He had little doubt that, unless he stopped, his streak would end in arrest and he would spend the rest of his life behind bars.

  But he did not want to stop, because for the first time in a long time, he was enjoying life.

  CHAPTER 9

  Such a s
hame,” muttered Dr. Howard Stang, the veterinarian who treated Buddy at the university’s animal hospital emergency room. He wouldn’t let me see the dog’s body, but he did a camera interview, talking about how minutes in a hot car can put a pet through hell.

  “Especially when you’re talking about a black vehicle on black asphalt.” He raised his hands helplessly, hunching up his shoulders. “Not a lot of leeway there with the science.”

  “When I last saw him,” I said, “I thought I was covering a story about rescue and survival.”

  Dr. Stang shook his head. “Buddy’s internal body temperature was still one hundred and eight degrees by the time he reached the ER. He was vomiting and clearly in distress. We inserted an IV into his bloodstream, but it soon became clear he was suffering a painful, lingering death.”

  “Nothing could be done?” I asked.

  “I’ve autopsied dogs that died of heatstroke before. I know what I’ll find. Buddy’s organs will have turned to soup.”

  Every year pets, and even children, die in hot cars. That night Buddy became the poster dog for all of them in Minnesota. It wasn’t the first time viewers were outraged over the death of an animal, but it was the first time Channel 3’s website crashed because of all the angry audience comments.

  THAT OWNER OUGHT TO BE FRIED.

  NO WAY TO TREAT MAN’S BEST FRIEND.

  DOG DAYS SHOULDN’T BE DYING DAYS.

  I’d given Buddy’s owner another chance to comment, but he’d declined. Officially, his home phone was unlisted, but I still had the number from Buddy’s dog tag stored on my cell phone from that call attempt in the parking lot. When I finally reached Keith Avise, he’d already heard the news about his dog’s demise.

  “What’s done’s done,” he said. “It was an accident. Don’t call me again.”

  Then he hung up.

  That cavalier response was only part of the reason neighbors toilet papered his house that night. They sent a photo of the deed to our weather center, hoping it would be used as a backdrop for the forecast. But the meteorologist passed, not wanting to get involved in controversy, and selected a photo of a birthday boy turning two, playing under a garden sprinkler.

  When Malik and I spoke to Minneapolis police chief Vince Capacasa that night it became clear justice might not necessarily be served. Leaving a dog unattended in a parked car is only a petty misdemeanor in Minnesota, so under that law, the most Buddy’s owner could receive was a twenty-five-dollar fine.

  No jail time.

  “You’re kidding me, Chief.”

  “Check with the county attorney if you don’t believe me.”

  “Viewers might have a hard time understanding such mild punishment.”

  “Then go to the county’s top prosecutor and see what she says. Sure, prosecutors could force the issue and try to up it to felony animal cruelty, that could mean a fine of thousands of dollars, maybe even years in jail. But it also means less time for other legal cases. Law is about priorities.”

  The courthouse criminal backlog was well known. And I knew what the chief was really hinting at was that the lawyers were unlikely to use the F-word—felony—when the victim was an animal.

  The public would certainly be split. Some would urge maximum justice for Buddy. But others might envision themselves in the same situation: What if they messed up and their pet died? Would they want the legal book thrown at them?

  “Thanks, Chief. Anything else you’d like to add?”

  “We here at the Minneapolis Police Department mourn the loss of Buddy, and regret there aren’t more teeth in our law.”

  A really smooth sound bite. But I wasn’t so naive that I didn’t realize that the chief also understood the power of our video. He wanted to play good cop, and let the county attorney come off as the bad cop.

  To be honest, Chief Capacasa and I have had a history of clashes over crime coverage. He even had me handcuffed once, later dismissing it as “just business.” And while he doesn’t realize I know it, the word on the street is that anybody in blue who tickets me gets a day off duty, off the books. So I always keep a close eye on my speedometer whenever I’m behind the wheel within city limits.

  Because of our past, I probably should have simply thanked him for his insight and headed back to the station. After all, we both came out winners. I snagged a decent sound bite for the news and he got to show the taxpayers of Minneapolis that he cares about justice for dead dogs.

  Instead, I brought up Kate’s homicide because it seemed unlikely I’d get another chance with a camera rolling and because nobody from the department had returned my phone call. I knew the camera was still hot because Malik knew better than to turn it off until I specifically said “We’re done here.” We’ve worked together long enough to have a system to avoid interview regrets.

  “So, Chief, while we’re here, anything new on the Kate Warner investigation?”

  “When there is, we’ll let you know.”

  I sensed he wanted to snarl, but police work involves balancing politics as well as chasing criminals. The city was tracking more murders this year than anytime since 1995 when the New York Times dubbed the city “Murderapolis.” Capacasa understood he better watch his mouth.

  “Which of your homicide teams sketched the chalk fairy at the murder scene?” I asked.

  His eyes narrowed at my audacity in implying a mistake might have been made in the investigation. More likely, he was angry because I knew about the mistake and he had no idea who my source was.

  Moments like this always reminded me that his name sounded like a mafia cousin. Vinnie Capacasa. That name resonated mob muscle. I didn’t actually expect an answer to my question; I just wanted him to know I was plugged into the case. Not surprisingly, he wanted to make it clear who was in charge.

  “That homicide remains an active case which can’t be commented on. Doing so could jeopardize the investigation.”

  “But Chief, couldn’t the case already be jeopardized if the crime scene’s been contaminated by your people? Have your guys given the defense a potential out?”

  That’s when he stood up and walked away with the station’s high-priced wireless microphone still clipped handily to his lapel.

  “Whoo, Chief,” Malik yelled. “Need the mic back.”

  Chief Capacasa ripped it off, flinging the electronic device to the floor . . . as if he was throwing down a gauntlet. And even though he never looked back, we both knew he was.

  CHAPTER 10

  Lassie was the world’s most famous collie.

  Rin Tin Tin, the most celebrated German shepherd.

  I’d always considered Old Yeller the most notable of dead dogs, until I cried my eyes out reading Marley and Me.

  But then Buddy came along. And live, on the air, I lost it.

  The anchors led the newscast with how journalists prefer to lead with good news and how unfortunate it is when good news turns bad.

  Then they tossed to me to explain to viewers what they were talking about.

  I’d scripted my story to read smoothly on the teleprompter. The narrow column of copy times out to a second a line to make it easy to gauge story length, and so the anchor’s eyes don’t shift back and forth. My piece should have been routine.

  ((RILEY LIVE))

  EARLIER TONIGHT, I TOLD YOU

  HOW A DOG NAMED BUDDY WAS

  RESCUED FROM A HOT PICKUP

  TRUCK. SO MANY OF YOU CALLED

  THE STATION ROOTING FOR HIM . . .

  Just then my throat got tight and I started choking up.

  ((RILEY LIVE))

  BUT NEWS STORIES DON’T ALWAYS

  END THE WAY WE WANT . . .

  My voice got raspy. It wasn’t a question of knowing what to say—I had a script—it was getting the words out. The harder I tried to enunciate the more constricted my speech became.

  ((RILEY LIVE))

  TONIGHT I HAVE TO REPORT

  THAT BUDDY . . . THAT BUDDY . . .

  BUDDY . . . BUDDY H
AS DIED.

  During the course of my news career, I must have reported a hundred grievous deaths of people—young and old, rich and poor. Most of them decent folks who didn’t deserve their lives to end violently.

  Never once did I break down on the air.

  But unlike Buddy, I hadn’t held any of those victims in my arms hours before their demise. The memory of his scratchy fur against my chin suddenly reminded me of Shep, a German shepherd who’d risked his life to save mine, and was now a star member of the police K-9 unit. And I couldn’t help thinking, What if Shep had died?

  By then I was crying too hard to talk.

  In my earpiece, I heard the producer tell the director to kill my mic and cut back to the anchors. Sophie jumped in to finish reading my story about how Buddy’s official cause of death was heatstroke.

  CHAPTER 11

  The next morning, all of Channel 3 gasped when they saw how many viewers had essentially watched Buddy’s obituary and my meltdown the night before. The ratings resembled the days before cable TV and the Internet shrunk network audiences.

  Television stations realize they can’t be first every day. Their measure of success is how well they retain their network lead-in audience. If they build on that viewership, ad revenue increases and everyone keeps their jobs. But if the numbers reflect a significant drop-off, that means trouble. And Channel 3 had shown a pattern of problems lately.

  So at the assignment meeting that morning, Noreen reveled in the numbers as concrete proof of her superior news instincts and management skill.

  “Keep the Buddy story alive,” she ordered. “Viewers will be expecting a follow-up report tonight. Don’t disappoint them.”