by Julie Kramer
No one mentioned my blubbering on the set. All of Channel 3 seemed embarrassed by my behavior. My hope was that they had made a pact never to mention my on-air collapse again.
After the meeting, I followed Noreen back to her office to try to keep Kate’s homicide on her radar. My hunch was we could have a more candid conversation behind closed doors.
“I’ll check with the county attorney this morning, Noreen, and see if she anticipates any harsher charges against Buddy’s owner.”
Either way, we could pass that off as news.
“I’m not going to ask what happened last night,” Noreen said, “You just need to assure me you’re going to be able to hold it together on this story.”
“I can’t explain it either, but it won’t happen again. Ever.”
I suspected that because she was an animal lover, Noreen was going easier on me than she might have otherwise. I thanked her for being so understanding. It wasn’t a line I ever expected to say to her, because she’d never been understanding before. Our track record regarding job evaluations was shaky.
She nodded in agreement and impatience, clearly wanting me to move along so she could begin her real boss business of running the newsroom.
“I’m getting the feeling there might be something unusual going on with the Kate Warner murder,” I said. “I want to dig around a little more.”
I didn’t go into the specifics of the chalk fairy, because I generally don’t like getting news directors all fired up over a specific story element unless I know it’s reportable. Especially these days during media struggles. TV managers don’t have much of an attention span. They want things NOW.
No time for hope; only time for results. And if I bring up an intriguing prospect, but don’t deliver . . . that gets labeled failure fast.
So Noreen essentially reminded me of her long-held news theory that dead dogs often deliver more viewers than dead people.
“You show me how that murder will improve our household numbers or demographic ratings and I’m happy to revisit this discussion, but our research shows that viewers are tired of hearing about so much crime. If you find an obvious news development, such as an arrest, then we’ll talk.”
So I silently counted to three, as in Channel 3, thanked her for her time, and walked down to the Hennepin County Government Center to talk to the county attorney about options for prosecuting Buddy’s owner.
After a few minutes of predictable chitchat about how the news was going downhill, it was clear that Melissa Kreimer, unlike my boss, definitely cared more about dead people than dead dogs. I didn’t mention that voters and viewers might be more inclined to agree with Noreen, but it was clear the police chief had a better grasp on how to manipulate the media than did the county attorney.
“The key to the state’s animal cruelty laws are the words ‘intentionally violates,’ “ Kreimer said. “I don’t think for a minute this man intended to kill his dog. That’s why we have a separate law about leaving unattended pets in a motor vehicle. And that’s the law most applicable in this case.”
She agreed to meet me downstairs in the building atrium for a quick question-answer on camera. Most television interviews in the building were done there rather than having news crews taking all the equipment upstairs through security. Malik had already set up the tripod, and natural light from the overhead windows made artificial lighting unnecessary.
Kreimer gave me a usable sound bite of how fair laws balance priorities between society and Buddy’s owner.
“While the monetary fine seems minimal in this case,” she said, “let’s keep in mind the owner also has to pay to repair his vehicle windows, and the cost for transportation and medical care for the animal. Plus, he no longer has a dog.”
Maybe all that was enough suffering for Keith Avise, but my gut told me the county attorney might be in for a surprise when she heard from the general public. Kreimer didn’t seem familiar with recent world outrage when a British woman dumped a cat in a garbage can explaining, “It’s just a cat.”
As much as I disagreed with Noreen about many of her news decisions, they often proved canny. I imagined her anchor lead-in on my story.
((ANCHOR CU))
AUTHORITIES SAY BUDDY WAS
JUST A DOG AND HIS DEATH IS
ONLY A PETTY MISDEMEANOR . . .
BUT OUR PEOPLE-ON-THE-STREET
INTERVIEWS SHOW A DIFFERENT
PERSPECTIVE.
Because of staff cuts, the assignment desk was starting to keep closer tabs on those of us who work in the field. They constantly want to know where we are when and who we are doing what with while chasing stories. To be a good news trooper, I called to report that my interview was finished, my photographer clear. Ozzie immediately dispatched Malik to shoot a jackknifed semi that was clogging up traffic on the freeway.
Then he dropped a whammy and told me that someone had posted my Buddy blubbering episode on YouTube last night.
“You’ve got nearly 100,000 hits.” He kept his voice neutral, but I couldn’t imagine the station would be pleased. “I just wanted to warn you before you heard the news from someone else.”
“Like Noreen?”
“Yeah.”
“Is she looking for me?”
“Waiting for you.”
“I’ll grab an early lunch.”
Ozzie gave me the go-ahead because even if breaking news was lacking, we were still allowed to break for lunch. I actually didn’t feel like eating, but I couldn’t face my station colleagues just then. Most of the staff would be constantly refreshing their computer screens to keep track of my YouTube hits. Getting the newscasts on the air might be as challenging as when MTV first came along and instead of writing scripts, the news producers were glued to Billy Joel and Michael Jackson.
I swung by Ed’s liquor store to see if he was facing any fallout from his gun wielding antics in the parking lot as we tried to save Buddy.
“Nope, sweetie, most folks don’t know me, and those that do, well, it’s actually helping my reputation as a tough guy. Ain’t none of them going to mess with me, though I don’t ever expect to pull that trigger again.”
If he’d seen my debacle covering Buddy’s death, he didn’t mention it, though he had heard that the dog didn’t survive and shared some harsh words about his owner not suitable for television audiences.
“He had some similar things to say about me and the media when I tried to land an interview,” I said.
Ed laughed. “Nothing you haven’t heard before on the job.” He reached under the counter. “Here’s something to improve your spirits.” He pulled out a case of Nordeast beer. “Found a few on the truck this morning.”
I thanked Ed for watching out for me, and imagined how cheered Garnett would be to pop the cap off a cold bottle during his visit. Offhand, I couldn’t think of any movie quotes concerning beer, but I was sure he could.
I still didn’t want to head back to Channel 3, so I parked near Lake of the Isles and looked out over the water, forcing myself to concentrate on pleasant matters in life. But for those of us in the news business, disagreeable issues come more naturally to mind. Plenty of Canada geese hobbled and honked along the shore, and some even approached my vehicle to hiss. I felt lectured by angry birds.
My cell phone rang. It was Malik. “Turn on the radio.”
Almost immediately, I wished I hadn’t.
CHAPTER 12
The host of the top-rated radio talk show in the Twin Cities was inviting listeners to call in and vote on whether my sobbing live on the air was “human” or “unprofessional.”
He was urging people to view it on YouTube if they hadn’t been watching our news the night before, but for those without a computer handy, he gave a pretty vivid description and played the audio over the radio airwaves.
“Those of you familiar with the local media scene will recognize Channel 3’s Riley Spartz as one tough news cookie. She can have bullets flying over her head and she won’t cry.
So what’s up here? A couple days ago she covered a woman’s murder. No tears there. But now, bawling like a baby.”
He opened the phone lines, and took the first call.
“I was happy she showed some emotion,” an older-sounding woman said. “Sometimes I get the feeling that those reporters, they don’t really care about the stories they cover. For them, it’s just a paycheck.”
“Yes, but this particular reporter has covered a lot of crime stories,” the host said. “And we haven’t seen her show such passion for those victims. Does a dog deserve tears more than, say, a missing child? Or a murdered babysitter?”
“Well, you have a point there,” she conceded.
He then took another call. “Very unprofessional,” a man said. “She must have been faking it for ratings.”
“Interesting theory,” the host said. “Next caller.”
“I wonder if she might have been on drugs,” a younger woman said. “Lots of times addicts can’t control their emotions. I hope the station has her drug tested before they put her on the air again.”
Just then my cell phone rang and my parent’s southern Minnesota phone number came up on my screen. That particular radio signal could be heard all the way down to the farm. So, certain that they were listening, I let their call roll to voice mail. Besides needing a break from my news cohorts, I couldn’t face my family at that moment.
The host kept up more of the same, so I reached for the radio knob to find another station. Music, not talk. Suddenly I stopped because the next voice I heard sounded very familiar.
“You people have got nothing better to do than criticize other people who are doing the best they can. Well, I’m Riley Spartz’s mother, and I want to tell you that she’s the finest daughter any parents could ask for. And we are so proud of her. Why, when she was a little girl—”
I hit the radio Off button. Burying my face in a newspaper I found on the backseat of the car, I closed my eyes and tried to cry for Kate. But couldn’t.
I honked my car horn twice and saw the geese scatter, but got no real satisfaction from their bewilderment. I had even more of a reason to avoid returning to work now, because if Malik knew of the radio broadcast, so did the rest of the newsroom.
I needed space, not hooting.
To kill time, I drove toward Kate’s neighborhood—the opposite direction from Channel 3. I was hoping proximity might bring answers, but the street seemed quiet and ordinary except for the plywood still nailed across the front window of her house. Then I played back events from the day of the murder and got an idea for a follow-up story. This would give me something to talk about when Noreen brought up the radio show.
“I’ve requested the 9-1-1 call from the homicide, Noreen. The transcript might yield something.”
“Hardly,” she snorted.
Broadcasting 911 tapes used to be routine for Minnesota news organizations and added drama to a story, be it a murder, tornado, or bridge collapse.
“If you’d checked with me first, Riley, I’d have told you not to even bother.”
She was referring to a law change fifteen years earlier that made the actual audio portion of 911 calls private. The change was due to local news stations’ repeated broadcasts of a father’s distraught call after discovering his son had murdered their entire family. The audio was uncomfortable to hear. But that didn’t stop radio or TV channels from playing it over and over.
Callers now need to sign media releases before their voices can be aired. Even if they say yes, by the time all the details are sorted out and permissions granted, the news value is usually nil.
“I’d still like to learn more about the circumstances of how her body was discovered, Noreen. The cops are keeping quiet about that.”
As soon as I got back to my desk after being reamed on the radio, I had emailed a formal release application to the Minneapolis police public information officer. “Under the Minnesota Data Practices Law, I am requesting the 911 records regarding the murder of Kate Warner.” To speed things up, I included the date, address, and approximate time the homicide was reported.
It was all I could think of to take my mind off Buddy. An hour later, I called the police PIO to make sure he’d seen the 911 request.
“Yeah, I have it right here, Ms. Spartz, but you know we have ten days to respond to any public records request.”
His smart-aleck tone made me want to throw the phone against the floor, but I stayed cool. “That may be the letter of the law. But you and I both know it’s not the spirit. The ten-day clause was designed for onerous demands seeking hundreds of pages of documents needing to be redacted. What I’m asking for is simple, and clearly public.”
“Yes, but someone needs to listen to the call and transcribe it. That takes time on our end. And may well cost you money.”
“Channel 3 is willing to pay all reasonable expenses, but my bet is that the homicide team has already processed the call. All you probably need to do is pull the page from the file.”
“I suppose you expect it today.” He spoke slow and heavy, like my request was a major burden.
“If it’s not too much trouble.” I reminded him a killer was running loose and media attention might help solve the case.
“I’ll have to get back to you.”
That meant he was going to check with the chief. While I prepared myself for a ten-day wait, I called the farm. My parents had also left a message on my office phone bewailing the radio show’s exploitation of my live shot. If I didn’t return their call, they’d visit me. Or worse, they’d visit the radio station and end up as talk-show guests.
After five rings, I was almost ready to give up when my mother picked up the phone. “Riley, we’re so glad to hear from you. We’ve been worried.”
“Worried? What do you have to worry about, Mom?”
She and Dad were retired. Church and lunch were the highlights of their day. For city folks, dinner might rank first, but living on a farm is all about the noon meal.
“Well, you of course, Riley. We watched your story last night. We know how disheartened you must be. We just want you to know we’re here for you.”
“Absolutely,” I heard my dad pitch in. “And we know just the thing to cheer you up.”
I hated even thinking what they might have in mind. “I’m fine,” I insisted. “Everything I need I have. The only thing I’m ever lacking is a good story.”
“A puppy!” they both yelled together. “Kloeckner’s dog just had a litter.”
I spent the next ten minutes reminding my parents that I worked full-time in a demanding job with unpredictable hours, and trying to convince them that if they drove two hours from the farm to surprise me with a puppy on my doorstep I would never forgive them.
They were the ones who needed canine company. Their old farm dog, Lucky, had gone to the big doghouse in the sky. But they claimed they missed him too much to replace him so soon.
But all farms need yard dogs to bark an alarm when a stranger drives in and to keep small animals like skunks and groundhogs away from the main house.
“You get yourselves a puppy,” I said, “and I’ll come visit. I promise.”
CHAPTER 13
My email showed a message from the Minneapolis Police Department telling me they had complied with my data request. I was confused to find transcripts of not one, but two 911 calls.
The first came at 11:36 AM.
Caller: “Someone is breaking into my neighbor’s house. He threw a chair through the window. Now he’s climbing inside. Hurry.”
Dispatcher: “You’re saying an intruder is in your neighbor’s house?”
Caller: “Yes. Please hurry.”
Dispatcher: “Is anyone else home there?”
Caller: “Possibly. Her name is Kate. She works at home but lives alone. He’s still inside.”
The dispatcher then went on to check the address of the break-in, assure the caller that a squad was being dispatched, and get the neighbor’s name. Until
then, I hadn’t even known if the caller was male or female.
Caller: “My name is Melinda Gordon. I’m very worried. I can’t believe this is happening in broad daylight. Please hurry.”
Dispatcher: “I’d like you to stay on the line with me until officers arrive. Let me know if you see the suspect leave.”
Caller: “Do you want his license plate number?”
Dispatcher: “Can you see his vehicle?”
Caller: “Yes, it’s a reddish-brown SUV, parked on the street in from of her house and has Minnesota plates.”
The caller then recited a short series of numbers and letters.
The dispatcher repeated them for confirmation.
Caller: “I hear a siren. I see a police car.”
Dispatcher: “Thank you for calling in your information. I’m going to disconnect now.”
By the time Malik and I had arrived at the crime scene, the street was lined with various law enforcement vehicles and other media. I didn’t recall seeing that particular SUV, but it might not have registered in my mind with all the commotion. I wondered why the police hadn’t perp-walked a cuffed suspect out the door in front of all the cameras that day. That usually makes the public feel safer.
I turned to the next transcript and got some insight.
The second call came at 11:38 AM, two minutes after the first, obviously answered by another dispatcher.
Caller: “Help. I need an ambulance. My girlfriend needs help. I think she’s dead.”
The dispatcher confirmed that the emergency was happening at a specific address because 911 technology automatically pulls up metro street addresses on the screen along with homeowner information.
Caller: “I don’t know the exact address. I just know it’s near West Diamond Lake Road and Pillsbury Avenue South. You got to send an ambulance, but it might be too late already. I’m sure it’s—”
Dispatcher: “What is your name, sir?”
Caller: “My name is—Wait, I hear someone outside. I wonder if the man who attacked her is still here—”