Killing Kate: A Novel (Riley Spartz Book 4)

by Julie Kramer

  The transcript ended there, but if I ever got access to the actual audio, I’d expect to hear some background noise like “Police, freeze, hands in the air” before the phone was hung up.

  • • •

  I called up some file tape of the murder scene on my computer screen and the only vehicle in the driveway was the medical examiner van. No reddish-brown SUV parked anywhere along the street. By the time Malik and I had arrived, the male caller on the phone had apparently been released by police and left the scene or been hauled off to jail and had his vehicle towed.

  “Can you pop a name and address for me?” I handed Lee Xiong, Channel 3’s resident computer genius, a sheet of paper with the license plate number.

  “I’m very busy.”

  He was always busy. As more news staff were cut, his duties increased. Computer-assisted reporting for my investigative stories was a small fraction of his job description; most of his time was now spent managing the station’s website and figuring how to score online hits—an Internet version of ratings that could be used for a new source of ad revenue. The latest media trend was encouraging viewer participation with story comments via computer. Xiong was also responsible for monitoring those comments for slander and profanity. No wonder he was very busy.

  “The guy could be a murderer.” Women were often murdered by boyfriends. So it was worth a check. “Could be a new lead story for six.”

  Xiong preferred communicating by email or phone, not face-to-face. People made him uncomfortable. It wasn’t often he mustered the nerve for a date, though I frequently reminded him that all he had to do to get women interested socially was to tell them he worked in TV news. His generation of Hmong, raised in the United States, was caught between courtship cultures.

  “You don’t have to be on the air yourself,” I’d assure him. “They’ll settle for you telling them what the rest of us are really like off camera. Hey, I trust your discretion.”

  I could have simply sent him an email with my instructions, but when I had time, I figured making Xiong talk to me directly was good training for him. As well as getting my request bumped to the top of the pile to speed my departure. But instead of looking grateful, he looked like he’d do anything to make me gone.

  “Check back in five minutes,” he said.

  “Check by in five minutes, Riley,” I said. “Women like it when you call them by name.”

  So he repeated himself for practice and I gave him space.

  He had built a big-brotherish computer database of Minnesota license plate numbers, driver’s licenses, hunting and fishing licenses, and all sorts of other public data on private citizens. If that didn’t find me the boyfriend’s name, I’d go back to the cops and push the issue. My sense was that names of 911 callers were public information unless they came from a confidential informant or a sexual assault victim.

  Because I told Xiong I’d be out in the field, he texted me the name and address registered to the vehicle. Charles Heyden. But that wasn’t my first stop. I drove to Kate’s neighborhood to check out the house from where the first call to police came.

  I remembered the stucco two-story with birch trees in the front yard from the murder day. Knocking, but getting no answer. Melinda Gordon must not have wanted to talk to the media then, but might have changed her mind since. I always give witnesses the benefit of the doubt.

  This time, it might have helped that I didn’t have a cameraman following me. A pretty woman about ten years younger than me was in the front yard raking leaves while a baby boy bounced in a springy chair.

  I introduced myself with a media pass and explained I’d like to talk to her about her 911 call. “I have a copy of the transcript and know all about the man crashing the chair though the window. I’d like to compliment you on how composed you stayed on the line with police during the whole ordeal.”

  She seemed a little uneasy talking to me and looked back and forth down the block to see if anyone might be watching us. I suggested perhaps we move inside. To my surprise, she agreed.

  Once in the kitchen, Melinda handed baby Johnny over to me and poured us each a cold drink from the refrigerator. Johnny held a sippy cup with chubby fingers and gummed a soda cracker. I made a goo-goo face at him to loosen things up with his mom.

  “So, Melinda, what happened at Kate’s after the police arrived?”

  “Two squads arrived within seconds of each other. One blocked the man’s car so he couldn’t back out of the driveway. Both officers drew guns and crouched by the broken window. They jumped inside and I couldn’t see anything else. It was very dramatic. Just like on TV. Oh sorry, I didn’t mean anything by that.”

  I waved her off just as the phone rang. She checked the caller ID and rolled her eyes before saying, “Hello.” After listening briefly, she replied, “Just company. I’ll call you back later.” Another pause, and I heard her say, “I understand. Thanks.” Then she hung up.

  “That was my mother-in-law,” she explained. “She wanted to know who was visiting.”

  Mine was the only vehicle parked near their house. “How would she know you had a guest?”

  “She lives next door,” she said, without much enthusiasm.

  “You moved next to your mother-in-law?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “We lived here first. She moved next to us. Every time we have company, she calls to ask who.”

  “That could be annoying.”

  “Sometimes she wants to come over and meet them.” She gave me a warning look.

  I wrinkled my nose and shook my head. She’d probably bring a pan of bars, and want to hear about life in the world of television news. As much as I craved a warm brownie, that wasn’t a conversation I enjoyed much these days. Especially not with amateurs.

  “Every time the baby cries, she calls to say, ‘I hear Johnny. What’s wrong now?’ ”

  Johnny seemed content in my arms. Any chance I had to hug a baby these days, I took. Now I felt pressure not to disturb him or grandma would show up demanding an explanation.

  “Just now she used the excuse that she wanted to make sure I was safe. After what happened to Kate.”

  “Under the circumstances,” I said, “her concern might be understandable.” I decided to get back to business. “What about the man inside Kate’s house? Did you see him leave?”

  “Yes, about ten or fifteen minutes later the door opened and he came out.”

  “Was he handcuffed?”

  “No, but one of the cops escorted him to his vehicle. The squad pulled away and the SUV followed him. Pretty soon more cops showed up, then the media.”

  “I was in that crowd that day.” I didn’t mention her not answering the door.

  “My mother-in-law had been shopping and missed all the initial excitement. She was disappointed she didn’t get to be the one to call 9-1-1.”

  “Let’s hope she never has to.”

  Just then Johnny started squirming, then screaming. I handed him back to mom, who held him against her shoulder and patted his back.

  “Hurry, Melinda, calm him before grandma surprises us.”

  She laughed. “You don’t believe me, do you? Just watch.”

  “Did she surprise you when she moved in?”

  “We had some warning. Our neighbor’s house went into foreclosure soon after I became pregnant. My husband’s mom insisted it was an omen. He convinced me she would make our life easier because he’s an attorney and often works late hours and travels.”

  My parents lived a comfortable hundred-plus miles away. I tried to imagine us separated by only twenty yards and a couple of walls. Luckily they wouldn’t ever consider moving from the farm. My folks were determined to die on that land. As for family meddling, all I had to endure was an occasional surprise visit because they didn’t want to call ahead and be a “bother.”

  Now I had to worry about them bringing a dog along.

  The doorbell rang. We could see an older woman standing outside holding a plate of cookies.
“I hear Johnny.”

  She traded the plate for the baby, who quieted almost immediately. Then she sat down and made herself comfortable. Melinda introduced us and when Cheryl Gordon learned I worked in news, she wanted to know more. Especially about her neighbor’s murder.

  “So unsettling,” she said. “I never dreamed such a horrible thing could happen when I moved onto this street. It’s important we all stay vigilant.” She looked at her daughter-in-law.

  It occurred to me that, since Cheryl kept tabs on the block, she might have noticed anything unusual at Kate’s house before the murder.

  “You seem quite observant,” I said. “You probably could have been a reporter yourself.” She looked thrilled with the compliment. “How well did you know Kate?” I didn’t share that I had a past connection with the family. That wasn’t the kind of gossip I wanted spread around the neighborhood.

  “We always said hello at the mailbox,” she said. I nodded to keep encouraging her. “She was excited anytime she received a paycheck. And she’d just been out on a few dates with a young man named Chuck.”

  I checked the text message on my cell phone. CHARLES HEYDEN.

  CHAPTER 14

  Just as Kate’s house didn’t look like the kind of place a homicide would happen, her boyfriend’s house didn’t look like the kind of place a killer would live. It oozed ordinary rather than eerie.

  My plan was to do a drive-by, not a door-knock, but the garage was open and sure enough, the vehicle inside had the correct license plate.

  “Can you run a criminal background check, Xiong?”

  I didn’t want to waltz into the den of a possible killer without knowing whether he’d ever been charged with any violent crimes.

  Journalists don’t have the ability to search criminal records nationwide—you need a friendly cop for that kind of favor, real friendly, because running that kind of check leaves a trace and could get sources in trouble later as leaks if they can’t justify the inquiry.

  But statewide, Xiong assured me, the guy came up clean.

  I parked one block down, so as not to look too obvious. Then I texted Malik the address with a message that I’d call him in an hour. This way, if I vanished, he’d know where to hunt first.

  My knuckles were inches from the door when it opened. I stumbled to avoid hitting a tall man in the chest.

  “What do you want?” He must have watched me walk up the driveway and seemed to think I was there to sell him something.

  “Hello, Mr. Heyden, I’ve come to talk about your friend Kate and tell you how sorry I am about her death.” I started to introduce myself as a reporter, but that wasn’t necessary.

  “I watch enough TV to know who you are.” I gave a silent kudos to the Channel 3 promotion department when he continued with, “You’re that reporter they thought killed the gossip guy.”

  Few people had the brazenness to bring up that episode straight to my face. “You’re right. They did arrest me. Ends up, they were mistaken.”

  He shrugged like maybe he believed me or maybe not. “How’d you find me?” He seemed a little suspicious. “Did the cops tell you?”

  “Police aren’t talking much. I got your license plate from a witness, then your name came easy. I thought you might appreciate some company.”

  “I guess. You can call me Chuck.” Chuck stuck his head out the door, like he was checking to make sure I was alone. He motioned for me to come inside. “Let’s talk in here where the game’s on.”

  My gut sensed he wanted information from me as much I did from him. So I followed him inside. That move might have been a bit reckless, but he seemed to think me capable of murder, so that might put us on par with each other because my first impression was he might be one of those killers the neighbors later describe as “quiet.”

  His living room resembled a north woods cabin except for the far wall, which had a big-screen television tuned to a Twins game at the team’s new stadium. I hadn’t been out to the field yet, so was more curious about the ballpark layout than the score.

  Chuck moved a laptop computer from the couch to make room for me.

  “So, Chuck, what do you do for work?” Usually a safe opening question.

  “I’m a technical writer,” he said. “I clarify jargon.”

  “So what kind of things do you write?”

  He explained he worked at home writing annual reports and instruction manuals for several corporate and government clients.

  “Some assembly required, huh?” I said. But he didn’t react to the joke.

  My plan was to let him speak next, but he was apparently busy watching baseball and pressing buttons on an unconventional remote control. So after a couple minutes of silence, I decided to try sympathizing to gain his attention.

  “I hear you found Kate’s body. That must have been rough.”

  “Wish I hadn’t.”

  “Do you remember much?”

  “I’m trying not to.”

  A man of few words. I nudged him toward conversation, so Chuck finally offered an explanation. “She didn’t answer when I knocked, and I would have just left, except I glanced through the window along the top of the door.”

  Sure enough, he was tall enough to sneak a peak without looking like he was casing the place.

  “She was lying on the floor.”

  I paused to see if he’d add anything, but he didn’t. “Door unlocked?” I asked, not letting on I already knew where his story was headed.

  “Nope.” He shook his head. “I crashed through the front window with a patio chair. I wanted to check if she was still alive. But she wasn’t, so I called the cops. And waited. Some of them think I did it.”

  “Really?” That allowed me to play a card that few other journalists could. “I know what that’s like. I even spent a night behind bars, so I understand better than most folks that cops can make mistakes.”

  “Your case was all over the news,” he said.

  “So we sort of have something in common. Have they read you your rights yet? You know, you have the right to remain silent . . . all that stuff?”

  “Nope.”

  “They’re probably holding off as long as they can. Once they do that makes it harder for the police to question you without an attorney.”

  Chuck nodded again, like he was making mental notes. “You got an attorney yet?” I asked.

  “I know a pretty good one.”

  “Nope, I thought that would just make me look more guilty. They wanted to question me downtown, away from the scene. Mostly about where I was during the time Kate was killed.”

  “So where were you?”

  “Watching TV.”

  “Here, at home?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Anybody with you?”

  “Nope.”

  That was a bummer of an alibi.

  I helped myself to a bowl of pretzels on an end table to avoiding having to respond further. While I chewed, I thought.

  I could see why investigators were looking at him as a suspect. He knew the victim. That’s usually the case in homicides. And sometimes smart killers “find” the body. It’s a convenient way to explain how their DNA wound up at the crime scene.

  Chuck seemed like he might be one of those killers who are better thinkers than talkers, possibly shrewd enough to have thought this whole scenario through. Although his next statement changed my mind about his judgment.

  “They also wanted my fingerprints and saliva. That way they could eliminate me as the killer.”

  That would also make it easier to convict him without having to go through the bother of a subpoena, but I refrained from saying that out loud.

  “What was Kate like?” I asked.

  Chuck didn’t answer right away. Maybe because the question was complicated or maybe because the Twins and White Sox were now tied.

  “She was a nice enough girl,” he said.

  I was hoping for something a little more personal, but the term “boyfriend” might ha
ve been an exaggeration regarding him. He explained that they had met a few weeks earlier while standing in line at the post office. He was buying stamps and she was mailing a large padded envelope. They both worked at home, so they had that in common.

  “Usually nice girls don’t pay much attention to me.” He had a receding hairline and a paunchy waistline. “But now that she’s dead, I kind of wish we hadn’t met. Wasn’t worth the trouble.”

  Just then Chuck reached over and pressed the remote again. His action didn’t affect the TV channel or volume, but gave me a way to change the subject away from murder.

  “What are you doing with that thing?” I asked.

  “Oh, this? I forgot to ask how old you are.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “You’re a visitor. They want to know how old you are. I already punched in that you’re female.”

  A few seconds passed before I understood that I was staring at one of the most powerful tools of modern television: a people meter.

  I’d never actually seen one before, and it was all I could do to refrain from grabbing it and switching it to Channel 3. Then I realized the remote only confirmed who was watching; the small black box hooked directly to the television confirmed what was being watched. Networks, TV stations, and advertisers paid dearly for that combination of ratings data.

  In the Twin Cities, barely six hundred people meters represented the viewing habits of 3.5 million people. How Chuck Heyden landed in this secret society of Nielsen families, I didn’t know; but for a TV reporter, meeting him was like winning the ratings lottery.

  So to keep tight, I told him my age. Then casually asked if we could see what else was on TV, maybe even check Channel 3.

  “No, I want the game.”

  Chuck explained that when he watched television, every fifteen minutes he had to press an OK button to verify he was still watching.

  If more than forty minutes passed without him confirming, red lights flashed rapidly.

  He signed a two-year contract last fall to divulge his male TV viewing habits, and for such privileged information, Nielsen paid him twenty-five bucks a month.

  “Don’t tell them I told you any of this,” he said. “We’re supposed to keep quiet.”