by Julie Kramer
“She was a prostitute?” I asked.
She shook her head. “No, Teresa was a midwife. She built a thriving practice.”
I didn’t understand what she was implying. “So she helped women give birth. What’s so bad about that? Were doctors jealous of her business?”
Carole paused before answering. “At that time, many midwives also performed abortions, of course illegal back then.”
Now I understood why Teresa Dolezal Feldevert might have seemed controversial to certain neighbors.
“While that’s not one of the romantic rumors cited in current superstition, decades ago it no doubt caused tongue-wagging and promoted fear that pregnant women who walked beneath the angel’s wings would miscarry.”
Malik looked at me, with apparent misgivings over our earlier jesting. He lowered his camera. “How about us? Would she consider us intruders?”
“Only if you show disrespect,” she answered.
“We promise to behave,” I said. “But what happens to visitors who don’t?”
“Finis. Tales abound of people who kiss under the angel and die inexplicable deaths. Generations have believed that only virgins will be spared from the angel’s wrath. Kissing the statue itself is considered a fatal breach of etiquette.”
Malik motioned upward, toward the right hand of the angel. “What happened here?” The statue’s hand appeared scarred—fingers missing. Malik showed me a close-up through his view-finder.
“Over the years, the monument has been desecrated by souvenir hunters. That’s upset the community, thus the police and neighbors try to keep a closer watch on the cemetery, especially Halloween nights.”
“So what do you think, Carole? Does the Black Angel evoke evil?”
“Enough baffling anecdotes persist that I don’t know what to believe, and I don’t think anyone else does either. Some narratives recollect that in her final years, Teresa Dolezal Feldevert felt such shame over the color transformation of her family symbol that she would come to the cemetery in a wheelchair and try to scrape the blackness off the statue.”
The image was pathetic. And visual. As a television reporter I regretted not being able to capture her futile action.
“But it didn’t work,” I said.
“No, it didn’t.”
The blackness remained obvious.
CHAPTER 40
Dolezal froze while watching Channel 3 unfold the history of Teresa Dolezal Feldevert and the Black Angel.
((RILEY STANDUP))
NO ONE KNOWS WHETHER THE
DESIGN OF THE STATUE AND
THE DRAWING LEFT BEHIND
AT THE MURDER SCENES
ARE HAPPENSTANCE . . . OR A
MESSAGE FROM A KILLER. . . .
BUT TOWNSFOLK HAVE LONG
BEEN IN AGREEMENT THAT
THE BLACK ANGEL IS AMONG
THE MOST HAUNTED SITES IN
THE MIDWEST . . . RILEY SPARTZ
REPORTING, FROM IOWA CITY.
He thought the reporter’s delivery irreverent and was determined to put her on notice for her sins. Riley Spartz couldn’t claim he didn’t warn her.
• • •
To please Noreen and stack the numbers our way, I’d called Chuck ahead of time so he could tune in and stay up to date on any development involving Kate’s death. Channel 3 had promoted the Black Angel story throughout the network’s prime-time crime dramas.
It proved a good fit. From my news desk the next morning, I called up the overnight numbers and saw a twelve rating—a high Nielsen score in these days of shrinking commercial television audiences.
On my bulletin board, I’d pinned the black feather that I’d picked up from the Iowa cemetery. It oozed mystery, reminding me the case remained unsolved.
Then I clicked to the station’s website and admired a picture of the Black Angel statue dominating the page next to the Channel 3 logo. I looked for Internet feedback and already saw more than a dozen comments from viewers. That would also please Noreen. Two of the commenters discussed plans to visit Iowa City as tourists and wanted to know if Oakland Cemetery was open to the public. Others complimented me for an intriguing tale. A couple thought it was a big waste of time since ghosts don’t exist.
One comment gave me chills and a flashback: “Taunting Teresa is tempting death.”
I mashed through piles of junk on my desk, looking for the Black Angel Lace book that I’d taken from Kate’s house. I finally found the steamy tale hidden under a stack of files on the floor by my feet. I guess I hadn’t wanted the racy cover visible.
Just as I recalled, the title page bore the same line now up on my computer screen. Taunting Teresa is tempting death.
For research, I looked up the origin of the name “Teresa” and discovered it Greek for “reaper.” And I found myself thinking grim reaper.
• • •
“Can you tell where the comment came from?” I asked Xiong.
“An email account or, even better, a physical street address?”
“I will work on it. I will contact you.”
That was his way of telling me to move along. So I left him undisturbed, but eager for a cyber chase.
I checked the newsroom refrigerator to see if there might be any abandoned leftovers that wouldn’t give me food poisoning. Everything looked risky. My cell phone vibrated, showing Chuck Heyden on the other end. Even though I’d given him that number on our first visit, he’d never called me, I’d always called him.
“My alibi is no good,” he said.
“What do you mean?” I headed back to my office in case I needed to take notes.
He explained that Benny, his attorney, had just received the people meter records from Nielsen. “I didn’t push the buttons when I was supposed to.”
“You mean you didn’t register your viewing every fifteen minutes?”
“I guess not.”
This was bad for Chuck. Not only was the device not a witness to his whereabouts, it was evidence against him. Once again I had the feeling I might be talking to Kate’s killer.
“You still believe me, don’t you?” he asked.
“Sure, Chuck.”
I didn’t know what else to say, but apparently it wasn’t convincing enough.
“You don’t really sound like you do.”
“Well, let’s think about this a moment,” I said. “The first thing the cops are going to wonder is, Why didn’t you push the buttons?”
Chuck paused, and I found myself wishing I could read his face, not just his voice. “I must have fallen asleep.”
“Well, that clears up that confusion, Chuck.” Claiming to be asleep during a homicide is a poor defense for a suspect, but I figured I’d let Benny explain that nuance to Chuck. “Keep me posted if you hear anything new, and I’ll do the same.”
“Nielsen wants the equipment back.”
He meant the people meter. That didn’t surprise me; secrecy is part of the Nielsen family contract. I just hoped Chuck hadn’t mentioned me by name.
“Do whatever your attorney tells you to do,” I advised him.
As soon as we said good-bye, I hit speed dial for Benny.
His opening line was contemptuous. “Thanks for that murder referral, Riley.”
“Chuck just called me.”
“So you know your pal’s high-tech alibi isn’t holding up.”
“It seemed worth a try,” I said. “If the records had confirmed he was sitting in front of his TV at the time of the murder, that would have been an interesting, and newsworthy, argument.”
“Yep, but now I represent a client who’s likely guilty.”
“That’s never bothered you before.”
“I cut him a deal on my fee that now I wish I hadn’t. This case could end up being a lot of work. Especially if he is a serial killer.”
“But the cops don’t have even one homicide case yet, Benny. Before they can charge Chuck, they’d have to link him to these other murders as well.”
“Being he works at home, and lives alone, there’s not a lot of eyewitnesses to corroborate his statements. When I asked him where he was on the dates of those murders, he couldn’t give me much beyond ‘home watching TV.’ And we’ve seen how well that can be proved. Oh except one of the nights he thought he was at his now dead girlfriend’s house.”
And so it all comes back to Kate.
• • •
As for my “Taunting Teresa,” Xiong replied by email with a jargon of IP addresses and host names, but his bottom line: the message was sent around half past ten that morning from the downtown Minneapolis branch of the Hennepin County Library system, about three quarters of a mile from the station. He also included the email address from where it was dispatched, but his note warned me not to be hopeful.
“Often patrons of public computers forget to sign off, and their accounts are temporarily hijacked by others. That is quite possible in the case of your communication.”
I knew what he said was true, but I needed some kind of break on this story and so wanted the email to match the sender. I don’t appreciate smart killers who hide their tracks. Give me the dumb ones who leave fingerprints, DNA, or even a signed confession behind. I’d learned on the job.
I sent a “thanks” email to the viewer (keeping it gender neutral) for commenting on my Black Angel story and asking if they’d like to discuss the idea more.
These days, journalists don’t have to do much on-site library research, except for very old newspaper archives. So rather than get into a debate with the assignment desk, I simply called out that I was grabbing lunch. Ozzie waved me off.
I didn’t bother taking the skyway—it didn’t hook to either the station or the library—instead I just marched down the mall like downtown belonged to me. In a way, it did. I’d worked at the station longer than I’d lived anywhere except the farm.
A woman in charge at the library service desk recognized me, but declined my request to see the video surveillance tape from any of the library cameras.
“Someone sent a comment to Channel 3 from the library’s computers,” I said. “I’d like to find out who.” Because I had the time of day of the transmission, I figured it might be easy to track.
She shook her head like that would never happen. “Patron library records are all private. Whenever books are returned the file is erased and not even staff can tell who has checked out what.”
“But what if one patron jumps in another’s Internet account? That would seem to be an invasion of privacy.”
“I’m afraid we can’t help you, Ms. Spartz. We only deal with court orders. Library patron privacy is essential to the exercise of free speech and thought. If you feel like this is a matter of grave importance, contact the police.”
She turned and went back to work.
I went over to a bank of library computers to gauge how easy it might be to temporarily poach another’s account. All the empty spots had been signed out, but I logged in anyway to check my email.
I found a reply from the Taunting Teresa account, puzzled about my remarks concerning an angel, discounting knowing anyone named Teresa, but delighted to hear from a real-live TV reporter. She mentioned living in some downtown apartments, included her name, phone number, and a request to bring her Red Hat Ladies Club to tour Channel 3.
CHAPTER 41
I stopped at the drugstore on Nicollet Mall near the station for some lip balm. The customer in front of me paid at the cash register with a hundred-dollar bill. I waited until he was out the door before acting nosy.
“Can I see that hundred-dollar bill?” I asked the clerk.
I could tell she thought my request odd. “Do you want to give me change for it?”
“Heaven’s no,” I said. “I don’t carry that much cash. I just don’t get to hold too many hundreds.”
“Are you worried it might be counterfeit?”
I felt silly answering. “Well, as a matter of fact, I am interested.”
She rang up my purchase, opened the register drawer, pulled out the bill, and held it up to the light. “See the watermark?” She pointed out a faint image of Benjamin Franklin. “When I see him, I know it’s legit.”
I thanked her, marveling at how easy it was to gain her cooperation, and thinking about how much fun it might be to take a counterfeit money survey. Having a camera along would be best, but I decided to attempt another trial run on my way back to the station.
I stopped at Hell’s Kitchen, a popular downtown restaurant that promises “damn good food,” to dine on a half order of their house salad and famed ham and pear crisp sandwich. I made sure I snared a table where I could watch the cash register.
After my quick lunch, I talked the clerk into opening the till and holding the twenty-dollar bills up to the light and trading me one of mine for a suspicious-looking Andrew Jackson without the watermark. I might want to hold a bogus bill up on the air should I pull a story together on counterfeiting.
“But if it ends up fake,” the cashier asked, “aren’t you out the money?” She understood the principle of the last one holding a counterfeit bill loses.
“No, I’ll expense it to the network,” I said.
We laughed together and as I turned to leave, I noticed the man who saved me from the wrath of Buddy’s owner sitting in a back booth with a cup of coffee, a bowl of soup, and a notebook.
Him being there was just a happenstance, I knew that in my head, but in my heart I wanted to believe he sat alone in the corner of the restaurant on protection detail for me. The man appeared unaware of my presence, but I remembered Father Mountain quoting a Bible verse about being nice to strangers because they might be angels testing us.
Test or not, I decided an expression of gratitude was appropriate. So I walked over to him and sat down. “I never got the chance to thank you the other day for stepping between me and that lunatic. So thanks.”
He didn’t act confident like he did the other morning when he threatened the egg man with calling the cops. Sitting across the table from me, he seemed tongue-tied and insecure. Yet days earlier, he had been my white knight.
“You’re my guardian angel, aren’t you?” I asked, trying to lighten the mood.
The man’s jaw tensed. He left a ten-dollar bill next to his plate, before brushing me and mention of his good deed off with an excuse about being late for an office meeting. I figured he knew who I was—not because I was vain, but because most people recognized me from TV, though I introduced myself anyway, handing him a business card.
“Let me know if I can ever do a favor for you,” I said, preparing to walk out with him and maybe see where he worked.
But he waved me off, saying he needed to stop at the restroom. Only close friends wait for each other outside the bathroom, so I let him go. I genuinely hoped our paths would cross again because it was refreshing to meet someone who expected nothing in return for helping another.
As I returned to my desk, the investigative journalist in me realized that he’d dodged my guardian angel question. When that happens during a television interview, reporters try to gauge what about the question the subject is trying to avoid. Sometimes an award-winning story pivots on discerning that answer at that moment.
I’d expected him to laugh at my angel line and tell me not to be silly, that chivalry wasn’t dead in Minneapolis. I’d also assumed that when I said my name, he’d tell me his—but perhaps it was Gabriel or Michael—and he was guarding his spiritual identity. Angel law probably forbade their kind from either confirming their earthly mission or lying about it.
I smiled for the first time all day, and made a mental note to call Father Mountain and share my heavenly wit.
She suspects, he thought. No, she knows. Why else would she throw the word “angel” at him? She must lack evidence and was attempting to get him to incriminate himself. Don’t engage her, just walk away, he told himself, and walk away he did. But he felt her eyes staring at his back, and for the first time since he began pursuin
g his avocation, he was unsure who was watching who.
Following her into the restaurant was a mistake. But he’d relished the idea of observing her and recording his impressions in his notebook. Her obsession with the cashier’s money puzzled him, but his real worry was how much she knew about him.
Now she’d seen him three times. A trilogy of sightings that had a symbolic sensation. The egg attack. The skyway crowd. And now, Hell’s Kitchen—a suitable name for a showdown, especially because the restaurant’s logo was dominated by an angular raven.
Letting his victim Kate know he was coming had added suspense to the chase. In this instance, the TV reporter was letting him know she was coming. He vowed not to wait any longer, but to act.
She would see him a fourth time . . . and it would be her last.
CHAPTER 42
By the time I got back to the station I had two suspicious twenties in my wallet that I reminded myself not to spend unless I wanted to risk being arrested.
The counterfeiting story got a green light from Noreen because I assured her it could be shot without fuss and air the same day. Malik and I set off to grab interviews and cover.
We learned how slick money rings bleach the front and backs of five-dollar bills and reprint a higher denomination so the paper feels genuine. And we saw up close that border and portrait edges are blurred on phony cash, distinct on the real McCoy.
“We tell stores to be wary of customers who make small purchases with big bills,” said the Secret Service field agent. “Small businesses are more likely to be victimized because their staff is often untrained.”
“What about counterfeit detection pens?” I’d heard their ink turned black when marking bogus bills.
“They are designed to detect starch and are not foolproof. If employees become familiar with how money is supposed to look and feel, they’ll be able to tell what’s counterfeit themselves.”
He complained of losing investigative leads when stores simply pass the money back to other customers instead of calling police. “No one wants to be caught with the hot potato.”