by Julie Kramer
((ANCHOR MAP BOX))
THINGS ARE NOT HARMONIOUS
IN THE SMALL MINNESOTA TOWN
OF HARMONY TONIGHT. WHAT
STARTED AS A YOUNG BOY’S
ACCIDENT IS NOW A HOMICIDE
INVESTIGATION. RILEY SPARTZ
HAS MORE IN THIS EXCLUSIVE.
As we drove through town, Malik recognized a now-familiar name on a blue campaign sign that read Reelect Sheriff Ed Eide.
“Isn’t that our guy?” he asked.
“You’re right,” I said. “He didn’t mention being up for reelection. I wonder if he has an opponent.”
Our question was answered a couple of blocks later where we saw an orange lawn sign reading Laura Schaefer for Sheriff. A woman challenging the incumbent? I was curious what the backstory was on the election, but went back to my sinkhole murder script.
((RILEY TRACK))
THIS HOLE WAS THE SCENE
OF A FREAK ACCIDENT AND A
GRUESOME CRIME IN WHICH
THIS BOY SPENT THE NIGHT
TRAPPED WITH A CORPSE.
“Slow down, Malik,” I warned from the passenger seat.
Rounding a curve, we closed in on the rear of an Amish buggy—harder to spot this time because the sun was setting. Some Amish mount orange reflective triangles to the back of their rigs to warn of slow-moving traffic. But others resist, claiming the flashy color violates their religious beliefs. This one was solid black. We waved at the man and woman in the front of the buggy, but both adults gazed straight ahead. I did see a young girl in the rear seat turn to watch us as we passed. I wondered where they were headed and where they had been.
Malik noticed both females wore bonnets. The child’s was white, the woman’s black. “Their caps are similar to Muslim women and hijab,” he said.
I hadn’t thought about that before, but he was right. I figured the head coverings in both cultures had roots in modesty.
“Beards, too,” he continued, noting that the man we saw earlier in the buggy also had a long beard, same as this one. Like Jesus. Or Muhammad.
“That may be true, Malik, but despite such similarities, they would not consider your religion any more Amish than mine. The Amish call all outsiders ‘English.’”
I wasn’t sure how that word came to be used, but knew it to be long-standing and quite rigid. When I was growing up, Amish sometimes stopped at my parents’ farm to water their horses. I’d watch and listen, and heard the word “English” bandied about, and not in a complimentary fashion.
“Viewers would find your comparison of the two faiths interesting,” I told my cameraman. “We should make a story out of these similarities someday.”
I wondered if Islam and Amish shared much else, but couldn’t dwell on other possibilities then, because my murder deadline beckoned.
Since the tale had several complicated points and I’d only get two minutes to tell it, my writing needed to be tight.
((RILEY TRACK))
THE MURDER IS BIG NEWS
IN THIS SMALL TOWN.
Every once in a while I’d read a line out loud to Malik, who’d nod his approval. Technically, I was in charge of words and he was in charge of pictures. But sometimes I’d tell him what to shoot and he’d tell me what to write. That sort of teamwork occasionally made our stories into hypnotic television.
• • •
Back at the station, I voiced my track and then learned my story was slated for section two in the newscast lineup. Section two was like the cheap seats. I stormed over to the newscast producer’s desk. “Why are you burying the lead? This is fresh news we have exclusive about a boy who spent the night in a pit with a murdered woman. All three network morning shows will be trying to book him once they hear about this.”
The producer looked uncomfortable, especially when I noted that the top story—whether the Minnesota Vikings should get a new football stadium when they had such a lousy record—was nothing special and had been reported by every other news organization and sports blogger in the state for weeks.
“Sorry, Riley, this is one of those nights when I’m following orders, not instincts. Take it up with the new boss.”
Just then, Bryce stuck his head out of his office and motioned me over. A large laminated map of Minnesota with a big circle around the Twin Cities hung on his previously empty wall.
He didn’t ask me how my story went; he delivered a lecture. “This is our DMA—designated market area.” His finger traced a round line that extended about seventy miles north and south of Minneapolis, just missing Rochester and clipping western Wisconsin.
“Here’s where your story is located.” He drew a red star near the Minnesota–Iowa state line, far outside the magic circle. “Our news coverage resources need to be concentrated in this area.” He pointed inside the circle at the Twin Cities. “That’s where the majority of our viewers live.”
His other hand swept across much of southern and northern Minnesota. “This territory gets no over-the-air signal. Only cable.”
I nodded to show I was paying attention to his lesson, even though I was already familiar with the information. But the DMA had never had any impact on Channel 3’s news coverage. If a good story broke in Minnesota, we chased. DMA had always been more of an advertising sales tool. That’s why even though most Channel 3 viewers were urban, we also ran commercials for seed corn and fertilizer.
I’d often thought of Minneapolis as a big town full of small-town people. I was one of them. And that made me unusual in the competitive world of television. Most journalists don’t get to work in their home market. News is an industry of transplants.
“Bryce, I don’t think Twin Cities residents are so self-centered as to not care about happenings outside the viewing area. I’ve lived here my whole life and our audience is hungry for the latest news across the state.”
“That’s your opinion,” he said. “But as news director, I make the calls on what gets covered. And if I had known the trapped-boy story you pitched was so far out of the DMA, I would never have approved it.”
Bryce moved away from the map and sat down on the edge of his desk, motioning for me to take a chair. I settled uncomfortably across from him. No personal photos graced his desk. Like most newsies, including me, he probably didn’t have much of a personal life. If he did, he might not want his underlings to know about it. Or maybe he simply hadn’t had time to unpack items that defined him.
I’d already noted he wasn’t wearing a ring on his left hand. That meant he probably didn’t have anyone to rush home to and would routinely scrutinize the newsroom to see who else stayed late, working extra hours. And he’d see me.
“I just want to be clear about something,” he said. “I may be unfamiliar with this market, but when it comes to running a newsroom, I’m the man to save this sinking station.”
“We’re lucky to have you.” I had no idea if that was true or not, but I had to say something. If our current dialogue was a job review, I’d probably only score “meets expectations.” But that’s not enough to fire someone.
“I’ll try to do better down the road,” I assured him.
“That’s the kind of attitude I like to see on my team.”
He raised his hand for another high five. I followed his lead, but instead of simply slapping our palms together, he grasped my hand and caressed my fingertips.
My impulse was to pull away and I did. A flash of displeasure crossed his face. Quickly, I pretended to be looking at my watch, checking the time.
“I really should check the story edit,” I said. “And now that I understand your priorities concerning coverage, I’ll be very clear about story geography.”
He smiled at my surrender to his terms. “Because I sense we can work well together, I’ll make your homicide the lead story tonight after all.”
I thanked him for his confidence in me and returned to my office, trying to figure out what had just happened between us.
CHAPTER 14
&n
bsp; When the shotgun slug tore into the sinkhole lady’s face, it destroyed her nose and blew her brains out the back of her head. Because she was dead, the wound didn’t actually bleed. But chunks of flesh, hair, blood clots, and bone pieces spattered behind her on the wall of the pit.
Josh didn’t get covered with much gunk, but he abandoned gun for blanket, convinced if he wasn’t already in hell he was headed there fast.
While his mother hoped he would forget the ordeal, a woman with a sketch pad was making him remember the most vivid details.
“You got the best look at her of anyone, Josh,” Sue Senden said. “While it’s still fresh in your mind, I’d like you to describe her face.”
Sue was a forensic artist who worked with the police to draw composites of suspects or victims. Her favorite role was helping give the unnamed dead their identities back.
“Let’s start with the mouth. What can you tell me about her mouth?”
Josh closed his eyes and the frightening face floated before him. He opened his eyes quickly to make the image go away. He wished his mother didn’t have to wait so far down the hall.
“It’s okay, Josh. We just need your help. We have to find out who this woman is. What can you tell me about her lips?”
He shut his eyes again. “They sort of look sucked in.”
“Excellent.” She held her sketch pad so he couldn’t see her drawing.
Sue actually had more to work with in this Jane Doe case than usual. Many of her clients were skulls, recovered years after their deaths. She often used clay to reconstruct their faces.
Before driving down to southern Minnesota to meet Josh, she’d stopped at the Hennepin County morgue to stand over the body in question. Medical examiner Della Sax pulled the corpse from the cooler, leaving the two of them alone. While authorities were able to pull fingerprints from the corpse, so far they’d not had any cold hits from their crime computers. They’d also taken dental X-rays, but that wouldn’t help unless they had a name to match.
That’s why Sue’s job was so important. Even though her final creation only dealt from the neck on up, and even though many forensic artists settled for photos of the deceased from the crime scene, Sue always insisted, whenever possible, on viewing the entire body.
Subtle hints gave her perspective about the victim’s habits. In this case, the absence of tattoos, manicure, or pierced ears struck her as unusual for a young woman in this society. A chart on the shelf by the body read that her skin did not appear to have had any makeup—neither foundation, blush, nor mascara.
“How about her eyes, Josh? Do you see anything special?”
Josh didn’t like this question. The eyes were the scariest part of this face. He didn’t want to see her eyes ever again. Yet whenever he closed his, hers were watching him.
“Take your time,” she cautioned.
Sue had already sketched the outline of the woman’s face from her visit to the morgue. The center of the face was damaged by gunfire and had undergone some decomposition in places, but Sue had the bone structure down. Even chin. And long dark hair. She needed the witness to fill in the missing pieces.
Josh closed his eyes again. He was back in the pit, face to face with death. He cringed at the memory.
“You’re not alone, Josh. I’m right here. Without you, she would still be in that dark hole. You helped rescue her. Set her free. But she needs more help. Don’t think about what color her eyes are.” She knew eye color changed after death. “Try to recall how far set back they were, and how they were shaped.”
“I can’t remember.” She didn’t believe him. Experience told her trauma victims never forget the eyes. But she didn’t push him.
“How about her nose, Josh? What can you tell me about the shape of her nose?” This was the most critical element of his description because the nose was gone.
He’d barely shut his eyes when he answered. “Skinny. Her nose was skinny.”
Sue showed him a book with pages of noses.
“This one,” he pointed.
Sue sketched some more, adding shadow and contrast before asking Josh if he’d like to see the drawing. He thought for a while before nodding. She handed the picture to him. He glanced at the illustration for just a few seconds before giving it back.
“It’s okay, Josh. What I’m drawing is what I think she looked like when she was alive. Hopefully, the police can show this sketch to people and see if anyone knows her name.”
Josh reached for the picture again and pointed at her eyes. “Bigger. They were bigger than this.”
Sue put her pencil to work. Josh paged through the book and looked at different pieces of faces before giving his approval to the final version.
“You have a good knack for detail,” she said. She shook his hand, thanked him for his assistance, and turned him back over to his mother.
“Josh was a huge help.” Sue showed Michelle the woman’s face. “Police will likely put this on television and in newspapers in the hopes someone recognizes her.”
No women even remotely resembling the sinkhole corpse—Caucasian, age fifteen to twenty-three, five feet four inches tall, about 115 pounds—had been reported missing in Minnesota recently.
So the victim was either from out of state, or no one realized or cared that she was gone. Already, detectives were swamped with queries from families of missing women across the country.
The picture would help narrow the field.
Josh definitely seemed calmer on the drive home. Neither mother nor son mentioned the sketch session, but Michelle Kueppers had a nagging feeling that the dead woman’s face looked familiar.
CHAPTER 15
Covering a case in Minnesota’s Amish country prompted me to buy a paperback bestseller with a demure blonde wearing a bonnet on the cover. I figured I’d learn more about their culture, and maybe it would be a fun read. That night, one chapter in, I realized I was reading a romance about forbidden love.
An innocent young woman was torn between a world promising tranquillity and one offering titillation. Two appealing men symbolized her contrasting futures. The following pages assured me that the narrative was no bodice ripper—any sex that happened, happened offscreen. So far, the most explicit dialogue was debate over open-mouth kissing before marriage.
By the time I went to bed, I’d gained some practical insights that I could share with Malik, such as the fact that only married Amish men grew beards.
As I drifted to sleep, I made a mental note: bearded = married; clean shaven = single. I preferred a smooth chin myself, not that I was looking for a date in a wide-brimmed hat and a buggy. But I had admired how the author had hinted that physical labor led to physical perfection in Amish men.
• • •
The next morning, an email was awaiting me at the station with a forensic sketch of the sinkhole victim attached. No scoop. The drawing was being sent to all media with a standard request to ask viewers/readers to contact law enforcement if they recognized the victim.
I printed the picture for the morning news huddle.
Thoughts of what the woman’s face might have looked like before death, and her final moments of life, distracted me from the day’s headlines for a few minutes. Details of her facial damage had not been disclosed, only that her face was missing.
I found myself mulling a centuries-old St. Jerome quote: The face is the mirror of the mind, and the eyes without speaking confess the secrets of the heart.
What secrets might this murder victim confess? And were any of them enough to cost her her life?
The medical examiner’s official cause of death listed “blunt force trauma to the head with fracture of the cranium, cerebral contusions, with subdural and intracranial bleeding.”
For viewers, I’d simply rewrite the science to say the woman had died from a blow to the head. There was no sign of any murder weapon. And if evidence existed as to what type of material caused the fatal injury, the cops were keeping quiet. That was routine. They like
d to withhold those specifics to weed out false confessions.
Despite Bryce’s insistence that stories outside our viewing area added no value to a newscast, I’d noticed—as I was sure he must have—that the overnight ratings showed that Channel 3’s homicide lead held the audience of a popular crime drama with no drop-off.
But when I laid the depiction of the dead woman’s face on the table, he picked up the drawing and stared into her eyes as if suddenly fascinated to meet her. “So this is our victim?”
“As described to a forensic artist by Josh, yes,” I explained. “The cops need leads for the investigation, and right now the media is their best hope in identifying the victim. No doubt, the newspapers and other stations will air the picture.”
That was a no-brainer. Free news content. Then I stopped talking. I left the advocating of specific coverage for someone else at the table to suggest. But no one was brave enough to speak about what had proven to be a risky story to embrace. Everyone waited for Bryce.
To my surprise, he proposed running the picture on all newscasts and displaying it prominently on our website. “Then if someone recognizes this woman we can take credit. Each version should remind viewers that we want to follow up on our exclusive last night.”
Everyone else at the morning meeting nodded in agreement. I was beginning to think my new boss was sounding a lot like Noreen and that news directors must share some chromosome glitch that makes them immediately weigh audience payoff when making even relatively simple decisions.
Then Bryce commanded, “Make it so.” Thus ruining Star Trek for me forever.
The station had yet to designate a main anchor to replace Sophie after she was gunned down. Each week, someone on staff would rotate in the anchor chair for a live on-air audition. Sort of like a reality show. But that was no guarantee Channel 3 wouldn’t ultimately hire from outside.
These days, I just typed “anchor” on top of my scripts since I never knew who was going to be reading the news. The medical reporter had her turn this week.
((ANCHOR BOX))