Silencing Sam

by Julie Kramer

  “People kept telling us how sorry they were,” Mom said.

  “Yeah, Riley, everyone thought we were Sam’s parents.”

  For about ten seconds, I couldn’t breathe again.

  It could be worse, I thought, consoling myself with the Minnesota all-purpose reaction to trouble. “Please don’t tell me you told them you were my parents.”

  “Of course not,” Dad said. “We were undercover.”

  “Yeah,” said Mom. “We just played along.”

  Now I pictured an even worse scenario, because the way I was raised, things can always be worse. “Please don’t tell me you told them you were Sam’s parents.”

  “No, certainly not. We let them think whatever they wanted to think,” Mom said.

  “One man said he wished we could have reconciled with Sam before his death,” Dad said.

  “What did he mean?” I asked.

  “We figured he must have been estranged from his family,” Mom said.

  Interesting. That could explain the low turnout for his burial.

  “He gave me his business card,” Dad said, “and told me to call him if I ever wanted to know what my son was really like.”

  I took the card and noted a downtown Minneapolis business address. I put it in my pocket.

  “Is it okay if we stay the night?” Mom asked.

  “We don’t want to drive back so far in the dark,” Dad added.

  I shook my head and unlocked the front door. “Oh, get in the house, you two.”

  Dad picked up an old suitcase and stumbled inside, bad knees and all.

  I didn’t tell them I was a little uneasy about the dark myself these days and actually welcomed some overnight company. And I sure didn’t mention the word “rabies.”

  CHAPTER 20

  The bat didn’t have rabies.

  A merely dead bat isn’t as newsworthy as a rabid bat, particularly if a television reporter isn’t having a long needle waved at her on camera. But Malik and I still went back to the lab to interview Dr. Stang about the animal’s cause of death.

  “It’s puzzling,” the veterinarian explained. “Your bat died of internal injuries consistent with barotrauma.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “It’s when a sudden drop in air pressure causes a mammal’s lungs to expand rapidly to the point of rupturing. It leads to fatal internal hemorrhaging.”

  “In English, you mean its lungs exploded?” I asked.

  “Yes. I’ve never actually seen anything like it before; it’s similar to divers getting the bends. You say there were others?”

  “A couple more. The farmer seemed to think dead bats were fairly common.”

  Dr. Stang seemed puzzled by their mysterious cause of death. “I’d like to study this further,” he said. He explained that bats and birds have very different respiratory systems, thus bats might be more susceptible to barotrauma. Bat lungs are softer, while bird lungs are more rigid and better able to withstand rapid decreases in air pressure.

  “Well, if you find any more bodies,” he said, “bring them in.”

  The combination of exploding wind turbines and dead bats made me reach out to a name from the past. Toby Elness was quite interested in the bat enigma. And outraged.

  “If wind power is killing bats, this needs to stop.”

  When I called him, I knew there was a chance my boss might consider it going behind her back. My defense would be that he’d been my source longer than he’d been her husband. I figured that ought to count for something.

  Noreen and Toby were brought together by their love of animals and their proximity to me.

  After their wedding, they’d honeymooned at a wildlife sanctuary in the rain forests of Thailand, helping care for injured gibbons in hopes they could be released into the wild.

  Later they’d invited me to their home for a vegan dinner and shown me photos of them nurturing the wide-eyed jungle primates.

  I’d oohed and aahed like it was a baby album while one of Toby’s various dogs, a husky named Husky, curled up on the couch beside me. But that was the only socializing I’d done with them.

  Toby’s life mission was the Animal Liberation Front, whose priority was freeing creatures from research labs or fur farms. Their followers weren’t above planting homemade bombs to accomplish their goals and draw attention to their cause. I hoped Toby hadn’t gone that far himself.

  The FBI considered the ALF among the country’s most dangerous domestic terrorists, and I wondered if the FBI guy was pursuing that angle in the bombing investigation. But Toby had seemed genuinely unaware of the tiny bodies of dead bats until I told him.

  “Bats are misunderstood,” he said. “People worry about them getting caught in their hair or sucking their blood. But they are quite useful creatures.”

  He professed innocence of the wind turbine explosions, though he hinted that if the bombings were done in the name of protecting animals, that might be justifiable.

  He promised to do some checking.

  I also had made a note to look into the background of Charlie Perkins, the hobby farmer who didn’t like looking at wind turbines.

  According to his rap sheet, Charlie had led a fairly clean life. His only arrests came in the late seventies for vandalism and trespassing in Stearns County. Minor stuff until I realized one of the most controversial chapters of state history had been unfolding in central Minnesota.

  The power-line protests. Hundreds of people, some family farmers, others sympathizers from the Twin Cities, had been arrested for various forms of civil disorder and property damage.

  The confrontation happened long before my days in journalism, but I’d seen some of the old news footage. Tractors driving across frozen farmland, followed by rugged men and women carrying American flags. Normally conservative folks who felt the power companies were trampling their rights like they were bugs.

  It was a guerilla war over a four-hundred-mile transmission line from North Dakota to the Twin Cities. Before it was over, surveyors would be attacked, steel towers toppled. But the line would be built.

  If Charlie’s soul held that kind of passion, wind turbines might make a tempting target.

  When I went to Noreen’s office, former newspaper political columnist Rolf Hedberg sat across from her desk. They made an odd couple. Next to her facade of Snow White’s Evil Queen, he looked like a grizzled dwarf—the grumpy one.

  Their conversation appeared cordial, though she wrinkled her nose once and shook her head several times. Rolf had been an occasional guest on our news, expounding on state history and newsmakers. The relationship was reciprocal—it gave us content; it gave the newspaper exposure. But without Rolf’s connection to the paper, I was surprised Noreen would even give him the time of day.

  I figured it unlikely she would tell me the scoop, so I followed as he left the building, offering to buy him a cup of coffee.

  A few minutes later, I’d gotten the story that he was out of work and luck. His wife was tired of him hanging around the house all day, and frankly, he could use the money.

  “Your boss turned me down,” he said. “Didn’t bat an eye.”

  “She’s had a lot of practice. But honestly, Rolf, you didn’t really think you’d get a job in television?”

  I shouldn’t have needed to tell a guy who spent a career working in the media that TV was a young person’s game. During the current media slump, young and cheap was the only way to hire. I mean, look at Clay Burrel.

  “I could do editorials, Riley,” Rolf insisted, “like the station used to do.”

  “There’s a reason the station stopped,” I explained. “They didn’t like controversy then and they sure don’t want controversy now.”

  “But I have years of experience covering politics. And Minnesotans love politics.”

  “Channel 3 already has a political reporter, Rolf. Whom the audience has watched age gracefully before their eyes. Neither the viewers nor the station will dump her for you.”


  He hunched over his mug and didn’t say anything. For him to even think Noreen would hire him was, frankly, egotistical. Lots of newspaper reporters think TV is easy and they can just step into the job, but it involves more fieldwork and stranger hours than they generally like.

  “Really, Rolf, there’s no way you want to go back to street reporting. Covering crime is all pushing and shoving. You’re too classy for that.”

  His face scowled. “Don’t assume I don’t know anything about crime.”

  “I’m not saying you couldn’t do it, Rolf. I’m saying why would you want to? I know you have your pride, but have you thought about simply trying to get back on the newspaper?”

  He started drumming his fingers against the tabletop.

  “I know you and the paper clashed because you didn’t want to change beats or hours, but maybe you should think of it as a chance to reinvent yourself.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “How about freelance? Be a stringer. Then either of you can walk away if it doesn’t work. They’re bound to have some money after … after the Pierce situation.” I really hadn’t wanted to bring up Sam’s death. “Call them and see what happens.”

  “I already did. It went bad.” His voice had a monotone quality.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Rolf.”

  “I was certain they’d welcome me back after the … the Pierce situation.”

  I realized I’d misjudged his motive earlier. His job discussion with Noreen wasn’t a case of conceit but desperation.

  “You’ll find something,” I told him. “You’ve got a lot of connections. Something will come through.”

  “I was certain after Sam’s death that they’d welcome me back.” Rolf was starting to repeat himself. Not a good sign. “You don’t understand, Riley. I even offered to take his job.”

  “What?” That’s all I said out loud, but what I had been thinking was that if any good could come from Sam’s death, it would be that the gossip columnist position might be eliminated permanently.

  To hear that Rolf was actually willing to fill the role of my nemesis troubled me. Now I was the one scowling.

  “Don’t worry, Riley,” he said. “I was going to be an accurate gossip columnist.”

  “I don’t think there is such a thing. And if you told that to the paper, well, that might explain why they didn’t give you the gossip slot. ‘Accuracy’ isn’t part of that job description. The beat is reporting rumor.”

  “Well, I heard all the same rumors Sam used to hear, I just never reported them. But that could change.”

  Once upon a time, Rolf had been a confident newsman who routinely swatted the state’s politicians. Now a dour man sat across from me, discouraged that the economy had kicked him at a time when he couldn’t kick back.

  “I need the money,” he said.

  I decided to change the subject—sort of. So I told him I heard he’d been at Sam’s funeral and asked him what it was like.

  “How’d you know I was there?”

  “I’m a reporter, Rolf. It’s my job to know these things.” I didn’t tell him I’d already seen video of the service. “For obvious reasons, I couldn’t go. But I’m curious about your impressions.”

  “There wasn’t much to it, really. A few prayers is all.”

  “How come you went? Didn’t sound like the two of you were particularly close.”

  That’s when he started to look really uncomfortable. And I wondered how much worse his story could get.

  “Okay, Riley, this is going to make me seem like a jerk. I went because I thought there was a chance the bosses would be there and I could chat them up.”

  “You went to a funeral to interview for the deceased’s job?” I tried to sound neutral, but it was hard.

  “When you say it like that, it sounds bad.”

  That he recognized his blunder gave me hope he might be able to build a new life sans journalism. But I found myself thinking the Rolf Hedberg I used to respect as an award-winning news-hound wasn’t the same Rolf Hedberg having coffee with me.

  That realization made me anxious to get away from him. So I wished him luck and told him I needed to return to work. As soon as the words left my lips and I saw the hurt look in his eyes, I realized he thought I was gloating about having a job.

  “Rolf, that’s not how I meant it,” I said.

  But he just waved me off, staying behind because he had nowhere else he had to be.

  One block later, I forgot all about Rolf and his problems when I stumbled on Clay and Chief Capacasa laughing over mustard and relish at a corner hot dog stand.

  I hung back across the street to observe the pair. Rather than risk being spotted together and raising suspicion in a dark parking garage like the Deep Throat scene in All the President’s Men, they made their encounter seem casual and spontaneous. Right down to their parting high five.

  I would have liked to go up, letting them know I wasn’t fooled. But I thought it best they not know I knew their secret. Knowledge is power, I reminded myself.

  Chief Capacasa headed back toward the cop shop. Clay wiped the corner of his mouth, then looked straight at me and winked.

  He was chewing when I walked up, but I think that might have been a ruse to avoid being the first to speak.

  “What’s up with you and the chief?” I asked nonchalantly.

  He shrugged, swallowed, and replied, “Everybody has to eat somewhere.”

  CHAPTER 21

  I grabbed the snail mail from my newsroom box and found a manila envelope with no return address. Inside, an unlabeled CD, wiped clean. Sometimes sourcing pays off, I thought as I kissed it.

  I handed the disc to Xiong, who inserted it in his computer, then gave me a thumbs-up when rows of data appeared on the screen. I only had a quick glance, but it sure looked like the gun-permit data.

  “How did you come to acquire this?” Xiong asked.

  I gave him my Don’t Ask look.

  Whenever I’d received such a fortuitous package, I never tried to identify my source. Their anonymity kept both of us safer. Once, three years after a particular story ran, I crossed paths with a political aide who let me know she had been my Good Samaritan but that it was a one-shot deal and to never call her again.

  Xiong and I huddled over his screen.

  Too much information can be overwhelming. Having fifty thousand names is about as helpful as having no names. I gave Xiong my makeshift list of one hundred people who hated Sam Pierce.

  “This will take time.” He waved me away and hunkered down over his keyboard and monitor, formatting data and programming a search to see if any of the names overlapped. Should any of the Sam haters also show up armed, that could elevate them on the suspects list.

  “Thanks.” I kept my voice low to avoid distracting him.

  He didn’t even look up as I walked off.

  “Good-bye!” Noreen was slamming down her phone when I entered her office. I hoped the call wasn’t about me, or it would be like walking into a trap.

  It was about Clay.

  “It’s the chief again,” Noreen said. “Acting like he and I are all pals and wanting to know where Clay’s getting his information. I told him it’s none of his business.”

  As she finished ranting, I thought to myself, Nice try, Chief. You may fool my boss, but you don’t fool me. I know who Clay’s secret source is.

  Noreen settled down, so I updated her on the bat situation. Good news, no rabies. Bad news, internal hemorrhaging.

  She seemed disappointed about the rabies test results, confused about barotrauma. “So the turbines are smacking the bats out of the sky?”

  “No. They kill the bats without even touching them,” I said. “Their lungs explode when they fly too close to the blades because the air pressure drops suddenly.” She did seem to grasp the analogy about divers getting the bends.

  “This hasn’t been reported, Noreen, and could be a big story. Especially with the turbines exploding, too.”


  Noreen drummed her fingers on her desk. I couldn’t tell if she was nervous or impatient. I tried to quickly tie elements together like the bombs and bats. Then I divulged that I’d consulted Toby about the story, because I wanted her to hear that from me, on the job. Not from him, over supper.

  The mention of Toby seemed to concern her. “How did he react?”

  And then I realized what the problem had been all along. Once dead bats showed up, she was worried her animal rights activist husband might somehow be involved in this whole mess. And her fear wasn’t all that outlandish. Their marriage was impulsive, two dog lovers tired of living with only their canine companions.

  Neither of us knew Toby all that well before their wedding.

  “Toby says this is the first he’s heard,” I said.

  My answer soothed her, because usually if I think someone’s guilty of something, I come right out and say it—though not on the air. As we discussed the story further, it was clear the bats’ obscure cause of death intrigued her. I also pointed out that most national best-seller lists were dominated by vampire books.

  “Even if viewers don’t like bats,” she conceded, “they do like mystery.”

  Then Noreen observed that Halloween was close and interest in bats might peak. So she gave me the go-ahead to start putting a story together and promised to talk to the promotion department.

  I smiled.

  ((PROMO SOT))

  WHY ARE THE BODIES OF

  DEAD BATS BEING FOUND

  NEAR WIND TURBINES? TUNE

  IN TO CHANNEL 3 FOR THE

  ANSWER.

  I smiled because promotion meant priority. And also because the station had devised a secret way to get more prime-time promotion slots for local news stories. When a thirty-second promo for a network show was airing during a commercial break, Channel 3 would run one of its own spots over it. Sometimes it rolled a couple seconds late and looked sloppy, but it still meant more viewer eyes on our product.

  Of course, if the network ever found out … somebody more important than me would have to be fired.

  • • •

  Toby had someone he wanted me to meet. A human, not an animal.