by Julie Kramer
I’d been to Tamarack Nature Center in White Bear Lake earlier that year, on a murder investigation, but this was a much tamer visit.
When Malik and I arrived, Toby introduced me to Serena Connoy, the local leader for Bat Protectors of America, a group concerned about the shrinking population of bat colonies.
“Our followers are few in number but devoted in cause.” She explained they tracked hibernating and migratory bats.
A long black braid hung down her back. I imagined that style kept bats from getting tangled in her hair.
“Here’s an interesting experiment.” She showed us a large flight cage, tucked between some bushes, with several little brown bats inside. As infants, their nest had been destroyed during a remodeling project, and the group was trying to raise and rehabilitate them for release back in the wild.
Toby praised their mission. “Bats deserve freedom.”
“Bats deserve life,” Serena replied.
Malik shot some video of the tiny creatures, huddled together on the side of the cage. A fluorescent lantern hung in the middle to attract flying insects for them to eat at night.
Another bat volunteer stepped up and shook my hand. “Just call me Batman.” He was long and lanky, with an angular face. I couldn’t help but think the Batman logo on his black-and-yellow Bat Protectors T-shirt was a bit cliché as well as a copyright infringement.
“Bats are nature’s superheroes,” he said in defense of his attire. Then he cited several examples of their valor, including how the flying mammals can consume nearly a thousand mosquitoes an hour.
Our conversation took an interesting twist when Serena divulged that their group was the one collecting bat bodies under the Wide Open Spaces wind turbines as part of a scientific study. Other bat zealots made similar pilgrimages in California, Pennsylvania, and Maryland.
They’d observed the same thing I had: dead bats without visible signs of injury.
Most of them were hoary bats, red bats, or silver-haired bats—which all migrate through the Midwest in the fall. I asked if we could clip a wireless microphone on her for an interview and she agreed.
“Because so little is known about the species’ population size,” she said, “these wind deaths could have far-reaching consequences.”
After the barotrauma threat became known, national leaders of Bat Protectors had asked wind farms from coast to coast to stop the spinning, but the owners were insisting on more research.
That upset the Batman volunteer. “They say a few dead bats is not too great a price for going green.”
I thought it unlikely they phrased their response so bluntly, but Toby was outraged. “This is about prejudice against bats.”
Serena stayed calm, explaining that bats seldom collide with turbines because they use a sonar navigation system called echo-location. “While they can sense the actual turbine, the atmospheric pressure drop around the blades is an invisible hazard.” She also stressed that both sides—wind farms and researchers—were working to negotiate some sort of compromise. “Perhaps using sound to deter the bats, or halting the turbines at certain times of night.”
“What do you think of the bombings?” I had to ask.
“Our organization is peaceful and opposes breaking any laws, including the destruction of property. We believe education is a more productive route.”
I was pleased to have corroboration that the bat casualties were not an isolated circumstance.
((RILEY, STANDUP))
CHANNEL 3 WASN’T ALONE
IN GATHERING BAT BODIES
… AN ENVIRONMENTAL
GROUP HAS FOUND A
PATTERN IN THE DEATHS AT
WIND FARMS HERE AND IN
OTHER STATES.
I had what TV news calls an “enterprise” story—one not easily duplicated by the competition. I figured I could have it on Noreen’s desk tomorrow afternoon.
By day’s end, work was work.
Besides the wind farm story, I was still trying to secretly investigate the gossip murder.
To stay alert, I scanned the walls of my office, noticing the surveillance photo of the woman and child, along with my flower note. “Thanks Alot, Riley, Give Everyone The Disturbing Information Regarding That Bad Ass Gossip.”
I decided to compare the handwriting on my missive to the one on the condolence flowers.
From my computer, I pulled up the Sam Pierce funeral video, freezing the shot of the wildflower sympathy card. The message seemed strained: “Be Assured Sam Took A Righteous Direction.” But the penmanship matched. I printed a copy, pinning it next to its bulletin board mate.
More promising, Xiong sent an email containing four names that overlapped both lists: possible armed suspects in the killing of Sam Pierce. I grabbed my archive file and pulled those particular gossip columns. Certainly there was no guarantee that the person who murdered Sam would have gone through the trouble of getting a gun-carry permit. But because these four had weapons and motives, it was a place to start.
Buzz Stolee—a pro basketball player who had walked, nude below the waist, behind a sports reporter going live from the locker room. The athlete claimed he didn’t realize his image was being broadcast to more than a hundred thousand viewers. Instead of teasing him for being a dumb jock, Sam criticized the size of his … you know.
Ashley Lind—a former reporter for a competing station whom Sam literally ran off the air. He hated her hair. He hated her clothes. And he kept asking when the baby was due when she wasn’t pregnant. Her contract wasn’t renewed.
Ryan Meister—a local politician who lost reelection after Sam kept writing that he threw like a girl when he threw out a feeble first pitch for a Twins game.
And Tad Fallon—his society wife, Phedra, committed suicide by taking pills after Sam suggested she had an alcohol problem. She didn’t. But she had a depression problem. Her husband had a gun. And the paperwork suggested he got it barely a week before Sam was gunned down.
I made a wall chart with all four names, putting Tad’s first. But I reminded myself not to develop tunnel vision, like the cops sometimes did with suspects. I left space in between each name to add clues, should they develop. Then I leaned back to admire the short list.
I was reluctant to bring any of the names to the attention of the police, because in a recent missing person case I had suggested two suspects. They both ended up being in the clear; I ended up looking like an idiot.
And almost getting killed by the real murderer.
Matters were further complicated in the gossip case because the cops undoubtedly had their own short list of suspects. I just hoped it wasn’t so short that my name was the only one on it.
Because Noreen had ordered me to stay away from Sam’s homicide, any investigating I did had to be inconspicuous. I couldn’t just call up the people on my list, identify myself as a Channel 3 reporter, and blurt out questions. Because if any of them called the station to complain, I was doomed.
Ashley Lind was the easiest of the four to find. I’d phoned a rival at Channel 7, where she used to work, and casually inquired if they ever heard from her.
“Good timing,” I was told. “Or did you already hear?”
“Hear what?” I answered, hoping they weren’t on the verge of breaking a story about her being arrested for murdering anybody. Not only would they have the news first, they’d have the best suspect file tape.
The only clue I got was a vague comment that a picture was on the way.
Seconds later, I clicked on an email attachment and instead of a mug shot, I saw a photo of a beaming Ashley in a hospital bed holding a bundled baby. She apparently really had been pregnant this time.
The birth announcement gave me a pang as I read the details about baby Neal’s length and weight. Hugh had so wanted to be a father. But I’d wanted to wait. I wondered what our kids would have looked like.
I felt a different pang when I reached the date and time of Neal’s birth and realized Ashley Lind had a seven
-pound, ten-ounce unalterable alibi for Sam’s homicide.
I crossed her name off the list. Then I reached in a card file I kept in my desk and mailed her some baby congratulations, telling her how lucky she was to be out of this sinking news business.
Most days, Channel 3’s sports department holds little allure for me.
It’s unusual for a market the size of Minneapolis–St. Paul to be home to so many major professional sports franchises. Twins baseball. Vikings football. Wild hockey. Timberwolves basketball. There’s continuous debate on whether we can support them all; one team or another is always threatening to leave unless it gets a new stadium. The North Stars followed through and became the Dallas Stars. Now the Vikings are making similar noises.
What the players do on the field or ice or court doesn’t particularly interest me; out of uniform is when they generally create news. Breaking laws versus breaking records. And over the years, various athletes have hit the front pages with driving transgressions, drug offenses, and sex crimes. But so far, not homicide.
I wandered back to the sports corner of the building to try to ferret out leads where Buzz Stolee might be found off the court. I didn’t use his name specifically, because I didn’t want any of the Channel 3 jocks giving him a heads-up. I merely asked if there was a downtown bar where the NBA guys hung out.
“Why do you want to know, Riley?” countered one of the sports producers.
“Yeah, you a groupie wannabe?” said another, leering.
I should have guessed this would be a waste of time. The sports staff liked to shield athletes from the news department. For Buzz, I imagined they’d be even more protective. He was a frequent guest on their Sports Night show. I’d run into him in the green room a couple of times, but he’d never given me a second look.
“I’d like to pick their brains on a possible story,” I said.
“Any story you want to talk to them about can’t be a story they want to show up in.”
“And they’re not used to women being interested in their brains.”
I ignored him and the implication. He responded by throwing a basketball at me, then seemed surprised when I caught it.
To further the decoy ruse, I mentioned wanting to chat up football players as well. “I just want to run some info by them about the pro sports world and gauge their reaction.”
“You’re such a hot investigator, Riley, you don’t need our help.”
“Well, I guess that’s good,” I replied. “’Cause I’m sure not getting it.” I threw the ball back at him and turned away.
Normally the sports staff wouldn’t be so snarly to my face, but they probably sensed I was not riding as high as usual. And sports journalists resent how when last-minute news breaks, their section of the newscast is often compressed to make room for political intrigue like a governor’s Argentine mistress, or even just a fire as long as there’s good video of actual flames and not just smoke.
The conversation was a lot shorter, and a lot more cooperative, when I called a political source and asked where former legislator Ryan Meister was working these days.
“Iraq,” she answered.
“What?” I responded.
“Former National Guard sergeant, called up for service again. But now that the U.S. is talking of pulling out, look for him home next year and running for election again the first chance he gets.”
“This time as a war hero?” I pictured him walking in a Fourth of July parade dressed in uniform, a combat ribbon on his chest.
“Better than throwing like a girl,” she laughed.
A star-spangled alibi.
I crossed Ryan Meister off the list. And decided I needed to go bar hopping.
CHAPTER 22
At six foot eight … I figured Buzz Stolee would be fairly easy to spot in the neighborhood around the basketball arena.
For organization, I’d starred the sports bars and nightspots on a downtown Minneapolis map. I started at Rosen’s Bar and Grill because Hugh used to like to hang out there with his buddies after games. When that lead came up empty, I moved from bar to bar.
I was about to give up when I saw a line winding around the block outside a neon-lit nightclub. Like a lemming, I followed the herd as they slowly moved to the door. As I got closer, I realized that not everyone was waved inside. There seemed to be some sort of screening going on.
I saw the bouncers approve a pair of cute blondes in short skirts and low-cut tops despite the autumn weather. Two older women in business attire received frowns. I paid closer attention and noticed the gatekeepers didn’t seem so picky about the men-folk. A man with a pudgy belly and a bald spot was waved inside.
As the line got closer to the door, I rolled up the waistband of my skirt like a parochial school girl and unfastened a few buttons on my blouse like a slut.
The two guards at the door looked at me, looked at each other, shook their heads simultaneously, and motioned for me to step aside.
“What do you mean?” I pressed them.
I’d stood in line for more than twenty minutes and I wanted inside, or an explanation of why not. But it didn’t seem like the thugs were going to yield either.
“I deserve to go in just as much as anyone else,” I insisted.
They blocked the door but ignored my questions. The crowd was starting to notice.
A woman in spandex tights looked at me funny, then shouted, “Hey, I’ve seen her on TV.”
The bouncers looked at me again, but again they shook their heads. “No way. Not her.”
I considered pulling out my media pass to try to bigfoot my way through the door. Especially now that I didn’t have to worry about winding up as a headline in the “Piercing Eyes” gossip column.
But suddenly I realized my neckline was open far wider than felt comfortable. As I was adjusting my wardrobe malfunction, the two thugs each grabbed one of my arms and flung me off the curb and out of the way. Off balance, I was facedown in the grime of a Minneapolis street.
The crowd gasped and seemed to take a step backward. Just as I pushed myself to my knees, someone tall hoisted me to my feet.
“What’s a nice lady like you doing in the gutter?” he asked.
My head only reached his chest, but I didn’t need his jersey number to recognize Buzz Stolee’s blue eyes and wavy blond hair.
“A little too much booze, I think, boss,” a sidekick said.
“No.” I shook my head. “Them.” I pointed to the pair of bouncers, who were conspicuously facing the opposite direction. “Those guys didn’t want me inside.”
“Well, I’ve been in plenty of times and you’re not missing anything,” Buzz said. “Loud music. Loud people.”
A red-haired woman in tight jeans and an even tighter halter top nudged him suggestively. But he ignored her and bent down to stare at me more closely.
“You look familiar,” he said. “We met before?”
The way he said it made me think he was trying to figure out if we’d ever slept together. I explained that I was a television reporter and people sometimes recognized me from the air. “We might have passed each other in the hall at Channel 3.”
His female companion scoffed at that information and flashed her midriff to possessively show either a tattoo or an autograph of Buzz’s signature and jersey number above her navel. That gave me an idea.
“I bet people recognize you all the time from the basketball court,” I said, trying to get the focus off me. “I’d love your autograph.”
I pawed through my purse, pulled out a narrow reporter’s notebook, and flipped the cover open to a blank page. Then I fumbled for a pen.
“Oh, sure,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Riley Spartz.” Oops, I hadn’t meant to be that specific just yet. Sometimes my name scared people, but usually only if they were guilty of something. “But could you make it out to my dad instead?”
“Now I know who you are,” he said. “You’re the chick who threw the drink at that gos
sip goon.” He started chuckling.
No point in denying the episode, especially since, eventually, that’s where I wanted our conversation to go.
“I’m not usually so rude.” I tried to sound apologetic and harmless.
“Hey, no worries.” He leaned close and whispered in my ear. “Far as I’m concerned, the rat deserved it.” Then he gave me a wink.
Now we were getting somewhere.
“That’s a relief,” I murmured back.
He smiled at our private joke.
“How about you let me buy you a drink,” I said, “and I’ll prove I’m fit for decent company by not throwing it in your face.”
It was probably just a habit professional athletes acquire, but his eyes seemed to scan my entire figure, lingering on my still disheveled bust.
“Unless you give me a really good reason.” I gave him a playful punch in the arm and fastened two buttons.
“No way I’m turning down such an interesting offer. This way, boys.” He gestured toward a couple of guys hanging nearby.
“Hey, what about me?” The woman waiting at his side posed with her hands on her hips and a pout on her face.
“Later, honey.”
Then Buzz put his hand against my back and directed me inside the club I’d just been barred from. I flashed a triumphant glare at the bouncers, but instead of looking apologetic, they pretended we’d never met. Buzz and I were shown to a corner booth, and his pals took a table nearby. While we waited for our drinks I wondered if he was packing the gun he was licensed to conceal and carry.
I was curious but not particularly worried. Even if Buzz had shot Sam, I didn’t fear a bullet in the chest any more than he seemed to fear a martini in the face.
“So how’d it go down between you and Sam?” he asked. “Did his eyes go all wide and crazy?”
It seemed an odd question. But I thought back to that day at the newspaper bar where the real trouble started. My pinot noir versus Sam Pierce.
“He was definitely surprised,” I said. “But he had been sort of asking for it.” I was rationalizing my actions by blaming the victim, something I’d noticed suspects often do during camera interviews.