by Julie Kramer
About forty minutes later, Jeremy Gage stepped into the lobby, dressed much the same as he had been at the funeral—dark suit and tie. Appropriate attire whether mourning friends or consulting clients. I recognized him from the videotape. He recognized me from the news. I held out my hand, but he didn’t take it. I doubted his snub had anything to do with avoiding the H1N1 flu.
“I know who you are,” Jeremy said, “and you have a lot of nerve coming here.”
“I’m sorry,” I replied. “I just want to clear up a misunderstanding from Sam Pierce’s funeral.”
“What would you know about his funeral?”
“This gets a bit complicated, but you gave your condolences and business card to an elderly couple. They were my parents, not his.”
“What?” He looked displeased.
“Several people made the same mistake,” I said. “His parents apparently weren’t there. It sounded like they might have been at odds with him.”
“And your parents were there because …?” The tenor of his voice made me think my answer better be good, or this meeting was over.
“I’ll be honest. Because they’re busybodies. But you seemed like a friend of his, and I didn’t want you left with the impression his family ignored your offer.”
“What offer was that?”
“To share some memories with them.”
Jeremy paused briefly, like my remark might even have jogged a special memory. “You definitely weren’t a friend of his,” he said. “So why would you care?”
“Because you clearly were a friend. And I didn’t want you to think his parents didn’t care.”
“Except now I know for sure they didn’t care,” he said. “Until your visit, I thought they attended the ceremony but just gave me the cold shoulder. Can you imagine actually boycotting your son’s funeral?”
I shook my head, knowing from conducting numerous television interviews with grieving parents that there’s nothing worse than burying your own child. Especially following an act of violence.
“Do you mind if we continue this discussion in your office?” I asked. The receptionist pretended to be filing papers, but I could tell she was following our conversation. And I thought he might loosen up more without witnesses.
“Sorry, Ms. Spartz, you may look harmless, but I’m uneasy being alone with you,” Jeremy said. “At best you’re a reporter. At worst, you’re a murderer. Neither is the kind of character I care to associate with.”
At those words, the receptionist stopped even pretending to file and followed our squabble with her mouth partly open.
“How about we compromise and I take you out to lunch?”
“Why would I want to spend an hour with you?” he asked.
“Because I didn’t kill Sam.”
I hated having to justify the rumor with a denial. And I wasn’t certain he believed me. The receptionist definitely didn’t.
Even though the joke was getting old, I promised we’d remain in public view the entire time and that I wouldn’t throw my drink in his face.
A server stepped over to take our orders. I’d let Jeremy pick the lunch spot and he opted for Murray’s, a historic downtown steakhouse. We didn’t know each other well enough to share their famed silver-butter-knife steak for two. Jeremy went for a top sirloin; I went for the cobb salad because I’ve eaten enough beef to last the rest of my life.
As we waited, Jeremy opened up about Sam. He seemed to appreciate being able to talk about his friend. Reporters sometimes play the role of listener when others are uncomfortable talking about a murder victim with his friends or family. They think they’re helping by changing the subject. But that’s not how grief works.
Sam Pierce grew up in a tight family in the Little Italy neighborhood of Chicago, where his mother had grown up. To my surprise, he graduated from Northwestern’s prestigious school of journalism. Which made the fact that he’d become a gossip hack even more woeful.
When he moved to Minneapolis for an entry-level newspaper job, he stayed in touch by sending flowers to his mother every other week. Such devotion seemed a contrast to the unpleasant man I’d known, so I was interested in hearing more about his background.
“He became friendly with an area florist and over time their relationship bloomed.” Jeremy smiled at his pun.
“You’ve used that line before,” I said. “Or do you vary it with ‘blossomed’?”
“Actually, I’m stealing his line. He was good with words. I’m a numbers man.”
Jeremy went on to tell how Sam brought his lady friend home to Chicago to meet his parents. They were jubilant. All was well. There was talk of a big wedding. With magnificent floral arrangements.
“Whenever she sent flowers to anyone personally, his betrothed used a signature bouquet of Minnesota wildflowers. Quite eye-catching.”
I thought back to the vase on the funeral video and had an idea of who might have sent my mystery bouquet to the station. But our food arrived, so our table grew quiet except for knives and forks scraping china.
Jeremy resumed talk of the sunny future ahead for Sam and his bride. A honeymoon in Tuscany. The secret family recipe for lasagna. And especially grandchildren, to please his parents.
But there was one complication. Sam was gay, though deeply conflicted.
“He was seeing a man on the side,” Jeremy said. “His best man.”
His betrothed caught them entangled one week before the wedding. Wilted with shame, she called the engagement off. His parents were mortified by the scandal. Extremely religious, they disowned him when they learned the details of the breakup.
Shunned by his family, they hadn’t spoken since. And now they could never speak to him again.
“Not that they particularly cared, as we’ve already established.” Jeremy sounded harsh.
“Where do you fit in all this?” I asked, even though I had my hunch.
Jeremy was the other man. And by his side, Sam embraced his sexuality. Sleeping with women, as well as men, had been his way of denying being gay. Staying in a comfortable closet.
“But you know what they say,” Jeremy said. “Bi today, gay tomorrow.”
So circumstances outed Sam to friends and family. I couldn’t help but think this new facet of Sam’s life offered some insight into why he was so interested in the size of Buzz’s … you know.
“His parents refused to ever meet me,” Jeremy said.
This was beginning to sound comparable to me not wanting Garnett to meet my parents. Comparable enough to make me feel guilty. But I wasn’t going to discuss my personal mistakes with Jeremy.
“Because we’d never met,” he said, “I simply assumed they were the older couple at the funeral. Especially when they acted uncomfortable with my questions.”
“If Sam had been as close to his mother as you described, the rejection by his family must have been distressing.”
“An understatement,” he replied. “They made him bitter about life.”
“Some people might argue that’s a good quality for a gossip columnist,” I said. “What did you think of his writing?”
Jeremy told me he read only the newspaper’s business section, while Sam never read the business section unless it featured a juicy bankruptcy or corporate scandal he could glean for his “Piercing Eyes” column.
“Sam’s work routinely made people angry,” he said. “Sometimes so angry it scared him.”
“That’s happened to me a time or two on the job.”
“Did anyone ever egg your car? Or leave a dead animal on your porch? Or throw a drink in your face?”
Jeremy picked up his glass of water and shook the ice. Now he was mocking me. And since his lover was the one who was dead, I didn’t dredge up details of nasty things story subjects have done to me. I also didn’t point out that a lot of what Sam Pierce wrote was unfair or just plain wrong.
“I suspect Sam wasn’t nearly as insulted about our little tussle as he let on,” I said.
�
�Delighted with the exposure,” Jeremy answered.
“You must be devastated by his death.”
“Actually, we ended things a couple months ago.”
Now I was curious but stayed quiet in case he’d keep talking. But he didn’t. It made me wonder if I was starting to lose my touch for getting people to bare their souls, but then I realized this entire conversation was a giant coup since I was considered a suspect in the homicide of the man we were discussing.
“May I ask what happened?”
He said no. “It’s personal.”
To be fair, he had shared plenty, and we didn’t even have the check yet.
“Do you love Sam or hate him?” I asked, thinking his answer might yield a clue about the breakup.
“I respected what we had together,” he said. “That’s why I came to his funeral.”
“His old girlfriend wasn’t there, was she?” I asked.
“No, but she sent flowers. Her trademark arrangement. You’d recognize it if you knew what to look for.”
I had no doubt. “Wildflowers, did you say? Sounds beautiful. I might have some business for her. What’s her name?”
But he saw through my ruse and stayed mum. So I changed the subject.
“What did she think of Sam’s column?” I had considered him one of the most unlovable media figures in the market and was impressed two people could both have adored him.
“I’m not sure she read him either,” Jeremy said. “She only bought the newspaper for the crossword puzzle. She’s an aficionado of word games.”
Just as I was handing my credit card to our waitress, she turned away and rushed to an empty table, where she picked up a bill. She glanced around, then headed toward the front door, nudging the restaurant maître d’. They both stepped outside, then came back, shaking their heads in disgust. I realized the dine-and-dash thief, or an ingesting imitator, had struck again.
Later, I thought back on Sam’s life. Lonely or not, if anyone else’s family had spurned them, Sam would have put it in the newspaper. Perhaps carrying pain of his own made it easier to inflict it on others. And inflicting it on others made it easier for someone to put a bullet in him. But who?
CHAPTER 27
Sam’s parents still lived in Chicago. But there was no way Noreen would ever let me go after them. Even phoning them myself might backfire. True, they parted on bad terms with their son, but that didn’t mean they wanted him dead.
During the afternoon news meeting, I brought up the idea of contacting them for a possible interview.
“You were saying, Noreen, how crime seems to be selling. And not even the newspaper has had an interview with them.”
“You’re not getting one either,” she replied. “I told you, Riley, you’re staying far away from that story.”
“Yeah, stop trying to butt in on my beat,” Clay said.
“I’m not insisting I have to do the interview, I just thought it might be a new angle to develop. I’m trying to be a team player. Who knows, they might even have a lead on who killed their son.”
“Well, I’ll develop any leads,” he said.
“Make some calls, Clay,” Noreen said, “and see what they have to say, but no trip to Chicago unless we know they’ll talk, and it better be good.”
A job well done, I thought. But then Noreen called for news updates since the morning meeting, and that’s when things got interesting.
“Such a shame,” Ozzie said.
“What?” I asked.
“All the money in the world can’t buy happiness.”
“We’re here to discuss news, not philosophy,” Noreen snapped. “Unless this can help fill a newscast, save it for after work.”
Ozzie explained that a police call this morning for a medical examiner out in Minnetonka ended up being a suicide.
“Rich guy, too. Tad Fallon apparently shot himself.”
Xiong and I looked at each other. “What?” I asked again.
“Wealthy philanthropist—”
“We all know who he is,” Noreen said. “What happened?”
“Still waiting for details,” Ozzie said. “Self-inflicted gunshot wound. Dead nearly a week. Nasty.”
The media doesn’t normally cover suicides—unless the case involves another crime or a high-profile individual, or occurs in a public place—so while Noreen debated how to handle this death, I grabbed a calendar to count back whether Fallon was still alive when Sam was shot.
He was. Could this have been a murder-suicide?
“Clearly he was mentally ill,” Noreen said. “So we have to be careful not to encourage copycats. But when one of the wealthiest men in the state kills himself, it’s some kind of story.”
While the news huddle discussed what kind, the question on my mind was, would Fallon’s gun match the weapon used in the gossip homicide?
Because the shootings happened in different jurisdictions, the cops would have no reason to bother checking the bullet patterns unless someone suggested it. If they matched, case solved. If they didn’t, the person who even suggested such a thing might look like a real jerk.
Several hours and phone calls later, we learned that the weekly housekeeper had found Fallon’s body, along with a note. The contents weren’t disclosed but supported the suicide theory.
Noreen decided the station would report the death in the context of educating viewers about depression. No flashy live trucks at the scene. No pushy interviews with horrified neighbors. Merely something factual that put us on the record as being in the know. Nothing more unless a disagreeable legal battle over the estate went to court.
((ANCHOR, BOX FALLON PIX))
PHILANTHROPIST TAD FALLON
WAS FOUND DEAD TODAY IN
HIS LAKE MINNETONKA HOME.
AUTHORITIES BELIEVE HE
DIED LAST WEEK FROM A
SELF-INFLICTED GUNSHOT
WOUND.
FAMILY MEMBERS SAY HE WAS
BATTLING DEPRESSION.
FALLON WAS BEST KNOWN
FOR DONATIONS TO
MINNESOTA COLLEGES,
MUSEUMS, AND HOSPITALS.
I called the detective handling the Fallon case just to ask if he had any doubts about the cause of death. He and I had chatted a couple times in the past about drunk boaters on Lake Minnetonka, and there was still time for changes before the story would air.
“Hey, we were just talking about you,” he said. “You want to tell me what you were doing parked in front of Tad Fallon’s house yesterday?”
That wasn’t exactly how I’d hoped to work the conversation. But hanging up the phone wasn’t an option since, technically, I was the caller. Neither was feigning perplexity, since the traffic cop had obviously ratted me out.
“Had a couple questions I hoped to ask him,” I said. “But our paths never crossed.”
“’Cause he was dead,” he replied.
“Well, that does explain a lot.” And made me glad I hadn’t wasted more time on futile surveillance or left my fingerprints on the front gate.
“What kind of questions did you have for him?” he asked.
“How about you tell me about the note?” I tried to sound confident, like I had something to bargain with.
He wasn’t buying it. “Maybe if you tell me why for the second time in a week, somebody’s shot and your name has come up.”
That was the problem with working in television. Everybody knew your business. So I explained Fallon’s resentment of Sam and ownership of a handgun.
“I just wanted to find out where he was that night and if there might be a revenge motive out there.”
The cop made a comment about homicide investigation not being my job.
“Since that’s the case,” I said, “have you thought about calling Minneapolis police and comparing your suicide gun to their murder bullets to try linking the two crime scenes?”
A strong sigh of exasperation came over the phone as he explained that my connection had already prompted his curi
osity, and not over murder-suicide, but rather double homicide. Lucky for me, he explained, the shootings came from two entirely different makes of guns; Sam was killed with a Glock and Fallon with a Sig Sauer. And Fallon’s weapon was laying next to his dead body.
“So when it comes to our suicide and murder victims,” he said, “I think we can rule out any direct tie between them.”
I didn’t like the emphasis he put on “them” but thanked him for his help. As for me, I was starting to wish he hadn’t called Minneapolis homicide, because every time another Sam suspect was eliminated it made me stick out more.
The only name still standing on my list of people who hated Sam and carried guns was Buzz Stolee. And no way was I offering any new suspect to the cops without a taped confession or eyewitness interview. And frankly, while Buzz certainly ranked as an NBA scamp, I wasn’t sure anymore whether he had a killer instinct off court.
This hypothesis that I could search computer records to find the killer was hitting a dead end. In the movies, when journalists embark down a path to solve a murder, a combination of brilliant insight and dumb luck does the job. Hollywood leaves out all the wasted paths that lead nowhere.
My office seemed dark and stuffy, so I wandered over to the assignment-desk board to see if anything big had happened in the last hour that I’d missed. It hadn’t.
Clay waved me over to his desk, told me he’d reached Sam’s father, and said no way was he going to Chicago to interview such creepy church people.
“Not even going to ask the boss for an out-of-town trip,” he said. “So I reckon you and me have nothing to feud about.”
“That bad?” As long as they’d be willing to go on camera, it seemed like they must have had something to say.
Oh, they did. “Between you and me, missy, that old man seems to think his boy’s better off dead.”
Sounded like Texan hyperbole. “What did he actually say?”
Clay looked down at some scrawled notes. “‘Homosexuality is a sin. Our son has taken a path against the natural order. As we speak, he is burning in hell for his perversions.’”