by Julie Kramer
I thought of one other person who might have been able to make an ID. I phoned Toby and left a message that I wanted to show him something. I headed out to his and Noreen’s animal house in the country while the sky was drizzling. But after I handed him the photo, I wished I hadn’t. Because Toby needed a lawyer more than I did.
The weather was clearing, so we sat on Toby’s covered porch. Husky and Blackie lay by our feet. Toby stared at the photo of Lucas Harlan like he’d thought he would never see him again.
“Batman said I could be the lookout,” he said. “It seemed like excellent training. And I believed his cause worthy.”
Then Toby said something that changed our personal dynamics forever. He’d been a source. He’d even been a friend. But I didn’t know what to call him anymore when he told me he was watching when Batman exploded.
“One second he was there, the next he was gone.”
Shivers went up my back. “How horrible. Obviously, for him, but for you, too, Toby.” I meant it. I’d never actually seen human remains after a bombing, but I’d heard enough descriptions to know how gruesome it can be for those in the vicinity. And Toby had a sensitive soul. A dog whisperer’s, even.
“I know you’re blaming yourself, Toby. You probably have survivor’s guilt. But something clearly went wrong and Batman accidentally blew himself up. I’m just glad you’re safe.” I meant it. And for the first time since we’d met, I hugged him because I thought he needed it.
I didn’t know what else to say, so we sat silently together for a few minutes.
“It was no accident.”
“What do you mean, Toby? Of course it was. You don’t think Batman was a suicide bomber, do you? He gained nothing by his death.”
He shook his head. “It was no suicide.”
“Toby, you’re not making any sense.”
He looked at me with his long droopy basset-hound face. “I detonated the bomb.”
I felt my stomach cramp. But I didn’t doubt his confession for a minute. He’d been oozing regret over something. I’d just assumed it was Noreen. Now the whole episode was starting to make sense.
“What happened, Toby? Did you hit the wrong button?”
Toby said they parked about a hundred yards away in a farm field driveway to hide the car. Batman turned off the headlights and handed a flashlight to his new eco partner. Toby described how Batman removed a cell phone motor, hooked it up to a blasting cap, then put it in a small package with explosives—a crude remote-control trigger.
“He gave me a disposable phone with the bomb phone number programmed on the screen and told me I could be in charge of pushing the send button as we drove away.”
Toby took a deep breath, like he was reliving that particular moment of power. Then he confided how much he’d been looking forward to witnessing the blast and feeling the crash when the turbine hit the ground.
The pair walked toward the windmill, but instead of stopping at their destination, Batman moved past. “I asked where he was going, and he said the time had come to send a real message to the owners, farmers, and world.”
Blowing up turbines wasn’t getting fast enough results, he said. The blades still spun; bats still died.
“He kept talking about how the deaths could have far-reaching consequences because so little is known about their population size,” Toby said. “I agreed with everything he said, except his plan.”
“What was his plan?” I suspected I already knew, but I wanted to hear it from Toby.
“He wanted to blow up a house. Dead bats. Dead people. He was convinced it was only fair.”
“What did you do?”
“I tried to change his mind. But he wouldn’t listen.”
I stayed quiet and let Toby talk.
“I told Batman to leave the bomb by the turbine, but he ignored me and kept creeping toward the house. There was a light upstairs, so I knew people were home. Maybe children. Maybe even their pets. I stayed behind, but his shadow grew closer to the house. I saw a tire swing in the moonlight and knew time was running out.”
That’s when Toby hit send. And Batman went boom.
Toby whimpered like a puppy. “I’m an activist. Not a terrorist.” Then he started to snivel softly. “But now, they’re going to call me a murderer.”
• • •
I gave him a few minutes to calm down. Blackie and Husky tried licking his face. “Who else knows about this?” I asked.
“Nobody,” he answered.
I asked him about Serena, the local leader of Bat Protectors. And he told me she wasn’t involved in the explosions. Batman operated solo.
“I don’t want to get in the middle of your marriage, Toby, but what about Noreen?”
“She knows I was gone that night. She’s upset.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know either.”
Nobody else had this story. So I didn’t have to worry about Channel 7 or any other media beating me. I wasn’t even sure if my boss would let it hit the air once she knew the ramifications.
Garnett would be angry if he ever heard I knew the details of the bombing death and kept quiet.
I mentioned to Toby that there might be forensic evidence linking him to the getaway car. Maybe even fingerprints. I told him he needed to consult an attorney. And level with his wife. He didn’t let on whether he was going to follow through on either idea.
He’d been arrested for various animal rights protests and once on suspicion of abducting Minnesota’s record large-mouth bass. But nothing was as serious as what he faced now. I shouldn’t have been surprised that such a development was festering. Toby had been acting staggeringly unhappy, even for Toby.
Clouds were rolling in again. As I avoided stepping in a puddle on the sidewalk, I saw a worm stretched across the cement. “Toby, what about the worm guy?”
He seemed to blush, though the sky was getting too dark to tell. “I made him up. I wanted to divert your attention from bats.”
I didn’t answer but decided to go home and sit on the dilemma until tomorrow. But the tomorrow I was expecting never came.
CHAPTER 37
The police didn’t wait until morning to arrest me.
But they did allow me to change out of my pajamas and into some normal clothes before hauling me off to jail that night on homicide charges for the murder of Sam Pierce.
“Can’t I just turn myself in?” I knew courts routinely made deals like this with white-collar criminals.
They shook their heads. “Chief gave the order himself to bring you in.”
That I could believe.
The two blues recommended I leave my purse at home, because it would just be put in jail inventory.
“How about my cell phone? Can I take that?”
They shook their heads, herding me toward the door.
“Don’t I get to call my attorney?”
“Later,” one of them replied. “Jail has phones.”
Then I learned the main reason they didn’t want me to bring anything along was because they intended to handcuff me.
“What if I promise to behave?” I asked.
“Sorry, it’s procedure.”
Obediently, I held my wrists in front in me, hoping cooperation might win me some points. But they insisted on cuffing me from behind, again resorting to that same excuse of police procedure.
Off balance, I nearly tripped on my way to the squad car and one of them had to steady me. The handcuffs cut into my wrists. They loaded me into their Crown Vic, where a barrier separated me in the backseat from them in the front seat. I wondered if any famous criminals had ridden there before me.
The cops didn’t seem in the mood to talk. And for once, I wasn’t in the mood to ask questions. I was afraid of the answers.
As we drove away, I thought I saw a still photographer across the street and hoped the newspaper hadn’t been given advance warni
ng about my arrest.
The two miles to downtown had never seemed so long. I was torn between wanting to get there fast to fix this crazy mess, and wanting to never get there in case they never let me out.
The car drove down a ramp to an underground garage and I was escorted into the booking area of the Hennepin County jail. Years ago, I recalled Channel 3 airing a story about what a fabulous jail this was—accredited even. But from my perspective just then, the only good part was that the cuffs came off.
The intake officer confiscated my clothes, even my underwear, trading me for plastic sandals, jailhouse bra and panties, and an orange jumpsuit. Neither the color nor the fit pleased me, but wardrobe is not a priority in the pokey.
“When can I call my attorney?” I asked.
“Later.”
While I waited in a plastic chair, a video played in a wall monitor, outlining the rules of jail. The production quality was only so-so, but I thought it best not to criticize.
“Riley Spartz.” A man called my name. I stood and a couple other inmates stared at me as if trying to recall where we’d met. I was waved into a booth and admonished not to smile.
I’d seen plenty of bad mug shots on the job. Most of those people were drunk or high. Being sober and scared, I knew how important it was not to look guilty. Or creepy. Because a mug shot follows you the rest of your life. Ask Lindsay Lohan.
At one extreme are the meth addicts with wild hair, bloodshot eyes, open facial sores, and rotting teeth. At the other is bathroom foot-tapper Larry Craig, whose mug shot looked exactly like the photo on his official U.S. Senate ID.
That’s the look I was aiming for. A mug shot so neutral it could be used on a press pass. An in-custody image that minimized just how bad a legal jam I was in.
As they prepared to snap my picture, I had to balance on two white shoe outlines spaced fairly far apart on the floor. I wondered how a drunk could be expected to perform such a feat. The reason for the maneuver was to record an inmate’s height and weight. So in addition to being accused of murder, everyone would know how much I weighed. Just the kind of obnoxious detail Sam would have relished for his column.
As I braced myself for the camera click, a crazy inmate started singing “Jailhouse Rock.”
I couldn’t help it. I started laughing. Along with everybody in the whole cell block.
So instead of an earnest mug shot that reflected how seriously I viewed the whole situation, I looked like I was snickering at the law.
I asked to do a retake but was told, “One mug per mug.” Then I was motioned down the hall, where a couple of goons kept “Hey baby”–ing me while I waited for the deputies to take my fingerprints.
The days of inky fingers are gone. The jail used a biometric computer that allowed them to electronically compare fingerprints with others in the system. The acquisition came after a minor scandal at another jail when an accused rapist was confused with a shoplifter and accidentally turned loose. Now jailers check an inmate’s finger upon booking and release to make sure they match.
“Hey, sweetheart.” Another jerk hooted at me and made kissy sounds as he was escorted down the hall.
Finally, a jailer gave me permission to use one of the wall phones. I dialed Benny because Noreen had been so pissy lately. I figured instead of notifying my attorney, she’d just interrupt regular scheduled programming with the breaking news of my arrest. As for Benny, I knew he’d call the station because he likes appearing on television.
“Get me out of here,” I said as soon as I heard his voice on the other end of the line.
When Benny heard where I was calling from, he bellowed so loudly I thought he might rip a vocal cord. He promised me he was on his way and hung up.
I continued to hold the phone by my ear, pretending to listen so I could delay rejoining the jail scene. The guy next to me was ordering someone to bring cash now. The woman on my other side was crying and apologizing. Then I got the signal my time was up.
I was taken to a tiny holding room with a cement bench and a metal sink and toilet. I swore I would rather pee my pants than sit on that throne. No clock was in sight, probably so inmates would lose track of time.
Benny arrived hollering about probable cause and them not having grounds to hold me. Detective Delmonico let him settle down, then mentioned having other questions he’d like to ask me since my attorney was present.
“Absolutely not,” Benny said. “Any questions you have for her can go through me first.”
Then Chief Capacasa stuck his head through the door. The last time we’d talked he was mad about a serial killer, targeting women named Susan, whom I’d tangled with a year before. “Hello, Ms. Spartz, Mr. Walsh. Thanks for joining us downtown today.”
“Back at you, Chief,” I responded, even though it grated on me to use his title just then. One piece of street strategy I’ve adopted is to call police chiefs “Chief.” It’s like standing up when they enter the room. Or saluting. “You didn’t have to send a car, Chief. You could have just called. I’d have come down.”
“We thought we ought to do it by the book.” Chief Capacasa smiled. “In case the media’s watching.”
“Stop talking to them,” Benny told me. “That’s my job. Let me earn my bill.” Then he turned to the chief. “As for you, we both know you’re playing politics here. I’d like us to have a word alone.”
They left me in my cell to alternate staring at the metal toilet and concrete walls.
About a half hour later, they moved me to a larger room where Benny was waiting.
“You know how the button works, Mr. Walsh.” The jailer pointed to a large, red button on the wall over the table.
“That won’t be necessary,” Benny replied.
Then the two of us were alone.
“What’s with the button?” I asked.
“I’m supposed to hit it if you attack me,” he said. “Then they come running with clubs.”
“If you don’t get me out of here, that might be necessary,” I joked. But Benny didn’t crack a smile. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“It’s complicated,” he answered. “You’re going to face homicide charges.”
“Are you crazy, Benny? Let me talk to them.”
“You’ll only make things worse. Tomorrow you’re going to appear in front of a judge.”
“Tomorrow? What about today? What about tonight?”
“You’re going to spend tonight in jail, Riley.”
“Jail? You’re my lawyer. You’re supposed to get me out of here. What about bail?”
“Your arrest is a publicity stunt. Normally they’d just have you turn yourself in, get processed, and show up in court. In this case, they want you to cool your heels in the slammer.”
He’d started to explain how the defense argues for bail, the prosecution argues against it, and the judge makes the final decision before I cut him off.
“I’m a reporter. I know how bail works. And I also know they can’t charge me without probable cause. So something’s not right.”
That’s when he told me we needed to talk. “You first, Riley.”
“Me first? Benny, I’ve got nothing to say I haven’t already said.”
That’s when he told me the cops found gunshot residue on my pink jacket, the one I was wearing at the assault hearing just hours before the gossip murder. And even worse, a couple of my hairs were on Sam’s dead body.
If true, this was serious. “That’s not possible.”
“Along with your drink-in-the-face altercation, the gossip column in the victim’s mouth, and you with no alibi … they’re liking their case before a jury.”
I had no answer and instead thought hard to come up with a reasonable explanation. The cops couldn’t be this stupid. All I could think was that I’d been framed.
The guard banged on our door and told us time was up.
“Give us a minute,” Benny yelled. “They’re going to make me leave now. I’ll be back tomorrow before court
.”
Just then the answer came to me—or part of it anyway. “I fired at the shooting range with Nick Garnett the other night. I wore the pink jacket.”
“You fired bullets?” Benny asked. “With a real gun?”
“He loaned me his. I shot terribly.”
“Let’s hope he’ll testify to both facts.”
Benny had briefly represented Garnett once in a criminal matter, and knew both his aim and word to be true.
• • •
The Hennepin County jail has one of the tougher law enforcement media policies in the state—no camera interviews, no in-person media visits. Inmates may return a reporter’s phone call, collect. Few do. But those who do call back are tape-recorded by the news organization so Their Side of the Story can be heard. Often the cops tape-record those calls, too. Just in case something surprising comes out.
For all those reasons, I was careful about what I said to Noreen, didn’t detail the new evidence, and assured her it was all a big misunderstanding.
She tried to cheer me up by assuring me Channel 3 had broken the news of my arrest first.
The Minneapolis newspaper’s crime reporter left a message for me with the jailers, but I didn’t return it. The other TV stations didn’t bother, but I figured their lights and cameras would be waiting for me tomorrow.
Instead of reminding myself I was a prisoner, I tried pretending I was undercover in jail trying to get an exclusive so I could win a major journalism award.
I’d been incarcerated for hours but still hadn’t seen any actual bars. Just the same concrete benches. The same metal toilets. This was a modern jail.
I’d been moved to another temporary, but larger, holding area, with ten other women who had recently been arrested. None of us had been convicted of anything. The jailers had no say in who gets in and who gets out. Those decisions are made by the cops and the courts. I wished I had business cards to hand out in case any of my fellow detainees became newsworthy.
One woman was asleep on the cold cement floor, having spread toilet paper for a rug.