Missing Mark

by Julie Kramer

  And my paycheck is deposited straight to my bank. Most of my personal bills are paid online directly through my checking account. So I hardly ever touch money. My remaining bills I route to Channel 3 since I prefer to keep my home address private and wasn’t sure how long I’d stay in my new place. I separated nuisance mail from that with news value. Most government agencies even send news releases by e-mail now to save on postage and paper, so there wasn’t much from the stack of paper that didn’t end up in the trash. Less news, more junk.

  One envelope didn’t have a return address, but that wasn’t unusual; often tipsters want to remain anonymous. Sometimes they’re blowing the whistle on a crooked employer and fear retribution. Sometimes they’re launching political dirty tricks and need to cover their tracks. Sometimes they just want to whine about a news story but don’t have the guts to sign their name.

  This letter writer’s reason was none of the above and became clear the minute I unfolded the note, made up of words cut from newspaper headlines and glued to a sheet of paper. Primitive in a high-tech age.

  FISH SHOULD BE FREE AND NOT ON DISPLAY IN

  GLASS CELLS. WE WILL RELEASE BIG MOUTH

  BILLY INTO THE WILD AS A LESSON NOT TO

  IMPRISON NATURE’S CREATURES.

  THE ANIMAL LIBERATION FRONT

  I wasn’t sure if the note was genuine or a joke, but I wished my fingerprints weren’t on it.

  I phoned Malik to bring his camera to my office. He’d left the station five minutes earlier and was not pleased to turn around in rush-hour traffic. His wife, Missy, no doubt had supper ready and the kids were waiting for him to walk through the door so they could yell “Daddy! Daddy!” and rush him with hugs and kisses.

  “Do I have to?” he asked. I’d probably understand his reluctance better if I had what he had waiting at home.

  “Overtime,” I answered. Usually raising Malik’s paycheck raised his spirits. But this didn’t seem to be one of those times. Missy must be grilling steaks.

  “Can you really not do it?” I asked. “Or do you just not want to do it. Honest, it’ll be worth it when you see what came in the mail.”

  “You always say nothing good comes in the mail anymore.”

  “Well, I was wrong.”

  So he returned and when he looked beyond my giddy smile and saw the makeshift note, Malik gave me a big thumbs-up.

  A mere sheet of paper… not only did its cut-and-paste message spell out a fascinating criminal motive; it spelled a turning point in the investigation. And for a television news station in the midst of sweeps, that combination can also be spelled ratings.

  There’s a saying in the news biz: When you don’t have a lot to shoot, shoot a lot of it. So Malik shot a full tape of the letter from every conceivable angle, in close-ups and wide shots, carefully arranged on a piece of black velvet. To look classy.

  First he photographed the pasted words straight on, then with a pan and a zoom, later with some fancy-focus moves. He also videotaped each word individually in case we wanted to edit together a quick-cut montage for variety. The envelope had a Minneapolis postmark with a downtown zip code, so he spent several minutes shooting the hell out of that, too.

  When he finished, I called Noreen and told her I had something to show her. She was busy watching the end of the six o’clock news and wanted me to just bring it to her office. I said no. She said this better be good. And she said it in her I’m-the-boss-and-you’re-not voice.

  She walked into my office, took one look, made a joyful noise, and called our media lawyer, Miles Lewis. His first words after he arrived back at the station were, “Have you called the authorities yet?”

  “It could be a fake,” I said. “I’d hate to cry wolf over a fish. Let the cops watch it on the news. If they want it, they can call us.”

  “But I’d hate airing it if it’s a hoax,” Noreen said. “Then we’d look stupid.”

  “The validity of the note is for law enforcement to decide, not us,” Miles said. “We have what could be evidence of a crime. We need to turn it over.”

  His decision didn’t surprise me.

  That’s why I made sure we videotaped it before he arrived. The last thing I needed was the cops arriving with their hands out for the letter while we were still setting up lights. Lately, I’d caught myself thinking like a lawyer. An unpleasant but increasingly necessary part of the job of an investigative reporter.

  While I silently congratulated myself for being one step ahead of Miles, he continued laying down the law, or rather, his interpretation of it. “If the police shrug it off, then you can do whatever you want. But they get first crack.”

  “Can we still air the story?” Noreen asked.

  I sure thought so. “If the cops want the note for their investigation, that gives our story credibility.” Once a story has legs, it’s easier to run.

  Miles agreed with my news analysis. “As for airing it, that’s an editorial decision, not a legal one. Air it or don’t air it. I’m just telling you at some point you need to offer it to law enforcement.”

  Noreen and I both nodded at the same time. An unusual enough occurrence that we looked at each other with surprise and suspicion.

  Miles wanted to count heads. “Right now, do only the four of us know about this letter?”

  Malik had been so quiet in the corner, I’d forgotten all about him. He preferred avoiding legalese debates. “Just the four of us,” I repeated.

  Miles warned us to try and keep this development quiet in the newsroom until we made a decision about our coverage. That might be difficult, I thought to myself, the other staff already had to be wondering what was going on in my office. Anytime Miles showed up, that usually meant trouble.

  Most of his lawyering took place in an upstairs office, poring over the fine print of contracts or negotiating personal-services terms with valued employees. He typically only came down to the newsroom for script review. Playing First Amendment attorney made him proud he went to law school.

  Noreen dialed the Bloomington police. I listened as she explained that we had received information that might be related to their missing-fish investigation at the Mall of America.

  “It concerns the Animal Liberation Front.” She hung up the phone and told us an officer was on his way.

  Using two pencils as chopsticks, I carried the note from my office to the conference room, stopping first at the photocopy machine. I didn’t want any cop looking longingly at other boxes or files stacked in my office and showing up later with a search warrant.

  While we waited, I Googled the Animal Liberation Front, otherwise known as ALF. I already knew this wasn’t the first time the international animal rights group had been linked with plots to free animals. But I was surprised at how frequently they’d struck in Minnesota, which indicated a strong following in the state.

  The group claimed responsibility for numerous ecoterrorism acts starting a decade ago when they raided a University of Minnesota lab to free more than a hundred research animals, mostly mice. According to campus officials they caused $2 million in damage, which works out to about $20,000 a mouse. I know freedom isn’t free, but to me that price tag seemed steep.

  I pulled some news file tape from the incident and saw crime-scene video around a large campus building with police cars parked outside. ALF provided the media with interior shots of cages upturned and broken laboratory equipment. In a sound bite from a news conference, a university researcher contended that the attack set Alzheimer’s studies back years.

  Looking online for other cases, I noticed that a few years ago a related animal rights group set fire to a genetic research center under construction at the U of M, resulting in more than $600,000 in damage. More file tape for me. And since then, the Animal Liberation Front had freed thousands of minks from local fur farms (Minnesota being the third-largest fur-farming state in the nation).

  When the Bloomington detective arrived, he wasn’t alone. An FBI agent accompanied him, acting all
law and orderly. Neither cracked a smile when I asked if they were fishing for clues or casting for suspects. Both drifted to the note and envelope in the center of the conference table like leeches to blood.

  I’d already forgotten the FBI guy’s name because his kind are generally uncooperative with the media, though I’d stuck his card in my purse.

  “Has anyone touched this?” he asked.

  I raised my hand. “It was addressed to me so I opened it.”

  “We’ll be needing to fingerprint you.”

  “We’ll get back to you on that,” Miles said in his big-shot attorney voice. The last thing I wanted was for the feds to have my prints on file. I wouldn’t put it past them to already have my name on some watch list or another.

  The FBI guy scowled and explained that the Animal Liberation Front was the nation’s most destructive domestic terrorism group and our country needed the cooperation of all of its citizens to put a halt to their sabotage.

  “We’re talking about a fish,” I said. “Shouldn’t you guys be worrying more about Al Qaeda?”

  “Terrorism is terrorism,” he responded.

  Noreen motioned for me to be quiet, which was actually good advice because I was about to inquire where that FBI attitude had been in the weeks leading up to September 11, 2001. Zacarias Moussaoui, considered the twentieth hijacker, was locked up in a Minnesota jail after a flight-school manager tipped the feds that his newest student wasn’t interested in learning how to land an airplane. FBI headquarters had messed up big-time in refusing to search his computer. It wasn’t a moment they liked being reminded about.

  Now the FBI guy was asking us not to air our lead. The Blooming-ton cop nodded in agreement, although the feds were clearly taking charge of the investigation.

  “We’re a news organization,” Noreen said. Good for her. The late news was still a good two hours away. Plenty of time to make air. “No one’s life is in jeopardy. I’m not sure we can comply with your request.”

  Privately, I suspected animal lover that she was, she might secretly be rooting for the Animal Liberation Front.

  Miles backed her up. “Our civic duty was to provide evidence. We’ve done that.”

  “If we lose our chance to recover the fish,” Mr. FBI said, “it will be your fault.”

  I suppressed a snicker at the absurdity.

  Ever since British media voluntarily blacked out Prince Harry’s combat deployment, even government agencies here in America were starting to think they were entitled to secret censorship deals with the media.

  Then the FBI guy said something about how Operation Piscis Absenti was highest priority.

  “What did you just call it?” I asked.

  “Operation Piscis Absenti,” he said. “That’s the code name for the operation.”

  I must have looked puzzled, so he explained that Piscis Absenti was Latin for “missing fish.”

  “What’s the matter with calling it the Big Mouth Billy Bass Case in plain old English?” I asked. That’s what the media had dubbed the caper. “Or how about Bassgate?”

  “It sounds trivial and obvious.” He justified the use of Latin by insisting that it lent an aura of seriousness and sophistication to the investigation, thus making it easier to obtain federal resources. “Once the public hears Operation Piscis Absenti, that will become the preferred code name.”

  Noreen and I gave each other another look that said, Okay just for this story, we’re on the same wavelength. But Miles nodded like the FBI guy was making perfect sense. Understandable because the law is full of pretentious Latin phrases.

  I’d heard enough about the FBI guy’s strategy to make his investigation appear more important than his colleagues’ cases. It didn’t seem all that different than jockeying for better play in a newscast except tax dollars were involved. I could have pointed out that Piscis Absenti might not go over big with the media because it’s hard to pronounce and harder to spell, but I needed to get some real work done. No story ever got written sitting in news meetings all night.

  Just then Tom McHale stuck his head in the conference room to see what was going on. Tom was an old-school anchor, who started as a street reporter and became a top investigative journalist before moving to the high-profile, big-bucks job of news reader. That meant he had to leave his tough-guy persona behind—while an investigative reporter’s job is to piss people off, a TV anchor’s job is to be loved. I understood the conflict. But even if he’d sold out for cash and a cushy schedule, Tom hadn’t lost his news instincts. He sensed when something was up in the conference room.

  “There’s been a development in the Big Mouth Billy Bass Case,” Noreen said.

  The FBI guy pursed his lips in a pout, probably because she hadn’t used the official code name.

  “But we’re still weighing our options,” Noreen continued, filling Tom in on the action as he pulled up a chair.

  I handed Tom a copy of the newspaper-cutout letter and all became clear to him. He had that elated look anchors get when they know they’re going to cream the competition with a big exclusive right off the top of the newscast.

  “What’s to decide,” he asked, “except whether Riley or I get to hold the letter up on set? I vote for me.”

  “There are some complicating factors.” Noreen tilted her head toward the FBI guy as she explained the situation.

  “Let’s not forget the fishnappers sent the note to a TV station,” I reminded everyone. “They’re expecting media coverage. Who knows what they’ll do if they don’t get it. I better get started on the ten.”

  “I vote for that,” Tom said.

  I even ad-libbed a story opening to help build consensus.

  POLICE ARE INVESTIGATING

  A LEAD IN THE BILLY BASS

  CASE IN WHICH A

  CONTROVERSIAL ANIMAL

  RIGHTS GROUP CLAIMS TO

  HAVE KIDNAPPED THE

  FAMOUS FISH. THIS

  LETTER… SENT TO ME

  HERE AT CHANNEL 3…

  THREATENS TO RELEASE

  BILLY INTO THE WILD AS A

  LESSON TO US ALL.

  I looked around the conference room to gauge reaction.

  Predictably, both law enforcement officers shook their heads. They didn’t want publicity, and the FBI guy was increasingly sore because no one was saying the code name.

  Predictably, Tom argued the presentation would be stronger if he waved the letter, then tossed to me for details. “The content is excellent, though.” He looked toward Noreen for approval.

  But she and Miles had their heads together, whispering, before announcing, unpredictably, that we’d hold the story for twenty-four hours.

  I rolled my eyes at what saps they were until Noreen told the cops she’d be expecting our camera to be allowed at the scene of any arrest. Deal or no deal? Between the $10,000 reward and the kidnapper’s note, Channel 3 was trying to corner the market on the fish story.

  “We hear you, but we can’t promise,” FBI guy said.

  “Then I can’t promise, either,” she said.

  “I hear you,” he replied, emphasizing the word I.

  She seemed to think that meant they had a deal. The Bloomington cop pulled out a set of tweezers and put the original note and envelope in plastic wrap. I figured they’d have the lab run a fancy fingerprint trick like in the Hamm kidnapping to see how many sets of prints popped.

  Tom, shaking his head in disappointment, went back to prepping for his newscast. Malik kept his mouth shut as he had during most of the meeting. At least he’d get home in time to read Good Night Moon.

  I followed the law enforcement pair down the hall and out of the building. No point in me hanging around the station, either, since my story had been put on hold. Then the FBI guy turned and unexpectedly asked if I’d like to join him for a drink.

  I shook my head. “I don’t get personally involved with sources.” That wasn’t necessarily true, but I disliked his attitude.

  “This could be a bus
iness drink,” he suggested.

  I paused to consider it and just as I decided I might cultivate some useful information out of him, he must have decided he was getting nowhere with the federal approach and nearly ruined his chances with a tired cliché.

  “Maybe I’d just like to get to know you better.”

  “If you knew me better, you’d like me less.” That was my stock reply to that pickup line.

  “I don’t like you much already,” he answered. “So I won’t be disappointed.”

  “Fine. Neither will I.”

  So we walked across the street to Brit’s, a pub known more for its bar than its menu. Since technically we were off duty, he ordered a beer to show me what a regular guy he was. I ordered an iced tea with lemon to show him I wasn’t buying it.

  “How do you like working for the FBI?” I asked.

  “I consider it an honor and a privilege.” His chest even puffed out a little when he said it.

  Okay, I thought to myself. One of those.

  “What’s it like working for a TV station?” I don’t think he really wanted to know. I think he was just being polite.

  “It’s a lot like working for a vampire,” I replied. “It can suck the life right out of you.” That was another one of my stock lines. I have no trouble saying it with a straight face because I know it to be true.

  He seemed to be having a hard time deciding whether to respect my honesty or disapprove of my dissing my employer to a complete stranger. So the FBI guy talked about cases he’d handled and I talked about stories I’d covered. And I was starting to think he wasn’t such a bad FBI guy after all. I finished the last sip of my drink and was about to ask his name again, when he indicated he needed to leave and picked up my empty glass with a napkin.

  “The waitress will clear that,” I said.

  “I don’t mind.” He left three twenties on the table. Impressive, because most cops are measly tippers.

  “That’s too much.”