by Julie Kramer
“What new evidence?” another reporter eagerly asked, forgetting, or ignoring, the prohibition on questions.
“No comment,” the sheriff responded. “We are continuing our investigation and believe her murder to be a domestic.”
A domestic, I thought, means a family member. I didn’t know she had other family.
The public takes comfort when a victim ends up knowing her killer. Then we can tell ourselves we’re safe. Our spouses and friends and children would never harm us. But random homicides give us the chills and make us all feel vulnerable.
I’d done enough Fear Grips live shots to understand those dynamics. That’s where a reporter stands in a cul-de-sac strung with crime-scene tape and says something like “Fear grips this once quiet neighborhood while a killer roams free.”
Yep, random homicides make residents panic. And put pressure on police—which is why cops prefer domestics, too.
The sheriff continued. “We do not believe her assailant poses a direct threat to other residents of our community, but he could be dangerous if cornered so we ask anyone with information on his where abouts to contact us and not approach him directly.”
Could the sheriff be referring to her estranged husband? Could her ex have tracked her down after all these years?
“We are making public a photograph of the suspect, her son, thirty-four-year-old Mark Lefevre. Anyone with information on his whereabouts is asked to call the St. Croix County Sheriff’s Department.”
Then the sheriff turned and walked away. I was so stunned I couldn’t speak, which explains why I was the only journalist in the room not shouting questions at his shadow.
Noreen was ecstatic when I returned. She’d already slated me to lead tonight’s late news. And NEVER WORN was back on the May board.
My competition didn’t realize the prime suspect was also a missing person, so that gave me a big scoop. And changed the focus of my initial story as Mark shifted from victim to villain.
((RILEY/ON SET))
A MAN MISSING SINCE LAST
FALL IS NOW SUSPECTED IN
THE MURDER OF HIS
MOTHER.
The other media also had to settle for the driver’s license photo authorities released of Mark Lefevre, while I used a shot of him sitting on a couch with his now dead mom and the home video of him making a toast at the rehearsal dinner.
((RILEY/SOT))
MARK LEFEVRE VANISHED
ON THE EVE OF HIS
WEDDING. HIS BRIDE HAD
NO IDEA OF HIS
WHEREABOUTS … AND
WORRIED FOR HIS SAFETY.
((BRIDE/SOT))
WE LOVED EACH OTHER. HE
WOULDN’T JUST LEAVE
WITHOUT SAYING
ANYTHING.
None of my competition had video of the crime-scene tape, either. And none of them had helped authorities identify the victim. I struggled to work that in without sounding too boastful, trying to make it seem more like a public service than a news exclusive.
((RILEY/NAT))
CHANNEL 3 ARRIVED ON
THE MURDER SCENE AFTER
LAW ENFORCEMENT
RESPONDED TO A CALL
THAT A DELIVERY MAN HAD
FOUND THE FRONT DOOR
AJAR.
I blamed Noreen for the one missing element that might have made the story a national award winner: an on-camera interview with the deceased. My boss regretted that business about destroying the tape, but tried to throw the blame on me by saying I should have fought harder to save it. I had to settle for a few cover shots of Mrs. Lefevre in her house because they were on the same tape as the old photo albums Malik had shot.
((RILEY/NAT))
AUTHORITIES INITIALLY
CALLED THE DEATH A
SUICIDE.
After leaving the sheriff’s department, I had phoned Madeline because I didn’t want her to turn on the radio or click on the Internet and learn the news unexpectedly. I also didn’t want her to take any other media calls. It was not an easy conversation to have over the phone. I resisted using the obvious good news/bad news approach. The good news is police have a lead on your missing fiancé; the bad news is he’s a killer.
Instead I gave it to her straight.
Madeline didn’t believe me. Oh, she knew Mark’s mother was dead. And she, too, was troubled by the notion of suicide and felt some guilt that she hadn’t stayed in closer touch with her almost mother-in-law.
But she didn’t believe for a minute that her betrothed had anything to do with murder.
((RILEY/NAT))
AUTHORITIES SAY NEW
EVIDENCE CAUSED THEM
TO CHANGE THE CAUSE-OF-
DEATH RULING … BUT
THEY DECLINED TO GIVE
ANY DETAILS.
((SHERIFF/SOT))
NO COMMENT.
((RILEY/ON SET))
BUT CHANNEL 3 HAS
LEARNED THAT SEVERAL
BOXES CONTAINING ITEMS
BELONGING TO THE
SUSPECT ARE MISSING
FROM HIS MOTHER’S
GARAGE.
“I’d like to know what this new evidence is,” Madeline said. “Those lazy cops probably just made it up to frame Mark.”
“Madeline, you need to watch more Law and Order on television. Police gain nothing by calling a suicide a homicide. It creates more work for them, not less.”
“But none of this makes any sense. She was the only family he had. Why would he harm her?”
Mark clearly hadn’t confided to her that his mother had deceived him about his father. But to me, that deception didn’t merit murder.
“You don’t know him, Riley, but I do. He is not a man of violence.”
“But, Madeline, you only knew him for three months and much of that time you were registering for linens and picking out colors.”
“Three minutes was all I needed to know what kind of man he is.” Then she hung up before I could ask her about his pre-wedding confrontation with his mom and what Madeline knew about her fiancé’s father.
The mother of the bride apparently didn’t share her daughter’s confidence in her almost son-in-law’s character. When Vivian Post heard that Mark was wanted for murder, she hired a private security firm to protect her family. And to keep the media away.
She said that included me.
fter the late news I headed to the Mall of America for my movie meeting with Nick Garnett. We had seats in the back of a nearly empty theater for a late-night show. I insisted I wasn’t hungry but he made a trip to the concession stand and brought back hot dogs, a giant pretzel, pizza, and a couple of drinks. Popcorn, too. Greasy.
Garnett insisted I eat something. “You’ve had a long day and it’s a long movie.”
Earlier, I’d told him he could pick the flick, so I was stuck with a Jackie Chan martial-arts film that I had little interest in watching. But the popcorn smell drifted my way and I realized I was hungry after all and reached for the pretzel.
He told me repairs had been made at Underwater Adventures and the aquarium would reopen tomorrow. I told him about my suspicions that the fish thieves would try to smuggle Big Mouth Billy into the bass contest to collect half a million bucks.
“And my boss expects me to find him before sweeps end,” I said. “That gives me just over two weeks to fail.”
Garnett laughed and replied, “Tell her there are some fish that can’t be caught. It’s not like they are bigger or faster than the other fish. They are just touched by something extra.” He said the line with twinkling eyes and I recognized the challenge in his voice.
“Very funny,” I replied. “Ewan McGregor. Big Fish, 2003. I win.” I associate movies with news events near their release date. And I distinctly remembered seeing a Big Fish film ad run next to a promo about U.S. forces capturing Saddam Hussein, and thinking, Two big fish in one commercial break.
“Good catch.” Garnett raised his drink in a playful toast.
�
�As amusing as this game is, Nick,” I continued, “and as certain as I am that you’re setting me up for that quote from A River Runs Through It—”
“You mean the 1992 one,” he interrupted me, “where the narrator says, ‘If our father had had his say, nobody who did not know how to fish would be allowed to disgrace a fish by catching him.’”
Garnett looked pleased with himself, like he’d reeled in a winner.
“Yes, that’s the one,” I conceded. “But I need to shift the talk back to business. Hear the homicide news from Wisconsin?”
“Oh yeah,” he answered.
“So what do you think?” I asked.
“I think I’m glad it’s not my case.”
“I’m starting to wish it wasn’t my story.” Just when I was willing to give up NEVER WORN, my news director was giving it top priority. “This isn’t what I signed up for. The last thing I want to do is chase another killer. I just wanted to help find a missing person.”
“Your problem, Riley, is you think you can tell Norman Rockwell from Norman Bates.”
I opened my mouth to contradict him, but Garnett put a finger on my lips and shook his head. “Distinguishing good from evil isn’t that simple, even though you media types would like it to be.”
The lights in the theater were starting to dim, so I quickly turned our discussion from abstract villainy to the real reason for our meeting.
“Find out anything about this new evidence Wisconsin’s referring to?” Finding that could be the key to finding Mark.
“I was waiting for you to ask,” Garnett said.
“Really, Nick? You know something?”
A preview for a Will Smith superhero film started rolling, so he whispered. “They had to outsource the autopsy to the Ramsey County medical examiner here in Minnesota because that county doesn’t have their own ME. Plenty of rural counties don’t. Lots of buzz going on.”
“Like what?”
“They’re pissed because the investigators in the field forgot to bag her hands.”
The image startled me.
“Is that cop talk?” I asked. “I love it when you talk cop talk.” Unsub. Blood splatter. Chain of custody. Cops have their own exotic language.
Garnett explained that the field team neglected to put paper bags over Mrs. Lefevre’s hands to preserve evidence. That meant forensics couldn’t draw a firm conclusion whether she fired the gun or not, even though her fingerprints were the only ones found on the weapon. “That meant the sheriff’s office had to establish suicide with the other evidence. And it pointed in the opposite direction.”
“Do you know what the new evidence is?”
“It’s the suicide note,” he said. “Handwriting doesn’t match the mother’s. It matches the son’s.”
I recalled the blue piece of paper near Jean Lefevre’s body. “Where did they get copies of his handwriting?”
“Probably the missing person file. Often cops ask for handwriting samples just in case bank accounts are opened or closed suspiciously. Helps them rule out identity fraud.”
I had more questions, but the movie was starting and Garnett shushed me so he could pay attention. The last scene I recall was a kung fu confrontation that seemed to go much too long.
Then Garnett was shaking me awake and the closing credits were ending. The theater was empty and still dark. I was groggy and our evening seemed like a dream and our faces were close together. I probably should have just kissed him and avoided an awkward conversation; but I sometimes overthink and overtalk. This was one of those times.
“Nick, do you ever think about that time last fall when you kissed me?”
I think I asked because I wanted him to kiss me again.
But Garnett kept his lips to himself, and not just because the lights had come up and the ushers had arrived to collect the garbage.
“Riley, if you’re looking for something personal, you should know I’m a once-burned, twice-shy kind of guy.”
He obviously remembered our previous kiss had ended badly.
“You know how I feel about you.” As he whispered, I felt beard stubble brush against my cheek.
He reached over to tilt my chin up with his hand and gaze into my eyes, perhaps as if trying to read truth in the face of a woman. Something he admitted that he had no talent for.
I stopped breathing because I was certain a kiss was seconds away. Then he threw our botched buss back at me. He delivered his next words like he’d practiced for this moment.
“I think I need to hear the L word first.”
L? Love? Now he seemed to be the one overthinking and overtaking. In my experience, men typically kissed first and questioned later. And those queries were more likely to spell the L word lust than love.
I wasn’t looking to lock into a complicated romantic relationship; I was just craving a kiss. After all, a mere kiss between old friends wouldn’t jeopardize my new virgin status. Would it?
I was afraid of where this conversation might lead, so I kept my mouth shut on love and friendship and suddenly remembered I needed to get home and let the dog out.
ell after midnight, I pulled into my garage just as headlights from another vehicle turned into my neighbor’s driveway. Shep was unhappy I’d been away so long. As I opened the door to get in, he ducked out for his doggy business. A couple of minutes later, I heard the slam of a screen door and saw a man leaving my neighbor’s house. Shep and I watched as he climbed into his vehicle, backed out, and drove away.
Another quickie visit, I thought to myself. The family living on the other side of George had told me a few days earlier they found the odd comings and goings irritating in the middle of the night. This latest visitor didn’t bother me because it wasn’t like I was trying to sleep, and when I did sleep, I slept deep, oblivious to headlights in the window and car tires on asphalt.
I GLANCED AT the overnight numbers posted on the bulletin board by the coffee machine in the newsroom. A 28 share. Mediocre by last year’s measure. But exceptional now, considering the network gave us a rotten lead-in show and some viewers were still mad about the writer’s strike. Mrs. Lefevre’s murder was as close to gold as I expected to strike during this ratings book.
I pulled the sheet down and headed for Noreen’s glass-walled office because I needed a shot of praise. But she was already in a meeting with two guests I would never have expected: Toby Elness and Blackie, his black Labrador. The Lab’s rather obvious name made perfect sense to Noreen—after all, she’d named her own dalmatian Freckles.
“What’s going on, Toby?” I asked. “Were you waiting for me?”
Noreen looked miffed for some unknown reason; Toby looked confused, probably from being cooped up too long with my news director. She sometimes had that effect on me, too.
Toby’s face drooped like a basset hound’s—large nose, sad eyes, and longish ear lobes, but I knew him to be as loyal as a collie.
“We were discussing options in the missing bass case,” Noreen said. “You’ve been so busy, Riley, I thought Toby might have some insight.”
She glanced his way with a smile that seemed like a fake attempt to flirt by someone who was out of practice. I wanted to tell her to save it—Toby didn’t respond to feminine manipulation. But I ignored her sham and put the question to him plain.
“Do you?” I asked Toby. “Have any insight?” If he did, I couldn’t imagine why he wouldn’t have already told me.
“Not really,” he answered. “I was just telling your boss—”
“Please, call me Noreen.”
“I was just telling her I don’t know anything about the kidnapped fish. I don’t know how many times I have to say that the Animal Liberation Front would never harm other fish just to save one.”
“And I was just telling Toby how I genuinely share his concern for animals,” Noreen said. “And how, should he find himself in a position to witness the release of Billy into the wild, Channel 3 would love to broadcast some home video so our viewers could see
the important work being done for our earth’s creatures.”
Noreen’s face had that special glow she gets when she’s in love with a story. And then she delivered my closing line—the one I’d told her I often used with reluctant sources who didn’t want controversial documents or information traced back to them.
“Toby, this television station gets baskets of mail each day, should a package arrive with a videotape and no return address and no signature, we’d have no idea where it came from, and that’s what we’d have to tell anyone who asked.”
Then she insisted on walking him and Blackie out the front door to pay for their parking. While they were seated in her office, Toby seemed taller than Noreen. But that was an illusion, I now noticed as Blackie led them down the block. Side by side, they were the same size, but Noreen’s height was in her legs and she moved like a greyhound, slim and sleek. Toby’s legs were shorter, and closer to the ground, and he took more steps to keep up with her.
Toby later told me Noreen suggested they meet at a local dog park with their pets sometime soon.
Noreen later told me she suspected authorities were right and Toby did know more about that missing fish than he was letting on.
Back in my office, I was going through my e-mail spam filter, counting all the different ways to misspell Viagra, when my cell phone rang. Madeline needed to see me. Urgently.
“I’m in downtown Minneapolis,” I told her. “How about if I stop by after work?”
“The police were here, asking questions about Mark.”
“That’s to be expected. Just tell them what you know.”
“I didn’t know anything. What I need to talk to you about is what they told me.”
MADELINE CLAIMED SHE needed to get outdoors and breathe fresh air, so she gave me directions to Tamarack Nature Center in White Bear Lake. I figured I could dash home afterward and let Shep out. I pulled into the parking lot next to her Mercedes.
“Hello, Madeline, it’s Riley.” I called out my name, understanding that she wouldn’t recognize me otherwise.