Innuendo (28 page)

“Wow.”

“Yeah, it's great. Our initial report shows that the blood type matches Andrew Lyman's, but it's going to take awhile to get a DNA report. We're going to expedite it, but it's still going to take a week or so. Fortunately the weapon wasn't in the water that long and we were able to get a couple of good fingerprints too, which is the really great news. Apparently there was some sort of oily substance on the handle that didn't wash off.”

“Oh, good. I'm glad.” Over some kind of background noise, the guy added, “You know what, there's something else.”

“Really?”

Rawlins closed his eyes and focused not only on the voice but also on the background noise. Was that a car? A bus or a truck? Exactly. The guy was outside, probably calling from some pay phone. Chances were he was even here downtown, perhaps only a matter of a few blocks away. God, what Rawlins wouldn't give to get a trace on this and have the guy picked up. After all, who was to say this wasn't their guy, that this story wasn't all a fabrication?

Rawlins asked, “So what have you got?”

“Well, you know, I was down there in those bushes and… and I saw that guy. The bald guy I told you about.”

“Right. A muscular guy with a bald head,” said Rawlins, writing that down.

“Yeah, he was down at the lake and I watched him throw the knife into the water.” He broke off as the blast of a car horn drowned him out. “In case you were wondering, I'm calling from a pay phone. Like I said, I don't want this call to be traced. I'm sorry, I just can't be more involved than I already am.”

In other words, you're a big closet case. Perhaps you're married, perhaps not. And rather than risk telling your friends and family that you're gay, you're more than willing to risk your health and safety by sneaking into the woods and having anonymous sex.

“That's okay,” said Rawlins at the same time trying to figure out how he could in fact do just that, get him involved. “Go on.”

“Well, there was that car. Like I think I said, it was a Saab. I mean, I'm sure of that.”

“Tell me again what it looked like.”

“It was white with a black roof, so it was a convertible. I'm sure about that. And I remember looking at the back license plate.”

Rawlins wrote down a couple of notes, then bent forward, lowering his forehead into his left hand. Oh, dear God in heaven, please let this be it. Tell me this guy, whoever he is, has a photographic memory.

“Did you get a number?” asked Rawlins.

“No, but it wasn't from here.”

“What do you mean?”

“It wasn't a Minnesota plate. It was from California.”

“You're sure?”

“I'm positive.” The caller paused, then asked, “Will any of that help?”

“Absolutely. A white convertible Saab with California plates—yes, that will definitely give us something to look out for. I'm sure we'll put out an alert. Who knows if we'll be able to find anything, or even if the car is still in the state, but… but we'll try our damnedest.”

Okay, how was he going to handle this? How was he going to hook this guy and lure him in? Notwithstanding that, first and foremost they had to rule him out as the perpetrator; the prosecuting attorney would want this guy's sworn testimony of what he'd seen. He was at this point their only lead, and they needed to make the most of him. If they were able to get an ID from the fingerprint, then they'd need this tipster to identify the man he'd seen throwing the weapon into Lake Harriet. If the fingerprint didn't lead anywhere, then Rawlins would have to arrange a photo lineup and see if the tipster could identify anyone.

But how? How was he going to get him to come in, per se, from the cold world of the closet?

Rawlins said, “You know, I'd really like to get together with you sometime and thank you in person. I'd like to meet you and talk about this. Can I take you out for a cup of coffee or a beer?”

“Oh, I don't know. I really don't think that's a good idea.”

“How about it, huh? Just a cup of coffee? A beer? Something quick and simple? You name the place.”

“This isn't like a trick, is it? You're not going to like arrest me and make me come down to the police station and interrogate me, are you? I mean, I didn't do anything illegal.”

“Of course not,” replied Rawlins, wondering if this guy had more to worry about than his sexuality. “You've just been very helpful and I want to meet you, that's all.”

“But I've already told you everything I saw.”

“I know. Listen, all I want to do is get together. Maybe later, if you want to make a formal statement or anything, then that would be your decision. Totally your decision.”

“Well…”

“Trust me, no pressure. You just name the time and place, I'll be there.”

“Well, okay. How about seven tonight at Jam's. Do you know where that is, out on Excelsior Boulevard?”

“Sure,” replied Rawlins with a smile, for he'd been to the bar more than several times. “I'll see you at Jams at nine tonight. Don't forget, the drinks are on me.”

“Alright.” The tipster hesitated, then added, “Listen, I should tell you that I'm a photographer and that I've been working on… on, well, a story. The reason I saw that guy down at the lake is because I followed him there. So I'm positive about the car. And… and I think you know where to look for it too.”

“I'm sorry, I'm not sure I understand.”

“I saw you down at the lake yesterday—I asked some cop and he pointed you out. And… and then I saw you last night as well.”

“Wh—”

“I'll explain tonight.”

The tipster hung up, and Rawlins just sat there holding the receiver until the dial tone started blaring in his ear. This guy was a photographer who'd followed the bald man down to Lake Harriet and watched him throw a knife into the water. Then the guy had been down at the lake again when they'd recovered the knife. And he'd seen Rawlins last night as well? But how was that possible? And where?

Holy shit. Rawlins stared down at his notes. It hadn't clicked, not until just now, but hadn't he himself seen that very same car, a white Saab, just yesterday evening?

The murder of Andrew
Lyman was a hot story that was getting cooler by the moment, or so thought WLAK management. And it was nobody s fault but Todd's, for instead of attending this morning's editorial meeting and fighting for his story he'd been on the phone tracking down an old issue of
The National Times.
Consequently he didn't get one of the top slots, but was instead told to prepare a twenty-second VOSOT that would probably run just prior to the weather.

You idiot, he told himself.

Sitting in one of the dark edit bays, a small glassed-in chamber packed with monitors and tape players and a bizarre assortment of control equipment, Todd tried to think of a way to come at this. But that was the problem, he was having trouble thinking, or more specifically, focusing on the who and the why and the what of Andrew Lyman's death. To do a good story you had to obsess about it. You had to grab hold and not let go. And today he was having trouble doing just that. Distracted by his problems with Rawlins as well as his encounter with Tim Chase, Todd had lost the thread of the story. And right now he felt as if it were gone for good.

Okay, he told himself. Just go back to the beginning. Sort through it all. Look at everything. It'll come back. You'll get it.

He glanced at his watch, saw that it was pushing noon. Tensing, he realized how little time there was until the six o'clock show. Shit. Not only didn't he have a thing ready, he didn't have a clear idea for a story or even an angle. He'd never been in this position before, but he knew enough to be sure that he was headed for certain disaster.

Trying not to panic, he took a deep breath and recounted to himself the sequence of events over the past few days. Andrew Lyman had been killed the day before yesterday, his throat slit early that evening, though as far as Todd knew, the exact time of death had yet to be fixed. He'd covered the event, arriving at the scene shortly after nine-thirty P.M. and finding a host of media already there. Trying to differentiate his coverage, Todd had done the lead story for the ten o'clock live from the Domain of Queers. Then yesterday the big breakthrough had been the discovery, thanks to an anonymous tip, of the possible murder weapon, a hunting knife found at the bottom of Lake Harriet. Getting taped footage of that, Todd had done a VOSOT for the five o'clock and then a taped package for the six. And now today? Certainly the autopsy report would be done at some point this morning, but the authorities might not make the results public right away. Likewise, the police might also not release any information regarding search warrants and if any had been filed, which would indicate, of course, which direction this thing might be going and, most important of all, if they had any suspects in mind.

But what if they did release the autopsy report and there was nothing much of interest beyond the time of death? What then? The next big break after that probably wouldn't be until the initial lab reports on the knife were back, and God only knew when that would be. Modern science might pull a rabbit out of the hat, but the weapon had been underwater for at least eighteen hours, so Todd didn't think it too promising. As they stood at the lake yesterday afternoon, Rawlins had said he doubted they'd be able to use Luminol to detect evidence of blood proteins, but that they might use Kamazi Blue, another chemical. He'd said something about that and funky orange glasses and a light spectrum that would show if there'd been blood on it. He'd also mentioned the possibility that they might be able to simply do a visual. So had they? And had they found anything? Perhaps, but these things always took an annoyingly long time. If they were able to find a trace of blood they might be able to get a blood type, but DNA testing usually took at least three weeks and often longer, particularly if a rush wasn't put on it. After all, the new serology lab had been overwhelmed since it opened—on average there was a murder every two days in the seven county metro area. On top of that, DNA typing was now being used in a far broader range of criminal investigations, from rapes to aggravated assaults, all of which demanded time.

Todd's surest way to get the latest information was, of course, simply to call Rawlins. He was hesitant to do just that, however, because what they really needed to discuss wasn't lab results or search warrants, but their relationship. They needed to discuss where they were headed, what they wanted, what each of them needed, and they needed to be perfectly honest about trysts that included Andrew Lyman. And, Todd thought, quite possibly Tim Chase. After all, Todd had no idea really what had happened last night between him and the actor, and he certainly had no idea what would happen tonight, but if Todd was expecting honesty he was certainly going to have to deliver it as well. Which he was kind of dreading. Perhaps a way of circumventing Rawlins was to call Neal Foster and ask him what was the very latest on the Lyman case. If Todd was going to do that, though, he had to do it soon.

And if there wasn't any breaking news?

Todd's own rule of thumb, one that he always came back to when he was lost, was: What is it the audience wants to know? When it came to murder, of course, people were always fascinated by the details of true crime, first and foremost who did it and why. And while in this case no one yet knew either of those, maybe Todd should do a piece on exactly what the police were doing to answer those questions. Perhaps first he should focus on the knife and what the authorities were doing to determine if it was in fact the weapon that had been used to kill Andrew Lyman. Sure, there was still time this afternoon to whip up a piece on the various forces of technology, including Luminol, Kamazi Blue, DNA testing, and what they'd be looking for down at the serology lab. In fact, maybe Todd should do his report from the lab itself. Having just invested millions in the facility, Minnesota was one of the few states that could do its own DNA work. Maybe Todd should nab Bradley and the two of them could head down there, perhaps even interview a few of the technicians and get them to explain exactly what they were doing regarding the Lyman case. All in all not a bad idea.

However, as long as he was there in the edit booth, as long as he had all the tapes right in front of him, he decided to review not simply his report from the first night or yesterday's package, but also all of the footage they had thus far. It was another one of his tricks, a way of getting him back in the groove of a story and also a way to help him remember exactly what they already had on tape, some of which he might choose to use for tonight's report.

Popping the first Beta tape into a machine, Todd hit play and watched as a cloud of snow filled a monitor. Moments later the footage from that first night appeared on the screen, images from Bradley's handheld camera directly from the scene. There were some shots of cops, including a group of officers standing there talking, others hurrying into the building, still others holding back the crowd that was craning to see what had happened. Then, just as Todd had asked for, there was the footage of the real estate, various shots consisting mostly of the yellow brick apartment building where Andrew Lyman was killed, but also including a few quick shots of the neighborhood. And finally there were a good number of shots of the crowd, people gawking, some shaking their heads, others, wearing sweatshirts and jackets and bathrobes, gathered around in small groups. In one of these Todd quickly caught a glimpse of Jordy, and he realized that that must have been just before the young man tried to push past the police line. Bradley, of course, had overshot and had laid down not quite four minutes of tape, all of which was sent via the ENG truck and a relay of microwave towers back to WLAK, where it was in turn edited for Todd's voice-over.