Silencing Sam (27 page)

Father Mountain spoke on my behalf. “Riley is a good mentor. Perhaps you could learn from her.”

“You've never seen her in action,” Clay said. “She hates competition like the devil hates holy water.”

“Competition doesn't prohibit cooperation,” Father Mountain said. “Catholics and Lutherans compete for souls, but we all love the same God and fear the same hell. That puts us on the same life team. Just like you and Riley are on the same news team.”

“I didn't come here for a sermon,” Clay said. “I came here for an interview.”

He left without one, heading back to the truck to prepare for his live shot. His parting words: a whiny threat to tell Noreen about my lack of cooperation. I couldn't imagine she'd be surprised or pleased.

“Is there anything we can do to help?” my mom asked.

“You already have,” I answered. “All of you. Being here means so much.”

For a whole lot of reasons, I was close to tears. And for a whole lot more reasons, I did not want my parents to see me cry. I thought if they saw me cry, it would mean I still had some growing up to do. And no thirty-six-year-old woman wants to feel that way.

“And thank you for the bail money, you didn't have to do that.” I held my fingers over my eyes because I could feel tears poised to fall.

Mom and Dad gave me a group hug, which was unusual in the normally stoic Spartz family. That gesture was enough to put dampness on my cheeks.

“It's just signatures on a piece of paper, Riley,” Dad said.

“Father Mountain wanted to help, too,” Mom said, motioning for him to join the hug. “But he has that vow of poverty.”

“How about if
we
offered to do the media interviews?” Dad asked.

“No.” Zero hesitation from me. That one suggestion immediately halted any need to cry.

I couldn't be sure, once they were out of my sight, whether my parents would follow my wishes. The last time I had told them I didn't need their help, they crashed a funeral. Now, if given the chance, I had a hunch they'd show up on
Oprah
to tell my side of the story.

Father Mountain gave me a good-bye blessing as he headed out the door. I encouraged him to wait until the news crews left, but since no one knew exactly when that might happen, he decided
to put his faith in God that none of his parishioners would see his picture on television in connection with a heinous crime. Then he urged me to turn to the Bible for reassurance in how the righteous triumph over the wicked.

A commotion of wicked camera lights, flashes, and microphones followed him to his car. But he drove away in triumph, demonstrating to me that it can be done.

My parents headed for the kitchen, because kitchens are the most normal part of any house, and we needed to feel normal.

“That reporter guy kind of looked familiar,” Mom told Dad. They were talking about Clay.

“Yeah, didn't we meet him at the funeral?” he answered.

“Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe we just saw him on TV.”

Mom opened the refrigerator to see what I had to cook. The pickings were sparse. She moved on to the freezer, disappointed not to see a frozen wild rice hot dish waiting for company.

“You can eat whatever you can find,” I said.

The doorbell rang while she was looking through the cupboards. I went to tell Clay that if he came back again, he was trespassing. I didn't imagine that threat would carry much clout because, under the circumstances, I couldn't really call the police.

But instead of my TV colleague, the newspaper's former political columnist stood under the shadow of my porch light, looking even older than he had in court.

Ends up, Rolf wanted an interview, too.

“No, Rolf. N-O. If I'm not doing an interview with my own newsroom, why would I talk to you?”

“Well, Riley, you were the one who encouraged me to try freelancing for the paper, to see if they'd take me back. My first assignment is to interview you. If I don't bring back the story, my career is over.”

“Rolf, your career is already over, and mine isn't far behind.”

Then I slammed the door in his face, not caring whether he had a gun. Or Clay had a gun. Or that I was the only journalist in the state armed only with my wits. Then I found myself wishing neither of them knew where I lived.

In the other room, I heard my parents discussing whether Rolf looked familiar or whether they were just getting old.

My folks wanted to watch the news. It was their bedtime ritual. But I nixed that idea and hid the TV remote control. No good would have come of them seeing me branded a criminal on all four network affiliates, even my own.

Finally, I had time to shower away the smell of jail. I warned my mom and dad not to answer the telephone or the door while I was upstairs. I wished some special soap was invented that could wash away humiliation, or at least the vulgar image of that intoxicated inmate vomiting next to me in the holding cell.

A half hour later, I wrapped a towel around my head, threw on my frizzy bathrobe, and went to check on my parents. Dad was reading what few car ads remained in the newspaper.

“Where's Mom?”

“She went out to the pickup to get her sweater.”

I wished she'd stayed inside, away from possible paparazzi. But through the window, it looked like all the live trucks had pulled cable and left, now that the newscasts were over. So the path to the curb was probably clear for her.

I was just filling a glass when suddenly we heard a scream that sounded like Mom. Then another scream that didn't. I dropped ice cubes on the kitchen floor as I rushed outside. Mom
stood empty-handed in the driveway. I speculated that someone might have grabbed her purse. Dad followed seconds later because of his bad knees.

“A tall man,” she said. “He jumped out at me.”

“What did he look like?” I asked.

“It was dark. I couldn't see. He was really tall.”

“Where did he go?”

She pointed down the block. “He said we had unfinished business.”

I wondered what he meant. And then I wondered if, perhaps in the dark and because I lived alone, he'd mistaken my mother for me.

His next actions made his intentions and identity clear.

“Then he turned on a flashlight and pulled down his pants,” Mom said.

“He what?” I asked.

“It was like he wanted to show me his … you know.”

Any guy who'd walk naked in front of a live television camera would think nothing of flashing a woman on a street corner. But this was my mother, so Buzz was going to hear plenty from me.

“It wasn't anything special,” she said. “I've seen many men over the years.”

“Don't say it like that, Mom. You sound like a prostitute.”

She was a retired hospital nurse, dating back to the days when they wore white caps.

“Well, it wasn't anything special,” she insisted. “You'd think such a tall man would have a bigger—”

“Mom, I don't want to hear about it.”

“Then he shined the light in my face, and that's when he started screaming, too.”

Buzz must have been watching the news, elated that all the channels reported which corner I lived on and showed what my house looked like. I could only imagine his dismay when he realized
his throbbing manhood was face-to-face with someone old enough to be his grandmother.

All Dad could muster was, “It could have been worse.”

And he was right. I had a nagging suspicion that Buzz Stolee might not be the only thing lurking in the dark, waiting for me.

Again, I slept poorly. My ears strained for suspicious noises, my eyes for mysterious shapes outside the window. I wished I didn't live in the same jurisdiction where I was a murder suspect, because right now I couldn't really think of the cops as my protectors.

I'd decided that whoever was framing me couldn't be a complete stranger. The strongest evidence against me was my hair on Sam's body. That was difficult to explain away. He and I had been in court together the day he was killed. But we'd stayed an arm's length apart.

The murderer somehow had access to my hair. Thus access to me or my home.

That night, as I lay in bed, I'd decided it was best to keep my parents there where I could keep an eye on them.

By the next morning, however, I'd decided to send them back to the farm, rationalizing that they'd be safer next to wind turbines than next to me. I promised I'd call. They didn't argue, seeming to want to pretend things were fine, too. Mom made fluffy pancakes and smiled like nothing was wrong, even though I caught her and Dad exchanging parental glances. None of us mentioned anything, and we all waved as their pickup pulled away.

I didn't want to be home alone, so I dragged myself into work even though I wasn't sure I'd be welcome.

Turns out, Noreen wanted to see me in her office ASAP.

“I wouldn't be doing this if the economy wasn't so shaky,” she told me. “You know how far our numbers have dropped.”

I nodded, dreading where our conversation was going. I'd been suspended a couple times before, but those transgressions were nothing compared to being charged with murder.

“I'm more torn up over this decision than any I've ever made as a news director. But Fitz, our consultant, is insisting on it.”

I believed her. Fitz knew I dissed him. And even though Noreen and I had clashed and snarled over the last couple years, we'd also developed a certain camaraderie that comes from teetering on the edge of the abyss.

“You've always been one of our strongest reporters, and your instincts in the field are unmatched, but I have to do what's best for the station.”

It was too difficult to look her in the eye while she said the words, so I reached down for my bag in order to make a quick getaway once the deed was done.

“To be perfectly blunt, Riley, if the ratings fall any farther, my own job is on the line. So I have to follow orders.”

I nodded that I understood. The morals clause in my contract was clear. But instead of commiserating about what a jam she was in, I just wanted Noreen to get it over with so I could slink away.

“So, Riley, starting tonight, I'm making you the lead anchor here at Channel 3.”

I've never aspired to the anchor desk. Sitting under hot lights, reading what the rest of the newsroom staff did in the trenches all day isn't my idea of a challenge. And it isn't why I went into the news business.

But it's sure better than being canned.

Upper management at Channel 3 had decided to view my arrest as a gift, not a curse. Starting that afternoon, the station was launching a massive promotion campaign urging viewers to tune in to our newscasts for an opportunity to look me in the eye and decide for themselves whether or not I was a cold-blooded killer.

It was a bold scheme to abandon honor for ratings.

If it worked, and the numbers spiked … I'd be glued to the anchor desk until the cops dragged me off to prison.

If it tanked, and viewers turned away in revulsion … I'd be thrown out the door to wait in isolation for my court date.

I had no idea how the overnight ratings would read in the morning but realized Noreen was taking a big gamble on the morbid curiosity of Minnesota television viewers.

“What about Sophie?” I had asked my boss. Technically the anchor desk belonged to her. Her cadence was sound, her smile adorable. She may have been a good sport about the bat altercation, but there was no way she wasn't going to blame me for ousting her from her princess throne.

“We could face viewer backlash,” I said.

“Never overestimate viewer loyalty,” Noreen countered.

If that's what they taught news directors in management school, well, that explained a lot about the state of journalism.

“Anyway, it's not your call, or even really mine.” Noreen explained that Sophie would have a chance to do some reporting.

Then I really felt guilty.

Sophie wasn't the kind of anchor who could report anything beyond baby dolphins born at the zoo. But because she was under contract, Noreen couldn't just yank her off the anchor desk; my guess was our boss had blackmailed her with threats about a tough renegotiation.

Then Noreen had ordered me off to the green room, where a makeup artist was waiting to work me over for my big anchor debut.

Since the switch from analog to digital, every pore on a television journalist's face popped off the screen and into viewers' homes. More and more TV talent were using airbrush makeup to make their complexions more uniform.

So were certain politicians, my makeup expert said with a wink. Male and female. “Now close your eyes.”

I'd watched her squirt a few drops of liquid foundation labeled “olive beige” into a pen fastened to a narrow hose that plugged into a small machine. I heard a strange whooshing sound and felt cool air against my skin.

“Feels good,” I said.

“Looks even better,” she answered. “Open your eyes.”

I'd scoffed at the concept of high-tech makeup. But darn if my face didn't look flawless.

She was just explaining it would stay that way for a good ten hours without getting splotchy when I blurted out, “I'm beautiful.” Something I hadn't thought in a very long time.

My confidence was so high, I even practiced my model walk as I moved down the hall toward the newsroom. Then I turned a corner and suddenly was face-to-face with Sophie.

She was carrying an overnight bag, like she'd cleaned out her desk. She was also clearly in a hurry to leave.

She's quit, I thought. It's all my fault. She hates me for taking her job.

But Sophie flashed me that huge trademark grin of hers.

“Guess what, Riley?” She threw her arms in the air in a show of pure elation, like a cheerleader in the aftermath of a winning touchdown. “The station's sending me to Mexico to do a story about butterflies!”