Silencing Sam (28 page)

The ratings the next morning showed a huge jump. The days of a 40 share were long gone. Even a 30 was unrealistic. But last night—a 28 share—had put Channel 3 farther ahead than we'd been in several sweeps months. Clearly our competitors' audience had switched to us for a chance to look a murder suspect in the eye.

Noreen felt smart.

My parents felt proud.

And I felt trapped.

Besides the ten o'clock news, I was also assigned to read teleprompter for the two early-evening newscasts. My opening line became routine and boring.

((RILEY, CU))

GOOD EVENING, EVERYONE.

I'M RILEY SPARTZ, FILLING

IN FOR SOPHIE PAULSON,

WHO'S ON ASSIGNMENT OUT

OF THE COUNTRY.

That bit about Sophie was to create mystique for her return and remind viewers that I was just a temp and could be pulled
off the anchor desk at any moment by the whim of my boss. So if they wanted to look me in the eye, they better do it while they could.

Because I was now the lead anchor, the station suddenly cared about me, like they had with Sophie and all the previous lead anchors. They insisted I park in the basement, where the photographers park to protect their expensive gear and where the bosses park just to show who's boss. This way I didn't have to worry about being stalked arriving and leaving the station. I felt safer on the job than anywhere else. But the novelty of star treatment grew monotonous.

I had no time to leave Channel 3 to hunt for Sam's killer. And there was only so much time I could devote to perfecting my airbrush makeup technique. So I continued researching wind turbines and learned they weren't just deadly to bats.

Xiong helped me download government safety records and I discovered numerous cases worldwide where wind workers had died on the job. Unlike black lung, the silent killer in coal mines, when wind energy kills, death is immediate and awful.

Some employees fell hundreds of feet because they weren't wearing safety harnesses. Another, with a harness, dangled too long waiting for rescue. His blood drained to the lower part of his body and turned toxic.

Ice can form at the top of the wind turbines—inside and outside—and sometimes chunks break off and kill whoever is standing underneath. I shuddered reading of a wind company employee sliced in half when ice crashed down on him while he was working inside the tower.

The cases got even more grisly. An inside ladder leads to an upstairs chamber, big enough to stand in, at the top of the turbine. Blades are attached to a spinning rotor. One worker's harness got caught, and according to the death certificate, he suffered “multiple amputations.”

I was starting to think I had the makings of a major work
place safety investigation. Even transporting the giant turbines can be dangerous. Sometimes, on rural roads, truck drivers are electrocuted when a blade hits a low-hanging power line. Other times, while unloading the windmills, pieces roll off the truck, crushing employees.

When I learned one casualty died more than a year ago constructing the Wide Open Spaces wind farm, I pressed Noreen to give me a day away from my anchoring duties to interview his widow, who lived in Upper Michigan. But Noreen observed that the overnight demos were still strong and she didn't want to risk moving me from the anchor desk until sweeps were over.

Neither of us mentioned Toby, so I was under the impression he had not said anything to Noreen about his role in the fatal wind bombing. Being an accused murderess myself, I didn't have the influence or evidence to call anyone else a killer.

Meanwhile, in Mexico, the butterflies were running late. And Sophie had been told to just sit back and wait for the monarch migration.

Under the circumstances, I wanted to shut down my Face-book page. But Benny thought that might make me look guilty.

“Just don't discuss the case with anyone—in person or online,” he warned me. “The police could be posing as ‘friends' just to get you to talk.”

Noreen considered my notoriety the opportunity of a lifetime.

I just hoped the whole ordeal didn't hand me a lifetime in prison. An ex-con once told me prison wasn't nearly as bad as the first hours of jail. Especially not women's prisons. But I wasn't buying it. Behind bars is behind bars. I'd always joked that I was just one felony away from thinner thighs, but suddenly I saw the merit in diet and exercise.

Now everybody on Facebook was requesting my cyber friendship. Having a nefarious friend gave them bragging rights. It was like saying Squeaky Fromme went to prom with your uncle.

As a news anchor, I had plenty of time to confirm computer friends. And my number neared three thousand. I wasn't sure how those related to the glory days of 40-share TV ratings, but I knew I had more friends than Clay. And so did he.

When I logged on, I saw one of his Texas gal pals had friended me back after I'd poached her off his list. She'd also sent me a personal message. Puzzling.

“I see you work at the same television station as Clay Burrel. I'm a friend of his wife's and have been trying to get in touch with her. Have you by any chance met?”

Her name was Sally Oaks. According to her profile she was twenty-seven, worked at a small library, and had a pet cat. She posted several pictures of the cat on her Facebook page. It was calico. She also posted covers of the books she was reading. Currently, it was a best-selling tearjerker that showed bare feet on sand.

This was awkward.

Not wanting to get involved in dissecting a shaky marriage for a third party, I sent her a reply suggesting she talk to Clay directly.

Let him explain his own troubles. I had enough of my own.

Meanwhile Xiong was helping me add video to my Facebook page and teaching me how to do it myself so I didn't keep bothering him.

“Go to hell,” he said suddenly.

I was surprised to hear such strong language from him. The comment was uncharacteristic. I didn't think I'd done anything to deserve it and told him so.

“Bastard,” he replied.

“Knock it off,” I said.

“Target dirtbag.”

“What's wrong with you, Xiong?”

“Not me,” he said. “You.” He pointed to my bulletin board, at the surveillance photo of Daisy carrying my flowers, plus the collection of her mysterious messages.

He explained that the first letter of each word spelled out a hidden code. The one by Sam's grave—
“God Overpowers Those
Outside His Extended Limitless Love”
—GO TO HELL. The funeral bouquet—
“Be Assured Sam Took A Righteous Direction”
—BASTARD. And the one she sent to me—
“Thanks Alot, Riley, Give Everyone The Disturbing Information Regarding That Bad Ass Gossip”
—TARGET DIRTBAG.

Daisy is such a harmless-sounding name, but names can be deceiving. I didn't know what these messages meant, but I knew I needed to have a talk with her.

I was used to being tired when I got home from work; anchoring the late news made me wired instead. The kind of wired that made me want to play Ping-Pong, except I didn't have a Ping-Pong table, or an opponent. If it wasn't the middle of the night, and I wasn't going through a scared-of-the-dark phase, I'd have gone running outside.

I wished I had a dog to walk. Or a man to walk with.

My cell phone vibrated; Garnett's number came on the screen. I didn't know what to say, so to buy time, I let the call roll to voice mail. Except he didn't leave any message.

That steamed me, so I called him back. And he must have let it roll to voice mail. I didn't leave a message, either. I hung up, set the phone down, and stared at it like it was a test I hadn't studied for.

Thirty seconds later Garnett called back, and I picked up.

He spoke first. “What we've got here is a failure to communicate.”

Those were the last words I had said to his face before he turned his back on me down at the wind farm. But instead of responding with
Cool Hand Luke
movie trivia, I replied, “And whose fault is that?”

There was a long pause on the line. “I've been waiting for you to call,” he said.

“You've been waiting for me? I've been in jail. I've been in court. I've been through hell. Where have you been?” The fact that I still cared so much surprised me.

“Hey, I thought you wanted me to stay away. You were pretty clear that you didn't want people to see us together. You thought that would make things worse. With all the media swarming, I figured you'd feel even more strongly that way.”

He sort of had a point. But he still should have known better.

“I thought if I showed up,” he continued, “the police might go even harder on you just to prove they weren't playing favorites.”

I informed him that the cops couldn't go any harder on me than they already had.

“I'm so sorry, Riley.”

“You should have called.”

“I'm calling now.”

I was trying to decide whether now was just in time or too late.

“I can be there tomorrow,” he said.

I yearned to say yes, but deep down, I suspected that tomorrow was too late. And I told him so. I think I set it up as a test. To see if he loved me enough to come anyway.

If being targeted for ridicule by Sam was bad, it was nothing compared to the national gossip rags. To be fair, as a professional journalist, I could understand how a television anchor accused of murder might be newsworthy. But the coverage went viral overnight, even in the mainstream media.

My anchor efforts were posted on YouTube and scored the number of views usually reserved for controversial reality-show contestants or unusual pets.

And my snickering mug shot was everywhere.

Wall-to-wall satellite trucks were parked outside the station so all the network morning news shows and cable channels could go live with updates about Murder in America's Heartland.

Because I wasn't allowed to talk about the case, Noreen did several live interviews explaining that the station kept me on the air because of a patriotic belief in “innocent until proven guilty.”

“What about ratings?” she was asked. “Isn't putting a murder suspect in the anchor chair just an unprincipled stunt to increase your numbers?”

It was for the best that I wasn't doing any interviews, because
I would probably have screamed back something like, “Do you idiots think I'd kill a human being to help the station's ratings?” But their answer might have taken the discussion down an uncomfortable path.

Noreen had a much smoother reply. “Channel 3 prides itself on impartial news coverage. Viewers can rely on us for objective reporting. We believe everyone deserves their day in court and are prepared to take whatever action is appropriate at that time.”

The media appeal of my case came down to it being a slow week for celebrity dirt (Tiger Woods hadn't had his tree/SUV accident yet), and no famous people died. So the
National Enquirer
put me on the cover, running a handcuff photo they bought from the Minneapolis newspaper. Normally, traditional media organizations shun tabloids and their checkbooks. But during a media meltdown, integrity has a price. I'd heard a rumor that the Minneapolis paper got twenty grand. That was the kind of detail Sam would have nailed in his column had it not involved his own employer.

The scandal sheet's headline read media murderer wins ratings.
“Alleged
Media Murderer,” I wanted to shout.

The
Globe
published gossip grudge leads to murder.

Again,
“Alleged
Murder.” Or “Murder
Charges.
” In neither case was I in any position to demand a correction.

I imagined the graphic designers preferred not to clutter up the covers with extra words. I also imagined their media attorneys vetted the copy knowing I'd never actually sue them, because I needed to budget for my criminal defense.

Inside, the
Globe
ran a sidebar interview with the first boy I'd ever kissed. We once climbed to the top of the water tower in town and talked for hours under the moon. I read the item eagerly until I got to the part where he told them he had a hunch way back then that I could be dangerous and that's why he dumped me. I had recalled being the dumper in that relationship.
Again, I was in no position to insist on a correction, from either them or him.

People
magazine showed better news judgment. Their cover raised the question of whether Kanye West was a jackass and included only a small inset of my mug shot in the cover corner. I considered rewarding their discretion with an exclusive interview, should I ever be able to talk. But by then, the odds of them remaining interested in me were dismal.

My mom and her Red Hat ladies were making a scrapbook of all the coverage to give me for a Christmas present.

What really bothered me was that I was being portrayed as a sociopath … psychopath … even lunatic. Sam was being painted as a victim. And not just a murder victim, either. A First Amendment martyr.

A pile of flowers, American flags, and photographs of Sam made a giant memorial in front of the Minneapolis newspaper offices. In the middle was an old typewriter. Beside it was a familiar crystal vase full of spectacular wildflowers. The card read
“Those Remaining Are Irate Though Often Regretful.”

I took a picture with my cell phone but didn't need Xiong to tell me the message spelled TRAITOR.

TARGET DIRTBAG. BASTARD. GO TO HELL. TRAITOR.

“I'd like a bouquet of wildflowers,” I said, walking into the floral shop before my news shift.

Daisy immediately recognized me and put down an almost-finished Sudoku puzzle. Baby Jimmy watched in a playpen with his thumb in his mouth, holding a stuffed white teddy bear.

“Why don't you tell me about you and Sam?” I didn't offer up that Jeremy had already briefed me.