Silencing Sam (5 page)

“No cross-training,” he said. “Those are separate skills. For example, let's say we're called for a school bomb threat, and she alerts at a student's locker. Does she smell pot or explosives? How would we know?”

I was about to comment on the perfect sense of that when the FBI guy interrupted with an “Enough for now.” Scout and her partner resumed their sweeps. Malik grabbed the gear. I thanked the sheriff and told him I'd be in touch.

I loved my story. I loved the video, the sound, and that it was unfolding far away from Minneapolis. Selling my boss on follow-ups would make my bumping into Sam Pierce and accidentally violating any restraining order less of a threat.

A small band of local farmers had gathered to sing the terrorist tune. Now that a bombing pattern seemed to be forming, they needed outsiders to blame. And they were much more vocal than before. A comparable thing happened when the I-35 bridge in Minneapolis had collapsed a couple years earlier. The first reaction was that terrorists—rather than design errors and an overloaded structure—must be responsible. A similar reflex could be observed across the country in other situations of calamity.

“Must be Islamic fundamentalists,” one man said.

“They want America dependent on foreign oil,” another theorized.

A third nodded his support of the hunch. “They're threatened by our wind power.”

It was a much worldlier conversation than I expected, so I joined the chatter. “But why here?” I asked. “There're wind farms throughout the United States.”

“Lots of Muslims live up in the Twin Cities. They might be organizing it from there. Some probably have al-Qaeda connections.”

Nearly a decade later, American Muslim communities were still feeling the backlash from the September 11 attacks. While I listened politely to the locals' speculation, there was no way I was putting any of it on TV without definitive evidence.

The idea that al-Qaeda might be behind the wind turbine blasts was unlikely but not implausible. Law enforcement officials consider Minnesota a center for terrorist training. Zacarias Moussaoui, considered by some the twentieth hijacker, was arrested after raising suspicions at a local flight school just before September 11. More recently, twenty young Somalian men left Minnesota, recruited by a terrorist group with ties to al-Qaeda to fight in their homeland. At least one ended up a suicide bomber.

I could tell Malik was uncomfortable with the entire conversation. He was getting suspicious stares because of his Middle Eastern heritage.

We left just as one hothead was suggesting armed shifts to watch for intruders. The trouble was, Wide Open Spaces Wind Farm had nearly two hundred turbines, spread over fifty miles, and I would bet that less than a handful of area farmers could shoot well enough in the dark to play sniper without hitting each other. It would be like hunting deer drunk.

I waved at my dad, who was standing with an old schoolteacher of mine who wanted to say hi. They were both curious about the latest happenings.

“What do you think, Dad?” I whispered as we walked along the ditch while Malik shot more video of the investigators. Dad had bad knees, so it was slow going. “What's with these explosions? Who around here hates the wind farm?”

He hesitated. I pressed him.

“Come on, Dad, you're the ultimate insider.”

My family had farmed our land—some of the finest dirt in the world—going back more than 130 years. I long suspected my father was the custodian of numerous small-town secrets. I figured most would go with him to the grave but thought maybe, if I remained patient and he grew slightly delusional, he'd spill some real whammies on his deathbed.

“You must have some idea, Dad. I'm not going to air it, I just want to get a feel for what I should be watching for.”

So he coughed up two names—one I recognized, the other I didn't—but assured me neither man would ever resort to this kind of violence.

We started with the name I knew: Billy Mueller. He'd graduated two years ahead of me in school, but I still remembered his temper on the playground. Billy the Bully.

“Billy's plenty mad about not getting any wind money,” Dad said. “He kept after them to include his land in the project, but the engineers drew the line a quarter-mile from his property. He feels he got cheated.”

My parents also missed out on the wind deal, by about a mile. Being Minnesota stoic, they'd never mentioned any anger about the five grand a year per turbine some of their neighbors received, but I'd never asked.

So I did now. “You and Mom ever feel any resentment about that?”

“Can't complain,” he said, utilizing another regional colloquialism. It means you could complain, but you're too well mannered.

“Come on, Dad, it's me. Let's be honest with each other.”

“Whatever.”

“Whatever is not a full-fledged answer.”

“All right,” he said. “Disappointment yes, resentment no. I can't begrudge my friends their windfall.” He smiled when he said “windfall.”

Money can be a powerful motive for crime. So can jealousy. I didn't agree with Dad that Billy wouldn't mix with violence, but the Billy Mueller I knew didn't seem smart enough to stage something like this. Of course, that was back when we were kids. Maybe he'd gotten himself an education since then.

“Think Billy could build a bomb?” I asked Dad.

He shook his head. “We guess Billy to be the one who egged the turbines while they were lying on the ground.”

“He threw eggs at the wind turbines?”

“Just the propellers. They're huge up close.”

I'd heard enough about Billy and moved on to the other name my father had thrown out. “How about Charlie Perkins?”

His was the name I didn't recognize, and I was familiar with most of the surnames for miles around. Kloeckner, Jax, Schaefer, Miller, Merten, Koenigs. There weren't all that many.

“What's his problem with the windmills?”

“Charlie moved here maybe five years ago from up in the Cities. He bought the Meyer place and fixed it up. Sank a lot of money. Guess you'd call it a hobby farm.”

He snorted at the idea of farming as a hobby. Farming was work. He ought to know; he'd done it all his life, even before tractors got air-conditioning. Anyone who wanted a hobby should play cards or go fishing.

“Charlie came down here to get away from skyscrapers and other eyesores. That's what he calls the turbines. He was supposed to be part of the wind farm. Turned them down, even though his land is right smack-dab in the middle.” Dad motioned south of where we were standing. “Now he's mad at everyone who signed up. Says he doesn't like looking at the wind machines. But he doesn't have much choice; they have him surrounded.”

Didn't seem like enough of a motive to me. But I'd never met the guy. And I didn't have any wind turbines across the street from my house, ruining my view. Of course, I didn't even have a view these days, unless you counted the bus lane.

I was back renting a house in Minneapolis, having opted for convenience to work. After a perilously close brush with crime under my own roof, I'd tried retreating to the safety of the suburbs but found that battle cry to be just another urban myth. Danger lurked everywhere, from big cities to small towns to rural countryside. Personal experience lately made me wary of most strangers. Mentally, it might not have been the healthiest approach to life, but physically, it seemed the most pragmatic.

“Know anything about Charlie's background? What he used to do for a living?” I asked.

“Something for Honeywell.”

Best known as a manufacturer of thermostats, Honeywell International used to be based in Minneapolis, when it was a controversial weapons manufacturer.

I glanced at my watch, wishing there was time to meet Charlie Perkins.

Even without a firm suspect or motive, I was still confident I had a decent lead story that included all the elements Noreen normally relished: action, fear, and dogs.

((RILEY, CU))

AUTHORITIES SAY CELL

PHONE BOMBS HAVE BEEN

USED TO BLAST WIND

TURBINES IN SOUTHERN

MINNESOTA. WHILE THEY

HAVE NO SUSPECTS, THEY

CONTINUE TO INVESTIGATE

THE BAFFLING CRIMES WITH

EXPLOSIVES-SNIFFING DOGS.

But when Malik and I arrived back at the station, we found it surrounded by police cars, and no one gave a hoot about wind turbines.

My story had been killed.

And so had Sam Pierce.

The gossip columnist had been found murdered outside his garage.

Noreen had tried to phone me as soon as she got word, but the call didn't go through because of the cell signal block. Later the cops arrived and asked that the station not inform me about the homicide.

Since everyone knew about my confrontation with Sam, homicide investigators were waiting to question me. When they got to the part about me having a right to have an attorney present, I called Benny Walsh. This time he answered his line, and this time me bringing in the state's top homicide defense attorney didn't feel so much like overkill.

He told the police he wanted to speak to his client—me—alone first. Then he and I went into my office and shut the door. My desk was a mess, but at the moment, it matched my life.

“What have you got to tell me?” Benny grabbed a chair and motioned for me to also sit.

“Nothing. I haven't a clue what's going on.”

“Yet you left a message for me midmorning, saying we needed to talk. And you sounded a bit agitated.”

Benny looked as serious as I'd ever seen him.

“You don't think
I
killed him, do you?” I asked.

“I don't
care
whether or not you killed him. All I care about is what you're going to say when the cops question you. But it did cross my mind on the way over here that maybe your earlier message had something to do with seeking the advice of counsel in regard to this homicide.”

“I didn't kill him. I had questions about the fairness of the protective order, Benny. That's why I called you.”

“Well, the order for protection is irrelevant now,” he said. “And if you violated that in the course of killing Mr. Pierce, that's the least of your troubles.”

“I didn't kill him.”

“Our immediate decision is whether to allow police to question you.” Benny's face tensed, like he was weighing the pros and cons of that predicament.

“I have nothing to hide.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Where were you last night? Unless you can assure me you were at a party with lots of people and went home with one of them, and stayed until daybreak, I'm not sure we want you talking to the authorities.”

“I was home alone.”

He sighed deeply, stared at the floor, then back at me.

“Did you talk to anyone?”

“No.”

“Did anyone come to the door? A salesperson perhaps?”

“No.”

“Can you see now why I'm reluctant to have you interviewed by the detectives? You tell them you've got no alibi, and you're going to make my job harder.”

“Benny, after that fiasco in court, I just wanted to be alone last night. And I'm not afraid to say that, because I know I didn't do it. Sam had a lot of enemies. I need to talk to the cops, so they can eliminate me as a suspect.”

“It doesn't always work that way,” he insisted.

“This won't be the first time cops have looked at me funny in a murder investigation. I just want to get it done with.”

Even though his legal advice was that I stick with my right to remain silent, I told police I was happy to answer any questions they might have. They asked us to follow them back to the cop shop, where I suspected they wanted to have a videotape rolling during my interview.

“How was he killed?” I asked the detectives once we were all seated in a tiny interrogation room.

“We're asking the questions here, Ms. Spartz,” Detective Delmonico said.

“Sorry, I forgot my role. I'm used to asking questions. You know, reporter's curiosity.”

“Well, we're not prepared to release any details to you about this homicide just now,” he said.

“Well, unless the murder weapon was a glass of wine,” Benny interrupted, “I don't think you have anything on my client.”

“We'll see,” the other detective said. “Let's hope you're right.”

The tone of the actual interview was softer than with Benny back at the station. They wanted to hear firsthand about my altercation with Sam at the bar and seemed to accept that it was one of those regrettable, out-of-character incidents that sometimes happens when we're unfairly provoked. They didn't act much at all like they thought I was guilty. Mostly, they did a lot of nodding. Never once reaching for the handcuffs. Or their guns.

I felt okay afterward.

Sure, I didn't have an alibi. But I also knew they didn't have any evidence. And there had to be other suspects with better motives. After all, the murder victim was Sam Pierce.

“See, Benny, that wasn't so bad.”

He didn't answer.

But when we walked down the stairs outside city hall, cameras swarmed. And not just television crews. Print reporters and
photographers pushed and pressed, much more aggressively than normal. The broadcasters were definitely more objective, yelling,
“Did
you do it?” While the print journalists yelled,
“Why
did you do it?”

Understandably, the newspaper staff were angry. Their hero with the highest web hits was dead.

They wanted justice.

But all they got was a brisk “no comment” from my attorney.

A couple hours later, Nick Garnett stood on my doorstep, a carry-on bag in one hand, a bouquet of black-eyed Susans in another. The flowers were a little joke between us stemming back to a serial-killer story we'd worked on together.