Silencing Sam (6 page)

“Surprise, Riley. I rented a car at the airport.”

Frantically, I pulled him inside. He figured it was because I missed him terribly and wanted to hold him close. Really, it was because I didn't want the neighbors to see him.

Once I got him past the threshold and slammed the door, I felt torn. I wanted him to kiss me long and hard because we hadn't seen each other in a month. But it was a few minutes before ten and I also wanted to watch the news.

I compromised by pushing him onto the couch, kissing him quickly, and fumbling for the remote. I found Channel 3 in time for us to hear Clay Burrel leading the newscast with the gossip murder and word that he'd just learned—exclusively—that the killer had shot Sam Pierce to death.

“At least I don't own a gun,” I said.

“Hard to prove a negative,” Garnett replied. “And just as easy for a woman to pull a trigger as a man. Now if your pal had been fatally beaten, size and strength might be a factor.”

He put his fingers around my upper arm like he was measuring my muscle. I shrugged him away, clicking the remote off when the newscast shifted from violence to politics.

Clay had also latched on to this homicide. And to be honest, I was impressed that he, being new to Minneapolis, had gleaned another hot lead early in the investigation, even though the cause of death can come from numerous sources.

I know journalists are supposed to have tough skins, but in the early days in my news vocation, I'd thought that feature only applied to our professional work, not our personal lives. Being on TV, I'd learned otherwise—nothing was off-limits to the public. Over the years, I'd built a successful career pointing the finger at wrongdoers and now was discovering that I didn't like having the finger pointed at me—as either an adulterer or a murderer.

So I reminded Garnett I still didn't want us to be seen together in public. Forget holding hands. I didn't even want to walk down the street with him.

“Well, then it's a good thing we've got the blinds pulled.”

As he unbuttoned my shirt, he pointed out that Minnesota prisons don't allow inmates to have conjugal visits, so I better rendezvous while I could.

I whacked him over the head with the yellow and black bouquet he'd brought, leaving a dusting of sticky powder in his barely gray hair, but I was happy he'd flown back to Minneapolis and glad not to be alone that night. And not just so I'd have an alibi if anyone else I knew was murdered.

The next morning, I grabbed the Minneapolis newspaper off the porch and read in a banner headline that a copy of the “Piercing Eyes” gossip column about me, the one that started the whole drink-in-the-face fiasco, had been found stuffed in Sam's dead mouth.

The newspaper attributed that damning detail to “an anonymous source.”

Garnett set down his coffee and wrapped his arms around my shoulders. “Well, darling, someone seems to be going to a whole lot of trouble to make the police think you're the killer.”

“So you believe me, right, Nick, that I didn't do it?”

“Absolutely, we just have to figure out who hates you as much as they hated Sam.”

My cell phone rang just as I was pondering that idea; it was Benny Walsh ordering me to keep my mouth shut and nixing any media interviews. I promised to keep quiet, figuring Garnett didn't count.

At least Clay would see what it felt like to be beat on a big story, though I could certainly understand how a homicide investigator might be more up-front with the employer of the victim
than a competitor. Not all crime reporters are perceived the same in all cases.

Garnett, however, was disgusted that the cops would leak such a sensitive clue—no matter which media outlet was involved. “As a practical matter, they need to hold back some facts only the killer would know so they can weed out false confessions.”

False confessions. Facts only the killer would know. “I love it when you talk cop talk,” I said.

Over breakfast, he'd raised the idea of me moving to Washington for a fresh start. I'd lived in Minnesota my whole life and had been offered plenty of opportunities to relocate, but the timing had never seemed right. Not then. Not now. Not even with the Sam Pierce mess looming.

Moving a thousand miles for Garnett was a commitment I wasn't ready to make. If he wanted us to be together, I thought he should move back. I could tell my answer didn't thrill him. So I sent him out the door with a lingering kiss, a playful pat on his rear, and the desire that he not overthink our tête-à-tête. As our lips touched, our bodies wanted to follow, but we both had jobs.

To justify his visit as work, he'd agreed to handle some security business at the airport involving changes in passenger screening by using new technology to detect weapons and explosives. Trouble was, privacy complaints were raised because the equipment made it appear passengers were naked. Effectively an electronic strip search. A new, improved piece of X-ray equipment made it look like they were wearing underwear. A small improvement, but still offensive to many. It would probably take an international incident, like a terrorist with a bomb in his pants, before the public welcomed such scrutiny.

I'd given Garnett a house key, and we made plans to meet up that night for dinner. He vowed to call over to the cop shop later and try to find out where all the inside info was leaking from. Knowledge is power, so that promise cheered me.

As journalists, we like to think of ourselves as professional observers, recording what we see, hear, smell, even touch. But in reality, much of what we report is what people tell us. Secondhand information.

That's why sourcing is so important. And why we guard our sources jealously.

In the newsroom, I dodged Clay as he tried to cajole a camera interview about how I felt being the prime suspect in Sam's murder.

“Nothing to say,” I insisted, walking to my office and shutting the door before he could “little lady” me again.

I had more than ratings riding on this story. I sat at my desk for maybe ten minutes, ignoring phone calls, weighing the personal and professional implications I faced from the gossip homicide.

Besides a front-page story with screaming headlines, the newspaper had run an editorial that morning criticizing police for not arresting me and prosecutors for not charging me in Sam's death. Normally the paper didn't name suspects unless they'd been officially accused of a crime, or were considered to be a danger to the public, or were fleeing the jurisdiction.

Until Sam's death, I'd have bet that most of the paper's newsroom employees felt more camaraderie toward me than him. Over the years, they'd been impressed by some of my work, ashamed of some of his. But in the last twenty-four hours, he'd gone from being a journalistic embarrassment to his news colleagues to being a martyr of sorts. Or maybe they were just realizing that the popularity of his column had provided insurance for their own jobs. And that his murder made their employment futures even more uncertain.

Noreen chose that very moment to page me overhead to her office. Pronto. There she greeted me with questions that made my own future sound iffy. “Riley, do you realize what all this talk about you is doing to the station's image?”

“Innocent people have nothing to worry about,” I replied.

“Aren't you always telling me the jails are full of innocent people?”

“No, I'm always telling you the jails are full of people who
say
they're innocent.” I was thinking back to Dusty Foster, an inmate who claimed to be falsely imprisoned for the murder of a girlfriend named Susan.

“Well, if you end up joining them,” Noreen continued, “make sure we get some exclusives.”

“I'll get you an exclusive,” I promised. “I'll dig deep and break something open on this story. If you ask me, there's more going on here than just a dead gossip.”

“Well, if there is, you're the last person we'd let cover it. Every time you turned around, your motives would be suspicious. So stay away from the Sam Pierce case. I've already assigned it to Clay.”

“But being so new to the market, there're things he'd miss. Clues that would go right over his head. I'm an insider, I'll recognize local connections.”

“But being an outsider, he'll have objectivity. Something we highly value in this profession.”

Noreen was right about that, and I couldn't argue her point. But that didn't mean I was going to stay away from the gossip investigation. I would just stay under my boss's radar.

“Well, how about if I dig around in the headless homicide?” Given a little time, I was certain I'd come up with an irresistible lead that would show that Texas windbag just who was high in the saddle.

“Riley, I know you enjoy covering crime, but I think it's best you stay away from any homicide investigations until the ‘Piercing Eyes' case is solved. Your involvement puts the station in a thorny situation. And frankly, I'm pleased with the job Clay's done. He hasn't broken every scoop, but he's done fine.”

I couldn't really bicker about either conclusion without
Noreen accusing me of professional jealousy, and honestly, I was jealous. A little competitive zeal can be both a help and a hindrance.

Viewers expect reporters to compete head-to-head, pushing and shoving with their counterparts across town. What they don't realize is reporters compete against colleagues in their own newsroom. For interviews. For awards. For resources. For the most time. For the best play.

And we're judged by ratings. Constantly.

I'd mentored plenty of rookie reporters over the years, but the difference between them and Clay was spelled R-E-S-P-E-C-T. He didn't respect me. He walked into Channel 3 and acted like I was all washed up just because the only thing breaking a 40 share in this market these days was Brett Favre and the Minnesota Vikings.

Clashing with Noreen wouldn't bode well. So I nodded silently, promised myself I'd show him a thing or two about breaking news, and changed the subject.

“Want me to work something up on the wind farm story?” I asked. “There's good stuff that never made air because of the timing of … the murder.”

I didn't say Sam's name out loud, lest she suspect I was scheming.

She nixed the wind idea as anything special. “Old news, now.”

“I've got some interesting stuff about bomb-sniffing dogs.”

She pursed her lips, then, dog lover that she was, told me to package something to hold for the Saturday newscast as long as we'd already shot video. Saturday is about as low a priority as a news story can land. So I almost wished I hadn't brought it up.

Noreen seemed to sense my disappointment and tried to rationalize her decision. “Riley, it's not like there's any dead bodies. Viewers care about danger and money.”

So because the economy was tanking, she ordered me to do
a quick-turn crime story about the increase in drive-off crooks at gas stations and dine-and-dash thieves at restaurants.

Sam Pierce had moved from Chicago to Minneapolis four years earlier for a reporter position on the newspaper's suburban beat. A couple months later, when the paper posted a gossip columnist job none of the rest of the staff would touch because it wasn't Real Journalism, he raised his hand. To the surprise of everyone but the top editor, Minnesotans quietly ate up the dish.

“Piercing Eyes” was entertainment, not news, though it ran in the news section, creating some periodic confusion and debate.

Sam's newsroom colleagues envied the buzz he began to generate and the job security he seemed to possess in a troubled industry. At a time when award-winning reporters were being cut or their beats were being eliminated, Sam seemed immune to such job angst because of his star status.

So he kept up his routine of making newsmakers cringe. Until his death.

At my desk, I dialed the Minneapolis Police public information officer to set up the shoot on gas and meal bandits. Normally, I'd just have called some street cops directly and hoped I got lucky, but until my name was cleared from the Sam Pierce murder, I wanted to make a show of following the department's media procedures. Also, this particular idea was straightforward and fairly soft as far as crime stories go. So I didn't anticipate trouble.

While I waited for the PIO to get back to me with some leads, I retrieved the computer archives of Sam's gossip columns.

Starting with day one, I listed anyone whose life Sam had ruined. Some he ran out of town, others he drove mad. It was a long, intriguing list of potential grudge holders. By midafter-noon, the tally numbered just over a hundred men and women.

I didn't include myself.

Three of the names I recognized as being in prison (because I'd also covered their cases)—first, a repeat drunk driver who caused a child's death; next, a Ponzi scheme engineer who cheated dozens; last, a crooked car dealer who'd been a household name—so I crossed them off.

By then the police flack had located some surveillance photos of cars whose drivers didn't pay at the pump. While he didn't have similar pictures of diners who left for the bathroom and never came back, he had the names of restaurant owners who'd reported such pilferage in the last couple weeks.

I thanked him like a good reporter and asked him to email me the pictures. But he suggested I pick them up in person: there was something else he wanted to discuss. I reminded myself to keep my lips sealed if any questions delved deeper regarding my whereabouts during Sam's murder. Quite possibly, the cops might see this as an opportunity to chat me up away from my lawyer.

Because street parking was difficult to find outside city hall, Malik waited in the van while I ran inside.

The PIO handed me the gas station photos and mentioned that the cops were noticing a pattern in reports concerning one particular grub grabber. “Instead of the kind of bum you'd expect to dine-and-dash, this guy is slick. Well dressed. Suit and tie even.”