Silencing Sam Read online

  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.”

  “Any pictures? Give us a photo, I’m sure we could give you an ID.”

  “No, that’s the problem. But from the description, we’re starting to wonder if the same man is walking the check in about a third of our downtown meal-theft cases.”

  “So he’s not just forgetting his wallet?”

  He shook his head. “He’s hungry, broke, or a jerk. Maybe all three.”

  We laughed. And just as I was getting up to leave, the PIO got to the other point of our visit. “We’re kind of curious about where your buddy’s getting all his information.”

  “Which buddy are you talking about?” I asked.

  “Your Texas buddy.” He meant Clay. I imagined the cops were annoyed that he had the inside track on the headless homicide.

  “Why don’t you ask him yourself?” I was curious, as well as envious, about which homicide detective he’d gotten tight with.

  “I already did. Your new reporter referred us to your station lawyer, who referred me to the state shield law.”

  I smiled. Minnesota’s shield law protecting reporter sources is among the best in the nation. I’d hidden sources behind it myself more than once. After decades of debate, a federal shield law was still unresolved.

  “Sorry, I can’t help you,” I replied. “No idea who he’s talking to. I’m just as interested.” I sure was, because Clay doing good made me look mediocre.

  The PIO didn’t respond, like he was trying to decide whether or not to believe me.

  “Maybe you should warn your investigators about the perils of releasing unauthorized information to the media,” I said, smirking a little.

  Such an admonition would be pointless. Sources have their own reasons for leaking stuff. Sometimes it’s to curry favor with a reporter. Sometimes it’s to screw a boss. Occasionally their rationale is more noble; they believe it’s for the public good. I’ve broken stories with insider information for all those reasons and more. The best physical features for a source are keen eyes and a sharp tongue. If the chief caught this latest leak, somebody’s career in law enforcement would be over.

  I gave my thanks and left to go find sound and cover for my economy filchers story. Because gas stations have surveillance cameras, their thieves are generally easier to catch, unless they’ve duct-taped over their license plates. The lunch larceners are the bigger challenge.

  My afternoon turned out to include a fun interview with a restaurant owner complaining about dining-and-dashing miscreants who order steak instead of soup and wishing, if they truly were broke, they’d at least have the dignity to offer to do dishes.

  I tried to firm up whether, like the cops suspected, one criminal might be responsible for many of the meal thefts, because one big bad guy is always more newsworthy than a bunch of little bad guys. But it was still too fuzzy, though I did get several food managers to promise to call me if Mr. Dine-and-Dash came back for seconds.

  I stuck around after the news to run through my gossip suspect list again, loading the names into a spreadsheet. Bad haircuts. Party flirts. Cheating in the carpool lane. Those accusations were probably true. But that didn’t mean the victims couldn’t still be pissed at being outed by Sam.

  I made a subcategory of more-subjective smears. A politician who yelled at her misbehaving toddler while shopping. Another politician who didn’t yell at her misbehaving toddler while shopping. A department store Santa who hiccuped instead of ho-hoing.

  I grouped others together who’d obviously been treated unfairly by the media, even though I hated to disparage the media by lumping Sam in with the rest of us.

  A young actress belittled for leaving a meager tip when it was a case of mistaken identity. A world-renowned transplant surgeon about whom Sam repeated rumors concerning a hospital nurse and a supply closet. A judge whose reputation was hurt after his crazy ex posted doctored photos online. While the columnist didn’t actually publish them, he directed readers to the website that did and reported—truthfully, he’d noted as justification—that the judge was embarrassed about his inability to get them yanked off the Internet.

  And this list didn’t even count folks Sam had publicly teased with “I know what you’re up to but I’m not telling.” That stunt was a regular feature in his weekend “Piercing Eyes” column.

  I finally gave up trying to see through all the clutter. Nobody seemed to have a more compelling reason than anybody else for silencing Sam.

  Glancing at my watch, I realized I was late meeting Garnett. Then I remembered what he had said about the killer hating me as much as the gossip writer and trying to frame me for the crime. Then it occurred to me that Sam’s killer might not necessarily bear me malice but simply see me as a convenient scapegoat to deflect suspicion. Without even thinking, my eyes found the mystery woman’s note, still pinned to my wall.

  “Thanks Alot, Riley, Give Everyone The Disturbing Information Regarding That Bad Ass Gossip.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Clay was also working late.

  On my way out, I tried to coax the name of his informant by complimenting his coverage—one reporter to another. He just laughed and insisted a good journalist never reveals a source, especially not to a potential suspect.

  “You must think I’m dumber than dirt, little lady.”

  “Oh come on, cowboy,” I said, figuring two could play at Texas talk. “You don’t really think I shot Sam?”

  “Nope.” He shook his head. “I don’t expect you’re capable of hitting the side of a barn. Heck, missy, you probably never even held a gun.”

  Then he opened his suit jacket and flashed a shiny handgun in a shoulder holster.

  “A gun!” I gasped. “Here at the station?” I looked around, but the newsroom was fairly empty and nobody seemed to be paying attention to us.

  “Sure thing,” he said. “Handy as a pocket on a shirt.”

  Clay winked and assured me that Texas gun-carry permits are reciprocal in Minnesota. Now I understood how he’d gotten so chummy with the local cops so fast. Waving a weapon likely helped him bond. So would arguing over who had more firepower.

  “Go ahead and grip it,” he suggested, opening his jacket again and moving closer toward me. “Safety’s on.”

  I didn’t tell him about my dead husband’s gun. I’d declined to take it back from the police after their investigation because I didn’t want to own a weapon that had killed someone—even though that particular victim deserved to die. I’d already regretted that decision once, but not enough to shop for a replacement.

  Clay apparently noticed my hesitation. “You northern ladies afraid of guns?”

  I ignored his taunt. My hand brushed against his chest as I pulled the Glock from his holster. I experimented with its heft. Favored by cops, it felt familiar. I stretched my arm, purposely holding the barrel even with my eye, before holstering the weapon behind his jacket.

  He insisted on walking me out to my car. Maybe because it was dark, because he was armed, or because a crazy lady sent me pretty flowers with a confusing note, I agreed.

  Garnett had his feet on my coffee table and a beer in his hand when I walked in carrying Chinese food and chopsticks. He’d checked with his old homicide buddies, who’d all denied being Clay’s leak, as usual blaming the medical examine
r.

  “Yeah, well, you’d always deny it too if they asked you about me,” I said.

  “They don’t have to ask anymore,” he answered. “They can read about it in the paper. Oops, those days are gone.”

  He raised his beer in a tasteless toast that I ignored as I opened fried rice and a chicken lo mein dish for us to share. Cops can be just as cynical as journalists.

  “Don’t joke about Sam being dead,” I said. “Or they might start speculating you killed him to defend my honor. You’re lucky you were in Washington that night.”

  He shook his head and laughed. “For a guy no one seemed to like, his murder certainly is getting plenty of attention.”

  From a journalistic standpoint, Sam deserved the play. Newspapers are a dying industry. That’s hardly news anymore. But dead newspaper columnists still deserve coverage. I didn’t begrudge Sam his postmortem headlines.

  “He seemed to relish being feared more than being liked,” I said. “I wonder why.”

  “Well, you know what they say: if you don’t have anything nice to say about anybody, come sit by me.” Garnett patted the couch beside him.

  “Olympia Dukakis in Steel Magnolias, 1989,” I said as I sat down. “But she ripped it off from Alice Roosevelt Longworth, Teddy Roosevelt’s socialite daughter.”

  Garnett and I had a tradition of weaving famous movie lines into our conversations and guessing the film, actor, and year. I associated movies with major news events and recalled watching Steel Magnolias about the same time Iran’s Ayatollah Khomeini was condemning Salman Rushdie to death for blasphemy.

  I was used to viewers complaining about my stories—there’d even been occasional advertising boycotts—but at least I’d never been the subject of a fatwa.

  A copy of The Satanic Verses sat on a bookcase in the other room, grouped with my collection of other controversial fiction like Harry Potter, The Catcher in the Rye, Lady Chatterley’s Lover, and The Da Vinci Code.