system.”
“I’m fine.” He straightened up in his seat again. “You planning on scattering those ashes somewhere?”
“No. We’re taking them to an expert.”
Journalists don’t personally know much about anything. All we know is what people tell us. A lot of what people tell us isn’t worth dog shit. But I was no more going to air a story about Toby Elness’s cremation speculation without getting independent corroboration than I was going to offer to pet-sit for him Thanksgiving weekend.
CHAPTER 13
T he morning news was under way when I walked into the newsroom. Noreen Banks sat at her desk, on the phone, monitoring our rivals while speaking to the control room.
I winced as I heard her telling Channel 3’s producer “to put more energy in the last block of the show.” My old news director insisted that our work product be referred to as a “newscast,” not a “show.” We’re not entertainment, we’re news, was his motto. I tried sharing this philosophy with Noreen once, but suspected if I brought it up again it would be our last conversation.
I stuck my head in her office, knowing now was not a good time for her to talk. “Got some
very
nice sound on the dog cremation story.” I used my best boss suck-up voice.
She gave me a thumbs-up and I moved on to the computer center to thank Xiong for Susan Redding’s death certificate. He was working on a script for the noon newscast. He told me to check my e-mail.
When I returned to my office, I made a new board for my new victim.
SUSAN REDDING 1990
AGE: 28
DOCTOR’S WIFE
REDHEAD
DEATH DATE/NOVEMBER 19
STRANGLED
LOVER CONVICTED/MAINTAINS INNOCENCE
DULUTH HOME
I set her chart next to the Susan Chenowith and Susan Moreno boards, then logged on to my computer. Seven e-mail messages. I skipped over likely spam and one from my sister to click on Xiong’s e-mail. I found myself staring at another death certificate.
Susan Niemczyk. November 19, 1994. Rochester, Minnesota. Suicide. Suffocation.
“A LSO SIGNIFICANT IS what I did not find,” Xiong explained. “No other Susans murdered on that day anywhere else in the country. It’s less coincidental we should have a cluster here.”
Xiong showed me the results on his computer screen. He had found other Susan deaths on various November 19’s, but they appeared to be from accidental or natural causes such as car crashes, cancer, or heart disease.
“I threw you the suicide because, well, you never know.” Xiong hesitated. He looked uneasy about the subject. I wondered how much he knew about what had happened with me. And if he knew, how many others did too?
“It’s okay,” I assured him. “I’m okay.” Most of the newsroom thought I had simply taken time off to grieve. My family knew the truth. So did the station bigwigs. Even though I assured them I would never have gone through with it, they weren’t satisfied until I admitted myself—okay, forced by their intervention—to the Mayo Clinic psych ward. There, surrounded by some seriously troubled patients, and some seriously patient therapists, I had found my way back.
Xiong avoided eye contact with me, but continued talking. “I remember what you said about a possible murder slipping through the cracks.”
This time I did some research before flying out the door for southern Minnesota. Nothing in the online newspaper archives, except an obituary that listed Susan Niemczyk’s parents and a sister. With a name like Niemczyk it wasn’t hard to locate addresses and phone numbers. Lucky for me, they lived in the Twin Cities: her mother in northeast Minneapolis, her sister in St. Paul. I decided not to contact them just yet and dialed Rochester Police instead.
The officer who handled the case had retired five years ago, but the desk sergeant gave me his name: James Anderson. Tough break for me; it’s the Minnesota equivalent of writing John Smith on a motel ledger. Minnesota has deep Scandinavian roots, having
“I’m fine.” He straightened up in his seat again. “You planning on scattering those ashes somewhere?”
“No. We’re taking them to an expert.”
Journalists don’t personally know much about anything. All we know is what people tell us. A lot of what people tell us isn’t worth dog shit. But I was no more going to air a story about Toby Elness’s cremation speculation without getting independent corroboration than I was going to offer to pet-sit for him Thanksgiving weekend.
CHAPTER 13
T he morning news was under way when I walked into the newsroom. Noreen Banks sat at her desk, on the phone, monitoring our rivals while speaking to the control room.
I winced as I heard her telling Channel 3’s producer “to put more energy in the last block of the show.” My old news director insisted that our work product be referred to as a “newscast,” not a “show.” We’re not entertainment, we’re news, was his motto. I tried sharing this philosophy with Noreen once, but suspected if I brought it up again it would be our last conversation.
I stuck my head in her office, knowing now was not a good time for her to talk. “Got some
very
nice sound on the dog cremation story.” I used my best boss suck-up voice.
She gave me a thumbs-up and I moved on to the computer center to thank Xiong for Susan Redding’s death certificate. He was working on a script for the noon newscast. He told me to check my e-mail.
When I returned to my office, I made a new board for my new victim.
SUSAN REDDING 1990
AGE: 28
DOCTOR’S WIFE
REDHEAD
DEATH DATE/NOVEMBER 19
STRANGLED
LOVER CONVICTED/MAINTAINS INNOCENCE
DULUTH HOME
I set her chart next to the Susan Chenowith and Susan Moreno boards, then logged on to my computer. Seven e-mail messages. I skipped over likely spam and one from my sister to click on Xiong’s e-mail. I found myself staring at another death certificate.
Susan Niemczyk. November 19, 1994. Rochester, Minnesota. Suicide. Suffocation.
“A LSO SIGNIFICANT IS what I did not find,” Xiong explained. “No other Susans murdered on that day anywhere else in the country. It’s less coincidental we should have a cluster here.”
Xiong showed me the results on his computer screen. He had found other Susan deaths on various November 19’s, but they appeared to be from accidental or natural causes such as car crashes, cancer, or heart disease.
“I threw you the suicide because, well, you never know.” Xiong hesitated. He looked uneasy about the subject. I wondered how much he knew about what had happened with me. And if he knew, how many others did too?
“It’s okay,” I assured him. “I’m okay.” Most of the newsroom thought I had simply taken time off to grieve. My family knew the truth. So did the station bigwigs. Even though I assured them I would never have gone through with it, they weren’t satisfied until I admitted myself—okay, forced by their intervention—to the Mayo Clinic psych ward. There, surrounded by some seriously troubled patients, and some seriously patient therapists, I had found my way back.
Xiong avoided eye contact with me, but continued talking. “I remember what you said about a possible murder slipping through the cracks.”
This time I did some research before flying out the door for southern Minnesota. Nothing in the online newspaper archives, except an obituary that listed Susan Niemczyk’s parents and a sister. With a name like Niemczyk it wasn’t hard to locate addresses and phone numbers. Lucky for me, they lived in the Twin Cities: her mother in northeast Minneapolis, her sister in St. Paul. I decided not to contact them just yet and dialed Rochester Police instead.
The officer who handled the case had retired five years ago, but the desk sergeant gave me his name: James Anderson. Tough break for me; it’s the Minnesota equivalent of writing John Smith on a motel ledger. Minnesota has deep Scandinavian roots, having
Similar Books
