like she’d forgotten why I was in her office. “That’s good to know.”
I sure wasn’t going to remind her that she had been on the verge of reprimanding me for snickering about Toby Elness. She shuffled through some papers on her desk, apparently trying to recall just what I had done to vex her. I decided to jump in first.
“We were just talking about the need to shoot enough tape on the pet story so promotion would have plenty of animal shots to work with.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “Don’t skimp on video.”
T HE FLASHING MESSAGE at my desk, like most of my phone calls these days, came from my family, checking up on me. My mom had the station 800 number and didn’t hesitate to use it. I suppose a mom message is better than no message, but a reporter is only as good as her next story, so I was anxious for old sources to start calling with new ideas. Except most wouldn’t realize I was back at work until they actually saw me back on the air, which wouldn’t happen for another couple weeks.
I marked the best sound bites from Toby Elness’s interview and added more details to the SUSAN boards. Writing VEHICLE under the unsub column didn’t require any Sherlockian skill, but I vowed to keep track of all clues, no matter how obvious or obscure. Clearly, our Susan killer had access to wheels.
The phone rang. This time, not Mom. A computer voice said, “You have a collect call from Oak Park Heights prison.” Short pause.
“Dusty Foster.” Slowly and deliberately, Dusty said his name.
After another brief pause the computer voice continued, “Will you accept the charges?”
“Yes,” I answered. Outsiders can’t call prison inmates. And for obvious reasons, inmates can only dial numbers collect, from a preapproved list. Cell phone numbers are not allowed.
“Hello, Dusty. How’s it going inside?”
“Same as it’s gone the last fifteen years. How’s it going outside?”
“Better than inside, I’m sure.”
“How about your investigation?”
He craved encouragement, but I made no promises. I’d rather have him calling out of boredom than out of false hope. “I put a call in to your attorney. He’s sending you an authorization form to sign, then he’ll get the old files up from storage.”
“You do believe me, don’t you?”
“Dusty, we’ve been through this. The state proved you’re a murderer. I’m open to the possibility you’re not. That’s the best I can do.”
“My mom wants to talk to you.”
“I already have a mom” would have been my reply in most cases, but I took her phone number because I sensed another television interview ending in a mother’s sobs. Here we go again: sound up, tears.
I N ADDITION TO the police and court records, I’d found several articles about Susan Redding in the
Duluth News-Tribune.
She and her doctor husband had been married four years. No children. A feature profile talked about her earlier reign as Miss Duluth, and her later charity work at the hospital, a local church, and the university.
When Susan Redding failed to show up at a fund-raiser for the University of Minnesota-Duluth that night, a friend had called her house. When no one answered the phone, the friend stopped by and discovered Susan’s partially clothed body. At ten o’clock at night the front door had been unlocked. Rigor mortis was complete, so the medical examiner put the time of death between ten in the morning and one in the afternoon.
The cops in this case clearly had more evidence to work with than did the detectives working the other SUSAN cases. The body had been left where it had fallen, not dumped elsewhere. The crime scene was indoors, easy to secure. And witnesses whispered about a secret lover with a predictable motive.
“Sorry to bring up these memories after so long.” I was speaking to Laura Robins, the friend who had found Susan Redding’s body. I dialed the phone number listed on her police statement,
I sure wasn’t going to remind her that she had been on the verge of reprimanding me for snickering about Toby Elness. She shuffled through some papers on her desk, apparently trying to recall just what I had done to vex her. I decided to jump in first.
“We were just talking about the need to shoot enough tape on the pet story so promotion would have plenty of animal shots to work with.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “Don’t skimp on video.”
T HE FLASHING MESSAGE at my desk, like most of my phone calls these days, came from my family, checking up on me. My mom had the station 800 number and didn’t hesitate to use it. I suppose a mom message is better than no message, but a reporter is only as good as her next story, so I was anxious for old sources to start calling with new ideas. Except most wouldn’t realize I was back at work until they actually saw me back on the air, which wouldn’t happen for another couple weeks.
I marked the best sound bites from Toby Elness’s interview and added more details to the SUSAN boards. Writing VEHICLE under the unsub column didn’t require any Sherlockian skill, but I vowed to keep track of all clues, no matter how obvious or obscure. Clearly, our Susan killer had access to wheels.
The phone rang. This time, not Mom. A computer voice said, “You have a collect call from Oak Park Heights prison.” Short pause.
“Dusty Foster.” Slowly and deliberately, Dusty said his name.
After another brief pause the computer voice continued, “Will you accept the charges?”
“Yes,” I answered. Outsiders can’t call prison inmates. And for obvious reasons, inmates can only dial numbers collect, from a preapproved list. Cell phone numbers are not allowed.
“Hello, Dusty. How’s it going inside?”
“Same as it’s gone the last fifteen years. How’s it going outside?”
“Better than inside, I’m sure.”
“How about your investigation?”
He craved encouragement, but I made no promises. I’d rather have him calling out of boredom than out of false hope. “I put a call in to your attorney. He’s sending you an authorization form to sign, then he’ll get the old files up from storage.”
“You do believe me, don’t you?”
“Dusty, we’ve been through this. The state proved you’re a murderer. I’m open to the possibility you’re not. That’s the best I can do.”
“My mom wants to talk to you.”
“I already have a mom” would have been my reply in most cases, but I took her phone number because I sensed another television interview ending in a mother’s sobs. Here we go again: sound up, tears.
I N ADDITION TO the police and court records, I’d found several articles about Susan Redding in the
Duluth News-Tribune.
She and her doctor husband had been married four years. No children. A feature profile talked about her earlier reign as Miss Duluth, and her later charity work at the hospital, a local church, and the university.
When Susan Redding failed to show up at a fund-raiser for the University of Minnesota-Duluth that night, a friend had called her house. When no one answered the phone, the friend stopped by and discovered Susan’s partially clothed body. At ten o’clock at night the front door had been unlocked. Rigor mortis was complete, so the medical examiner put the time of death between ten in the morning and one in the afternoon.
The cops in this case clearly had more evidence to work with than did the detectives working the other SUSAN cases. The body had been left where it had fallen, not dumped elsewhere. The crime scene was indoors, easy to secure. And witnesses whispered about a secret lover with a predictable motive.
“Sorry to bring up these memories after so long.” I was speaking to Laura Robins, the friend who had found Susan Redding’s body. I dialed the phone number listed on her police statement,
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