Outburst (18 page)

“The good news,” concluded the evening anchor, Tom Rivers, with his perfectly great broadcaster's voice, “is that at this point none of the injuries appears serious or life-threatening.”

At the back of Studio A, Todd was given the cue, and he slipped past the news director, who sat at a bank of computers directing the robotic cameras. Moving toward the news set, Todd stepped over the cables, passed the floor director, then took his position at a desk some fifteen feet to the right of Tom Rivers.

“We'll be having updates throughout this broadcast,” continued Rivers. “One of our reporters is now on the way to Hennepin County Medical Center, so we'll keep you posted on the status of those injured.”

Todd, tonight wearing a navy-blue sport coat, light-blue shirt, and a solid blue tie, sat down, slipped in his earpiece, and straightened his tie.

A motherlike voice squawked in his ear, “Smooth the front of your hair, Todd.”

He did as he was told, then stared straight into the monitor.

“Good,” Nan said approvingly.

Todd glanced over at Tom Rivers, saw the anchor look down at a sheaf of papers that was nothing more than a prop, then look up at the TelePrompTer. Okay, thought Todd, here goes.

Staring at the monitor, Rivers read, “Meanwhile, the murder of Minneapolis Park Police Officer Mark Forrest, who was gunned down two days ago on the Stone Arch Bridge in downtown Minneapolis, continues to occupy the full attention of the Minneapolis police force. Here to give us an update is WLAK's investigative reporter, Todd Mills, who in fact witnessed the brutal slaying.” Tossing it, he said, “Todd?”

The floor director cued Todd, pointing to him just as a light atop the robotic camera flashed red.

“As of this moment, police continue to search for a suspect in the shooting,” began Todd, trying to make things sound interesting but knowing all too well the only real news was that Officer Mark Forrest was still dead.

He then launched into a very brief recap of the story, using part of the Stone Arch Bridge package and explaining how it was not until the following day that Forrest's body was actually found. As a clip of the family farm outside Faribault played, Todd continued, telling how Mark Forrest had left behind two very devoted parents. And then he reported again on the strange phone call he'd received last night from the man who claimed to be the true killer. Certainly, said Todd, that was one of the stranger twists in this story.

In
the lobby of the WLAK station, Renee Rogers sat at the main switchboard, thumbing through the latest issue of
McCall's.
In her late fifties, she had pale skin that was very finely etched with wrinkles, professionally dyed auburn hair, and she wore a gray pantsuit with a pink blouse. Having worked at WLAK for nearly seventeen years, she knew this was both the easiest and longest part of the day. By and large the phones quit ringing right before five, yet she had to sit there until six. Things could be worse, she thought, steadying the carefully placed telephone headset as her head tilted back with a big yawn.

The lobby of Channel 10 was an expansive, two-story space, recently redone, the walls painted a slick silver, the floor covered with red carpeting. Renee found it cold and stark, though of course no one asked her and of course she told no one, for she prided herself on knowing her place. If—and granted, she knew that was a big if—someone ever asked, however, among other things she didn't like the four white leather couches surrounding the glass coffee table in the middle of the waiting area. And she really didn't like the shiny black laminate surface of her station. Kind of tacky, not to mention that it showed each and every fingerprint. On the other hand, the video wall, a collection of a dozen screens synchronized to show one image—that of WLAK's continuous broadcast—was rather amazing. The only disadvantage was that she had a tendency to watch what was up there and it made it hard for her to do her work, especially when the soaps were on. Good thing, at least, that the volume was always kept next to nothing.

Glancing up from a recipe claiming to be the world's best non-fat lemon poppyseed pound cake, she saw the larger-than-life image of Todd Mills filling the screen. She squinted. Handsome. And nice. Always in a rush though. Hard to believe he was gay—certainly didn't look it. Or, as her twenty-year-old niece said, “Oh, for cute, but what a waste, ya know?”

The board in front of her started ringing, and Renee punched a button and said into her headset, “Good afternoon, WLAK Channel 10. How may I direct your call?”

The faint voice on the other end asked, “Would you please write this down?”

Renee's brow wrinkled. “This is WLAK. How may I direct your call?”

“Just write this down, if you'd be so kind.”

“I'm sorry, I—”

“Please,” said the caller, his voice nervous, even breathless. “I know this is Channel Ten. That's who I'm calling. I just need you to do something for me, all right?”

Renee had had them all. Every type of caller, from the First Lady's personal secretary to a neo-Nazi with a bomb threat. Grace, she thought. That's what you're hired for. You're the first voice of WLAK. And above and beyond everything you have to be polite. Fortunately, that's what she was, yet another native Minnesotan who, no matter what, could always force herself to sound natural and completely unruffled.

“Is there someone you'd like to speak with?” asked Renee, glancing up at the video wall as Todd Mills continued his report.

“I'd just like you to pass on a message. I want you to write it down.”

A message. Okay, Renee thought, now we're getting somewhere. A lot of people just wanted to talk or, more precisely, to rant and rave about something WLAK did. Others wanted to leave a message but didn't want to get dumped into Voice Mail, and she couldn't say she blamed them either. Technology just kept getting more impersonal by the day, and she for one hated it.

“Yes, of course,” said Renee. “Who is this for?”

“Write this down. Five-five-five,
R-B-G.”

Whoever this nut was, she thought, he certainly couldn't listen very well. Nevertheless, Renee did exactly as she was instructed.

“Read that back to me,” demanded the caller.

Good Lord, thought Renee. The nerve. If this person had called even twenty minutes ago, Renee wouldn't have had the time for these kinds of shenanigans. Eager to be done with it, though, Renee did as commanded.

“Five-five-five,
R-B-G
.”

“Yes, exactly,” said the caller. “Now, you give that to your reporter, to Todd Mills. Tell him that's the car I saw driving away the other night, the night that poor young policeman was killed.”

“Oh,” gasped Renee, realizing what this was about and just what she had to do. “Just wait, just wait one minute while I—”

“You don't understand, I can't get involved.”

There was a click on the other end as the man hung up.

Todd
came out of Studio A, gently shutting the door behind him as the news continued live, and she was there, the woman from the front desk. The receptionist—what was her name? And as soon as he saw her standing in the corridor, her eyes moving anxiously about, the headset still perched in her hair with its cord dangling nearly to her knees, his gut clutched.

“Say now, Mr. Mills, a call just—”

“Oh, Jesus, did I miss him?”

“What?” She glanced down at the paper in her hand, then up. “Well …”

Desperate, Todd demanded, “Who was it?”

“A man. I don't know his name. He didn't say. He wouldn't. Didn't want to get involved. No, actually, he said he couldn't get involved, whatever that means. Anyway, he just wanted me to give you this.”

A piece of paper was thrust at Todd, which he took. “What is this? What—”

“A license-plate number,” said the receptionist nervously. “That's … tha's what he said anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“The caller, the man on the phone. It was a tip caller, and he said he saw a strange car the other night. You know, the night the policeman was killed down by the river. That's the license-plate number.”

“Oh, my God.”

“I … I tried to keep him on the line, but—”

This could be it, the break they needed, and Todd started to dash off. “Thanks!”

“Sure, you bet. Just doin' my job.”

As he hurried away, Todd couldn't believe it, this good luck. Who knew what this might prove to be, but what if this was it, the killer's car? And what if, by the grace of God, they were able to catch him before he struck again?

He stopped, called to the woman walking down the hall, saying, “Wait—” But what was her name?

The receptionist stopped, turned around, clutching the cord dangling from her headset. “Renee. That's me. Renee.”

“Yes, of course. Did the caller say anything else? Anything else at all?”

“No. No, not really, he just told me to write that number down and give it to you, that's all.”

“But you're sure it was a man?”

“Well, I certainly think so. It sure sounded like a man anyway. I'm sorry I couldn't get more information. He just kinda hung up on me.”

“This is great. This is wonderful. Thank you very much, Renee.”

“You bet.”

With that he took off, darting down the narrow hall, around the corner, then into the newsroom, that expansive space filled with a mass of cubicles. Looking at the piece of paper in hand as he headed toward his office, he thought that, yes, this certainly looked like a Minnesota license plate. It had the appropriate sequence of numbers and letters anyway. Now it was just a matter of getting an ID on the plates, which Todd knew would be no problem.

Hurrying into his office, he stopped in the doorway, looked back toward the raised platform of the assignment editor. Just to the side of that, on the monitor that was always going, he saw Michelle Newton, their weather forecaster, coming on. Good, that meant it was a quarter past. He had slightly more than forty-five minutes before he was due back on for the six o'clock.

Todd shut the glass door to his office and dropped himself into his padded desk chair in front of his computer. He hit a couple of keys on the keyboard, the color screen came to life, but, no, there were no messages. He quickly checked both his desk and cell phone, but likewise found nothing. Todd then laid the piece of paper on top of the keyboard and stared at it. Okay, just take this a step at a time, he told himself. This could be nothing. Nothing at all. Just a wild-goose chase.

Forgetting entirely about what might be best for WLAK, Todd dialed a number, got a beeper, and then entered his work number. Less than ten seconds later his desk phone rang, and Todd snatched it up.

“Todd Mills.”

“Hey, there. What's up?” Rawlins paused, then added, “Forensics couldn't get a single print but yours off that paper.”

“Where are you?”

“Down at CID.”

“Good,” replied Todd, relieved that Rawlins was still down at the Criminal Investigation Division at City Hall and out of harm's way. “Listen, something's up. That guy didn't call, the supposed killer.”

“Yeah, well—”

“But someone else did.”

“What?”

“A tip call came in while I was on the air—a man. He said he saw a car the night Forrest was killed.”

“No shit? Tell me he got a license-plate number.”

“He did, he got one.”

“Fabulous. What is it? I'll look it up on CAPRS right now,” he said, referring to the Computer-Assisted Police Report System.

“Great.” Todd read it off. “Sounds like a Minnesota plate, don't you think?”

“Absolutely.” Unable to hide the excitement in his voice, Rawlins said, “Just stay right there, Todd. Don't go anywhere. I'll call you right back. Let's hope this is the break we've been waiting for.”

Todd hung up and envisioned Rawlins turning around in his two-person cubicle and using the computer he shared with his partner, Neal Foster. Glancing at his watch, Todd thought that maybe he wouldn't be heading into the studio at six after all. With any luck this might turn into that kind of tip, the superhot kind, that required immediate action.

But if not?

Todd rolled his chair away from his desk and leaned back, closing his eyes, thinking, Christ, for Rawlins's and Rawlins's safety alone they needed to nail this guy ASAP.

If this tip didn't go anywhere, however, Todd would have to go on at six but perhaps not at ten. And then tomorrow? Perhaps he'd go to the park police and try to interview someone there. He'd also make another, more concerted effort to interview Mark Forrest's parents. But should he push to see if the supposedly wonderful Forrest had something else lurking somewhere in his closet? Could he have been involved in any fringe groups involving leather or drugs? Todd didn't relish going down that path, not by any means; the last thing he wanted was to use the underside of the gay world to play off straight stereotypes. But why, he found himself pondering once again, had Todd been drawn into this in the first place? Why had he been lured that night to the Stone Arch Bridge? Was it because of all the reporters in the Twin Cities Todd was the most wonderful and competent? Or was it much more simple, was it because Todd was gay and the entire metro area knew it? Todd hated to boil everything down to sexuality, particularly his, but he couldn't help but suspect the latter. Yes, and as much as he didn't want to, Mark Forrest's sex life was an avenue Todd was going to have to explore.