Authors: Julie Kramer
“Yes, that’s where Brian bought my going-away present. The entryway table you admired at my house.”
I recalled running my hand over the graceful piece of furniture.
While talking to Brian was a coup, Michelle’s bombshell was bigger. When Josh finished his work with the forensic artist, and Michelle first saw the sketch of Sarah, she sensed something about the dead girl’s face that seemed familiar.
“Like maybe we’d met. Then when I heard on the news that she’d worked at the Amish store, I realized she’d waited on us.”
“You met Sarah Yoder just before she died?”
“Strange, huh?” Michelle said. “That’s probably the biggest coincidence of all.”
During this dialogue, Brian stayed quiet.
During the brief time Sarah worked at Everything Amish, investigators ran all the credit numbers for purchases. So Brian’s name popped up on two lists connected to the murder victim: as a customer and as a property owner. And he also had a police file indicating that he had a temper and might be capable of violence.
I was beginning to better understand why the cops were looking at him.
I decided ending the questions for now was the best interview strategy. We were all on good terms, and I wanted to keep things that way. So I thanked him for fitting me in his overseas schedule and asked him to keep in touch regarding the results of the DNA test. Then we all signed off.
I don’t know how soon sleep came to Michelle, but once again, every time I closed my eyes, Sarah’s face popped up and robbed me of any rest.
A
few hours later, another phone call woke me. This time it was my mom, calling to say that a local billboard had been defaced. “Everyone around here’s talking about it, Riley.”
Trying to be nice, I clarified that unless the vandals had scrawled neo-Nazi propaganda over a red, white, and blue billboard supporting our troops, minor vandalism just wasn’t major-market news.
Bryce would go ballistic if I even pitched such a story. He would probably write up a note for my personnel file, using this as an example of my poor news judgment.
“Nobody wrote anything on the billboard,” Mom said. “They just painted over it.”
“What do you mean?”
She explained that a large billboard had gone up outside Harmony a couple days earlier with the Sarah sketch, a headline reading “Call Fillmore County Sheriff’s Office with information about Sarah Yoder’s murder,” and the phone number.
“And someone painted over it?” I asked. “Why?”
“Talk is the Amish did it because they didn’t want her face up there for everyone to see,” she said.
“They don’t like pictures,” I heard my dad yell in the background, trying to be helpful. “So they gave it a good whitewashing.”
The theory made sense. Especially after meeting the rest of Sarah’s family.
If I could pick one Yoder to spend some alone time with, I’d go for Sarah’s younger sister.
Out of the mouths of babes.
Hannah seemed curious about her sister’s fate, perhaps not old enough to have bought into the “God’s Will” philosophy of her mother. She might even have seen or heard something that made her uneasy, that she needed to share with someone.
But such an encounter seemed unlikely. It’s not like I could dial a number and hope a little girl answered the phone. These were Amish.
Yet our paths had crossed twice. Perhaps the third time could be the charm.
• • •
The news staff was settling down for the morning huddle. Word on the Minneapolis blaze was that a kitchen grease fire destroyed two popular dining spots as well as a shopping complex.
“The fact that restaurants burned down is more interesting than residential homes,” Bryce said. “Viewers only care if it’s their house. Or maybe their neighbor’s. But thousands of people probably dined at those places. Everybody cares about food.”
He got no arguments from any of us on that theory.
“We need to be airing more food stories,” he continued. “Within the next week I want everyone here to suggest a story about food. Some we’ll air immediately, some we’ll hold till next month’s sweeps.”
“Food news or food features?” I asked.
“Just food,” he said. “I’ll know it when I hear it.”
I had no objection to covering the food beat. That’s the kind of research underpaid journalists love. Before I became recognizable, the newspaper food critic used to let me tag along during her reviews.
We were back to discussing further coverage of the restaurant
fire when Ozzie yelled over from the assignment desk that he had a live one. “The bear’s been collared!”
Apparently the southern Minnesota bear was being tracked, not just by hunters but by scientists. A private donor—curious about bears moving out of forested areas into farmland—was funding research to learn how animals adapted to new habitat.
A researcher from the Bear Center had hit the animal with a tranquilizer gun and banded its neck with a radio collar. No details on the location would be forthcoming because they didn’t want to give clues to hunters.
Especially since today was the last day of hunting season.
Ozzie printed out an emailed photo of a large black bear sporting colorful streamers around its head. Awfully darn cute. He sort of looked like a circus bear, except for trees in the background instead of trapezes.
“They’re naming the bear Walden,” he said, “meaning ‘from the woods.’”
“ ‘Walden’ sounds adorable,” I said. “Any hunter who shoots him is going to get death threats.”
We discussed how naming animals personalizes them for the public. Bryce told me I owned the bear beat and better deliver a follow-up story.
“You know there’s no chance I’m going to get any video of this bear,” I said. “Especially doing the camera work myself. You realize that, right?”
“I dislike such a negative attitude, Riley,” Bryce said. “I’m seeing that in story after story. You were certain you wouldn’t find a photo of the Amish woman, and you didn’t. Now you’re convinced you won’t find the bear. Try thinking positive.”
I wasn’t sure how to answer him. So I merely nodded my head, to show I got his message. And deep down I started worrying maybe he was right about me and negative energy.
Then I decided not to let him beat me down. Maybe he needed a message.
“Speaking of Sarah Yoder,” I said, “and I like to use murder victims’ names to personalize them—well, there’s been some interesting developments in that case.”
I explained about the vandalized billboard and the apparent feud going on between the Yoder family and the law.
“Plus, Sarah was being shunned.”
That announcement brought a round of questions ranging from “what” to “why.” Bryce was the only one not talking over everyone else at the news table. I pretended not to notice he was caught in a management sulk.
“Sarah had turned away from the Amish so the Amish were turning away from her,” I said. “Whether her departure from the community relates to her murder, we don’t know.”
“I’d sure like to know,” Nicole said. “And I bet viewers would, too.”
I smiled at her for the support. She was taking a risk, backing me.
A couple of the producers also seemed interested in the story. As the new boss, Bryce was in a management pickle. Without control, he’d lose respect. But if he dismissed an intriguing story, he might lose more respect.
I needed to give him an out. “I realize my top priority has to be this bear. That’s the story I need to come back with. But how about if the opportunity is there, I poke around on Sarah’s homicide?”
He opted for public peace. “As long as you understand your primary assignment.”
But when I asked if a photographer could come with me to help with all the ping-pong driving, Bryce shook his head. “Those resources are needed here on other stories within our viewing area.”
I had hoped Malik and I might team up in the field again, but I also grasped that Bryce needed to slap a firm “no” my way as a warning to the rest of the staff to fear him.
A
fatal accident on the highway between the Twin Cities and Rochester changed our news plans. Lanes were closed and traffic backed up just south of Cannon Falls, the same stretch where I’d encountered the near miss the other night.
Walden the bear was put on hold. So was Sarah Yoder.
Talk of turning the highway into a freeway came up every time a motorist died. But lawmakers insisted no money existed for such a permanent solution. Dead people can’t (or at least aren’t supposed to) vote. So driving south on that road was like a round of roulette.
The state was experimenting with high-tech signs at the intersection to alert drivers when it was safe to cross, but elevation differences in the lanes created blind spots.
The accident happened within the designated market area—the magic circle of news—so Channel 3 cared enough about the story to send a satellite truck and photographer to join me for a live shot.
((ANCHOR CU))
TWO VEHICLES CRASHED AT ONE
OF THE STATE’S MOST PERILOUS
INTERSECTIONS JUST SOUTH OF
THE TWIN CITIES. NOW A WOMAN
IS DEAD AND A FAMILY INJURED.
RILEY SPARTZ IS STANDING BY AT
THE SCENE.
((RILEY LIVE))
MORE THAN A HUNDRED
ACCIDENTS HAVE OCCURRED AT
THIS SAME LOCATION BEHIND ME
IN THE LAST DECADE.
((NAT SOT))
RESIDENTS WANT ACTION BUT THE
STATE HAS NO MONEY BEYOND
PUTTING UP WARNING SIGNS.
((RESIDENT SOT))
THOSE OF US WHO LIVE AROUND
HERE LIVE IN FEAR WE OR
SOMEONE WE LOVE WILL BE NEXT.
After also voicing a track and shooting a standup, I could have called it a news day and headed back to the Twin Cities. But because I keep an extra set of socks and underwear tucked in my shoulder bag, I suggested continuing south that night and returning the next day.
“I could bring back a Walden story,” I said. “By then we might know his fate. I can at least get some fresh video and sound from hunters.”
Bryce agreed, provided I do a phoner—a live telephone report covered with video. Not the most interesting means of storytelling, but a cheap way to transmit information.
These were the final hours of bear hunting season and the woods would be full of blaze orange. Radio collar or not, Walden was an attractive target.
So was I. So was anybody tromping in the dark thicket.
With hunting fever at a frenzy, I vetoed any idea of going undercover in the underbrush. I figured folks with guns on deadline would shoot anything that moved. I decided instead to interview hunters as they gassed up their pickups or filled their thermoses with coffee. I even attempted an artistic shot down the barrel of a gun.
I feared for this one bear against masses of camouflage.
But Walden had supporters. Protesters had arrived in town with signs and chants to oppose the hunting of research bears.
If Walden was shot in the waning minutes of bear hunting season, the hunter who landed him would be required to report his trophy to the state. I’d then report that as news. And such a controversial kill would absolutely mean the lead, especially since Bryce was bullish on this bear story.
And if Walden survived the night, that would also be news. But certainly not the lead. Even so, I was rooting for the bear.
I
meant to chase Walden more to please my boss. But outside of town, a white billboard with no message caught my attention. No doubt this was the one in the buzz. I pulled over, then walked closer to inspect. The paint looked dry, but the work fresh. Spatters covered brown grass below.
I stretched upward to try to touch my palm against the lower edge of the sign just to feel closer to Sarah, but fell short. “I will keep your picture in the news,” I silently vowed.
The surface was cold and bumpy in places. Sloppy whitewash work got the job done fast. The goal was to obliterate the message completely, not to create art.
Whoever did the deed must have used a very long paint roller to reach the top. And waited until late at night when traffic was sparse. Could one person have worked alone? Probably. But the chore would have been easier with a lookout.
I checked my watch and saw less than twenty minutes stood between me and my phoner about bear season. The beauty of a phoner was that it could be done anywhere—provided you had cell service. I checked and had four bars. I ran across the road and took a picture of the blank billboard with my cell phone, then unpacked the station camera and tripod to get a wide moving video pan of the billboard. Through the viewfinder I saw a law enforcement vehicle drive into screen. Technically I shouldn’t have stopped there.
Sheriff Eide rolled down the window. “What’s new in news?” he asked.
I was relieved to see him behind the wheel, figuring I had just avoided a ticket. “You might know better than me, Sheriff. What can you tell me about the situation here?” I waved my hand at the blank sign.
He explained that because advertising was slow, the billboard company agreed to donate space for a public-service sign asking for clues about Sarah. “It was barely up forty-eight hours.”
“Do you have a picture of what it looked like prior to the vandalism?” I asked.
He showed me one on his cell phone and emailed it to me so I could give viewers a before and after.
The weather was chilly, and he noticed I wasn’t wearing a coat. He invited me to sit in the car with him and chat. Backseat of course. The invite gave me a sense we might be getting along better, and I decided to capitalize on that in the hopes of obtaining more facts about the case. I climbed in, hearing the auto lock behind me as I shut the door.
“I hope folks driving by don’t think I’m under arrest, Sheriff.”
“That’s a risk you’ll have to take,” he said.
The back of the squad car was certainly warmer, and I voiced my appreciation. He opened a Plexiglas window in the security divider so we could talk more easily. I told him I actually was in town to cover the bear hunt and would probably stay at the bed-and-breakfast that night to await the fate of Walden.