Shunning Sarah (8 page)

Dozens of viewer comments followed my story posted online. THE MADNESS MUST CEASE. I scrolled and read through them. HOW CAN HUMANS BE SO CRUEL? Predictably, most were from people against all forms of hunting. ALL GOD’S CREATURES HAVE A RIGHT TO LIFE. Yet some were even from hunters. I AM A HUNTER AND HUNTING COLLARED BEARS IS A DISGRACE. RESEARCH BEARS HAVE HAD CONTACT WITH HUMANS, REDUCING THEIR FEAR OF US. But others were from hunters who supported the status quo. DEATH BY HUNTING IS PART OF A BEAR’S LIFE.

One comment had a familiar, snarly tone. PROTECTING RESEARCH BEARS … I’M TORN BETWEEN POSING THE QUESTION, DOES A BEAR SHIT IN THE WOODS? OR
BRINGING UP A QUOTE FROM
ANCHORMAN: THE LEGEND OF RON BURGUNDY.

I dismissed the first half of the comment because jerk clichés don’t merit replies.

As for
Anchorman
—set in the 1970s happy-talk, Action News era—the movie includes a debate over whether women should be hired in TV newsrooms. I knew the quote in question: the weatherman and a reporter have a conversation about bears being attracted to women’s menstrual periods, and how that meant that hiring a female would put the entire television station in jeopardy.

The film was a tongue-in-cheek comedy, but I still considered the dialogue crude and wasn’t about to respond on Channel 3’s website. Viewers weren’t required to leave their real names on their comments, and this one didn’t. But I had a feeling we’d watched
Anchorman
together, on DVD, curled up on my couch once upon a time. And we’d also developed a routine of incorporating famous movie quotes into our own conversations and guessing the actor, film, and year.

For Nick Garnett to comment on my story, he had to be missing me. Or stalking me. And I wasn’t sure how either scenario made me feel. I’d spent the last couple of months trying not to look at the photo of us holding hands by the Lake Harriet band shell, even though a framed five-by-seven lay among other memorabilia in my bottom desk drawer.

We had been ready to spend the rest of our lives together. Our engagement was brief, yet intense. The breakup was complicated. On one level, his fault. On another, mine. To be mature, I was willing to share responsibility for our split. After all, if, like the song says, it takes two to tango, it must also take two to untangle.

Yet given time and distance, I could also make a strong case that neither of us was to blame. Call it circumstances beyond our control. We’d both seen it on the street: sometimes tragedy
brings people together, other times heartache pushes them apart. Living through the newsroom nightmare apparently made it impossible for us to find happiness around any reminder of that day. Even each other. And if our love wasn’t powerful enough to withstand such stress, maybe we were better off apart.

His phone number was still on my speed dial, but I wasn’t bold enough to call. Neither was he, clearly. Texting would have been more direct. Even Facebook. Posting an anonymous comment on one of my stories was a long shot. But maybe “long shot” best described our destiny. I posted a line that seemed to fit our predicament. “What is it about love that makes us so stupid?”

If Garnett was behind the original comment, I would know soon enough. Our fondness for movie trivia had developed over the years into a competition of quizzing each other on film quotes. If he kept quiet, he would lose.

An hour later, I read a reply to my reply. “Diane Lane.
Under the Tuscan Sun.
2003.”

So it was Nick Garnett on the other end. I still wasn’t bold enough to hit speed dial. Online exchanges felt safer.

Searching for a profound rejoinder, I posted: “Oh yes, the past can hurt. But the way I see it, you can either run from it, or learn from it.”

If no answer followed, he was running and I would not chase. But seconds later, I read, “Rafiki.
The Lion King
. 1994.” I resisted reminding him that Rafiki was a character, not an actor.

Instead I was focusing on what I had learned from the past and what that understanding might mean to us—if there was an “us”—when my cellphone rang and Garnett’s number appeared on the screen.

One ring. Two rings. Seconds to weigh past versus future. I took a deep breath. Then, I answered.

“Riley, I’m not a smart man, but I know what love is.”

He couldn’t see me smile, but his words made mine easy. “Tom Hanks.
Forrest Gump.
1994.”

•   •   •

We caught up on the basics, discovering much of our lives remained unchanged. Washington was messed up; Channel 3 was messed up.

“I don’t need you to tell me that,” he said. “I saw that horrible bear story of yours. It looked like you shot it yourself.”

I explained my new boss’s approach to news.

“One-man bands?” Garnett said. “Sounds like the uproar over one-man patrols that police departments went through twenty-some years ago.”

Most cities shifted from two-man squads to one-man squads to save money, despite opposition from police officers who feared for their personal safety.

“Now it’s the norm,” he said.

“I don’t want it to ever be the newsroom norm,” I replied.

“It may not be up to you. My experience is that decisions like those are made far above our pay grade.”

He was probably right. Instead of arguing employment philosophy, I told him about my latest Jane Doe. Nude. Dumped. Unclaimed. Garnett had spent a career as a homicide detective, and I was interested on his take on my case.

“That’s cold,” he said. “Ditching a body in a pit. Too brutal a farewell to someone you cared about, so I’m going to make a guess the victim didn’t know her killer.”

“Random?” Too bad. “Those are tougher to solve.”

“They can be.”

“So even if the victim is identified,” I said, “there may not be an obvious suspect.”

“And even if there is, that doesn’t necessarily close the case. Otherwise Agatha Christie would be out of print. Remember how she made the least likely suspect classic.”

We chuckled over a few of those whodunits and I confided that I was trying not to get too attached to this murder because
of the news director’s desire to concentrate on crime closer to the Twin Cities.

“Nothing unusual in metro murders right now?” he asked.

“Mostly gang shootings.” Those kind of homicides were never very interesting to the police or media. Often unsympathetic victims as well as killers.

“So you might be stuck on the bear beat,” Garnett said. “Maybe I should fly in this weekend and give you a bear hug.”

It wasn’t just a bluff. He worked as an investigator for the Transportation Security Administration and could come up with a reason to fly anywhere, anytime.

I didn’t want to rush our relationship from a phone call to a blanket brigade. “Sorry, Nick.”

I made a special effort to call him by his first name. In the news biz, staffers often refer to people by their last names. To save time. And when Garnett was simply a source, that didn’t bother him. But when that changed, he wanted a feeling of intimacy in our conversation as well as our relationship.

“Really, Nick, the
only bear I’m hugging this weekend is named Teddy.” That was my flirty, yet not phony, way of telling him I wanted to take things slow.

He got it. But we both knew this conversation wasn’t over.

J
ane Doe became Sarah Yoder.

I was on my way to the station greenroom for a powder and blush touch-up when my cell phone rang again. I expected Garnett with a final line about not being able to
bear
being apart.

“I’m not
caving
on your demands.” I hit the answer button and spoke without looking at the caller ID. Or even saying hello.

It was my mother. She didn’t know the name, but said the talk around town was that the dead woman was Amish.

When she said the word, I got chills. That was one direction I hadn’t anticipated regarding this sinkhole murder. If you go by police reports, Amish are seldom crime victims or perpetrators. Of course, the numbers could be skewed because Amish prefer to handle infractions within their own community and not involve outside law.

“Call me if you hear anything else, Mom. I’m going to try to get ahold of the sheriff.”

Ed Eide was preparing a news release, but read me the details over the phone.

Sarah Yoder, age 18, Harmony, Minnesota. Definitely local.

“How come no one reported her missing?” I asked.

“We’re trying to find that out,” he said. “Her name is all I’m prepared to disclose right now at this stage of our investigation.”

“How was she identified, Sheriff?”

“Somebody saw her picture on the news and contacted us. And no, I’m not releasing that name at this time. We’ve got our own questioning to do first.”

“How about a camera interview, you and me?”

He declined, so I thanked him for the information and told him I’d check back later.

I phoned the farm and relayed to Mom what I knew about the victim.

“So young,” she said.

“I know,” I replied. “But this case has been unusual from the start. Now let me talk to Dad for a minute.”

My dad had friends everywhere. And he never forgot a name. “Do you know any Yoders around Harmony?”

He didn’t, but he said he wasn’t in touch with the Amish so much anymore, not like when he was actively farming.

“There used to be an Amish family who lived just a few miles east of us, but they moved years ago. You were just a little girl and probably don’t remember them.”

I wished I did. “Do you know any leaders in the Amish community now?”

He replied that one of the bishops around Harmony used to be an Abram Stoltzfus. “Not sure if he’s still around or not. My recollection is they serve for life.” Then he expressed regrets that his bad knees kept him home more than he’d like or he’d come along with me.

I thanked him, and then rushed from my office to the newsroom, trying to figure out how to sell Bryce on this new Amish angle.

“This story is ours,” I said. “We broke it first and we need to stay on top of it.”

He responded that we already had the news of the day: Sarah Yoder’s name. “What more do you expect to learn?”

“Who Sarah was, for starters. People around here are fascinated with the Amish. This murder is going to attract enormous
interest. The network may even want our video. Do you want to be the one to tell them we don’t have any?”

That argument had some impact. Bryce probably hoped to be running the news division at the network someday.

“This is a case where cold calling won’t get us answers,” I said. “The Amish don’t answer phones. To find sources for this story, we need to door-knock and win their trust.”

The new boss stared at my face until he was certain we had eye contact, then told me to get moving. “Remember, Riley, I did this for you. I expect your cooperation when I need it.”

To my relief, he also let me bring a photographer for the trip—something I would never take for granted again. I made Malik drive so he would stay awake and I could brief him on what to expect.

“We’re not going to be able to show faces of the Amish,” I told him. “So much of the video is going to have to be generic—shot from behind. Backs of buggies are fine, too. Barns. Clotheslines. Faces shrouded by hats or bonnets. Men harvesting crops, again as long as we’re careful about identifiable faces.”

“No faces. Got it.” He sounded a bit peeved, and I realized I was repeating myself.

“Sorry, Malik. I just don’t want us locked out of the story over some misunderstanding about the camera. We may have to continually assure our Amish subjects that we’re being respectful of their beliefs.”

“If they don’t watch TV, Riley, how are they going to tell whether we broadcast faces?”

“They might not know right away,” I said. “But word usually gets out from others in the community. If we make them a promise, I want to be able to truthfully tell them we kept our word and keep them as sources.”

My cameraman turned on the radio, tuning me out. I thought about offering to drive so he could sleep. Maybe a nap would improve his mood. I purposely didn’t bring up the one-man-band issue because I didn’t want to provoke more tension.

Malik was making a better transition to reporter than I was making to photographer. I had tried convincing him that if he was too successful, we’d be stuck with one-man bands. And that would hurt our news product.

“You need to start stammering or swear on air,” I teased. “It’s like throwing a game. Do it for the cause.”

What I really meant was do it for me. But I wanted him to decide that on his own. Realizing there was no way for me to verbalize that thought without sounding selfish, I kept quiet. Trouble was, I could tell he liked being on camera. He was a good-looking guy. Plus, his Middle Eastern genes gave the station some much needed diversity.

An attractive young woman even recognized him yesterday while we were walking in downtown Minneapolis. “Aren’t you Malik Rahman? I saw you on TV.” He could hardly wait to get home and tell his wife. His real wife. Not his work spouse.

Because Malik had much more experience behind the camera than I did, the stories he reported looked better on all visual levels from standup to cutaway to straight video. And a station producer was helping him write scripts. So while he was on his way up professionally, I was on my way down.

A
sign on the outskirts of Harmony read Population 1,080.

Make that 1,079, I thought.

Malik was more interested in a yellow road sign with a black silhouette of a horse and buggy—a common warning of slow-moving Amish traffic. He dropped me off at the Village Square restaurant on Main Street so he could get the shot, and I could get acquainted with townsfolk. When covering small towns, I’d found that local diners often made good starting points. The red-and-white awning on this one seemed inviting.

One slice of raspberry-peach pie later, and I had some leads scrawled on the back of a paper napkin. The waitress had already heard the news about Sarah’s body being identified.