Free Stalking Susan by Julie Kramer

Harry Potter movie.
    “I know she’s a name from the past,” I continued, “but she used to be important to you.”
    “I know who she is,” he answered. “But I don’t know why you’re here.”
    “I’m working on a story about her death. Looking for justice. Trying to make sure murders aren’t forgotten by the police or the public.”
    “I haven’t forgotten her.”
    “That’s good, but you probably haven’t thought of her in a while.”
    He laughed with a snort and rolled up his shirt sleeve to unveil a matching tattoo: Sam                  Susan.
    “My wife thinks I got it for her. Early in the courtship. Because I knew she was the one. Who can fight fate? And you better not rat me out, either.”
    “Don’t worry,” I told him, “it’s not the kind of thing I need to put in the story.”
    As we walked down the TV aisles, he talked about Susan Moreno. Much of what he told me I’d already read in the police report, but some was new. Like how she had rebelled to try to shatter her father’s indifference. Or how she had looked for love on the streets that she was denied at home. And how the two of them had planned to start a splendid life together, just as soon as they got straight.
    Her life ended before that could happen.
    When the cops told him about her murder, he told me he had vowed to keep that pledge. I complimented him, sincerely, not just reporter shtick. After all, he lost his love and pulled himself together. I lost my love and fell apart.
    But nothing he said seemed to contain any motive or clue about her murder. Occasionally he and his girl had grabbed a bite to eat at Peter’s Grill, the same diner where Susan Chenowith worked. But that seemed to be stretching things, since most folks, including me, who live or work in downtown Minneapolis are also regulars. Even President Clinton ordered lunch there on one of his trips through town. (A Canadian bacon and egg sandwich, Coke, vegetable soup, and apple pie. Now known on the menu as the “Clinton Special.”)
    I referred to a short list of questions I had scribbled beforehand in case I got only one chance at Sam. “Do you think her father might have killed her?”
    “Nope. Too much bother for him. He’d have preferred to let the Lord sit in judgment of her.”
    “Most likely a john then?”
    He flushed, embarrassed at his former girlfriend’s occupation. “She kept telling me she was going to stop. Trick gone bad—I know that’s what the cops think happened. But she was savvy. I never believed it.”
    I showed him a crime scene photo of the raincoat with his girlfriend’s head tastefully cropped off. He didn’t react.
    “Did she ever wear a coat like this?” I asked.
    “Not that I ever knew. Why?”
    “It’s what she was wearing when the police found her body.”
    “I’ve never seen it before. Did it belong to the killer?”
    “I’m not sure, but it’s definitely a woman’s coat.”
    “Could her killer have been a woman?”
    I shrugged and we left it at that. Sam Fox was the kind of knucklehead Noreen would bemoan my wasting time or lunch on. News directors prefer that reporters wine and dine top-level sources, because they think the investment is more likely to pay off with top-rated stories. They don’t realize the invisible bum on the street corner sees plenty. Cops understand this, and have long cultivated a diverse array of nitwit snitches. So as part of my knucklehead outreach program, I gave Sam a business card with my cell phone number, and he promised to call me if he remembered anything interesting, as long as I promised never to call his house.
    I felt a little better knowing someone had wept for Susan Moreno.
             
    F RANKLIN A VENUE IS six miles of diversity linking Minneapolis and St. Paul. Called the Twin Cities, they’re not identical twins: Minneapolis, corporate; St. Paul, quirky. Franklin Avenue used to be a main thoroughfare, passing through rough neighborhoods and