Free Stalking Susan by Julie Kramer Page A

rich neighborhoods, until Interstate 94 cut neighborhoods out of most commutes.
    Vice cop Pete Terrell let me ride in the back of his undercover car while he pointed out the place where he had last seen Susan Moreno on November 19, 1992. It was one of the rougher stretches of Franklin Avenue.
    “Sounds like a long time ago,” I told him. “What do you remember about that night?”
    Malik rode in the front videotaping our conversation. I’d set up the ride-along with the police department in the guise of researching vice. I had waited until dark because I wanted the video to match the time frame when Susan had disappeared. Casually, I had asked Terrell whether he’d ever been involved in any murder investigations.
    “I wouldn’t remember most hookers ten years later, but when she showed up dead the next morning, it did kinda stick in my mind. Yep. I kept thinking she traded her life to avoid a night in jail. Wrong choice.”
    “What was she wearing when you stopped her?”
    “Slutty street outfit. Short and tight. That’s what sells.”
    “How about a raincoat?”
    “Raincoat?” he asked. “I’m not following you. It wasn’t raining that night.”
    I already knew that because I had one of the station meteorologists check the National Weather Service records.
    “Was she wearing a raincoat anyway?”
    “No. That would defeat the purpose.” He spoke slowly as if talking to a child. “Hookers don’t wear raincoats. If she’d had a raincoat on, I wouldn’t have given her a second look and neither would any john.”
    I caught a glimpse of myself in Terrell’s rearview mirror. Ugh. No one would give me a second look either. Splotchy skin, snarly hair. Definitely a long day. Good thing Noreen wasn’t around to see me.
             
    M ALIK WANTED TO grab a late dinner at the Black Forest, an old German restaurant a few miles from the station. I craved their spaetzle and cheese casserole so it seemed as good a time as any to brainstorm story logistics.
    Malik brought his camera inside with him and set it on a chair at our table. Channel 3 had recently reverted to unmarked vehicles after a string of break-ins and equipment thefts. The head of the promotion department bemoaned the loss of station logos displayed as our vehicles traveled around the state, but our photo chief insisted that the only thing marked vehicles advertised was that expensive camera equipment was kept inside.
    I ordered a glass of white wine from the Rhine Valley and Malik called for a St. Pauli Girl Beer. We discussed how best to visualize the Susan story, and we agreed he would swing by both grave sites the next day and shoot the names and dates on the markers. Thirty seconds of b-roll was better than nothing, and I knew he’d come back with creative and artsy shots we could dissolve-edit between to create mystery.
    “It’s good to be working together again.” Malik raised his glass. “I heard you were off writing a book.”
    That was a rumor I had started to explain my absence from Channel 3, and to keep other rumors from spreading. I’d been in a physical tailspin. Anyone with eyes could have seen that. What I wanted to keep under wraps was the psychological effect of the Iron Range firebomb. “Nope, just chilling.”
    “Cut the shit, Riley. So you needed some time to sort things out. You’re back now. You’re among friends. Lean on us if you need to.”
    I regretted not having returned his calls while I was off. Malik Rahman was an all-American nice guy who, during recent years, had been frequently mistaken for a terrorist—especially when he was videotaping exteriors of federal buildings, like the FBI office in downtown Minneapolis. His mother had never traveled outside the state, but had married a man from Pakistan while they were students at the University of Minnesota.
    “Missy wants you to come over for dinner some night.”
    Malik had married his high school sweetheart after serving a short stint as a video