Read Online Delivering Death: A Novel (Riley Spartz) by Julie Kramer - Free Book Online
Authors: Julie Kramer
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kept his distance from the media unless there was something in it for him. My guess was the city’s top cop wanted to leak negative happenings at city hall, so I stopped by at the suggested time and was ushered right in.
The chief was yelling into the phone. “If you don’t like it, change the law.” He hung up, abruptly.
“Anyone I know?” I asked.
“Mayor Skubic. He’s mad about the police license plate–tracking data and wants it made private.”
Thousands of vehicle plates and their public locations are scanned each day in Minneapolis by cameras mounted on squad cars and freeway bridges to help cops find wanted vehicles in real time—stolen cars or drivers with warrants out. Under the law, the data was deemed public and is stored for a year. A political fuss was underway because most of the licenses belonged to law-abiding citizens, not criminals.
“Not everyone wants the files private,” I said. “Didn’t some auto dealer recently buy the plate location records of a car the owner had stopped making payments on so he could repossess the vehicle?”
The mayor had appointed Capacasa to the job of police chiefyears ago, but it was no secret the two were often at odds. Even though their offices were in the same building, they seldom met face-to-face. I waited to see if the chief had anything to add to the license flap, but that didn’t seem the reason for my visit.
So I tried a little small talk. “How’s the game going, Chief? Who’s ahead?”
I motioned to a chessboard on a corner table where, it was well known, he continuously played a long-distance match with a murderer serving life in Minnesota’s highest-security prison.
“He thinks he’s beating me,” the chief answered, “but I know I’m winning.”
The two men snail-mailed moves to each other, so their competition advanced slowly. The chief, a chess master who had no shortage of law-abiding opponents, wouldn’t disclose his motive for the game, but many of us in the media figured the two might have a side bet involving a confession about other unsolved homicides.
A knock at the door came just then, and Detective Delmonico entered, followed by a man in a dark suit. He seemed familiar, but avoided looking at me. Then I recognized him as an FBI agent I’d tangled with on a couple crime stories that fell under federal jurisdiction. I could never remember his name—FBI guys tend to look the same from the ground on up, from their black shoes to their short haircuts. If we had been outside, and he’d been wearing dark glasses, I probably wouldn’t have pegged him at all.
“I believe we’ve met before.” I introduced myself to both men anyway. “Riley Spartz, Channel 3 News.”
Delmonico shook my hand without giving any indication he and I had seen each other lately.
The FBI guy paused, but couldn’t refuse to divulge his name without confirming he was a true jerk. “Agent Jax, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
Now that I remembered him, I liked him even less. He alwaysgave his investigations Latin names to make them—and him—sound important.
He and Delmonico pulled up chairs around a conference table and joined me near the chief’s desk. The meeting was a tad unconventional. When it comes to law enforcement, feds and locals aren’t historically great collaborators, sharing some of the same tensions as television networks and affiliate stations.
Most police consider the FBI a one-way street when it comes to sharing information, while the feds fault police chiefs and sheriffs for being territorial. The players sometimes make a show of lining up together for news conferences, especially if the topic is terrorism, but much of the time they try to ignore each other.
Figuring this gathering had news potential, I leaned back to listen to what they had to say. Turns out, they wanted me to do the talking.
“Tell us what you know about this man.” Delmonico held out a mug shot.
I reached for the picture. The man in the
The chief was yelling into the phone. “If you don’t like it, change the law.” He hung up, abruptly.
“Anyone I know?” I asked.
“Mayor Skubic. He’s mad about the police license plate–tracking data and wants it made private.”
Thousands of vehicle plates and their public locations are scanned each day in Minneapolis by cameras mounted on squad cars and freeway bridges to help cops find wanted vehicles in real time—stolen cars or drivers with warrants out. Under the law, the data was deemed public and is stored for a year. A political fuss was underway because most of the licenses belonged to law-abiding citizens, not criminals.
“Not everyone wants the files private,” I said. “Didn’t some auto dealer recently buy the plate location records of a car the owner had stopped making payments on so he could repossess the vehicle?”
The mayor had appointed Capacasa to the job of police chiefyears ago, but it was no secret the two were often at odds. Even though their offices were in the same building, they seldom met face-to-face. I waited to see if the chief had anything to add to the license flap, but that didn’t seem the reason for my visit.
So I tried a little small talk. “How’s the game going, Chief? Who’s ahead?”
I motioned to a chessboard on a corner table where, it was well known, he continuously played a long-distance match with a murderer serving life in Minnesota’s highest-security prison.
“He thinks he’s beating me,” the chief answered, “but I know I’m winning.”
The two men snail-mailed moves to each other, so their competition advanced slowly. The chief, a chess master who had no shortage of law-abiding opponents, wouldn’t disclose his motive for the game, but many of us in the media figured the two might have a side bet involving a confession about other unsolved homicides.
A knock at the door came just then, and Detective Delmonico entered, followed by a man in a dark suit. He seemed familiar, but avoided looking at me. Then I recognized him as an FBI agent I’d tangled with on a couple crime stories that fell under federal jurisdiction. I could never remember his name—FBI guys tend to look the same from the ground on up, from their black shoes to their short haircuts. If we had been outside, and he’d been wearing dark glasses, I probably wouldn’t have pegged him at all.
“I believe we’ve met before.” I introduced myself to both men anyway. “Riley Spartz, Channel 3 News.”
Delmonico shook my hand without giving any indication he and I had seen each other lately.
The FBI guy paused, but couldn’t refuse to divulge his name without confirming he was a true jerk. “Agent Jax, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
Now that I remembered him, I liked him even less. He alwaysgave his investigations Latin names to make them—and him—sound important.
He and Delmonico pulled up chairs around a conference table and joined me near the chief’s desk. The meeting was a tad unconventional. When it comes to law enforcement, feds and locals aren’t historically great collaborators, sharing some of the same tensions as television networks and affiliate stations.
Most police consider the FBI a one-way street when it comes to sharing information, while the feds fault police chiefs and sheriffs for being territorial. The players sometimes make a show of lining up together for news conferences, especially if the topic is terrorism, but much of the time they try to ignore each other.
Figuring this gathering had news potential, I leaned back to listen to what they had to say. Turns out, they wanted me to do the talking.
“Tell us what you know about this man.” Delmonico held out a mug shot.
I reached for the picture. The man in the
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