Silencing Sam by Julie Kramer Page A

in a troubled industry. At a time when award-winning reporters were being cut or their beats were being eliminated, Sam seemed immune to such job angst because of his star status.
    So he kept up his routine of making newsmakers cringe. Until his death.
    At my desk, I dialed the Minneapolis Police public information officer to set up the shoot on gas and meal bandits. Normally, I’d just have called some street cops directly and hoped I got lucky, but until my name was cleared from the Sam Pierce murder, I wanted to make a show of following the department’s media procedures. Also, this particular idea was straightforward and fairly soft as far as crime stories go. So I didn’t anticipate trouble.
    While I waited for the PIO to get back to me with some leads, I retrieved the computer archives of Sam’s gossip columns.
    Starting with day one, I listed anyone whose life Sam had ruined. Some he ran out of town, others he drove mad. It was a long, intriguing list of potential grudge holders. By midafter-noon, the tally numbered just over a hundred men and women.
    I didn’t include myself.
    Three of the names I recognized as being in prison (because I’d also covered their cases)—first, a repeat drunk driver who caused a child’s death; next, a Ponzi scheme engineer who cheated dozens; last, a crooked car dealer who’d been a household name—so I crossed them off.
    By then the police flack had located some surveillance photos of cars whose drivers didn’t pay at the pump. While he didn’t have similar pictures of diners who left for the bathroom and never came back, he had the names of restaurant owners who’d reported such pilferage in the last couple weeks.
    I thanked him like a good reporter and asked him to email me the pictures. But he suggested I pick them up in person: there was something else he wanted to discuss. I reminded myself to keep my lips sealed if any questions delved deeper regarding my whereabouts during Sam’s murder. Quite possibly, the cops might see this as an opportunity to chat me up away from my lawyer.
    Because street parking was difficult to find outside city hall, Malik waited in the van while I ran inside.
    The PIO handed me the gas station photos and mentioned that the cops were noticing a pattern in reports concerning one particular grub grabber. “Instead of the kind of bum you’d expect to dine-and-dash, this guy is slick. Well dressed. Suit and tie even.”
    â€œAny pictures? Give us a photo, I’m sure we could give you an ID.”
    â€œNo, that’s the problem. But from the description, we’re starting to wonder if the same man is walking the check in about a third of our downtown meal-theft cases.”
    â€œSo he’s not just forgetting his wallet?”
    He shook his head. “He’s hungry, broke, or a jerk. Maybe all three.”
    We laughed. And just as I was getting up to leave, the PIOgot to the other point of our visit. “We’re kind of curious about where your buddy’s getting all his information.”
    â€œWhich buddy are you talking about?” I asked.
    â€œYour Texas buddy.” He meant Clay. I imagined the cops were annoyed that he had the inside track on the headless homicide.
    â€œWhy don’t you ask him yourself?” I was curious, as well as envious, about which homicide detective he’d gotten tight with.
    â€œI already did. Your new reporter referred us to your station lawyer, who referred me to the state shield law.”
    I smiled. Minnesota’s shield law protecting reporter sources is among the best in the nation. I’d hidden sources behind it myself more than once. After decades of debate, a federal shield law was still unresolved.
    â€œSorry, I can’t help you,” I replied. “No idea who he’s talking to. I’m just as interested.” I sure was, because Clay doing good made me look mediocre.
    The PIO didn’t