Soon after, word hit the newsroom that the royal family of Saudi Arabia, including the king himself, was visiting the Mayo Clinic for medical checkups and spending money around Rochester like it was oil. Giant tips at restaurants. Women in veils buying out boutiques. A caravan of Lincolns with dark windows.
I surprised Noreen by volunteering to cover the city’s economic boon. My phone message light was flashing with voice mails from even more news organizations wanting to interview me about my day in court. I was anxious for an excuse to leave town, even temporarily.
On my way out the door, I stopped in the green room. Clay was staring at the mirror like he owned it. More than a decade in this business had taught me to be wary of men prettier than me. Too many could look smart on air for the necessary minute and a half, but after that, there wasn’t much there.
The green room closet contained clothing stashed away for emergencies and props. Spill coffee on your jacket just before the newscast starts? Run to the green room for a replacement. Way in the back I found a black burka another reporter had bought last year for a story on discrimination against Islamic women.
I held the head-to-toe covering in front of me, wondering whether it might come in handy tracking the Saudi royal family or if it would be seen as an enormous international insult.
“Little early for Halloween, isn’t it?” Clay asked.
“I’m considering an undercover look.” I explained the significance of hijab—dressing modestly—in Muslim culture. But I put the burka back on the hanger, deciding I couldn’t risk more trouble.
Malik and I drove south and an hour or so later, when we reached Rochester, the Mayo Clinic wouldn’t confirm or deny the royal visit because of medical privacy rules. City officials were also mum for security reasons. But keeping the visit hush-hush was impossible because a 747 with the Saudi crest dwarfed all other aircraft at the city’s small airport.
Malik shot some video through the fence. With only six gates, Rochester just might be the smallest international airport in the country. It speaks to the clout of Mayo that the airport has a runway long enough to land a 747, as well as its own customs office.
We staked out Chester’s, where we heard some of the royal party were dining in a private room. I hoped to get an interview, or even ten seconds of video, with anybody in a turban or flowing robe.
Malik waited in the van across the street, his camera by his side. I sat inside the restaurant, eating lunch very slowly, so I could call him with a heads-up when it was time to start rolling.
But one phone call changed that plan.
I almost didn’t answer because my parents’ number came up on the screen, and I figured they wanted to talk about my court hearing. Then I decided it was better to get it over with now rather than later with Malik listening.
“There’s been another bombing on the wind farm,” my dad said. “A big team of investigators just got here.”
I called the station with the news and was told to forget chasing royals and head south to the blast.
Down at Wide Open Spaces, the scene was much the same as before. A toppled giant lay across a field of straw. But nobody was blaming a big bad wolf for huffing and puffing.
In the distance, a K-9 unit seemed to be inspecting turbines. A chocolate Labrador and his human partner worked the fields, but I couldn’t tell if they’d found anything newsworthy.
I tried to call the station and report the latest in the mysterious crime, but neither my cell phone nor Malik’s worked. That seemed odd because a cell tower was just up the road, and ten yards away, a sheriff’s deputy had his phone to his ear.
“You getting cell service?” I called over to the deputy, waving my phone after he’d hung up his.
“Yeah, but you won’t.” I couldn’t tell if he was laughing at my question or his answer.
“What’s going on?” I walked over since he wasn’t behind any crime-scene tape.
He shrugged. “Check with the boss. I’m not authorized to talk to newsies.”
He pointed to where a team in uniform had gathered. As I got closer, I smiled when I saw one of them wore a sheriff’s badge. Because sheriffs are elected to office, they often like to appear on television, showing their constituents how hard they’re working.
“Good day, Sheriff,” I said. “What’s up with my cell phone?”
“It’s complicated,” he replied.
“It’s none of your business,” a man wearing a dark suit said, interrupting us.
He looked familiar to me. Then I recognized him as the FBI guy who’d investigated the theft of Minnesota’s record large-mouth bass this past spring. He’d suspected an animal-rights group of freeing the fish.
“Nice seeing you again,” I said. I could never seem to remember his name. “Funny how news brings us together.”
“The bureau is aiding local law enforcement in the wind turbine bombings. That’s all the information we’re prepared to release about Operation Aeolus.”
“Operation Aeolus? What does that mean?”
“It’s the Latin name for the god of wind,” he answered.
I recalled he had a fondness for using Latin to sound important, but I refrained from making any remarks about windbags, no matter how appropriate. I could tell the sheriff wasn’t pleased to be cast aside and figured there was a chance he and I could do business together.
“I think we owe it to the residents in the area to keep them updated on the status of our investigation,” the sheriff said. “I think the media, as well as the FBI, can be of some help in avoiding public panic.”
“Does that mean you’ll do a camera interview?” I asked.
“I think that’s reasonable under the circumstances,” he replied.
“Just a minute.” The FBI guy motioned for the sheriff to follow him out of earshot. From the waving of his federal arms, I got the message that he wanted the media frozen out. Then when the sheriff poked a finger in his federal chest, I got the message that he was telling Mr. FBI just whose turf he was on.
Sheriff Taber explained that the bomber had used cell phones to detonate the explosives in the turbine blasts. The FBI had brought in a device that blocked all cell calls in the area unless the phone number was part of a preapproved law enforcement list, or obviously 911.
“That’s why I can’t call out,” I said.
He nodded. “Have to keep our team safe from any more bombs while we’re in the post-blast investigation.”
Currently, the K-9 team was moving from turbine to turbine, hoping to find clues to the culprit’s identity. Parts of the explosives, or perhaps even an undetonated cell phone bomb, could have been critical in developing leads. But so far they’d sniffed out nothing but a few far-flung pieces from the blast. They were collected, bagged, and their locations marked on a map.
“Does this mean terrorists?” I hated to be the first to bring up that word, but I wanted to gauge his reaction in person.
“No one knows what it means,” the sheriff said. “We’re asking folks to report any suspicious characters. Strangers or not. Could even be a disgruntled neighbor.”
“Could I meet the dog and get some close-up shots?” I knew those shots would please Noreen and elevate my story in her mind.
“Make it quick.” Sheriff Taber radioed the K-9 unit to come over. “Her name’s Scout. She’s down from the Twin Cities and is one of the best explosives-detection dogs in the country.”
I felt a pang of loneliness for Shep, a German shepherd who’d come to my rescue more than once. He’d joined the K-9 ranks and was now a top drug-sniffing dog. I understood how drug and cadaver dogs operated, but I’d never seen a bomb-sniffing dog up close. Scout was all muscle, covered with sleek fur.
Like a pro, she ignored me.
The sheriff introduced me to her trainer, Larry Moore, who explained that Scout could detect nineteen thousand explosive combinations.
“It would take fifteen people to cover what she can in ten minutes,” he said. Then, along the side of his pants, he showed me a pocket full of dog food. “She eats by finding explosives. Pavlov’s theory. Every time she makes an alert, she gets food.”
He agreed to let Malik shoot some video of her in action. “Seek,” he commanded.
Scout went to work, sweeping through a soybean field. After a couple minutes with her nose to the ground, she sat down. Larry bent over and put a small charred item in a plastic bag.
“Notice how she’s starting to drool?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of dog food. “Good dog.” He praised her and gave her the treat.
“Can she also find drugs?” I asked.
“No cross-training,” he said. “Those are separate skills. For example, let’s say we’re called for a school bomb threat, and she alerts at a student’s locker. Does she smell pot or explosives? How would we know?”
I was about to comment on the perfect sense of that when the FBI guy interrupted with an “Enough for now.” Scout and her partner resumed their sweeps. Malik grabbed the gear. I thanked the sheriff and told him I’d be in touch.
I loved my story. I loved the video, the sound, and that it was unfolding far away from Minneapolis. Selling my boss on follow-ups would make my bumping into Sam Pierce and accidentally violating any restraining order less of a threat.
A small band of local farmers had gathered to sing the terrorist tune. Now that a bombing pattern seemed to be forming, they needed outsiders to blame. And they were much more vocal than before. A comparable thing happened when the I-35 bridge in Minneapolis had collapsed a couple years earlier. The first reaction was that terrorists—rather than design errors and an overloaded structure—must be responsible. A similar reflex could be observed across the country in other situations of calamity.
“Must be Islamic fundamentalists,” one man said.
“They want America dependent on foreign oil,” another theorized.
A third nodded his support of the hunch. “They’re threatened by our wind power.”
It was a much worldlier conversation than I expected, so I joined the chatter. “But why here?” I asked. “There’re wind farms throughout the United States.”
“Lots of Muslims live up in the Twin Cities. They might be organizing it from there. Some probably have al-Qaeda connections.”
Nearly a decade later, American Muslim communities were still feeling the backlash from the September 11 attacks. While I listened politely to the locals’ speculation, there was no way I was putting any of it on TV without definitive evidence.
The idea that al-Qaeda might be behind the wind turbine blasts was unlikely but not implausible. Law enforcement officials consider Minnesota a center for terrorist training. Zacarias Moussaoui, considered by some the twentieth hijacker, was arrested after raising suspicions at a local flight school just before September 11. More recently, twenty young Somalian men left Minnesota, recruited by a terrorist group with ties to al-Qaeda to fight in their homeland. At least one ended up a suicide bomber.
I could tell Malik was uncomfortable with the entire conversation. He was getting suspicious stares because of his Middle Eastern heritage.
We left just as one hothead was suggesting armed shifts to watch for intruders. The trouble was, Wide Open Spaces Wind Farm had nearly two hundred turbines, spread over fifty miles, and I would bet that less than a handful of area farmers could shoot well enough in the dark to play sniper without hitting each other. It would be like hunting deer drunk.
I waved at my dad, who was standing with an old schoolteacher of mine who wanted to say hi. They were both curious about the latest happenings.
“What do you think, Dad?” I whispered as we walked along the ditch while Malik shot more video of the investigators. Dad had bad knees, so it was slow going. “What’s with these explosions? Who around here hates the wind farm?”
He hesitated. I pressed him.
“Come on, Dad, you’re the ultimate insider.”
My family had farmed our land—some of the finest dirt in the world—going back more than 130 years. I long suspected my father was the custodian of numerous small-town secrets. I figured most would go with him to the grave but thought maybe, if I remained patient and he grew slightly delusional, he’d spill some real whammies on his deathbed.
“You must have some idea, Dad. I’m not going to air it, I just want to get a feel for what I should be watching for.”
So he coughed up two names—one I recognized, the other I didn’t—but assured me neither man would ever resort to this kind of violence.
We started with the name I knew: Billy Mueller. He’d graduated two years ahead of me in school, but I still remembered his temper on the playground. Billy the Bully.
“Billy’s plenty mad about not getting any wind money,” Dad said. “He kept after them to include his land in the project, but the engineers drew the line a quarter-mile from his property. He feels he got cheated.”
My parents also missed out on the wind deal, by about a mile. Being Minnesota stoic, they’d never mentioned any anger about the five grand a year per turbine some of their neighbors received, but I’d never asked.
So I did now. “You and Mom ever feel any resentment about that?”
“Can’t complain,” he said, utilizing another regional colloquialism. It means you could complain, but you’re too well mannered.
“Come on, Dad, it’s me. Let’s be honest with each other.”
“Whatever.”
“Whatever is not a full-fledged answer.”
“All right,” he said. “Disappointment yes, resentment no. I can’t begrudge my friends their windfall.” He smiled when he said “windfall.”
Money can be a powerful motive for crime. So can jealousy. I didn’t agree with Dad that Billy wouldn’t mix with violence, but the Billy Mueller I knew didn’t seem smart enough to stage something like this. Of course, that was back when we were kids. Maybe he’d gotten himself an education since then.
“Think Billy could build a bomb?” I asked Dad.
He shook his head. “We guess Billy to be the one who egged the turbines while they were lying on the ground.”
“He threw eggs at the wind turbines?”
“Just the propellers. They’re huge up close.”
I’d heard enough about Billy and moved on to the other name my father had thrown out. “How about Charlie Perkins?”
His was the name I didn’t recognize, and I was familiar with most of the surnames for miles around. Kloeckner, Jax, Schaefer, Miller, Merten, Koenigs. There weren’t all that many.
“What’s his problem with the windmills?”
“Charlie moved here maybe five years ago from up in the Cities. He bought the Meyer place and fixed it up. Sank a lot of money. Guess you’d call it a hobby farm.”
He snorted at the idea of farming as a hobby. Farming was work. He ought to know; he’d done it all his life, even before tractors got air-conditioning. Anyone who wanted a hobby should play cards or go fishing.
“Charlie came down here to get away from skyscrapers and other eyesores. That’s what he calls the turbines. He was supposed to be part of the wind farm. Turned them down, even though his land is right smack-dab in the middle.” Dad motioned south of where we were standing. “Now he’s mad at everyone who signed up. Says he doesn’t like looking at the wind machines. But he doesn’t have much choice; they have him surrounded.”
Didn’t seem like enough of a motive to me. But I’d never met the guy. And I didn’t have any wind turbines across the street from my house, ruining my view. Of course, I didn’t even have a view these days, unless you counted the bus lane.
I was back renting a house in Minneapolis, having opted for convenience to work. After a perilously close brush with crime under my own roof, I’d tried retreating to the safety of the suburbs but found that battle cry to be just another urban myth. Danger lurked everywhere, from big cities to small towns to rural countryside. Personal experience lately made me wary of most strangers. Mentally, it might not have been the healthiest approach to life, but physically, it seemed the most pragmatic.
“Know anything about Charlie’s background? What he used to do for a living?” I asked.
“Something for Honeywell.”
Best known as a manufacturer of thermostats, Honeywell International used to be based in Minneapolis, when it was a controversial weapons manufacturer.
I glanced at my watch, wishing there was time to meet Charlie Perkins.
Even without a firm suspect or motive, I was still confident I had a decent lead story that included all the elements Noreen normally relished: action, fear, and dogs.
((RILEY, CU))
AUTHORITIES SAY CELL
PHONE BOMBS HAVE BEEN
USED TO BLAST WIND
TURBINES IN SOUTHERN
MINNESOTA. WHILE THEY
HAVE NO SUSPECTS, THEY
CONTINUE TO INVESTIGATE
THE BAFFLING CRIMES WITH
EXPLOSIVES-SNIFFING DOGS.
But when Malik and I arrived back at the station, we found it surrounded by police cars, and no one gave a hoot about wind turbines.
My story had been killed.
And so had Sam Pierce.