Message Recieved

"Wait, what?" I whisper, furrowing my eye brow and leaning into photographer Nick Steffens, "Did he say the chief resigned?" I ask shocked, seeking clarification. Mayor Ralph Becker had just announced the resignation of popular Police Chief Chris Burbank, over his handling of a sexual harassment scandal involving one of the chief's top leaders. 

Becker's press conference

The bombshell caught me, and pretty much everyone in Salt Lake City, off guard. Minutes after the mayor's comments, news came that the former chief would, himself, address the media regarding the shocking news.

Becker's announcement was held atop the steps of the city county building, looking down on the gaggle of reporters and camera operators who were at a safe distance at the bottom of the concrete stairs, more than a dozen feet away.  Becker, from behind a podium, read from prepared remarks, and did not take questions after turning awkwardly towards the heavy historic doors of city hall and floating back into the sandstone structure.

Burbank addresses the media.

Burbank on the other hand, dressed in his customary blue police uniform, casually sipped water as a dozen reporters and photographers too aim at his meticulously shaved head with tape recorders, cameras and cell phones.  the former chief spoke extemporaneously and took a dozens questions after his comments.

Mayor Becker has always seemed aloof, and at times even disengaged, I remember in 2010, in the wake of the Red Butte oil spill which released 800 barrels of oil, polluting the water near homes a blackening the pond at Liberty Park and coating dozens of ducks with black ooze.

The Mayor had just held a press conference at about 5 PM, and afterwards I asked the Mayor's press handler if he would appear live on our news show at 10PM that night.  "Uh," she said reluctantly, "I think he's pretty tired." I squinted my eyes, and pulled my chin in back towards my chest, "Tired?" I repeated her words back to her, in an effort to emphasis how odd they sounded, "This is the biggest disaster of his administration, surely he can find the energy to talk to the city about how the clean up is going."  "I'll check," she said with a shrug of her shoulders.  A few minutes later she returned, "Yeah, he's not going to be able to make  it."  I didn't say a word, I was stunned.

Department of Environmental Quality

Chris Burbank, seems the opposite of that.  In 2006 he was up late as the street swelled with a crowd angry residents,  after the body of kidnapping victim  Destiny Norton was found in a musty crawlspace in the apartment of her neighbor.  The large mob gathered, seething over the way the police department had handled the case.  A riot seemed imminent.  Burbank, headed out into the night and directly into the angry sea of chaotic, emotional people.  He disarmed them with understanding and charm and at the end of the evening, 2 of the people who were most instrumental in instigating the gang,  actually went on TV and APOLOGIZED to the chief for causing problems.

Burbank's image was that of an open and approachable public servant, but that openness did have its limits I always felt.  Chief Burbank was also a ferocious protector of his and his department's public image.  When I started reporting in Utah in 1999, Salt Lake City's Public Relations department under Chief Rick Dinse consisted of one or 2 people.  

Burbank addresses angry Norton crowd (SL Trib)

After he was appointed Chief 9 years ago, Burbank expanded his PR department greatly.  At last casual count, there are at least 5 in the unit, all with the goal of disseminating information, but also, it seemed, protecting the shield.

  After I'd done an unflattering story about the police department, my relationship, which had, up to that point, always been jocular and easy, changed.  A few days after my critical story aired, I called the police PR requesting to do an interview on an unrelated story, The crew sent out 2 officers, one to grant me an interview, the other to video tape my questions.  "What's this?" I asked as the officer dutifully pointed his small handheld video camera at me, "just documenting everything," he said, staring blankly and uncomfortably at the postage stamp sized screen, occasionally glancing up, then quickly diverting his eyes back to the tiny square.  I wasn't exactly sure why they were pointing the camera at me.  Maybe it was a subtle way of saying, "we have this whole interview on tape, watch how you edit it?" Or perhaps the department was telling me, "see, two can play at this game."  Either way a message, no matter how unclear it was, was being sent.

The two hastily organized press conferences called on that historic day couldn't have been more different in tone and structure, and are, in many ways symbolic, of the way the 2 men operate.  One pulls you in close, both physically and emotionally, the other keeps you at a distance, but both have the same goal: Control the message.

In The Cabin

I can see the beehive awaken at the assignment desk, as the 10 PM producer, the assignment editor, and the executive producer, begin to buzz and weave.  "The Desk," as it is known, is similar to NASA's mission control.  Everything goes through it.   Assignment editors listen police scanners farm the fax machine and email, and field calls from viewers.

Greg Peterson with Senator Mike Lee

Just 15 minutes before the 6 PM newscast, someone anonymously calls to say Greg Peterson, a well-known political activist and fundraiser has killed himself.

Peterson is a successful financial planner, with ties to many top Utah lawmakers, as evidenced by the chummy video he shot and narrated of freshman Senator Mike Lee, waking golf balls into the grassy abyss of acreage owned by Peterson in Heber, Utah.

Despite efforts by some politicians to downplay his importance, Peterson $400,000 cabin in Heber was a frequent stop for seekers of higher office looking to raise quick cash.  Pictures show a proud Peterson, microphone in hand, lording over dozens of campaign donors, perched high above them on his elevated porch, speaking confidently about politics, politicians, and power.

Peterson speaks to donors at his Heber cabin

Peterson also counts Mitt Romney as a "friend," and with money influence, and infinite confidence, the smiling power broker is living the proverbial "Life of Riley,"

That "life," begins to unravel, as one woman after another accuses Peterson of raping and sexually assaulting them, often in the same cabin in which he has been raising money for politicians.

Mugshot

In his mugshot taken after his arrest, Peterson wears a smirk swelling with the confidence of a man whose Rolodex is bulging with Utah's power players.  Minutes after he is booked, those power players,   one by one, step quickly away from the man who had helped them raise thousands of dollars for their political campaigns.

Peterson spent months in the Salt Lake County Jail, awaiting his trial, and finally managed to bail out last Friday.

"We're hearing Peterson killed himself," the 10 PM producer utters to me breathless, as she turns and barrels to her desk.  That means "start making calls," which I do.

"Hello," Cara Tangaro breaths wearily into her cell phone, Tangaro, is Peterson's tough, outspoken attorney.  "This is Chris Jones from 2 News, Cara how are you?"  I say urgently, "I've been better," she answers, "we'll be issuing  a statement soon," she interjects without allowing a question.  

She thinks I know that Peterson has taken his own life, but all I have is an anonymous tip, and with 10 minutes to airtime, I need to hear the words from her mouth, before we can report anything.  "So is Greg dead?" I ask bluntly.  Not wanting to be the person who confirms the sad news,  she back tracks, "I can't say anything about that."  She sternly bucks up and walks away from her previous comments.  "Was his body found in his cabin?  That is what we are hearing,"  I press.  "I can't confirm or deny that," she says briskly. "When will you issue the statement?" I ask..."hello"...silence...she's hung up, I am likely the first media call she's received and doesn't want to have her name attached to confirming her clients death.

While I talk to Tangaro, assignment editor Mehul Asher is doing the same with the Wasatch County Sheriff, and fellow reporter Kristina Flores is trying to get in contact with the man who brought many of the rape charges against Peterson, District Attorney Sim Gill, but he  doesn't answer his phone.

I finally contact Gill, who confirms,  that Peterson is dead, and has likely killed himself with a single gunshot to the head.  Suicide, just days after his release from jail.  Found dead in the same cabin that housed his proudest moments, and possibly his darkest, now revealed secrets.