In Plain View Page 8

  The inner sanctum receptionist greeted us and buzzed the doctor.

  “Ms. O’Hara? I’m Dr. Graham. Please come this way. We can talk in my office.”

  Dr. Graham was in her late forties. She had a cap of silvery brown hair, thick wire-rim eyeglasses, and wore a shapeless sack dress, but she had a voice like an angel-resonant, modulated. Perfect V.O. material. She could sell anything in a voice-over.

  She shook my hand, then Ainsley’s. “Please understand, Ms. O’Hara, most of my practice is family therapy. My qualifications as an ‘expert,’” she smiled as she drew little finger quotes in the air, “regarding Amish psychology are tenuous at best. If you want a referral, I can direct you to people in Pennsylvania and New York who are much more qualified.”

  “Whatever you can tell us will be a great help, Doctor,” I said. “The hospital PR people told us it was your specialty.”

  “I’ve done some research that involved Amish subjects. I organized several studies on the effects of family size on individuals and society. The Amish make an excellent reference group, very homogeneous.”

  “Really?” I said, meaning, keep talking.

  “Yes. The average Amish family has seven children. Almost a quarter have ten or more.”

  “Ten kids?”

  “That’s right. Quite a difference, isn’t it? The birthrate in the U.S. still hovers around two children per family.”

  “One seems like more than enough to me,” I tossed out, but didn’t get the laugh. “Tell me more about your study.”

  She fussed with her desk drawers, opening and closing, peering inside as she spoke.

  “‘Effects of Large Families on Self-Actualization and Community.’”

  “Oh.” It came out as one of those stupid-sounding oh’s. Doctors make me nervous. I never get my best interviews out of doctors. I rallied with another, “Really?”

  She seemed prepared for that kind of response. “I have it right here, if you’d like to read it?” From out of the desk came a stack of paper four inches thick and bound with a paper cover. She tossed it onto the desktop with a whump that rang of challenge.

  “Great. Love to.”

  “Take it with you. I have other copies.”

  “Terrific.” I passed the brick to Ainsley. He slipped it in my camera bag.

  I looked around, concentrating on how we would shoot the interview. Her office was small and not exactly the visual background I wanted. There was the requisite book shelf or three, chairs and a small couch. No diplomas or plaques boasting her credentials on the walls; only one large print of the dunes and Lake Michigan.

  She must have noticed me frowning. “I do most of my work over at the university. I’m only in this office twice a week to see clients.”

  “Sounds like we were lucky to catch you. Thanks again for agreeing to the interview.”

  She tipped her head and the curvature of her eyeglass lens distorted her eye. She looked a bit like a cartoon character peering through a magnifying glass. “What is it you’d like to discuss?”

  “As I said, we have a local death possibly involving autoerotic asphyxiation. We’d like you to explain the condition. Any insight you might be able to offer would help.”

  “All right.”

  I signaled to Ainsley to start setting up and he grinned, happy to be useful. He popped open the titanium suitcases that held the gear and started to rig for an interior interview. Once I was certain he was on the right track, I took out my notebook and flipped to my questions.

  “Oh, wait. I’m sorry.” Dr. Graham looked apologetic. “You seem to have misunderstood. I can’t speak on camera on that subject, Ms. O’Hara. Definitely not.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m happy to answer your questions, but not on record.” She made an effort at earnest eye contact. “In fact, I plan to encourage you to reconsider or at the very least, address the topic with extreme discretion.”

  “This is network television, Dr. Graham. Not YouTube. We can be discreet.”

  Her earnest look sharpened into incredulity. “Perhaps our ideas of discretion differ. The fact is, it could be extremely dangerous to flash this syndrome across the media.”

  “Why?” Ainsley chipped in. He hunkered down into one of her upholstered chairs, all ears.

  “For one thing, we don’t know enough about how the practice initiates. The available data indicates death is most prevalent among young men-teenagers and young adults-a population likely to be sexually active, as well as developmentally prone to risk-taking behaviors. If they hear about something like this, they may try it simply because it’s new and dangerous.”

  “Increasing awareness should also help doctors learn more about who’s doing it and why,” I countered.

  Ainsley frowned. I couldn’t tell if he was unimpressed with my logic or miffed over Herr Doctor’s dim view of his peer group. “I don’t get it. I mean, what’s so sexy about choking to death?”

  Dr. Graham masked her face in clinical calm. “There are two physical mechanisms at work. The transient cerebral hypoxia combined with autoerotic manipulation create a very distinctive physiological sensation.”

  Ainsley created a distinctive facial expression.

  I whispered, “I think she said, lack of air to the brain while whacking off feels weird.”

  “No doubt,” he said.

  “Of course, human sexuality is never purely physiological,” the doctor continued. “This syndrome is a paraphilia-”

  “A what?” Ainsley was barely keeping up.

  “-a socially prohibited sexual practice,” she paused to define, “of the sacrificial type. The sense of physical helplessness and self-endangerment enhances the sexual gratification.”

  “Yee-ech,” he replied. Hard to argue with that.

  The doctor tried. “Quite ubiquitous, actually.”

  I gave College a subtle backhand to the biceps. The more he squirmed with repulsion, the more obscure the good doctor’s vocabulary seemed to get. If he kept up with the Mr. Yuck routine, she’d be speaking Latin in a minute.

  “The practice has been noted across cultures and throughout history. There’s some evidence it was practiced by the ancient Mayan culture a thousand years ago. And of course, literary references occur in de Sade-”

  “Big surprise there,” I noted.

  “-as well as Melville and Beckett.”

  “Beckett?” Ainsley repeated.

  “Yes. In the play Waiting for Godot.”

  “I read that freshman year of college.” He shot me a bug-eye look.

  “An accurate estimation of incidence is difficult to establish because the behavior is almost always conducted in absolute privacy. Most practitioners seem to make arrangements for self-release mechanisms.”

  “Really?” I stopped her. “Such as?”

  “They pad the rope, use quick release knots, carry knives, those sorts of things. Of course, it’s important to remember these are the things which have been noted at death scenes.”

  “So they’re failed self-release mechanisms.”

  “Precisely.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “But they are the clues that help rule out suicide as the cause of death.”

  I had to think for a minute. Our Tom hadn’t padded the noose, as far as I could tell. Had he managed to rig his rope in such a way he believed he’d walk away?

  “What other elements would you see at a typical death scene?” I asked.

  “Generally, pornography is noted,” she ticked off a mental list, “partial or complete nudity of the genitalia and an absence of a suicide note. There are complex physiological, and emotional, contributing factors here. I’m sure you’ll agree it’s not something easily pared down and digested for network television.”

  “What if it aired on Frontline, Doctor? Or CNN?” I tossed back. “One of the programs where you get your news. Would that make it acceptable?”

  She pulled upright, as if I’d insulted her. “No. You miss my point. We nee
d to limit all mass media exposure of the topic. Those most at risk for death due to experimentation are young people whose access to information is inversely proportional to their capacity for good judgment. Teenagers are going to take risks. The risks associated with imitative behavior, in this case, are quite simply, life and death.”

  People always have such sensible reasons for censorship.

  “What about those adults who need education on the subject? The opportunity to raise awareness and prevent further suffering?” Dr. Graham was starting to get on my nerves and I could hear it coming through in my voice. Not the best interview technique.

  “Unfortunately, I know of no television forum in which adults can speak with other adults without the risk of children listening, Ms. O’Hara. Do you?”

  “Thought all you psychological types knew the story of the elephant in the living room,” I parried. “It isn’t going away because we pretend not to notice.”

  “Interesting,” she commented softly, as though she were talking to herself.

  Suddenly, I was very aware of her attention honing in on me specifically.

  “Are there no circumstances under which you would consider keeping something out of the public eye, Ms. O’Hara?”

  “There are no circumstances under which I wouldn’t be damn suspicious of any such request, Dr. Graham.”

  “Really? How would you feel about your son or daughter watching your program?”

  “I don’t have a son or daughter.” The words flew out of my mouth.

  Ainsley’s head turned. I ignored him.

  “Exactly.” The word resonated in her lovely voice as a sort of challenge. She looked down at her watch and said, “I’m sorry. I have another appointment coming in a few minutes. You’ll have to excuse me.”

  Ainsley interrupted with some polite noises and smoothed the moment over. Interview over-and I was three for three. Strikeout.

  We wound our way out of the place as fast as I could follow the signs.

  “You okay?” Ainsley said.

  “Fine,” I lied. My face felt hot. The curse of fair skin is transparent emotions. The doctor’s words had shaken something that my sister’s death hadn’t even managed. I’d spent my whole life alerting adults to the trouble ahead-behind, everywhere.

  I’d never doubted that work.

  “Now what?”

  I put my sunglasses on before we stepped outside. “We make some more calls. See if someone else is willing to do an on-camera.”

  Ainsley looked confused. “But the doctor said it could be dangerous.”

  “There’s always somebody who doesn’t want you to tell the story, College.” The artificial cold of the hospital lingered in my voice. “Always. Sometimes they sound so reasonable.”

  The doors swept open and we walked out, shoulder to shoulder. Cold, hospital-scented air-conditioning evaporated into the dusty afternoon heat. I sucked in a lung full and tried to warm myself inside.

  The boy didn’t give up. “But…what if she’s right?”

  4:35:29 p.m.

  By the time we returned to the station, I’ll admit, I was looking for an excuse to drop on somebody. Two days on the job and I had barely ninety seconds of air time covered. No photos, no sources, no cooperation from anyone-except my Boy Wonder.

  I sent Ainsley to get us an engineering booth so we could load my stills in the computer and went to find out about my new office.

  Barbara, Gatt’s opposable thumb, greeted me with the carefully neutral face of someone who knows a lot more than she’s telling you. I stood still for another once-over and she showed general approval of the absence of leather. When I asked about my office, she blinked her Raggedy Ann eyelashes, frowned and unwrapped herself from her phone headset.

  “Follow me.”

  Swear-we walked three and a half, four minutes, tramping all through the building until we finally arrived somewhere deep in the old tape library. She pointed her finger that away. Crammed in a niche between two eight-foot tall stacks, at the farthest end of a corridor, was the ugliest work cube in the Midwest flatland. No chair. No computer. Oh, and no phone.

  “Mr. Gatt said you needed something private. They’ll install the phone next Monday or Tuesday,” she assured me, all practicality. “PC should come in the week after.”

  “Great. Sure they will. You want to lead me back to Gatt’s office, or was I supposed to drop a trail of bread crumbs?”

  She looked at the ground, got the smirk under control and executed a sharp turn. “Right this way.”

  I banged Gatt’s door wide while knocking, and called out over his voice, “I got a problem here.”

  The door rebounded shut behind me.

  “I’ll call you back.” Gatt slammed the receiver down. It didn’t ring again, although the lights started twinkling frantically; Barbara must be holding the line, so to speak. “What the hell’re you thinking? You don’t knock?”

  “I knocked. What the hell are you thinking? I told you, I need an office.”

  He did a quick paper shuffle. “I told them to set you up.”

  “Yeah, they set me up, all right. Whichever wise-guy had the idea to make me Bob Cratchit in the tape dungeon gets a big hee-haw, Gatt. I need a desk and a phone and a door I can fucking close.”

  “Oh, Christ, not again,” Gatt whined. “I’ll try and talk to operations.”

  Both palms flat on his desk, I leaned in toward him. I could feel the grit of spilled sugar under my hands. “You do that.”

  “You get me anything to look at today?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “You want to be a pain in the ass, O’Hara, you’d sure as hell better come across with something I can sell.”

  “No pain. No gain.” I stood up and brushed my hands clean. “I’ll get you a story. You get me an office.”

  Climbing your way up television’s mythical ladder of success to the point you are-ta da!-someone is a hell of a lot of work. The effort it takes to hold your ground, continue being Someone, is worse. I wanted an office to get my job done, but I needed the office to rate some respect.

  Flashbacks of Schmed’s killer handshake and the good doctor’s voice and Sheriff Curzon’s death-ray eyes all spliced into one lousy day, and the paranoia started kicking in. Was everyone in this suburban backwood salivating at the thought of my crash and burn?

  Barbara was doing some life-or-death typing as I passed her desk. I noticed the extra-large jug of ibuprofen sitting beside her elbow.

  “You mind?” I asked, reaching for the bottle.

  “Help yourself.” She opened another drawer and passed me a packet of soup crackers. “I like four on a saltine this time of day.”

  “Tasty. Thanks.”

  She raised her hand to wave away my gratitude.

  So. Not everyone was rooting against me.

  All right then. Back to work.

  The minute College and I finished logging photos, my cell phone rang. Jenny’s teacher, a Mrs. Horner, was calling to ask if I would stop by her classroom. “I’ll be here at school until six tonight. I’m very concerned, Ms. O’Hara. Please make sure to stop in and see me this evening.”

  Of course, I told her.

  Ainsley must have seen me blanch because he chucked me on the arm and said, “It can’t be that bad. It’s Friday, remember?”

  “And what exactly does that fact mean to you, College?”

  “Beer.” He shrugged. “All night videos. All day nap.”

  The blue glow of the monitors in the darkened room made it harder to read facial expressions. I leaned back in my chair to make sure he didn’t miss mine. “We have ninety seconds of usable material, to fill six minutes of national air time, on a story I don’t even know is gonna work.”

  “No problem. It’s not due ’til Wednesday-that gives us both Monday and Tuesday to work on it.”

  “And Saturday. And Sunday.”

  “Oh.”

  “That’s right, College. Beer and video all night if you
want, but I want you in the truck, in my driveway by-” he looked so horrified, I decided not to ruin both our days completely, “-noon tomorrow. We’ll start by picking up Melton’s research on our mysterious Amish fireman.”

  5:46:60 p.m.

  School was the one place I didn’t have to worry about Jenny. Or so I thought.

  “The art teacher didn’t take attendance. Jenny wasn’t missed for almost an hour. I think she was sitting in the girls’ bathroom the whole time. Jenny refused to talk to me about it.”

  “I don’t get it.” My sigh was embarrassingly loud. “She ditched art?”

  Jenny’s school was a bright white labyrinth of wide halls and darkened classrooms. I’d found her teacher, Mrs. Horner, before collecting the kid from the after-school gig. Had to leave my driving gloves on to shake the woman’s hand; my palms went slick the minute I walked through the front door. Catholic school didn’t leave a parade of fond memories through my elementary education.

  “I don’t really understand either, Ms. O’Hara. She told the art teacher she didn’t want to make pictures. This kind of defiant, secretive behavior isn’t like Jenny. She’s always been a pleasure to have in class.” Mrs. Horner was a third-grade teacher straight from central casting: the careful coif, the Talbot’s wardrobe, and the friendly, direct manner-sort of a cross between Martha Stewart and a Zen Buddhist-a rigorously satisfied, female perfectionist. She offered me another pained smile. “Is everything at home…all right?”

  “Her mom died a few weeks ago. I don’t see how anything could be right.” I rubbed my forehead where the pounding was the worst, mostly talking to myself.

  “Ah. Yes, of course.” Mrs. Horner discreetly studied her hands. “Is she getting any kind of counseling?”

  “Counseling?”

  “With a therapist. Grief counseling can be so helpful.”

  “Uh, no. Not right now.”

  The woman nodded, her expression so concerned and earnest, I felt like sticking out my tongue at her.

  “I appreciate the head’s up. I’ll talk to Jenny.” I pumped reasonable-ness into my voice, until it was thick as sugar syrup. “Believe me, Mrs. Horner, Jenny is priority-one right now. I’ll do whatever it takes to make this right.”