by N. C. Lewis
"All you have to do," Roger's voice excited now, "is choose a story from the menu displayed on the screen. The computer will generate a news story from the facts you input."
We peered at the screen.
"There are only three choices," I said reading them aloud. "Fish Fry, Mayor Announces, Holiday Luncheon."
Roger scowled. "Ollie, this is a prototype, I'm sure you appreciate that. As more types of news stories are input, the menu will naturally expand."
He turned and gazed at Millie, the scowl softening slightly. "You're the news reporter in the house, please choose a story."
Millie still looked doubtful. But Madame Bleu appeared giving an encouraging nod.
"Fish fry," said Millie.
Roger's hand once again hovered nervously over the keyboard. Then a bony finger plunged onto the '1' key.
A question flashed across the screen.
Date?
"Enter the date of the fish fry," Roger explained with excitement.
"This Friday," said Millie giving the date.
Organization?
"And the organization running the fry-up?" Roger explained again.
"Friends of the Riverside trail."
People?
Roger entered the names of the key people in Millie's story.
Word count?
"Fifteen hundred words," Millie said.
Success?
"What's that about?" Millie asked.
Roger, chest puffed out, was almost professorial. "The artificial intelligence newswriting machine creates both positive and negative stories. If you type 'yes' it will write a positive story, if 'no' a negative one."
"The newspaper owner prefers positive stories, I'll go with that," Millie said her eyes dancing with delight. Then Roger pressed a green key. "It'll generate the report now," he said, his face beaming.
There was a hissing and a crackling followed by a whirring and a clanging as one of the dot-matrix printers juddered into action.
Roger pushed off with his feet, the chair floated across the wooden floor, tiny wheels spinning like a seated roller skater. He came to a stop at the spluttering printer and stood up as ink splattered words onto the page. Millie sprinted towards the printer, her arms outstretched like a hostage regaining freedom. "Gimme the report."
Roger held up his hand. "Not yet, we must let the artificial intelligence complete the task."
"Okay, okay," said Millie, hopping from foot to foot.
It was several minutes before the printer's final judder. Roger stepped away from the ancient device. "Millie," he said, "would you do the honor of reading the first few lines?" The man's voice was triumphant, the eyes glittering like a game show contestant who had won the grand prize.
Millie's hand grasped the first sheet. Without pausing to take a breath she began to read.
"The lines have been getting longer for the Friends of the Riverside trail fish fry every year, and maybe part of the reason is the delicious but secret coating created by head fish fry cook Olga Lilian Thompson, known by her friends as Olliebeak. This Friday's fry-up will be the last time she makes her creation because as the pots and pans are put away, Olga will begin a two-year road trip that will include Alaska and Peru."
Millie danced for joy, little salsa shuffles across the shed floor. Roger joined in, his robotic like movements somehow symbolic, and Millie cried, "I'm saved, my gravy train to a full-time position has arrived."
Chapter 17
I knew I was dreaming. Vivid images from long ago danced with fantastical creations from I don't know where. An evil face shrouded by and a swirling gray mist stared menacingly in my direction. Through the mist a pair of yellow eyes glowed like the moon in a midnight sky, and the jaw, stripped of flesh, chattered up and down, the words barely audible.
As I concentrated, a stone-cold whisper came into earshot. "This is not your business, this is our business, keep away." The words tumbled about me like firecrackers, then faded away replaced by a lush green pasture where my late husband, John, played with the kids.
"Over here, Ollie," he called. "This way to the truth."
Towards my husband I ran, along the path to the truth and his open arms. But my legs felt leaden, progress slow and the dream slipped away. I tried to hold onto the beautiful imagery. But, like trying to capture the wind in a can, the fragments soon disappeared.
"Just one more day with John," I cried as consciousness flooded my mind. The dream was gone.
My eyes opened. Awake before the alarm, again, I sighed wiping away tears with my hand. They say the unconscious mind speaks in images, if that is true, my mind just spoke. But I have no idea what it said.
After a silent weep, I began my morning routine. Bodie outside for his morning romp around the property, I sat down at my desk to review the list of activities for the day. Top of the agenda, coffee with Chastity Williams at the Havis County Hospital. It wasn't really my number one priority, as I still had lecture notes to prepare. But Roger's somber suggestion that I speak with Chastity stuck in my mind. Class preparations could wait, a conversation with Chastity felt like the right thing to do, even if according to my list it wasn't.
Chapter 18
The Havis County hospital, five miles outside of Medlin Creek, is a huge modern structure funded in part by federal money. Several people waited in a line that snaked through the lobby to the front desk where volunteer workers helped with sign-in. After scribbling my signature in the guest logbook, a volunteer worker handed me a little sticker with an orange border and my name neatly handwritten on it in black ink.
"Be sure to wear this at all times during your visit," the friendly faced volunteer said.
Along a wide windowless corridor to a bank of elevators I strolled. Chastity worked on the fifth floor, 'Geriatrics'.
The elevator opened to a reception area where a white uniform nurse sat behind a low counter filling out a form on a clipboard. She peered at me through a pair of rhinestone reading glasses.
"Nurse Williams you say? She is still on ward. It's been a busy morning." The nurse looked at her watch. "Chastity should be on break now but I guess she's running a few minutes late. Why don't you go through to the staff waiting room? I'm sure she will be here momentarily." She said, pointing to a door behind the reception desk.
It led to a windowless room with a mahogany brown leather sofa, three small wooden tables with orange metal framed chairs tucked into each side, and a kitchen sink with two small microwaves atop the counter. High on the wall a large flat-screen color television blared out trivia questions and contestant answers from a twenty-four-hour game show channel. The bubble of a coffee percolator brewing a fresh pot, the only signs of recent activity. I sat down and prepared to wait.
After twenty minutes I became impatient and went out to the reception area. It was empty. I returned to the room. With little else to occupy my mind I sat back down, picked up a remote control turning up the volume, and stared at the television. The host, in a shiny black suit with a white shirt and a broad orange tie with purple streaks, asked, "What three things do people want most out of their life?"
A pencil thin woman in her late twenties with bleach blond hair, and a name tag which read, 'Terry Saunders', pressed the buzzer. The host swiveled around, raised both his arms and with the catchphrase he had made famous said, "yama bama answer the slammer."
Terry danced excitedly for several moments, joyful at being the first to buzz. The game show host joined in. Together they twirled around the stage, as the live orchestra played a merry tune. The audience, now on their feet dancing along, yelled, "yama bama answer the slammer."
"And your answer is?" The game show host's eager eyes focused on Terry's face as if she was about to give the answer to life the universe and everything. It's got to be love, happiness and friendship, I thought.
"A beautiful body," she screamed as her eyes danced with joy at being the center of attention for a fleeting instant on game show TV.
There was a
dramatic pause. The game show host looked at his answer card, then at Terry's face, and down at the answer card again. With a Shakespearean flourish the man raised his hand in the air.
"That answer is…wrong!"
The game show host did his signature jig of death. "Yama bama here comes the slammer."
Two musclebound men, dressed as security guards but in frilly short sleeved pink shirts that clung tightly to their toned torso, entered the stage area. They wore yellow police caps with a purple holster, that held a teddy bear holding a hammer, around their waist. One on each side of Terry, they lifted her off the ground and twirled around several times. The orchestra struck up another merry tune as the audience yelled and hollered with joy. Terry danced, her legs waving in mid-air, as the security guards carried her off the game show set.
"Doctor Stratford."
"Shhh," I said, raising my hand. "I want to see what happens next."
"Doctor Stratford." The caustic mixture of disgust and revulsion in the voice caused me to turn my head. It was Chastity Williams. She wore a white knee length hospital jacket, slightly askew, with her nurse's uniform visible underneath. In one hand, a handbag, in the other, a huge black book, the Bible–King James version.
"I never had you down as a game show host watcher," said Chastity, her face even sourer than the words.
Jolted out of the game show induced stupor, I beamed my best 'let's be friends smile'. Chastity stared back impassively. What was it John used to say? 'If you start on the wrong foot then start again.'
"Oh, Chastity, wonderful to see you, I was just idling away the time, don't get much chance to do that these days."
Chastity's nose twitched like a cat sniffing a disgusting odor. "Laziness casts into a deep sleep, and an idle man will suffer hunger," she said, gripping tightly onto the Bible.
"Yama bama here comes the slammer," cried the game show host as another contestant, surrounded by musclebound security guards, was carried off the stage.
I picked up a remote control and turned the volume to mute. Chastity folded her arms across her ample chest. There were no signs of the face softening.
"Perhaps," she said, eyeing me as one might a cockroach in a sandwich, "you'd like a coffee?"
"That'd be great," I replied, staring at the bubbling percolator whose contents I suspected was neither organic nor fair trade.
"Good," said Chastity, sitting down on the sofa next to me. She took a pager from her nurse coat jacket pressing it several times.
"Now," she said in a soft voice, "my brother Bobby tells me you spoke with him yesterday."
I nodded. Somehow my thoughts came out of my mouth. "Yes, but it didn't go well."
She smiled. "Bobby is my older brother. The man can be a little crazy at times, especially when it involves his sister. Sometimes, he behaves just like when he was ten years old. He got us all into a lot of hot water back then." Chastity let out a little chuckle, her voice tinkling like a hand-bell.
There was a gentle rap on the door. A bright faced man wearing the brown coat of a hospital orderly, peered at us.
"Moozoos for two," he said, giving Chastity a little wink.
"Thank you, Michael," replied Chastity as she took one of the cups, and indicated I do the same. As Michael turned to leave, Chastity's eyes drifted towards the bubbling coffee pot.
"That's for patient's family members only, we don't drink the stuff, gives you the runs."
We both laughed.
Chasity seemed to relax. "Doctor Stratford," she said, still chuckling, "do you enjoy the theater, Shakespeare?"
"Of course, although there is not much opportunity here in Medlin Creek."
Chastity smiled. "How many tickets would you like?"
"Tickets, to what?"
"The Medlin Creek Players are performing a Midsummer's Night's Dream at the end of the month. I'm playing Hermia, Bobby is Egeus."
With four tickets in hand, at ten dollars apiece, the icy atmosphere had melted a little. I decided to level with Chastity.
"I'm trying to put together the pieces around Garrick's life. Everyone agrees he was a wonderful person, yet his bones end up buried on my property. The Sheriff's department are investigating, but I don't want to wait for an official police report. Please, tell me what you know about Garrick."
Chastity stared off into space, and for a moment I thought she wouldn't answer. Then, without looking at me she said, "Garrick was a good man, so is Bobby... I'd hoped Garrick was alive, but at least now we can have closure." She reached for a tissue and dabbed her eyes.
I let out a sympathetic murmur.
Chastity's lips tugged upwards into a wry smile and she regarded me out of the corner of her eye. "If Garrick had lived, Bobby would have reported to him rather than Bryant."
She must've seen the quizzical expression on my face.
"You see, Doctor Stratford," she explained, "Garrick was next in line for promotion to partner at the Havis County Engineering Company."
"Oh, my gosh," I said, the words rushing out of my mouth before I could stop them.
Chastity nodded. "Garrick's untimely disappearance left the path wide open for Bryant Reynolds. Doctor Stratford, less than three months after Garrick disappeared the announcement came."
"The announcement?"
"Yes, Bryant Reynolds became a partner."
"You don't say." I was beginning to see a new picture.
She reached into her handbag for a handkerchief. The white soft fabric snagged onto something inside the bag. She tugged, a laminated card dropped out face side down.
"Have you ever wondered what a good man looks like? This is Garrick," she said, turning over the card. It was a photograph of a smiling tan skinned man with an athletic face and thick neck. Chastity dabbed the corner of her eyes with the handkerchief.
"I hear there was a fight between Garrick and Bobby just before Garrick disappeared," I said. "Do you know what that was about?"
She didn't speak. A tiny muscle in the corner of her right eye tugged involuntarily. It was like a Christmas light flickering on and off, but it gave her face an almost sinister character. I watched the muscle twitching as her face transformed from caring nurse to threatening gargoyle.
"Doctor Stratford, if you are in any way implying my brother Bobby was involved in the death of Garrick, you are very much mistaken. Bobby wouldn't hurt a fly, and he certainly wouldn't harm Garrick." She dabbed at her eyes again.
"If you want to know who killed Garrick," her voice was shrill now, "look no further than Bryant Reynolds." She waved the King James Bible menacingly. "God's punishment will soon rain down upon him, I can guarantee you of that!"
I nodded in agreement. But I always wondered looking back on it afterwards, how far I had really, in my innermost heart, believed that.
Making my way back along the maze of windowless corridors to the main lobby, I thought about Chastity. The meeting with her was like being at the movies watching a physical manifestation of a split personality, Dr. Jekyll turning into the Mr. Hyde. I'm no psychologist but her behavior was definitely odd.
Then I wondered if the Sheriff's department had interviewed Bryant Reynolds. Yes, it was early in their investigation, but the man had to be top of their suspects list. I pulled up Patricia Hampton's cell phone number. She worked as the receptionist and dispatch operator at the Sheriff's department.
Patricia picked up on the first ring.
"Not much happening today," she said. "Kinda like most days."
"Any news on the investigation into Garrick Markovich?"
Patricia answered directly. "Uh…nope, not much of a priority right now. I'm of the mind things may speed up a little when Sheriff Hays gets back, but I'm not gonna put money on that. Sheriff department investigations can take a while."
"Any suspects?"
There was a hushed silence. In a soft voice she replied, "There is some activity around a certain individual. Although, I've no idea who it is, but—"
The low rumbl
e of voices in the background interrupted the conversation. "Got to go now," Patricia said.
I was disappointed the Sheriff's department were not treating the case as a priority, but relieved they had identified a suspect. "It's got to be Bryant," I said under my breath.
Then the idea hit me, a flash, a revelation that flooded my mind like a late afternoon cloudburst. Why not pay Bryant a visit at his workplace? At the very least I'd get the man to confirm the deputies have paid him a visit. That alone would put my mind at rest.
I thought for a moment. Bryant will have a receptionist or a secretary, a gatekeeper. What pretense could I use to get access to him at such short notice? I half closed my eyes, then opened them wide as the answer came to me. Pickle Bramley, his nephew!
Chapter 19
The Havis County Engineering Company headquarters, found on Tempest street in an old part of town, is a three-story concrete building with huge tinted plate glass windows. The architecture appears ultra-modern against the cluster of twentieth-century low-rise clay brick buildings that surround it.
Inside, a receptionist sat behind a huge oak counter with a polished granite top. She didn't look up as I entered the lobby, but the name tag read Paula Mitchell. Tugging on a lock of golden hair she stared into a computer screen. At first, I assumed she was busy filling out an important company report. Then, in the wall of plate glass that stood behind the reception desk, I saw a reflection of her computer screen. The image was distorted, but there was no doubt about it, the woman's eyes stared into a Facebook page.
As I stood motionless, watching, her eyelids drooped, the chin fell forward as a deep rumble rose up from her throat. "I guess," I whispered under my breath, "not much happens in the corporate headquarters, or else the woman's on powerful medication."
For several minutes the receptionist slept. Perhaps, I thought, this wasn't such a good idea. Maybe I should return back to Ealing Homestead to finish off class preparations. After all, according to Patricia Hampton, the Sheriff's department have a suspect. I turned to leave.