by Jamie Metzl
“Joseph,” I say breathlessly. “I need you to check out something as quickly as possible.”
“Boss?”
“Go to Corner Drug. Write down for me the name and cost of every early pregnancy test they have in the store.”
10
It hits me as I speed down 13 North through Osceola.
What the hell am I thinking?
Cobalt Becker had almost frightened me with his charismatic power. I’d felt unsteady and unsettled when I’d stumbled to my car. But how had I taken the leap so quickly between Becker seeming sad about MaryLee’s death to his potentially being much more intimately involved?
I remember the note my friend Noam Kugelmass once passed me in the U.C. Davis library. “WWWOOD?” It had taken me a few minutes, but I finally figured out his implicit critique of my overactive mind. What would William of Occam do? If the fourteenth-century English theologian were here in my 2018 Hyundai, he wouldn’t be encouraging me to conjure up a theory out of whole cloth. He’d apply his principle, Occam’s razor to figure out the simplest and most logical explanation.
According to Occam’s principle of parsimony, a person trying to solve a problem shouldn’t make more assumptions than the minimum number needed. Although the principle has huge consequences for math, science, and philosophy, its practical implications are what my mother has admonished me to do since I was a child. “Don’t make your life difficult.” The advice didn’t stick.
My mind conjures the frocked theologian to the passenger seat.
“Fuhst,” Occam says, “isn’t it simplest to assume she may have died of Blue Magic, whatever cauldron of sorcery that is, or of natural causes? Second, what makes you think she’s pregnant? Thuhd . . .”
“Excuse me, Occam,” I say in my head, “we’re just passing Burger King. Would you care for anything?”
I actually laugh aloud at my exchange with my mental projection.
“Thuhd, even if she were pregnant,” my internal Occam continues, “is Becker the most likely father? Wasn’t she a graduate student surrounded by billowing waves of testosterone?”
Occam’s razor is making mincemeat of my flimsy theory. I hit speed dial 3.
“Yeah, boss.”
“Abraham, where are you?”
“Heading down Troost, will be at Corner Drug in about five minutes.”
“One more job for you.”
“Yes, boss,” he says slowly, bracing himself for yet another illogical demand.
“Can you make a list of everything in the store that costs $10.95 and the same for $24.95?”
I can hear the air pressing out of Joseph’s nose, then a grunt as the connection drops.
“Fifth,” the struggling-to-be-logical side of my brain now inquires, “are you even positive you’ve got the right garbage for MaryLee Stock? Aren’t you, my good man, putting a lot of weight on a neatly squeezed toothpaste tube?”
Occam, you’re killing me.
“Sixth, you gormless scullion,” Occam charges on, “have you stopped to consider that surveillance feeds might actually be interrupted from time to time . . .”
“Did they even have surveillance feeds in fourteenth-century England?” my mind fires back.
“Bollocks,” Occam replies, “or that the painting of Mary and Jesus and the gift box were reasonable gifts from a multimillionaire pastor?”
I speed forward impatiently, accelerating unevenly in contrast with the smooth flow of driverless cars in the AVO, Autonomous Vehicles Only, lanes beside me. The contrast feels like a metaphor for my life.
I read passing electronic billboard screens, trying to distract myself while I wait for Joseph’s call.
NEED A NEW LIFE? GOD ACCEPTS TRADE-INS.
IF GOD DOESN’T MATTER TO HIM, says the block letters above the blurry image of a black man with a shaking gun, DO YOU? WWW.ANSWERSINGENESIS.ORG.
A billboard reading RIGHTEOUSNESS EXALTETH A NATION, BUT SIN IS A REPROACH TO ANY PEOPLE: THE BLOOD OF JESUS CLEANSETH US FROM ALL SIN, towers above a large red, white, and blue sign reading KING FOR PRESIDENT, the “T” at the end of the word “President” forming an illuminated cross.
IF YOU DIED TODAY, WHERE WOULD YOU SPEND ETERNITY?, reads another sign. The eyes of Jesus on the cross track my car as I speed past.
JESUS IS COMING—ARE YOU READY?
The signs begin to bother me. Everyone has a right to choose their own religion, but when one group tries to force itself on others is when I start to have problems. The surging evangelicals have every right to live as they please, but not to force the rest of us to live like them. We’re not living through the Inquisition in 2023 America but the same quality of intolerance is brewing.
WANDER INTO THE LION’S DEN—WHERE LOVERS SHOP.
Finally, I think, as I pass through Clinton, somebody has a sense of humor or at least recognizes the intimate link between sexual and religious passion.
“Joseph,” I say to my windshield, “what the hell is taking so long?”
I tap my u.D just as I feel the vibration. “Talk to me.”
Joseph’s face appears on the dashboard screen. “Boss, it’s going to take me a little while to look at everything in the store, but I thought you’d want to know that the Accu-Clear Early Pregnancy Test costs $10.95.”
I breathe in.
“Another thing, boss.”
“Yes?”
“They had a look at the surveillance feeds. No one bumped my blue Kia Curve when it was here yesterday at 4:40.”
I feel an electric current surge up my spine. “What time does the store close?” I say with a new urgency.
“In ten minutes, at seven.”
“Make your lists and e-mail them to me when you have them.”
“Yes, boss.”
“And Joseph.”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
He stares at me briefly before looking down. The connection drops.
Occam is still holding court inside my head, but if MaryLee’s car was at Corner Drug two days ago, then I definitely have her garbage. And if a pregnancy test costs $10.95, there’s at least a decent chance . . .
I tap my u.D to place the call.
“Neary, it’s Rich Azadian,” I say, feeling the urge to bombard her with questions. A better part of me takes hold. “I wanted to see how you are doing.”
“It’s tough, Mr. Azadian,” she says respectfully. “I still can’t believe it.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say awkwardly. I let the silence settle, feeling badly for pushing on. “Do you mind if I ask you a couple more questions.”
“It’s okay, Mr. Azadian.”
“You told me this morning that MaryLee had been feeling sick. Can you tell me more about her symptoms?”
“She just seemed slow, tired. She had a bit of a sour look on her face.”
“Was it obvious?”
“Not really. MaryLee was a very positive person.”
“Neary, I’m going to ask you a question that may surprise you.”
“Okay.”
“Do you think that MaryLee could have been pregnant?”
“Oh, no,” she says instinctively. “Definitely not.”
“Why not?”
“She wasn’t dating. She’d taken a chastity pledge.”
“Neary,” I say, “have you ever been around someone who is pregnant?”
“Yes, of course. Lots of cousins.”
“And if you didn’t know MaryLee and just observed her symptoms, would you, as a scientist, think she might be pregnant?”
I hear Neary’s sigh before she speaks. “As a scientist maybe yes, but I would also observe her as a person, and I can’t imagine she was pregnant.” Neary pauses. “Do you think she was?”
“I’m starting to think it’s possible.”
I can hear Neary starting to sniffle.
“I’ll let you know if I learn anything. Okay?” I say softly after a pause.
I hear another sniffle. The connection
drops.
I make one more call as I speed through Harrisonville.
“Maurice, it’s Rich Azadian. I’m driving back from Springfield. I need to talk with you.”
11
If I ever carry my anti-establishment bravado to its full conclusion, I’ll certainly wind up another middle-aged guy with a graying pony-tail dangling from a balding scalp, poorly fitting jeans, an army surplus jacket, and glimpses of faded tattoos peering from the edges of my sleeves in a rundown place like here, the Broadway Café on Forty-First Street.
I look around with a slight feeling of repulsion. I know they had their day, but that was fifty years ago and what has hippie culture really produced? What would Darwin say about this lifestyle? Has it earned a half-century life span?
But a part of me knows I doth protest too much, that I’m probably not as out of place in this island of lost toys as I’d like myself to believe.
No matter how almost hip I may appear to others, I still often feel that the lanky kid I once was is shadowing me, that I command my space and shrink from it at the same time, too geeky to be hip, too almost hip to be geeky.
I order a “medium” latte, still refusing to use the ever escalating Italian terms for big cups, unfold my monitor, tap my u.D, and start reading through the notes Joseph has sent me on Becker.
Born Christian Cobalt Becker in El Paso, Texas, in 1966, graduate of Texas Christian University and student body president. Churches in Lubbock and Wichita, Kansas, before coming to Springfield. Built Holy Virgin into a megachurch with nearly fifteen thousand congregants every Sunday and a political force first in Missouri and then nationally.
The headlines confirm the story. “Becker Builds Megachurch for the Generations,” reads the Springfield News-Leader; “Becker Emerges as King-maker of the MO Republican Party,” says the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. “Becker Leads Silent March on State Legislature,” the Jefferson City News Tribune reports in an article describing the synthetic biology debate. The irreverent title in the Dallas Morning News, “God’s Rancher Builds His Herd,” describes Becker’s sprawling, well-protected cattle ranch in Waco, Texas.
It’s strange how all of these old-fashioned newspapers have had a renaissance of late. It wasn’t that long ago when people were talking about the blogosphere as if it was a disintermediated citizen’s news source. But ever since the Chinese government and the big corporations and anyone else with an interest and some money began to hire their own fifty-cent armies to message away on their behalf and the famed global commons became the global propangandosphere, the idea that Twitter and Facebook were once seen almost as news sources has become laughable. It’s sad how completely that world has been wiped out.
With so many of the voices compromised and mistrusted, stories come out of the cybercloud like signs of life come from the stars. They may be there, but the chances of our finding them is slim. With the decentralized communication world of the old Internet completely manipulated and compromised, the country suddenly needed news organizations just as the financial model of the traditional news business was collapsing.
Maurice marches in at 8:42 p.m., looking annoyed, and refocuses my wandering mind. His polo shirt tucked tightly into his khakis makes him look official even though not in uniform. I imagine his children calling him sir at the breakfast table.
“What’s this all about?” he asks briskly, not sitting down.
“Can I get you some coffee?” My politeness almost, but not quite, mocks his annoyance for the sheer pleasure of it.
Maurice stares at me with wide, intense eyes.
“It’s about MaryLee Stock.”
“And?” he says, sitting down.
“I know you guys haven’t released her name or made a statement.”
“We know that too, Rich.”
I look at him blankly.
“We’re releasing her name tomorrow,” he says with an I-don’t-know-why-the-hell-I’m-telling-you-this look on his face.
“We’ve been doing our research and I wanted to compare notes,” I say.
“You took me away from my family at eight thirty at night because you wanted to compare damn notes?”
“Any trace of Blue Magic?”
Anger rises up Maurice’s face. “You called me here to ask me questions?”
“I think I may have something.”
“Tell me,” he orders.
“If I do, I need to know you’ll be square with me, that if I give you something you’ll help me,” I say, mindful that Maurice probably has no intention of letting me know the Whitehall surveillance cameras were dark when MaryLee Stock died.
“I make no promises,” he says.
“I’m not looking for promises, Maurice. I’m going to give you a lead. All I ask is that you let me know if this goes anywhere.”
“I won’t promise,” Maurice says again, this time more assertively.
I construe this as a deal. “What do you know of Cobalt Becker?”
Maurice leans against the back of his chair. “Same as everyone else. Telepastor, Republican kingmaker, conservative standard-bearer. Why?”
I take a deep breath. “MaryLee was from Springfield. She was a member of Becker’s Holy Virgin Church of Christ.”
“This is earth-shattering, Rich. The junior pastor was in my office today.”
Maurice is starting to get annoyed. I realize I need to start with the punch line and work backwards.
“MaryLee Stock may have been pregnant.”
Maurice puts two hands face down on each side of the chair to straighten himself out. “I’m listening.”
“You’re not going to like this,” I add after laying out my preliminary case, “but yesterday I found MaryLee Stock’s garbage bag at Whitehall.”
He flashes me a sharp look.
“I know I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Damn right you shouldn’t have.”
“Arrest me later. First let me tell you what I know.”
Maurice lifts his eyebrows.
“I didn’t find the syringe I was looking for in her garbage, but I did find two receipts. One for the UMKC coffee shop and the other for Corner Drug.”
“Did they have her name on them?”
“No,” I say, “but I confirmed with Corner Drug that Mary Lee was there at the time the receipt was given.”
“How?”
“Her car was there. A blue Kia Curve.”
“When?”
“4:41 Monday.”
“Go on.”
“I spoke with one of her classmates who told me that MaryLee had been feeling nauseous for the past couple of months.”
Maurice signals with his head for me to go on.
“The classmate thought she couldn’t be pregnant because MaryLee was a committed virgin without a boyfriend.”
Maurice nods.
“There were three items on MaryLee’s Corner Drug receipt. The receipt didn’t say what was sold, just the price.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a mom-and-pop store. I have no idea. The receipts were for $10.95, $24.95, and $1.65. One of the do-it-yourself pregnancy tests costs $10.95 at Corner Drug.”
“And this is your police work?”
I tell him about the wooden box of frankincense and myrrh, the picture of Jesus and Mary, Becker’s reactions to my words.
“Are you done?” he says when I stop speaking.
I nod cautiously.
“So you don’t trust Becker, MaryLee was sick, she’s got a painting of Jesus in her apartment and a damn box, and a pregnancy test costs $10.95,” Maurice says, getting more agitated as he speaks. “That’s what you called me out to tell me. If jock itch spray also costs $10.95 will you call me back to say she had that?”
I suddenly feel amateurish and insecure. “If they find out that she’s pregnant, can we talk more?” I say, trying to hide my newfound lack of confidence.
“If they find out she’s pregnant,” Maurice says slowly, “I’m coming to you for
an astrological reading.” He chuckles indignantly then stands to leave.
“You also might want to get the feeds from the UMKC Hospital Hill Café surveillance cameras at 3:40 p.m. on Monday, October 16,” I throw out.
Maurice shakes his head from side to side and turns toward the door.
“Any trace of Blue Magic?”
“The autopsy is being released tomorrow,” he says over his shoulder as he walks out.
12
As I amble to the car, I feel the first hint of looming winter on my face and see the small red dot blinking on my u.D. I somehow sense intuitively who it represents. I tap my u.D, and the voice flows through my earbud and into my subconscious.
“Dikranigus, janeegus, gyankus.”
Janeegus, my dear, is to be expected. Gyankus, my life, is often a precursor to something that’s going to make me feel inadequate.
It’s not just the words. It’s not just my mother. It’s not just the hundreds of years of history underpinning both. It’s all three combined into a sometimes overwhelming mix.
My great-grandparents’ little village in Ottoman-ruled Armenia, Sepastia, had been a universe unto itself. The extent of life, by and large, was, at least until genocide and war intervened, the limit of the village. The few who could get out did and came to places like America, where they suppressed their memories of death and created mental replicas of their same little villages inside the large metropolises they put up with but never fully occupied. That generation was passionate about preserving their culture and educating their kids. They did both with great success.
Following in their footsteps, my grandparents put enormous energy into making sure my mother never fully entered the modern world. I remember finding an old photograph from her wedding. She and my dad touching their crowned heads together, symbolic Armenian king and queen harking back to the Middle Ages. I then sensed that the photo represented the only possible future for me as well. In some ways, I’ve struggled with this legacy all my life, not just the death and destruction from the genocide a century ago, but the fossilization of culture as a historical time capsule that threatened to overtake my individuality if only I’d succumb to its flow. Somehow, my mother’s voice always calls me back.