Before He Finds Her

by Michael Kardos

  She dressed like she imagined a journalist would: skirt, blouse, more makeup than she felt comfortable wearing. Hair pinned up. She ditched the backpack and carried a spiral notebook, its first three pages containing the questions she’d written last night and this morning. She stuck a pencil behind her ear.

  Her hands were clammy, but she felt refreshed from a surprisingly good night’s sleep and energized by the fact that she had actually done it, had traveled here on her own to New Jersey, to this hospital. The place was vast and sprawling, nothing like the clinic back home. Yet somewhere within these walls, Arthur Goodale was waiting to talk with her. He just didn’t know it yet.

  She parked the car and followed the signs for the main entrance. Inside, she scanned the signs on the wall for the critical care unit, then rode the elevator to the second floor. Two women in white coats stood behind a high desk labeled NURSES STATION. Seeing Melanie, one of them smiled. Melanie approached the desk. “I’m here to see Arthur Goodale,” she said to the smiling nurse. “Is he still here?”

  The nurse asked, “Are you family?”

  “Me? No.”

  “May I ask your relationship with Mr. Goodale?”

  “Actually, we’ve never met.” When the nurse squinted at her, she added, “I’m a reporter.”

  “With...”

  “The Star-Ledger.” The biggest paper in the area.

  “We try to restrict visitors in the unit to family and close friends.” She exchanged a glance with the other nurse. “I’ll have to ask the patient if he’s willing to see you. Assuming he’s awake. May I ask your name?”

  “Alice Adams,” she said. “Would you please tell him it’s about the Ramsey Miller case?” She hadn’t said her father’s name aloud more than a dozen times in her life.

  “One moment.” The nurse walked down the hall and entered a room on the left. Seconds later, she was back in the hallway—-remarkably, waving Melanie over. “He’s all yours.”

  The door was already open, so Melanie stepped into the room and was struck by Arthur Goodale’s compromised state: shirtless, thin blanket pulled halfway up his chest. Several monitoring devices ran underneath the blanket. His left hand was connected to an IV. His face had several days of white stubble, the hair on his head was white and wispy, uncombed, and his pale blue eyes were set within a dense web of wrinkled skin, with dark bags underneath. Were their situations reversed, she wouldn’t be accepting visitors.

  “I’ll admit, you’ve piqued my interest.” The strength of Good-ale’s voice surprised her. “Who are you again?”

  “Alice Adams.”

  “I’d shake your hand, but I’m attached to too many machines,” he said. “A horror show, getting old. Though I’m told it beats the alternative. Please, hand me my glasses.” They were on the bedside table. She did as asked, and he fumbled a bit sliding the glasses into place. “Much better.” He smiled. “Take a seat.”

  Melanie moved the room’s lone chair away from the wall and sat.

  “So how can I help you?” he asked.

  “I’ve read your blog,” she said.

  Apparently, this was the right thing to say, because his eyes lit up a little. “Is that so?”

  “I only started recently, but I went back and read everything about the Miller case. And everything you wrote about it in the Silver Bay News.”

  “Going back how far?”

  “Everything.”

  He attempted a whistle, but it was all breath and no tone. “It’s a fascinating case.”

  Fascinating wasn’t the word she’d choose. “It’s terrible, what happened.”

  “It was. But I think it’s finally becoming ancient history. I had a nurse in here the other day—a local—who knew nothing about it.” He cleared his throat. “So what’s your interest in the case?”

  How, she wondered, had this already become his interview? “I work for the Star-Ledger.”

  “Crime beat?”

  “Sir?”

  He blinked a couple of times. “How long have you been writing for the paper?”

  “About a year.”

  He scratched the stubble on his cheek. “You’re not from New Jersey.”

  “No, sir—I grew up in a small town in North Carolina.” She opened her notebook. “Mr. Goodale—”

  “You can call me Arthur.”

  No way could she do that. She wasn’t brought up that way. Now she’d have to call him nothing. “From what I can tell, you know more about the case than anyone.”

  “Well, the police obviously know more than I do.”

  “Do you think?”

  “The police? I should hope so.”

  “Even now that the lead detective has retired?”

  “Well, the file’s still there.”

  She nodded. She dreaded going anywhere near the police station, but knew she probably couldn’t avoid it if she wanted all the facts. “I plan to look at that,” she said.

  “At what—the file?” Goodale’s eyes narrowed. “The investigation is technically still open.”

  His point escaped her. “So...”

  “So with an open case, the police won’t let you see a thing.” He gazed out the window. The view was of a brick wall, another wing of the hospital. He looked back toward Melanie. “You can imagine that a hospital is a fairly depressing and extremely boring place to be. And I’ve never been a TV watcher.” He sighed. “So I hate to do this, because it’s refreshing to have a visitor, and a pretty one at that—but you’re either the worst journalist I’ve ever met or you’re lying to me about being one.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “You’re very polite—and I can tell that’s genuine. Ingrained. Your parents raised you right, and I mean no condescension in that.” He licked his lips. “But what is this? If you’re simply interested in the Miller case, you’ve come to the right place. I’m happy to chat about it—I hardly ever get to, anymore. But you don’t have to pretend to be a journalist.”

  “I’m not pretending, sir.”

  He smiled. “Ronny Andrews is an old friend of mine. I know the kind of reporters he hires and the sort of assignments he—you don’t know who that is, do you?” Another smile. She was starting to seriously dislike that smile. “Ronny Andrews edits the news desk at the Ledger. He’d be your boss.”

  This was all a game to him.

  “May I ask why you don’t think I’m—”

  “A pencil behind the ear? Come on. And you display no knowledge whatsoever about how journalists get their information.” He paused. “Also, you look fifteen years old.”

  “I’m way older than that.”

  “Anyone who says ‘way older’ isn’t way older.”

  “Well, I am.” What am I doing? She ordered herself to quit arguing with the one person who could help her, who also happened to be in critical care.

  “Then how about this: You haven’t asked me how I’m feeling.”

  “Sir?”

  “Even a reporter who’s all business would ask me that. And we’ve already determined that you’re ingratiatingly polite.” She made a mental note to look that word up. “So I can only conclude that for whatever reason, you’re pretending to be reporter when in fact you’re something else.”

  Plan A was to pose as a reporter for the Star-Ledger. Plan B didn’t exist. “How are you feeling today?” she asked.

  “Tired and uncomfortable. But thanks for asking.” His smile had softened, or maybe she just chose to see it that way.

  “You’re welcome, Mr. Goodale,” she said.

  “Call me Arthur.”

  She forced this much-older man’s first name from her throat. “Arthur... I want to know everything there is to know about the Miller case.”

  “Now that I believe,” he said. “It’s what I want, too. I’ve wanted it for fifteen years. But I’m a journalist who spent much of his adult life in this town. What’s your reason?”

  His voice, his eyes—they betrayed the rest of his body, this hospital ro
om. He wasn’t a frail man. He knows who I am, she thought for an instant—though of course he couldn’t.

  “You’re a really good interviewer,” she said.

  “Thank you, Alice. That’s flattering. And I’m thrilled that you’ve read my blog. I really am. But I’m frankly not thrilled at all with the way you come in here and start telling me lies. So how about we start again. Who are you? And what’s your real interest in this case?”

  She respected his investigatory instincts, but he was driving her mad. For her, this was life and death. For him, it was an entertaining break from soap operas and his view of the brick wall.

  She summoned all her courage. “Mr. Goodale, would you really like to know who I am?” she asked, lowering her voice to add drama.

  “I truly would.” His voice had lost its tinge of superiority, become plainer—the voice of an unassuming journalist seeking a source’s trust.

  “Can you keep a secret?” she asked.

  “Yes, Alice,” he said. “I really can.”

  She held his gaze as long as she dared. “Well, so can I.”

  She stood, turned her back on him, and walked toward the door. She was halfway into the hallway when he uttered a single word that meant nothing to her.

  She stepped back into the room. “Sorry?”

  “Magruder,” he repeated. When she didn’t respond, he said, “David Magruder.”

  Alice frowned. “The TV guy?” She pictured the square jaw and cleft chin, the thick salt-and-pepper hair, the dramatic interviews with storm survivors, criminals, antiwar activists—and quite often of late the spouses and children of soldiers who were overseas.

  “Fifteen years ago,” Arthur said, “he was only a local weatherman. Listen, this is probably nothing, but—” He sighed. “Did you mean it when you said you can keep a secret? Or was that just a clever exit line?”

  She remained just inside the doorway. “Both, I guess.”

  “Fair enough,” he said. “Shut that door, please. Don’t go. I don’t want you to go.” She shut the door. “Now take a seat again. Please.” She sat and waited. Finally, he said, “I’m going to tell you something that I haven’t written about.”

  “I thought that was the point of your blog,” she said. “You can write whatever you want.”

  “No, not everything. I’m not going to slander a man like David Magruder, even on the blog. That’d be asking for a lawsuit.”

  “I’m not a real journalist,” she admitted, sensing that a bit of truth might go a long way.

  “You aren’t going to stick a needle into me,” he said. “That’s enough for me.”

  “What if I spill your secret?”

  “You won’t.” He shrugged. “Or you will—what do I care? I’ll probably be dead in a week.”

  She smiled at his attempt at gallows humor, opened her notebook, and removed the pencil from behind her ear.

  It wasn’t much, what he told her. Before David Magruder started on his path to fame and fortune (a path, Arthur made a point of saying, that included cosmetic surgery and a hair transplant), he was a weatherman on the local TV news. He happened to live just down the street from the Millers. And of the few dozen people who attended the block party, he was one of them.

  “Sounds like he was just being a neighbor,” Melanie said. Yet she had trouble imagining David Magruder as being anyone’s neighbor, or having come from anywhere other than the TV, already fully formed and photogenic and wearing perfectly fitted suits.

  “Exactly,” Arthur said. “But that’s what makes it strange. Magruder wasn’t a neighborly man. I knew him then—not well, but well enough to tell you that he was already too big for this town. In his eyes, anyway. So I’ve never understood why he attended a party thrown by some trucker he probably didn’t even know.”

  Maybe it was relevant, Melanie thought, or maybe Magruder had simply found himself with a little free time that day. Maybe he liked hamburgers. “Is that everything?” she asked.

  Arthur shook his head. “In the days after the crime, the police questioned everyone who attended the party. Which is what you’d expect. But Magruder—he was questioned more than once.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Alice, I’ve lived here my whole life. I have friends on the force.”

  She couldn’t imagine anyone being friends with a policeman, but she took him at his word. “What did they ask him?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “But the police must have thought—for a while, anyway—that he knew something or saw something, or maybe had information that might help them find Ramsey.” Something started buzzing, and Arthur became distracted for a moment before realizing that the sound was coming from the hallway and not one of the machines in his room. “I really don’t know. But my attempt to speak with him about the crime is what ended our acquaintanceship, and he’s refused to speak with me ever since.”

  “What do you think he might have known?”

  Arthur still seemed distracted, glancing around the room, up at the blank TV mounted to the wall, then back at Melanie. Finally, the buzzing in the hallway stopped and he visibly relaxed. “If you came here looking for answers, I’m afraid I don’t have any. Everything you read on my blog and in my articles? That’s it. It’s all I know, except for what I just told you. I know it doesn’t amount to much. But if you’re set on investigating what happened on the night of September 22, 1991, there are worse places to start than with David Magruder.”

  “Except that he won’t talk to a journalist about it.”

  “Then it’s a good thing you aren’t one.” Yes, his smile was definitely irritating, but she would try to get used to it. “I think I can help you, Alice. But if you find out anything, you have to tell me, okay? It’s really boring in here.” He frowned. “And this case. It’s important to me.”

  She nodded. “It’s important to me, too.”

  9

  Melanie took a deep breath, let it out, and entered the dim marble lobby, which was empty except for a security guard in the far corner, sitting behind a desk. As she approached, the man glanced up at her. She told him she had a 3:00 appointment with David Magruder.

  “ID, please.” He barely looked up from the newspaper spread across the desk. When she didn’t respond, he said, “Driver’s license? Passport?”

  Yesterday, she’d given a false name to Magruder’s assistant. “I don’t have my license with me,” she said. “I took the train in from New Jersey.”

  He looked up from the paper. “What’s your name?”

  “Alice Adams.” The more she said this name, the faker it sounded. “Mr. Magruder is expecting me. His assistant never said anything about—”

  “Hold on.” He picked up the phone receiver and dialed a few buttons. “Yeah, a young woman—Ms. Adams—says she has an appointment with Mr. Magruder.” A long moment passed before he said, “Okay. I’ll send her up.” He hung up the phone. “Sign here. Eighteenth floor. I need to look in your bag.”

  On the eighteenth floor, the elevator doors opened directly into a reception area with carpeted hallways extending in both directions. Hanging on the wall behind the reception desk were enlarged photographs of David Magruder and the name of his current TV show, Magruder Reveals. Melanie had watched it a couple of times. Everyone was always shouting and crying and reconciling, and the music in the background told you how to feel.

  A stunning woman with long black hair and a black dress sat behind a small wooden desk. She was quietly telling someone on the other end of the telephone line that “some people are just bastards, and you can’t let the bastards stand in your way. You just need to... Hold on.” She lowered the phone. “Yes?”

  “I’m Alice Adams,” Melanie said. “I have a three o’clock appointment with Mr. Magruder.”

  The woman looked Melanie up and down and uncapped her hand from the phone receiver. “I’ll call you back,” she said, hung up, and dialed an extension. “Mr. Magruder,” she said, her voice sultry and full of promise
s, “I have an Alice Adams here who says she’s waiting to see you.” She picked a speck of nonexistent lint off her shoulder. “All right, I’ll tell her. Thank you.” She hung up the phone and said nothing for five seconds, ten. She was studying her fingernails.

  “Is Mr. Magruder—”

  “Yeah, I know. He’s coming.” She looked up from her nails. “Where are you from, anyway?”

  “North Carolina,” Melanie said.

  “Yeah, your accent is crazy thick,” the woman said in her crazy thick New York accent, and then, thankfully, the man Melanie recognized from TV and the photos overhead came rushing around the corner.

  Arthur Goodale had told her to forget about posing as a pro. You’re a college student working on a project, spotlighting Magruder and his amazing career. You’re completely enamored with him. She’d laid it on thick with his assistant, embarrassingly so, but the approach had worked.

  “Alice?” Magruder came up to her now, arm extended, beaming at her as if she were the celebrity. “I’m David. I’m so glad to meet you.” His handshake was firm, his palm dry, just as she knew it would be. “Come on,” he said, “let’s go back to my office where we can chat.” She began following him. “Did you have an easy trip?”

  She decided not to mention her battle with the NJ Transit ticket machine, or being overwhelmed by Penn Station and the crush of people with their briefcases and their scowls, or, emerging onto 34th Street, being stunned by the searing daylight and mammoth buildings and wide sidewalks and the crowds everywhere she looked, moving fast, fast.

  “Yes, sir,” she said, and smiled.

  “Good. Jeremy told me you’re majoring in broadcast journalism. Hard road, changing landscape—but if you keep your eyes and ears open and your nose clean, then you’ll...” They passed a few offices where on the other side of the glass young men and women sat at cubicles and stared at their computer monitors. Every-one was on the phone.

  David Magruder had on a dark blue suit with subtle pinstripes and freshly polished black shoes. On TV, he was a good-looking middle-aged man with terrific hair and a pleasing voice. In person she wouldn’t call him handsome, exactly. The parts were all there: cleft chin, blue eyes, that perfect head of hair, but the parts didn’t quite fit together. It was as if he’d been ordered a la carte.