Beyond Physical

by D Pichardo-Johansson

  At that time, the intercom phone rang and Samuel picked up.

  “Oh, she’s here already? Please tell her it will be a few more minutes.”

  He hung up and turned to Richard. “Mrs. O’Hara is here. I’ll fill you in quickly. This woman was reportedly devastated by the death of her husband. They were together since high school and were the ‘picture-perfect family.’ His campaign was based on advertising his strong family values. When he died, she was left with three kids to take care of, all boys—two of which were six-month-old baby twins.”

  A flash of pity crossed Richard’s heart, but he pushed it away to joke, snickering, “Look no more. It’s all a façade. She killed him to get the money, likely to share it with the other man. It’s always like that.”

  “She didn’t seem to have a financial incentive on seeing her husband dead,” Samuel clarified. “His insurance policy wasn’t impressive. All his family money was in a trust, controlled by his mother. Losing his salary left her in quite a stressful position, which is why she’s still working three jobs.”

  Richard felt the early pang of an upcoming migraine. At least this time he’d come prepared. He looked at his watch. “Before we get started, let me go take my migraine medicine. I’ll be right back.”

  Taking the backdoor exit, Richard walked through the room behind the mirrors, where cameras were ready to record the interview. The drinking fountain in that room was out of service. He kept walking until he made it to the employees’ break room and took his pills with water from the sink.

  On the way back, instead of returning through the back entrance, he automatically took a different way, through the main lobby.

  And there she was.

  Richard’s heart stopped beating for a second. His body froze as he looked at the beautiful brunette woman fidgeting in her seat in the waiting room. He couldn’t help calling her name.

  “Dr. Clayton?”

  The woman turned to look at him with a vague gesture of recognition on her face. “Wait. I know you from somewhere.”

  He felt uncomfortable, realizing that he could easily remember her, but it was impossible for her to retain in her memory the dozens of patients and relatives she probably saw daily.

  “I’m Richard. We met last week at the Hospice House.”

  Her face lit up, and she stood up to shake his hand with the same warm smile he recalled well. “Of course. You came with . . . Nana. She looked great when I saw her yesterday, by the way. I think she’s definitely going to make it to that ultrasound appointment.”

  He smiled. “You have a good memory.”

  “And I also remember you told me you were in law enforcement. Do you work here? Are you a . . . policeman?” Her eyes slid over his body, noticing his lack of a uniform.

  As a reflex from his years of working undercover, he elaborated on her assumption and lied. “Yes, I’m a detective.” At least a small part was true. He’d been a homicide detective at the New York Police Department years back, before joining the FBI. He searched his mind for the least threatening police job he could think of and added, “I work in the Economic Crime Unit—identity theft, fake checks, scamming the elderly. My office is in Titusville. I just happen to be here dropping off a report.”

  Knowing the answer but still incredulous, he asked. “But what are you doing here?”

  “Mrs. O’Hara,” the receptionist interrupted, “the chief is running late, there will still be a few more minutes to wait.”

  Faking surprise, Richard looked at her and raised his eyebrows. “Mrs. O’Hara?”

  Her gesture was apologetic. “Clayton is my maiden name. I never got around to changing it officially.”

  “I see, so . . . you’re married?”

  A shadow crossed her eyes. “I’m a widow. My husband was Michael O’Hara, the congressman who died in a car accident a year and a half ago.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” he replied, bowing his head.

  She nodded briefly. “That’s why I’m here today. They want to interrogate me again about his death.”

  Sitting back in her chair, she covered her eyes with both hands, breathing deeply. He sat next to her in silence.

  “I thought when I went through my interrogation back then that it would be the last time. We went over every possible question. I was here for hours. It was a nightmare!”

  He didn’t answer. Dropping her hands from her face, she turned to him. “Don’t take me wrong. I appreciate the police and want to be cooperative, but those FBI guys are the worst! They have no mercy!”

  Richard repressed a smile. Now he definitely didn’t want to reveal that he was one of them. “Are you nervous?”

  She shook her head. “I have nothing to hide. But I’m dreading the idea of talking about all those painful memories again. My life’s finally getting back in order; why bring me back here to revive the wounds?”

  Hiding her face in her hands again, she sighed. Then she turned back to him. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to bore you with my problems. I’m sure you have your own.”

  The receptionist interrupted. “Mrs. O’Hara, Chief Marshalls has arrived. I’ll take you back in a couple more minutes.”

  Dr. Clayton sank in her chair, her anxiety returning.

  He didn’t want to miss the interview; yet knowing she was Nana’s doctor, he dreaded making things tense between them.

  He had an idea. “Dr. Clayton, how about if I talked to the chief and asked his permission to be present during the interview? It may help shortening it. I know from experience that an interrogation is less fun if there’s a colleague watching.”

  Her face lit up. “At least there would be one familiar face there! But I’d hate to bother you if you were on your way out.”

  “My current assignment gives me flexible hours. It would be my pleasure.”

  He stood up from his chair and walked back into the interrogation room.

  When Samuel saw him walk in, he raised his hands. “Richard! What took you so long? You know Jeff, of course.”

  The police chief and Richard greeted each other, shaking hands.

  Chuckling, Richard turned to Samuel. “Sam, I know Mrs. O’Hara. She’s Nana’s doctor.”

  Samuel cringed. “The hospice shrink?”

  Assenting, Richard smiled. “Samuel, Jeff, I’ll explain later. Now I need you to help me by going along with me.”

  * * *

  An hour later, Dr. Clayton’s interrogation was still going.

  Richard sat in silence on a chair in a corner of the room, at equal distance from her and from Samuel and the chief. From time to time, she’d search for his eyes, and he’d sustain her gaze and nod once, reassuring her.

  They asked questions about the night of O’Hara’s death. She was the last person they knew for sure who’d seen him alive. He’d stopped by the house briefly to pick up his forgotten laptop before heading back to the empty campaign office to work late on the speeches for his upcoming rally. Hours later, his car had been found sunk near the west bank of the Indian River. That suggested he did make it to his office in the west part of town and was heading back home to the beach side when he died.

  The way her voice changed subtly every time she said the word “Michael” didn’t escape Richard’s attention. He read it as contained, strong emotion. She either loved the man with a passion and was still not over his death . . . or she feared him.

  As they probed her with questions about O’Hara’s opinions in several ethical issues, Richard took mental notes. “He was pretty rigid about ‘moral issues’ and didn’t give much room for consideration of circumstances,” she said. “But in the political arena, he was always careful to stay away from controversial topics.”

  Translation: the guy was both a bigot and a wimp.

  As part of the agreed plan, Samuel and the chief excused themselves for a moment, faking phone calls, and left them alone.

  The moment they were alone in the room, she turned to Richard. He got up from his chair,
moving to sit closer to her, and tapped her hand.

  “They’re almost done. You’ll be out of here soon.”

  She sighed. “Thank you so much for staying. You were right. They seem to behave better and measure their questions because you’re here.”

  He smiled. Her gratitude almost made him feel guilty for lying to her.

  Silence fell. Unsure of how to break the ice and start his own questions, he said, “Sorry, I didn’t bring any cards for us to play in the meantime.”

  She laughed. Her laughter was contagious, and he found himself laughing too. It felt good to release some of the tension.

  He decided to start. “So, Dr. Clayton—”

  “Joy, please.”

  He smiled, almost with shyness. “It’s difficult to shed the doctor image from my mind. Joy.” He looked at her lips, curved in a warm smile. She was definitely a joy to look at. He cleared his throat. “So, Joy, you mentioned you work three jobs. I only know about two, the Hospice House and your office at the Masden Retreat Center.”

  She eyed him with curiosity. “You know about my job at the CeMeSH?”

  “I happened to see your name there while visiting somebody recently.”

  She smiled. “I’m also an employee of Holloway Medical Center. I’m the chair of their Ethics Committee.”

  “How do you have time to manage it all? You must be exhausted, especially with twin toddlers. So you work all day and take care of children all night?”

  She chuckled. “It sounds horrible, but it’s not that bad.”

  His calculated empathy worked to open her up. She talked about her children as “the joy of her life” and her work as “her passion.” She talked about the chronic, unrelenting guilt from trying to balance them out and about her anxiety from being the only provider. When O’Hara died, she was still paying huge student loans and was in the middle of starting a practice which had not yet become productive.

  “I can’t believe that you call your job your passion. You work with dying people, depressed people, crazy people. How can you do this for a living and not want to kill yourself?” He immediately regretted having said those words to a young widow who was probably depressed and clearly overworked to burnout levels.

  She didn’t appear upset. “On the contrary, I think working with people who have their days counted makes you develop a chronic state of appreciation for every day you’re alive. And I learn so much from my patients and their strength. It makes me put things into perspective and ask myself, ‘Do you think you have problems? No! This person has real problems; yours are nothing!’”

  Assimilating her last words, Richard started agreeing, but then he changed his mind and shook his head. “But isn’t it freaky to see people die every day?”

  She reflected for a moment. “It’s not freaky, Richard; it’s sublime. It’s all worth it when I hear my dying patients talk about how the spirits of loved ones who died years ago are visiting them in their rooms to welcome them back home. It reminds me that death is not a disappearing act but a transition.”

  Richard stared at her in disbelief. A part of him was alarmed. What kind of disturbed personality enjoys working with dying people? She’s either a Saint-Mother-Theresa type or she’ a psycho. Still, another part of him felt a morbid curiosity to hear more.

  Noticing his tension, she concluded with a smile. “The bottom line is that my faith keeps me going. I have a strong faith that death is not the end. I also have faith that everything will make sense someday and we’ll understand that even what we saw as the most incomprehensible tragedy happened for a reason.”

  Looking into her eyes, Richard tried to read if her words were sincere. “You’re lucky to have that kind of faith. I’m afraid I can’t say the same about me.”

  At that time, Samuel returned. “Sorry for the delay.”

  Samuel asked a few more questions, but he soon ran out of anything to ask. The chief never returned. Samuel announced, “I’m done for now. Thank you for your time, Mrs. O’Hara.” He shook her hand.

  Richard offered to walk Joy back to the entrance of the building. As they exited the room, she said, “Thank you again, Richard. This interrogation wasn’t bad at all, and talking to you was kind of therapeutic. You’re a very good listener. If you ever decide to switch careers, keep psychiatry in mind.”

  He laughed. “I can’t get over this. First I meet you at the Hospice House. The next day I see your name in a place I’d never been before; and a week later, I’m at this office that I rarely ever visit, and here you are. Incredible coincidences.”

  Joy stopped and pierced him with her dark eyes. “Richard, there’s no such thing as a coincidence. Everything happens for a reason. I believe when two people run into each other repeatedly that it means one of them has a message for the other one.”

  Raising his eyebrows, he asked, “Really?”

  She nodded. “I already got my message from you. I think you were sent into my life today to make me see that I’m working too hard, that my anxiety about the financial future may be exaggerated and I need to cut back.”

  “I did that?” he asked, intrigued. “How do you know that was the message?”

  Half-shrugging, she replied, “You never know it; you feel it.” She shook his hand and added, “Thanks for the message and for everything else. Have a nice day.”

  Richard stood still, watching her walk away, and then went back to the office where Samuel was waiting for him.

  “Darn it! Undercover work is really your thing, Richard. I was watching you through the monitor. I never would’ve been able to get so much from her!”

  Richard was lost. The time talking to her hadn’t felt like an interrogation but vaguely more like a very successful blind date. “What do you mean?”

  “All that talking about life and death and the afterlife—that was freaky! And all that philosophical chat . . . there was something eerily similar to the way Dr. Andrews talks.”

  Richard tensed up. “Do you think she’s part of the Co-creators? She denied having ever heard about them.”

  “It could be. I sense she’s withholding information. And there was something strange about her that I can’t put my finger on. Too sublime, too . . . peaceful.”

  Richard thought for a moment. “Too good to be true. You may be right.”

  Samuel tapped his shoulder. “Take the advice of an experienced agent as you run this show: she’s worth investigating.” Samuel left the room, already dialing someone on his phone. Richard stood alone in the office.

  A part of him felt an enthusiasm he couldn’t explain. Another part felt apprehensive. There was something about the woman that awakened his interest and scared him at the same time.

  Chapter 5

  Reclining in his chair in the FBI monitoring room, Richard rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. He then sipped at his coffee, hoping to awaken more before tackling the next task of the day.

  A dozen computer monitors and television screens covered the wall in front of him. Six of them showed images of different areas of a house. Rolling his chair in front of a free one, he connected his memory stick to review the video recordings of interviews he’d conducted over the past weeks.

  The first was his interview with Stephen Fox, O’Hara’s former campaign manager. The man with salt-and-pepper hair appeared irritated. Fast-forwarding, he watched the key portions of the conversation.

  “Listen, Mr. Fields,” the man said, approaching the end of the encounter. “You’ve repeated the same questions too many times. If you don’t mind, I have to get going.”

  Limited to undercover work for the past years, Richard was aware he was rusty on the interrogation skills. He didn’t like to be reminded of it.

  “Mr. Fox, you’ll understand that your cooperation is important so we can capture whoever is responsible for your friend’s death.”

  The man snickered. “Michael and I weren’t friends. I was just his campaign manager.”

  Richard leaned forward.
“So you disliked him.”

  The man frowned. “If I had, I wouldn’t have put my own career on hold to support his political climb. Now, may I be dismissed?”

  Richard stopped the recording and thought for a moment. Fox was in too much of a hurry to get the conversation over. Maybe he did have something to hide.

  The next suspect was Charles Clark, O’Hara’s right-hand man. Blond and blue-eyed like O’Hara, they could’ve passed for brothers.

  “Mr. Clark, I understand that you and Congressman O’Hara were friends since college.”

  “We were fraternity brothers. I was the best man at his wedding, and I’m the godfather for his oldest son, Arthur.”

  “It must have been terrible to lose him.”

  “It was. I still can’t believe he’s gone.” Clark’s voice cracked.

  Richard paused the video. Too sentimental. Was the man exaggerating his closeness to O’Hara, trying not to raise any suspicion?

  After he was finished watching the interview, he moved to the next one. It was Samantha McKinney, Michael O’Hara’s PR representative.

  She was an attractive woman in her early fifties. With youthful skin, lustrous blond hair, and a voluptuous and fit body, she radiated sensuality. She appeared so disturbed when talking about O’Hara’s death that it had made Richard wonder if they may have been having an affair.

  “Was your relationship with Michael O’Hara more than professional?”

  “Michael and I had similar interests and views of life. It was always a pleasure having a conversation with him. I’d say we were good friends.”

  “Were you having an affair with him?”

  The question was abrupt. She didn’t blink. “My relationship with Michael was entirely platonic.”

  Richard stopped the recording. Her voice had tensed up almost indiscernibly. Was she lying?

  Sighing deeply, Richard rubbed his eyes. I’m hopeless at this!