Afterimage

by Roderick Geiger

  Three daughters, one who hadn’t been to the sanitarium in five years. Bernice Deverson. Would anyone at Westend remember what Bernice looked like?

  Day 12

  Tuesday

  Manzanita, California

  Ishue stared into her computer screen disinterestedly, rereading quotes from last night’s city council meeting. Councilwoman Tryner had said she supported Manzanita’s current sign ordinance because keeping business signs small was less distracting to drivers. Councilman Dietz had countered that the potential distraction of larger signs had to be weighed against the danger of citizens driving erratically because it was too difficult to read the tiny signs.

  Say what?

  Mayor Escobar had cautioned that Manzanita’s present sign laws prohibited flashing or movement, thus protecting Manzanitans from a Las Vegas-like landscape of huge, glitzy billboards, chasing lights and potentially dangerous distractions. The issue had ultimately been sent back to staff for further study, but Ishue hadn’t written the story that far.

  “You look kinda sick,” Cindy said. Cindy was the office typist, a dowdy little woman in her late fifties with an annoyingly nasal rasp to her voice. When she didn’t have anything to type, it was her job to pour through competing newspapers, looking for stuff the Enterprise had missed. It happened a lot. “Are you okay honey?”

  “Yeah. I guess I’m a little let down after last week.”

  “You reporters,” Cindy teased. “A woman dies in a horrible accident; a man is still in a coma, and you’re let down ‘cause you don’t have anything more to report on it.”

  Ishue chewed her pencil eraser blankly. “Yep,” she said after a moment. “I need some forward momentum on this thing. Some fresh meat!”

  Cindy burst out laughing. “Maybe this’ll cheer ya up,” She chortled.

  It was the business section of today’s Los Angeles Times. Cindy waddled off.

  “Thanks,” Ishue said, leafing into the section until she found where Cindy had circled a story in yellow highlighter. It was a one-column ten-incher with the head: “Med-Tech Firm to Probe Manzanita Hospital Accident.”

  “We got beat,” Ishue said out loud. She read on:

  Austin, Texas. AP. – A major MRI equipment manufacturer announced Wednesday that it has hired an independent team of scientists to investigate last Sunday’s fatal hospital accident.

  “We need to know exactly what happened in that clinic,” said CEO James Gyttings of Austin-based Gyttings-Lindstrom Inc., maker of the Magnetic Resonance Imaging machine, which allegedly exploded earlier this month in Manzanita, California, killing one patient and seriously injuring a technician.

  Company officials don’t believe their machine caused the accident. “We have preliminary evidence that our unit did not explode,” Gyttings said. “We felt it was in the public’s best interest to find independent scientists who will get to the truth as soon as possible,” he said.

  Gyttings said he hoped the flawless safety record of MRI technology would head off talk of a ban on MRI machines. A federal safety investigation could take years before exonerating MRI, he said, thus depriving medical professionals of one of their safest and most widely used diagnostic tools. “It’s fair to say hundreds, if not thousands of patients could die as a result of such a long-term ban,” Gyttings said.

  “Both the American Medical Association and the Surgeon General’s office have commended our decision to proceed with this investigation,” he said.

  Unlike other imaging technologies, MRI doesn’t use radioactive materials, Gyttings pointed out. “It’s still by far the safest and best way to diagnose many diseases and conditions,” he said.

  Gyttings made the announcement at the company’s sprawling campus in North Austin, accompanied by Dr. Gilbert Vrynos, selected to head the investigation. Vrynos, 44, is a former biology professor and now on temporary loan from URI Foods Inc., where he is head of research.

  “I have assurances from Gyttings-Lindstrom management that they will in no way attempt to influence our findings,” Vrynos said.

  Vrynos said the investigation will begin immediately. “I’ve been given an open budget to proceed with all available speed,” he said.

  The research will be conducted at Superscan Technologies of Eugene, Oregon, a Gyttings-Lindstrom subsidiary, which specializes in research and development for high speed, real-time MRI, a company spokesperson said.

  A Surgeon General spokesperson said only that her office was aware of the plan and cautioned that Dr. Vrynos’ findings would need corroboration.

  Ishue immediately cleared her city council story and logged onto the Austin Herald website. The story there, though longer, added little of substance to the Associated Press story. But it did run an entirely different lead:

  “A research consultant for a local MRI manufacturer said Tuesday that patients should avoid MRI until a newly-appointed team of scientists can determine if it’s safe.

  “Hoping to absolve the embattled industry of blame for last week’s Manzanita hospital accident, Gyttings-Lindstrom Inc. hired consultant, Dr. Gilbert Vrynos, noted…”

  Ishue’s eye was drawn to the accompanying photo: Gyttings and Vrynos standing at a podium outside the company’s main entrance. Behind Vrynos was a familiar face, partially visible, a woman Ishue had seen somewhere recently. Ishue isolated the face on her screen, enlarged it and ran an enhancement program. She printed an 8 by 11 and pinned it to her bulletin board beside her monitor.

  “How’s that city council story comin’,” Ed called out as he crossed the newsroom toward the John, magazine in hand.

  “Good!” Ishue called back.

  Now she Googled Vrynos and found an article from the American Biology Research Quarterly, an article written by Gilbert Vrynos, PhD, Professor of Biology, University of Akron, Ohio. “Tell me there’s two biologists in the US of A with a handle like Vrynos…” She muttered to herself as she scanned down the wordy piece to the little biography at the end. “Bingo! M.S., U.C. Davis. The Davis connection,” she announced.

  “What?” asked Benjamin Vilasik, the city reporter, from two desks away. He was used to her talking to herself and enjoyed calling her on it.

  “Oh,” she said, eyes downcast. “I’m…this PhD guy…oh nothing,” she added demurely.

  University of California, Davis graduate school records revealed that Vrynos had discharged a graduate assistantship with a professor named Dr. Markland Deverson.

  “Funny, that doesn’t look like a City Council story,” a voice came in from behind her. It was Ed. “I need that piece…” he said, distracted by something Vilasik was saying.

  Ishue tried Googling “Yolo County missing persons University of California, Davis.” The seventh hit came from Yolo County Sheriff’s Department Office of Records, dated nine years ago:

  Detective Sgt. Harold Evans, investigating.

  Subject: Dr. Markland Lionel Deverson, full professor, U.C.D.

  Determination: open, inactive

  Comments: subject is believed to have left country with a female accomplice. Or possibly perished in a fire at his private laboratory at above address. No evidence found.

  Recommendations: none

  “No evidence found,” Ishue said aloud. She switched back to her City Council story but could not stop staring at the picture of the mystery woman next to her monitor. Yes! At the hospital, last week! Ishue had seen this woman talking with Clyde Matthews, a Manzanita Hospital administrator. Within a few minutes Ishue had Matthews on the phone.

  “Tuesday, Clyde. Attractive, slender woman. Early thirties. Tallish, dirty blonde, probably wearing an expensive business suit?”

  “Sure…Yeah,” Matthews said dreamily. “Yeah. She was a looker.”

  “What was her name, Clyde?” Ishue said impatiently.

  “Sara…she said her name was. A very dignified lady. A reporter.”

  “Sara what and what paper?”

  “Gosh, Ilene. I don’t know. I don’t think she said.
”

  Ishue called the AP Los Angeles Bureau. No Saras there. Then she tried the Austin AP bureau. A reporter there said they had a Sara Smith who hadn’t left the Austin area for six years. Next she called the Austin Herald newsroom. No Saras there either. She then tried all local news-gathering organizations that at least occasionally operated in the Manzanita area. The LA Times had a Sara McKnight who was out on a story, but another reporter described her as mid-twenties, short, brunette and “kinda overweight.”

  Ishue tried to relax in her chair, her stomach still churning. “Maybe it’s the stomach flu,” she said, clutching at her midsection.

  “The what?” Vilasik asked with a grin

  Ishue ignored him “Okay, Sara,” she whispered. “Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my town?”

  “Of course Gyttings-Lindstrom would have sent somebody out here to collect data,” Ed said, downplaying the significance of the mysterious Sara. “And if I had a nickel for every time a private dick impersonated a reporter, I’d be living on my own Greek Island by now.” Then, after a pensive moment, added: “And don’t think for a moment I wouldn’t be.” He let out three-syllables-worth of the piercing, forced laugh that had become his trademark.

  “But Ed,” Ishue said with a wince, “doesn’t this suggests an impropriety here…this so-called independent investigation of the accident?”

  “No,” he said thoughtfully. Then he repeated it: “No. The mere fact that the company is paying for the investigation suggests more impropriety than the appearance of this woman here in Manzanita.” Ed smiled as he stared at the hard-copy picture Ishue had provided. “Nice-looking woman though.” He laughed again, a single yelp.

  “She seems to have that effect on men,” Ishue mumbled with a mixture of disgust and jealousy. “Alright, Ed, maybe it’s nothing, but it’s a lead. Shouldn’t we pursue it.”

  “And send you to Austin to relentlessly track her down…”

  Ishue shook her head. “I don’t think we’ll find her there. My money says she’s in Eugene with Vrynos. “If I take the company car I can stop in Davis and do some background digging.”

  “From the look of you, honey, I’d be more inclined to send you home to bed than on a multi-state spending spree. Haven’t you been sleeping?”

  Multi-state spending spree? “I’m fine, Ed. I just don’t think we should drop this.”

  “Tell you what. Work on it from here. Call Gyttings Lindstrom. Find out who she is, get her on the phone, get the facts, then get back to me. Fair enough?”

  Not really. She wanted to tell him where the lead came from…Claire’s dream about a guy with UCD on his coat pocket. Ed’s more likely to believe I got it from the tooth fairy.

  Day 11

  Wednesday

  Manzanita, California

  Ishue got to her desk early, before dawn, the first one in except for the cleaning crew. She hadn’t gotten much sleep, wracked as she was by this newfound, gnawing anxiety. She knew a visit to her doctor would only generate a prescription for tranquilizers, and she didn’t want to be tranquilized. She was normally a calm person. Relaxation came easy to her. What was going on?

  Was it a sense that she’d stumbled upon the story of a lifetime? Was this her subconscious mind telling her: Don’t doze off during this one! Maybe it had something to do with Claire’s house, or being near the site of the Manzanita Hospital explosion so soon after the incident. Like some kind of radiation thing. Regardless, this was her story and she had no intention of falling behind.

  That meant getting up there to Eugene, to that newly-acquired research facility owned by Gyttings-Lindstrom called Superscan, where they did ‘functional’ MRI research. It was the site chosen for a series of “simulations,” as Dr. Vrynos had termed it in the press packet. Ishue had already done the phone work, calls to Vrynos, Gyttings and a half-dozen other execs she’d hunted down. Calls to homes, calls to cells, faxes and e-mails. Leaving messages everywhere. She’d found nine phone lines into Superscan and fourteen lines into the company’s press relations department in Austin. Left messages on every one of them. In desperation she’d started calling Gyttings-Lindstrom-owned satellite plants and finally reached a real person, a PR secretary at Magnetechnics, a magnet-winding facility in Boise, Idaho, who told her the Eugene plant was being mobbed by reporters, their phoneline circuits busy for hours on end. Really! It was clear: No one was going to get this story over the phone!

  If she lost another day or two trying – and surely failing - to get information, she would be aced out, left behind, left for dead. A dead duck. It had always been her prime tenant that the journalist at the right place at the right time would become the chosen one, would have greatness bestowed upon her, would bag the Pulitzer. It had little or nothing to do with skill, experience, ability, intelligence or talent; a comforting thought for a modest reporter who fancied herself having only mediocre amounts of each.

  Her plan was to get to work super early and prepare a presentation that would thoroughly bowl Ed right off his short little legs, at 9:00 a.m., the moment he came in the door. Then Ed would beg her on hands and knees to please, please be the paper’s correspondent in Eugene. The action was moving on and she was determined to move on with it.

  Was there any reason to stay? She wasn’t worried about other papers latching onto Claire McCormack. According to Bernie, Claire had gone out of town (she would not say where), so it wasn’t likely any reporters would be interviewing Claire anytime soon.

  The previous evening she’d spoken with a realtor named Thornton, who said he’d shown Claire’s house several times already and had not noticed anything unusual about the place.

  Mortified, she’d asked the question again: “But didn’t you see or hear or feel anything out of the ordinary, anything strange.”

  “Strange?” Thornton had said. “Not at all. In fact, I believe we already have an offer coming in.” At that moment Ishue had decided to keep her experience in Claire’s house to herself. No one believed her anyway. In fact, the passage of time was eroding her own confidence in what she thought had happened there. Could it have been a dream, or maybe the chopped liver and onions she’d had for lunch that day?

  Any other reason to stay in Manzanita? Ian Nigel. If he came out of the coma, and if she could get her hands on him, that would be an important interview. But that was two big ifs; lousy odds. No. It’s time to go!

  For now she would settle onto the Internet, Googling everything she could think of. And make some calls to Washington and New York, where it was 9 a.m., and Austin, where it was 8. Try and collect some missing data before Ed came in.

  Ed had already decided to send someone to Eugene. It was the logical extension of the story that had started here, in Manzanita. The paper rarely paid to send anyone out of town, a subject of much whining around the office. Senior city reporter Vilasik would expect the assignment.

  But it was Ishue’s story. She’d done the breaker, as well as most of the sidebars and follows. And they were Ishue’s leads. Especially this stuff about Deverson, whose research - not to mention disappearance - might have forewarned, even prevented the Manzanita Hospital accident. This was good work…pure beef!

  So when Ishue walked into his office, bags packed, ready to roll, how could he refuse? He gave her the car keys, the credit card and the little satchel with the digital camera, laptop and cellphone in it, and she gave him a kiss on the cheek, awkwardly, her wire-frame glasses snagging his ear. “You won’t be sorry,” she said, and as he watched the dowdy reporter stumping off toward the parking lot, he felt a powerful wave of fatherly affection wash over him; affection for her, and for all the less-than-beautiful girls in the world who had a right to be here too, had a right to pursue their dreams too.

  “I’m sure I won’t,” he said as the brown Ford Fusion maneuvered cautiously out the driveway.

  Day 10

  Thursday

  Sommers, California

  She was Crane Song’s only patron, si
tting alone in the dining room enjoying a deliciously rich breakfast of poached eggs and red potatoes drowned in Hollandaise with fresh butter croissants on the side, when a FedEx courier interrupted her with an envelope. She poured herself another cup of coffee and perused the contents: a half-dozen flawless counterfeit identification papers from the Gyttings-Lindstrom document production department in Austin. And a note from Gill: “Sara – attached is a picture of the real Bernice. Good luck. You’ll need it.” The girl in the picture was wearing loose-fitting military fatigues, a stocky, powerful woman, round face and jowls, short boy haircut, a scowl. Sara’s antithesis.

  She drove across town past the Westend Sanitarium main gate and onto a dirt road, which led around the north side of the chain-link-fenced property. She wanted a feel for the place before going in. She was struck by its classy - yet understated elegance; its white, scallop-sided cottages, meandering gardens, extensive lakefront complete with noisy ducks - more like a resort or high-end retirement home than loony bin. At least the ingrate daughters hadn’t dumped her into some low-rent shithole.

  She returned to the unmanned front gate and rang the buzzer where she was asked to hold up two forms of picture ID in front of a camera. She did and the gate opened. The quarter-mile driveway circled in front of a wide porte-cochere. Beyond, double glass doors lead into the spacious lobby where she found two security guards drinking coffee at the reception desk. She handed the older of the guards her driver’s license. The younger guard, barely out of high school, did not hide his attraction to this lovely older woman, the generous and proportionately perfect curve of her hips accentuated by tight blue jeans.