In Plain View

by J. Wachowski

  “Good afternoon,” I called. “We’re looking for Mr. Jost.”

  The girl took a half step back, into the shadow of the doorway, her long dress and hat cloaking everything but her face and the silver pail she carried in front of her. I knew her face. It was the girl I’d seen hiding in the bushes.

  “Hello, again.” I tried a smile.

  She remembered my face as well. From her expression, I’d say she considered me unpredictable and potentially disease carrying. “Who are you? Police?”

  “No. I’m Maddy O’Hara. We’re from WWST, the television station. Do you watch television?”

  She shook her head vigorously.

  “Is Mr. Jost around?”

  “I’m here,” a man called from the doorway of the barn. He was dressed in the Amish uniform with suspenders to hold up his pants and a straw hat. Together with the wiry, gray beard covering the lower half of his face, he also resembled someone lifted from the pages of a Grimm’s fairy tale. Another much younger man, his whiskers still black, appeared in the doorway behind Jost. On the porch, two women stepped through the front door. A small girl-child peeped curiously from between the folds of their long skirts. Another face appeared in the upstairs window. People seemed to appear from thin air, all eyes on Ainsley and me.

  “Good afternoon, sir. I’m Maddy O’Hara with WWST. I know this must be a difficult time for your family. I’d like to ask you about your son Tom.”

  “I have no son. You don’t belong here. Please, you will leave.”

  “We were told Tom Jost was your adopted son. Mr. Lowe spoke very kindly of the way you took the boy in.”

  Jost’s face shifted from blank to grim. “Lowe is a good man. He’d be a better one with his mouth shut.”

  “So Tom wasn’t your son?”

  “Go away.”

  “Father?” the girl called out from the shadowy doorway, her voice high and thin with concern. Inside the shed, a commotion of clucks and caws erupted. She was standing in a chicken coop; I’d never seen one before.

  “No, Rachel. Not now.” Jost turned his back and shuffled out of sight, back into the barn.

  I thought about following him but the crowd of onlookers was not encouraging. I nodded at them, and signaled a retreat to Ainsley. The men went back into the barn, the women into the house.

  We had almost made it back to the truck, when I heard the fast crunching sound of feet behind me.

  Rachel ran toward us, bucket swinging in her hand to the rhythm of her stride. When I turned, she stopped short, as if afraid to approach too closely.

  “You said…‘this must be a difficult time.’” In the sunlight, her eyes seemed endlessly dark against her pale face. “You said… ‘was.’”

  I’ve known since I was a kid, I was born to play messenger. It’s the kind of calling that makes you tough, fast. Everybody knows it can get you killed. Not everybody knows it kills you pieces at a time. Still, I have to look them in the eye.

  “Tom Jost is dead,” I told her.

  The pail in her hand dropped. Seed spilled everywhere.

  Rachel backed away from me before she turned and ran.

  “We should go,” Ainsley called softly.

  I watched her run toward the barn, toward her father. It was hard to make myself move.

  Ainsley started back to the truck. I walked the other way. Righting the girl’s pail, I tried to scoop the fallen seed back inside. I took out one of my freelance cards and scribbled my new home phone number on the back with the words I’m sorry. Call me if you want to know more and stuck it straight up in the chicken feed.

  2:21:56 p.m.

  “What a bust,” I groaned. “Let’s try the phone-listed Tom Josts again. Even if they aren’t home we could do a drive by.”

  “I thought we did pretty well,” Ainsley said.

  “You need to set your standards a little higher than thirty seconds of establishing shot, College.”

  “No, really. Amish don’t allow photography. I’m surprised we got all the way up the driveway with the cameras at all.”

  “What do you mean they don’t allow photography? I’ve seen coffee-table books on Amish, College. They must allow some pictures.”

  “No, really. It’s against their religion. Those rules they follow, you know. Ordnung? They told us this in school. People can take pictures from far away and stuff, but never of their faces.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  Ainsley shrugged. Inconsistency didn’t bother him much.

  “Amish living isn’t on the curriculum where I grew up,” I told him. “Give me the Cliff Notes version.”

  “Ordnung is their law. Each community has their own. Some are really strict, some not so bad. The one near here is known for being pretty progressive-they’ve got those phone booths Mr. Lowe mentioned, and kerosene fridges. Some even have electricity for the dairy barns, I think. Not in the houses though.”

  “I thought they couldn’t use electricity at all.”

  “There was some accident, years ago. Somebody died in a fire. Things changed after that, to make the barns safer. There was a big story about it in the newspaper when I was in high school.”

  “Nothing like death to effect a little change,” I mumbled. “I’d like to read that article. Let’s pull everything we can on the local Amish. Which of those characters back at the station works the library?”

  “Mick.”

  “‘Quit-Slamming-the Fucking-Doors’ Mick?”

  “That’s him.”

  The charming ones always end up alone in the stacks. Coincidence?

  “Right, I’ll talk to Mick. You google the periodicals. I want copies of anything on the local Amish community. Check local weeklies, magazines and the Clarion as well. Which reminds me…” I checked my watch to confirm. “Time to call Melton.”

  “We’re here.” Ainsley pointed out the window. “This is the only address that’s an apartment building. I thought we should try it first.”

  “Good idea.” I checked my list again. “How did you know? There’s no apartment number noted.”

  “I’ve lived in this county my whole life, remember?”

  The address took us to an ugly prefab apartment building at the end of a cul-de-sac. It was two-stories high, not a single open window and surrounded by a scruffy vacant lot. At the back of the building, you could just make out a set of railroad tracks that cut toward the city. We parked in the front lot alongside a convention of rusty muscle cars.

  The bumper stickers on the car we’d parked behind said, “You’ll Get My Gun When You Pry It Out of My Cold, Dead Hand” and “I Can Be One of Those Bad Things That Happen to Bad People.”

  Definitely the kind of place that could accommodate a suicidal depressive.

  “Let’s check it out,” I said. I didn’t sound thrilled.

  “Camera?” he asked. He didn’t either.

  “Find out if it’s the right address first.”

  “Good idea.”

  There was a sidelight window beside the steel security door entrance with the sign Attack Dog on Premises prominently posted. We stood out front for a while buzzing the bell; nobody came.

  A young guy in a cloth coat and a Grateful Dead T-shirt came flying out and Ainsley grabbed the door. The kid never looked back. I walked in. Ainsley followed.

  The buzzer label and a pile of junk mail helped me figure out which apartment was Tom’s. Ground floor. Right in the middle. Worst spot in the place. Rent must have been nothing. I rang the bell. Twice.

  “If the guy’s dead, he’s not going to be answering the door anytime soon,” whispers Ainsley Wiseguy Prescott.

  “Yeah, well, I don’t want any nasty shocks when I peep in the windows.”

  “There are no windows,” Ainsley said, inspecting the dim, grungy hallway.

  “Not in here anyway.” I waggled my eyebrows at him.

  Ainsley stared back, computing that thought.

  “See if anyone else is home.” I pointed to the
other doors on my way out. “Ask if they knew Tom. Tell them we’ll put ’em on TV if they talk to us.”

  Knowing which apartment was the mysterious Mr. Jost’s, I was able to tromp around the outside of the building and find his window. There was nothing to see through the small frosted-glass rectangle that I was guessing looked into the bathroom, but there was a sliding patio door. Luckily, the curtains weren’t quite closed. I cupped my hands around my eyes and pressed them to the glass to cut the glare. It was strangely quiet out there and the act of peeping in on someone else fired up the prickle of my guilt-o-meter.

  Feet came crunching through the grass.

  I jumped back from the window, heart pounding. This place made me more nervous than it should have.

  “Strike out,” Ainsley called in his version of a stage whisper. “The super is only around in the evenings, according to the neighbor. What are you doing?”

  “Looking.”

  “Looking for what?”

  “Don’t know until I see it.”

  Ainsley came alongside me to look.

  Tom Jost kept a simple studio apartment, furnished in late-century garage sale-one folding chair, one Formica table, one lumpy recliner. The place was damn tidy. His small single bed was made up with brown blankets and military care. White walls. No posters. No art. The only personal item I could see was a photo of a couple in a paper frame, the kind you pay five bucks for after you get off a ride at the fair. I’d seen several of Jenny and her mother around the house.

  “Go get my camera case from the van, would you?”

  “Would that be legal?”

  “Not for pictures, Mr. Worrywart. I want the telephoto.”

  It worked better than I expected. With my camera against the door and a polarizing filter, I could read the faces in Tom’s photo. It took a second before I recognized her. Fairy-tale Rachel looked quite a bit different wearing modern dress with her hair down.

  “Got him. This is our Tom, all right.”

  “Are you done yet?” Ainsley was doing the college boy’s version of furtive: hands sunk deep in his pockets, head bobbing, c’mon, c’mon, c’mon as he glanced back and forth. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Wait. Yes!”

  “What?” Ainsley tried to peek around my shoulder.

  Tom had hung a bag of dry cleaning from the top of a door. Focusing on the suit, I caught a glimpse of the patches on what seemed to be a uniform. “Our boy was a public servant.”

  “Police?”

  “Nope. Firefighter.”

  “So those guys at the tree yesterday…”

  “Knew him.” Some instinct told me to scan the surroundings again. That crawly feeling someone was watching tiptoed up my spine. “Farmer Lowe hinted as much. Good news for us, College.”

  “What?”

  A shadow passed in front of the super’s apartment window. I gave Ainsley a happy, distracting shot to the biceps, urging him to walk toward the van. “It means he’s got a decent head-shot on record somewhere.”

  “Right! But how do we get it?”

  We climbed in the van and I used my elbow to casually trigger the automatic locks. “I’ll bet my new best friend at the Clarion might be able to help. Mr. Melton Shotter.”

  Ainsley’s face bloomed with relief as he started the engine. “Can you call from the van? There’s a DQ right around the corner and I’m dying for lunch.”

  “I watched you eat three bagels in the staff meeting.”

  “They were minis,” he said indignantly.

  “Fine. You eat; I’ll call.” Oh, to live the metabolism of a college kid again. I watched the building as we pulled out. Even though I couldn’t see them, I was sure someone was watching. “Get us out of here.”

  “With pleasure.”

  By the time Ainsley’d scored his Dairy Queen happy meal-with a large diet pop for me-we were miles from Tom Jost’s place and I was deep into the newspaper’s phone system trying to hook up with a real, live Melton.

  “Clarion. Metro desk.”

  “Melton, my friend. You rolled over on me.”

  “Umm…who is this?”

  “You’re funny.” My day had not been very productive so far. Easy enough to punch a little Irish temper into the words. “This is Maddy O’Hara, Melton. Sheriff Curzon was at the station before I was this morning.”

  “Uh-sorry about that.”

  “What’d you do, draw him a map after you gave him my name? Whatever happened to protecting a source, Melton?”

  “I figured you, well-” He squirmed. “I’m sorry, all right?”

  “Yeah sure, because I got a great idea how you can make it up to me, Melton. I need some research help.”

  “What kind of research?”

  “Easy stuff. Everything you can find on a guy named Tom Jost-where he went to high school, adoption records, if he had a girlfriend, what he did on weekends besides whack off-”

  Ainsley coughed his chocolate shake all over the steering wheel.

  “It’s that dead Mennonite!” Melton’s lightbulb blinked on. “You got an ID?”

  “Maybe. We think the guy was a public servant, a firefighter.”

  “No way,” he said with glee. Salacious mysteries are meat and potatoes to reporters. “Where? What town?”

  “Not sure. His apartment’s in Warrenville. One thing, Melton, everything stays out of the paper until after I air on Wednesday.” I heard a grumble. “Did I mention there’s a possibility of credit in this for you? National, on-air credit. ‘Research by.’ Look mighty sweet on your resume. Not that you deserve it after ratting me out to Curzon like that.”

  “All right,” he whined. “Fine. I’ll try.”

  “Great. Tomorrow morning good for you?”

  “Jee-zus. Tomorrow? Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

  “Don’t go getting religious on me yet, Melton. The fun’s just getting started.”

  We agreed on an early afternoon deadline before he hung up.

  Things were getting done. I was feeling good. “Next item on the agenda: expert head.”

  “Whaaat?”

  Without looking up from my notes, I continued, “Get your mind out of the gutter, College. We need a specialist. A doctor. A psychologist. Someone we can get to say ‘autoerotic asphyxiation’ fast enough to work into a ten-second promo head-shot. That’s an expert head.”

  “Right.” He sounded embarrassed.

  The parking lot of the DQ was filling up. A couple of teenagers in a rusty Volvo circled for the third time, hungry for our parking place.

  “Use your phone. Try the biggest hospital in the area. I’ll try the community college.”

  Ainsley took his phone in one hand, chocolate shake in the other, and bounced his thigh against the steering wheel to the beat of oldies rock, while I entered my own phone purgatory. Pressing. Holding. Pressing. With my free hand, I dug through both gear bags and realized I was low on important stuff.

  “You got any aspirin?” I asked.

  College nodded toward the glove compartment. “We’ve got our choice,” he reported between phone-mail-to-live-human maneuvering. “Do we want an expert on suicide, an expert on sexual deviance or someone who studies Amish psychology?”

  No question. “Sexual deviance.”

  “Okay.” More conferring, then he says, “Guy’s out of town and won’t be back for a week.”

  “Suicide?” I asked, hopefully.

  “…Uh, that guy can only be reached on Mondays and Wednesdays. But she’d be happy to leave a message with the service,” Ainsley added.

  “Shit.” No matter how much I tried to turn this into something that would look like ratings-happy TV, it seemed the Amish were my destiny. The sad thing was I found it pretty intriguing. “Amish psychology is our winner. But ask her to leave a message for the suicide guy, to be safe.”

  After three and a half more minutes of listening to him try to pin down an appointment, I held out my hand. “Gimme the phone.”

  “Wh
at?” he complained. “She keeps asking me to wait.”

  The standard whiney operator came on the line. “Who you holding for?”

  “This is Maddy O’Hara from WWST and I’m trying to reach the doctor for a television news interview.”

  “An interview? On TV?”

  “That’s right. We’d like to use the doctor in an investigative report we’re doing on a local public suicide.” I hit that detail hard. Nothing wins over a gatekeeper like a juicy nugget of gossip. “Unfortunately, I’m having trouble getting through to someone who can schedule us. Can you help?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry you’ve had to wait. Hold just a moment.”

  I had the doc on the line in under sixty and we were cleared to interview in less than that. Ainsley shook his head slowly, part admiration, part disgust.

  “Dues you must pay,” I intoned in my best Yoda imitation. “Eat much shit, then you, too, can use the force over secretaries. Let’s go.”

  3:09:13 p.m.

  We followed a major strip-mall route all the way to the western edge of the universe where the county hospital barely held the line on civilization. From what I’d heard, this hospital served a clientele that included everything from the average yuppie heart attack to the pavement drunk with a tire-track headache.

  My sister worked there for years before she died. There.

  I’m not fond of hospitals.

  “Your aspirin bottle is empty, College.”

  “It’s not mine. Somebody left it in there.”

  “Right. Add this to your critical equipment list. Pain reliever-we don’t leave home without it. We should be stocking ibuprofen, extra-strength Tylenol and Tums, oh and breath mints-in the glove compartment. Got it?”

  “Why?”

  That got a laugh. I hope that’s why he asked.

  It took us as long to park the van and wind our way through the Escher-like interior of the hospital as it had to drive to the edge of the county. Of course, I had no reason to complain. Ainsley did all the hauling. Our doctor’s office was tucked in a dead-end hallway. There were plastic chairs along the wall, a small side table and eight copies of the same 1998 issue of Prevention magazine, all labeled Do Not Remove.