“That enters into it,” Dr. Granberry said. “Besides problems within the family, many teenagers today have serious problems in their relationships with each other. For example, early sexual involvement, with a subsequent break-up of the relationship, often causes pain these kids don't know how to handle.”
“Like the two students in our area who committed suicide last May.”
“Exactly, and unfortunately around our nation we are experiencing what is called the copycat syndrome, meaning that a young person who is depressed commits suicide because others have. This could very well be the case with the promising student in Farriagton Park who ended his life last week,”
Marti clutched the edge of the table and moaned-Nothing she had told him about Barry had made any difference. Nothing.
Dr. Emery suddenly leaned forward, injecting himself into the conversation. “I think that Dr. Granberryis ignoring something we must be well aware of, which is that many of the problems that lead to suieidf are self-induced. Many young people who have committed suicidehave beenhabitual drug or alcohol abusers. And some of the music they listen to—at hasto be a dangerous influence.”
“Dr. Emery, I was just about to ask you to tell us about your crusade against some of the hard-rock and heavy-metal groups,” Dillis said smoothly. She looked into the camera. “Dr. Emery and I have been friends for years. In feet, he was my own minister before he was stolen away by Farrington Park, and I'm so in awe of the total devotion he's giving to his crusade.”
“The lyrics to some of the popular songs contain words and ideas of explicit sex—even sexual violence—r of horror, of despair,” Dr. Emery said. “Again, the lyrics cause a terrible feeling of hopelessnees.” The song Sudden Death’ by the group called Flesh is a definite invitation to suicide. Parents who haven't listened to the, words of the latest popular songs can't imagine how horrible many of them are and what an evil influence they can have on their children.”
In his intensity, Dr. Emery ran Ms hands through his white hair. A cowlick sprang tip at the back of his head, and a thick lock of hair fell over one eye. He cleared his throat and added, “Barry Logan is an example of what that kind of music can do to destroy a fine young mind and end a promising young life.”
“Surely you aren't suggesting out-and-out censorship?” Dr. Granberryasked, and the television conversation shifted.
Marti rested her head on her arms and closed her eyes. Both these men had strong points they wanted to make, and both of them were using Barry as an example. A copycat suicide? Under the influence of Flesh? Not Barry. How could she make them listen to reason?
She sat up, turning her attention again to the program after she realized that a boy was now speaking on the station's telephone hook-up:“, … but, like, most of the time, you know, you can't talk to your parents.”
“Don't you think your father could find a few minutes to spend with you so you could talk things over?” Dr. Emery asked.
The telephone caller answered, “My Dad lives in Oregon with his second family. I haven't seen him for over a year.”
Dillis leaned forward, as though the boy were in the room. “What about your mother? Do you live with your mother?”
“Yeah, but she's usually at work, you know, or out somewhere with the guy she's dating.”
“Talk to your school counselor,” Dr. Granberry said.
“Or to your minister,” Dr. Emery quickly added. “Talk to someone.”
“I'm going to give you a number. We'll put it on the screen right above our call-in number,” Dillis said. On the screen appeared (713) 228-1505.“It's the number of the Houston Crisis Hotline. Someone's there twenty-four hours a day, so-write it down and use it if you need it If you need them now, call them. Someone will help you.”
“I'm okay,” the boy said. “I just, you know, wanted to say something about, you know, talking to parents.”
“Thank you for calling,” Dillis said. There was an audible click and she shifted position, asking Dr. Granberry, “How about Barry Logan? Do you know if he tried to talk to anyone about his problems?”
“Apparently not,” Dr. Granberry said. Dr. Emery added, “His parents are concerned that Barry may have exhibited signs of depression, and they didn't pick up on them.”
Dillis Jansen apparently received a signal, because she said, “We have another caller now. Hello? You're on the air.”
A woman said. “I want to ask Dr. Emery if he's seen that riusician, Ozzy … uh … whoever. I forget his name, the one who did that song “Suicide Solution” and has that picture of the gun pointing at his head? I mean that's just what Dr. Emery's talking about, and the minute I laid eyes on it, I took it away from my daughter, and—”
With shaking fingers Marti copied the call-in telephone number from the screen, walked to the kitchen phone, and dialed it. The voice that answered took her name, told her there were only two callers ahead of her, and asked her to be sure to turn down the sound on her set as soon as her call was put through. Marti turned the sound low immediately and leaned against the sounter. where die could see the television set. The telephone receiver was damp in her clammy hands, and her stomach hurt.
They were on another call now. discussing warning signs with the man who'd phoned in. Marti cleared her throat a couple of times. She wondered if she would be able to talk when her turn came. She was tempted to hang up.
“So we agree,” Dillis said, “it's up to parents, counselors, clergy—responsible adults who can recognize signs in troubled teenagers.”
The click came and Dillis said, “Hello? Hello?” After a pause she said, “That caller changed his mind. We'll take the next in line.” Marti jumped as she heard in her ear “Hello? It's your turn. Do you have a question?”
“Yes,” Marti said. “That is, it's not a question. It's just something I want to say.” Her voice was rough, so she cleared her throat and began again. “I don't agree with some of the things that were said, like responsible adults looking for warning signs.”
She could see the three people on television sitting at attention, waiting for her to continue. Dr. Emery's head was cocked and he looked a little puzzled, as though he were trying to place her voice. Marti took a deep breath and went on. “I know the warning signs are important, and I think everybody needs to know them to look for them—especially kids,” she said. “Kids are more likely to talk about their problems with their friends. A lot of the parents I know are busy all the time. I guess they worry about their children, but they don't talk to them much. About important things, I mean. Kids are the ones who really know one another and know if a friend is having real problems.”
She paused and Dillis Jansen said, “That's an interesting point. Our caller is saying that the responsibility of looking for warning signs should be taken by the teenagers themselves. Would either of you gentlemen like to comment on this?”
“Wait!” Marti said. “I'm not through. That was just the first part., The rest is that Barry Logan was my friend. If Barry had thought about committing suicide, I would have known it. And he hadn't. He was happy. He'd just been accepted by A & M, and he was planning for the future. He didn't kill himself!”
She realized her voice had risen, so she tried to lower it to a conversational tone. “Dr. Emery and Dr. Granberry—I don't think you realize what you're doing, You're both trying to do something helpful, but you're using Barry's death for your own purposes, so you don't want to recognize that he didn't kill himself. He—”
Dillis Jansen had turned to the others and was talking. Marti had been cut off.
Aching with frustration, Marti hung up the phone and raised the sound of the television set to a normal tone. Didn't they realize how hard it had been to make the call? Didn't they want to hear the truth?
Dr. Emery looked distressed and was running his fingers through his hair again, but Dr. Granberry had what could pass for a sympathetic smile on his face. “… the denial phase,” he was saying. “To a point it can be considered nor
mal. Her school counselor is aware of her problem.”
Muttering under her breath, Marti jabbed the Off button on the television set.
The phone rang, and she answered it. “Nice going, Marti,” the voice whispered.
CHAPTER • 13
“Who are you?” Marti demanded, but the person who had made the call had hung up.
Same voice. Same person who had called when she'd been listening to Dr. Emery once before.
Marti slammed down the phone, angry and embarrassed. Anyone who knew the strength of her feelings would have had no trouble guessing her identity after what she had said on the call-in show. Dillis Jansen had cut her off, and Dr. Granberry had attributed her statements to “problems.” And now this creep had put its two cents in!
“Marti?” her iriother smd from the doorway. “Aren't you about ready to come to bed? I know that tomorrow's Saturday, but you've had a long, busy day.”
“Okay,” Marti answered. Hurt and discouraged, she slammed her books together, snatched them up, and followed her parents up the stairs and to bed.
She lay in the dark for a long time, unable to sleep, thinking of Barry, remembering the sound of his voice, of his laughter. She could still hear him below her bedroom window, calling out, Hey, Marti! Get up! Come on out!
Marti gasped, tensing, waiting, holding her breath. The voice seemed so real! Barry? In the silent dark she realized that the voice had been only inside her mind, a remnant of memory that had managed to escape. She burrowed into her pillow, trying to smother the pain, to think of something else. How will I ever be able to sleep?she wondered.
When the telephone woke her and she fumbled for it, Marti was surprised to find herself squinting into bright sunlight. She mumbled something, and heard Karen say, “I'm sorry. I woke you, didn't I? I thought you'd be up by now.”
Marti struggled to a sitting position. “What time is it?”
“Close to ten. Want to go back to sleep, or do you want to hear the results I got from Latent Prints?”
“I want to hear,” Marti said. “What's Latent Prints?”
“The department that works to identify fingerprints, in this case the ones we took in Barry's room—specifically on his photo album.”
Marti was wide awake by this time. “Go on.”
“We got some good, clear prints, but nothing we can go forward on at this point. Some of the prints are Barry's; one thumbprint was his father's. But there are others that were either too smeared to be any good or were made by people who had never had their fingerprints taken. Probably his mother's prints. Maybe a friend's.”
“Or maybe the murderer's!” Marti paused. “Why could they identify Bariy's father's prints on the album, and not his mothers?”
“Because his father had probably served in one of the armed forces at some time in his life and had been fingerprinted, so those prints would be on file. There may have been no reason at any time for his mother to have been fingerprinted.”
“How about Thad?” Marti asked.
“Thad would have been fingerprinted,”
“Were his prtats on thS album?”
“None that we could find. But that's not conclusive. Remember, I told you there were a few prints that had been smeared.”
“So Thad could have held the album,.”
“We have no proof one way or the others
“Proof! Everybody keeps talking about proof!”
“That's what it takes to make a case,” Karen said. “You know that.”
“Yes, I do. I just wish this were easier to work out.” Marti sighed. “So the fingerprints you got aren't any help at all.”
“They cotfld be,” Karen said, “if we had a suspect and his prints matched those on the album.”
“But not if the suspect is had.”
“Speaking of Thad,” Karen said, “his relatives weren't the only ones who confirmed his alibi. He also met with his probation officer in Austin, so it looks as though he'sto the clear.”
Marti drew her knees up under the blanket and rested her chin on them while she thought. “How long would it take to drive from Austin to Farrington Park?”
“Roughly three hours. Maybe a little less. Why?”
“He could have sneaked out when his family thought he was asleep; He wouldn't have been under their noses every minute. And Thad's probation officer wouldn't have known he was out of town, either.”
There was silence for a moment, until Karen said, “That's a pretty farfetched idea, Marti.”
“But it's a possibility, isn't it? Think about it!”
“I'll let you get back to sleep,” Karen said. “I'm going to be off until Monday. I'll check back with you then.”
“Okay.”
“Try to relax. Have a good weekend.”
“You too.” Marti paused. “What's his name?”
“Who?”
“Your former partner. You're going to see him, aren't you?”
“Yes, I am. His name is Greg Quinn. Satisfied?” Marti opened her mouth to ask another question, but Karen was too quick. “You'd better be,” she said, a smile in her voice, “because that's all the information you're going to get.”
“For now,” Marti said.
Karen laughed. “I'll talk to you Monday.”
Saturday was relatively quiet. Kim came over, and they did their nails and talked about Kim's Friday-night date, which had turned out to be a disaster. Before long, Marti found herself laughing and gossiping and giggling as though she had left an older, more tired shell of herself curled in a corner; and it wasn't until Kim went home that evening that Marti slipped back into her harder skin, wrapping it snugly around herself, allowing pain to seal up all the cracks.
On Sunday, Dr. Emery—after a sympathetic glance at Marti—explained to his congregation about the work that would demand every minute of his spare time— the tremendous task of trying to alert adults to the explicitness of violence and sex in much of the rock music their children were listening to—and he earnestly begged for the assistance of each and every member of his congregation. After the service people crowded around him, shocked by some of the statistics and examples he had given them, and eager to help by signing either a petition or a check.
But Dr. Emery managed to work his way through to Marti, and he took her hand, his eyes searching hers. “How are you, Marti?” he asked.
“I'm fine now,” Marti answered calmly, her thoughts of Barry a buffer between Dr. Emery and herself.
“You do understand now what I'm trying to do?” he asked.
Marti wanted to answer, I understood all along. It's you who can't understand me. But she simply nodded, thankful when her parents inserted themselves into the conversation by praising Dr. Emery for the stand he was taking.
It was Sunday afternoon when a rich, deep voice on the telephone identified himself to Marti as Parker Grant, top anchorman on the weekly national TV news magazine Networking. “I'm sure you've seen the program?” he aisked with such arrogant certainty that Marti was tempted to fib and tell him that she never watched it.
But she answered politely and truthfully that her parents rarely missed his program. She was so familiar with his face that she could almost imagine his look of satisfaction.
“I'm planning a segment of my program to deal with the alarming rise in the number of teenage suicides, and I'll be filming in Farrington Park,” he said. “I've received the cooperation of your school-district administrators and I'll be interviewing both Dr. Clement Granberry and Dr. Jerome Emery, who are taking divergent but interesting views on how to handle the problem.”
Marti didn't answer.
After a long pause he asked, “Marti? Are you still there?”.
“Yes,” she said. “But I don't understand why you called me.”
“I wras listening to the local program produced by a Houston independent channel on Friday night. I talked about it later with Granberry, and he identified you as the caller who couldn't accept her friend's suicide. I'd l
ike to talk to you. Id like to interview you on tape and film.”
“Why?”
“Because you have a strong point of view. Right or wrong, your opinion would add a new dimension.”
Hope was like an explosion in her chest. For an instant it was hard to take a breath, and she felt a little dizzy. Carefully, Marti sought the right words. “Sometimes on your program your reporters investigate situations you think are wrong,” she said. “You say that you probe for the truth. Like when you exposed all the graft in that town inthe Midwest.”
“That's right.”
“Well, then, isthat what you plan to do? Will you try to find the proof that Barry was murdered?”
He cleared his throat, then said, “That wouldn't fit into the parameters on this one, Marti. We've mapped our direction, and we plan to deal with the background of suicide and what can be done to prevent it. Looking into an allegation of murder would be a side issue. It would detract from the whole picture. Do you see what I mean?”
“Yes,” Marti said, her throat so tight that it hurt.
“So suppose we make an appointment for an interview? What's a good time for you?”
“Never,”. Marti said. “I'm outside your parameters too.” She hung up the telephone.
He called an hour later and talked to her mother. “Marti,” she said when she found her in the kitchen, munching on an apple, “you'll never guess who is on the phone! Parker Grant! I'm so excited! We were actually having a conversation, and he sounds like such a nice person.”
She started, as though she had suddenly remembered his message. “He wants to interview you for national television. He wanted me to make the appointment, but I said I'd leave it up to you.”
“Did he tell you why he wants to interview me?” Marti asked.
“Just that they're going to do a program about teen suicides. Mr. Grant seems terribly concerned and hopes his program will help reduce the problem. Those were his exact words. He thinks you could talk about Barry, since the two of you were such close friends.”
Marti hated to erase the excitement on her mother's face, but she said, “Mom, on Friday night I was watching a TV interview show with Dillis Jansen and Dr. Emery and Dr. Granberry. They had a call-in period, so I ealted them and complained that both Dr. Emery and Dr. Oranberry were using Barry to suit their own purposes”
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