‘What about this place?’
‘The observatory? They don’t know what to do with it. Few years ago a fella came around, said he was interested in buying it, turning it into condos, which didn’t make sense to me, ’cause who’d want to live around here anyway? Whatever his deal was, he couldn’t come to terms with the university. See, when they built this place a hundred years ago, it was dark here at night, and this hill was a good spot to observe the stars. But then Calista grew around it, and that made for too much city light at night. So they took the big telescope out and shipped it to an observatory in Arizona, and now this place sits here rotting away, just like the cult house down the hill.’
As I drove off, I thought about some of the things he’d said. I had a hunch he knew who the woman was. His vague description of her didn’t fit with his self-assigned role as keen observer of local goings-on. Also, it would make sense for an absentee owner to hire the resident caretaker next door to keep an eye on the place and make exterior repairs as needed. But if that were true, why hadn’t Oscar owned up to it? On the other hand, why should he? He didn’t know me and had no reason to confide. He’d seemed chatty, but I had a feeling he’d told me only as much as he wanted to reveal.
I phoned Jason. He was excited by what I’d found out: that the house had a history, that serious stuff had gone down in there, that there’d been a cult and two girls from wealthy families had joined it, and that now, twenty-five years later, a middle-aged woman came around every so often to stare at the house from her car. But he got upset when I told him Oscar had night-vision equipment and had seen us go in.
‘Shit! Do you think he’ll report us?’
‘I don’t. He knows we didn’t vandalize or steal, so he doesn’t care.’
‘Still …’
‘It’s unnerving.’
‘That woman – could she have been staring at the tower room?’
I told him Oscar didn’t say, but that I suspected he knew who the woman was.
‘Then he’ll tell her we were in there,’ Jason said.
‘He might.’
‘Hard to believe whoever owns the place doesn’t know about the murals.’
That was Jason’s big concern – not that we’d be reported for breaking and entering, but the likely possibility that his coming upon the murals was not actually his discovery, that other people knew about them and had seen them. It seemed possible, though improbable, that no one had been in the tower room since the raid and the house was sealed off. But even if that were true, someone had painted the murals, someone had provided the artist with materials and someone had installed plywood boards as a painting surface on all four walls of the room. Twenty-five years was a long time ago, but not so long as to preclude the likelihood that there were still living witnesses.
Jason Poe
When Tally told me we’d been seen, I knew there was no way I could sneak back in with Hannah. Which, she said, was fine with her, as she wasn’t all that keen on crawling in through a basement window.
As we talked over our next step, we agreed there were two things we wanted to know. What was the story behind the murals – the identity and intention of the artist? And what was the story told by the murals – was it a fantasy or a real experience?
After Tally pointed out that it would take forever to search through hundreds of back issues of local papers, Hannah reminded me that newspapers keep morgue files, folders of clippings from past issues arranged by subject matter, as reference material for reporters.
Soon as she said that, I knew whom to call: Joan Nguyen, a young reporter for the Calista Times-Dispatch who’d interviewed me a couple of years before in connection with an exhibition of my war photographs. Joan struck me as smart, was interested in my work – and perhaps, I thought at the time, also interested in me. We met for drinks a couple of times, but neither of us followed up. She was attractive and fun to be with, but, I felt, too young for me. I liked her but couldn’t see myself, the rueful, older guy with the lived-in face, dating the bouncy, fresh-faced gal with the idolatrous gleam in her gorgeous Asian eyes.
Still, we kept in touch. She’d call me every so often to ask me a question about photography, and sometimes just to check in. She was also supportive of my Leavings project, approving of the images I showed her.
‘I don’t want to lose track of you,’ she told me one time. ‘I meet a lot of people through work – sometimes it gets pretty intense, but after the article comes out we never see each other again.’
‘No reason to lose track,’ I assured her, though I wasn’t at all clear how we could make that work. Now, I knew, it was my turn to call her, not to cash in on what I’d imagined might be her lingering affection, but to entice her to help me by offering her an exclusive.
We met in the Casablanca Room at the Alhambra, a funky Moorish-style hotel on the edge of the warehouse district. The place had literary pretensions. It offered special rates to visiting writers on tour, and created the Casablanca Room as a congenial space for members of the working press. With its alcoves and Moorish arches, enlarged movie stills of Bogart and Bergman, Middle Eastern mezes, and an antique juke box stocked with songs sung by Piaf and Juliette Greco, the room had a retro, noirish charm.
‘I do like this joint,’ Joan said, as she edged into the alcove where I was waiting. ‘I especially like meeting you here to discuss something confidential.’ She gazed at me from across the little table. ‘I adore secrets,’ she whispered.
She looked great. Her skin was pale, her black bangs hung down to her eyebrows, and there were silver studs in her ear lobes. She wore jeans and a Calista Strong T-shirt that clung to her slim torso. As always, I felt drawn to her dark, liquid, querying eyes.
We spent a few minutes catching up. She told me she was the junior member of an investigative team working on a story about cop corruption on the West Side.
I asked her if she liked investigative work.
‘Love it!’ she said. ‘It’s fun to write features, but that’s real journalism.’ She lowered her voice. ‘There’s a major story to be done about the spate of fires. Are they being set by an arsonist, or maybe by more than one? Hard to see a pattern – a synagogue in Little Warsaw, an abandoned house in Gunktown, a homeless guy doused, then set on fire behind the zoo. Some set with accelerants, others by souped-up Molotov cocktails. I told Josh, my editor, I have feelers out and that if I come up with something, I want to be lead reporter. He said, “Sure, Joan, you bring it in, it’s yours.”’ She gazed at me. ‘I like it that working that kind of story can be dangerous. I know you understand that.’
Listening to her, I began to view her differently, no longer as a laid-back cultural news journalist, but more akin to the ambitious young women reporters I used to meet and hook up with in hotel bars in Baghdad and Kabul.
‘My dangerous days are long behind me,’ I reminded her.
‘Really? You told me you’ve had some close calls.’
‘Nothing serious. Tally covers my back.’
‘Is he armed?’
‘I’m not going to answer that.’
‘Well … OK …’ She smiled.
‘No, he’s not armed. We made a decision early on we wouldn’t go into a place if we thought we’d need a gun.’
We talked a while more, ordered a second round, munched on slivers of pita dipped in hummus, until finally she expressed some exasperation, which was what I was waiting for her to do.
‘So, Jase, why are we meeting? What’s going on?’
I told her I’d stumbled on something inside a house, something I believed was extraordinary. I told her the house had a history, that years ago a cult was living there, there was a raid, arrests and a cop was injured.
‘I’m hoping your paper has a file on it. If so, I’m hoping you’ll copy it for me.’
‘Times-Dispatch files aren’t for public use.’
‘I know.’
‘You want me to break the rules?’ I nodded. ‘What’s in it fo
r me?’
‘If the story plays out, you get an exclusive.’
‘What’s the story?’
‘Can’t tell you that now.’
‘Come on, Jase. Do I have to pull it out of you?’
‘So far the only other people who know are Tally and Hannah. If I tell you, that’ll make four. I don’t want this to get out.’
She smiled, brought her fingers to her lips, mimed turning a key.
I nodded, told her about the murals, showed her the photos I’d transferred to my phone. She studied them a while, then handed the phone back.
‘You really think there’s a story?’
‘Maybe a big one. Don’t know yet.’
‘These murals really grabbed you, huh?’
‘Phone images can’t convey how strong they are. When I first saw them, I felt like maybe that French farmer did when he stumbled into the cave at Lascaux. He shines his flashlight around and suddenly sees those incredible prehistoric wall paintings made by people thirty thousand years before.’
‘Surely you can’t compare—’
‘I’m not saying what I found is anywhere near that important. Just trying to convey how it felt. DERP work—’
‘What’s that?’
‘Derelict and Ruined Places – like storm-drain entrances, boarded-up buildings, padlocked gates. Caves, catacombs, World War One and Two bunkers. When you go into places like that, you never know what you’re going to find. Usually nothing. Then it happens! As it did to me the other night. So how could I not be excited?’
She peered at me, large eyes wide. ‘OK, Jase – I’ll get you what we have on the house, cult, raid and anything else I can find. And if you need more help, I’ll do some follow-up. But I have to be the only reporter in on this. If there’s a story, I gotta be the one who writes it. Deal?’
‘Yeah, deal,’ I assured her.
The following day I found an oversize envelope in my box at CAI. No return address, just a cartoon smile. Joan had come through for me fast.
CALISTA TIMES-DISPATCH, Police Blotter, August 17, 1993
Police raided a house at 1160 Locust Street last night based on a tip from a confidential informant. There was a scuffle during the raid and one officer was injured. ‘They put up a fight. They didn’t want us to come in, even though we had a warrant,’ said CPD Captain Walter Loetz.
The three-story house is owned by Theodore and Elizabeth Schechtner, social workers who, according to police, lead a cult under the guise of running a halfway house for teen runaways.
‘There were signs of satanism in the house, the number 666 and other satanic symbols drawn on the walls, an upside-down crucifix and assorted paraphernalia,’ Loetz said. ‘The informant told us the Schechtners were holding several female teens against their will.’
The Schechtners were arrested during the fracas, and are being held in City Jail awaiting arraignment. The teenage residents have been turned over to Child Protective Services.
CALISTA TIMES-DISPATCH, Police Blotter, August 18, 1993
Clinical psychologists Theodore and Elizabeth Schechtner were arraigned in Criminal Court this morning for refusing entry to police with a valid search warrant, resisting arrest, injuring an officer, running an unlicensed halfway house for minors, inducting minors into a satanic cult, holding minors in the house against their will, providing minors with illegal drugs, and other charges.
The Schechtners’ attorney, Spencer Addams, protested the description of his clients as cult leaders. ‘There is no cult and there was nothing satanic going on in the house,’ he said. ‘The Schechtners are an idealistic couple with advanced academic degrees who are licensed to practice psychotherapy. Moreover their house, called A Caring Place, is a licensed refuge for runaway kids. They specialize in the treatment of troubled adolescents. No person has ever been held in the house against his or her will.’
Captain Loetz then testified that he had found two teenage girls hiding in an attic room, the walls of which were covered with ‘satanic style’ paintings. When he tried to enter the attic, the girls became hysterical and refused to let him in. Police had to restrain them in order to effect a rescue.
‘The girls scratched and bit me,’ Loetz said. ‘They seemed delusional, shrieking and hollering. I believe they were high on drugs, probably LSD.’ The detective showed what he said were scratches and bite marks on his hands and arms.
Judge Stephanie Bates set bail for the Schechtners at $100,000 each.
CALISTA TIMES-DISPATCH, August 24, 1993
CULT HOUSE ATTORNEY SAYS
‘THERE NEVER WAS A CULT’
by Steve Dorfman
Spencer Addams, attorney for Drs Theodore and Elizabeth Schechtner, arrested and charged with running an unlicensed halfway house on Locust Street, insists his clients are reputable licensed psychotherapists and are wrongly accused of leading a satanic cult.
In an interview in his Bush Building office, Addams stated: ‘The police claim they found 666 inscribed on a wall and an upside-down crucifix erected in the main room, and that this is proof of satanism. In fact, certain persons who entered the house with the police spray-painted the symbol and erected the crucifix in that position. The police also claim they found wall murals filled with “satanic content” in the attic. I’ve seen the murals. They are not satanic, rather the result of an art therapy project.’
When asked to identify the ‘persons’ who brought in the crucifix, Addams stated that they were ‘so-called cult deprogrammers’ hired by the prominent Cobb family to rescue their daughter and her friend from the house, deprogram them and then return them to their respective homes.
‘There’s more to this case than meets the eye,’ Addams said. ‘The Cobb girl and her friend ran away from home and voluntarily took refuge at A Caring Place. The Schechtners are not satanists. They are secular professionals greatly respected in Calista for their skill and compassion working with troubled adolescents. The police raid was a ruse, engineered by the Cobb family to force the return of their daughter. The police collaborated with the deprogrammers to provide them with entry to the house, and then helped them by forcibly removing the girls. Neither girl was turned over to Protective Services. Both were taken away by the deprogrammers and have not been seen since. In fact, both girls were in the process of petitioning for emancipation from parental control when the raid occurred. The Schechtners were assisting them with this, and the raid was undertaken to disrupt the emancipation process.’
Addams claims that the warrant for entry to the house was defective as it was signed by Judge Neville Brown, who, before taking the bench, was a Cobb Industries house attorney.
‘I’m not saying there was collusion between Judge Brown and the Cobbs. But this doesn’t pass the smell test. Meanwhile, my clients are being held in jail because they can’t raise the exorbitant bail set by Judge Bates.’
Addams declined to identify the deprogrammers, saying only that they were employees of an out-of-state firm that specializes in deprogramming children. Addams says he is filing a habeas corpus writ on behalf of his clients to force a hearing on these claims.
The Cobb family, owners of Cobb Industries, is well known in Calista for its philanthropy. A spokesperson at the company, reached by phone, said she was not authorized to speak for the family. She refused comment on Addams’s claims. ‘We believe this matter is best settled in court,’ she said.
Judge Brown’s clerk, reached by phone, called Addams’s claims concerning His Honor ‘reckless and absurd.’
‘This is an attorney known for making unsubstantiated claims,’ the clerk said. ‘We expect he will be sanctioned by Judge Bates for his outburst.’
[Editor’s Note: The minors referred to in the story have not been named in accordance with Times-Dispatch policy.]
CALISTA TIMES-DISPATCH, September 1, 1993
AROUND TOWN …
by Waldo Channing
People are talking about … a major brouhaha involving Horace and Elena Cobb a
nd their wayward teenage daughter, Courtney. The way we hear it (and our sources are very reliable), young Cobb and her best friend, Penny Dawson, disappeared six weeks ago from an after-school art class at Danzig Heights Community Center. The Cobb and Dawson families, believing their daughters were abducted, called Calista Police. In the absence of ransom demands, the police concluded that the girls were runaways.
Horace and Elena went on local TV begging their daughter to return home. They also offered $50,000 to anyone with information that would lead to her return.
According to my sources, there has been much consternation of late within the Cobb family. Young Courtney, I am told, was at ‘sword points’ with both parents and had threatened to run away several times. She also, I am told, attempted suicide last year, and was fortunately discovered in time by a servant who immediately called in medics. The girl recovered and was placed in psychotherapy with Dr Reginald Holden, a specialist in the treatment of troubled adolescents.
This is where the plot thickens! Courtney told her parents that Dr Holden had fondled her in a lascivious manner. Now two other psychologists, Drs Elizabeth and Theodore Schechtner, are accused of having harbored the girls in a halfway house which they call A Caring Place, and which they own and run on Locust Street within spitting distance of the old Kenyon-Garfield Observatory.
Big Question: Why did the Schechtners not contact the parents of the girls to tell them their daughters were safe? I am told that their failure to do so could be construed as criminal.
But there is more … much more … including claims that the Schechtners were the leaders of a satanist cult, and that they used their clinical practices to recruit young patients and seduce them into joining it.
The Schechtners vigorously deny this, and their attorney, Spencer Addams (he of the infamous Dacoite Case), claims the girls were in the process of petitioning to be liberated minors with the help of the Schechtners, on the basis that the Cobb and Dawson households were unsafe environments.
The Murals Page 4
