by Susan Slater
The reporter beside her had been hired when Julie had, and both of them were in tailored suits and heels, while the boss wore a Harley-Davidson t-shirt and Levi’s.
“He’s making a statement,” Julie offered.
“Honey, at his age that statement should have been made long before this.”
The woman seemed truly irked. Eccentricity never bothered Julie, and Bob was probably somewhere in his fifties. Couldn’t he be an old hippie? Some leftover from Woodstock? It was a little before her time. She might feel old but twenty-four years was awfully young sometimes. Besides, Bob liked to get his hands dirty, work the technical side, move a camera around once in a while. Everyone respected him for that and he wasn’t going to dress in a suit to do it.
As she watched, he slipped a jacket on over the black short-sleeved t-shirt and covered the motorcycle company’s emblem. Grapevine had it that Hogs were his passion. There was no wife, no family, just inherited family money—lots of it and a really awesome road bike. Julie guessed he could do what he wanted.
Julie looked around as Bob called roll—two program directors, three editors, a couple technical folks, reporters, including herself—a well represented meeting.
“Okay. Let’s get started. I don’t know where to begin, but here’s what I know so far. Public health officials in Santa Fe have been notified of the fourth death in five days in the Tewa Pueblo.” He paused and watched the reaction of his audience. “No one wants to call it an epidemic, not in a state that depends upon tourism for its livelihood. It seems localized and already under control, but I want to get a reporter on it right away. Julie Conlin?” He paused, looked her way and made eye contact. “I want you to take this one. After the meeting, let’s talk for a few minutes. I have a suggestion as to where to start.”
Julie was elated and shocked. Why her? This smacked of senior level stuff. What a coup. She certainly wasn’t going to turn it down. Two of the editors gave her a thumbs up sign and the reporter next to her squeezed her arm.
Bob finished with information on the upcoming Rocky Mountain Broadcasting awards. Channel Nine had been nominated in eight categories. There was a lot of cheering and hugging and jumping up and down. After some questions about the competition, the room cleared quickly.
“Let’s sit over here.” Bob motioned to the conference table in the corner as he punched the intercom. “Hold my calls.” He picked up a couple phone slips and then joined Julie.
“It’s probably time we had a little heart-to-heart. How long have you been here? Three, four months?”
“Two and a half,” Julie said.
“I really don’t think this Tewa death thing is something to worry about. All the deaths have been people over sixty. But I’d like you to do a little snooping. If there is a problem—some outbreak of plague—I want us to be on top of it.” He stared at her and lightly drummed his fingers on the table. She sat forward.
“Start with the Indian hospital. Find out what they know and how they’re going to proceed on this. Just a minute, I have the name of the contact over there.” Bob looked at the phone slips on the table. “Here it is. Dr. Sanford Black. He’s the honcho. Don’t be afraid of a little aggressive journalism.” He paused while she copied the number. “The state tourism department is interested. They’d like to put a lid on it, of course. There’s no use upsetting the public. In fact, they’re hoping to delay letting the papers get it—not a cover-up, just a delay,” Bob hastened to add.
“I understand. No problem,” she said.
“And, kiddo, run whatever you get by me. Don’t want the boys in Santa Fe upset any more than they are, and maybe I can grease some wheels, if we need it.” He leaned over and gave her a fatherly pat on the arm. “This could be your chance to carve out a niche for yourself. Anchor spots are never cast in iron.”
She was surprised, but she didn’t let on. Anchor spot? It was every junior reporter’s dream. But this was so sudden. She didn’t kid herself. She’d been here two months and had completed a half dozen nondescript stories—not bad ones, just good everyday news—but not the kind that got you noticed. He let his hand linger a minute before removing it, and Julie willed herself not to squirm away. So this was the reason. She hated this barely veiled sexual approach. Was an anchor spot just the dangling of bait? I’ll do something for you, sweetheart, and you do something for me.
She smiled sweetly—not a come-on—she’d treat his interest as some paternal blessing then knock his socks off with her talent. And that might not be too far from the truth. She knew she could do this story. It was a dream come true. So she got a chance at it because of her looks. So what? A pair of legs and halfway decent boobs should be worth something.
+ + +
“Doings,” Gloria said. She stood in the doorway to Sandy’s office.
“Doings? Today?”
Sandy groaned inwardly about lost time and having to retrieve his own files. Indian ceremonies demanded attendance and were unpredictable. They happened with some regularity but little warning.
“I’ll be leaving at noon. Anything I should know about?”
“Some woman from Channel Nine News called. She wants information about the deaths in the pueblo.”
“What did you tell her?” Sandy could never be certain how Gloria would handle something. Her idea of taking charge could be different than his.
“I told her to stop by this morning. You had that cancellation with the UNM people. She’ll be here at ten.”
Damn. He’d be rich if he had a nickel for every time he’d asked her to check with him first before making appointments.
“Did you get a name?”
“Julie Conlin. She sounded pretty.”
“Sounded pretty?”
“You know, sort of young and bouncy.”
“Are you trying to tempt a married man?”
“No.”
Sandy wondered at the literal level of Gloria’s functioning. He took off his reading glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Did she say anything else?”
“She wanted to know how she could interview people in the pueblo. Maybe someone at the clinic.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I said you could help her.”
“Thanks.”
“That’s okay. You’ll like her.”
Sandy choked back “How do you know?” because, of course, Gloria would have an answer.
+ + +
Julie Conlin awoke before dawn. She could not believe her good fortune. Two months in the field—more correctly, two months out of school—and she had landed a plum. She had a feeling this story would be a headliner. She’d get air time, the kind of exposure most rookies didn’t get without two years experience, and what had Bob said? “Anchor spots aren’t cast in iron.” Next year at this time, she’d be doing those goofy local celebrity things—ribbon cuttings, dedications, maybe a product sponsorship.
She took a step toward the bathroom, and put her weight down hard on something buried in the shag carpeting. She switched on the table lamp. Oh God, Wayne’s keys—the extra set to her townhouse. She sat down to rub out the sharp indentations left in the bottom of her foot. The fight had been a good one. Somewhere imbedded in the shag carpeting should be the half carat diamond engagement ring that she’d thrown at him. No, Wayne would have taken that. He would have combed the carpet on hands and knees for anything of value that might remotely be his.
She didn’t care. She didn’t want any reminders. She had slammed out of the house and told him to be gone by ten. She’d even given him an extra hour and stayed in the library until closing, then got a cup of coffee. They’d been together three years and had set a wedding date twice. Then both let it drag on knowing it was never going to work, hoping it would die in some unattended way, releasing them without bitterness.
But it was the bitterness and envy—yes, envy—that had put a cork in it last night. Instead of congratulating her on her good fortune, Wayne had peevishly
suggested that maybe it had taken something besides talent to land the assignment. Maybe a little leg, a crotch shot a la Sharon Stone, some promise of better things to come. And she’d lost it. Somewhere between the kitchen and the dining room was a set of fake Fiestaware in six jillion pieces.
She switched on the bathroom light, drank three glasses of water and rinsed her mouth. Her teeth seemed coated with espresso. Would she miss the relationship? Was she in for some delayed reaction that would leave her bereft and grieving in a week? Probably not. The feeling of relief was too strong. And in all honesty, the sex hadn’t been that great. Comfortable, a couple good moves, but not great. So, would she know great? Or had she read too many romance novels? Or, as her mother would say, “Honey, your expectations are just too high.”
Wayne would be her cure. No more Prince Charmings, just hard work. This assignment was perfect, right time, right topic. She could really do a lot with background on Indians. Play up other epidemics. Rattle some cages with the old smallpox massacres. It would be easy to swear off men. She’d be too busy to notice.
+ + +
Julie walked through the sliding glass doors of the Indian Hospital at exactly five minutes to ten. The Navajo man behind the receptionist’s desk looked up.
“Is Dr. Black in? I’m Julie Conlin with Channel Nine News.”
“Do you have an appointment?” The question was perfunctory, not hostile.
“At ten.” Julie smiled and took off her sunglasses. In a comb-like sweep, she placed them on her head and left them to act as a headband in a vain attempt to tame the tumble of red-gold curls. The young man behind the desk paused to watch her, then adjusted his headset and pushed an extension on the board in front of him.
“Doc? I got a woman down here from Channel Nine. You want to see her? What was your name again?”
“Julie Conlin.”
“Okay. Go up these stairs and turn right. First door.”
She could feel the young man’s eyes on the back of her legs as she climbed the stairs. Fleetingly, she wished that she had worn a suit with a little longer skirt and not the above-the-knee navy. Too late now. The door to Dr. Black’s office was open. She tugged her skirt down as far as it would go and walked in.
There were books everywhere. What wasn’t covered by a book held a stack of papers.
Sandy turned from the computer and said, “Let me clear a space. You’re here about the deaths in Tewa, right?”
“Yes.” She watched the fortyish man in Dockers and madras plaid shirt clear a chair next to his desk
“Research is my passion.” He shrugged his shoulders and grinned. “I hope a little clutter doesn’t bother you.”
“Actually, I’ve never trusted anyone with a clean desk—sterile desk, sterile mind.”
“Great answer.” He looked at her appreciatively and leaned back in his chair. “Now, how can I help?”
“The Department of Tourism has been alerted that there may be a major medical problem in the pueblo. Our information says four deaths in four days. Is this correct?”
“Yes. I’m reluctant to give it any inflammatory names like epidemic or plague, but we are looking at the possibility of plague.” Sandy referred to a computer printout. “All the deaths have been people over sixty. All were related. All deaths seem to follow the same pattern. Acute upper respiratory infection, lungs fill with fluid and the victim suffocates.”
“What makes you suspect plague?”
“I’m not sure that I do. It’s just one consideration. The illness so far doesn’t present itself as anything we know. For one thing, it works quickly. Unbelievably quickly. All of its victims have died within 24 hours of showing symptoms.”
The phone interrupted Julie’s next question.
“Yes, Twila. When? The same age group as the others?” Sandy had tucked the receiver under his chin and was entering information on his computer. “Spell Persingula for me. Persingula Pecos, age seventy-eight. Symptoms? Fatigue, shortness of breath, aching joints—” Sandy paused. “His grandmother? I’m sorry. This is going to be rough for him but we need permission to run some tests. I’m not saying autopsy. Our chances of getting that—” Sandy turned to look at Julie.
He wishes I weren’t here, she thought. But wasn’t this what good journalism was all about? The luck to be in the right place at the right time?
“Ask him to meet us at his grandmother’s house in an hour. I’ll alert the Office of Medical Investigator.” Sandy hung up.
“Number five?”
Sandy nodded. “I’d like you to be sensitive to Indian customs. The thing about the autopsies—I don’t want to watch the news tonight and hear how we’re shirking our duty, how we should have brought pressure.”
Julie smiled. “I understand. Is there someone at the clinic in Tewa who could help me? Make sure I’m not treading on toes?”
“Yeah. Maybe there is. Here’s the clinic number; ask for Ben Pecos.”
Julie thanked him and put the slip of paper in her purse. She’d call the clinic when she got back to the office.
+ + +
Ben met Sandy in front of his grandmother’s house. Relatives had gathered to prepare the body. His uncles had gone to the fiscal to request “a corner for their elder,” a request that could not be turned down. The uncles would then continue to the rectory and ask Father Emerson for a requiem mass.
“I’m sorry,” Sandy said.
“I still can’t believe it. She woke up feeling ill this morning. I guess more tired and achy, than sick. We had gone to a ceremony last night and I thought she had overdone things, stayed out too late. I insisted that she go to the clinic.” Ben paused to take a deep breath. “Twila also thought she might be reacting to a change in her schedule. There were no other symptoms to make us even suspect this mystery flu. When we got home, I insisted she lie down. And that’s how I found her. She died in her sleep.” Ben’s voice cracked. “Twila came right away.”
“We need to take your grandmother into Albuquerque for tests. I won’t use a word like autopsy. We simply need to run some tests. Something that will give us answers. Can you make the decision?”
“Not by myself. My uncles and great-aunts would also need to say yes. I know it should be done, but it won’t be easy to get permission.” Ben asked the senior family members to join them in the kitchen.
He cleared the Formica-topped table and brought in two chairs from the dining room to add to the four assorted chrome and plastic upholstered ones. Twila Runningfox motioned to him that she’d lean against the sink.
“First, let me offer my condolences. And say that my request comes from the need to put an end to the dying, the mystery killer.” Sandy paused to look at the solemn group in front of him. “I would like to take Ben’s grandmother to Albuquerque for tests.”
“What will they do?” an aunt asked.
“Take samples of blood, tissue, and fluids,” Sandy said.
“This is the fifth death this week. We’ve got to know what we’re up against to save the lives of others,” Ben added.
“No.” His uncle’s fist hit the table.
“Won’t you help us stop the dying?” Twila stepped away from the sink. “Dr. Black could take the body into the lab this afternoon and bring it back before sundown.” She looked questioningly at Sandy.
“I drove the hospital van and called the Office of the Medical Investigator before I left. They just need two hours. They’re set up to start as soon as we get there.”
“I’ll go with the body. I could bring my grandmother back this afternoon.” Ben looked at his uncle. There was a long pause. Everyone waited. A muscle twitched in the uncle’s jaw.
“I don’t care. Do what you have to do.” The uncle pushed back from the table and slammed from the house, knocking the fragile screen door from its mountings.
Sandy and Ben unloaded the aluminum box with the plastic liner and carried it into the house. Sandy went back to the clinic to fill out papers and call the OMI to give them a
time of arrival. Ben’s aunts dressed his grandmother in her best skirt and blouse but not in traditional Tewa clothing; that would come later. Ben told himself not to forget to remove the turquoise nugget necklace and earrings before they reached the hospital. He decided it wouldn’t be a good idea to tell his aunts that the jewelry might disappear. Ben helped his uncles carry the box from the house and balance it on the four Samsonite folding chairs he borrowed from the community center. He stood beside his grandmother and waited for Sandy. A breeze made the afternoon bearable but lifted a cloud of powdery dust from the unpaved road and coated the box. Ben traced his finger around the rim and left a shiny grit-free line. It was like writing in sand on a beach. Before he had finished, the line had faded. He wrote ‘I miss you’ and watched the words disappear.
He had come home. Was that enough for his grandmother? To know that he called this place home and would try to discover his roots? Try to put it all in perspective? He didn’t know. The hot breeze dried the tears that escaped and ran down his cheeks. Once again, he had run out of time. Someone he loved had left him behind to sort out the pieces.
+ + +
Julie hated hospitals. And the Office of the Medical Investigator was worse than a hospital. Housed in the basement of the Dental Clinic behind the University of New Mexico Medical Center, this was the first stop for someone who died of unknown causes. The sophisticated lab would begin a series of tests that might mean sending body parts on to pathology. Not the kind of place she enjoyed spending an afternoon. But if it meant getting a story, she’d go anywhere. Well, almost. She wasn’t about to disappoint Bob Crenshaw. The thought of junior anchor hovered like a subliminal carrot.
The clinic in Tewa had said that Ben Pecos would be at the OMI lab at four-thirty. It was four forty-five. She hoped she hadn’t missed him.
She took a deep breath, pushed the double doors open and walked as quickly as heels would permit on the thick rubber mat that covered the tile floor. The place smelled too clean. The curving corridor reeked of sterilization processes. And everything was spotless—floors, walls, doors—even the elevator was scrubbed to a shine. You could eat off the floor.
