by Ted Peters
“I don’t like your theory of mind,” Leona said sharply. “An information pattern? Internal to the brain? No way. I see two problems immediately. First, our mind is connected to our entire body, not just our brain. If I get a stone in my shoe, my mind responds with an ‘ouch.’ I cannot imagine a mind disconnected from a biological body. Second, our mind is extended, not confined. Writing with a pencil and paper is actually a thinking process, even though the pencil and paper are outside the brain, even outside the body. Teenagers with cell phones rely on their gadgets just to think about many things. They think with their texts, You Tube videos, and web propaganda. Once our mind sails off into the cloud, it’ll lose these physical extensions. Am I too skeptical?”
“Well,” said MacDonald, “I thought it was a pretty good theory until you got a hold of it.”
Kurz chuckled.
Leona sat back. Then, she spoke again. “The word Transhumanism was coined by biologist Julian Huxley in 1967. He said then that Transhumanism refers to, and I quote, ‘man remaining man, but transcending himself, by realizing new possibilities of and for his human nature.’ So, if your are trans-humanists, then you plan to transcend Homo sapiens with something posthuman, right? You will not make us more human but rather make an entirely new posthuman species, right? This is where you depart from Huxley, right?”
Kurz and MacDonald both looked stunned. “What makes you so smart? How do you know about EPR or Huxley?” queried Kurz.
“I’m not smart. I just know facts.”
“You have to be smart to know facts,” interjected MacDonald.
“No, you don’t,” said Leona testily.
“Yes, you do,” argued Kurz.
“No, you don’t. What do you think intelligence really is?” challenged Leona.
“What do you think it is, Miss Smarty Pants?” counter-challenged Kurz with a grin.
“Insight.”
“What?”
“Insight, I said. That’s what distinguishes intelligence.”
“OK. So what’s insight?” Kurz pressed.
“When you get insight, you’ll know it. It’s a leap, a mental leap toward reality,” she lectured. “Insight includes thinking counter-factually. It includes pretend. A three year old girl can dress and undress a doll, pretending it’s her baby. A three year old boy can pretend he’s driving a fire engine. This ability to pretend in a grown up scientist is known as hypothesizing. No computational machine can hypothesize, can it?”
Kurz and MacDonald looked at each other. Then, Kurz turned back toward Leona with a laugh. “How would you like to become a professor at TTU?”
Oops, thought Leona. Maybe I went too far. I can’t reveal that I’ve already got Kurz’s chip. I’d better learn to hide it rather than... Leona smiled innocently, accepting the compliment. “Gentlemen, before I leave, would you kindly give me your business cards? Just in case I decide to become a TTU professor, you know.”
MacDonald and Kurz laughed. Kidd stared quizzically at this uncanny marvel from Chicago.
Chapter 53
Detroit
That evening Leona and Angie sat with shared melancholy in their double room at the Hilton Santa Clara. From their window they could see the Great America amusement park, if they cared to look. They didn’t. The two Dearbornites rehearsed again and again the sequence of events leading up to the day’s funeral. No insights penetrated the shroud of mystery. No words could adequately comfort them in their grief.
Angie stood up to go visit the toilet. Leona felt a sensation in her head. She did not recognize the feeling. Suddenly, in her mind she was watching a mental video. What she saw was herself firing a gun. She fired it at Graham. Graham fell over dead. Leona asked herself silently, now, where did that thought come from?.
When Angie had returned and taken her seat, Leona spoke first. “I wish my mother could have been here.”
“Oh, she wanted to come, Lee,” responded Angie. “She just couldn’t. The station is keeping her on a tight schedule. She called me, of course. I expect she’ll call us sometime this evening. Have you checked your texts?”
Leona thumbed through her iPhone buttons. She found a text from her mother, “Watch 2nite!”
“Did you find something?”
“Yes. Mom wants us to watch her show tonight. I think we can get it on the internet. If it’s 11:00 pm in Detroit, then that means 8:00 here, right?”
“Yes. We’re coming up on eight right now,” said Angie. “I’ll see if I can get it on my computer. You see if you can find some wine and pour us each a glass. We deserve it.”
As the Karen Foxx Spotlight Show opened, a dangling almost dancing object filled the camera lens. It assaulted the television viewer’s eyes, which had to strain to see just what was dancing. When viewers could finally focus, what they saw was a miniature replica of the “Spirit of Detroit.” The original twenty-six foot tall “Spirit of Detroit” is a 1955 bronze statue created by Marshall Fredericks. It sits today in front the Coleman A. Young Municipal Center on Woodward Avenue. Centered by an idealized yet struggling human form with arms stretched in opposite directions, the monument draws the beholder’s eyes in divisive tension toward the extremities. In the figure’s left hand, a gilded sphere with sprouting rays reminds us of the sun. It symbolizes God. In the figure’s right hand, a miniature family represents the relationships we individuals enjoy with one another and with all humanity. God and the human family in tension and in complement energize the Spirit of Detroit.
“You’re looking at the right earring.” The camera shifted to include both Karen Foxx and the earring she held in her right hand. “This is a special earring,” she said with emphasis.
“Two years ago a special pair of fourteen carat gold “Spirit of Detroit” earrings was minted and given as an award to Miss Detroit. The judging criteria in the Miss Detroit competition included the usual: evening wear and swim suit beauty, talent, interview composure, and lifestyle. Then we here in the Motor City added: do you plan to become a mother and raise a family here in the Detroit area? Miss Susan Elliot answered emphatically, yes. The title Miss Detroit and the earrings were awarded to her.”
Karen Foxx looked straight into the camera with angry and penetrating eyes. “Tonight I regret to announce that Susan Elliott, our Miss Detroit, is dead.”
The screen shifted to an earlier TV news account of the discovery of the dismembered body of an at-first unidentified woman. Police cars with flashing lights. Medics rushing covered remains on a gurney into an ambulance. Cub reporters interviewing bystanders.
“Yes, I’m the one who called the police,” said a thirtyish man with open shirt collar, glasses, and uncombed hair. “I was walking my dog. Off leash. He ran into that vacant building over there. He returned carrying something. At first I thought it was just a large stick. When I looked closer, I could hardly believe my eyes. It was the naked lower leg of a human person. I dialed 9-1-1 immediately.”
The camera zoomed out so that the abandoned building filled the screen. Karen Foxx’s voice took over the narration. “What you are looking at is the Michigan Central Station. It was built in 1918. Just look at it. It is magnificent, a Beaux-Arts train station with office space above, eighteen floors of office space. The MCS was intended to establish a new center for Detroit on Michigan Avenue near the location of the former Tiger Stadium. It was intended to become a new hub around an imposing architectural celebration of the human spirit. It never happened. Increased use of the automobile decreased the use of the train. And the Great Depression paralyzed the growth of commerce. In 1988 the MSC was closed. Today its classic Corinthian columns are interspersed with broken windows. It is a monument to the failure of Detroit to keep up with civilization, let alone advance it.”
The camera returned to a full facial of its hostess, Karen Foxx. “Today, the Michigan Central Station became the temporary cemetery of Susan Elliott. She was brutally raped and dismembered. Her separated body parts were found on the ground floor and on one
of the office floors above. The horrific dimensions of this case astound us. Here to speak about this with us this evening is Detroit’s mayor, Keith Steinke.”
The camera zoomed out to encompass the guest and hostess.
“Welcome, Mister Mayor,” said Foxx.
“It’s always good to be here, Karen. That is, it’s almost always good to be here.”
“If the police department had patrolled the Michigan Central Station more thoroughly, do you think this murder might have been prevented?”
“Now, Karen, I didn’t kill this unfortunate woman. Whenever I come on your show your accusations imply that I’m personally guilty of everything bad that happens in Detroit. You did not even allow me a moment to grieve with you and with our people.”
Foxx was taken aback. She paused. “Yes, of course, Keith. She was not killed because of police neglect. And, I know that you as mayor are just as shocked and just as concerned as any of us.”
“That’s right, Karen. And, thank you. Today I visited Susan Elliott’s parents. The devastation in that family is incomprehensible. The entire community that makes us one Detroit family is in grief. I’ve ordered the flags at City Hall to fly at half mast tomorrow.”
“Let me ask you about the symbolism,” said Foxx.
“I’m not an expert on symbols, Karen, but shoot.”
“Why Miss Detroit? Why the Michigan Central Station? What’s the connection? The MSC is a synecdoche for our entire city: the self-destruction of the auto capital of the world. And now, tonight, we morn Miss Detroit, a symbol of Detroit’s hope for the future. What does this mean, Keith?”
“It’s so early in our police investigation of the crime. Only a few hours ago were we able to discern the identity of the victim. We’re still reeling from its impact. But, I promise Detroiters that we will get to the bottom of this and we will bring the perpetrator to justice.”
“That’s the politician speaking now, Keith. It’s what I expect.” Foxx laughed. So did Steinke. “But I’m asking: why this place?”
“I don’t know why this space?”
“I said place, not space. A place is a space with meaning. Let’s pause for a moment. We in Detroit have a motto: Speramus meliori, resurgit cineribus, in Latin. It means that Detroit will “rise from the ashes: we hope for better things.” This motto was given us by a Jesuit priest after the fire that nearly destroyed the entire city in 1805. I repeat it each evening to close my show. I want Detroiters today to keep that hope alive. I want us to embody that spirit of rising up from the ashes. But, now with the brutal murder of Miss Detroit, have our hopes been murdered as well? Would you say that?”
“I never give up hope, Karen.”
“Nor do I,” she said looking directly into the camera. Then, she turned back to the mayor. “One more thing, Keith.” Foxx lifted up the earring, the miniature Spirit of Detroit.
“This earring was taken by the coroner off the victim’s right ear. Is that correct?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“Where’s the second one, the one that belongs in the left ear?”
Steinke shrugged his shoulders. “The investigators have not found it. As of now, it’s missing.”
Karen Foxx turned to her viewers. She paused. It became a long pause. Then she whispered audibly so her entire television audience could hear distinctly, “Speramus meliori, resurgit cineribus.”
Chapter 54
Santa Clara
“That poor girl!” whined Angie, shaking her head. “First, Kelly. Now, Miss Detroit. They had virtually the same thing happen to them. A vicious predator in California and another in Detroit. What kind of mind could conceive of such cruelty let alone make it happen, Lee?”
Leona could not speak. She was thinking. Angie had long ago learned to wait for Leona. Time passed while each stared off into space.
“Are you thinking about evil, Lee?” asked Angie.
Leona looked up. “Yes.” She paused. “I’m also asking myself whether these two—Kelly and Miss Detroit—could be connected. Both were raped. Both were dismembered. Both were found with one earring, not two.”
“Mmmmmm. Might this be more than just a coincidence?”
“Probably not. I assume Miss Detroit had nothing to do with NASA or TTU or anything professional that would overlap with Kelly’s situation. They weren’t the same age. Still, I could ask Mom to look into Susan Elliot’s background. Angie, do you think Kelly and Susan knew each other, by chance?”
“Oh, no. Kelly’s been away from Michigan for a decade and a half. I can’t imagine any Michigan connections still exist.”
Leona picked up her iPhone and texted her mother, congratulating her on the show and asking for a little more background information on Miss Detroit. She put the phone down. The two women continued to sit, saying very little. Slowly the wine drained from their glasses.
“Would you mind if I took a long bath, Angie?” asked Leona. “In the warm water I’ll think. And I’ll pray. And I’ll tell God just how pissed off I am for allowing such meaningless and cruel suffering.”
“No. I don’t mind. You can stay in the tub until the water evaporates, as far as I’m concerned. But, if a pastor gets pissed off at God, then what should the rest of us do?”
Leona smiled.
Angie smiled and then spoke. “Lee, I remember how pissed off at God you were when you returned from that Iranian prison. You saw so much treachery, bloodshed, and death. You were so angry at the Almighty that you wanted to make God suffer. I began to fear for God’s safety. Now, here you are again. Well, actually, here we both are. I’m just as angry. We’ve lost my precious sister.” Angie began to cry. She pulled a tissue from a box on the table to pat her eyes.
Leona looked out the window, but she did not notice the lights of Great America. She noticed only the darkness within her own soul.
Later, submerged in the bath tub, Leona opened her Bible. She started to read Psalm 27. “The LORD is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The LORD is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?” She paused to meditate. What I fear about the Lord is that he abandoned Kelly when she needed protection? Then she addressed God directly in prayer. “God, I’m sad, grieved, confused, and pissed off.”
Leona’s body relaxed while her mind raced frantically from one entanglement of thoughts to another. Nothing would unravel. Though she strained to see a connection between the murders of Kelly and Miss Detroit, no link presented itself before her mental eye.
After smacking into one mental blind alley after another, the bathing pastor turned her anguish toward God. She entered into prayer again. “God,” she began. “Here I am again, confounded by the goddamned theodicy problem. So, you created this fuck’n world out of love. Right? Well, bullshit.” Time passed before the prayer continued. “Why? Why should the lovely Kelly, the warm hearted mother, the wife, the sister, the scientist, the...why! Why! And Susan Elliot....why! Why! Who is the monster that did this? Why is there no chance for justice to be done? Why did you create human souls with such a potential for evil? I know you call me to have faith in the face of darkness; but, here I am again, wishing I had at least a flashlight to see my way. I believe, but I need you to help me in my unbelief. Amen.”
The hotel bathroom door opened a crack. Through the slot came Angie’s voice. “BFF?”
Leona smiled and raised a clenched fist with a wave of triumph. “Best Friends Forever! Damned right!”
Chapter 55
Chicago
Leona needed to wait only a few minutes at O’Hare’s arrival curb before Graham pulled up in his CR-V. Leona immediately opened the passenger door, slid in, and in one continuous motion leaned over to place a kiss on Graham’s lips. Graham put his left on the back of Leona’s head to hold her close and lengthen the intimate greeting.
“It’s really good to see you, Grammy,” she said. “Thanks for all you do for me. I take none of it for granted, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” resp
onded Graham.
“It’s hotter here in the Windy City than it was in California,” she said buckling her seat belt. While pulling into traffic Graham proceeded to bring Leona up to date on parish activities. Leona then reported on the funeral, the dead-end investigation of Doug Valentine, and her mother’s TV show. They scrutinized the facts and together weighed possible explanations.
Midnight watched from her perch atop the living room sofa while Graham and Leona walked up the parsonage porch steps. She stood and stretched, which is about as much greeting as a human can expect from a feline. Buck was quite another matter. Upon opening the front door, this descendent of canis lupus whirled in tight circles with muffled yelps of joy. Leona did a deep knee bend so the two could rub noses.
Through the dining room arch Leona spotted a box and some papers on the table. Graham saw where her eyes were directed.
“You’ve received a few things,” said Graham. “The box came via UPS. You’ve got a fax from your mother. The rest is an assortment of bills via snail mail.”
Leona approached the box with curiosity written on her face. It was a box of Silver Oak Cabernet Sauvignon. Napa Valley. Not Alexander. Twelve bottles. “My gosh, this must have cost a couple thousand dollars!” she exclaimed. “Who’s it from?”
Graham shrugged his shoulders. “I only sign for adult pick-ups. I don’t investigate their source.”
Leona opened the card and read the message. “Rev. Foxx: Dinner Friday? 7:00pm? Palmer House? Khalid.” Leona let loose a wide angled smile, exuding a combination of surprise and dreamy contentment.
Graham coughed. It was a fake cough to regain attention. “I buy you Field Stone,” he said. “Even the Staten Family Reserve.”
“Oh, but that’s only one bottle at a time,” said Leona dismissively with a tone of sarcasm. “Don’t get me wrong, Grammy, your wine selections make for a pretty good second choice. But, anyone who buys me Silver Oak is a king deserving homage. You do pretty well as a court jester.”
