Prophet (34 page)

John had heard enough. He wanted to close the subject. “Okay. All right.”

“I’m not finished, John.”

By the look in her eye John knew he was going to get an old-fashioned talking-to. “If we’re going to ‘talk things out’ like you want, I’ve got a few things to say too. Son, if all you want to believe is that you’re crazy like your old man, then . . . are you listening now? . . . you could be missing your very last chance to get right with God. Now I agree that what’s happening to you is extreme, but if I’m right, and if your father’s prayers and my prayers are really being answered right now—if God is speaking to you, you would be the greatest of all fools if you harden your heart against Him. You hear me?”

She was going to get an answer out of him if she had to sit there all day.

He obliged her. “Yeah.”

“Okay, now here’s another thing: I’ll grant that you’re fooling your public. They see you on that TV and they think, Well, here’s a man who knows what’s happening, who’s in control of his life. But, John, you aren’t fooling me, and I guarantee you, you aren’t fooling God.

“You’ve cut yourself off from life, John. You’re like a branch cut from a tree, and you’re going to wither up and die if you don’t get reconnected. You know all those voices you heard? How do you know one of them wasn’t your own? Are you listening to me?”

One thing about Mom’s lectures, John could never get too old for them. This was Mom at her best, as only she could be. He wouldn’t have taken it from anyone else. “Oh, I’m listening, Mom. You’re . . . uh . . . you’re doing just fine.”

Mom paused to let it sink in, then began again. “John, I’m sorry I have to be so blunt with you, but . . . well, maybe that’s part of being a prophet, or a prophet’s widow. You get used to being direct and saying what needs to be said because no one else will do it.” She leaned forward and spoke gently, urgently. “And, John, that means you can make enemies. There are people out there who will not appreciate honesty, who will not want to hear the Truth. They’re the ones Jesus said would flee from the light lest their deeds be exposed. They don’t want you exposing what they’re doing. But that’s what a prophet has to do sometimes. He has to lay bare the secrets of men’s hearts so they’ll know they’re sinners and get right with God, and that can be a miserable job. You can make enemies.”

John received the warning. But the warning also made him think of Dad and another question John had on his list. “Was that true in Dad’s case? Did he have enemies?”

She didn’t take her answer lightly. “I believe he did. Prophets are never without enemies.”

“Any idea who they might be?”

She almost laughed. “Well, where would you like me to start? I have over thirty years to cover.”

He smiled back. “Then how about recently? Anyone who may have meant him harm recently?”

“You mean, who may have killed him?”

John wasn’t sure he heard that. Then again, he knew he did. “Well . . . yes.”

She shook her head. John didn’t want to disturb Mom with his theories.

“Well . . . of course, I’m not saying he was killed . . .”

“No, John. But that’s what you’re thinking, and that’s what I’m
thinking.”

John had to double-check. “You think Dad was killed?”

She nodded.

“You mean murdered?”

“Yes.”

“What makes you think that?”

“What makes
you
think that?”

John felt they’d skipped a question in here somewhere. “I . . . uh . . . well, I do think he was killed. At least I lean heavily in that direction.”

“Which is something those pipe racks never do.”

Another surprise. “You know about the pipe rack?”

“I know about all of them. I helped your father buy them and set them up when we moved into that warehouse sixteen years ago. I know what they’ll do—stand there for years—and what they won’t do—dump over for no reason when no one but Dad is there. And I went down there and had Chuck show me what was left of that pipe rack, and he told me about the forklift theory.”

“He told you about the—”

“Now, now, I asked him directly, and he knew he’d have to tell me. I’m his boss now, remember? But I do appreciate you wanting to spare me some pain.”

John was stuck for a moment. He still had some things to learn about his mother. “So, okay . . . any theories, Mom? Why would someone want to kill Dad?”

“I don’t know. But I have faith that someday we will.”

“But what about . . .” John hesitated. “Mom, I hate to ask a question like this, but . . .”

She shook her head. “John, all your father ever did was sell pipe. He never sold drugs or laundered money or did anything else that would make him a criminal.” Then she chuckled and said, “Except for blocking abortion clinics. He has done that.”

“What about his friendship with Max Brewer?”

“They spent a lot of time together. Dad was hoping he could find out who killed Annie. You know about that.”

“What about Max Brewer’s circle of acquaintances or enemies? I wonder if Dad crossed any of them.”

She shrugged. “Son, I think you and I know basically the same
things, and God knows the rest.”

John gave a wry smile. “And I’m supposed to be a prophet. Do you think God will tell me?”

She could only answer, “Son, God will do as He pleases.” And then her eyes twinkled as she reveled in the thought. “You can count on that.”

MONDAY JOHN REPORTED
to the station at 9 in the morning, quite early for him. His regular shift began at 1 in the afternoon, but this was the week of the Big Push, as Ben Oliver called it, and he and Ali Downs were scheduled for some photo and video promotional shoots.

The news set was already undergoing some changes. A crew of carpenters, tool belts jingling and saws screaming, were tearing out a whole wall to make room for the camera boom, a giant, mechanical arm supporting a robotic camera that would provide an extreme high-angle shot of the news set and then swoop down on the cast of performers for a dramatic entry into the show. One of the conceptualizers for the project was even pondering how to combine that moving shot with another taken from Chopper 6 as it swooped down on the Channel 6 building, creating the effect of one continuous swoop from the sky, through the roof, and into the news set.

“The viewer must have no doubts,” Ben said, “that this is NewsSix! No other station can top this one!”

In front of a bank of monitors with still pictures pasted over their screens, Ali Downs was ready for the camera, looking stunning as usual. John looked good, all made up and suited up and ready to sell the news. Marvin the photographer, a chubby, bearded, fretting little man in a purple T-shirt and blue jeans, had several strobes, umbrella reflectors, and floods set up, and now he was peering through the viewfinder of his big camera on a tripod.

“I want news, I want action, I want . . . I want intensity,” he chattered. He would have made a good acting coach. “Okay, now read that copy.”

Ali and John had some dummy scripts and looked at them.

“Ali,” Marvin said, waving his hand at them, “you’re checking a story with John. You’re concerned about its accuracy, okay?”

Ali held her script for John to see it. “John, what do you think of this? I don’t trust the source. And look at that spelling!”

Flash.

“Hmmm,” said John, furrowing his brow at the script. “Does this reporter work for us?”

They both cracked up.
Flash.

“Hey, come on, come on, let’s get serious!” said Marvin.

John read from the script, “A retarded chicken hatches a billiard ball, that story coming up next!”

“Yeah, that’s good, that’s good.” Marvin kept peering down through the viewfinder. All they could see was the top of his head. “Now look at me. Make me trust you.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you,” said Ali in mock seriousness.
Flash.

They smiled.
Flash.

They looked at the script again.
Flash.

They posed with a TV camera.
Flash.

John in shirtsleeves.
Flash.

Ali close-up, jotting notes.
Flash. Flash.

“Wet your lips and smile.”
Flash.

“Lean forward, John. Ali, move in.”
Flash.

“Okay, turn this way a little. Closer together.”
Flash. Flash. Flash.

Then the video shoot. Mounted cameras, handheld cameras, high angles, floor angles, close-ups, traveling shots. News in the making. Faces full of business—the world’s going to end if we don’t get this story out, working, editing, rushing about, handheld shots racing through the newsroom, quick conversations, zoom-in shots of John, then a blurry pan, then Ali brought into focus and zoomed in some more. Intensity, intensity, more intensity. John with sleeves rolled up, banging away at the computer, not just taking but tearing news copy from the printer, nodding in agreement with no one in particular. Ali busy at work, then consulting with a reporter (over-the-shoulder shot), then a wry, you’re-not-fooling-me smile at someone off-camera.

Ben dropped in from time to time to get a taste of what was brewing. His orders were clear and crusty at the start of the day: “
Sell
it.” So the strobes kept flashing, and the video cameras kept grinding, and John and Ali kept looking busy, intense, and outstandingly honest. Ben didn’t say much, but his narrowed eyes and tight smile indicated he
was pleased.

THAT SAME MORNING,
before Leslie had to report to the station for her shift, she and Deanne Brewer met at the Westland Memorial Hospital, walked down long halls past numbered doorways, workstations, patients in wheelchairs, a green plant or two, and much inscrutable art, turned corners, took elevators, read floor directories, asked directions, and finally found themselves in Medical Records, a pleasant, glassed-in office with six desks neatly arranged and quiet people seated behind them shuffling papers, marking files, answering phones.

At the nearest desk a lady named Rose with neon-red hair asked if she could help them, and they asked her for Annie Delores Brewer’s autopsy report.

“Do you have a release form?” Rose asked.

Deanne had it ready. She’d gotten it the day before, and she and Max had filled it out meticulously, answering a volley of questions: who they were, where and when they were born, where they now lived, where they worked, their income, their Social Security numbers, any run-ins they may have had with the law (Max had had a few).

“And I’ll need some picture ID,” Rose instructed. Deanne produced her driver’s license. Rose then typed Max and Deanne’s names and numbers into a computer and waited for the results.

The results were immediate but not good. “That file is not accessible.”

Leslie wasn’t surprised. She had to hold her tongue.

“What do you mean?” Deanne asked, her temperature rising.

“It’s protected under the privacy laws.”

“But I’m Annie’s mother!”

Rose only shook her head. “I’m sorry. The document is not accessible.”

Deanne was visibly angry. “Now wait a minute! You are talking to Annie’s mother! Her blood parent!”

Rose only raised her hands and shrugged. “By law the autopsy report is not accessible to the parents if it contains certain information protected by the privacy laws.”

Now that was interesting. Leslie asked, “Certain information?”

“Yes.”

“And just what kind of information would that be?”

Rose played dumb, and very poorly. “Oh, I would have no idea. It could be anything.”

Deanne knew she was addressing one tiny wheel in a very big machine, but she had to lecture somebody. “Well listen, my husband and I have been through the wringer with this hospital before, and we’ve been put off and shuffled around and given excuses and told all kinds of things that we can’t do and can’t know and can’t ask and can’t find out, and I am getting sick of it, you hear?”

Rose didn’t like being lectured. “Mrs. Brewer, if you wish to see the autopsy report, you’ll have to come back here with a court order. Otherwise . . .” and her long fingernail tapped the counter with each word, “the file is not accessible.”