The hall was empty before she could finish, and the door swung closed.
Serge stared up at the whiteboard and rubbed his mouth. “I didn’t realize this was so involved. The listings are rigidly divided between mediums and healers. All guaranteed to be officially certified and permitted.”
Coleman tapped Serge on the back. “What kind of test do you think they give to certify them?”
“Probably a blank piece of paper,” said Serge. “Then they turn it back in blank because the person grading the exam is also a psychic.”
A TV was on in the corner, playing a promotional. Serge walked over and turned up the volume.
“What’s going on?” asked Coleman.
“A reality show is using a psychic to try to solve a missing-persons case.”
A woman in a paisley silk robe sat in a darkened room and closed her eyes. She held a photograph of a teenage girl. Her hands began to tremble. “Her body won’t be found immediately . . .”
“Wow,” said Coleman. “Do you think she’s really going to crack the case?”
“Not a chance,” said Serge. “I once watched an otherwise reputable crime program, and even the cops were taken in by the charlatan they’d hired. The key to the whole scam is making the general sound specific, like, ‘The victim’s body will be found near water. There is some kind of mechanical sound. I’m getting a vision of colored lights.’ . . . And if the police ask about a name, she says she sees the letters E and T.”
“Sounds pretty specific to me,” said Coleman.
“That’s the whole point,” said Serge. “But E and T are the most common letters in the English language. And try getting away from water, sounds and lights. Who’s to say how near is near? In the show I saw, they later found the body in the woods. And as proof the psychic was right, the narrator said there was a river on the edge of town, jackhammers were fixing a road, and some intersection had a traffic signal.”
“That’s amazing!” said Coleman.
“It’s amazing she earns a living,” said Serge. “That’s why I know it’s the job for me. The whole point is to find the body, so when they finally do locate the shallow grave, that’s all they care about—totally forgetting some psychic gibberish five months ago that was so vague it fit half the cold cases in the country. That’s why I say screw generalizing and give them a real show: ‘The body will be found strangled with a Siberian weasel and buried in a calliope beneath a time-share sweat lodge.’ And if they ask me about a name, I’ll respond with African clicking sounds.”
The TV continued in the background. “. . . I see colored lights and the letters E and T . . .”
Coleman followed Serge back to the whiteboard. “Which one are you going to call?”
“This one looks interesting.” Serge picked up the phone. “Madam Bovary . . .”
Back at the Office
The fluorescent newsroom hummed the hum of a major breaking story. Phones rang, keyboards clattered, people rushed past each other with documents. Reason: City work crews had just discovered sixty-five bodies buried along Interstate 95. The grisly remains turned out to be a forgotten cemetery, but TV is a visual medium, and bulldozers and bones are always welcome.
More reporters ran across the newsroom. At the end of the open floor plan sat a row of glassed-in executive offices. Through the window of one such office, the staff could see silent gestures and emotional body language. An important person sat behind the desk, and someone less so sat in front.
Reevis rubbed both hands down his face in frustration.
“Are you all right?” asked his assignment editor.
“I can’t work with these guys anymore,” said Reevis. “They stand for everything I’m against.”
“I know this has been a rough transition—”
“Rough? Did you see my ridiculous noon segment at the graveyard by the highway?” asked Reevis. “After I refused to drive a bulldozer, Nigel actually dug up a skull and tossed it to me while I was live on the air.”
The editor winced. “That part could have been handled with more sensitivity.”
“Not to mention what happened yesterday,” said Reevis. “I had a key person ready to be interviewed, and they wrecked it again.”
“That also was unfortunate,” the editor said evenly. “And I passed your objections up through proper channels.”
“Obviously it didn’t help,” said Reevis. “They put it on the air last night anyway. The chaos with the motel owner, and then two camera crews chasing each other around the parking lot. Not to mention the day before, when they charged into our meeting and jammed a lens in my face, making me look like a clown.”
The editor took a slow, diplomatic breath. “We discussed that at the marketing breakfast this morning. It seems we received very favorable feedback on that last segment.”
“What segment?” asked Reevis. “They just manufactured a meaningless confrontation by rudely barging into your office for no reason.”
“Exactly,” said Shug. “The focus group loved the idea of us ruthlessly investigating ourselves. Our confidence and trust ratings went through the roof.”
“But we weren’t investigating ourselves.”
“And our parent company insists we continue.”
“Continue doing something we’re not doing?”
“They said it boosts the audience’s faith.”
“Let me see if I have this straight,” said Reevis. “We fake stuff to show we have principles?”
“And integrity.”
Reevis rolled his eyes. “Anything else?”
“Corporate wants us to follow up by allowing Nigel and Günter to film us as we clean house.”
“What for?”
“Weed out all the journalistic corruption that’s led to an epidemic of fabricated stories.”
“Who’s fabricating stories?”
“Just Nigel and Günter,” said the editor. “There are going to be a number of firings. It could get ugly.”
The pair were interrupted by screaming outside in the general newsroom. A woman wept hysterically at her desk as a film crew bore down on her with their camera. Then she fled for the exit, and Günter ran jiggling after her.
Reevis turned back around. “And you’re okay with this?”
“I’ve got kids in college.” Shug looked out his office window. “Uh-oh.”
“They’re heading over here.”
The editor got up and locked the door.
Nigel rattled the knob and knocked. “Come on guys, let us in.”
“Where were we?” asked Shug.
“It could get ugly.” Reevis pointed. “Now they’re filming us through the window.”
The editor walked over and closed the blinds. “We’re entering a period that’s going to become a little turbulent, but it’s only temporary.”
Knocking on the glass. “Open the blinds.”
“So you’re going to force me to keep working with them?” said Reevis.
“I’ve got kids—”
“I know, college,” said Reevis. “Okay, if it’s only temporary, I’ll play ball. You gave me my big break at this station, so it’s only right that I return the favor.”
“I’m glad to hear you feel that way,” said the editor. “Then you’ll completely understand . . .”
The assignment editor got up and opened the door to his office. Nigel and Günter stormed in and stuck the camera in the young reporter’s face.
“Reevis!” yelled his editor. “You’re fired!”
“What?”