The report offered welcome breathing room for Smith to think.
So far events in Harlem had not blossomed into something worse for CURE. Good for the moment, but it might only be a matter of time.
Under ordinary circumstances it would have been easy to blame Minister Shittman for what had happened in and outside of the police station. He was a man comfortable with mobs, having spent a career stirring the embers of racial hatred. But apparently he was an unwitting dupe in a larger scheme.
There had been 147 rioters arrested that morning. While some of them had criminal records, many more did not. There were mothers, grandmothers. Even a Korean grocer and his wife had joined the mob. Neither the previous night's rioters nor the police were typical Shittman followers.
The truth had come to startling light minutes after Remo had called from the Harlem police station. In a shocking sidewalk press conference in Harlem, it was revealed that the BCN television network was possessed of a technology capable of brainwashing television viewers. BCN was to blame for the mob attack on the former president's building. The network executive who had set up shop in the basement of Shittman's church had attested to that fact before committing suicide.
Smith was greatly relieved when the BCN executive's last words made no mention of Remo. But there was still the question of why a major American television network had been subliminally broadcasting an image of CURE's enforcement arm.
The dead man had named the president of the network as a coconspirator. When Remo called back after stopping by the Harlem church, Smith had sent him after the head of BCN.
Now, as he sat in the solitude of his office, Smith stared in frustration at the canted monitor below the surface of his desk. He had done all the digging he could do. Until Remo turned up something more, all Smith could do was wait.
As he sat in the afternoon gloom of his office, something nagged at the back of Smith's mind. With a thoughtful hum, he lowered his hands to the edge of his desk. An alphanumeric keyboard appeared as if by magic from the black background.
Typing swiftly, he accessed the BCN network's prime-time lineup. There were only three network shows on the previous evening. Shittman had indicated to Remo that he had received his subliminal commands through a program called Winner.
Something about that title seemed familiar to Smith. It had first come to him during Remo's call, but he didn't know why. In a flash, he realized where he'd heard it before.
Smith reached across the desk for his intercom. "Yes, Dr. Smith?" asked his secretary's voice.
"Mrs. Mikulka, could you please come in here for a moment?" Smith said.
He pressed a button at the base of the intercom, silently unlocking the door. A moment later, Eileen Mikulka stuck her blue-haired head in the room.
"Is something wrong, Dr. Smith?" Mrs. Mikulka asked worriedly. "It's not Mr. Howard, is it?" She wrung her hands as she approached his desk. It was a nervous habit she had displayed ever since the police had come stampeding into her office two days before.
"No," Smith said. "This is of a more personal nature. I recently overheard you discussing your son's television-viewing habits with a nurse in the cafeteria."
Mrs. Mikulka blinked. "I'm sorry," she said, unsure what she had done wrong. "I get lunch there sometimes. If you don't want me to, I suppose I can eat at my desk."
"That isn't a problem," Smith said. "I believe you mentioned that your son was looking for a copy of a program called 'Winner.' He had apparently missed an episode."
"Oh, yes," Mrs. Mikulka said. "That would be Kieran, he's my youngest. Thirty-five and doesn't have a job right now. Some boys just take a little longer to find their way, I guess. He's a big fan of that show. He usually tapes it when he's not home, but last Thursday night there was a car accident that knocked out the power for a few minutes and the VCR went out. When he found out he'd missed it, he asked me to ask around to see if anyone here had taped it."
"Do you know if he taped last night's episode?"
She bit her lip. "Well, he went out with his brother Konrad last night. He didn't get home until late, so I suppose he set the machine to tape it as usual."
"I would like to borrow that tape. Would you please go home and get it for me?"
"Oh," Mrs. Mikulka said, confused. "Do you want me to wait until I'm done work for the day?" Smith checked his watch. It was only two in the afternoon. Although it was tempting to let her run this errand on her own time, Smith did not want to wait.
"Now would be better if you don't mind," he said.
"Oh, I don't mind," Mrs. Mikulka said. "I'm happy to do a favor for your wife."
Smith's expression grew puzzled. "My wife?"
"Well, this is for her, isn't it? I assumed she'd forgotten to tape it for herself."
"My wife doesn't own a video recorder."
Mrs. Mikulka didn't think her employer ever watched television. She knew he liked computers, involving himself with solitaire or other distractions. This was the first indication she had that something else might be going on in the Folcroft administrator's office. If he spent his time hidden away watching those silly reality-TV shows, it was no wonder he kept the door locked most of the time.
"I just assumed it was for your wife. I'll run home and get the tape right now. I'll be back as fast as I can."
As she hurried from the room, Smith pursed his lips.
So far the damage was limited to Harlem. Only people who lived within a few blocks of Hal Shittman's Greater Congregation of the Lord Church had fallen victim to the subliminal signals. The dead BCN man had broadcast from there. But there could be other commands laced into the same program in different areas. And, like the image of Remo at the police station, some of those could be linked to CURE.
Feeling a fresh twinge of worry deep in his belly, Smith reached in his pocket for his wallet.
TWO CRISP ONE-DOLLAR bills sat on the edge of Smith's desk when Eileen Mikulka returned twenty minutes later.
The first words out of his secretary's mouth almost sent the CURE director into cardiac arrest.
"It's a shame about Remo," Mrs. Mikulka said as she handed over the tape.
"Excuse me?" he gasped. What little color he possessed drained from Smith's gray face.
"He was the poor 'Winner' contestant who was killed last night. Kieran told me about it when I went home just now. That mob killed him on the set of the show." She noticed the sickly look on her employer's face. "Oh, I'm sorry, Dr. Smith. I assumed you would have heard. It was on the news."
"No, I hadn't," Smith replied, getting to his feet. "Please excuse me." He scooped up the money, pressing it into her hand even as he ushered her from the room. "This is for your gas. Thank you. I'll get the tape back to you as soon as possible." He closed and locked the door.
Smith leaned back against the door frame.
His heart was racing. Although she had seen him many times over the years, Mrs. Mikulka had never expressed any interest in Remo. Given the day's events, her use of his name now had sent up alarm signals for the CURE director.
Pushing away from the door, Smith stepped over to a shelf where a small video player was attached to his old black-and-white television. He slid in the tape and the machine began to play automatically. Clicking on the TV, Smith immediately hit pause.
He reasoned that the flashes Remo had mentioned would be timed with the motion on the screen. Frozen, any subliminal signals would not register to the unconscious mind.