He studied the image carefully from top to bottom and side to side. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. Slowly, he advanced the picture frame by frame. He felt a fresh thrill of panic when the name "Remo" suddenly appeared at the bottom of the screen. He quickly realized that it wasn't part of any subliminal message. The name appeared as a regular caption and was used to identify one of the contestants on the game show.
It was odd to see that name applied to someone else.
After another minute of frame advancing, Smith realized there was nothing there-at least nothing that he could see. He popped the tape from the VCR.
Folcroft didn't have the facilities to properly analyze what-if anything-might be there. The tape would have to be sent out for professional analysis.
For an instant he thought of Mark Howard. This would have ordinarily been one of his duties. A minor thing, but one of the many small responsibilities the young man had taken on over the past year.
Smith's face hardened.
Purging thoughts of his assistant, he spun from the television. Stride resolute, he marched back to his desk to locate a facility that could uncover whatever messages might be hidden on Mrs. Mikulka's tape.
Chapter 13
The Broadcast Corporation of North America occupied a forty-story building on Madison Avenue.
The midtown Manhattan headquarters of BCN had been built in 1928. At the time it was just around the corner from the original NBC offices. By building so close, BCN had intended to be a constant thorn in NBC's side. But then NBC had ruined its rival's best-laid plan by up and moving to 30 Rockefeller Plaza. Instead of dogging its competition to its new home, BCN reluctantly opted to remain where it was.
It turned out those two early decisions established a pair of precedents that the BCN network would follow for the rest of its corporate and creative lifetime.
BCN never led. It followed. When radio giant NBC was on Fifth Avenue, BCN decided to build right in its backyard.
Precedent one: BCN the Copycat.
By not following NBC to its new 30 Rock address, the upstart network quickly established precedent number two: BCN the Timid.
When television was in its infancy, timid BCN lagged behind in the cozy comfort of radio, allowing NBC and the DuMont network to test the water first.
Only when the early risk takers had established the route to modest TV success did copycat BCN jump on board the bandwagon.
For the first fifty years of the television age, BCN offered bland and formulaic TV programming that was a virtual carbon copy of what every other network was broadcasting.
At some point during this first half century of wheezy dramas and formulaic sitcoms, an enthusiastic and truth-challenged public-relations man had dubbed BCN the "Diamond Network," the inference being that only quality programs ever found their way onto its nightly schedule. Despite years of evidence to the contrary, somehow the image stuck.
For years the Diamond Network coasted on its reputation. It wasn't until the last decade of the twentieth century that BCN finally began to show cracks in its corporate facade.
Even before the appearance of upstarts like Vox, UPN and the Warner Brothers network, BCN was already unsteady. Media mergers and changing demographics didn't help. Even as the other networks began to skew younger and younger, BCN's core audience continued to age. It looked as if the end might be at hand for one of the original Big Three networks.
Industry experts who had forecast her demise were surprised when salvation for BCN came in the form of one single reality show.
No one expected Winner to be such a huge success. It was supposed to be less than a blip on the TV radar. A curiosity that had somehow found its improbable way onto the prime-time schedule. Sure, it might generate a few good numbers for a week or two. But it would flame out fast.
The television world was shocked when the high-concept show didn't crash and burn. Winner was not only a success out of the gate, it continued to grow.
Other networks were quick to churn out knockoffs. It was an amazing role reversal for BCN.
The rising tide began to lift all boats. As Winner's numbers grew, so too did those of the rest of BCN's lineup.
All of this was welcome news for BCN's president. When Martin Houton was appointed by the board to head up the Broadcast Corporation of North America, the network had been third in the ratings and was sinking fast. Ten years into his tenure, the network's numbers were on the rise and advertisers were flooding back. The scratching wolves had finally been chased away from the back door. It was a new century and a brand-new golden age for the Diamond Network. Thanks to one great gamble on one mediocre show, there was nothing but clear sailing as far as the eye could see.
Until today when one little suicidal lunatic-way up in godforsaken Harlem of all places-had slammed the network's ship smack-dab into the mother of all icebergs.
"We're gonna sue!" Martin Houton boomed. Houton was a silver-haired man in his late fifties.
His cherubic face was devil-red with rage. He prowled near the window of his corner office, glaring hatred at the streaming headlights on Madison Avenue thirty stories below.
It seemed that everyone was on the way home. And, finally, finally some of them would be watching BCN when they got there. It had taken so long to build up.
Houton slapped his hands against the window. "That bastard!" he yelled. "What the hell was he doing in Harlem? I didn't authorize whatever it was he was doing."
The windows in his office were shatterproof glass. There was no way to break through and hurl himself to the glittering diamond headlights of Madison Avenue far below.
He spun furiously away from the window. "What are they saying now?" he demanded.
The vice president in charge of BCN programming sat on a plush sofa in the conference area of the room. A bank of televisions played silently in a nearby wall unit. Dozens of pictures flashed images of unrest in Harlem.
On Vox, a reporter who was scruffy by network standards was talking to an anchorman. The News Company network was obviously dipping into the pool of local talent.
The BCN vice president turned up the sound on Vox.
"...is the latest information we've heard," the reporter was saying. "So far BCN is refusing comment."
"Can you blame them?" said the anchor from the Vox news station in New York. "Those are serious charges."
"Serious? Try slanderous!" Houton boomed at the TV.
The programming veep strained to hear the television.
"According to Thomas Trumann, BCN's man in Harlem who committed suicide on national television earlier today, the Broadcasting Corporation of North America is entirely responsible for last night's riot," the reporter said.
"We are not responsible but we are suing your ass!" Houton screamed. He stabbed a pudgy finger at the screen. "I'm suing you, Vox, ABC, NBC and anyone else who's slandering this network. Why aren't our news people on the air denying this? Hell, tell them to get on and blame someone else. No one likes Ted Turner. Blame him."
"We can't just make up a story like that," the programming vice president cautioned.
"Why not? They are."
"They claim Trumann said we were responsible. Our own news people were there when he killed himself. He gave them a tour of the church basement before he blew his brains out. It was crammed full of BCN equipment."
"It's a setup. Shittman must have looted our stuff. This is all a big scam."
"Trumann apologized for his misuse of the technology on BCN's behalf. He came right out and said we were responsible for what happened at the former president's office building. Marty, he even exonerated Hal Shittman and that mob of his."