Dire Means (22 page)

“Moderation?” Tracey’s voice sounded tinny through the speakerphone.

Janne studied her fingernails for a moment and then said, “Me. I’m going to moderate this myself. It’s been a long time.”

Mark marveled at Janne as she worked her business. She was a true pro and watching her was a treat.

She turned to him, “Mark, do you have a suit?”

“One.”

“What color?”

“Navy.”

“Fine. Wear it… Oh, and Tracey?”

“Yes, Ms. Prophet.”

“I want refreshments served and a nice floral. This press conference is to be both conclusive and celebratory. We’re going to flare and then quench Mark’s limelight so he can get back to his life.”

“Yes, of course, Ms. Prophet.”

“That’s all. Thanks, hon.” Janne ended the call with the press of a button. She took a moment to write a few more notes in broad strokes and then paused to look at Mark. “I’ll compose a statement for you tonight—based on what you shared with me. Tomorrow you can review and correct, if need be. Be at the Doubletree at 3:00 p.m. tomorrow and we’ll run a mock up before we broadcast at 4:00.”

“I might have to run away,” Mark said, elbows on his knees and chin resting in his hands.

Janne looked over her glasses and feigned an angry glare.

“Okay, okay, I trust you.”

After the visit with Janne, Mark called Bonfiglio Café on his way home. Henry’s voice was hushed and Mark didn’t hear the usual background banter. Only a voice on the café’s television was audible. The fifteenth person, an eighteen-year-old, had been reported missing for twenty-four hours under the same mysterious circumstances as the others. The boy’s family was on the air making a statement. Henry quietly took Mark’s order for two portions of Mark’s Macaroni Madness and hung up.

When Mark arrived, the café was abuzz with new speculation on the vanishing Santa Monicans. The eighteen year old was the first person under twenty-one years old to go missing. Henry handed Mark his to-go containers in a plastic bag and waved off Mark’s attempt to pay.

In front of his apartment complex, dusk had triggered a few streetlights to flicker on at half power as they warmed up. Enough light remained to see that no more news crew personnel waited, but an unfamiliar man in a suit stood at the top of the steps. He carried a briefcase and paused to look in all directions before he sauntered down the stairs. If Mark had arrived two minutes earlier, they would have passed on the narrow walkway. He felt the luck of timing and instead of leaving his car, pulled out a container of his macaroni. As he ate, he watched the man walk a short way down the street and get into an unmarked van.

He waited until it was darker outside before leaving his car. When he reached his front door, two red envelopes were taped to it and a gift basket sat on the doormat. He collected them all and went inside, checking over his shoulder to make sure he hadn’t been spotted.

The basket contained large shiny apples, pears, and grapes. Gourmet coffee and wrapped chocolate candies were tucked between. A book about heroism protruded from the center of the treats. The entire basket was wrapped in cellophane with a thick red bow tied at the top. He put it on his kitchen countertop, pulled a steak knife from a drawer and cut the wrapping open.

As he bit into an apple, he examined the two envelopes which were both from new admirers who had seen him on TV. He wiped juice from his chin and wondered how they had found his address—and in so little time. One letter ended its praise for him with an invitation to say a few words at a local church at any of the next two Sunday services. The church pastor had signed it and included a P.S., saying that he was doing a sermon on selfless love.

While reading the other fan letter, he wondered where Al was. He wondered if he was getting a comparable amount of attention—the non-humiliating attention he needed—or any attention at all. Were news reporters trying to get his side of the story? If so, Mark had neither seen nor heard anything about him since their encounter three stories above the Promenade.

He turned on the television. The news was almost entirely about the missing persons, focusing mainly on the newest, youngest victim. It seemed that law enforcement was finally inclined to call these “abductions.”

Mark’s story was featured later in the broadcast and the replay of his lunge at Al was shown in slow motion. Earlier that day, Channel Five had taken some footage of Mark’s front door with a reporter knocking on it. He saw that an envelope had already been taped to it. The reporter said that Mark Denny could not be contacted for comment. The camera then panned left to a grinning Todd Felsom who appeared thrilled to be of service.

“Did you know you had a hero next door, Mr. Felsom?”

“It doesn’t surprise me. Mark is a fantastic neighbor,” Todd boasted. The reporter nodded for Todd to continue. “What people don’t know is that Mark risked his life for this guy right after having been assaulted and robbed five days earlier. Mark Denny is Superman as far as I’m concerned.”

Mark clapped his hand to his forehead. He wasn’t angry, just unused to such attention—and for an act he had no idea would become as big as it had. He turned off the TV and then went to bed, hoping he could find sleep on the night before he would be televised, again, at the press conference arranged by Janne.

The next day, Mark performed a few computer service calls around town before he made his way to the Renaissance Room at the DoubleTree Hotel. He was right on time for the 3:00 p.m. prep Janne had requested. As he walked through the parking lot, he searched for Janne, but didn’t see her. Inside, he cracked the Renaissance Room’s door and peered in. A small group of reporters crowded to one side of the room, talking on phones and setting up cameras and laptops. In front of them, a dozen still-photo and television cameras mounted on tripods were aimed at a long table with pleated burgundy tablecloth that hung to the floor. A bundle of microphones spouted up in the center of the table like an overstuffed bouquet. The bright call letters of local radio and TV stations collared each one.

“Mark,” someone whispered loudly from behind him. He turned and saw Janne jogging toward him. “Don’t go in there, they’ll mob you with questions and we’re not ready.” She pulled him by the arm and led him away. “I have a separate room for us to prepare in. How are you feeling?”

“Nervous. Will I live?”

Janne put her arm around his shoulder. “You’ll be fine.”

She had notes spread out on a table and three newspapers opened to stories about Mark’s heroism. She locked the door behind them and pointed to a chair. They refined Mark’s press statement and rehearsed a number of probable questions.

“I’m going to give you a get out of jail free card.” Janne said.

“What? I’m going to jail now?”

“No, my paranoid friend. Reporters can sometimes be a bit raw in their questioning. They want the dramatic story and will try to get a reaction from you. If a tough question is too uncomfortable to deal with, I want you to pinch the skin of your Adam’s apple and tug it gently a few times. The move is inconspicuous, but I’ll see it and I’ll step in to take over. That’s what we’ll call your ‘get out of jail free card.’”

“Like this?” Mark said, pulling his throat skin way too hard.

“Almost. Just be a little more subtle about it. If you need it, you’ll be glad we have this code.”

At 3:35, they emerged from their private meeting with a few minutes to spare before meeting the press. The plan was for Mark to offer a brief prepared statement about the incident that would satisfy the curiosity of the media.

When they entered, the cameras flashed and red indicator lights illuminated. Lenses followed every inch of Mark’s movement to the table. The reporters shuffled, bumping one another to get good position as Mark sat down.

Janne leaned to the microphones and opened by welcoming the press, and then gave them an eloquent statement about the bravery and selflessness Mark had shown by putting his own life in danger to save the life of one of society’s rejected citizens. She then sat back and gestured for Mark to lean to the microphone for his statement.

Mark unfolded his notes. His tongue felt like cotton as he prepared to talk and Janne subtly pushed a glass of water a few inches toward him. He took a sip and a deep breath. His hand trembled so he placed the paper on the table. Janne patted his knee—reassurance hidden from the reporters by the front skirt of the table.

“My name is Mark Denny. Two nights ago, I helped a man who needed it. I didn’t realize my actions were being televised until after I was involved.” Mark paused and looked up from his paper to the reporters. A batch of camera flashes fired off.

Mark returned to his notes. “Since that event, the most popular question asked of me is why I took my clothes off. Newspapers have referred to me as the ‘stripping savior’ and the ‘knight in no armor.’ I agree that these are funny terms, but to set the record straight, I’m not an exhibitionist. I didn’t enjoy exposing myself. I was neither attempting to seduce, nor to trick the man who planned to take his life. We discussed humiliation. My act was a desperate attempt, at the end of a difficult conversation, to show him my willingness to experience the humiliation and mockery he claimed to feel daily—what many of our homeless citizens feel daily. When I moved close enough to reach him, I felt I had an opportunity to physically keep him from harming himself so I took it…” Mark’s voice cracked and he stopped. He blinked fast and exhaled hard to hold back tears. “Because I didn’t want him to die.”

Janne leaned toward Mark and put her hand on his back. He looked up at the reporters and said, “And that’s all I care to say about the incident.”

He wasn’t going to need a get out of jail free card today because he wasn’t going to take any questions.

Janne nodded, stood, and thanked the media for their attendance. She and Mark headed for the exit while reporters shouted questions to them from behind the veil of camera flashes. Janne held up her hand like an overprotective publicist as they went to the door.

The voice of a squawky female reporter pierced through the others. “Do you have any professional training in suicide prevention?”

Mark stopped at the door and turned back. “No.”

“Did you know the man?” Two reporters asked the same question at the same time.

Janne leaned to Mark’s ear and whispered, “You don’t have to answer any more.”

Mark nodded to her, but didn’t move. He decided to answer—while standing at the door for an abrupt exit if needed. “No, I didn’t know him,” Mark said. “I met him right before the crowd gathered. His name was Al. And if there is any chance you are listening, Al, I hope you are okay.”

Another voice called out louder than the others, “How do you answer those who say that your friend, Al, was just a bum and not worth saving?”

An incredulous expression spread on Mark’s face. Some of the other reporters seemed disgusted, too. Mark walked back to the table and leaned close to the microphones. “If more people could empathize, I mean really look through the eyes of a homeless person, there would be no Al’s in this city.” Mark pounded his hand on the table and said, “That’s how I answer them.” He walked out the door, still held open by Janne, and ignored the other questions the reporters shouted.

He had finished his first news conference and he hoped that it would be his last. He thanked Janne for helping him make the process as comfortable as possible. She hugged him and made him promise to call her if he needed anything else.

On his drive home, Mark considered taking a vacation. The last six days had been the most dramatic of his life and he needed a break. The news conference turnout was evidence that his act of saving Al still held strong public interest and probably would for some time. A trip to Maui for a week or two with a stack of books would do him good.

§

As Mark drove to his first appointment the next day—a new client referral from Janne Prophet—a reporter on the radio announced that a body—possibly one of the missing people—had been found early that morning. Mark turned up the volume. Details were still coming in, but apparently the victim was found in a westbound lane of California Avenue just east of Third Street. He was dressed in the dirty garb of a homeless man and placed face up with his arms crossed over his chest. The body had been taken for autopsy. Police warned that they could not confirm that this was one of the abductees, but added that more details could come as early as that evening.

“Wow,” Mark said aloud. Finally, there might be some evidence—some break in the case.

The discovery of a body had affected public behavior. Shopping crowds thinned more. Buses had fewer passengers. Telecommuting surged. It meant that the abductor was now officially a killer, with a healthy stash of future victims already obtained.

Paranoia gorged on the imaginations of terrified people and altered their behaviors. Police reported that hotlines were flooded after each new incident, but, so far, all leads fizzled out.

Hotlines also reported a surge in false-alarm missing-person calls. Anxious family members phoned in reports on husbands, wives, and children who were simply late getting home from work or school. Employees whose out-of-the-office lunch hour ran long received phone calls from concerned bosses and coworkers. Police urged calm, while trying to appease a nervous public by reducing the twenty-four-hour requirement for a missing persons report filing to twelve hours.