The Concealers (4 page)

Four days after the race, Katherine finally felt rested—and hungry. She hopped in the shower, as always appreciating the tremendous water pressure and instant hot temperature inherent in these old Manhattan buildings. She welcomed the pounding of the water on her body, particularly the strained muscles in her neck, shoulders, and back, as she thought about her meeting this morning. She toweled off in front of the mirror. Dissatisfied with what she saw—thighs too big, breasts too small, legs too thick—she renewed her pledge to eat less and work out more, and picked out a pair of khaki pants and a light tan collared blouse with small red flowers.

“C'mon, Hailey, Dr. Gerry's waiting!” Katherine said as she grabbed a scarf, looped it around her neck, and bounded down the twenty-five stairs and around the corner to the coffee shop, her favorite hangout morning and night.

After hot coffee and a bagel with lox and cream cheese, another New Yorker habit she'd been happy to adopt, she hoisted her backpack, took Hailey's leash, and headed north toward Broadway, but not before noticing all the tents already in place in the square. She loved NYC's street fairs, festivals, and farmers' markets, especially the artists and vendors they drew. The fresh produce of the farmers' market always reminded her of home.

When Katherine first came to the city, she had been overwhelmed by the crowds—people rushing everywhere all at once—and the cacophony of honking horns, sirens, jackhammers, traffic, garbage trucks, and street sweepers. A world away from the rural peace and quiet of Marion, New York. But Katherine had quickly absorbed the energy of the city, and now, on her rare trips home, the slow pace, absence of crowds, and quiet felt like forced re-acclimation.

Entering Broadway, Katherine heard a man playing a saxophone beneath the silvery statue of Andy Warhol, as she passed under a block-long scaffold, portending renovation, but without ever seeing a single workman. When she got to East Twentieth, she could just make out the side of her destination, the iconic Flatiron Building and the fourth-floor office of Professor Gerald Simpson, her mentor at the Fletcher Thomas School of Journalism.

She had studied the history of the Flatiron Building and, like so many others, had fallen in love with its architecture and culture. In sharp contrast to the city's grid of modern skyscrapers and office buildings, it seemed a throwback to a different era, a relic of a golden age.

The park was already filled with people as Katherine entered the building from the Broadway side with Hailey and ran her security card through the turnstile.

“Service animal, right?” said the building's voluble superintendent, grinning.

“My very survival depends on her,” said Katherine, slipping past. “How'd Adam's softball team make out?” She hardly waited for the answer. As usual she took the wooden-railed stairs, pausing at the bottom momentarily to admire the view straight up through all twenty-two stories. All trace of muscle pain had vanished.

Anxious to hear the evaluation of her project and turn in her Enduro exposition, Katherine knew Simpson wouldn't care that she was late; she'd waited for
him
countless times, and during the past ten months they'd overcome the initial tension inherent in their professor-student relationship.

Grateful to have such a talented and well-regarded teacher, Katherine had come to think of Gerry as a good friend and mentor. While her academic performance was in the top tier of her small class, Katherine appreciated that his teaching her was more important to him than his grading. She knocked, then breezed into the small triangle-shaped office with the smell of old books and narrow tall windows overlooking the junction of Broadway and Fifth.

Professor Simpson, a thin African-American man in his forties with the face of an intellectual, glanced up from his computer monitor. “Miss Kelly and Miss Hailey,” he said in a slightly mocking tone, glancing at his watch. “I've been expecting you.”

Katherine seated herself in the high-backed wooden armchair in front of his vintage desk, pulled out the thin wooden writing tablet, and sighed, “Okay, let's have it.” Hailey lay down at Katherine's feet, nose resting on outstretched paws.

Simpson began slowly, carefully, addressing Katherine in a deliberate manner, as a master chef might prepare a delicate dish. “People should know—and will likely care—about the fraud and abuse in our Medicaid and Medicare health-care delivery systems, and your narrow focus on foreign doctor fraud made the issues easier for the everyday reader to understand,” Simpson said, spinning his chair around to the shallow black shelf in front of the window and pouring himself a glass of water. “Would you like some water, Katherine?” he asked.

“Why the formality, Gerry?”

Simpson poured a glass for Katherine, turned his chair back around, rose, handed it to her with a smile, and returned to his seat, taking his sweet time.

“I particularly liked the explanation of the way you got some of those physicians to talk to you—the FBI immunity angle.”

“That's the first question you asked me,” Katherine said. “ ‘How are you going to get them to talk to you?' ”

Katherine knew Simpson would ignore her interruption. “Tying this to billions of dollars of fraud in the '97 Florida Medicaid tobacco litigation, while historical, seemed a bit musty. Your approach worked, however, largely because the tie-in to cost containment made it relevant. In short, you went through the green light and all the way to the finish, with your story reaching its maximum potential, sacrificing neither your integrity nor your credibility. The writing was clear and professional, the research solid, the reporting in-depth and fair,” Simpson said, gesturing to emphasize his point.

“I have the feeling there's a ‘but' coming,” Katherine said, beginning to sweat.

“Your writing is technically good on paper . . . excellent, in fact.
But,
what you haven't shown me is
inspired
. Where's the emotional core? Why the distance? Clinical, factually correct, but dry. You're holding back, shying away from driving to the heart of the story, from your point of view. People who follow reporters follow them from
here,
” he said, patting his heart. “Not
here,
” pointing to his head.

“Wow,” Katherine said, feeling queasy and rubbing her nose and forehead, “I sure didn't expect that.” She reached over and nudged her foot against Hailey for reassurance. She fought the urge to be defensive; objections would be futile and ill-received, she knew. Instead she asked, “Where is this going?”

“Don't fret. Your master's project is done and accepted. But you have the capacity to be more than a good reporter, Katherine. You have a shot at being a great one.”

“Thanks, I think. So . . . ”

“I have an additional assignment for you. Whether it's helpful will be up to you. I want you to have the experience of writing a story in which you necessarily will be emotionally involved.”

“I thought the whole idea was
not
to be emotionally involved. Objectivity and all that stuff,” Katherine said. “Where's the emotional core in Medicaid fraud?”

“That's the point. Find it. It may be the story of the people committing the fraud. Or their victims. Don't confuse objectivity with impartiality.”

Katherine leaned forward, momentarily resting her head on her left palm and then running her hand through her light brown hair. “Got an example?”

Simpson thought for a minute. “You talked about a Haitian doctor practicing in Florida. Undetected for a while. Not licensed. Under the radar. What drove him to game the Florida Medicaid system? Greed? Mistreatment in Haiti? How does he justify his misconduct? Was he a victim of fraud back home? What did he do with the money—give it to poor people, or buy a flashy car?”

Katherine sat back in her chair, dizzy, intersecting thoughts buzzing in her head like a busy railroad switchyard. She also felt conflicted, but there was no question that her mentor had touched a chord. She reached in her handbag, took out a notepad, and started jotting some notes. Simpson smiled and sat down, not saying a word.

When Katherine stopped writing, he continued. “I want you to write a story about a person, living or dead—though not a relative of yours—who has had a substantial influence on someone in your family. This person's influence may have helped your family member overcome a major life obstacle, set a strong example, or assisted in some other way. While you may talk with the family member, also interview others.”

“Why?” Katherine asked, her surprise apparent in the tone of her voice. Hailey perked up.

“I know you came in here thinking you had this nailed. You did, of course. You did all the things a good reporter should do. I have no doubt you'll be a good reporter. But for you, that's not enough. Or shouldn't be. If you don't push through ‘clinical' to ‘inspired,' you will be good, but not great. And you have a chance to be the real thing,” Simpson said, standing again. “I hope you understand.”

Katherine looked at Simpson intently for a few beats, and then said testily, “Here's my Enduro paper. I thought it was the last.”

“I'm eager to read it,” he said, taking the paper. “I know this may have you puzzled, even upset. It's just one more paper. This has nothing to do with your graduation. It's not for me; it's for you.”

“If it's just one more paper . . . for me . . . with no grade . . . then it's an option, right, not a requirement?”

Simpson smiled. “That's right; it's an option, not a requirement. You don't even have to turn it in . . . but if you do, I'd love to read it.”

Katherine's head was spinning. She stood up, shook his hand, and, with a tight smile and a tight grip on Hailey's lead, waved good-bye. She walked out of the room more slowly than she had entered it, trying to sort out her emotions. She felt pushed and hurt, but she trusted Simpson, at least as much as she could trust any man. He was drilling too deep, but she also knew he would not have bothered if he hadn't believed in her.

Katherine stared at the tiny square tiles in the old floor, thankful there were no other people in the small elevator vestibule. She couldn't push the button. She walked over to the stairway, putting one hand on the round metal ball atop the square corner of the rail on her left, her other hand on the metal ball on her right, and looked down. As always, she was mesmerized by the symmetry of the rails and the stairs, and the straight view down. Hailey strained at the leash.

Once again Katherine thought of the father she'd never had.
What would it be like if she could talk with him now?

She moved to the stairs on her left, placed her right hand on the rail, and she and Hailey descended one stair at a time. They finally reached the bottom of the stairway, went through the door, waved to the man behind the security desk as she passed through the turnstile, and merged into the crowds on the street, lost in thought.
A person, not a relative, who has had a substantial influence on one of the members of my family. Mom is my family. Who influenced her? Her old friend . . . her nursing colleagues? This is so stupid.

Katherine blended into the crowds on Broadway and let Hailey lead.
Living or dead.
She was confused. The person doing the influencing could be living or dead but was not to be a family member. The person being influenced was supposed to be a family member. Where did Simpson come up with this stuff? And what was the tie-in with her holding back? She had never held back with Gerry. Or had he just not asked these kinds of questions?

Katherine found herself thinking about her past boyfriends. Not the casual ones, but the two who had come close. Why did she shut them down? And what about Sean O'Malley from the race—why had she chosen not to call him, either? She'd had a perfectly legitimate reason. Hadn't she? Was there something wrong with her? Was she antisocial, a loner who would end up aloof and apart for the rest of her life?

She reached for her cell phone, found Mother at the top of the favorites, but opted not to tap the screen. She knew her mother would be in the middle of her nursing shift, and she didn't want her to hear her voice right now. Her mom would know in an instant that something was amiss. Katherine kept walking, surrounded by hundreds of people, and feeling very alone.

“Hi, Mom,” said Katherine. “Bad time?”

“No, dear, just got home. Are you all right?”

“All good. I got the details on graduation. Are you still sure you want to go through the hassle and expense of coming down?”

“Absolutely! I wouldn't miss it. Go ahead.”

Katherine read from the page of information in front of her. “ ‘The ceremony will be held at Lincoln Center, May 1, at 2:00 p.m., with a reception following outside . . . the whole process shouldn't take more than an hour.' Have you checked flights?”

The line went silent for a beat, then Katherine heard the clicking of her mother's keyboard, and knew she was scanning a travel site online.

“It looks like I can get a round-trip for under three-hundred dollars, into LaGuardia—leave at nine, arrive about two hours later. Do you think that's too close?” Beth asked.

“No, that'll work. How are you, Mom? Your voice sounds funny.”

“I'm . . . oh, you know how crazy the shift nurse's position is.”

“Okay . . . get some sleep,” Katherine said. “Are you going to eat at home?”

“I had dinner at the hospital. Are you all done with everything? Did you get your master's critique or whatever it's called?”

“I did. My project's accepted; I'm essentially done. Now, I have to get serious about a job—hope to have some interviews in the next few weeks.”

“I know you're dying to get started. I'm so proud of you.”

“Thanks, Mom. Listen, before you go, I want to ask you one question. Who would you say has influenced some member of our family? I know it sounds weird, but my mentor, Professor Simpson, has suggested that I do a special paper on a person—not a relative—who has had a positive influence on someone in my family.”

“Why does he want to know that?” Beth asked.

“It's complicated. He thinks I have the potential to be a really great reporter.”

“Of course, he does. My God, look how well you've done.”

“It's about finding what he calls the ‘emotional core' of the story, something I'm not objective about or at least involved with personally. Who's influenced you, Mom? Who made a difference in your life? Or Grandpa Adrian or Grandma Colina? I know it's a little weird.”

The phone went silent for a while. “Well,” Beth said, “you know how close I am to Joan. We've been friends since nursing school. She's done well . . . I feel like I'm missing something here. As far as my mother or father being influenced by someone else—other than family—I can't think of anything out of the ordinary. Just good people, who worked hard and led a decent life. I guess Father Patterson has been something of an influence on your grandfather, but not very much on me.”

“That's all right, Mom, forget it,” Katherine said.

“Are you all right, dear?”

“Fine, Mom. Lot on my mind. By the way, I saw a documentary on television last night about a Navy SEAL operation in Panama having to do with capturing Noriega. The general was actually captured in '89, but the operations apparently started in '88—going into . . . hang on a minute, I want to check my notes . . . here it is . . . Palmerola Air Base, as it was known then, Operation Golden Pheasant. Was my father ever at Palmerola Air Base?”

She waited for a response from her mother, but none came. Katherine could feel the unwanted angst and, perhaps, animus build in her. She began to feel trapped, out of control, like being in a taxi without air conditioning on an insufferably hot New York summer day, hopelessly stuck in traffic, late for an important meeting, too many blocks away to walk.

“Mom, are you there?”

“Yes, I'm here,” her mother replied in a clipped manner. “As I've told you, I was dating Larry while he was in the Air Force and stationed at Plattsburgh Air Force Base. One night when we were together, he hinted that he'd be receiving deployment orders. I asked him when and how long he'd be away, but he said he did not know, and couldn't say if he did. That was the last night I saw him. I never knew exactly what happened . . . couldn't get it. All I know is that he died during the mission.”

“Were there any newspaper accounts of what happened? Do you have anything in writing about my father's death?” Katherine hated herself for pressing so boldly, but in light of her professor's assignment, she was even more consumed by the desire to know more.

“Not much. I'm sorry. That was a long time ago. They closed the Plattsburgh Base, I believe, in 1995 . . . I'll go through my stuff upstairs and see if I can find any newspaper clips or whatever. If I find something, I'll send it to you.”

“Sure, Mom. Sorry to bother you with that. I can't wait to see you. Won't be long now. It's beautiful here. You'll love the square.”

“See you soon, dear. Good night. I love you,” Beth said, and clicked off the phone before her daughter could ask any more probing questions.

Once her daughter hit on a topic, Beth knew, she'd persist until she turned up answers—but she honestly had nothing to offer about Larry Manning's mission or the details of his death. At the time, she'd thought about calling Larry's mother, whom she'd never met, but elected not to. She had never had the woman's address or telephone number, and she wasn't sure that Larry had even told his mother about them.

Beth had noticed a newspaper story about a military operation overrunning Contra rebel supply caches in the San Andrés de Bocay region and deployment of the Seventh Infantry Division Quick Reaction Force. The article talked about support by the Air Force to secure the Honduran Military Base, but didn't mention Larry's Air Force group or anything to do with the Air Force at Plattsburgh, only references to the Army's 82nd Airborne stationed in North Carolina. Beth wasn't sure why she had clipped those articles—except that there were things she'd always wondered about, herself.

Beth knew her daughter and could tell from Katherine's sudden shift from intensity to a light-hearted tone . . .
sorry to bother you . . . won't be long now . . . beautiful here . . . you'll love
the square . . .
that it was not adding up to her. Katherine would not let it go.

Tears in her eyes, Beth rushed to the bathroom and threw up. The time had come. She had to tell Katherine the truth somehow. The whole truth. She was sure she would be punished by God for having lived a lie. She prayed that God would give her time to try to straighten it out.

Beth took a hot bath, then climbed into bed, rolled onto her back, and tried to fall asleep. But Katherine's questions played over and over in her head like a broken message over the hospital intercom.