“You have my word. And if these ‘friends’ have e-mail
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addresses, that would be helpful. I’m not looking to pry,
I just want to be sure. I promise once I’m done it’ll all be
shredded.”
“You gave your word,” Abby said.
“One more question, then I’m done,” Paulina said.
“Have you recently seen a man around campus—tall,
blond hair, about ear length? Late thirties or early forties
and well built?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell. Sure he’s not one of ‘your’
friends?” she said pointedly.
“No. He’s not.”
“I haven’t seen anyone like that. Trust me, he’d stand
out on this campus.”
“All right then.”
Paulina stood up. Abigail did not. Paulina waited to see
if her daughter would, to see if there was any chance at a
last embrace before she left. Abigail was already opening
her page and scrolling through photos. Paulina leaned in
closer. Abby was staring at one of her and Pam, standing
in front of a gushing fountain, holding hands and smiling.
When she noticed her mother was looking, Abigail
covered the screen with her hand.
“I’ll scan it and e-mail it to you,” Abigail said. “You’ll
have it by tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you,” Paulina said. “You know, Abby, I don’t
even have your cell phone number.”
Paulina laughed at this. Abby did not. It took a moment,
but Paulina understood why that wasn’t quite so funny.
“That’s not a surprise,” Abigail said, “considering I
hear from you once a year. I figured either you didn’t have
my number or you just couldn’t find more than five
minutes every twelve months.”
“I know I could have done a better job, could have
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been a better friend. Consider this my attempt to make it
up to you.”
Abigail considered this for a moment, then said, “Fine.”
Paulina took out her cell phone, plugging in the numbers as her daughter spoke them.
“That’s it?” Paulina said.
“That’s it.”
“Thanks, hon, I promise I’ll call soon.”
“Mom?” Abigail said.
“Yes, Abby?”
Abigail’s face looked far more pale than it did when
Paulina first entered. Eyes wider, more fearful. A pang of
guilt ripped through Paulina, knowing her daughter
wouldn’t have to deal with any of this if that blond bastard
hadn’t needed her to promote his sick agenda. She knew
many more lives were at stake than Abby’s…but this was
her daughter.
“That photos set I mentioned,” Abby said. “The picture
you mentioned was in that set. It was Pam’s favorite
picture. She told me she loved it, and she said she wanted
to keep one just for us.”
“Wait,” Paulina said. “What are you saying?”
“I never posted that photo online. That guy you’re
talking about…somebody else must have given it to him.”
14
“Nothing,” Jack said, slamming down the phone in
disgust. “I’ve called his office, his cell phone, his secretary, his publicist, his wife, his alleged mistress, and
nobody will connect me to Brett Kaiser. Please tell me
you have something.”
I shook my head, discouraged. “I’ve spent the entire
morning trying to reach Marissa Hirschtritt and Joel Certilman. Nothing. They won’t talk to me, or refer me to
anybody who will. And they said that if anything is
printed about their firm, their official position is ‘no
comment.’ At least until they sue us for whatever libel
they seem certain we’re going to print. That firm is locked
up like a vault. And the worst part is that they know we’re
looking into them, so they can already start preparing.”
“And knowing our good-hearted chairman, he’s not
going to want to pay thousands of dollars in legal fees to
fight a law firm over a story that we have no backing to
go on yet.” Jack paused, thought for a moment. “When
people aren’t responding to you, there’s only one way
around it.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
Jack stood up. Picked up his briefcase. “You walk
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right into the enemy’s camp, lay down your weapons and
ask to speak to their leader.”
“You learned this, where, reporting from the jungle?”
“Vietnam, actually.”
“No kidding. I never knew you reported from Vietnam.”
“Spent most of my time in Laos,” Jack said. “Worked
a lot with a great photographer named Eddie Adams. You
enjoy photojournalism?”
“A little. Back in Oregon,” I said. “Before I was old
enough or smart enough to really understand history, I
used to love flipping through old magazines just for the
photo inserts. A great picture can be a snapshot of a time
or place that words could never fully describe.” Jack
nodded, agreeing. “I used to really admire a photographer
named Hans Gustofson. I remember he took this fantastic photo of President Reagan standing next to the ‘You
Are Leaving’ sign that had just been removed from along
the Berlin Wall.”
“Great eye, Gustofson. Didn’t he die a few years ago?”
“Yeah,” I said, shifting uncomfortably. “Badly.”
Jack nodded.
“Eddie Adams,” I said. “Why does that name sound
familiar?”
“Nguyen Ngoc Loan,” Jack said.
“Excuse me?”
“General Nguyen Ngoc Loan. Chief of the National
Police of the Republic of Vietnam. You say you liked historical photographs, you might remember that one. Loan
was the commanding officer during the arrest of a Viet
Cong political operative. The national police mistakenly
identified the prisoner as having plotted the assassination
of numerous Viet Cong police officers. And so on February first, nineteen sixty-eight, in the middle of a des-110
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olate street in Saigon in broad daylight, with the unarmed
man’s arms tied behind his back, General Loan took out
a pistol, put it to the prisoner’s head and pulled the trigger.
Eddie Adams was the man who took that photograph.
That one snapshot, taken right as the bullet entered the
innocent man’s brain, was one of the catalysts that singlehandedly changed American perception of the war in
Vietnam.”
“I remember that picture,” I said, feeling a chill, remembering the first time I’d seen it in Time magazine. “I
remember the prisoner was wearing this plaid shirt. And
the look in the general’s eye…like the man he just killed
was nothing. Had meant nothing.”
Jack nodded. Then he said, “In the background of that
picture, just over the general’s left shoulder, there’s a
man. You can’t really make out his face or what he’s
doing, but he’s there.”
I looked at Jack. The lines in his face, veins in his hands,
a body that had seen more than I might in two lifetimes.
“That was you,” I said. “You were there that day.”
“It was actually my wedding anniversary,” Jack said
with a slight laugh. “When my first wife asked where I was
that day, I showed her the picture. Suddenly she didn’t feel
so bad about my not being able to spend it with her.”
“Why do you still do it?” I said. “Once you’ve been a
part of these…these…moments that change history. I
mean, that’s what every reporter dreams of, right? Being
there at the right time. Casting light on something that
was covered in darkness. Once you’ve done that…how
do you stay motivated?”
“I was never looking for those moments,” Jack said.
“If they came, they came. If not, I went right on working. But a real reporter doesn’t seek out those moments.
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We don’t judge what’s happening in front of our eyes.
History creates those moments. All we can do is share
the truth through our words. And if we’re honest, and
there’s a story in that darkness, the moments come.
But I never sought them out. I sought the truth. And if
you keep digging for it, under every goddamn rock in
this world…you’ll find a few of those moments.”
“If I die having had just one of those moments,” I said,
“I’d die a happy man.”
“Maybe you already have, Henry,” Jack said. “You
just don’t know it yet. Maybe this story is even it.”
“Well, if it is, Brett Kaiser sure isn’t going to make it
any easier.”
“Well, let’s try the good old-fashioned ambush
method.”
“What do you suggest?” I said.
“I’ll go to the firm’s office, buy myself a big old cup
of coffee, sit in the lobby and wait for Mr. Kaiser to leave.
If security doesn’t want a fellow such as myself loitering, I’ll simply wait outside. And if they tell me to leave,
I’ll tell them to kiss my wrinkly old ass.”
“And my job?”
“Why, you’re going to wait at Mr. Kaiser’s Park
Avenue apartment building and do the exact same thing.
You might even try sweet-talking his doorman. You have
no idea how much information those guys have, and what
they’re willing to tell you if you treat them like human
beings. Unlike Park Avenue tenants who usually treat
their doormen like they’re one step above pond scum.”
“And what if Kaiser shows up?”
“Simple,” Jack said. “You tell him what we have, and
ask him to discuss it with you. Guys like this, these alpha
male pricks, hate hiding behind publicists and lawyers,
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even if they are one. They don’t like being shown up by
punks like you.”
“Punks like me?”
“Yes,” Jack said, arching his eyebrow. “Punks like
you. At least that’s how he’ll see you. Actually, I’m kind
of hoping he does see you first. Young guy, you’re less
of a threat. Probably figures you write for the school
newspaper. If you see Kaiser, you don’t walk away with
less than something we can print that doesn’t rhyme with
‘Woe Bomment.’”
“I think I can manage that.”
“Good. Keep your cell on. I’ll call you if anything
happens on my end.” I got up to leave. Jack put his hand
on my shoulder, said, “Good luck, Henry. Get this.”
I nodded, went over to my desk and packed my things.
15
I arrived at Brett Kaiser’s apartment at just after two
o’clock. There was a Korean deli on the corner where I
bought a cup of coffee and an energy bar.
I walked over to the building, a bright Park Avenue
complex that by my count was twenty stories high, with
beautiful western views where you could see all the way
down for miles. There was one doorman on duty, a man
in his early forties wearing a blue uniform and the kind
of top hat you only saw in movies about the 1920s. He
was slightly heavyset, the beginnings of jowls on his
face, a fresh razor burn under his chin.
A cab pulled up, and the doorman approached, leaning
down to open the car door. A slender blonde in her forties
slid out, thanked the doorman and went into the building.
The doorman watched her as she entered the building,
holding his gaze just long enough for me to know that had
she turned around, she wouldn’t have been pleased.
When the woman disappeared into the elevator, I approached.
“Afternoon,” I said.
The man nodded. “Can I ring someone for you, sir?”
he replied.
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“Not yet,” I said. “Is Mr. Kaiser home?”
“I haven’t seen him yet today.”
“Ah, let me guess, you’re on the eight a.m. to four p.m.
shift. I guess that means Mr. Kaiser is up and at work
early.” The doorman looked at me oddly.
“Sir?”
“No sweat, just making an observation. Name’s
Henry,” I said, extending my hand. The doorman hesitated. “I’m a reporter with the New York Gazette. ”
If he’d considered shaking my hand before, that idea
was now gone.
“As I said, sir,” he replied, his voice much colder, “Mr.
Kaiser is not home at the moment.”
“I know, you mentioned that. I have to ask him a few
questions.”
“Questions?”
about New York City doormen: they love to talk. Your
average doorman opens and closes a door for eight hours
a day, but barely gets more than two words from their
tenants. If you stop to chat, they’ll talk your ears blue. So
few people actually talk to doormen, that if you gave
them an inch they’d take eight miles.
And I was prepared to give this one a few feet.
“We’re investigating a… I can’t really talk about it yet.
But hopefully Mr. Kaiser can answer all our questions
thoroughly. And I promise, you won’t be mentioned.”
“Why would I be mentioned?” he said, that voice
thawing with concern.
“You won’t be,” I said. “If you knew anything about
Mr. Kaiser, anything suspicious, even something you
thought one day and just dismissed, it would help his
cause and ours. I’m looking for the truth, Mr….”
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“Anderson,” the man said. “Donald Anderson.”
“Well, Donald…”
“You can call me Don.”
“Okay, Don. Thanks for being so agreeable.”
“Am I?”
“Are you what?”
“Being agreeable.” Don blinked as he spoke.
“Yeah, you are. So, are you friendly with Mr. Kaiser?”
“I mean, in so much as he doesn’t say much, I’ve never
gotten any complaints from him.”
“No complaints. Any compliments?”
“He’s not what you’d call the most talkative guy,” Don
said. “He tips over the holidays, kinda gives a little nod
when he’s on his way out or back in. Other than that he
don’t say much.”
“You ever try talking to him?”
“You ever work as a doorman?” Don asked.
“No, I haven’t.”
“Every tenant’s got a different personality. You got to
learn how each person acts and reacts towards you, and
tailor your personality towards that. I swear, my first few
months on the job I felt like I was going crazy, developing one of those, whaddaya call ’ems, split personalities.
Mrs. Delahunt, she walks her dog like clockwork at
seven-thirty in the morning. She always says, ‘Say hi,
Toodles!’ like she’s expecting the dog to talk to me. At
first I couldn’t figure out why she treated me like such a,
pardon my French, such a bitch. Then Charles, the evening doorman, told me I had to say hello back to Toodles.
So every day at seven-thirty, I say hi to this little rat dog
Toodles. And every year at Christmastime, Mrs. Delahunt
gives me a tip twice as big as most tenants. All because
I say hello to her freaking dog.”
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“So how does Mr. Kaiser fit in?”
“My first few months, I tried to be real polite. ‘Hello,
Mr. Kaiser. Have a good day, Mr. Kaiser. Welcome home,
Mr. Kaiser.’ I never get more than a grunt. One day I must
be thinking about something else—maybe Mrs. Delahunt’s
fine daughter—and I forget to say hello to him. I just open
the door, not even thinking, and then I hear him say,
‘Thanks, Don.’I swear it was like Christmas came early that
day.”
“So what did you do?”
“I realized Kaiser didn’t like being spoken to. Gestures
were fine, but man, did he think highly of himself. The
most effective method is a little nod as he comes through
the door. Closer to the holidays, tip time, I might give him
a tip of the cap. But that’s all. I don’t engage in conversation, I don’t say a word to the man.”
“Sounds like you’ve got this down to a science.”
“Still refining my game,” Donald said. “Always room
for improvement.”
“So I need to ask one more question about Mr. Kaiser,
Don, and I’ll be out of your hair.”
“Shoot. Just promise you won’t tell him I spoke to you,
and please don’t print my name.”
“This really has nothing to do with you, it’s just to help
me understand Mr. Kaiser. You’ve watched all these