James Siegel - Deceit

“You said you met the doctor in a deserted field, the ruins of some frontier town that burned down. You drove out there and he showed up in a separate car-right?”

“Yes-that’s right. It might be… yeah, it might be that these notes were from my phone call to him. Yeah, now that you mention it, that sounds right. I probably called him from Florida.”

“Okay, Tom. You used your cell, I guess.”

“My cell?”

“Your cell phone, Tom. I assume you would use your cell phone to call Michigan? If need be, we can get the phone records and show that you called Michigan on March 5 from Florida.”

“Show who?”

“If we end up in court, Tom, we might have to walk everyone through the process.”

“Okay. The doctor obviously gave me the wrong hospital. Remember that the deal was anonymity-he didn’t even give me the name of his home or birthplace. Just anagrams, remember? My antenna should’ve gone up. He fed me the wrong hospital and hoped I’d put it in the article, and like a stupid idiot, I did. He used me-I’ll be more careful next time.”

“I’m not talking about getting the wrong hospital, Tom. I asked you when you interviewed the doctor and you said March 5; only you were in Florida on March 5 and now you say you called him from there and conducted the interview by phone.”

“I met him in person-I sat right across from him. As close as we are now. I told you. I just forgot I talked to him on the phone first. It was over several conversations-the interview.”

“Fine. Understood. When you called the doctor on March 5 from Boca Raton and conducted your first of many interviews, did you call him on your cell phone? It was long-distance. You were in Florida-I assume you would use your cell so you wouldn’t run up larcenous charges from the hotel? I’m just trying to get the facts straight, Tom.”

“Well, let me think a minute, okay. Let me… you know, I think I called him from a pay phone.”

He took the paper clip out of his mouth and carefully laid it down in front of him.

“You called him from a pay phone?”

“Yes.”

“Why would you do that? Why would you call him from a pay phone?”

“That’s the way he wanted it. I’d forgotten about that. He was very secretive, obviously. The whole anagram thing, meeting me where no one could see us. He didn’t know whether he could trust me yet. He didn’t want me to be able to see what number he was calling from.”

“I thought you called him. You just said you called him from a pay phone.”

“I’m sorry, I got my syntax wrong.”

“Your syntax? Either you called him, or he called you. Which is it?”

“I told you. He called me.”

“How would he know the number of a pay phone in Florida?”

“I e-mailed him the number. And then I was supposed to wait at the pay phone at a certain time for him to call.”

“You e-mailed him the number?”

“Look, I don’t remember everything exactly the way it happened. I mean, I was doing two stories at once-you said so yourself-I was down there doing the retirement home story, and so you can understand why I forgot about the pay phone. I forgot about it-that’s all. That’s why I have my notes.”

“Yes, Tom,” he said. “You always have your notes.”

I’d left them at the office.

My notes from my trip to Littleton Flats.

I stared at them-my interview with the army doctor.

You met the doctor in a deserted field, the ruins of some frontier town that burned down.

I’d met the army doctor in the ruins of another destroyed town. This one destroyed by flood, not fire, even if both were weapons of biblical retribution.

Uncanny.

How the echoes of my deceitful past kept bouncing back to me.

Sam Savage, suddenly bringing a long-ago story to life, a trippy little piece about out-of-work actors pulling cons for cash.

Another exclusive in the Valle retrospective, available online for anyone who likes their news unfit to print.

And more-something I hadn’t put together before because it had been an orphan, without context. The night when I chased the plumber’s pickup and suddenly became the chased.

When he’d tapped my bumper again and again, as if he were playing, well… tag.

If you looked under D for dangerous fads, you’d find another Valle scoop about a previously unreported phenomenon sweeping the nation’s interstates: Auto Tag, cars tapping each other back and forth until the loser flames out like James Dean. Sprung whole from the inner recesses of my fervid and increasingly panicked imagination.

And what do you say when you tag someone? What do you whisper?

You’re it.

That’s what.

What was going on?

Okay, be a reporter. A real one who harbors a respect for the truth and has the facility to find it. Arrange the facts, link them end to end, make a conclusion. Figure it out.

What was real and what wasn’t?

Sam Savage was real. He’d cried real tears over a real ginger ale as his real girlfriend-or ex-girlfriend, who knows by now-had shot real daggers at him across the table.

And so was Herman Wentworth .

Real.

Later I’d dreamt about the town-the men strolling down Main Street in old-fashioned fedoras, the odor of syrup and blueberry pancakes drifting over from the Littleton Flats Cafe. I’d conjured up the town, but not him.

He’d appeared out of the desert that day in his blue sports jacket and gleaming black shoes and he’d told me a story about passing through a small town fifty years ago on the way to San Diego.

He was an army doctor who’d been all over the world.

But he’d started out in Japan. A raw recruit just off the boat, who could’ve recited the freshly memorized Hippocratic oath by heart.

The newest member of the 499th medical battalion.

That was real, too.

Another thing out there on the ledge that had needed to be coaxed back in.

I’d heard of that battalion before.

The sheriff called in the morning and asked me if I wouldn’t mind coming to the station.

I was still lying in bed, even though I should’ve already been showered, shaved, and on my way out. I had an excuse. I’d been up staring at the computer screen till 3 in the morning. Dredging up the past, reading through selected Freedom of Information Act reports-specifically, the ones that came out in 1994 and caused the head of the Department of Energy under Clinton to publicly apologize for atrocities that had happened over four decades ago.

“Don’t you guys always say we want you to come downtown ?” I asked him.

“Technically, it’s uptown.”

“Okay. Why do you want me to come uptown?”

“How about this. When you get here, I’ll tell you.”

When I entered the sheriff’s office, I nearly knocked over a female deputy carrying three cups of Starbucks coffee precariously balanced one on top of the other.

When I apologized, she said, “You spill it, you buy it.”

Sheriff Swenson was in his customary position, leaning back in his chair with his legs up on his desk. The person not in his customary position was sitting across from him. Hinch.

Hinch was there.

I didn’t tell the sheriff about the dried excrement stuck to his left boot sole. Maybe that’s what accounted for the look of vague distaste on his face as I sat down.

“Hello, Lucas.”

Maybe not.

“Hello,” I said, then turned and said hi to Hinch.

He acknowledged me with a slight shake of his head. He seemed smaller these days-as if grief were shriveling him up.

“I thought Hinch should be here,” Sheriff Swenson said. “Given the seriousness of the situation.”

“The seriousness of what situation? You mean, Nate getting shot?”