9 The Mystery Guest
Carmela, who always took control of the TV’s remote, remained in her recliner while muting the commercials. I jumped up and beat Cosette to the kitchen to start another batch of popcorn. Needing to contribute something, Cose tidied up the Rosemont’s living room and brought out some ice and cold drinks.
Helen volunteered to take Heathcliff out to do his doggy business. As soon as she was out of sight, Raj winked at me knowingly. Heathcliff knew how to use his dog door without assistance. Besides, he could go for hours without a health break, but Helen couldn’t go for sixty minutes without a cigarette.
Despite her addiction to tobacco fumes, Helen was the most talented of the Residue Class. Among her talents was her precise internal clock–better than a Grand Prix winner–which brought her smoke-reeking carcass back to her seat just as West announced his mystery guest, New York’s Police Commissioner, Gabriel Pallas.
I had never seen the Commissioner except in newspaper photos, photos that somehow concealed his height. As my mentor rose and moved toward the side of the set to welcome the Commissioner, it became clear he was almost as tall as Josh. Other than their extraordinary heights, however, there was little in common between their appearances. Sure, they were both what you might call skinny, but Gabriel was like a skinny stack of muscle, while Josh was more of a skinny stack of bones.
Josh dressed like a university professor. His entire outfit looked like he’d been hunting butterflies in a swamp–and might have been purchased at REI. Gabriel, on the other hand, dressed like a Wall Street banker, with a new three-piece suit that Sonia identified as a Ralph Lauren Black Label. (Sonia knows designer clothes like Cosette knows timepieces.)
West glad-handed the Commissioner and sat him down at the table. “I invited you here, Gabriel, because my audience has been asking what you’re going to do about our current rash of murders.”
Pallas proceeded to give a brief speech, obviously prepared in advance and memorized. He concluded by saying, “In short, this ‘rash’ is just a statistical anomaly.”
The camera moved and zoomed in on Josh listening to the host asking, “What do you think, Professor?”
“First off, we’re making a big mistake lumping together everything we call a ‘murder.’”
West’s face projected his idea of a shocked expression. “What do you mean? A murder is a murder, isn’t that right, Commissioner?”
“Not exactly. I think Professor Rosemont is pointing out that murders come in all shapes and sizes. If you’re drunk and hit someone with your car, that’s a murder–vehicular homicide. But if you’re sober and shoot your wife while she’s sleeping, that’s a murder, too.” He looked away from the camera and turned to Josh. “Do I have that right, Professor?”
“Exactly. Let’s take an analogy, one that’s somewhat less grizzly and emotionally charged. Suppose we’re in the grocery business and we measured fruit sales by counting and adding up each fruit sold. If we sold one bunch of grapes and ten watermelons, our statistic would say we sold 10 + 200 = 210 pieces of fruit–because we counted each grape as one fruit. Clearly, that wouldn’t make any sense …” Josh paused.
As if on cue, West broke in and completed Josh’s sentence. “… because one grape is not comparable to one watermelon. Not in price. Not in weight. And possibly not in nutritive value–but I’d have to be a nutrition specialist to know that.”
Commissioner Pallas was nodding his head and smiling. “And in the same way, one vehicular homicide is not necessarily comparable to one spousal murder.”
West leaned forward into the table. “So why are we counting them as if they’re the same?”
Josh reached under the table and extracted a sheaf of papers from his briefcase. He glanced at them for a moment, then waved them at West. “Because you guys in the press think your audience isn’t bright enough to see how misleading that is, so that’s what you feed as ‘news’ to your audience.”
West responded by raising both hands in silent, mock surrender.
Josh turned his attention to the commissioner. “What I have here is a meaningful statistical analysis of the more than 500 homicides in New York City–your jurisdiction–last year. So let me choose one example that concerns you. Okay?”
Gabriel Pallas blushed and nodded with exaggerated reluctance. “Okay, shoot.” He put his fingers over his lips. “Oh oh. Maybe that was the wrong word.”
Josh ignored the commissioner’s joke and tapped on his bundle of papers. “Actually, Commissioner, it was the right word, since roughly two-thirds of the murders were shootings. But I suspect you knew that. I also suspect that even most of your constituents knew the number was that high–and even guessed it was higher. The statistician on my team polled a sample of news broadcasts. She found that murders without guns were seriously under-reported.” (I saw Cosette perk up. The ‘statistician on my team” was her though she wasn’t yet officially on the team.)
This last sentence was clearly addressed to West, who said, “So why is that important?”
Josh turned back to the Commissioner. “It’s because it’s not the actual murder statistics that influence police policy, but the public’s perception of those statistics. Right?”
“Right,” said Pallas. “I’ll bet your statistician’s analysis shows an even more important example. The public perceives that most murder victims are innocent bystanders.”
“Yes,” said Josh. “That’s what the public thinks, because it’s what the press reports. I suppose the channels believe anonymous killings are more exciting.”
West chimed in. “You’re right, Josh. I’ve seen that idea repeatedly in my career. But what’s wrong with it? The public wants excitement.”
“And I guess that’s what your news broadcasts are–entertainment, first and foremost. And what’s wrong with it? For one thing, the average citizen holds the commissioner here responsible for reducing the rate of homicides. Instead, they should be supporting agencies that might reduce conflicts among friends, or fights between family members. All the police can do about most of these killings is come in and mop up the blood afterwords.”
West raised his hand to signal a pause for a commercial. Faster than the speed of sound, Carmela muted the commercial while Raj grabbed the popcorn bowl and took off toward the kitchen. Cosette was on her feet and heading out of the living room, mumbling something about “bathroom” and “priority.” My bladder had a message for me, too. I knew there was another bathroom at the far end of the house, but I didn’t want to miss any of Josh’s session, so I froze in my position and waited motionlessly while three housewife/actresses extolled some dishwashing product.
Mercifully, there were only three commercials and one program preview. Josh was back on the air so quickly that neither Raj nor I heard West ask, “Commissioner, in the light of this rash of murders, why haven’t you invited Professor Rosemont and his Residue Class to come to the City and help?”
“I did ask,” Commissioner Pallas said, peering at our leader over his glasses. “But Josh turned me down.”