McHugh had the
unhurried pace of a man who has been on the planet for a half a century, and seen enough not to be in a rush to see any more.
Behind Am came the sounds of laughter and convivial conversation. The closer the detective approached, the more his frown
intensified. He paused before continuing toward the room, stood next to Am and said, “Isn’t it a little early to be throwing
a wake, Caulfield?”
Then, seemingly puzzled, he sniffed the air, disdainfully snorted, and walked by.
Chapter Four
Whenever anything unpleasant happens at a hotel, be it accident, injury, or even death, some manager somewhere has the undesirable
job of asking questions. Am knew the difficulties of such interrogations. Offering sympathy was important, but not to the
point of endorsing any liability on the part of the property. Though obtaining answers in the face of pain or grief is often
difficult, it is also necessary. It is amazing how frequently a story changes, especially after a consultation with a lawyer.
A guest that admitted to breaking his leg after tripping over his own feet suddenly remembers that the fall didn’t occur in
his room, but over a loose section of carpeting out in the hallway. Filling out an accident report and getting a signed statement
are often safeguards against a lawsuit.
This wasn’t the first time Am had encountered death at the Hotel. With seven hundred and twelve rooms, four restaurants, six
lounges, and fourteen meeting rooms, it wasn’t surprising that death sometimes called. But this was not like any other death
that Am remembered. There was no weeping, or gnashing of teeth. No one seemed particularly bothered, or even put on a pretense
of being mournful. Getting anyone to talk about the late Dr. Thomas Kingsbury was not a problem. Stopping them was more difficult.
Am had heard of Kingsbury. He was one of those figures who popped up every so often in a magazine like
People,
or on some television interview. Kingsbury was a doctor and a scientist of not a little fame, but the general public knew
of him not so much for his own discoveries, but for his crusades into exposing the deceits of what he called “pseudo-science.”
Kingsbury did not believe in much. He doubted saints, but not sinners, and liked nothing better than debunking the paranormal.
The doctor had made a career of exposing bogus telepaths, evangelical healers, and mediums, and relished taking on what he
called “the modern witch-doctor establishments,” targets which ranged from tarot readers to government economists.
It wasn’t a vacation that had brought Kingsbury to the Hotel California. He had been attending the Union of Near-Death Experiences
Retreat (UNDER). Belatedly, he had something in common with its other attendees.
UNDER had officially welcomed Kingsbury’s scrutiny, had promised they would do all they could to facilitate his inquiries.
They were certain he could root around all he wanted and still not denigrate their collective experience. Lazarus wasn’t the
only one with a story to tell. They had been dead, all of them, and were convinced they had glimpsed their afterlife.
Kingsbury had sent lengthy medical questionnaires to all of the attendees of the UNDER conference, and had scheduled “post-mortem
interviews” with sixty of the conventioneers. The questionnaires had delved into physical histories, with emphasis on the
circumstances of their “deaths.” The medical questions stretched over a number of pages, “an inquiry,” one participant told
Am, “that was a good precursor to being a medical cadaver.”
The doctor had died halfway through the four-day conference. Although he had attended some of the workshops and heard some
of the talks, most of his time had been spent interviewing what he liked to call “zombies,” or “the undead.” Am had the feeling
he would have gotten along very well with Dr. Kingsbury.
“He was a funny guy,” said the
unhurried pace of a man who has been on the planet for a half a century, and seen enough not to be in a rush to see any more.
Behind Am came the sounds of laughter and convivial conversation. The closer the detective approached, the more his frown
intensified. He paused before continuing toward the room, stood next to Am and said, “Isn’t it a little early to be throwing
a wake, Caulfield?”
Then, seemingly puzzled, he sniffed the air, disdainfully snorted, and walked by.
Chapter Four
Whenever anything unpleasant happens at a hotel, be it accident, injury, or even death, some manager somewhere has the undesirable
job of asking questions. Am knew the difficulties of such interrogations. Offering sympathy was important, but not to the
point of endorsing any liability on the part of the property. Though obtaining answers in the face of pain or grief is often
difficult, it is also necessary. It is amazing how frequently a story changes, especially after a consultation with a lawyer.
A guest that admitted to breaking his leg after tripping over his own feet suddenly remembers that the fall didn’t occur in
his room, but over a loose section of carpeting out in the hallway. Filling out an accident report and getting a signed statement
are often safeguards against a lawsuit.
This wasn’t the first time Am had encountered death at the Hotel. With seven hundred and twelve rooms, four restaurants, six
lounges, and fourteen meeting rooms, it wasn’t surprising that death sometimes called. But this was not like any other death
that Am remembered. There was no weeping, or gnashing of teeth. No one seemed particularly bothered, or even put on a pretense
of being mournful. Getting anyone to talk about the late Dr. Thomas Kingsbury was not a problem. Stopping them was more difficult.
Am had heard of Kingsbury. He was one of those figures who popped up every so often in a magazine like
People,
or on some television interview. Kingsbury was a doctor and a scientist of not a little fame, but the general public knew
of him not so much for his own discoveries, but for his crusades into exposing the deceits of what he called “pseudo-science.”
Kingsbury did not believe in much. He doubted saints, but not sinners, and liked nothing better than debunking the paranormal.
The doctor had made a career of exposing bogus telepaths, evangelical healers, and mediums, and relished taking on what he
called “the modern witch-doctor establishments,” targets which ranged from tarot readers to government economists.
It wasn’t a vacation that had brought Kingsbury to the Hotel California. He had been attending the Union of Near-Death Experiences
Retreat (UNDER). Belatedly, he had something in common with its other attendees.
UNDER had officially welcomed Kingsbury’s scrutiny, had promised they would do all they could to facilitate his inquiries.
They were certain he could root around all he wanted and still not denigrate their collective experience. Lazarus wasn’t the
only one with a story to tell. They had been dead, all of them, and were convinced they had glimpsed their afterlife.
Kingsbury had sent lengthy medical questionnaires to all of the attendees of the UNDER conference, and had scheduled “post-mortem
interviews” with sixty of the conventioneers. The questionnaires had delved into physical histories, with emphasis on the
circumstances of their “deaths.” The medical questions stretched over a number of pages, “an inquiry,” one participant told
Am, “that was a good precursor to being a medical cadaver.”
The doctor had died halfway through the four-day conference. Although he had attended some of the workshops and heard some
of the talks, most of his time had been spent interviewing what he liked to call “zombies,” or “the undead.” Am had the feeling
he would have gotten along very well with Dr. Kingsbury.
“He was a funny guy,” said the
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