ERICA DECIDES TO TAKE THE subway up to Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital in northern Manhattan. Fame can be a bubble of chauffeurs and first-class flights, and she cherishes opportunities to break out and get a dose of a grittier reality. With no makeup on, and wearing a baseball cap and large sunglasses, she attracts just a few second glances as the 2 train barrels through the black tunnels drilled deep into the city’s bedrock.
She gets off in Washington Heights, a vibrant Dominican neighborhood—Latin music blaring from stores and car radios, outdoor displays of exotic produce, dress stores selling neon-hued satin dresses, families laughing and arguing, old men and women sitting in folding chairs watching the passing parade. Erica inhales the sheer pulsing humanity of it all. As immigrants have done since our nation’s founding, these people have come to America and made it their own, creating a cultural fusion that lifts her spirit and her heart.
Erica walks west to the vast campus of Columbia-Presbyterian, one of the country’s leading research hospitals. It’s a throbbing, thriving urban hospital, and the hallways are filled with doctors, nurses, patients, and support staff, all of them looking fully engaged in their work. She follows a labyrinthian corridor and finds Dr. Martin Vander’s office. Vander is considered one of the country’s leading neurologists and has written several popular books about exotic neurological disorders. The door to his office is open, and the doctor is sitting at his desk.
“Knock, knock,” Erica says.
“Come in, come in,” Martin Vander says, standing. He’s a tall, lean man in his sixties with a slight Dutch accent.
“Thanks so much for seeing me on such short notice.”
“Your call intrigued me.” Vander shuts his office door. “Please, sit.”
Erica does.
“So, tell me a little bit more about your concerns.”
“This is all confidential?”
“Absolutely.”
Erica tells the doctor about Mike Ortiz’s inappropriate responses, including the incident with the run-over dog.
“You know, some people just don’t like dogs very much,” Vander says with a gentle smile.
“It’s not just that. His affect in general seems . . . flat. And he doesn’t seem to pick up on emotional clues. At Fred Buchanan’s funeral he smiled and waved to the crowd.”
“He’s a politician, Erica. He’s also a man who underwent profound physical, psychological, and emotional trauma. An experience like that changes a person.”
“Well, maybe my imagination is running away with me. That’s why I came to see you. One of my researchers has put together a tape showing Ortiz before and after his time as a prisoner in Iraq.”
“I’m eager to see it.”
Erica takes out her laptop, puts it on Vander’s desk, and pulls up the tape. It follows Ortiz from his early political career through today and includes clips of him at a congressional hearing, at the ribbon cutting for a new public school, being interviewed at the start of his humanitarian mission to Iraq, and again after his escape, and it ends with some footage from Erica’s recent interview.
Vander watches intently. When the tape is over he sits silently for a moment. Erica can barely contain her expectation.
“Fascinating. There do seem to be subtle changes in his demeanor after his time as a prisoner. A certain flattening. But as I said, trauma on that scale changes a person. I hardly have enough evidence or information to make any sort of definitive diagnosis, or even to speculate with confidence. I’d have to meet and examine the man personally, put him through some tests.”
“That’s obviously out of the question. You saw his wife in several of those clips. Did you notice anything strange in their relationship?”
“She certainly seems to keep him on a tight leash.”
“I’d call it a harness.”
“There does seem to be a profound psychic connection between them. Of course, they may just be in love.”
“My concern is that he seems to be under her control in an unnatural way. You’ve done a lot of writing and research on cults and mind control. Do you see any similarities here?”
“That’s a big can of worms, and as I said, I just don’t have enough information. It’s true I have studied cult members. You see a similar flattening of affect, although Ortiz’s is much less pronounced. However, with cult members there’s also a lack of personal willpower, a complete surrender of control to the cult leader. I don’t see evidence of that here—Mike Ortiz is a driven man. The changes in him are more nuanced.”
“Can you tell me a little more about what happens to cult members?”
“After indoctrination they become less animated. They feel no attachment to their past. Without familiar touchstones, they lose their sense of self and their ability to reason and make decisions for themselves. They become unable to think independently.”
. . . unable to think independently.
“Over time, the brain actually becomes rewired. In many cult members we see a physical manifestation of this, a slowing down of movement and motor reflexes. I’m not seeing that in Ortiz. If his intellectual skills are compromised—which is by no means certain—it may be the result of an organic brain injury suffered during his captivity. After all, he was tortured. But even there, he’s functioning at a very high level.”
“Doctor, Mike Ortiz may well be the next president of the United States.”
“I understand your concerns. And I think the tape demonstrates that they have some validity. The case intrigues me. I’d like to pursue it. Conduct something of an investigation. Paramount would be an opportunity to observe him up close.”
“Ortiz will be in New York next week for a fundraiser. Robert DeNiro is hosting it in his apartment in Tribeca. Is there any chance you could attend?”
“There is a great deal at stake here. And this is a fascinating case. I’ll go to the fundraiser.”
“You understand how critical confidentiality is.”
Vander nods solemnly.
Erica puts away her laptop and stands. “I can’t thank you enough.”
As she is walking out of the hospital her phone rings, and she sees Eileen McDermott’s name on the caller ID.
“Erica, I heard from one of our sources in the FBI that they’ve just captured Tim Markum in Detroit. Attempting to cross into Canada. He’s going to be arraigned before a federal judge tomorrow morning. The FBI hasn’t released the news yet because they don’t want this to turn into a circus. But they won’t be able to keep it under wraps for long.”
“Still, we’re a step ahead of the competition. I’ll head out to LaGuardia right now. Book us a private jet if the network’s plane isn’t available. And grab a couple of outfits from my office closet. See you at the airport.”
As Erica steps off the curb and hails a cab, she thinks, This is just the kind of break I need to get firmly back on top.