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story as far as I was concerned. Jerry had it on “good information” that Dreyer, a staunch proponent of morality and traditional family values, was having an affair with his secretary, and was holed up with her somewhere in Manhattan. But when I looked into it, I couldn’t find anything to substantiate the story. Despite the fact that I despised Dreyer’s politics and would have loved to have proven him a hypocrite, I learned nothing except good things. He spent a lot of time with his family, he worked hard, and colleagues past and present said his word was his bond. All we had to go on was that his wife, an antiques collector, had gone to Belgium on a buying trip, the kids were with her parents, and the congressman had gone off on some hush-hush fact-finding trip with his secretary and personal assistant, Lizbeth Greyfarm.
    Personally, I think Jerry wanted to fry Dreyer because Dreyer was rigidly anti-porn and anti-strip club, and Jerry was rigidly pro-porn and pro-strip club.
    â€œI still think there’s a story there,” Jerry said. “But you’re unable to find it for some reason. And we need a story for next Monday night’s slot, thanks to your death series bombing out, which threw the whole Special Reports sked out of whack for the year.”
    â€œThere’s that blind tap-dancing troupe,” I began.
    â€œIt’s for our adult viewing slot. We need something sexy. Did you hear about the murder on the twenty-seventh floor? A gynecologist?”
    â€œYes,” I said, feeling a clammy dread flush down my body.
    â€œI was talking to Pete Huculak in security about it and … I think we have a special report here.”
    â€œIt’s kind of … local, isn’t it?” I said politely.
    â€œAs a single murder, yes. But wait, there’s more. This guy’s a gynecologist, right? He’s good-looking. Someone handcuffs him to a chair and shoots—”
    â€œHandcuffs him to a chair?”
    â€œHe was handcuffed to a chair, then shot in the heart.”
    â€œHow do you know this?”
    â€œThe cleaning guy who found the body, he called our security before he called the cops. Security shot a videotape of the murder scene. Exclusive tape of the murder scene, in other words, and we’re going to get a dub.”
    That was the clincher for him, because we hate to waste good videotape in Special Reports, especially exclusive videotape.
    â€œThere’s more. Know what they found on the floor, among other things? A matchbook from Anya’s.”
    Anya’s was an S&M club on the West Side.
    â€œThis is a perfect angle,” Jerry said, and his porous, flaccid face could barely contain his glee. I’d worked with him long enough to see the neon signs flashing before his eyes. GYNECOLOGIST . HANDCUFFS . MURDER . EXCLUSIVE VIDEOTAPE !
    â€œS&M is big in the nineties. Remember that cover story New York magazine did? And it’s not just kooks, it’s your doctor, your dentist, the guy who does your tax return, the sweet-faced girl who teaches your kids to read, a guy like Dr. Kanengiser. Is the murder linked to this dark world? It doesn’t even matter. The victim is linked to it.”
    You know, it’s not that I’m against exploring the totality of human experience, the human condition, as a reporter. After all, in the past year I’d done “Co-ed Call Girls,” “Transvestite Daddies,” and “Over-Thirty Virgins.” But, having learned the dark lessons of the ill-fated “Death in Modern America” series, I was trying to look on the bright side, become a better person, and do a nice series for a change, one that didn’t involve kinky sex, dead people, deranged people, and/or criminals. I wanted to do a series that might endear me to the viewers, help redeem my past sins, and hoist me firmly onto the New Niceness bandwagon. Good news is also part of the totality of human