Darkness & Light
By Babblefestival
The circular, mahogany table was polished to a high gleam. Sitting there, Brennan could see only her interviewer and no one else, not even the camera man. Surrounded by darkness and enveloped in a gentle pool of light, the sense of privacy was overwhelming. Over the years, the illusion convinced many a guest to bare their souls to the man studying her from across the table.
He shuffled through his research papers one last time before handing them into the darkness. "Ready, Dr. Brennan?" His face crinkled into a smile as he touched his tie and took a steadying breath.
She nodded. The presence of the table comforted her. She was used to leaning against podiums and sitting behind witness boxes. Typical interview setups with their lights and filters, umbrellas and cameras always made her feel self-conscious. Defenseless.
"Remember," said McLean, his voice deep and warm. "This is a conversation-based format. I have a list of questions I want to ask you, but I don't have to go through all of them. We can go off-topic, if you want."
"How off-topic?" Despite the man's reputation of journalistic integrity, Brennan was wary.
The lines between his eyes deepened with apparent amusement. "Well, in one interview, I only got to ask one of the questions I planned." A rueful smile. "Best interview I've ever done." He did not make the mistake of telling her to relax. "Ten seconds."
Hands appeared out of nowhere and tugged downward on the hem of her jacket. Startled, she sat up straight and caught one wrist before the assistant faded away.
"The fabric was bunching at the shoulders," came a whisper. "Try not to slump too much. Five seconds. And could I have my hand back please?" A sigh of relief. "Thanks."
McLean gave a reassuring nod. "I'm here tonight with Dr. Brennan, forensic anthropologist and best selling novelist. Welcome to our show."
"Thank you." She waited for the first question.
He held up her latest novel in hard cover. "Number three on the New York Times list. I had to pry it away from my wife before I could read it. Lots of twists and turns. You definitely don't insult your readers' intelligence." He seemed to be expecting a response.
"I try not to," she said. She imagined her publicist was cringing in the green room.
"Your life appears to filled with incredible drama," he said. "You seem to fit more into a single day than most people do in a year. How do you do you find the time to mix your work as a forensic anthropologist with writing books?"
"It helps that I'm not married and that I don't have children. I don't have a television." She kept her tone light as per Angela's suggestion.
"So I'm guessing you've never seen this show."
She shook her head. "No, but you have a good reputation. My colleagues all said so."
"Thank you for that," he said. "What I don't understand is how you can deal with bodies all day at work, then immerse yourself in the same for your novels."
"First of all, I work with remains, almost always skeletal," she said, correcting a common assumption. "I don't work with skin. I'm not a medical coroner. My work encompasses the near present, the past and the historical. It's often academic in nature."
"But you work with many federal agencies, do you not?"
"Yes."
"Such as?" He made stretching motions with his hands.
"Given the nature of my work, I'm sure you can imagine which ones." She smiled apologetically. Certain disclosures were not permitted. "FEMA for one," she offered.
"Give us some examples of where your work takes you."
"New Orleans. There are still unidentified victims of Katrina."
"You've gone to various hot spots to do the same thing, haven't you?"
"Yes. El Salvador, most recently."
"Not exactly a beach resort. You've been all over the world identifying victims of genocide. You've appeared numerous times before UN committees to serve as a witness."
"To the aftermath, yes. I also identify soldiers from different wars.
"New York as well." His tone was respectful. It was his home turf. "You give families, so many families, you give them closure. It's an amazing thing that you do. Your work allows people to heal."
Brennan was not sure how to respond.
"And then there are the victims of crimes," he said, filling the silence. "The main focus of your books and something you know about in real life because you work with an FBI partner."
It was becoming a sensitive topic for her. The last interviewer had tried to badger her into admitting romance with Booth. "The Jeffersonian has an ongoing partnership with the FBI, yes." She braced herself.
"Naturally, there's bound to be comparison between you and your colleagues and your characters. How true to life are your stories?"
"They're fiction, for one," she emphasized. "Every forensic team in anthropology has the same composition in terms of skill sets. All valuable. I could easily say that I was writing about a team from Europe and not my own."
"Well, the sex scenes are nice." This time, his eyes really did twinkle.
She decided she liked the man. It was a non-question. She could interpret it any way she wanted to. "Name me a bestseller that doesn't have some."
"That's true." His agreement took her off guard. He was letting her get off easy. "A good way to sell more books. And movies. I hear rumors that your first book is going to be made into one."
She shrugged, relieved at the change of topic. "I think I'll believe it when I see the credits on the screen. Hollywood is beyond me."
"Already a seasoned pro." He sounded knowing. "I don't know how you juggle it all. You teach, you give talks, you do book tours, you solve crimes. You identify victims who are past recognition, you write novels. You do research and you publish articles in all the reputable journals. My research also says you do martial arts and cave diving. Would you say you're driven?"
Brennan blinked. The interview was proving unpredictable. "I don't like to waste time. I enjoy the intellectual challenge of all the things I do. That's why I do them."
"You must like puzzles then. The complicated ones that most people give up on."
"Everyone has hobbies," she said. "Some people restore cars, for instance. You don't have to be a forensic anthropologist to have a variety of interests."
"With all due respect, Dr. Brennan, your work seems grisly and macabre to the average person. Earlier, I asked you how you can spend so much time doing what it is you. Now, I'm asking you why."
"You want me to explain my motivations for being an forensic anthropologist and for writing about it."
"Yes. Don't get me wrong. Your books entertain, but don't you ever want to take a break from the darkness of it all?"
Brennan hated psychology, but her publicist had been insistent. Never refuse to answer a question. Dance around it, distract from it, but don't ever decline to make a comment. "Society doesn't like to talk about the dead. We hide them away and wonder about those who work with them. We use euphemisms to disguise our discomfort."
"Why do you think that is?"
"Because we prefer to think about life as an absolute."
"You're hiding behind language right now yourself."
"I've done enough interviews to know when I can be blunt and when I can't. And right now, I can't. It would make you uncomfortable and your viewing audience too."
"And yet, people can't seem to get enough of your books."
"It's safer there. Just fiction. They can close the book and walk away any time they want to."
"Why do you think you're different?"
"I'm sorry?" After two book tours and numerous interview blunders, she had learned how to buy herself time to think.
"Why are you more comfortable than, say, I would be?"
"Why are you more comfortable in front of a camera than, say, I am?" Sometimes the best defense was a good offense. Dr. Goodman always said she had a sharp learning curve.
He laughed. "I'll let you in on a secret, Dr. Brennan. After all these years, I still get nervous as they do the countdown to air time. I've just learned how to hide it better." A thoughtful expression flitted across his face. "Is that what it's like for you?"
Brennan gave the barest of nods. "Something like that."
"Speaking in front of big audiences live gets to me the most. Sometimes, I want to run away and hide. My stomach churns and I have to be careful not to stutter." It was an astonishing admission and a clue to the man's success as an interviewer. "What about you? What, if anything, still gets to you, hits you in the gut?"
She hesitated, aware of the potential pitfalls of answering truthfully. McLean's viewing audience numbered greater than her current book sales. This was not a private conversation. "I can be taken off guard for different reasons," she said at last.
"Such as?"
"We're not robots, you know. We all have our reasons for doing what we do." The interview no longer seemed like a good idea. Talking about her motivations discomforted her. "I'm just glad the world doesn't need more of us than there already are." Her confession slipped out before she could change her mind.
"About fifty in the entire world, isn't that right?"
"Yes."
"I could never do what you do," he said quietly. "But I'm glad people like you exist. Because you're what stands between us and chaos, Dr. Brennan. You and everyone else like you." Intensity filled his voice. "I hope you know that."
His words touched Brennan. How did he understand her so well?
"As much as I hate to stop at this point, I have a voice in my ear telling me it's time to break for commercial. Thank you, Dr. Brennan, for stopping by. I've enjoyed talking to you."
"Thank you," Brennan echoed back.
"Next up is the mayor," he said towards the invisible camera. "Here to discuss the controversy over his development plans for the city."
Brennan waited until McLean removed his ear piece.
"That's it," he said with a smile. "No harm done, I hope."
She shook her head as she mirrored his actions and stood. "No. I got a little worried a couple of times. I couldn't tell where you were going." She held out her hand. "Thank you for actually talking with me as opposed to talking at me."
He engulfed her hand in both of his. "Thank you for going to El Salvador," he said.
His statement mystified her. "I'm sorry?" Her hand remained trapped between his.
"Mark Larson. He was my nephew."
The name was all the explanation Brennan needed. Larson had been kidnapped while working on an engineering project. His company stumbled on payment of the ransom and Larson was never heard from again -- until his remains were discovered two years later. "I'm sorry for your loss," she said.
"Thank you." McLean said simply and released her hand. The darkness swallowed him as he walked away.
By the next morning, the interview had been posted online in its entirety, both at the show's website and on YouTube. Brennanites worldwide sent its download numbers into the stratosphere. Bloggers commented on how different Temperance Brennan seemed when allowed to talk unfettered by the editing process. As the novel sailed to number one on the bestseller's list, the interview was mined over and over again -- although, oddly enough, the most popular quote belonged to McLean.
Coincidentally, no one accused her of being cold or unfeeling ever again.