“Thank you,” Jack said, wondering if the man would have been equally gracious if he knew Jack was a medical examiner.
DR. RONALD NEWHOUSE AND ASSOCIATES was stenciled in gold leaf on the door. When he walked in, it was immediately apparent that Newhouse ran a successful practice. Not only could he afford the Fifth Avenue rent, which Jack assumed was significant, he’d had the waiting room decked out in style. There were original oil paintings on the walls, plush furniture, and a large Oriental rug. What made it appear different from any successful medical doctor’s office he’d seen were three stools with contour seats connected to their bases by a movable ball joint. A woman in her twenties occupied one of the stools. With her hands on her knees and her legs spread apart such that her dress drooped between her knees, she was in constant motion in a manner that reminded Jack of his daughters using their hula hoops. While he watched her, the woman caught his eye and smiled. She appeared completely unself-conscious, leading Jack to believe the unique activity was normal in the environment.
“Can I help you?” a pleasant female voice asked from Jack’s right. He turned to face an immaculately dressed woman with every strand of dark hair in place. Jack was impressed. Even her manicure was perfect.
“I think so,” Jack said. He stepped over to the woman, who smiled up at him. “To be perfectly honest, I’ve never been in a chiropractor’s office.”
“Welcome,” the receptionist said. Her nametag read LYDIA.
“That’s an interesting piece of furniture,” he remarked, tilting his head toward the woman rotating and counter-rotating on the stool.
“She’s using one of our swivel chairs. It’s great for the lumbar vertebrae of the lower back,” Lydia explained. “It causes the intervertebral discs to lubricate themselves and actually swell to a degree. We encourage people to do it before their adjustment session.”
“Interesting,” Jack said. “Is Dr. Ronald Newhouse available?” He gritted his teeth after forcing himself to use the appellation “doctor.”
“He is here,” she said. She gestured toward the woman on the swivel chair. “He has his next patient at one- twenty-five. Do you have an appointment?”
“Not yet,” Jack said.
“Would you like to make one?”
“I’d like to see the doctor,” Jack said ambiguously. “I don’t know nearly as much about chiropractic therapy as I would like.”
“Dr. Newhouse is always interested in new patients. Perhaps he could see you for a few minutes before he sees Ms. Chalmers. If you don’t mind waiting for a moment, I’ll go ask him. Who may I say wishes to see him?”
“Jack Stapleton.”
“Okay, Mr. Stapleton. I’ll be back presently.”
“I appreciate your help,” Jack said. While the receptionist was out of the room, he glanced back at Ms. Chalmers as she dutifully continued her hip rotations. She had her head back, her eyes closed, and her lips slightly parted. For a moment Jack was mesmerized. She seemed to be in a trance.
“The doctor will see you now,” Lydia said, breaking Jack’s concentration. He followed her through an interior door and down a short corridor passing a series of closed doors.
At an open doorway she stepped back and gestured for Jack to enter.
The office looked out on Fifth Avenue and beyond into Central Park. Inside there were two men, one sitting behind a desk, the other in a visitor’s chair. The man behind the desk, who Jack assumed was Ronald Newhouse, immediately stood up and leaned over the desk, stretching a beefy hand in Jack’s direction.
“Welcome, Mr. Stapleton,” Ronald Newhouse said with a salesman’s enthusiasm.
Jack allowed his hand to be vigorously pumped. Newhouse was about an inch or so taller than Jack’s six feet, and one and a half times his hundred-and-eighty-pound weight. Jack estimated he was in his mid-forties. His coloring was dark with carefully groomed eyebrows on prominent brow ridges. His eyes were dark and piercing. But the most striking aspect of the man’s appearance was his hairstyle, or, more accurately, the lack of it. His hair was medium-length, dark, and shiny, as if slathered with styling gel, but totally uncombed. Spiky clumps sprang from his scalp at odd angles.
“Meet one of my associates, Carl Fallon,” Newhouse said, gesturing toward the gentleman in the visitor’s chair.
On cue, Fallon sprang to his feet, and with alacrity that matched Newhouse’s, gave Jack’s hand a second spirited shake. “Very nice to meet you,” he said to Jack. He gathered the remains of a pastrami sandwich and a half-eaten dill pickle along with a small brown bag. “I’ll catch you later,” he said to Newhouse.
“A great guy,” Newhouse commented. He pointed to the chair Fallon had vacated.
“Please, sit! I understand you are interested in chiropractic therapy. I’m happy to give you a quick intro before I see my next patient. But before I do, how did you find me?
Was it through my new website? We’ve been putting a lot of effort into it, and I’m curious to know if it’s working.”
“I was referred,” Jack said. He was aware he wasn’t quite telling the truth, but he wanted to see how things would play out.
“Wonderful!” Newhouse responded smugly. “Would you mind if I asked the patient’s name? I can’t tell you how rewarding it is to get positive feedback from a satisfied patient.”
“Nichelle Barlow.”
“Ah, yes! Nichelle Barlow. A lovely young lady.”
“I’m interested to know what you as a chiropractor feel competent to treat?” Newhouse’s smile deepened, and for a moment he seemed to be deciding where to begin. Jack focused on a series of books on the windowsill directly behind him, held upright by bright brass caduceus-shaped bookends. The titles were telling:
“I’d have to say chiropractic therapy in my hands can treat just about any medical ailment known to man. Now, to be fair, I’d have to qualify that by admitting up front that chiropractic cannot cure every ailment, but it most definitely relieves the symptoms of those problems it cannot cure.”
“Wow!” Jack said, as if impressed. Actually, he was impressed by the sheer boldness of the claim. “Do all chiropractors feel the same about the field’s capabilities?”
“Heavens, no,” Newhouse said with a sigh. “There’s been an unfortunate falling-out, so to speak, since the field’s great founder, Daniel David Palmer, discovered the techniques in the nineteenth century and founded the Palmer School of Chiropractic in Davenport, Iowa.”
“Davenport, Iowa,” Jack repeated. “Isn’t Iowa where the Transcendental Meditation movement is based?”
“Indeed, it is, although different towns. Fairfield, Iowa, is the location of the Maharishi University. I suppose you could say Io wa’s the nation’s most fertile center for the development of alternative medicine. Of course, the most important discovery of all remains the chiropractic movement.”
“Can you give me a thumbnail sketch of the scientific basis for chiropractic’s therapeutic power?”
“It’s based on the flow of
“‘Innate intelligence,’” Jack repeated, to be certain he’d heard correctly.
“Exactly,” Newhouse said, raising his hands palms out with fingers spread like a preacher about to make an important point. “Innate intelligence has to move freely about the body. It’s the basic governing force making sure all the organs and muscles work together for the common good.”
“And when this flow is impeded, then there’s disease.”
“Exactly!” Newhouse seemed pleased.
“What about bacteria, and viruses, and parasites,” Jack said. “How do they fit in when it comes to disease— let’s say with sinusitis.”
“Very simple,” Newhouse said. “With sinusitis there is a sharp decrease in the flow of innate intelligence to the sinuses. There is a resultant decrease in the normal physiological function of the sinus cavities, opening up the
