Curds and Whey Box Set

by G M Eppers

  The crime scene investigative center was a gray metal structure four stories tall with large window panels and a yellow awning over the entrance. Sylvia and I walked in and found a receptionist behind a semi-circular desk, which took up most of the room. She had red hair, but it was a bland shade that could have passed for brunette in other lighting, and wore dark-rimmed glasses. A nametag on her left shoulder said “Iveta.” “Do you speak English?” I asked. If she didn’t, this was going to be very difficult.

  “Much,” she said. “I can help you?”

  I spoke slowly and distinctly. “We are investigators from America, here to look into the explosion at the Chembassy. We’d like to consult with your agents, please.” Sylvia and I showed our IDs, not flashing them, but holding them while the receptionist examined them both. A CURDS ID works nearly as good as an FBI badge, but the photo is actually worse than the DMV photo. I always tried to keep a finger partly on the photo unless someone insisted on seeing it, because it looked like a mug shot from Hell. I’m not sure why. I remember the day it was taken, my induction into CURDS, and I was riding high on pride and self-worth, and having a good hair day to boot. Sylvia’s looked better, but that’s probably because it was taken before her eye patch and you could see both of her sparkling green emerald eyes. Plus, she’s way prettier than I am. Everyone on my team is prettier than me, including the men. Billings definitely got his looks from his father. Fortunately, he got his good sense from me.

  Iveta picked up her desk phone, a corded touch-tone model in business gray with what looked like four lines, and punched a series of numbers. She spoke Czech into the phone for a few moments, then hung up. “Take seat please,” and she waved toward the gray metallic armless chairs lined up against the wall opposite her desk about two feet away. Sylvia shrugged, and took a seat. I turned back to the receptionist questioningly. “Five minutes. Promise.”

  Sylvia and I sat and waited. We took off our helmets, using Velcro straps to secure them to our belts. They hung against the sides of our chairs. Iveta typed a little, rolled around a bit, and moved some papers. In a few minutes, a man in a white lab coat emerged from an inner door. We stood as he approached, our helmets bouncing lightly against our hips. He appeared to be about Zuzka’s age, tall, but paunchy. He thrust out his hand toward us like he was karate chopping a block of wood. “Hello, Americans! I am Vlad Kopecky, Chief Inspector. You are CURDS, yes?”

  “Yes,” I said. “We are investigating the Chembassy explosion.” I was careful not to say the word bombing. An investigator wouldn’t stand for that. It would be getting ahead of the evidence. “We have people examining the bodies, and questioning the survivor and witnesses, but we need some information from the computer system and we understand you have it here. We were told to keep our investigation independent, but there is only one computer, and we don’t have the expertise for data recovery that you do. Were you able to get it functioning?”

  “Yes,” he said, letting his hand karate chop its way into his lab pocket. “This way.” He led us through the door he had come through, which opened via a buzzer that Iveta pressed without being told. I was surprised at the level of cooperation. I thought they’d be more guarded and protective of their findings. On the other side of the door was a maze of work stations separated by clear Lucite panels. People were at most of them, using various machines as well as computer systems. Wearing identical white lab coats, most of them also had on white cotton gloves. Some of them had on latex rubber gloves, and I even saw a couple wearing air filters over their mouth and nose. They glanced up at us as we passed, but went right back to their work. “Computer damaged by heat and smoke, but not burned. Lucky.”

  The Chembassador should have been so lucky, I thought, wondering how Sir Haughty and Roxy were doing at the hospital. I knew that people had survived far more horrendous injury, and there was certainly a chance he would survive. There was that 6-year old boy many years ago who had survived being burned over 90% of his body by his estranged father. But he’d been six. Children are resilient. The Chembassador was forty-eight years old, and had also suffered a skull fracture. I’m not a praying person, but he was definitely in my thoughts as I weaved among the workstations behind Mr. Kopecky and Sylvia.

  After several twists and turns, we arrived at a workstation that looked like every other we had passed. I should have left bread crumbs, I thought. On my own, I’d never find my way back. I could see the headline: “CURDS Coordinator Found Wandering Through Crime Unit,” and under that: “There’s No Place Like Home? She Asks, Clicking Her Heels.” On the table was the tower CPU from the Chembassy’s computer. It had been the standard tan, but had black smears and still smelled of smoke. It was hooked to one of their own monitors, a keyboard, mouse, and printer. A technician stood in front of it, with his latexed hands slowly moving the mouse, his eyes staring at the monitor intently. “We give you only information you ask for,” said Mr. Kopecky. So much for cooperation, but I understood fully. “Question please.”

  “We have only two questions,” Sylvia said. “First, of the victims, were any of them even suspected of being smokers?” The technician brought up personnel files. The names of the six dead were already highlighted. He opened each one in turn and printed the profile page for us. As an afterthought, Sylvia added, “I’d also like the work schedule for the past week.” The tech pushed two or three buttons and added the print job to the queue. While the pages were still printing, Mr. Kopecky asked for the second question. “Could we get a copy of the maintenance records for the past . . . “ Sylvia looked at me, not sure about the time frame.

  “Three years? How many years are available?” I asked.

  Mr. Kopecky smiled. “That is three questions.”

  He clearly wasn’t serious. His grin was awkward, but evident. “Sorry, we must have the wrong script pages,” I said. I’m not sure he got the joke. He gave no indication.

  The tech closed the personnel files and brought up maintenance records. He looked to Mr. Kopecky for the time filter to enter. “Give them five years. I know what they are looking for.” He turned to me. “But I can’t tell you if it is there. My team hasn’t examined those files yet.”

  “I understand.” I had another sudden thought and decided to add yet another question. “Can you tell me if you’ve found any evidence of an explosive?”

  “Nothing yet,” Mr. Kopecky admitted. “Still processing. Takes time.”

  “I understand. May we come back if we have more questions?”

  “Of course. I can’t say if we can share answers, though.” He winked. “And please have accurate count of questions!” I wondered if there was possibly audio surveillance and he was covering his bases for plausible deniability. Perhaps he was willing to share data to help catch the potential bomber faster, but his government was more protective. I’d probably never know. There was no way to ask diplomatically.

  It only took a few more minutes for everything to be printed. The personnel files printed in portrait mode, but the maintenance records printed in landscape. Mr. Kopecky took the stack of paper from the printer, found a manila folder under the desk, and slipped the pages inside it. He handed me the folder, passing it over one bent arm like a waiter handing a customer a menu in a fancy restaurant. “Thank you so much for your help, Mr. Kopecky,” I said, taking the folder in both hands so the pages wouldn’t fall out. Holding it on my hip like a schoolbook, I looked around, not sure about even which way we had arrived. “If you would show us back to the reception area?”

  He led us back through the labyrinth of workstations without any hesitation. I was so turned around I couldn’t tell you which way the Moon was. At the receptionist’s desk, Mr. Kopecky took his leave of us and disappeared. I asked the receptionist if we could use the phone, and I called the number on the paper the cab driver had given back to us. The cab arrived in five minutes, but it was a different driver. This one was burly and brusque. I climbed in, already opening the folder and beginning to read. Sylvia
gave the name of the hotel and did quite well on the pronunciation. At least well enough that the cab driver recognized it, flipped on his meter, and started driving without further questions. Together in the back seat, Sylvia and I looked through the personnel records. They were easiest to read while sitting in the back seat of a car. We saw nothing to indicate any of the employees smoked, but it would be a while before we could piece together any commonalities.

  We arrived back at the hotel well after check-in time. We had three adjoining rooms available to us on the sixth floor. The rooms each had two queen size beds, with a side table in between, a 35 inch TV, a work desk with outlets and an Internet hookup right on top, and a single, straight-backed chair. The outer rooms each had a fold out cot already in the room. Sylvia and I took the keys for the one in the middle. We’d figure out the sleeping arrangements later. Besides that, all the go bags were in the van, so we had no luggage to speak of. In the meantime, we were able to spread out our information on the desk and study it until the rest of the team arrived, taking turns sitting on either the chair or the nearest bed. They would have some preliminary conclusions to share when they checked in. We’d better have something by then, too. We took the time to order some late lunch from room service and dived in.

  A couple of hours later, after we’d finished our meal of the Czech version of goulash, and the tray had been taken away, there was a knock on the door. It was Nitro and Badger, back from the medical examiner, and with a rolling cart filled with our go bags. We helped them unload into the coat closet, then they left the empty cart in the hall for a bellboy to find. Nitro told us they had stopped to eat on the way back. I had them pick a room and rest until everyone else returned so we could all discuss our findings together. An hour later, Billings and the twins returned, and about 30 minutes after that Sir Haughty and Roxy arrived. We gathered in the middle room, creating a scene reminiscent of a Marx Brothers film. It was crowded, but everyone fit, some sitting on the bed, others cross-legged on the floor reminding me of the Chicago Song “25 or 6 to 4.”

  Sylvia and I went first, telling of our tour through the rubble of the Chembassy. “I know what happened to Chembassador Philips and the security guard,” Sylvia said. I remembered the security guard, but she hadn’t mentioned the Chembassador while we were there. “We saw the void where the guard –“

  “Her name was Aneta,” said Sir Haughty quietly.

  “Where Aneta was found.” Sylvia knew the name. She’d seen the personnel files. She was just trying to maintain some objectivity. I could see that Sir Haughty had already lost his, but I didn’t really blame him. He’d get it back, but for now the injury to his friend was raw. Sylvia took the correction without objection. “However, the void was too tall to be her.” It was? I thought. “She was 5’5” and the void was about 5’11.” I also noticed some faint marks more or less showing a rectangle around the area. I believe the Chembassador was on fire. He may have been approaching the kitchen when the explosion occurred, turned and fled up the stairs, not realizing that his back had caught fire.” I could see the scene as she described it in my mind’s eye. “Aneta found a blanket, pushed him to the floor, and smothered the flames. But the beam fell, breaking her back. Under the blanket, and at ground level, the Chembassador was shielded from most of the smoke and heat. The reported skull fracture probably took place when he was pushed down. On top, Aneta was exposed to the intense heat from the flames and, unable to move, was cooked.”

  “Dear God,” said Roxy.

  I moved on, wanting to get all the facts out so everyone could suggest interpretations. “We also went to the crime scene unit to retrieve some computer files. We’ve been able to determine that none of the victims was suspected of smoking, and that the kitchen had been inspected for safety and cleanliness less than two weeks ago, and regularly every six months for the past five years. The official story is still a gas leak, but we haven’t found any source for the spark that would have ignited it. So it all points to a bomb, but we saw nothing indicating an incendiary device. There’s also no sign as of yet of an accelerant that would indicate simple arson, but the crime scene unit is still processing debris they collected at the scene.”

  Sylvia again added something she hadn’t shared with me previously. “We may have a suspect, however. According to the personnel files, the chef was getting ready to retire. There was an assistant chef slash trainee on staff, but his body is unaccounted for. He may have started the fire and escaped. Until we know more facts, though, it’s pure speculation.”

  “Nitro, what did you and Badger find out?” I asked.

  Badger suddenly looked a little green in the gills. Nitro said, “The chef was found –“ he noticed Badger and diverted himself. “Are you okay, Badger?” His concern was genuine.

  “Yeah, sure. Hearing can’t be as bad as seeing, right?”

  “Tough one?” I asked sympathetically.

  Badger nodded. “I, um, fainted. It was pretty bad.” He was embarrassed, but not so much that he felt the need to downplay how the visit had affected him. Most of us had done a morgue detail at some point and no one here would hold it against him.

  “It’s better than getting sick all over the M.E.” I hoped that thought was some comfort, but it was hard to tell. From his expression, I suddenly thought perhaps he had done that, too. I wasn’t going to make him say so, though. His eyes said it all.

  Nitro, of course, was unscathed. As long as he didn’t have to tell us about what Badger had had for dinner, Nitro was as calm as a Vulcan between Pon Farrs. “The chef was found in four large pieces and most of his internal organs appear to have been incinerated. He had to be right on top of it, so yeah, more evidence for the bomb theory. He was identified by dental records. The others suffered burns over 70 to 90 percent of their bodies. None died from smoke inhalation. They weren’t alive long enough to breathe much smoke. Somehow, that kind of seems better.”

  “Anything from Aneta’s remains that can confirm Sylvia’s theory?” I asked.

  “It’s true she had a broken back. Her T7 and T8 vertebrae were shattered, severing the spinal column in the process. But she probably still had use of her arms. She could have pulled herself off the Chembassador if she tried. I think she stayed there to protect him. Quite a woman.”

  “Billings, were you and the girls able to get anything useful from witnesses?”

  “Not much,” he said.

  Agnes, scratching an itch on her cheek, said, “It seems the explosion was both awesome and radical. The fire was from 50 to 1000 feet high and burned either yellow or blue. We did manage to get copies of some cell phone videos, but they are pretty poor quality.” Cell phone videos usually are. “One kid dropped his phone in the ash and it was exposed to high temperatures before he could retrieve it. I’m not sure they will tell us anything new, though I think several people made some nice change selling them to the news outlets. There are a couple I guarantee will be replayed fifty times an hour for the next several days. Flames, shouting, blurry movement. The usual.”

  I had saved Sir Haughty’s report for last because I didn’t really want to hear it. I asked Roxy, “Were you able to talk to Chembassador Philips?”

  Sir Haughty responded. “Philips is dead, Helena. He died late this morning, with his wife and teenage daughter present. They, and about a hundred others, had been due to join him for dinner last night shortly before the explosion.”

  “I’m so sorry, Sir Haughty. Teenage daughter? It must be awful for them both.” It also meant that Aneta’s amazing sacrifice had been for naught. Or merely for the wife’s and daughter’s benefit of being able to say goodbye privately and with dignity. It wasn’t nothing.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “A grief counselor was standing by.”

  “Did Chembassador Philips say anything?”

  Roxy spoke. “He gave me access codes for his computer, in the event that it could be salvaged from the fire. Apparently moot, though, if the crime scene unit was able to bypass the
security measures and access the data.”

  “As far as I know, they did. They didn’t say anything about having gotten passwords. Of course, we didn’t ask,” I said. “They didn’t exactly volunteer much. Anything else?”

  “Meatballs,” said Sir Haughty.

  “Meatballs?”

  “It seems baked meatballs were on the menu for dinner. He was really looking forward to them.”

  It can be very odd the things people say when the end is near. I personally haven’t witnessed many, but there was an uncle when I was about twelve. He’d been ill for a long time with pancreatic cancer. Mom and Dad knew it was close, but thought he’d last another couple of days. They thought it would be okay for me to visit. But while I was there, he coded. I was pushed to a corner of the room while a medical team worked on him. They brought him back, he yelled “Saskatchewan!” and died. No one had a clue why he said that. As far as anyone knew, he’d never been to Canada at all. Then there was a cousin who had survived a car accident. She saw her friend, Yvonne, bleed out from a neck wound before the EMTs could get them out. Just before she died, Yvonne looked at her with droopy eyelids and whispered, “Manatees.” So it didn’t strike me at all strange that Chembassador Philips had said “Meatballs.” There was even a logical connection, though it did seem incredibly prosaic.

  Roxy, who was rubbing her feet (could the high heels finally be catching up with her?), asked, “Do we have a plan for tomorrow?” She yawned, putting a hand over her mouth at the last minute.

  “Well, we’ll need to check in with the CSU, but not right away. And we’ve got about as much information on the how as we’re going to get for now. I thought we’d go looking for the who.”