by John Koloen
4
Although it wasn’t within his nature to count his blessings, despite being unemployed and unemployable in his chosen field, Duncan wasn’t without recourse. As distasteful as some of the radio interviews had been while promoting his book, he’d learned how to give as well as take rhetorical punches. He was awkward and defensive in the earliest interviews when, from his point of view, everything was personal. Over time and with practice, he’d learned how to parry vague accusations with ambiguous exculpations. Most of the publicly released information about the first expedition came from unofficial sources, which authorities began to reconsider in light of the second expedition with its criminal implications, including murder and kidnapping. Both had generated headlines in Brazil when they occurred but the story quickly descended into absurdity as bloggers took over. It was because of them that the government tightened its grip on its investigation, declining to provide updates until hearings had been completed and charges, if any, would be announced.
Sitting in his living room, his phone on speaker, listening and responding to an interviewer in a faraway studio, he sometimes felt that he was talking about something that had happened to someone else. Unlike some of the participants, he did not suffer psychic damage, as everything he did seemed to him to be reasonable and appropriate, even in retrospect. Besides, he was not prone to second-guessing himself. That’s what the trolls and some members of the Johnson family wanted to see, a former scientist in the grip of self-doubt, tormenting himself until overwhelming guilt got the better of him during an on-camera interview, at the end of which he would issue a heartfelt mea culpa followed quickly by a bullet to the right temple.
But that was never going to happen. When few came to his defense, he quickly took on the role of personal defender and advocate, hardening himself as an act of self-preservation. Of course, Maggie was behind him one hundred percent, which was not only satisfying to him, but came with the added heft of her wealth and contacts. It meant that he had experienced lawyers to defend him against the civil suits. Years after the first expedition a decision had yet to be made whether they should be litigated in Brazil or America. As he understood it, the plaintiffs might be encouraged to accept a reasonable settlement the longer decisions were delayed and legal costs mounted. It meant that although he couldn’t completely ignore the lawsuits, he didn’t have to obsess over them. It was largely in the hands of his girlfriend’s lawyer, or an associate with his law firm. It also provided a convenient response to interviewers who raised questions about the legalities. Sorry, he couldn’t comment about ongoing legal and investigatory issues except to say that he was innocent of all charges.
Just as he insisted on keeping his own apartment, he paid his own expenses, at least the ordinary kind. He had adequate savings, had transferred his pension to an IRA, and combined with the unexpected but welcome income from royalties, managed a comfortable life within the confines of his frugality. He’d furnished his apartment with secondhand castoffs and IKEA, just enough to meet his needs and nothing more. He didn’t own a car because he could use Maggie’s any time he wanted, which wasn’t often, as he preferred walking, riding his bike and public transportation. When she and Hamel were traveling, he had the run of her condo, which he took advantage of. Things had worked out much better than he’d expected following the debacle at Biodynamism, despite losing his livelihood and having whatever reputation he had left as a scientist completely trashed. Lately, he’d been thinking about what he would do for a second act now that the curtain had fallen on the first.
True, he had few friends and had always had difficulty making them, outside of academia. His entire personality had developed around his education and career. He had no hobbies, no compelling interests beyond teaching and research. Romantic relationships ran a distant second to his work until he’d met Maggie. Even then, she did the heavy lifting at the start, and it wasn’t until after the first expedition that he realized he cared about her and finally reciprocated. But he was like that. People were just people, interchangeable, like grad students. If you lose one, you just get another. He didn’t have to put energy into relationships since they came made to order and weren’t expected to last more than a semester or two. That changed with Maggie.
5
Duncan’s phone rang three times before going to voicemail. It was on the charger in Maggie’s bedroom. He was in another part of the condo and didn’t hear it. She was off with Hamel to Switzerland. She’d told him what she planned to do there, but the details escaped him. Something about mixing business with pleasure.
Feeling more energetic than usual, he rode his bike to a nearby coffeehouse where, while waiting in line to place his order, he glanced at his phone and saw that he had a voicemail from an international number with the country code fifty-five and a location of Manaus. His intuition was that the number had been spoofed and that he should simply delete it after blocking future calls from the number. However, the caller had left a voicemail. Taking his coffee to a bench outside where there was less noise and commotion, he put the phone on speaker and listened, almost spewing a mouthful at the introduction: “My name is Marcelo Lima, assistant state prosecutor for Amazonas State. Please return my call at your convenience.”
He replayed the voicemail as if he’d missed something. He hadn’t. What the hell does he want?
Duncan hadn’t returned to Brazil following his second expedition when he was spirited out of the country by Biodynamism with Reptilus blaberus specimens in contravention of Brazilian and possibly international law. Deep pockets and political influence resulted in a slap on the wrist for the company, supposedly including Duncan’s involvement. However, having worked at Biodynamism, he knew better than to trust them. Could this be the other shoe dropping?
Should he return the call? He spent the rest of the morning wondering about that. What were the legal ramifications? Should he talk to Maggie’s attorney? Would he even answer his phone if the call didn’t come from Maggie? He’d gotten advice from him in the past, but it was Maggie who’d made the call. What did the prosecutor want?
The day had started well, but now he felt antsy. He wished Maggie and Hamel were there so he could talk it over with them. But they weren’t, and he was hesitant to phone her, what with the time differences. Not quite ten in Chicago, with the help of his browser he determined it was not quite five p.m. in Zurich. He selected her name from his contact list but didn’t activate it, realizing that international calls were more complicated. He started to look up country codes and procedures on his phone, but he was quickly confused by the advice. So he sent her an email, asking that she call him.
“She’s the jet-setter, not me,” he mumbled, as he finished his coffee and went on a fifteen-mile ride, pedaling hard to help relieve himself of the tension that had built up since listening to Lima’s voicemail. Authority figures such as police and prosecutors made him feel defensive, as if anything he said could be used against him. Just thinking about how he fled Brazil illegally with contraband made him feel guilty. He assumed that he hadn’t been prosecuted because of Biodynamism’s protection. But there was no question that the Brazilians could charge him with a crime, and there was no question that he was culpable. And he was just as certain that Biodynamism, which perpetrated the crime, would be no help in his defense.
The ride didn’t accomplish its intended purpose. His anxiety had reached the level where as soon as he got back to the condo, he frantically searched the internet for information about the Brazilian statute of limitations and criminal penalties for smuggling wildlife out of the country. He gave up, realizing that all he was doing was adding to his confusion and uncertainty.
“Goddamn,” he said loudly, “why hasn’t she responded?”
Thinking the worst about Maggie, he paced the living room, feeling abandoned. By late afternoon, it occurred to him that he knew an attorney he could call. He was on his contact list. Andre Montes, the lawyer who’d represented Duncan’s guide, Antonio Suarez
. He might be able to answer his questions. His mood brightening, he looked at the lawyer’s contact information, which included the U.S. exit code, country code for Brazil and the city code.
The time difference was only an hour. The relief he’d been looking for came as he listened to the odd sounds emanating from the phone as it processed the international call.
“Please pick up,” he mumbled as the phone finished dialing.
6
Maggie Cross’s interest in entomology ended one terrifying night in Brazil, but her interest in a certain entomologist grew beyond her expectations. No one was happier than she when Howard Duncan’s tenure at Biodynamism in the Texas Hill Country came to an abrupt end. The long-distance relationship they shared ended as well, as he readily accepted her invitation to join her in Chicago. With no prospect for future employment, he saw the move as a chance to start the next chapter of his life, though the baggage from the previous chapter kept arriving at irregular intervals like uninvited house guests.
After three years of togetherness in Chicago, he’d adopted several of her interests and she took up one of his, bicycling, which gave her a broader appreciation of the city’s lakefront at a slower pace.
She preferred Duncan as a traveling companion but settled for George Hamel, her live-in housemate, who enjoyed it immensely. He loved playing the escort. They were in Zurich when she saw Duncan’s email. He seemed desperate, uncertain, as if he couldn’t solve his own problem. One thing she knew was that with sufficient funds and the right attorney anything was possible. Surely a phone call from an official in Brazil was nothing like facing an army of flesh-eating insects in the dark. Yet he seemed to be on the verge of panic.
“Are you going to call him?” Hamel asked, after they’d returned to the two-bedroom suite at their hotel. As well as organizing travel details and the household, Hamel was her confidant, sympathetic and a willing listener. She kept few secrets from him.
Maggie sighed. It was nearly midnight in Zurich, which made it nearly five p.m. in the Windy City.
“I just wish this would all go away. It’s been so long, and they’re still not finished with their investigation,” she said. “I just don’t get it. He’s given testimony and done everything that’s been asked of him. And still—”
“Call him, then. Probably he just wants somebody to talk to.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
While waiting for the phone to connect, she gestured for Hamel to pour her a glass of chardonnay, after which he retired to his room.
Her call went straight to voicemail. His phone was busy.
7
Andre Montes didn’t pick up immediately. It was an idle moment near the end of the work day and answering could delay the ride to his apartment. It was an international call from the United States. Even more reason to let it go to voicemail. It could very well be spoofed. By the third ring the caller’s name appeared on the screen. He answered just before it would have gone to voicemail.
“Dr. Duncan,” Montes said pleasantly with virtually no accent.
“You remember me?” Duncan said, surprised.
“How could I forget?”
“I didn’t think you’d remember. It was so long ago.”
“You were a hot topic for a long time,” Montes explained. “But I’m certain you’re not calling to renew acquaintances. What can I do for you?”
Duncan liked that. The lawyer shifted gears quickly and came straight to the point.
“I’d like to ask you about a call I got from a prosecutor in Brazil, if that’s okay.”
“Of course.”
“I’m just wondering if I should call him back myself or whether I should have a lawyer call.”
“What did he say?”
“Just to call him back. No explanation. I have no idea what it’s about. I thought they had everything wrapped up.”
Montes was silent for a moment. Duncan could hear rapid tapping on a keyboard.
“I’m sorry, but I haven’t kept up with the investigation,” Montes said, as he entered search terms into the Central Nacional de Informações Processuais e Extraprocessuais. The CNIPE database was a repository of information on legal proceedings, statistical data and other records that citizens could search to learn whether a person or business is being prosecuted or has a dispute pending in court.
“You don’t have to apologize,” Duncan said. “I didn’t expect that you would—”
Sitting in front of his office iMac, the attorney continued keyboarding, chit-chatting while entering keywords.
“That’s remarkable,” he said, finally.
“What? What’s remarkable?”
“That I found what I’m looking for in a matter of minutes. It usually takes much longer.”
“Is it something I can look up? I don’t want to take up a lot of your time.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’m not billing you.”
“That’s not what I meant. I’m glad to pay. I just want to find out whether I should call the prosecutor back.”
“It seems they’ve been investigating the kidnapping and murder from your second expedition. It was big news at the time. Most people thought you were a hero.”
“I thought that was over.”
“Not according to this. Apparently, it restarted several months ago. It’s not clear from what I’m seeing what they’re investigating.”
“Is it something I can look up on my computer?”
“If you can read Portuguese.”
“There’s a website that can translate it.”
“I wouldn’t rely on web translators for legal documents, but I can send you a link. Of course, it’s written in legalese, Portuguese legalese at that. You’ll probably need a lawyer to explain it.”
Duncan questioned Montes about what he’d found and was relieved that he was not mentioned in the document.
“It doesn’t look like I’m a target, then?”
“Not that I can tell. But you have to understand that the database doesn’t include the details of open investigations, just the outlines. By the way, was it a state or federal prosecutor who called you?”
“I’m not sure. It’s on the voicemail,” Duncan said. “Why, does it make a difference?”
“It can in some cases. But again, there’s not enough information.”
Duncan was reminded of one of the things he didn’t like about lawyers. They seldom gave straight answers, even to the simplest questions. But he liked Montes. He’d been a godsend in helping Antonio Suarez out of a legal jam. Without the young guide’s help, he might not have survived the second expedition.
“So, should I call the prosecutor?”
“I would,” Montes said. “They may only want a statement from you. It’s a criminal investigation so it seems to me they’re going after the kidnappers, which is a good thing.”
“So, I don’t need a lawyer?”
“Not that I can tell.”
“So I don’t have to worry about extradition or anything like that?”
“Of course not,” Montes said, thinking the question odd, but dismissing it as the uneasiness of a naive American confronting a foreign legal system.
“If there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know,” Montes said as the call ended. “Of course, I’ll have to start billing you.”
“I have no problem with that.”
8
Marcelo Lima felt pressure from his boss, who was pressured by his boss, to wrap up the investigation. He was the third assistant prosecutor assigned to the case, and like those who came before him, insisted on starting from scratch. Of course, the camp where most of the killing occurred had been disturbed by troops who came to the aid of the survivors. After photos of the site had been taken, measurements secured, objects of interest retrieved, the bodies removed, the troops trampled the site in search of souvenirs and loot. The miscreants, after all, were thugs who preyed on the weak, deserving of little sympathy.
And that is th
e way they were characterized in the media, including the leader, who turned out to be a relative of a powerful State of Amazonas landowner whose family had paid for an independent examination of the man’s body, which revealed the cause of death to be from a chest wound delivered by a machete or similar instrument. Certainly, his body had been mutilated by the feeding of swarms of Reptilus blaberus. All of them had. But in the case of the leader, it wasn’t the bugs that killed him as they had the other victims. Conveniently, two of the gang’s survivors, who had fled just before the bugs arrived, came forward to claim that they saw one of the Americans stabbing their helpless boss. This revelation occurred several years after the initial investigation had been terminated, partly to end the ongoing publicity that made everyone but the Americans look bad, and partly because nobody cared about a bunch of murderous criminals. However, it was not long after these eyewitnesses appeared that the second assistant prosecutor, who told Lima confidentially that he didn’t believe a word of it and that the so-called witnesses had been put up to it by the family of the dead man, left the case.
“You can’t fight blood,” Lima was told by the assistant prosecutor shortly after he’d withdrawn from the case. “I can’t prove it, but I’m certain the family has been using its influence and money to keep this investigation alive. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll find an excuse to get out.”
Thirty-two, ambitious, and not yet cloaked in the cynicism of many of his peers, Lima believed that with a little coaxing the facts would speak for themselves.
“Facts have interpretations,” his predecessor had told him. “They’re spending a lot of money on this, if you understand my meaning.”
“Did they try to bribe you?”