The Murder in the Museum of Man

by Alfred Alcorn

  Our good-byes were quite tender. Although we were not formally engaged, promises were made on the basis of which we allowed ourselves intimacies previously denied, but which stopped well short of any kind of consummation. I was moved by her tears when for the last time we kissed before I boarded the train at the old Seaboard station, a beautiful place since leveled to make room for a slum. In grand Hollywood style, she stood on the receding platform waving while I, from the open window of my compartment, waved back.

  Infra, I must say, exceeded all my expectations. Never before or since has drudgery been such bliss. It is difficult to describe the kind of exhilaration that comes when, digging on your knees, sometimes with your bare hands, but always so carefully, you unearth through the sand next to an ancient wall, as I did, a charmingly simple clay jar complete with a fitted top and decorated with the red glaze characteristic of the region. With infinite care, with my fingertips, I brushed away the grime of centuries, put down its exact location, and then, in Professor Calloway’s presence, removed the top to find it half filled with clean, hard grains of wheat. There I was, in the full brunt of the midday sun, unearthing and fingering palpable history, resurrecting beauty, making time disappear so that I was, for a transcendent, displaced moment, in a sunny courtyard millennia ago among those early Greek colonists.

  A more private bliss arrived with Elsbeth’s first letter. It was an unconditional declaration of love on her part such as she had never made before. She missed me horribly, she said, and the next few paragraphs made me nearly blush as she conjured in quite graphic detail what to expect my first night back. I was deeply moved. I went out of my tent and peered up at the stars, which, in that high, dry air, were preternaturally bright. I decided then that we would build a life together, a strong physical, spiritual, and artistic life during which our periodic separations would only sharpen the passion. I wrote back telling her how much I missed her, how I thought about her in all her aspects, and how I had something very important to ask her when I returned. I enclosed a snapshot of myself in slouch hat and shorts that our resourceful photo technician, despite very rough conditions (we were at least a hundred kilometers from any sizable habitation) had been able to print.

  I was somewhat perplexed but not alarmed when the post, erratic at best, failed to bring an answering letter from Elsbeth during the next couple of weeks. I was working, after all, from dawn until light failed in the evening. I had something of a small social life in the mess tent with the other members of the expedition, who were given to drinking great quantities of beer. I confess to a slight flirtation with an attractive blonde woman from California. It came to nothing, of course; I was irrevocably committed to Elsbeth. I was somewhat shocked but not entirely surprised to see this same young woman early one morning leaving the tent of Professor Calloway’s chief assistant, a married man. (I’m not sure how they managed, since all of us, I know, had only those narrow army cots.)

  Some weeks after her first letter, I received a second missive from Elsbeth, and I can still recall as though it was yesterday the mixture of anticipation and trepidation with which I took it to my tent to read. Even as I recall it here, my blood runs cold at remembering what I found in that cheap little envelope: nothing more than a hastily scribbled, scarcely punctuated “dear John” letter. She informed me that she had met “another man,” a law student named Winslow Lowe. She said that they were “deeply involved” and that this was the “real thing.” Into those trite phrases I read, of course, scenes of torrid voluptuousness; I imagined them in the most lascivious of embraces, indulging the very intimacies I had allowed myself to imagine with her. It was as though the passion promised in her first letter was now being lavished on another man. And the indulgences of my imagination returned to haunt my waking and sleeping hours in feverish visions.

  I have never been so wretched in my life. Then did the desert, the desolation of which had so charmed me, turn to desert, reflecting back my inner desolation so that nothing was left in the world. The things I dug out of the sand became like so much detritus from a human past, the misery of which seemed as infinite as the sandy wastes and empty sky of my heart. I could scarcely eat and, while never heavy, grew gaunt. I could no longer dig during the midday heat and instead lay fitfully in my stifling tent afflicted by demons of loss and jealousy. The fever of my heart spread to my body, but even this I dissembled before the rest of the group until I became too ill to leave my tent, where a commode of sorts was improvised. My condition worsened, and when my temperature reached a hundred and five and I had become somewhat delirious, a decision was made to evacuate me to a hospital. However, my fever broke that night, and though still weak the next morning, I was much improved. A few days later I was able to resume work during the cooler parts of the day.

  My heart, alas, never quite recovered. Where the fair sex was concerned, it had become a blackened, burnt-out stump. And while I gradually regained some interest in the work of excavation, analysis, and interpretation, I remained anxious and disabled in a way that has affected my entire life. I returned to Wainscott, and during a leave of absence from my studies, which had lost much of their flavor for me, I took a temporary position as assistant to Miss Vogel, whose own fragile health had begun to fail. I never wrote back to Elsbeth. I heard from her mother that she had taken a job in a New York insurance firm to be near Winslow Lowe, who was enrolled at Columbia Law School. I determined then never to think of her again, and in some ways I have been quite successful. In other ways, she is all I think about.

  TUESDAY, AUGUST 4

  I’m afraid I have become more involved in the fate of Malachy Morin than I ever intended to. Some of it, of course, is unavoidable. As the public spokesman for the museum, I continue to answer or brush aside all kinds of inquiries from the press, from people writing books, sensation seekers, and the like. I have to say a lot of it has been outrageous. Some national “humor” magazine is said to be proposing a “Cannibal Gourmet Cookbook” and has called the museum to get Morin’s “recipes.”

  Surprisingly, to me at least, Dean Scrabbe’s disappearance during Mr. Morin’s incarceration has not been taken as a reason for exculpating the latter in the (presumed) murders of either of the deans. The current thinking, which was intimated to me yesterday during an interview with Lieutenant Tracy, is that a “cannibal conspiracy” may be extant in the larger Wainscott community and Mr. Morin may have served it as a “supplier.” The lieutenant thinks the cult is centered on Corny Chard, which may be one reason I am no longer under active investigation. Corny, I must say, has not been helping his own cause in the least. Marge Littlefield tells me he’s been interviewed on television and playing the anthropophagic gadfly to the hilt.

  It also appears that through a simple act of Christian charity, my one visit to Malachy Morin, I have become his chief conduit to the world. Other than Amanda Feeney, whose motives certainly are suspect, I am apparently the only person with any interest in saving his neck, or whatever it is you save when you spare someone from the electric chair. With Ms. Feeney’s help (I’ve heard she’s angling for exclusive rights to his “story”), he has drawn up a statement setting forth his version of what happened to Elsa Pringle. This document arrived this morning, and, under the circumstances, the least I could do was to glance over it. I have not taken the time to enter it into the system. I have made a copy and will incorporate the text into the hard copy of this journal as a cautionary tale, to show what happens when the Rules of Governance are ignored, when politics becomes an end in itself, when individuals like Mr. Morin, whatever their prowess on the football field, are allowed into positions of power and discretion. [NdR’s comments in the following document have been incorporated into the text in brackets. Ed. Note]

  Statement by Malachy Morin Relating to the Accidental Death of Elsa Pringle

  On or about seven o’clock on the evening of Sunday, May 17, Mr. Malachy Morin drove with Elsa Pringle for dinner at the Lobster Haul, a restaurant in Ellington, appro
ximately twelve miles up the coast north of Seaboard. The purpose of this dinner was to discuss Ms. Pringle’s prospects as press assistant at the Museum of Man. [I will try to get this changed to “his place of employment,” so as not to compromise the good name of the MOM, but I’m sure he’ll want to keep it for the stature it lends his case.] Miss Pringle had called two days before this dinner appointment concerning the status of her application to the aforementioned position. On that occasion, Mr. Morin took the opportunity to suggest to Miss Pringle that it might be advantageous for them to meet in a less formal setting to discuss the position in question in view of the complicated nature of the relationship between a busy [???] administrator and his press assistant. Mr. Morin said that he had found working with Mr. Rotour [sic] with the press had required all of his diplomatic skills. [I will insist that my name, misspelled and all, be removed, but I’m sure it’s important to establish his motives in suggesting that he and Ms. Pringle have dinner together.]

  Miss Pringle agreed to have dinner with Mr. Morin, and the latter drove in his vehicle, a Chrysler LeBaron, at or about 6:30 P.M. of the date above to her apartment at the corner of Elmsdale and Frothford. After a short social visit during which Mr. Morin had a Diet Pepsi and fixed a loose wire in Miss Pringle’s stereo player, they drove up the coastal road to Ellington, arriving at the restaurant shortly after seven. During the drive, they talked about Seaboard and how, despite some of the newer developments along the coast, it was still a pretty part of the country. Miss Pringle told Mr. Morin that she liked it much better than Columbus, Ohio, where she grew up, or Gainesville, Florida, where she had gone to college. She said that she had decided to settle in the area after a summer internship on the Seaboard Bugle.

  When they arrived at the Lobster Haul, they found the restaurant to be crowded. They did not, however, have a problem getting a table as Mr. Morin is a highly respected frequenter of this establishment and had called earlier to make a reservation. After some pleasantries with the hostess, the well-known country-and-western singer Lilly Laverne, Mr. Morin and Miss Pringle were seated next to the window with a charming view of Hooker’s Point. For drinks Mr. Morin ordered a double Scotch on the rocks for himself and a strawberry daiquiri for Miss Pringle. During the meal they shared a bottle of vin blanc de maison, much of which Mr. Morin drank. For starters, Mr. Morin had a bowl of clam chowder and the garden salad with Roquefort dressing, and for the main course the two-for-one baked lobster special, which included steak fries and coleslaw, followed by blueberry pie ala [sic] mode and coffee with brandy. Miss Pringle started with a garden salad with the vinaigrette house dressing, the chicken special, which came with saffroned rice and glazed broccoli, of which she ate only small amounts, and coffee with lime sherbet. These details are attested to by the waiter and by the autopsy report. [Dr. Cutler, ever helpful, told me they were able to calculate quite precisely the time of death by the degree of digestion of the contents of Ms. Pringle’s stomach — after they had thawed her out, that is.]

  During the course of the meal, Mr. Morin and Miss Pringle discussed the press assistant position in considerable detail as Mr. Morin was desirous of communicating to Miss Pringle the importance he attached to the job. In this regard he stressed that he wanted someone who would be proactive rather than reactive. He told Miss Pringle she would be responsible for compiling a local, national, and even international list for the press releases that would project the Museum of Man in a favorable light. They discussed what kind of assistance Miss Pringle would need. They touched on salary, and while a minimum was agreed to, Mr. Morin said he would see about getting her more as he believed in equal pay for equal work. Mr. Morin told Miss Pringle that as far as he was concerned, the job was hers, but that he would still have to see to a few technical details involving personnel, accounting, payroll, and so on, and hoped there wouldn’t be any snags.

  After dinner, at or about 8:45 P.M., Mr. Morin and Miss Pringle exited the restaurant. At that point, Miss Pringle asked Mr. Morin if he wanted her to drive because of the amount of alcoholic beverages he had consumed on the premises. Mr. Morin replied that he was capable of driving them back. He said that for him it had been something of an abstemious evening where alcohol was concerned. She asked if he was offended by her concern, and Mr. Morin said, on the contrary, it demonstrated to him her sense of responsibility. As they sat in Mr. Morin’s vehicle in the parking lot of the restaurant, they got to talking as people will, and Mr. Morin informed Miss Pringle that he found her very mature for her age. He said he found her congenial and thought they could work well together at the museum and that he liked her as a person. In saying this, he took Miss Pringle’s hand in what was meant as a purely platonic, reassuring gesture. Miss Pringle then leaned towards Mr. Morin and kissed him in an entirely voluntary way. Following this kiss, Mr. Morin, who was completely sober at this point in time, drove them in his Chrysler LeBaron back to Seaboard along the coastal road without incident. Out of sheer habit, Mr. Morin drove to his own home, one of the former faculty houses on Shade Lane, where he has lived since being divorced some six years ago from the former Mrs. Morin. At this point, Mr. Morin thought it would be impolite not to ask Miss Pringle if she would like to come in for a cup of coffee or a drink. Miss Pringle agreed entirely on her own volition, with no undue pressure on the part of Mr. Morin. Upon entering the house at approximately 9:20 P.M., Mr. Morin turned on his stereo and put on a compact disc featuring light classical music. And, as the evening was chilly for the time of year, he then proceeded to start a fire in the fireplace, which he had arranged earlier in the day. For refreshments, Mr. Morin went into the kitchen, where he poured and drank a straight Scotch before pouring another for himself and a sherry for Miss Pringle.

  Mr. Morin and Miss Pringle sat together on the couch facing the fireplace, listening to an orchestral version of West Side Story, and resumed the conversation they had had during dinner and their ride back to Seaboard concerning Miss Pringle’s duties as press assistant at the museum. Mr. Morin told Miss Pringle that she could, time permitting, contribute articles to the MOM Newsletter. He told her he thought she would find the museum a congenial and collegial place to work. He told her again that he was impressed with her attitude and that what she lacked in experience could be made up in hard work. Mr. Morin also told Miss Pringle that Mr. Ratour [sic], although a bit of a stick [!!!], would be able to help her considerably. Miss Pringle asked Mr. Morin if it was all right to smoke, and he said it was. At that point in time, Mr. Morin left the living room to get himself another Scotch and Ms. Pringle another sherry and an ashtray.

  After Miss Pringle had finished her cigarette and drunk about half of the second glass of sherry, she and Mr. Morin exchanged another kiss of a purely voluntary nature. Gradually they became more intimate in a natural and physical way. In the course of these intimacies, Mr. Morin told Miss Pringle that, despite the apparent differences in their ages, interests, and so on, he found himself very much drawn to her. When their mutual fondling had reached a sufficiently intimate degree, Mr. Morin told Miss Pringle that despite his reputation as a ladies’ man, he often had difficulty in achieving and maintaining an erection. This information appeared to goad Miss Pringle, because at that point in time and on her own initiative entirely, she unzipped Mr. Morin’s trousers and with her hands and mouth soon resolved Mr. Morin’s difficulties in this regard. Shortly thereafter, in a state of high mutual arousal, an initial attempt at conventional intercourse was made on the couch, but it faltered when one of the corner supports snapped. Mr. Morin suggested that his bed would be more comfortable and that they should go upstairs. Miss Pringle agreed to this, and after Mr. Morin had refreshed their drinks, and turned up and set the stereo to play another disc of show tunes done in a classical mode, they went upstairs to the king-size bed in Mr. Morin’s bedroom.

  After both had undressed and lay down together, Miss Pringle found it necessary to apply herself again to Mr. Morin’s person. After considerable exertions on her
part proved successful and after several attempts in various positions, during which time Mr. Morin’s rigidity began to falter, insertion was achieved with Miss Pringle in the superior position. Mr. Morin, though very much a masculine man, deemed this position appropriate given the relative proportions of the parties involved. However, in the course of the next few moments, what with the twisting and turning that naturally attend vigorous intercourse and with an understandable resurgence of masculine pride on the part of Mr. Morin, they more or less revolved into the standard missionary position, that is, with Miss Pringle underneath Mr. Morin.

  The record should show that, despite Mr. Morin’s reputation as a lover, it had been some time since he had successfully had sexual congress with a woman. The record should also show that while Mr. Morin has a considerable capacity for alcohol, the amount he had drunk and the excitement of expectation had begun to take their toll. In short, it took him considerable time to achieve ejaculation after intercourse with Miss Pringle commenced. Moreover, the record should show that the prospect of not achieving ejaculation, and all that meant to his self-esteem, to Miss Pringle’s view of him and through him her appreciation of the museum, drove Mr. Morin to great and preoccupied lengths in his lovemaking efforts. The record, in short, should show that in the sway of his passion, his sense of duty, and the magnificent music crashing all around them, Mr. Morin got carried away. It was in this context that some time after Mr. Morin and Miss Pringle had arranged themselves in the missionary position so called, Miss Pringle, all but hidden beneath Mr. Morin’s considerable bodily bulk, began to move in a very pronounced way, squirming and kicking. Mr. Morin took this to be the very throes of sexual excitement, which excited him to ever more strenuous efforts. These culminated a few moments later in what Mr. Morin took to be one of those wonderful mutual orgasms he had read about in books, particularly judging from Miss Pringle’s final, convulsive shudderings.