by Andrew Mayne
Sometimes carelessness is the cause. Other times it can just be the fact that we don’t understand the nature of the thing we’re trying to study. Or it can just be bad luck, being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
In telling my students to go out into the world, turn over rocks, and poke their noses into overlooked places, I perhaps take for granted that they’ll exercise caution. Or maybe I’m guilty of understating the dangers you just can’t account for.
Although I spent a good part of my youth in the woods, now, with my spectacles and absentmindedly combed hair, I’m sure to my students I look not much different than agoraphobic English professors and two-legged lab rats who only see the light of day on their way to the student center’s vending machines.
I’m by no stretch a survivalist. My limit for the outdoors extends to how much fresh water and granola bars I have in my backpack. My understanding of the forest is more abstract and theoretical than practical in many situations.
Yet I learned something about the outdoors from my stepfather and had some common sense knocked into me by my ROTC drill instructors, who rightly regarded my intellectual curiosity as a battlefield handicap in most situations.
And in dismissing what little I do know, I think I may have set Juniper up for what happened.
Detective Glenn takes a call, and I sit here looking at the outstretched hand of the poor girl.
Her fingers permanently curled in agony when her body stopped producing the coenzymes that prevent the stiffening of muscles we call rigor mortis.
You only have so many hours in a semester to impart upon your students what’s important. I’d create endless different lesson plans trying to distill what I thought was absolutely critical. Somehow I managed to find the time to let them play video games on the lecture hall video screen—showing how hip I could be while teaching them how even a digital ecosystem can follow emergent rules.
Now I regret spending so much time on that nonsense, or on movie days when we’d watch a film like Avatar and try to rationalize an alien life cycle.
I should have been teaching them about survival.
The video games and the movies are a selfish indulgence. I have never been the popular professor, good at making jokes or just talking to my students. I’m often disconnected and isolated. These so-called fun teaching tools are my attempts to show them that there is a connection between the cool things in their lives and the world I live in.
Looking at the photographs of poor Juniper, I feel as foolish as a history professor strutting into class in a Captain America costume.
I should have been teaching her and her classmates to be safe, not trying so hard to get them to like me.
Juniper should not have been out there alone. Someone should have known where she was. She should have been packing a gun. She should have done all the things I don’t do . . .
Impulsive, curious, and oblivious, she may have learned more from me than she should have.
“Dr. Cray? You okay?” Glenn asks.
I realize I’ve gathered the six photographs of Juniper into a pile and clutched them close to me. Embarrassed, I set them back on the table.
“I’m sorry.” I push my chair back. “I should probably be going. If it’s okay?”
“Yes. Of course.” Glenn stands up and goes over to the door to open it for me. He stops before turning the knob. “I was just on the phone with Fish and Wildlife. They’ve got their best tracker here. We’re going to catch this animal. If that’s any consolation.”
I give him a weak smile. “We both know that it isn’t. The bear was just being a bear.” I take a gulp of air into lungs that don’t want to move. “She should have known better.”
“Don’t blame her,” Glenn replies.
I glance up. My words are terse and filled with self-loathing. “It’s not her that I blame.”
CHAPTER NINE
MIDNIGHT
A deputy drops me off at the motel parking lot in the late afternoon with a cardboard box containing my shoes, laptop, and other stuff they took from my room and my Explorer.
The door to the motel room still has a splintered frame where the tactical unit knocked it in. I should probably ask the front desk to put me in another one, but I just don’t care.
I shut the door behind me and use the chain latch to keep it closed. The bed is still unmade, but it looks like my pillows have been moved. If I had to guess, someone went over them with a sticky roller, gathering up hair. I suspect they weren’t just looking for Juniper’s blood. They were also searching for any other signs of her.
While Detective Glenn and I spoke, a technician was doing a cursory examination of what they found.
If a long brown hair had been discovered in my bedsheets or in the shower drain, I can bet that Glenn would have innocently asked if I was here alone or had any company. It would be the first step toward establishing if I was a liar and a potential killer.
Up until I left the sheriff’s office, I could tell Glenn was taking a careful measure of me. He’s met hundreds, perhaps thousands, of guilty persons. I’m sure he has his own patterns to look for. Everyone is unique, yet we all overlap in the way we react.
It would be easy to call me unemotional. And perhaps I am, if you use a literal definition of the word.
When my father died, I went from an outgoing if not extroverted boy to very withdrawn. My mother sent me to several psychologists. She was worried that I wasn’t dealing with my grief appropriately.
Sitting in their offices, I could really only articulate my feelings in yes-or-no fashion. When given a written quiz by one therapist, Dr. Blakely, that asked me specific questions about how I felt, what was going on in my head became apparent—at least to Blakely and myself.
Blakely sat my mother in a chair beside me and told her bluntly that I was managing this as well as could be expected. I wasn’t a sociopath or unfeeling. I just didn’t express how I felt or even recognize it the same way other people did, or in the same time frame.
The trouble is we expect the emote part of emotion. Humans are social primates, and our experiences have to be externalized to be acknowledged by others.
Mother never saw me cry. I used to think that’s what bothered her and why she sent me to the different therapists. When I was a little older and had the benefit of perspective—plus some insight from her second husband, Davis—I finally realized why she kept trying to get a second opinion.
She never cried.
Mother couldn’t admit her own guilt at not expressing the emotions people are supposed to when a loved one dies.
I have no doubt she felt the loss of my dad deeply. I know she loved him dearly. Everyone did. He was a selfless human who died trying to help other people.
I never judged my mother’s sense of loss by how she acted. It was as plain as an equation. When Dad died, the echoes of boisterous laughter and the light he seemed to radiate throughout our home were gone. A stranger to our house could sense that something was missing.
In retrospect, it reminds me of the stories my stepfather told about taking the train from West to East Germany when he was stationed in Berlin. Davis said it was like going from a color to a black-and-white movie.
When Dad was alive, the world was filled with color. Afterward, color only existed as a number on a list of hues. Everything felt muted.
My reaction to Juniper’s death was a slow burn. Glenn may now believe I didn’t kill her, but as I lie in my bed staring at the ceiling, I wonder if he thinks I’m the type of man who could.
What was I supposed to say when he mentioned her name? How was my face supposed to move? I don’t know. I’m sure the right response wasn’t to do nothing and stare blankly like a Greek statue.
At the end of the interview, Glenn gave me a second chance to react like a normal, feeling human being when he said they’d catch the bear. My response was that of a scientist, not a red-blooded man who should be driven to revenge for this injustice.
To be clea
r: I hate that fucking bear.
It may have been doing what comes naturally, but so does Ebola or cholera. I’d wipe them from the face of the planet if I could.
Bears are fascinating animals that share more similarities with us than we realize. They’ve adapted to almost as many environments as we have. They’re an extremely successful and intelligent mammal.
They deserve our protection.
But not this one. Too stupid to know that harmless young woman was no threat, it has to die.
Right now I wish I were out with the hunters trying to track it down.
That’s what I was supposed to tell Glenn. The right response was anger and the desire to do something.
He probably thinks I’m something worse than unemotional.
A coward.
The real men, men who never met Juniper or were in positions of authority over her, are out there in the woods seeking her killer.
I’m in a climate-controlled room, behind a mostly locked door, sulking over my inability to let people know how angry I am.
No judgment Glenn could pass on me would be harsh enough.
I’m pathetic.
Unable to express my frustration, I’m even worse than pathetic: I’m impotent.
I lie motionless until my phone rings.
It’s Detective Glenn.
“We got him,” he says enthusiastically.
“Where? I want to see it.”
CHAPTER TEN
THE BEAST
I pull my Explorer into the Highway Department lot at the edge of the forest where they keep road-clearing equipment in a shed. A crowd of men surrounds something under the solitary streetlight.
At least twenty people are standing in a circle. Trucks with gun racks partially block my view of them and what they’re gathered around. Most of the vehicles are local and state government.
I park and get out. The distance from me to the thing under the light seems like a football field. I’m conscious of every step yet feel like I’m not getting any closer.
The camera flashes from the circle’s center light up the tall pines like silent lightning. The scent of hot coffee fills the cold air along with the sound of laughter.
Take away the trucks, the iPhones, the box of doughnuts, and the rifles, and this could be a scene from the Lascaux Caves, where twenty thousand years ago men would gather to celebrate their victories on the hunt.
I’m the interloper, while they’re the heroes that go after the monsters that kill the fair maidens. I’m the bystander here to see the face of the monster but have no right to participate in the backslapping and congratulating.
“Dr. Cray!” Detective Glenn shouts to me. He breaks away from a man in a Forest Service uniform to step over to me.
I half expect him to ask me what I’m doing here, even though he invited me.
He shakes my hand. There’s a grin on his face. He only knew Juniper as a corpse. For him, her story began when she was found dead in the woods and has ended happily with the vanquishing of the monster.
The same for the other men.
The main character in their drama is the bear. Each man a protagonist, the animal the antagonist. Poor Juniper is merely an inciting incident. She’s nothing but a name and a cause to them.
I’m not angry with them for this. At least they did something while I gazed at my navel.
Glenn introduces me to a man with a peppered beard and a Fish and Wildlife jacket. He’s wearing shorts with a pistol strapped to his waist. “This is Kevin Richards. He tracked the animal and killed him.”
I shake his hand.
“I’m sorry about your loss.” Richards gives me a solemn look. I sense he’s the kind of hunter that doesn’t relish in the death of any creature.
I can’t think of anything to say. I just nod, too embarrassed to admit the biggest loss I’m feeling is my sense of pride.
I catch a glimpse of brown fur between a break in the crowd.
Richards clasps my shoulder. “Let me show you.”
His gesture is supposed to be comforting. It’s emasculating. I have to resist the urge to shake it off.
He’s the triumphant knight showing the scared villager the dead dragon. As if to say, “Don’t be afraid. I have it covered, little man.”
The crowd notices Richards and Glenn approaching and splits apart so we can see the thing.
A large blue tarp is splayed across the gravel. In the middle sits a mountain of fur, splattered with leaves and twigs.
I can see the dark red of blood on the body, but they don’t appear to be the bullet wounds.
In fact, there’s only one visible wound on the animal: an entry mark on its right temple, just behind the eye. It was a master shot and a quick death.
The bear’s eyes are still open. Its jaws wide in a snarl with sharp fangs visible. The creature’s claws jut out from its paws like steak knives.
This is the monster that killed Juniper.
This is the nightmare that took her life.
It’s big, even for a grizzly.
I should feel hatred looking at it.
Some instinct should make me want to grab a hatchet and start hacking the beast into pieces, demonstrating my rage. I can’t even muster the anger to spit or shake my head.
I look at it and all I see is a bear.
Just a bear.
The snarl on its face was probably just a spasm after getting shot. When Richards pulled the trigger, the animal more than likely had its head down as it tried to smell if there was something to eat under a log.
It was killed in a moment of peace, not in the middle of an epic battle. It died quietly and unaware, as it should have.
As Juniper should have, in old age.
I pity the bear. His path and Juniper’s never should have crossed. Had she been ten meters downwind, the bear would be nestled into his sleeping place right now and Juniper would be grabbing a slice of pizza and glass of wine at the parlor in the next town. Both would be happy and content.
Instead, we have a dead girl in the morgue and a dead bear spread out on the ground, the target of derision and hate.
I glance over at Richards and offer my weak praise. “Good job.”
He gives me a knowing nod, not really knowing what I’m thinking, and walks away with Glenn.
I stand over the bear and stare at the creature without really looking at it.
“Excuse me,” someone says from behind.
I turn around and see a young woman in a deputy uniform. She’s holding a thick envelope. “Are you the biologist?”
“Yes.”
“I was told to bring these here.” She hands me the envelope. “My husband has to leave for work, so I have to head back.” She looks down at the bear. “Holy shit. What a monster,” she says, then rushes back to her car.
It takes me a moment to realize I’m holding the envelope. The eyes of the bear appear to be looking up at me.
I slip my hand inside and touch several glass vials. At first I think they’re some samples they took from my field kit. I pull one out and read the label.
PARSONS, JUNIPER 8.04.17-H.C.M.E.
The dark material inside is unmistakable. It’s blood. Dark and clotted. This was taken from a wound. I examine several other vials. All have the same markings.
I’m holding her blood.
Inside this is her DNA. The recipe for making a Juniper Parsons is in my fingers.
Of course, if I could coax the genetic material into an egg and get it to split, even forgetting the information lost from not knowing the original DNA surface methylation, it wouldn’t be Juniper.
From the act of fertilization to the moment she slid closer to me in the restaurant years ago, the world around her affected her, molded her into the Juniper I remember. That girl is gone, and I never really knew her. Her DNA is no more Juniper than her photograph.
I read the label on the envelope.
TO: DR. LIAM GOODSON. FISH AND WILDLIFE
That explains w
hy I was just given several vials of blood. I flag down Richards. He’s in a conference with Glenn and several other men.
“Excuse me. A deputy just gave this to me.” I hand the envelope to Richards.
He glances inside, then nods. He gives it to an older man with a goatee and thick brown glasses. “Goodson, I think this is for you.”
Dr. Goodson takes the envelope and checks its contents, then smiles blandly at me. “Dr. Cray? We’ll use this to confirm that this is the right bear,” he explains to me as a matter of professional courtesy.
I assume they’re going to look for her blood on its fur and in its stomach.
I nod and begin to walk away, then stop and turn around to ask Dr. Goodson a question. “What made you think this was the bear?”
“We found blood on its claws and fur,” he replies, then points to a toolbox, not too different from one I use, sitting on the tailgate of a truck. “Tested it. Are you familiar with hemoglobin field kits?”
“Ah, of course.” He’s referring to small testing vials that contain agents that change color if they’re in the presence of human blood. It’s a quick way to tell if a blood sample is human or some other animal. He’s probably got several in his kit for other types of blood. It’s one of the ways they catch poachers.
I head back to my SUV and sit there for a few minutes staring at the crowd still standing over the body of the bear.
I’m trying to process everything that’s happened.
When I woke up this morning and walked to the ice machine, the last thing I expected was to be part of a drama involving a dead girl and the hunt for a killer bear.
It’s all over, and I’m still reeling and confused.
Reeling from what happened and confused by my own actions.
I let the fingers of my right hand loosen from their tight grip and stare at what I’m holding. Looking at it doesn’t give me any answers. Only questions.
Foremost among them: Why did I feel the need to steal a sample of Juniper’s blood?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE PHILANTHROPIST
When I wake up, the vial of blood is on my nightstand next to three empty cans of beer. I know I should give it back. Even though there weren’t any serial numbers, or a list itemizing the contents of the envelope, someone might notice it’s missing.