The Violet Crow

by Michael Sheldon

  As soon as he saw it, the site felt cold to him. It was at the end of a residential street, marked with a small park to commemorate the birthplace of modern paleontology. On a small table, children had placed toy plastic dinosaurs, several dozen of them, like pagan tributes to the creature that had given them so many hours of fun. And, though the ravine itself was heavily wooded, any number of houses overlooked its banks. The spot was hardly private; it just didn’t feel right.

  After about an hour the Chief wanted to give the dogs a shot. He’d been holding them in reserve to avoid trampling evidence. “The only tracks down there are deer and raccoon. No sign of digging, no sign of anything. Biff, let the dogs do their thing, but I think this site’s a bust.”

  Michelle was perspiring from scrambling up the ivy-covered banks. She was out of breath and appeared to be irritated by something. She took off her hat, wiped her brow and announced, “I never believed this ravine was the actual dinosaur site. Back in the ’80s, some kid who was doing a project for the Eagle Scouts said it was here, but I never bought it. They used to teach us in school that the fossils were found in Logan Pond.”

  The Chief shrugged. “The pond is just a couple blocks from here. What do you think, Bruno? Can’t hurt to take a look.”

  “I want to see it,” Bruno replied with conviction.

  And, even before he saw the pond, as the Chief drove him and Michelle along the twists and turns of Lake Street, a peculiar tingling running up the insides of his arms told him they were on the right track.

  Logan Pond is neither large nor deep. But it is muddy, with a weedy bottom and lots of debris and sediment that make it difficult to search. Immediately, Biff wanted to run home to get his scuba gear, but the Chief insisted he groom and kennel the dogs properly.

  “Pond’s too murky,” snapped the Chief, reaching for his radio. “We’re going to have to drain it.” Debbie patched him through to the Director of Camden County Parks.

  The county’s white trucks arrived quickly, but then things drew to a halt. A group of people—police and parks administrators—stood huddled in a compact group in the center of Lake Street, just below the sluice gates that allow the waters of Logan Pond to drain into the Cooper River. They were focused on a manhole cover, which provided access under the street to the antiquated valve that would open the sluice gates and allow the pond to drain. The parks administrator, a diminutive woman with curly brown hair, was explaining that no one could go down into the sewer system here without proper certification, due to fear of gas leaks.

  A lengthy argument ensued, which the Chief finally resolved by calling someone he happened to know in Trenton who was willing to fax over the certification. Now he and the parks director—her name was Dora Goldstein—seemed to be getting along famously.

  Two of the brawniest guys from the Parks Department couldn’t budge the valve on their own. So the Chief asked Dora to ignore the fact that he was sending Biff down there to help out.

  The machinery shrieked, and Biff emerged brushing the iron oxide from his hands. “Just like poppin’ a cherry—takes a little spit, sweat, and elbow grease, but oh-so satisfying.” The guys from the Parks Department grinned sheepishly—their boss was watching—and shuffled back to their truck.

  Dora estimated it would take approximately 24 hours for the pond to drain. She and the chief assigned staff to supervise the site round the clock, and made a date to meet back there, first thing next morning for breakfast.

  When they returned, the police had the area cordoned off, yet still there were numerous onlookers. Gussie’s family. The team from the police. The crew from the Parks Department who were doing the actual draining. A paleontologist from the university–just in case. The ecology squad. And, of course, the media.

  Peaches described the spring weather. The morning drizzle and the sun popping out around 10:30. The leaf shaped like a dinosaur’s footprint. She noted the robins and the cardinals. Other birds with less conspicuous coloration, she declined to identify. As the pond level lowered imperceptibly, the various crews and teams and squads went about their work. The family chatted almost normally with the police and the maintenance crew.

  Then, as the pond emptied, the atmosphere changed. The tension grew palpable. Mrs. Parker started biting a corner of her handkerchief.

  Peaches noticed that, in her own case, her anxiety about the fate of little Gussie was intermixed with a strange notion: What if, instead of his body, another dinosaur skeleton emerged? She surmised that others, particularly the paleontologist, must be having similar thoughts.

  Then at last, objects on the bottom began to break the surface. The rusted-out frame of an old Buick. A variety of footballs, cinderblocks, fishing tackle, pantyhose, and assorted trash.

  Finally, there was Gussie. First there was the profile of his spine, like a whale breeching. He was lying face down. His spiky blond hair was smeared in muck; his exposed skin covered with leeches. His mother screamed and had to be led away. Mr. Parker had to be physically restrained. The paleontologist and ecologists were clearly uncomfortable with this level of emotion. The pond had been drained and examined; there were no important artifacts and the water level was enough to preserve the fish and other wildlife. They just wanted to leave.

  The police did their job with professional efficiency. They photographed and labeled and bagged the rescued body. It was taken off in an ambulance without sirens or lights.

  Within a few hours, the coroner confirmed Bruno’s vision. Gussie had been knocked unconscious by a blow to the head and tossed into the pond, where he drowned. It looked like first-degree murder.

  Peaches’ article noted that Bruno’s speed and accuracy in this case were uncanny. It wasn’t clear that she meant this as a compliment. She quoted a few local residents who said it made them suspicious that he might have committed the crime himself. She neglected to say that this “public sentiment” was derived as follows.

  Peaches: Does it make you suspicious that the psychic solved this crime so quickly?

  Man or Woman in the Street: Not really.

  Peaches: How else could he have known exactly where to look for that poor kid’s body?

  Man or Woman in the Street: I hadn’t really thought about it. I figured he was just doing his job.

  Peaches: But isn’t it possible he did it himself and then just pretended to see it in a psychic vision?

  Man or Woman in the Street: Sure. Anything’s possible.

  It took her about a dozen intercepts to get three people whose answers might be construed as yes. That’s a consensus, and Peaches and the Pest were happy to run with it.

  When word got out, all of Gardenfield went berserk.

  Chapter 26

  Gardenfield was locked down. When Alison came in on the train from Philly, she had to pass a security checkpoint before she could leave the station. At least the guards had been from the police force.

  Throughout town, in “sensitive locations” such as schools, parks, and so on, there were “security deputies” wearing official DayGlo orange- or lime-colored vests. These were individuals recruited from the towns’ contingent of school crossing guards, bicycle parking enforcers, and volunteer fire fighters. They’d been issued walkie-talkies and instructed to be suspicious, intuitive, alert, intrusive, and communicative. Debbie was going nuts.

  Alison hurried into the Lenape King and she and Icky retreated to the basement.

  “This is freakin’ me out,” said Icky. “All these vigilantes.”

  “Are they armed?” asked Alison.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. Not most of them, anyway.”

  “Then it doesn’t matter.”

  Icky couldn’t believe it. Alison was so obsessed with that course and her professor, she couldn’t see the danger. “Alison, can’t you see how messed up this is getting? First, your teacher gets them to write about him in the Pest like he’s some kind of hero.”

  “They made it sound like it’s just harmless pranks,” A
lison fumed. “I wanted to throw up.”

  “He’s covering himself so you can’t come after him.”

  “He thinks he’s covered. The pig. But I’ve got evidence.”

  “Alison,” Icky pleaded. “Throw it away. Forget about it. Forget about him. I don’t even care that you had sex with him. It doesn’t matter. Drop the course. Walk away. We still have each other. I love you. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  “Hurt? Who’s going to hurt me?”

  “This murder. Don’t you see? This is the cover-up. They’re trying to throw the police off the track or at least divert them while they plan their next move. These are dangerous people. Don’t you get it?”

  “I’m dangerous too,” said Alison sullenly. “I want to bring those corporate assholes down. I thought Professor Littlejohn … I thought that was what he’s all about. I thought that was the whole purpose of my education. To empower regular people like us. For him, it’s just a pose. He used me. Now I’m going to use him …”

  “Alison, what are you talking about? Are you crazy?”

  “Icky. I’m not sure anymore. But I’m glad you love me. I love you too. But I need your help. So will you please shut up and just do what I tell you?”

  Chapter 27

  Bruno felt OK. But he wanted to be feeling much better. He was entitled. Finding Gussie’s body had vindicated his abilities. He should have been celebrating. Instead, he was under a cloud, thanks to Peaches’ rumor-mongering.

  Usually the drive out to the Pines relaxed him. Less than 10 years ago, Olga’s Diner was a reliable landmark. Once you passed Olga’s, you wouldn’t see so many strip malls and traffic would generally thin out. Now you had to use more flexible, but less precise indicators. Bruno found himself scanning the sky. As soon as he started seeing vultures rather than crows as the primary scavengers, he knew he was out of the suburbs and into … something else. You couldn’t even call it the country anymore. Marlton had grown up and, much as he hated to admit it, the Pines was no longer the refuge it once was. He’d been stuck in stop-and-go traffic for almost an hour and he was exhausted and out of sorts by the time he got home.

  Even Maggie’s ecstatic welcome didn’t cheer him up. She sat and cocked an ear, which seemed to say, “Why sit around moping when we could be playing ball?” The thought of a saliva-covered tennis ball cheered him momentarily. Then he remembered the girl. They might have found Gussie’s body. But now they had two child murders and they needed to identify the perpetrator before anything else happened.

  Bruno stretched out in his recliner. He picked up the NewGarden Biosciences annual report for the first time since he brought it home. Why had he been avoiding it? No answer. He thought about the receptionist. Why had she made it a point of giving it to him? She was beautiful in that decked-out professional sort of way. But the mask had come down for a moment when she’d called out to him. Her eyes seemed haunted. Were they really violet-colored or was she wearing contacts, using make up and choosing the right clothing for effect?

  He looked at the annual report. It was printed on thick white stock with some sort of photo collage on the cover. Then he tried to open it. There were some tricky interlocking panels that puzzled him. He tried a couple of different approaches, then resorted to tearing the paper. Inside were the usual bar charts and several pages of text.

  He flipped to the back and found what he was looking for. Executive headshots. Perfectly in focus and evenly lit with a warm, pleasant peach-colored light that formed a nice contrast with the potted plants in the background.

  He started with Fischer. He looked him squarely in the eye and, after a few moments, succeeded in locking in. It was as if Fischer’s eyes were a video camera and his ears a microphone. Bruno could see what he was seeing, both visual and in his mind’s eye, and hear what he was hearing. He’d found Fischer at home, sitting in a well-appointed office. Leather chair, big wooden desk, silver writing instruments. And he was thinking about angels. That’s weird, thought Bruno.

  Now he turned to the Jurevicius photo. His eyes were steely. He hadn’t really noticed that when they met in person. He concentrated and, again, locked in without difficulty. This time the connection seemed much narrower. He had no sense of where Jurevicius was physically. But all his attention was focused on a woman, lying in bed in what appeared to be a hospital room. The light was dim, and everything was a tone of white or light gray. White sheets and pillows, gray skin, white hair, light gray walls. She lay there sleeping, with a breathing tube and an IV drip from a bottle next to her bed. She appeared to be quite ill, though stable, not in danger of dying. There was a crucifix on the wall behind the bed, which gave the scene a foreign feel, probably French, given Jurevicius’ background. And that was it. No movement. No change. Was Jurevicius staring at a photograph? Meditating? Or was there something wrong with the connection?

  Bruno broke off and tried to look at more of the report. There were more paper folding problems that needed to be solved, this time involving Velcro fasteners and metal cleats. Eventually, he reached the prize. It was a formal legal document that he eyed with dread. Was he actually going to have to read all of it for clues?

  He started scanning: Management’s discussion and analysis of results. Ticker symbol—NGBS. Stock price—basically flat. Resistance to biotech in overseas markets. Fischer founded the company about a dozen years ago. Partial buyout by a French venture capital firm, LHOQ, a year later. LHOQ was a minority investor at first, but kept increasing its stake. That explained Jurevicius’ role. But where did that leave Fischer?

  It was hard to see how any of this mattered to the case. Bruno tossed the K-1 on the floor and tried to fold the rest of the report back into its original configuration. Without much luck. Finally, Maggie settled the issue by dropping her tennis ball in his lap. That was a sign. It really was time to stretch the old legs and get some fresh air.

  Though it had been a warm day, it cooled quickly at night; the familiar smell of wood smoke clogged the air. It was overcast, with few stars visible and only a glimpse of a fragment of the moon from time to time.

  Rural Tabernacle didn’t have streetlights, but the neighborhood was filling in with homes on 5- to 10-acre lots. Some of them were those enormous 5,000-square-foot jobs. One of them had a copper turret and looked like a chateau. A few even had paddocks for horses.

  Bruno couldn’t wait for his washing machine to die so he could move it out to the front yard. There just wasn’t the same sense of privacy or peace of mind that had brought him to the Pines in the first place. Along with the woodsmoke he felt the burden of people’s thoughts, confusing background noise.

  They turned the corner and headed back to the trailer. Maggie kept trying to run off and check out Carmine, but Bruno called her back. He needed company. Back inside he thought about the Chief chatting up Dora. It all seemed very natural. He didn’t know anything about Buddy Black’s personal life. Was he married? Single? Divorced? Other? Nah, not the Chief.

  How come when Bruno ran into anyone it was a sociopath like Peaches?

  He gave wide berth to the NGBS annual report and grabbed his copy of the Complete Shmegegge instead. He seemed to recall that there was a chapter on Golems in it. How to make them at home. Just what he needed. Companionship. Seeking long-term committed relationship with nice Jewish monster (female). No family hang-ups or strings attached. Uninhibited sexuality a must.

  The chapter was prefaced with a number of warnings: CAUTION: FOR EXPERIENCED STUDENTS ONLY. DO NOT TRY THIS ALONE. Funny they’d put something dangerous and difficult in a Complete Shmegegge book. Golem making was supposed to be the most super-secret part of the Kabbalah. Well, Maggie’d be there to keep an eye on him. He trusted her judgment more than that of most people.

  As usual, the section began with an annoying whimsical sidebar. It was headed, “The first biotechnologist?” and quoted a 1st-century Rabbi named Yehoshua ben Chananya, who said, “I can take squashes and pumpkins and, with the Sefer Yetzirah,
make them into beautiful trees.” Well, that was something. He’d have to remember to mention that to Dr. Jurevicius, or to Fischer, next time he saw them …

  He read further and learned that the Sefer Yetzirah, or Book of Creation, was the oldest book of the Kabbalah. The basic idea was pretty simple. Since God created the universe, and everything else, by speaking words, and since words are made up of letters of the alphabet … Kabbalists can control the creative forces of the universe by manipulating the letters properly.

  Then it started getting complicated. There were several different prescriptions for making Golems. And you could do it one way to create a male Golem and a different way for a female. That was good.

  But then there were different instructions from different Rabbis. In Rabbi Abulafia’s system, you had to sound out different letters in a special order, and also breathe and bob your head a certain way. This allowed you to create each part of the Golem’s body separately. But it took 35 hours of non-stop chanting to bring the entire being to life.

  More accessible was the system of the Riva, where you had to recite a smaller number of paired sounds while moving in a circle. Bruno tried the sounds, “Uu-Yu; Aa-Ya; Ii-Yi; Ee-Ye; Oo-Yo; Bu-Yu; Ba-Ya; Bi-Yi; Be-Ye; Bo-Yo.” That wasn’t so bad. “Bo-Yo, Bo-Yo, Bo-Yo,” he hummed. But that was just the chanting.

  You also had to make a life-sized figure out of soil from a place that no one has ever dug and knead it with pure spring water right out of the ground … That might be a problem. He was pretty sure he could get by with Kabbalah Water, the brand they sold on the Kabbalah Co-op’s website. But unless he could order the dirt online, too, he was probably out of luck. Where could you go in Jersey where no one had been before? Reading further, he saw that the practitioner also needed to wear special clothes and be spiritually and mentally purified. What was that supposed to mean?