The Dinosaur Feather

by S. J. Gazan

  And there it was. “Helland, et al.” jumped out at him as early as page five, a lengthy and infinitely trivial description of the discovery of a dinosaur tooth on the Danish island of Bornholm in the Baltic Sea. Obviously, his esteemed colleagues couldn’t help but remark how this find yet again proved the direct ancestry of modern birds to dinosaurs. Clive let the journal fall from the sofa.

  Then he opened up Science. He had to flip as far as page seventeen before “Helland, et al.” leapt from the page. What the hell? Again, the article’s point of departure was some—in Clive’s opinion—utterly insignificant excavations on Bornholm, and the article was riddled with guesswork and conjectures, bordering on fluff. Clive scanned a few more pages before letting the journal slide to the floor.

  Finally, he started on Scientific Today.

  Jack’s beaming face greeted him from the editorial on page three, and Clive smiled back at him. They had seen each other only last Saturday, and the vibe between them had been really good, as it had been over the last six months. Kay and Molly had become fast friends, and Jack had been less defensive and recalled many of the things they had done together when Jack was a boy. Last Saturday he had mentioned the tree house. It must have been a big job to build, he remarked, and both women had turned to look at Clive. Clive’s heart started pounding, but Jack was relaxed and smiling and seemed to have no hidden agenda. Yes, Clive had replied, it had taken some time. How annoying that we had to move so soon afterward, Jack continued. They were having dinner in Clive and Kay’s freshly painted dining room when, out of the blue, Jack mentioned that his older brother had just been released from prison. “Is that right?” Clive said, relieved to let the tree house slip back into the past where it belonged.

  “I never told anyone,” Jack admitted. “It’s not exactly something I’m proud of. But anyway, he’s out now. Fifteen years inside.”

  Molly and Jack had visited him the previous day. Jack never explained what his brother had done, and Clive didn’t want to pry. Fifteen years spoke volumes. Jack simply said that it had been good to see him. He’d got a job sorting bottles at a recycling plant, and he was pleased about that. Jack suddenly looked directly at Clive and said “thank you.” The words hung awkwardly in the air, and Clive had no idea what to say. Molly’s eyes welled up, and Kay got up to serve dessert.

  Clive stretched out on the sofa, flipped past the photo of Jack and further into the journal. On page five, he nearly choked on his tea. The paper took up six pages and at the top “Helland, et al.” stood out. This was no minor puff piece run during a scientific dry spell. Clive sat up. The subject of the article was the femur of the Berlin Specimen, Archaeopteryx, which Helland and Tybjerg had visited Berlin to remeasure. The last approved measurement, undertaken in 1999 by the ornithologist Professor Clive Freeman, was not only highly inaccurate, it had also led to a series of unfortunate conclusions which—according to Helland, et al.—had distorted important arguments relating to the origin of birds to a very considerable extent. The question now was whether this data distortion was the result of that margin of error that should always be factored into science, or whether the measurements in question were the expression of deliberate manipulation. A brief summary of the incident at the 2005 bird conference in Toronto followed with a reproduction of the press release from Clive’s department, which placed in this context sounded like a total surrender.

  Clive was so outraged that he knocked over the teapot when he got up. This paper ridiculed him, and Jack had approved it. His thoughts whirred around inside his head so fast that he could barely keep his balance. He held the copy of Scientific Today away from his body, like a burning oven glove he wanted to chuck outside as quickly as possible. When he opened the front door to get rid of it, Kay was in the process of bringing in the groceries from the car. He tossed the journal aside, but it landed on his foot. He picked it up again and it stuck to his fingers. Kay came to his rescue and grabbed him by the elbows.

  “Clive darling, what’s happened?”

  “Jack,” Clive snarled. He shook his hand to free himself from the journal and a page with a colorful DNA double helix came loose and spiraled down to the ground. Finally Clive broke free of the journal and stomped past Kay, around the house, and into the back garden where he stayed for an hour.

  He didn’t come back inside until Kay opened the living room window and told him dinner was ready. At 9:30 p.m. he called Jack and suggested a meeting. No, no particular reason, nothing that couldn’t wait. A game of chess, perhaps. And, by the way, there was something Clive wanted to discuss with him.

  Jack came the next day, and while Kay and he made small talk, Clive said nothing. They retired to Clive’s study for a game of chess. It was a mild summer evening, the window to the garden was open, and Clive could hear birdsong in the distance. He could also hear Kay loading the dishwasher in the kitchen. Jack, who pretended that nothing had happened, pondered his next move for a long time. Clive forced himself to remember that Googling “Clive Freeman” attracted 41,700 hits in 0.11 seconds. When on earth was Jack going to make his next move? Clive got up and mixed them both a drink.

  “Why?” he hissed from the drinks cabinet. Jack gave him a baffled look. “Why do you want to destroy the credibility of the world’s finest and most respected natural science journal?” Clive slammed down his drink so hard on the desk that it sloshed over.

  Jack’s reaction shocked Clive. Clive had imagined immediate contrition. Downcast eyes, a boy confessing to a man of superior intellect. The only thing he hadn’t imagined was Jack’s calm reply: “That’s precisely what I’m trying to prevent.”

  “Then why have you allowed that article in Scientific Today? I demand to know why!”

  Jack looked at Clive for a long time before he said: “Because it’s my journal, Clive, and I decide which articles are published.” Clive detected a faint tremor in Jack’s voice.

  “It’s unscientific,” Clive shouted, and stamped his foot. “And you know it! You know that their arguments aren’t properly supported. What about the reduction of the fingers, what about the ascending process of the talus, eh?” Clive swirled the alcohol around in his glass and continued his rant.

  “What about the crescent-shaped carpus, you moron, the orientation of the pubic bone, and the colossal ifs and buts, which you know ad nauseam, and which allow you—in contrast to those idiots from Science and Nature—to weed out these crazy articles about kinship? When did you turn into someone who shapes his scientific views to fit a trend? Have you lost your mind?”

  Jack gave Clive a neutral look.

  “I don’t believe in you anymore,” Jack said eventually. “True, the other side still have certain problems explaining the reduction of the hand, but we’re talking about two hundred and eighty-six apomorphies, Clive, two hundred and eighty-six! A feathered Tyrannosaurus. What do you want? God to pop down from heaven and explain how it’s all connected before you’re satisfied? I’ve supported you professionally for years. I’ve done much for you. Much more than I should. Because you’re… my friend. But it has to stop now. A feathered Tyrannosaurus, Clive. Scientific Today is a scientific journal.”

  “How do you know it’s a Tyrannosaurus?” Clive sneered. “How do you know it’s feathered? You want to put feathers on an animal that couldn’t fly? You know as well as I do that the development of feathers is primarily and inextricably linked with the evolution of flight and didn’t serve as insulation until later. And you also know Tyrannosaurus didn’t fly. You haven’t seen the creature. I haven’t seen it, either. The structures may look like feathers, but they’re likely to be the residual of a dorsal skin fold; they’re not precursors of genuine feathers. That should be self-evident! You’re publishing conjecture, it’s unscientific! Have you forgotten you should never, ever, base your conclusions on what others have seen?”

  “No, I haven’t,” Jack replied, “and when it’s your turn to describe the animal, Scientific Today will be delighted to publish a pro
perly researched article that may conclude that the discovery in Montana isn’t a Tyrannosaurus, and that the skin structure isn’t feathers. But not until your description is available and has been accepted. It’s never been the intention of science to claim to have found the absolute truth, Clive, but to put forward the most likely hypotheses, and my job,” Jack pointed to himself, “is to publish those papers that reflect the more probable ones, and right now, they aren’t coming from you.”

  “Get out,” Clive said icily. He pointed to the door. Jack got up.

  “You shouldn’t mix science and friendship,” Jack said calmly.

  “Get out,” Clive repeated.

  Jack left. Shortly afterward, Clive heard the engine of Jack’s car start.

  Kay came into his study.

  “Why did Jack leave? What happened?” Her eyes were bulging.

  Clive said nothing. He was shaking all over. Jack was a traitor.

  “Did you two fight?” she asked. “Clive, what did you say to him?”

  Kay’s mouth moved. Say something for God’s sake, her lips mouthed, but there was no sound. Kay put her open, baffled face up to his; like a poker, she stoked the embers and the fire flared up. He struck her. The angle was unfortunate and the impact of his wedding ring made her cheek swell up. Horrified, she touched her face and stared at him. Then she left.

  Clive stayed in his study and tried to calm himself down. He reread some of his old articles, and a few hours later he felt better. He went through the house to find Kay. It was dark and quiet. The dishwasher was beeping, and the door to the garden was ajar but Kay wasn’t in the kitchen or in the garden. He went upstairs to the master bedroom. The door was locked. Outside the bedroom door, to the right, lay a comforter and his pillow. Clive knocked on the door, but there was no reply. He started hammering on it.

  “Open the door,” he commanded.

  There was no sound from inside. Clive went downstairs and watched television. Close to midnight, he fell asleep on the sofa.

  Chapter 5

  She was unmoved by Professor Helland’s death. Monday evening, as Anna climbed the stairs to her apartment, she was ashamed of her reaction. The apartment was empty and cold, so she turned up the heat and closed the door to Lily’s room. She hated Lily not being there, and without a child in the bed the small colorful comforter seemed creepy. She slumped on the sofa, where she stayed for a long time staring into space. At two o’clock she went to bed, but though she was exhausted she couldn’t fall asleep. She tried thinking about Helland’s wife, who had lost her husband, their daughter, who had lost her father, and about the times Helland had been kind to her. But it was no use. Her heart remained untouched.

  Helland had let her down, indirectly belittling her academic work through his lack of engagement and had, in every respect, been a useless supervisor. For nearly a year he had let her flounder. She didn’t care that he was dead, and she almost didn’t care how he had died, either. She tossed and turned, kicking off her blankets. Finally, she got up to go to the bathroom.

  After the short preliminary interview, they had been driven to Bellahøj police station in separate cars. Anna with Professor Ewald, Johannes with Professor Jørgensen. Professor Ewald dissolved into tears, her hands were shaking and she kept blowing her nose and fidgeting with a soggy tissue.

  Somewhere along the way, Anna snapped: “What are you crying for? You couldn’t stand Helland.”

  Professor Ewald looked mortified.

  “We worked together for twenty-five years. Lars Helland was a good colleague,” she wailed.

  Anna glared at the window, knowing full well that the two officers in the front were watching everything that was going on in the back. Every word, every breath, every revelation. She was also well aware that she wasn’t coming across as terribly sympathetic.

  At the station they were interviewed again by the World’s Most Irritating Detective. He appeared to have eaten beets for lunch; Anna noticed a purple stain at the corner of his mouth when it was her turn. She was asked the same questions as before, and she gave the same answers. At one point when she irritably repeated herself and made it clear that she had already answered this question, Søren Marhauge raised his eyebrow a fraction and said: “Please understand that we need to do our job properly. An apparently fit and healthy man has been found dead in his office with his tongue sliced off. Imagine he was your husband or your father. I’m sure you would want us to be extra thorough, wouldn’t you?” His voice was mild but firm, and he held her gaze a little too long. Anna looked away. When she had read through and signed her statement, she was free to go.

  It was three o’clock that afternoon when she caught the bus back to the university. She was thinking about Dr. Tybjerg. She was due to meet him in an hour. Did he already know what had happened? Anna had no idea how quickly the news would reach the Natural History Museum, but the parking lot had been teeming with police cars, so it was likely to be soon. Then it struck her that she might be the one who told him. Dr. Tybjerg was bound to be deep inside the collection and wouldn’t have spoken to anyone. A strange sense of dread filled her. She turned her head and looked out the window. The sky was still heavy and gray. Then another thought occurred to her: what if her dissertation defense was canceled? She couldn’t bear to wait any longer. The whole situation was already a nightmare, but if her defense was postponed for weeks, until after Christmas even, she would get seriously depressed and Lily would definitely start calling Cecilie “mom.” Last Friday, Anna had handed in four copies of her dissertation; one for Helland, which was now lying, blood-smeared, in a sealed evidence bag somewhere at the police station, one for Dr. Tybjerg, one for the unknown external examiner from the University of Århus, and one for the University Library for future students to use. Surely the library’s copy could be given to Helland’s replacement? Her defense was in two weeks, so someone already familiar with the subject should be able to gain sufficient understanding of the argument to be able to examine her. How about Johan Fjeldberg? Professor Fjeldberg was a highly respected ornithologist at the Natural History Museum, and she knew that he had worked with Dr. Tybjerg before. When she met with Dr. Tybjerg, she would make him promise that her dissertation defense would go ahead.

  There were fewer unfamiliar cars in front of Building 12 now. The door to Professor Helland’s office had been sealed. Professor Ewald and Professor Jørgensen had yet to return, and the whole department felt strangely deserted. Anna shuddered and quickened her pace. She stopped just as she reached the door to her study. It was ajar, and she could hear there was someone inside. A cough was followed by the sound of an office chair rolling across the floor. Anna’s heart started to pound. She was convinced she had locked the door when they left. She heard another small cough, then two footsteps, before the door was opened fully.

  “Shit, you scared me!” Anna practically shouted. “How did you get back here so fast?”

  Johannes held his head in his hands.

  “Christ,” he said, heaving a sigh of relief. “I didn’t even hear you. My interview didn’t take long, so I waited for you, but when you didn’t show, I left.”

  Anna gave him a quick hug and sat down in her chair. An echoing silence ensued, then she said, “What the hell’s going on? Was Helland murdered?”

  Johannes looked upset.

  “I don’t know what to think,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “It’s unreal. Besides, I only got two hours’ sleep last night, which makes it difficult to think clearly. How about you?”

  “I don’t care,” she said.

  Johannes was shocked.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “But that’s how I feel,” she mumbled. She turned halfway in her chair and gave Johannes a lost look. “I feel completely indifferent about his death.” She turned her attention to her screen and started checking her e-mails. Johannes carried on looking at her as though he wanted to say something. An e-mail had arrived from Cecilie, attaching a new photo of Lily. Had Ceci
lie already picked her up from nursery school? The message had been sent at 2 p.m., which could only mean Cecilie had collected Lily after lunch, even though Anna had asked her several times not to pick up Lily until after three so she wouldn’t miss out on the nap. Anna stared at the photo. Lily was wearing a new dress, and her hair looked somewhat different. Had Cecilie given her a haircut? Anna tried to figure out if the photo was misleading her or whether Cecilie really had snipped off Lily’s baby curls. Johannes was still looking at her.

  “Why didn’t you get any sleep last night?” she asked, without taking her eyes off the screen. Lily’s eyes shone as if she couldn’t be happier anywhere but where she was right now. In Granny’s bed with all the picture books Granny had borrowed for her from the library.

  Johannes was exhausted; he buried his face in his hands again. The movement made Anna turn around.

  “It’s a long story. I met someone at the Red Mask a few weeks ago,” he said, “and we hit it off. No, not in that way or, at least, not as far as I was concerned. And now I’m dealing with a stalker. I haven’t experienced anything like this, ever. E-mails, phone calls in the middle of the night…” He smiled, embarrassed. “Anna,” he added, interrupting himself. He swallowed. “I feel really bad…”

  “But if you’re not attracted to the person, then that’s it. You’ll just have to be honest and—”

  “No,” Johannes stopped her. “I feel really bad because I…” he looked anguished. “I accidentally told the detective that… I don’t know why, but I accidentally told him—”

  At that moment Anna’s cell phone rang. She rummaged through her bag, but by the time she found it, it had gone to voice mail. It was Tybjerg’s number, but he left no message. Anna briefly wondered whether he was calling because he had just heard the news. She tossed her cell on the desk and turned her attention back to Johannes.

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?”