Insects 2: The Hunted

by John Koloen

  “I watched him die,” he said quietly, “and I didn’t help him. I feel ashamed about that.”

  Dias asked Suarez to describe what happened on the expedition and, like a river breaching its banks, the young man poured out a narrative that defied the detective’s note-taking skills, so he set aside the notebook and recorded the remaining conversation on his phone. When he finished, Suarez asked if he could get a drink.

  “I’ve got Coke. Do you want one?” he said, rising and taking a step toward the back door.

  Dias followed him into the kitchenette and accepted a Coke.

  Having listened to Suarez, Dias reflected on the interview he’d done with the American survivors and the report he received from the wildlife officers who interviewed the guards. Taken together, none of the narrative was complete. There were gaps, particularly in the explanation of how the victims had died. It was clear from Suarez’ guilt-ridden explanation of his boss’s death that the man had died horrifically, but it was difficult to accept that he and the others had been eaten alive by insects, even though that’s exactly what the Americans had said when he interviewed them.

  He was skeptical because they provided no proof that these insects even existed. They had explanations for everything, such as why nobody knew about them and why all of a sudden they appeared. It just defied everything he thought he understood about the animal kingdom, but it was clear that everyone involved was basically telling the same story. And of course bodies were found, but they’d been in the water and exposed for days and scavengers had gotten to them.

  After Suarez had finished his monologue and Coke, Dias gave him a puzzled look.

  “You know what, with everybody carrying cellphones with cameras I have to wonder why there’s no photographs.”

  “Everyone lost everything, especially when the truck flipped over,” Suarez said. “We were just trying to stay alive. I think everyone took photos, and I had a video of my boss, but I lost my phone in the water.”

  “Ever think of going back?”

  “No,” Suarez replied adamantly. “It was the worst thing that ever happened to me. I have nightmares.”

  Dias nodded sympathetically, turned off his phone and prepared to leave.

  “So I’m OK with you?” Suarez asked tentatively as he remained in his chair.

  “Oh, yeah, I don’t see a problem here. You’ve actually been very helpful, and here’s my card if you think of anything else. You know, I think you can stay if you want, at least until Mr. Costa’s wife decides what to do with the house. I don’t think you have to hide under the bed, and it would be a good idea to turn the air conditioner on.”

  As he moved toward the side yard to leave, Dias asked if Suarez had a new phone.

  Suarez took a phone out of his pocket and waved it toward the investigator.

  “Give me your number, in case I have any questions, OK?”

  21

  EXCEPT FOR A handful of colleagues who expressed concern, Duncan received little support from academia. By Thursday, the U.S. media had picked up on the death of American Carlos Johnson in the Brazilian rainforest, with most details coming from his family, who apparently knew little—though it didn’t stop them from accusing the university of stonewalling. Duncan spent a portion of the morning monitoring the story, which was limited to the who, what, when and where and a little of the why.

  By lunchtime enough calls from media had come in that he met with public affairs. Unlike the chilly reception he had from the president, the public affairs staff were effusive and showed what he thought to be genuine concern. Ushered to a cubicle occupied by media relations specialist Jacob Turley, he felt relieved as he was warmly greeted.

  “We’ve got donuts today,” Turley said enthusiastically. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “No thanks, I think I’ve had enough for the day,” Duncan replied as he took a seat on an armless chrome and vinyl chair.

  “Well, then, have you had any contact with the press today?”

  “Absolutely not,” Duncan said adamantly. “If they call, I tell them to get in touch with you folks. And then I hang up. I’m not really sure what they’re looking for from me.”

  “Well, they smell a story, and unfortunately it involves a death, so we have to be cautious about how we respond. From now on, forward any calls you get to me, email, texts, whatever,” Turley said, handing him his business card.

  Duncan pocketed the card.

  “Professor,” Turley said, “so far the questions have been predictable. Mostly they want interviews. What I need is the full story from you, warts and all.”

  “You got all day? A lot happened.”

  “Start at the beginning, if that’s OK with you.”

  Duncan smiled confidently, thinking that by answering questions he would free himself of additional burdens and that he would be able to move on with his life and career. Even as he started his narrative, he was thinking about returning to the rainforest.

  22

  INTERNET GOSSIP SITES started reporting that a Brazilian blogger was claiming that Johnson was only one of a number of victims whose bodies showed signs of having been devoured. The blogger gave no sources except to characterize them as reliable. Mainstream media in Brazil had also begun following the blogger and in some cases launched their own investigations. Before long CNN had tracked down one of the American survivors, whose observations ignited a media frenzy.

  George Hamel fed the media uproar with shocking headlines of people being eaten alive by insects. Editors ditched the articles they’d prepared in favor of the reports popping up like mushrooms throughout the media ecosystem. It did not take long for the story to get out as Johnson’s family raised the heat on the university and especially the expedition leader.

  Public affairs moved into high gear, producing press releases and compiling a list of questions from the media that they wanted Duncan to answer.

  “I’ve already told you most of that stuff,” Duncan said curtly when Turley visited his office that afternoon. “I don’t know what good it’s going to do for me to go on camera at a press conference.”

  “It’s the only way. We need to get it all out there at the same time so you aren’t a victim of death by a thousand cuts,” Turley said helpfully.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “The press will hound you if they think you are holding back. And they’ll know. I don’t suppose you’ve been watching the talk shows, have you?”

  “Of course not. I don’t have time for that crap.”

  “Well, that crap is making you look like a criminal. I can’t force you to participate in the press conference, but we’re going to hold it with or without you. That’s not my decision. It comes from a higher pay grade.”

  “So the vultures are circling,” Duncan mused.

  “Well, yeah. Right now, you are your own best defense and offense. You go out there and tell them what you told me, and I think people will have a different opinion about you and the expedition. Right now, Johnson’s family is controlling the spin and they’re pissed.”

  Duncan raised several objections. He had never done a press conference.

  “I’m afraid I’ll say too much.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Well, how much detail should I give? You know, people died horribly.”

  “No, definitely do not go into detail about how people died. Really, don’t go there,” Turley said forcefully.

  “But what if they ask?”

  “Yeah,” Turley sighed. “That’s the trick. They will ask. But, you know, the media ask police about the details of all kinds of crimes—I’m not saying what happened in the jungle was a crime—but the police don’t say more than they need to. And neither should you.”

  “So what can I say when someone asks, what was it like watching someone die like that?”

  Turley glanced at the ceiling. After first volunteering to work the assignment, he wondered if there was a way he could get out of it.
But that was out of the question. He’d have to make the best of what might be an impossible situation. He could see his boss calling him into her office after a blown-to-smithereens press conference, giving him the quiet treatment at first and then making insinuations that he had suddenly lost his competence.

  “I’ll be there,” Turley said reassuringly. “I won’t be right next to you, but I’ll be on the dais.”

  “So I’ll catch the bullets and you’ll bandage the wounds.”

  “Sort of, yeah. Just stick to the basics of what happened, why y’all got stuck out there and not get too detailed about anything. You know, you said the light was bad and y’all were preoccupied with survival. You know, talk about what you personally, actually were doing, not what was happening to the others. If we can limit the questions to that, I think we’ll get through this.”

  “That’s a promise?”

  “I wish. I’m just saying, I think it’s our best option.”

  “OK, OK,” Duncan agreed resignedly.

  “I’ll write up talking points to help you stay on point and we’ll go from there. You should wear a tie and light jacket. The lights can get pretty hot.”

  “When we gonna do this?”

  “We’ve scheduled it for four p.m. That way it should be mostly local stations, which may not ask the kind of questions you’d get from national media. Anyway, that’s the theory.”

  As Turley left, Duncan stared at his web browser, which was set to his department’s home page. He wondered whether it would be a good idea to see what people were saying. He felt exposed and vulnerable. He imagined that ninety percent of the articles and comments would be damaging or even hateful. But he found it hard to resist his curiosity. And just as he was about to run a search, Cody Boyd burst into the room,

  “Boss, you’ve got to see this! They’re interviewing that Hamel turd,” he said as he leaned over Duncan’s shoulder and typed CNN in the address field. “It just started.”

  23

  HAMEL’S INTERVIEW COULD not have come at a worse time for Duncan and the university. The graphic and dramatic account of events hit the internet with the fulminating power of a block of dry ice dropped into a tub of hot water. Duncan was stunned to find the small lecture hall packed with journalists. TV cameras were lined up on tripods against the back wall, sound booms sprouting like tree limbs. Photographers and reporters milled about, greeting each other and chatting earnestly.

  “What is going on?” Duncan asked as Turley greeted him on the dais. A row of metal folding chairs was lined up behind a lectern emblazoned with the university’s logo. Duncan recognized several others on the dais, including his dean and the public affairs director.

  “I don’t know if you saw it, but CNN interviewed one of the people from your group. Did you see it?”

  Duncan nodded in acknowledgement.

  “What did you think of it?” Turley asked.

  “To tell the truth, I thought he was overly dramatic. I didn’t watch the whole thing. I got kinda angry about it.”

  “The worst part was his description of how Johnson died.”

  “He described that?!” Duncan said. “Why would he do that?”

  “The reporter asked the question and the guy just responded,” Turley said, leading Duncan to a corner of the room. Speaking so as not to be overheard, and leaning toward each other, Turley added, “This changes everything. The way we had it set up, we thought we’d be able to control the press but now, they’re gonna want you to either contradict what was said on CNN or verify it. Which is it gonna be?”

  Duncan raised his hand to his chin and pulled slightly on his lower lip. He exhaled deeply. Although he was anxious when he arrived, his anxiety rose a notch as he scanned the noisy room while listening to Turley, hearing snatches of phrases. For an instant his eyes locked with those of his dean, who smiled grimly and averted his gaze.

  “All you can do,” Turley advised as the media relations director stepped to the lectern to start the press conference, “is tell what you saw. Don’t try to hide anything. Everything is gonna come out. And whatever you do, don’t speculate, don’t guess. Oh, and one other thing, don’t put a death grip on the lectern. Remember, this is going to be on TV.”

  “What if someone asks how I’m being treated by the university, my supposed colleagues?” Duncan said, snarling.

  “I can’t help you there,” Turley said. “Good luck.”

  They shook hands and took their places while the media relations director struggled to get the room’s attention and finally, reading from notes, set ground rules for the interview, which she knew would be ignored once the questioning started. Using a script, she introduced Duncan as a renowned entomologist holding an endowed chair and serving as the lead investigator on several major grants. She mentioned the number of entomologists who were trained in his lab and their contributions in fields as diverse as agriculture and robotics. Everything that the director said, including what Duncan was doing in Brazil, had already been distributed to the journalists as handouts when they entered the room. Like the preliminaries before the main bout, only a few paid attention while the media relations director tried to establish an atmosphere more collegial than adversarial. Seeing that she was basically talking to herself, she motioned for Duncan to come forward.

  Duncan instinctively wrapped his hands on the edges of the lectern and then pulled them away quickly, as if from an electrical shock. Turley’s mouth went from a grimace to a grin of satisfaction. At least a small part of what he said had gotten through.

  The questions came at Duncan like darts, many of them as a result of Hamel’s interview, which he suddenly wished he had watched in its entirety. Only moments into the questioning he felt he was under assault and looked back several times at Turley as if for assistance. None was forthcoming as the university officials squirmed uncomfortably, waiting for Duncan to say something that would turn the conference into a disaster equal, in their own minds, to the catastrophe that occurred in Brazil.

  Within minutes, Duncan showed annoyance when reporters asked similar but not identical questions. What did he think of Hamel’s interview? He hadn’t seen most of it so he didn’t comment. Was it true, as Hamel said, that Carlos Johnson had been killed with a machete by the guide?

  “I can’t comment on what Hamel said, I’ve already told you that.”

  “But did the guide kill Johnson?”

  “You have to understand, Carlos was being eaten alive,” he said matter-of-factly.

  The room exploded as reporters raised their voices to be heard over other reporters who had also raised their voices. Hamel hadn’t said that Johnson was being eaten alive. This was news and the press jumped on it like a pack of coyotes bringing down a deer.

  The media relations director stepped forward and asked for calm, shooting an annoyed look at Duncan.

  “One at a time, please,” she shouted, holding her arms up as if pushing back against the onslaught of journalists. “If we can’t maintain decorum, then this press conference will end right now. Do you hear me?!”

  Momentarily, the journalists stopped shouting while photographers jockeyed for position near the lectern for dramatic close-ups of Duncan’s sweaty face.

  “I really don’t think it’s appropriate for me to comment about Carlos,” Duncan said. “Brazilian authorities are investigating his death and we should wait for their findings before drawing conclusions.”

  Duncan felt he’d parried the question well, but several reporters insisted that he describe what he saw.

  “Can you at least verify for us that he was killed by your guide?” one of the coyotes barked with an air of exasperation.

  Hoping for direction, Duncan glanced at Turley, who shrugged helplessly.

  Recognizing that he was on his own, his anxiety flushed by anger, Duncan shouted, “Yes, the guide killed him.”

  Before he could say another word, the room erupted again and Duncan glanced at the media relations director, who leaped fr
om her chair and shouted, “This press conference is over!”

  24

  EDUARDO DIAS WAS preparing to walk to a Picanha Mania for an early lunch. It was Saturday morning and he had the weekend off. On his way he picked up a copy of A Crítica from a newsstand, folding it and carrying it under his arm. He could have saved himself the walk if only he’d opened the paper to the front page before taking a seat at the restaurant.

  The headline that got his attention after ordering coffee was Vítima Estudante Americano de Homicídio. It was the first article in the center column, top of the fold. Without reading the article he knew it was about the student who had died in the rainforest. The Reuters article referred to George Hamel’s interview on CNN and was updated with Duncan’s quote from his press conference confirming that the young man had been killed by the guide.

  “Merda,” Dias said under his breath. He had just talked to Antonio Suarez yesterday. He was skinny, barely old enough to shave, and seemed harmless. A day later and he was a suspect in a homicide. The article was short on details and as soon as he finished reading he called his boss, Captain Emilio Santos. Dias had yet to file a report on his interview with Suarez and thought that he could help with the arrest, which he knew was mandatory.

  “You saw the news, Dias,” Santos said gruffly.

  “That’s why I’m calling. I met with him yesterday. I know where he lives.”

  “That’s excellent news,” Santos exclaimed. “We’ve been working on this all morning and haven’t been able to find him. Just give me the address and I’ll send a team to take him into custody.”

  Dias was aware that homicide suspects were often treated poorly by police and felt empathy for the young man. Although at the time he wasn’t aware of the details of the killing, he didn’t think Suarez was capable of murder. Since the guide had been cooperative during the interview, the detective felt he owed it to him to help with the arrest.