When I put that away, the bowl is empty. I open my journal and read of my life for the last two days. I’m shocked.
I realize that I still have no idea what kind of writing I’m supposed to be doing. I told Tanya it was technical writing and creative journalism, but I really don’t know that for sure. Maybe I’m to create a photographic journal record appropriate for something like National Geographic. How is it that they plan on presenting the sabre-toothed cat to the world? The Vice President of Publicity and Documentation must have some plan. I decide I must visit with Lance Evans. I need to find out what it is I should really be doing.
Chapter 11
Compared to boars, which will fight back, man is easy and abundant prey.
—Spell of the Tiger
Lance Evans is not around. Nor is he the next day. I spend most of my time in the library schooling myself in the science at the core of Sans Sanssabre. I attend a memorial in the boardroom for Peter McCully, five days after his death. Lance is there. Afterwards we meet briefly in a corner.
“We need to get together,” he says.
I tell him what I’ve been doing, that I need further instructions.
“That’s what we need to get together for,” he adds. “Maybe Thursday.”
That was Tuesday. I don’t see him Thursday, or Friday. In the meantime I have twice been turned away on a request to see the lab. Doctor Zitnik is good to his word. Friday afternoon Merwin Boggs finds me in the open foyer analyzing the grizzly bear.
“Anything like this in the outback?” I ask.
“No. No. Nothing this big. Some things just as dangerous. Have you seen the cougar?” He opens the door that leads to the breezeway where the stuffed cougar stands.
“Yes, I have.” I don’t desire to go into that space for fear that I might end up locked outside once more.
“You need to look at it again.” He moves farther in but still holds the door.
I hesitate.
“Come. There is something you probably didn’t see.”
Reluctantly I follow him and grab the door. He hooks my arm and pulls me on in, closer to the cougar. He bends forward and places his fingers against the teeth, huge teeth I notice when my face gets closer. He drops his voice as if afraid of being overheard.
“Actually, Zach, I could give a flying aborigine about this animal. This is one of the few places that I know there are no microphones.”
I stand up straight. “Microphones?”
“Get back down here! The cameras can still see us through the glass. Just make like we are talking about this cougar. I don’t like what happened to Doctor McCully.”
“What’s to like?” I whisper. “He’s dead.”
“I don’t think it was an accident.”
“You think he was murdered? How can that be possible? How can someone direct a wild animal to attack and kill?”
“I don’t think Simon killed him. As a matter-of-fact, I’m certain he didn’t.”
I stand up straight again and then remember the camera. I walk around to the side of the cougar and place my hand on his flank. “How is it you’re certain?”
“Several things. After the cat was put out I helped get him back into his cage. There was not a speck of blood on him. I have watched the cats kill in the garden. They are very precise. They do not rip everything apart. They bite, pulling their sabre teeth through the windpipe and jugular. Death is quick. It’s a simple, clean kill. That is not how Doctor McCully was killed. His neck and shoulder–they never go for the shoulder–were torn open. There was no blood around Simon’s muzzle. Also, Simon has never been introduced to the wild like the three you saw in the garden. It’s believed that the sabre-toothed cat does not kill until it is at least a year and a half or two years old, and when it does it’s after watching and learning from its mother or other older cats. Simon has never been in the presence of the other big cats. In a way he is a freak. He carries none of the aggressiveness of the others. Basically, he is a pet.”
“A pet?”
“Yes. A pet. Of course he is no more than a toddler in human terms so his instincts might still kick in; however, he has been raised otherwise.”
“Why was he in a cage?”
He moves around to the cougar’s other flank. “Doctor McCully brought him down for his weekly blood test and examination. He was the Doc’s pet, Zach. He leads him by leash down to his lab and places him in the cage for his own safety. Like any kitten he likes to play and at seventy pounds can sometimes get carried away.”
“Like a big puppy,” I say.
“Worse. Puppies don’t leap upon tables and counters and play with anything that can be batted around. Like people baby-proof their homes, Doctor McCully had to Simon-proof his apartment.”
I visualize for a moment a small sabre-toothed cat running around my apartment, sharpening his teeth and claws on everything. I look across the cougar at Merwin. “I saw Doctor McCully. Who could have done that, and how? Also, why?”
“The how first. That’s easy. Victor is fascinated with the sabre-toothed cat; has been all his life. He has his own personal collection of artifacts from the diggings in the La Brea tar pits. Have you ever been there?”
“No. But I’ve just been reading about it.”
“Very interesting. You ought to go see it, spend some time digging yourself. I think it would be important to your job. Anyway, Victor saw a video in which a group constructed a sabre-tooth jaw in order to try and recreate how they kill their prey.”
It must be the same one I had seen.
“He was actually able to go see the device.”
“He bought it from them?”
“No. He made an offer but it wasn’t for sale. Instead he took pictures and then had one made. It’s much smaller.” Merwin thinks for a minute. “Now that I think about it, it’s about the size of Simon’s jaws.”
“So you think Victor killed him with his steel jaws?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. The who part I don’t know. The cabinet he keeps it in isn’t locked. Anyone could have gotten to it. As a reader of murder mysteries, I would say you’d first analyze the why, and the who will bubble to the surface.” Merwin walks over to the door and looks out on the snow covered scene. “It’s a nice day today.”
I walk around the cougar and stand next to him. The walkways are clean and the sun is bright. “Define nice,” I say.
“It’s right around zero.”
“Really? I haven’t paid any attention at all to the weather. Is the snow going to melt?”
Merwin laughs. “Not by far yet. Got to get above freezing first”
“Oh, Yeah.” I really feel stupid.
“But I don’t think that’s far away. We should start seeing real spring before long.”
I’m trying to put two and two together on this murder thing, and suddenly something occurs to me. “Didn’t the assistant, Traci, say she saw Simon jump onto his back?”
Merwin stares out at the snow for some time before he answers. “I don’t know. That’s a problem. I don’t remember what she told me, what her exact words were. I formed a picture from her words that Simon came out of the cage onto him. Did she say she saw it happen or did she assume that is what happened when she found him on the floor and the cat out of the cage? Did she form a conclusion from what she saw; then did I form a conclusion from what she said? I don’t want to point a finger at someone just yet. I’m certain he was murdered, but I honestly have no idea who did it.”
“Do you know who would have reason?”
He shakes his head, but I don’t know if that’s because he doesn’t know or isn’t willing to say out loud. I know of at least four who could probably consider doing it to me. I don’t say that though. “Why are you telling me all this? Why don’t you go to the police?”
“Although I’m sure, it would only be unjustified suspicion according to the police. There is no proof, no evidence.”
“What about an autopsy? Wouldn’t there be evidence of som
e kind that it was or wasn’t an animal?”
“That I don’t know. In any case the doctor’s body was flown back to his family in Louisiana. That is where Lance and Victor have been. He was to be cremated yesterday. I assume it is done.” We stand side by side staring into the brightness for a time. My hands are stuffed in my pockets because of the chill in the entry room. “The reason I’m telling you is that you are the only one I know who for sure did not do the murder, outside of Jacob since he was with me. But I have to tell someone if for no other reason than to receive confirmation of my suspicions.”
“You need confirmation from me that you are correct in your belief that Doctor McCully was murdered?”
“Or verification that I could be right. If all I just told you makes no sense, I’ll try to forget the entire notion and go about my work. However, if you think it does make sense, that I could be right, well, that’s another thing altogether.”
“It doesn’t mean that it could be solved.”
“No, but it could mean I need to look for employment somewhere else. I had to tell someone—you—because I couldn’t keep it bottled up. Sooner or later I’ll loosen my lips to the wrong person and I’ll wind up being cremated as well. I’m sure enough that I am ready to start packing my bags.”
I think about this awhile. I’m not sure what he wants me to say. Yes, I think you’re right? I have more than just his words to base that on; I have my own suspicions about Victor. No, I think you’re barking up a dead tree? His words make too much sense, especially in light of what I already know about the relationship between Doctor McCully and his assistant, between Victor and Aileen, between McCully and Aileen. Is there, or has there ever been anything between Victor and Traci? There could be multiple over-lapping triangles.
I pull myself up straight. “Let me think on it. There’s some substance to your thoughts. I’ll nose around and see what I can come up with.”
“I was hoping you would say that. I’d have no idea where to begin, and my wandering around the company asking questions would only create questions. Asking questions is your job.”
“Where does Victor keep his sabre-tooth jaws?”
“I’m surprised you haven’t seen it. It’s in a glass cabinet in his apartment.”
I realize that I have. At the time I didn’t know what it was; gave it only a cursory glance. “Do you know if it’s there right now?”
“I haven’t been up there since the day you and I met.”
And neither have I. This is the sixth day following the death of Doctor McCully. The chances the sabre-tooth jaws would still be gone, that is if it was in fact used in the murder, are rather slim.
“I have to get back to the lab.” He turns toward the door.
“Merwin. Are there cameras everywhere?”
“No, no. Just in the work spaces, the foyer here, and the passages. Microphones are everywhere. Even in your apartment.”
“Then McCully’s death should be on film.”
It’s obvious from his face that he never thought of that. “Yes, it should be. I would have no idea how to go about getting to it. Don’t even know if you can trust the security people.” He glances over his shoulder. “Got to go.” He opens the door and rushes across the foyer and out of sight. My sixth sense tells me he has a secret that he keeps inside of him—an old secret quite unrelated to the killing.
At first I find myself trying to decide who of my three suspects would be the more likely candidate: Aileen Bravelli who loved McCully but hated him for preferring to marry Traci; Traci Strong who loved McCully and who might have suspected an affair between he and Aileen; Victor Vandermill who loves Aileen and maybe suspected the same affair, an affair, which I’m sure, only happened in Aileen’s mind. I’m leaning heavily onto Victor Vandermill as the prime suspect. He had the means and very well may have had the motive. Of course, Traci had the motive as well, and probably knew of the steel sabre teeth.
Then there is Aileen. She could have had motive, however, my sense is she is as much a victim in this entire thing as the late doctor. I have yet to apologize to her. I decide that should be the first item of business, after going back to my apartment and searching for microphones.
Chapter 12
I’m wandering around my apartment trying not to believe what my suspicions are telling me. I spend about a half hour searching for hidden microphones, not really sure what I’m looking for. Would it be wireless? How small? What color? Maybe Merwin was mistaken or stricken with fear of being secretly listened to or watched.
And then I spot it. But it isn’t a microphone. On the wall between the living room and kitchen is a control panel for several lights, the thermostat, and fans for the two rooms. It’s a decorative panel with deep swirls and shapes, well-made to disguise the lens. I wasn’t expecting it and it throws me back for a second when I see it. Now I’m standing in the middle of the living room realizing I have been watched since the day I walked in here.
Why?
Now they know I suspect something because I’ve been recorded looking for a microphone. But they couldn’t watch me all the time, could they? Too much manpower is necessary for that. But they must spot-check. Maybe they’ll miss it. They probably scan the tapes quickly looking for conversations and who my visitors are.
Are there other cameras?
Who else is being watched?
I go into the bedroom and check the panel as I turn on the light. Camera number two. There is nothing in the bathroom, or the kitchen. But conversations could be heard in the kitchen as there is no divider except for the counter. The camera points toward the living room.
Act naturally.
I retrieve my journal from the desk drawer and sit next to the window.
Act naturally.
What the hell is natural when you know your every move is being observed?
I start to record my conversation with Merwin, and stop. I suddenly realize they know that I keep a journal and where it is. I have absolutely no privacy. This really bothers me.
I could hide the journal. When it’s dark I’ll sneak it out and conceal it in the kitchen somewhere.
But . . . what if they go to look at it and it’s gone? They’ll know I know, and they’ll search for it until they find it. I have to act as though everything is normal. I have to leave it in the drawer. And I’ll have to continue writing in it. Write what?
Act naturally.
I read everything I’ve written since arriving and decide none of it is significant to the probing eyes. I did record my conversation with Aileen when she got angry, but I don’t think that’ll be a problem. After all, they probably got that on tape in the library anyway. I just added my conclusions about her relationships.
Does Aileen know about the cameras? Or is she like Merwin and think they are not in the apartments? I get a feeling she could be an ally, instead of a suspect.
I stare at the journal for a time and realize that what I have to do is write my personal notes on my laptop, password protect it and then hide it deep within the layers of the Windows operating system. Would that be good enough? If they steal my laptop, it is gone. I need to send it out, email it somewhere. Maybe to Tanya . . . but that might put her in danger. There’ll be a record of the email and who it was sent to, along with a copy of the attachment. I could delete it afterwards, but would I be sure she got it or that it hadn’t been intercepted?
I’m on the verge of panic . . . on the brink of paranoia. I set the journal down and while trying to not look at the camera, fetch a beer from the refrigerator.
Act naturally.
Is it natural to shake while drinking a beer?
Settle down. Settle down. I sit again in front of the journal and decide that the first thing I have to do is key-in everything I’ve written, from the time Lance Evans called me in Seattle until now. Maybe after I’m through with that I’ll have figured out what to do with it.
And so for the next three hours, and two more beers, I do just that, finishing
up with my conversation with Merwin and the finding of the cameras. I add in all my versions of suspicions and what I plan to do next. After I’m done I sit for a long time considering what to do with the file. I rise to go to the bathroom and realize that I’m leaving my laptop unprotected. I unplug it from the power source and take it with me. While I sit on the pot, I password protect the file, make a duplicate and then open the Windows folder. I drill down as far as I can, place the duplicate there and then change the name to ZJ, initials for Zach’s Journal. I return to the original file, delete everything past what was already written in the journal and then add some bullshit about how my research is going and that I feel I must apologize to Aileen.
My legs are asleep. I have sat on the toilet too long with the computer in my lap. I struggle with the computer in one hand, trying to buckle with the other and stand at the same time, eventually shuffling into the bedroom, feeling stupid in front of the camera. My next challenge, after my legs come fully awake, is to get the file mailed to somewhere safe. How do I do that without creating a record?
In the living room, at the desk, I plug the phone line into the back of the computer and dial up onto the Internet. Although it’s a long-distance call to my provider in Dallas I don’t worry about it. I consider it a necessary cost to the company so I can do Internet research. I bring up my web page–actually our web page. We bought a domain about a year ago to set up a site with pictures of the girls, and what they’re up to. It’s www.ztprice.com.
Sabre-Toothed Cat Trilogy Page 8