“So the fans blame Dr. M?” Delgado asked.
“Of course! He didn’t write the songs!”
“So the party broke up early,” Banks said. “What time did you leave?”
“Oh, this must have been just after three,” Shweta answered. “We were the last to leave.”
“Except for Matt, and Dr. M,” Gordon said.
“Matt stayed behind?” Luce asked.
“Just for a few minutes,” Shweta said. “We were waiting to get on the elevator—there was a bit of a traffic jam and the hotel security guards were trying to get everyone to leave the floor. I was just a few feet from the penthouse door. I heard Dr. M shouting, then the door banged open, and Matt walked out, looking upset. Matt’s never upset, he’s always . . . not cheerful, like Bobby, but funny in a kind of cynical way, sort of—”
“Bemused?” Gordon said.
“Sardonic,” Shweta said.
“Can you tell us what they were arguing about?” Luce asked.
“I don’t know,” Shweta said. “But when Matt walked out, Dr. M yelled, ‘You think I won’t tell the effing world about you freaks?’ That got Matt angry.”
“Really angry,” Gordon said.
“That’s the exact wording?” Luce asked.
“Well, he didn’t say ‘effing,’” Gordon said. “It was the other word. But other than that, yes, I’m sure. The whole hallway heard him say it.”
“We were all shocked Dr. M would call anyone in the band a freak,” Shweta said. “That’s hate speech.”
“What happened next?” Luce asked.
“Matt wheeled around and Dr. M slammed the door on him,” Shweta said. “Matt banged on the door and then Dr. M opened it a bit—he’d put that bar thingy across the door—and he yelled for him to go away or he’d call security. Matt laughed and pointed at the guards right behind me and yelled, ‘They’re right here, mother effer!’ Then Dr. M slammed the door again.”
Luce looked at Banks. “I think we should have a word with our friend.”
* * *
Matt the megabat seemed to be waiting for them. The door to his room was open, allowing a clear view across the room to the open balcony, where he stood at the railing, basking in the neon, wind ruffling his poncho. Luce called a hello and Matt waved them forward.
The sun had set over Sunset Strip and all the buildings were aglow. Across the street rose the faux Manhattan skyline of the New York–New York Casino, their mock Lady Liberty summoning the poor, the tired, and the gullible yearning to be free of their life savings.
“I know what you’re going to ask me,” Matt said. “What is it like to be a bat?” One ear pivoted like a radar dish, then the other. “Thomas Nagel? The mind-body problem? Anybody?”
“I was going to ask you if you could fly,” Luce said.
“Ooh! You think I flew over to Dr. M’s and killed him?”
Matt was slightly shorter than Tusk, but his narrow face and long neck made him seem taller. He wore a gold earring through one pert ear, which wasn’t visible in the publicity pictures Luce had seen—too risqué for the tweeners? What was more surprising, when you got up close, was how furry he was. His head was covered by golden fuzz, and the back of his neck was a thick maroon ruff. His most famous features, his wings, were hidden beneath the poncho.
Luce said, “I saw you fly on a music video, but it looked a little fake.”
“You’re right. I wish I could fly, but physics has conspired against me. Have you ever heard of the square-cube law?”
“Humor me,” she said.
“I’m trying, I’m trying! Tough crowd. Okay, if you square the area of an object, you cube the mass. I’m about twice the height and twice the wingspan of the largest bat, the golden-crowned flying fox—which means I’ve got, basically, four times the wing power. But that comes with eight times the mass—minimum. And I’m way heavier than a fruit bat. Those fuckers are three pounds! Which means, if I jump off this balcony, and I flap really really hard, I still hit the pavement at terminal velocity.”
“Ouch.”
“The only flying I do is on wires. For the live shows they rig me up and fling me out across the audience. It fucking kills me, but the kids love it.”
“My daughter certainly does.”
“A fan, huh? Does she know Mom’s investigating her favorite band?”
Luce grinned. “I didn’t say you were her favorite.”
“I bet it’s those fucking Backstreet Boys. Before we get into it, can I get you something to eat, or drink?”
“It’s not larvae, is it?” Banks asked.
“Ha! You’ve been hanging out with little Timmy. I was thinking popcorn.”
Track 11: “Left Hangin’”
Featuring Matt M. Bat
Matt led them inside and gestured for the detectives to sit at the kitchenette’s bar. He put a popcorn bag into the microwave and set the timer. “Pellegrino? Pellegrino?”
“Sure,” Detective Delgado said. She looked tired. He felt sorry she’d been dragged into this whole mess. Banks asked if he had any objections to being recorded, and Matt said it was fine.
“Any closer to catching the killer?” he asked them.
“We’re working on it,” Delgado said.
“I don’t want to get into racial profiling here, but . . .” Matt popped open a can with one claw. “Statistically, your killer’s got to be human. How many human-animal hybrids have committed murder? Zero. But the number of murders humans have perpetrated? It’s off the charts! Murder’s kind of your thing.”
The timer went off and Matt gingerly picked up the edge of the steaming bag and set it on the counter. “Could you open that?” he asked Banks, and then reached up to a cabinet for a bowl.
“I shouldn’t tell you this,” Matt said, “but I’m a big mystery reader. The barge had a couple of Agatha Christies, and when I got out I tore through all the classics—Agatha Christie, Dorothy Sayers, John Dickson Carr.”
“Why shouldn’t you tell us that?” Banks asked. He shook the bag into the bowl.
“Because in those stories, guys who read mysteries are automatically suspicious.”
“That happens a lot? Characters inside mysteries read mysteries?”
“All the time. Lord Peter Wimsey’s always referencing Sherlock Holmes, Carr stops the plot so Dr. Fell can give a lecture on his favorite mystery writers. Poirot and Hastings have an entire conversation in The ABC Murders about how there’s always a second murder in these stories, because it’s more exciting—and Christie puts in three murders! I mean, they’re all writing this stuff in the 1920s and they’re already doing metafiction.”
“I hate metafiction,” Delgado said.
Banks said, “A couple hours ago she was telling me we’re either in a locked-room mystery or a science fiction story. She said she really doesn’t want to be in sci-fi.”
“First, don’t say ‘sci-fi’—it’s vulgar. But she’s right, science fiction gives you no closure. At least in a mystery or thriller you return to the status quo, but in SF it’s all epiphanies and trapdoors and space babies—space babies all the way down.” Matt dipped a claw into the bowl. “Man, I love this fake butter.”
“We were hoping you could answer a few questions,” Delgado said. “Could you tell us when you left the party and where you were all night?”
“Right! Back to business. I have to tell you, I don’t have much of an alibi. I left the party when everybody else did, then went to my room. I came out this morning when I heard Bobby yelling.”
“You didn’t quite leave when everyone else did,” Delgado said. “You were the last out, yes?”
“That’s true.”
“You want to tell us what you were arguing about with Dr. M?”
“Oh God, that. What weren’t we arguing about? He was being such an asshole. Did Tusk tell you about the lawsuit?”
“He did,” Banks said.
Matt shook his head. “My feeling is, there’s enough money to go ar
ound. But Tusk and Tim feel like their work’s been stolen, so I get that. And Maury, he wants all the money, the whole cash cow, down to the hooves. I was happy to walk away, but last night he told me if I went to school and missed a single performance he’d sue for breach of contract. So that pretty much pushed me to side with the boyz.”
Delgado said, “What did Dr. M mean when he said— Banks, what was that again?”
Banks looked at his notebook and read aloud, “‘You think I won’t tell the fucking world about you freaks.’”
Delgado was studying Matt’s face. It made him nervous. Did she see a monster, or a friendly neighborhood bat man?
“That pissed me off, but he’s kind of right,” Matt said. “We are freaks. Freaks of science. Who’s our nearest competitor? Dolly the Sheep? I’ll admit she’s a looker, and seems to have a great personality, despite all the attention. Fame can change a person, you know?”
Delgado started to interrupt, but he kept rolling. “This is important—this is why I’m going to school in genetics, it’s a much bigger mystery than who killed Maurice Bendix.”
“What mystery is that?” Delgado asked.
“Dolly’s just a clone. The WyldBoyZ, we’re in a whole different game, genetic-engineering-wise. Think about all the steps needed to make a fully functioning member of this band—and I’d like some credit for passing up an easy joke about Devin and fully functioning members.”
“Granted?” Banks said.
“Okay, imagine starting with the genome of one base human,” Matt continued. “You fiddle with his genes, maybe give him a sequence that occurs in sheep. This is tricky. In genetics, you can’t just change one thing—there’s not just the single gene, but the expression of the gene, and the proteins manufactured by the gene. So many things can go wrong just by changing a base pair—think of Tay-Sachs disease, or sickle cell anemia, or cystic fibrosis, and those are the survivable mutations. Most fetuses with damaged genes don’t make it to birth. But okay. Let’s say that Mr. Sheep survives, and develops curly armpit hair that makes a fabulous sweater. Great! But he still doesn’t look much like a sheep, and no one points to him and says, ‘You should join an all-sheep band.’ I don’t know what that would be—Baaaad Company?”
“Ewe-2,” Banks said.
“Ha! High five.” Matt raised a wing and Banks slapped the palmish area where claws exited the fabric of skin.
“But we need to go further,” Matt said. “Let’s say, through years and years of brilliant yet thoroughly evil research in a thoroughly evil secret lab floating in international waters, you end up with a true miracle, a person who looks like a Photoshop blend of sheep and Homo sapiens, with a human-quality brain and the vocal apparatus for speech, which means vocal cords, mobile lips and tongue, a host of muscular and neuronal equipment to make it all work. And this man-sheep can not only talk, he can sing! Beautifully!”
“Really lays down the bleats,” Banks said.
“Oh God, that’s terrible,” Matt said. “We’ve got to hang out.”
“Says the bat.”
“So that’s the mystery of the lab?” Delgado said. She’d been writing something in her own notebook and put down her pencil. “How they achieved something so much more advanced than everybody else?”
“No, here’s the real mystery—how do you do it again, with a completely different animal? Let’s say a ferret. Fine. Decades later, you’ve achieved a second cross-species hybrid. Ta-da! Now, how do you do that five times?”
“Not just five,” Delgado said. The firmness in her voice surprised him.
“What now?” Matt said.
“We already know there was a sixth subject—Tim calls her Sofia.”
Matt picked up his Pellegrino, winced, and set it back down. “Well, fuck.” He was dying to take another painkiller. He’d put off the next dose, wanting to stay sharp until he talked to the detectives. But now they wanted to delve into ancient history, and he would greatly appreciate a little chemical buffer.
He walked to the bed and sat. Suddenly he was conscious of his bare feet. They were built for hanging upside down, though Matt had never been able to sleep that way. Leftover anatomy.
“We don’t talk about this,” Matt said. “That’s our rule. Not to the press, and hardly to each other.”
“I’m not interested in selling your story to the tabloids,” Delgado said. “Banks, turn off the recorder.”
Banks looked surprised at this but did as he was told.
“Okay,” Matt said. “There was another subject. The staff called her Subject One, but she told us to call her S. She was way older than us, and they put her through a lot. Painful procedures, forced isolation, forced pregnancies. I think they even—”
“What the hell?” Delgado said. “Pregnancies?”
I’ve said too much, Matt thought. Delgado was shocked, and her eyes were shining. This was one of the reasons the boyz had agreed to never talk about the horrors of the barge. They did not want to be seen as victims, as helpless lab rats. But now he was forced to explain.
“They were chemically induced,” Matt said. “Subject One had a talent for parthenogenesis, no sperm required, and they were interested in that.”
“Who’s ‘they’?” Delgado said. She was angry and trying to keep a lid on it.
“Americans, obviously. Why do you think we talk this way? The staff were all American, and all the books and videotapes and CDs in the library were American, too. In English anyway. We didn’t think we were American, but we didn’t think we weren’t, either. Does that make sense? It’s all we knew, so of course we wanted to come here when Dr. M made the offer.”
Banks asked, “Were they US military? Government scientists?”
“We can’t prove anything. They didn’t have uniforms, they flew no flags, and nobody said the Pledge of Allegiance. The barge was no Navy ship—it was old, and all the high-tech parts came in as shipping containers: whole labs, bolted together on the deck. Still, we’re all pretty convinced they were government backed. It was the Cold War, and as Tim says, who else has got the resources to do what they did? But we don’t talk about that in the press. We just say ‘evil scientists’ and let it go at that.”
“But the CIA hasn’t come for you,” Banks said. “Nobody’s grabbed you since your rescue.”
“Or have they?” Delgado asked.
“No,” Matt said. “Nobody’s whisked us off to a black site. The only scientific experiments we’ve been part of, we volunteered for. I pushed the guys into doing some of them, for medical reasons. That may have backfired, though—I made Tim so paranoid about our lack of knowledge about ourselves that he got a little obsessed with it.”
“Why do you think no government’s tried to grab you?” she asked. “You’re unique. Every sci-fi—sorry, every science fiction movie says they would have put you in quarantine.”
Because we’re famous, Matt thought. That, and their money, was their only protection.
Matt shrugged. “Maybe they learned everything they could from us. They got their data, and they moved on.”
“What about Sofia?” Delgado said. “What happened to her?”
“We left her.”
Delgado waited for him to say more. He decided to tell them the truth.
“There was an explosion somewhere deep in the ship. It was the middle of the night and fires were breaking out. The guards wouldn’t let us out of our cells, even when the smoke started rolling through. They all took off to somewhere else on the ship, leaving us there. Finally, someone took pity on us, and unlocked the doors. We ran to a lifeboat, hit the winch, and dropped into the water. Turns out we didn’t pick the best boat—the motor wouldn’t work. Some guards saw us, started firing at us from the deck. Tusk rolled over the side and fucking towed us through the water to get away.”
He glanced up, and Delgado’s eyes were fixed on him. Banks scribbled in his notebook.
“You want to know why Tim feels so guilty?” Matt said. “We are guilty. W
e didn’t even try to help Sofia. We left her alone on the barge and ran.”
“You were kids,” Delgado said.
“Sure. We were kids, and we were panicked and scared, all of that. But we knew what we were doing. We were leaving her to die.”
Track 12: “Home [extended version]”
Featuring Detective Delgado
Matt had finally run out of words. Luce thought it was risky to keep pushing and have him clam up altogether, but she was running out of time, and she needed answers.
“Did Dr. M know about Sofia?” she asked.
“Bobby told him,” Matt answered. “Bobby always trusted Maury, and Maury took advantage. But there’s no proof. Everything went down with the ship. But we don’t talk about her, because . . . well, we’re a fucking boy band. We’re not The Cure.”
Banks’ cell phone rang. He answered and said, “Oh, good. Thanks for the update.” To Luce he said, “That was the officer who drove Mrs. M. They’re back.”
Matt got to his feet. “Are we done?”
Luce walked to him and shook his hand. “I appreciate you sharing all that.”
Banks said, “I hope we get to hang out, buddy,” and clapped him on the shoulder. Matt squeaked in pain.
“Whoa!” Banks said. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. That flying contraption I told you about? I torqued my shoulder last night. Last show of the tour and that’s my souvenir.”
“Oh, sorry about that.”
“I’m just glad I don’t have to get in that thing again.”
“If we don’t see you before the morning,” Luce said, “have a safe flight.”
* * *
They walked down to the elevator. The door to the penthouse suite was closed now and sealed with yellow crime scene tape. Luce touched the button for 56, one floor down.
“So what was that about?” Banks asked.
When they were sitting at Matt’s kitchenette bar, Luce had written in her notebook: WHEN WE GO GRAB HIM BY THE RIGHT SHOULDER. She’d left the page open until Banks had seen it.
“He wasn’t using his right arm,” Luce said. “That whole time with the drinks and the popcorn, everything was his left hand. When I shook his hand I could tell he was in pain. And when you hit the shoulder, he couldn’t hide it.”
The Album of Dr. Moreau Page 9