The Question of the Missing Head

by E. J. Copperman

  “Why aren’t you looking into who killed that poor woman?” she asked me when I had completed the tale. I noticed Ms. Washburn looking away, examining my painting of John Lennon that Mother had hung on the far wall. I assumed she was doing so merely to avoid the issue Mother was raising.

  “I was not asked a question,” I told her. “My business is to answer questions.” I was noticing that Ms. Washburn preferred mustard to mayonnaise on her sandwich, and I considered what that might have meant in relation to her overall character. I decided she was less bland than most people.

  “Your business,” Mother said deliberately, “is to help when you can help. This is an area where you can help.”

  “I don’t see how,” I answered. “The police are competent. They haven’t asked me to assist them. I have questions I have not yet answered. It doesn’t make sense for me to abandon paying clients to help an organization that has not requested my assistance.”

  Mother stood up and began to clear plates from the table. Normally that is a signal that I should do the same, so I stood. But Mother shook her head and gestured toward Ms. Washburn. “We have company,” she said. “It’s rude to leave her alone.”

  But Ms. Washburn had already begun to help clear. “No, it’s rude for the guest to sit idly by while everyone else works on her behalf,” she said.

  Mother started to protest, but by that time Ms. Washburn was walking into the kitchen carrying plates. And the silent interchange between the two women was more than I could interpret, so I chose to pay no attention. I brought in a small bowl that had held chopped onions, but I avoided the one containing mayonnaise. There are limits to my tolerance, and Mother understands that.

  When I walked into the kitchen, I could hear Mother saying, “… thirteen years ago, so Samuel was sixteen years old. It was the first year—” She stopped speaking when she looked at Ms. Washburn’s face, which must have indicated that I was in the room. Mother looked over to see me there, smiled, and looked back at Ms. Washburn. “Not to worry, dear,” she said. “Samuel knows the story.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “I was diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome the first year it was listed in the DSM IV. Do you know what that is?”

  Ms. Washburn nodded. “The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders,” she said, then put her hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry.”

  I didn’t see a reason for her to be sorry, and told her so. “That is what the publication is called,” I said. “I believe Asperger’s Syndrome is not a mental disorder, but that is the way the medical profession chooses to classify it.”

  Ms. Washburn nodded. Mother chuckled. “You left the mayonnaise out there, didn’t you, Samuel?” she asked, then walked to the door without waiting for my answer. She left the room through the kitchen door, which swings open and closed, like those in many restaurants, including the one that was once linked to the kitchen of San Remo’s, now my back room at Questions Answered.

  I looked at Ms. Washburn and tried to gauge her mood, based on what I’ve learned about facial expressions and body language. Since I had only known her a few hours, the task was made more challenging, but purer. She stood facing away from the sink, watching Mother leave the kitchen, and then she turned toward me. Her hands were crossed in front of her, arms down, and her face turned upward slightly when she realized I was looking at her.

  “You’re nervous,” I said after a moment. “Why are you nervous? Did I do something unusual?” Sometimes, it is very difficult to know, because I always think I’m acting very rationally.

  “No,” Ms. Washburn said, shaking her head slightly. “You didn’t do anything. I was a little startled to see you looking at me just then.”

  “What do you think about what my mother said?” I asked her. Ms. Washburn’s opinion was becoming more important to me. She didn’t know me very well but had defended me more than once since we’d met. And she did not seem to be “weirded out” (an expression I’ve heard more than once) by what some would consider odd behavior on my part. I was beginning to think she could be a valuable asset to Questions Answered.

  “Which thing she said?” Ms. Washburn asked.

  “When we were discussing the murder of Dr. Springer,” I reminded her. “About my responsibility to help when I can help.” It occurred to me that Mother was taking an unusually long time to fetch the mayonnaise and might have orchestrated this situation to give Ms. Washburn and myself a moment to discuss this very topic.

  “I think your mother has a very high opinion of your talents,” Ms. Washburn said. “And from what I’ve seen, that opinion is pretty well justified. But you have to decide if you’re interested in making waves with the police department and doing something you haven’t been asked to do simply because you might be of help to a woman who is already dead.”

  I nodded. “That was a concise, accurate assessment of the situation,” I told her. “But I asked for your opinion. What do you think I should do?”

  Ms. Washburn’s head lowered. She was thinking.

  “Don’t try to determine what I want you to say,” I said. “I’m asking you because your opinion will help me decide. I require your perspective.” That hadn’t come out sounding exactly the way I’d wanted it to, but it would have to suffice.

  Her head snapped up, and she looked me directly in the eye. “All I can think,” she said, “is that if it were me, I’d want you to find the person who did that to me and bring him to justice.”

  “Or her,” I corrected.

  “Or her?”

  “Bring him or her to justice. We can’t narrow our list of suspects to men.”

  Ms. Washburn smiled. “No. Of course not.”

  “All right, then,” I told her. “I will take that into account as I decide how to proceed.”

  Mother burst in through the kitchen door, which swung wide at the force of her push. “There’s nothing to decide, Samuel,” she said. She advanced upon me, her face displaying determination rather than fury. She hadn’t even bothered to retrieve the mayonnaise. “I have a question for you.” She took a dollar from her apron pocket and pressed it into my hand.

  I had worried she’d do this. “Mother …”

  “Who killed Dr. Springer?” Mother asked defiantly.

  Now I had no choice.

  EIGHT

  MARSHALL ACKERMAN’S OFFICE WALLS held many diplomas and one certificate from the Calnor Institute of Cryonics. The diplomas indicated that he had completed various degrees, leading up to a Ph.D. in physics, but was not a medical doctor. The certificate from Calnor stated that he was a licensed practitioner of cryonics, having completed the necessary training.

  Ackerman himself was seated behind a very formidable mahogany desk bearing a flat-screen computer, a scale model of a cryonics preservation tube, and a photo of Ackerman himself that appeared to have been taken by a professional photographer. In the photograph, Ackerman was leaning on the edge of his desk, with an American flag strategically positioned behind it.

  When he saw me examining the photograph, Ackerman smiled and nodded. “That was for a feature article in USA Today,” he said. “The photographer was kind enough to send me a copy.”

  I had spent an hour looking over three hours’ worth of security video (fast forward played a major role in the process) of the preservation chamber, both from the time period during which Ms. Masters-Powell’s head had disappeared, and from the moments after Dr. Springer had entered the chamber this morning. Neither tape showed so much as a person entering the chamber. Clearly, some kind of tampering had taken place, or I was examining tape from the wrong moments, which would have meant that the GSCI logs of people entering or exiting Preservation Room D were inaccurate or forged. Either was a possibility.

  In short, the three hours of video surveillance had led me to only one conclusion, and it was not related to Dr. Springer’s murder. At least, it was not directly related. Until I had more facts, there would be no way to know if it had any relevance.

 
“It’s very nice,” I said of the USA Today photograph, because that’s what I’ve learned one should say when offered pictures of a person or that person’s child.

  Ackerman seemed pleased. “I use it for all my publicity,” he said with what I discerned as pride in his voice.

  “Was Dr. Springer dedicated to the practice of cryonics?” I asked. I wanted very badly to change the subject. Talking about personal matters or making small talk is very difficult for a person like me, and we try to stay “on topic,” or at least the topic we find most interesting, as often as possible.

  Ackerman seemed somehow confused by the change in subject, although I couldn’t see why he would be—this was the subject Ms. Washburn and I were there to discuss. But he recovered after a moment. “Of course she was,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

  “I noted that you made no effort to freeze her body after she was killed,” I said. “It seems to me that someone who would work in the field might well have desired to experience it herself when necessary.”

  Ms. Washburn’s eyes narrowed. I took that to mean she hadn’t considered the question until I’d posed it.

  “In fact, Rebecca was on the list for preservation,” Ackerman answered. “But the way she … What happened to her made it impossible. With oxygen deprived to the brain for so long, there would never have been a way to revive her and keep her mind intact.”

  It occurred to me to mention that such technology or science did not exist at this time for anyone, no matter how death occurred, but that would have added little to the conversation, and if past experience was any indicator, would probably have annoyed Ackerman.

  “How many people were in the building during the period between the time Dr. Springer went into the chamber and the time we discovered her body there?” I asked.

  Ms. Washburn offered a clipboard. “I went to the security desk and asked for the log-in sheet,” she said. “This is the one that begins at seven this morning.”

  I nodded my thanks to her and scanned the sheet. “There were seventeen people signed in, excluding Ms. Washburn and myself,” I told Ackerman. “Please look at this list. Are they all employees of Garden State Cryonics?”

  Ackerman took the clipboard from my hand, put on a pair of reading glasses, and studied it. “No,” he answered. “Fourteen are employees, plus myself. The other four are visitors—a blogger on medicine, you two, and Commander Johnson’s wife.”

  “Why was she here?” Ms. Washburn asked. I would have asked about the blogger first, but only because Ackerman had mentioned that person first. I tend to react to lists in order.

  “She drops by from time to time.” Ackerman said. “Amelia is very smart and very dedicated to her husband. She likes to see what he’s doing here. I approved the visit two weeks ago. We get a lot of that from employees, especially new ones. Everyone’s curious.”

  “Is Commander Johnson new here?” I asked.

  Ackerman nodded. “Relatively. I think he’s been working here about five months.”

  “What happened to the last head of security?” Ms. Washburn asked.

  “Mr. Monroe left to pursue other interests,” Ackerman said. “I can get you his phone number if you like.”

  I indicated that he should, and Ackerman made a note of it on his pad. “May I have a list of every employee of the company, and contact information for the other two guests?” I asked.

  “Of course,” Ackerman nodded. “I’m so glad you decided to help in the investigation. Frankly, I didn’t see much hope with Detective Lapides as the lead investigator.” He made another note.

  “It would be best not to underestimate the detective,” I said, although I did not think Lapides was an excellent investigator. “He might very well be an astute observer, or he may have not developed his skills yet. Time will tell.”

  “I don’t understand,” Ms. Washburn said. “We looked at the video. There’s one point where Dr. Springer walks in wearing the protective suit, then she goes back to the tank—”

  “The receptacle,” Ackerman corrected her. I had been careful to note that terminology when he had used it previously.

  “The receptacle,” Ms. Washburn said. “Why would she walk to that receptacle when you already knew the head was missing?”

  Ackerman cupped his hands together, as if he were about to begin applauding, but he did not move them. After a moment, I realized that meant he was thinking. “It’s possible Rebecca didn’t know about the theft,” he said. “I tried to keep it very quiet around here, and I know I didn’t tell her. She might have been doing a routine check. We look in on all our guests at least once a day to monitor their condition. But I don’t understand.” He swiveled his chair to face me more directly, and I wasn’t sure if he was trying to dismiss Ms. Washburn. I was starting to think Ackerman was something of a pompous man who held a dim view of those without professional credentials. “It doesn’t make sense that the cylinder in which Ms. Masters-Powell’s remains were being preserved would simply rupture like that. We are very careful about our equipment.”

  “Is it possible someone could have deliberately caused it to develop a crack?” I asked. Before Ackerman could answer, I turned to Ms. Washburn. “Make sure you research that possibility when we return to the office,” I said. Ms. Washburn nodded. We hadn’t discussed such a scenario before, but I suddenly wanted Ackerman to see Ms. Washburn as a valuable associate, not a servant.

  “It’s very unlikely,” he said. “Those steel receptacles are very thick, and very strong. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be able to sustain the extremely low temperatures we require of them for such a long period of time.”

  “Still,” I said. “It is curious that Dr. Springer appeared to have been looking at Ms. Masters-Powell’s receptacle, but not to have noticed it was empty. That is very odd.”

  Ackerman nodded. “I agree. I wish I could explain it. What’s next in the investigation, Mr. Hoenig?”

  “I’d like to start interviewing employees and the two guests who were present today,” I said. “Can we set up an interview room with video security intact?”

  Ackerman seemed quite pleased with the notion. “Certainly!” he said. “We have many rooms that can be made available. Who should you interview first?”

  “You,” I said. “May we begin now?” I rose to walk to the door.

  Ackerman looked stunned that he was being considered a suspect, but I couldn’t imagine why he wouldn’t anticipate that—he worked at the Garden State Cryonics Institute, he had a financial interest in the facility, and there was no concrete evidence that he hadn’t committed a crime. It was only sensible that I would want to talk to him as well as the other GSCI employees.

  He stood. “Of course,” he said. “We can use the level-three conference room.”

  Before we could leave the room, however, Ackerman’s desk phone rang, and he picked it up on the second ring. After the usual greeting, he said, “Hello, detective,” and then listened for quite some time. He thanked the other party and ended the phone call looking a bit shaken.

  “Was that Detective Lapides?” Ms. Washburn asked.

  Ackerman nodded. “They found something in the empty receptacle for Ms. Masters-Powell,” he said and sat down hard, exhaling.

  “Was the head put back?” Ms. Washburn asked.

  Ackerman squinted at her, incredulous, then shook his head. “No.”

  “What did they find in the receptacle?” I asked him. A direct question is always the best option.

  “A bullet,” he said.

  NINE

  “IT WAS A THIRTY-EIGHT caliber bullet, and that’s really all I know,” Ackerman said. “Detective Lapides called to tell me not to let anyone into the chamber, as he now agrees with you, Mr. Hoenig, that it is the scene of a murder. He’ll be back here shortly.”

  We sat in the conference room at Garden State Cryonics, a much more expensively decorated room than any other I’d seen in the facility. I assumed this was the area in which potential clients
and their families were given information intended to persuade them to buy GSCI’s services. Ackerman sat at the head of the table, where a telephone console was at his fingertips, along with controls that I assumed ran an audio/video system. There were high-definition television monitors placed throughout the room, which had a polished wood conference table and upholstered chairs, as well as a thick carpet and, it appeared, soundproofed doors. As most people are upset by the thought of death, I concluded that some of the conferences held here were quite emotional.

  “That explains how the receptacle was ruptured,” I said. “Someone either fired a bullet directly into it, or fired at something else and hit the cylinder by mistake.”

  “But there were no bullets in Dr. Springer’s body,” Ms. Washburn said. “She wasn’t shot, was she?”

  I shook my head. “Dr. Springer’s body had no bullet wounds.” I turned toward Ackerman to begin the interview. “First. What is your favorite Beatles song?”

  Even Ms. Washburn looked a little stunned, but Ackerman was more so—he stared at me and knit his brow. “My what?”

  “Your favorite Beatles song. Please,” I reiterated.

  “I listen to classical music,” he answered. “Why?”

  “If you had to choose one Beatles song,” I persevered, “what would it be?”

  Ackerman looked at Ms. Washburn, perhaps for some assurance that I was not insane. “I just told you, I listen to classical music,” he repeated. “I really can’t answer …”

  “But you have heard of the Beatles?” It was no idle question; I am able to discern quite a bit about a person’s character from their answer to this question.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then, if you had to choose just one song as a favorite?”