The Question of the Missing Head

by E. J. Copperman

  He shook his head and let out his breath. “I don’t know,” he said. “I guess ‘Eleanor Rigby.’ Why?”

  Pretentious. Terrified of death. Perhaps sees himself as lonely.

  “It’s a device I use,” I told him. “It’s the way you answer, rather than the answer itself.” That wasn’t entirely true, but I did not want to tell him what I’d discovered until I could answer the question about Dr. Springer. So I quickly changed the subject. “Who was Rita Masters-Powell?” I asked.

  The question must have seemed abrupt to Ackerman, because he started a bit and then regained his composure. “She was the daughter of Leonard Masters and the granddaughter of Julius Masters,” he said. “Do you know who they were?”

  “I believe Julius Masters founded International Data Associates, a company started as a bookkeeping concern during the Second World War. It grew into a computer keypunch operation in the 1960s, and eventually into a very large manufacturer of microprocessors during the 1980s. His son Leonard succeeded Julius as the chief executive officer of the firm and navigated it through the transition to computer hardware, and both of them became extremely wealthy men. Am I correct so far?” I asked Ackerman.

  “Impressively so,” he replied.

  “There had been rumors that the company was about to be sold to a Chinese concern, and I believe that sale is pending at the moment,” I added. I read the business pages of the New York Times every day, and I monitor computer- and hardware-related businesses. Some of my investments are in such businesses. “What caused Ms. Masters-Powell’s death?” I asked Ackerman.

  He hesitated only a moment this time. “Cancer,” he said. “Apparently, Ms. Masters-Powell was a heavy smoker.” He shook his head mournfully, in a move that I’m sure he had used in this room many times before, and just as persuasively.

  “She changed her name. Was she married?” Ms. Washburn asked. An excellent question, as a husband would probably stand to gain a great deal financially from the death of such a wealthy wife.

  “Ms. Masters-Powell was divorced,” Ackerman answered. “She was only forty-one years old when she passed away, but I believe they had been divorced almost three years.”

  Ms. Washburn looked thoughtful. “But she kept her husband’s name even after the divorce. Do you know why?” Ms. Washburn was becoming more of an asset with each passing minute. Her training in journalism, even if her work was photographic in nature, was surely shining through.

  “I have no idea,” Ackerman said. “I never met Ms. Masters-Powell. She was already very ill when her brother Arthur contacted us on her behalf. He was absolutely distraught over his sister’s impending death and said she saw our service as a way to maintain hope.” Ackerman looked quite pleased with himself.

  A buzzer on the table’s console sounded, and Ackerman reached over to pick up the phone. After a brief conversation I could not hear, he hung up. “The police are here,” he said. “I’m afraid we’ll have to continue this talk later.” He stood up.

  Ms. Washburn and I followed suit. “Very well,” I said to Ackerman. “Would you send Commander Johnson in to talk with us?”

  Ackerman nodded and walked toward the door. Just before reaching it, he stopped and turned to me with an expression on his face that Ms. Washburn later told me was one of concern. “All these questions about the theft, and not the murder,” he said. “Shouldn’t we be most concerned with Rebecca, and not the question of Ms. Masters-Powell’s remains?”

  “I believe the two incidents are connected,” I told him.

  His eyes widened. “Really!” he said. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. But you’ve seen the security tapes. How do you think Ms. Masters-Powell’s remains were smuggled out of the facility?”

  It was a question that deserved an answer. “I don’t believe they were,” I told Ackerman.

  TEN

  ACKERMAN LEFT TO TALK to Detective Lapides, and for a moment before Commander Johnson arrived, Ms. Washburn and I had a moment to talk privately.

  “What did you mean, you don’t think the head was taken out of the facility?” she asked me. “Do you think it’s still here?”

  “I was trying to gauge Ackerman’s response,” I answered. “I wanted to see if he looked surprised, or worried. If he looked surprised, he is probably an incompetent manager and doesn’t know what is happening under his own roof. If he looked worried, he most likely has some knowledge he’d prefer we not find out.”

  “How did he look?” Ms. Washburn asked.

  “Confused.”

  Before she could question me further, the conference room door opened and Commander Johnson, lit from behind, stood in the doorway, seeming to survey the situation before he entered. It occurred to me that if this were a satiric motion picture like Dr. Strangelove: or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb, he would have a great number of medals pinned to his shirt and might even be carrying a riding crop. He had neither.

  Instead, the commander was wearing the company uniform—a light blue denim shirt with short sleeves and the initials GSCI embroidered on the left breast pocket and a pair of cargo pants. He was wearing a pair of Nike cross-trainers with a blue “swoosh” across the sides.

  Commander Johnson stood straight and tall to the left side of the conference table where Ms. Washburn and I sat. He clasped his hands behind his back and stared straight ahead, over our heads.

  “There is no need to stand at attention, commander,” I suggested.

  “I am at ease,” he responded, and I made a mental note to ask Ms. Washburn later if his voice had a tinge of condescension in it.

  “Please sit down,” I said. “I am not a police official. This is an informal inquiry commissioned by the institute.”

  The commander grimaced, as if I had suggested he remove his pants. But he sat down in a chair immediately to our left and folded his hands carefully on the table before him. I thought he looked very formal.

  “Commander,” I began. “Is that a rank you acquired in the service?”

  His mouth tightened just a bit, which I noticed because I was being careful to observe his facial expression. It was difficult for me, because I usually prefer not to see a person’s emotions on his face; I find it terribly personal and embarrassing. In this case, however, it was necessary in order to answer the questions at hand.

  “No,” Commander Johnson replied. “ ‘Commander’ is a title given to me by members of my neighborhood watch committee. When I served in the Army, I was a corporal. I served during the first Gulf War.”

  “Where were you stationed?” Ms. Washburn asked. The information was not relevant to the questions I had to answer, but it was possible she could discern something about the commander’s character from his answer.

  He looked away, much as I usually do when someone is speaking to me. “Fort Dix,” he said softly.

  “Here in New Jersey?” Ms. Washburn said. I thought she sounded surprised.

  “Yes,” Commander Johnson acknowledged.

  “You became chief of security here five months ago, is that correct?” I asked him. I took no notes, but Ms. Washburn had a pen and notebook provided by Ackerman.

  “Yes. It was my understanding that Miles Monroe, the previous chief, was dismissed, but I never met him.”

  “Was he incompetent?” I asked.

  The commander’s face did not change. “I would have no way of knowing,” he said.

  “When did you first find out about the disappearance of Ms. Masters-Powell’s remains?” I asked.

  Commander Johnson seemed to be anticipating that question, because the answer came quickly and without hesitation. “This morning, at approximately oh-seven-thirty,” he said. “I was not scheduled to come on duty until oh-eight-thirty, so the night shift commander, Mr. Feliz, called me at home.”

  That was when something occurred to me. “Quickly,” I said to the commander, “what are the dimensions of this room?” I stood up straight.

  Ms. Washburn started at my actio
n, which made me wonder if I’d done so too fast. Commander Johnson barely reacted at all. He merely said, “Twenty feet by fourteen.” He did not have to consult any data source; he knew the dimensions “off the top of his head,” a common expression that suggests very strange images.

  I’d realized that I hadn’t gotten my body into motion even once since lunch. I was behind on my day’s exercise. So I began to walk purposefully around the perimeter of the room, making sure to bend my knees properly and raise my arms over my head with every other step. Calculating mentally, I concluded that twenty-six laps around the room would equal the third of a mile I should be doing at this time of day.

  While I walked, however, it was still necessary to continue the questioning of Commander Johnson. “So when Mr. Feliz called you about the missing remains, how did he say the loss was discovered?”

  There was no answer, which forced me to look down, although it is always better to keep one’s neck straight while exercising. Ms. Washburn and the commander were watching me walk around the room with similar facial expressions, which I believe indicated they were surprised by my actions.

  “It is my time for exercise,” I explained. Ms. Washburn immediately smiled and nodded, but Commander Johnson’s demeanor was unchanged. “So please, commander, if you would?”

  “Oh! Yes. Well, when I arrived, Feliz told me he had run the routine sweep of the facility at zero hour and at oh-three-hundred, and had found nothing amiss. But when he returned to the storage chamber at oh-six-hundred, he found the door ajar and the power disconnected from one receptacle.”

  Johnson watched me until I was behind him, shook his head a bit, and went on. “Thinking that someone had badly handled the one receptacle, and fearful that the guest inside might be damaged, Feliz reconnected the power cable immediately, and then called Dr. Lanier to check on the guest. He said she arrived very quickly, and upon examining the container, discovered it empty.”

  “So it was Dr. Lanier who confirmed that nothing was in the disconnected receptacle?”

  “Yes,” Commander Johnson nodded. “As the ranking medical expert on that shift, she would be the one to look into any unusual activity among the guests.”

  I was on my eighth lap around the room. This was not going as quickly as exercising at my office, because the room was smaller and more fully furnished, and I had to dodge chairs whenever I passed Ms. Washburn or Commander Johnson. But another eighteen laps were necessary, and there was no avoiding them.

  “Did you examine the chamber and determine how someone got in to do the damage?” I asked, breathing just a little heavily.

  I couldn’t see Commander Johnson’s face at that moment, but his tone suggested he was insulted. “Of course!” he bellowed. “It was a serious security breach, and I am the chief of security.”

  A moment passed before I realized that he was not going to elaborate further. I’d made up almost a third of a lap before I asked, “How did you determine the break-in was accomplished?”

  “There was no evidence of a break-in,” the commander said, his voice once again taking on a conversational tone. “No scratches on the doors or the locks, the keypads, or the windows. Nothing.”

  “And when you reviewed the video taken at the entrance to the chamber?”

  “No one entered through that door between the time Feliz did his oh-three-hundred sweep and the time he returned at oh-six-hundred,” Commander Johnson replied.

  “On the contrary,” I said. “Someone must have entered, or the damage would not have occurred. What you’re saying is that the video recorders did not register someone entering during that time period.”

  “I suppose so,” he allowed.

  I was on lap number thirteen, the halfway point, when I asked, “What about an analysis of the video surveillance from after the break-in?”

  “Why would I look at the video from after the break-in?” Commander Johnson wanted to know.

  Ms. Washburn answered for me. “Because that is when Dr. Springer came back to the storage chamber and someone killed her,” she said.

  “That’s a matter for the police,” the commander sniffed. “They are no doubt looking at those time periods now.”

  “Why didn’t you call the police when the head was discovered missing?” I asked. “Wouldn’t that be standard procedure?”

  Commander Johnson nodded enthusiastically and pointed a finger at me, which was confusing. I hadn’t had anything to do with the decision not to inform the authorities. “That’s exactly what I told Dr. Ackerman we should do. But he was so worried about anybody finding out—and if it were in the police reports, the newspapers would know—that we never called the police. But I made sure my objection was on the record.”

  Six laps to go. My arms were getting tired, and I felt a comfortable bead of sweat just under my hairline, which indicated the exercise was having its desired effect. I asked the commander what steps he had taken to secure the area after Ms. Masters-Powell’s remains had been discovered missing.

  “I sealed the storage compartment myself,” he answered, and I believed his tone indicated a perceived insult. “There was video surveillance throughout, as you know. No one could have gotten in.”

  “And yet,” I said, my breath coming just a little heavier now, “Dr. Springer entered not only the outer room, but the chamber itself, and so did someone else, who killed her. How is that possible?”

  “I have no idea,” Commander Johnson said. He spoke through clenched teeth. I thought for a moment, with three laps left before I could sit again, and asked him the only question I thought he might be able to answer.

  “Is there a vending machine with water bottles on the premises?”

  His eyes widened for a moment, for reasons I could not discern, and then he shook his head. “But you can find water in the breakroom, one level up,” he said. He pointed to the ceiling, as if I had no idea where “up” might be.

  Ms. Washburn cleared her throat, which I’ve learned is a signal that someone might want my attention, so I turned toward her. “I think Detective Lapides wants to talk to us,” she said and pointed at the door. Sure enough, the detective’s face was visible in the window.

  Commander Johnson stood. “He’s already questioned me, so I assume he’s looking for one or both of you,” he said. He stood stock still, as if waiting to be dismissed.

  I finished my last lap and sat. I wasn’t exhausted, but I had exerted myself. “Very well, commander,” I said. “Thank you for your time.”

  Commander Johnson turned toward the door, but Ms. Washburn cleared her throat again. “Just one last thing, commander,” she said.

  He turned back, looking confused. “Yes?”

  Ms. Washburn pointed to her notebook. “For my records, sir. What is your first name?”

  The commander, as he had so many times in the past few minutes, looked pained. “Alvin,” he said, and left.

  ELEVEN

  DETECTIVE LAPIDES SAUNTERED—I BELIEVE that is the correct term—into the room with his hands in his jacket pockets. “So, Mr. Hoenig,” he began.

  “Come with me,” I said and walked directly past the detective and into the hallway. Lapides looked somewhat surprised, something I’m accustomed to seeing, and followed me. I wasn’t sure, but I thought Ms. Washburn also joined us as we walked.

  “Where are we going?” Lapides asked. “Have you found something?”

  “Not yet,” I told him. “I’m still looking for it, but I have every confidence I’ll be there soon.”

  “Where?” the detective wanted to know.

  “The breakroom, one level up,” I answered. “I’m told there is cold water to drink there. Now, what were you about to say, detective?”

  We reached the elevator, and I pushed the elevator call button with my knuckle. There was a silent moment, as I think the detective was catching his breath. He stared at me briefly.

  “Well, first of all, Dr. Springer’s death is being investigated as a murder,” he said.r />
  “Of course,” I nodded. What else could it be? “The bullet in the empty containment case would mean it could be almost nothing else.”

  “Yeah.” Lapides seemed disappointed. “And I want you to know we have eliminated you and Ms. Washburn as suspects.”

  Ms. Washburn bit her lower lip. I thought she might be trying to suppress a laugh.

  “I wouldn’t think we were ever considered suspects,” I told the detective. “Clearly, we were not on the premises when the crime was committed.”

  “Yeah,” he repeated, again with a slightly melancholy tone in his voice. I wondered what was making him sad. “But I’d like to ask a few questions about your discovery of the body.”

  The elevator doors opened, and we moved inside. Ms. Washburn pushed the button for the next level up, for which I was grateful. So many fingers push elevator buttons that having to press one myself is an unpleasant task.

  “Please feel free,” I told Lapides, since he had not yet asked a question.

  “Here? In the elevator?”

  “Why not? We know the same information in the elevator that we do outside, but if you’d prefer to wait …”

  In that period of time, we had made it to the next level, and the doors opened. So we left the elevator anyway. But secretly, I had to admit the detective was starting to amuse me.

  “What is your favorite Beatles song, detective?” I asked.

  “ ‘Help!’ ” he said. “Why?”

  Energetic. Articulate. Possibly sees himself as a victim. Aware of his own limitations.

  “It’s a game I play.” Lapides probably identified with the need for assistance and took the song on its most literal level. “Please go on,” I urged him.

  “Why were you going into the storage chamber before you knew Dr. Springer was inside on the floor?” Lapides asked as we walked down the hallway in search of the breakroom. It appeared to be an open area at the center of the level.

  “We had been called in to answer a question about the disappearance of Ms. Masters-Powell’s remains,” I said. “I was about to examine the area in which her head had been preserved. But you knew that. You asked us that when you questioned us earlier.”