The Question of the Missing Head

by E. J. Copperman

  The thieves made contact once again twenty-eight minutes later, sending a text message to Detective Lapides, perhaps just to remind us that they could. The instructions for dropping off the money were detailed in the text, which was quite lengthy for such a thing.

  Within minutes, we were headed to the parking lot for a trip to the drop-off point in three separate vehicles: Lapides, Captain Harris, and Ackerman would ride in a Sport Utility Vehicle provided by the county prosecutor’s office; Laverne Masters would ride in her own car with an officer driving; and Ms. Washburn was to drive her car with me in the passenger seat. Commander Johnson, much to his chagrin, was being left behind to assure that no further breaches of security occurred at the institute, and to convey any messages the thieves might send to that location. Arthur Masters flatly refused to go along, saying he thought the exchange was destined to be a failure because the total amount demanded was not being paid. He felt he was more valuable at the institute monitoring with Commander Johnson, and had unsuccessfully lobbied his mother to stay behind as well, citing her health. She did not answer him.

  Before we reached our respective rides, however (Laverne Masters waiting at the institute door for the officer to pull the car closer), Ackerman stopped dead in his tracks. “Charlotte Selby,” he said. “Did anyone see Charlotte Selby as we left?” He looked quite anxious.

  “She was not anywhere we might have seen her,” I said, because I would have noticed if Charlotte been anywhere in the path we’d taken.

  Ackerman picked up his cellular phone and pushed a button. “Johnson,” he said after a moment. “Is Charlotte Selby in the building?” He waited for a response, and his mouth dropped open for him to take in larger gulps of air. He put the phone back into his pocket without another word. I know that some sort of acknowledgment that the conversation has ended, such as good-bye, is expected in such situations, but Ackerman did not seem concerned about having ignored such an obvious social custom.

  “She wasn’t there,” he said, seemingly to no one in particular. “She signed out only a few minutes after she left the conference room.”

  I walked over to talk to Ackerman, Ms. Washburn just behind me. “I don’t understand,” I said. “Why are you so concerned about Ms. Selby’s whereabouts?”

  Ackerman’s eyes flashed and moved to one side, then the other, very quickly. He looked like a man who was thinking about something other than what was being asked of him. “Don’t you see,” he said after a moment, “Charlotte is a blogger trying to make a name for herself in this field. She was privy to enough information to damage this company irrevocably. If she decides to go public with it before there’s a resolution to this problem, the institute could be finished no matter what happens tonight.”

  I thought about that and nodded. “It is possible,” I said. “But I think it unlikely. I doubt Ms. Selby would want to trumpet her knowledge before the whole story is told. It would attract too many competitors who might have sources in more places than she does. The only way she manages to distinguish herself with this story is to tell the whole story.”

  Ackerman again appeared to be only half-listening. “I hope you’re right,” he said. Then he turned toward Lapides. “Have you heard from the patrol car at my house yet?” he asked the detective. “I’m concerned about Eleanor.”

  “Eleanor?” Lapides asked.

  “My wife.” Ackerman’s voice had an edge that indicated he thought Lapides something other than an intelligent police detective.

  “I checked in a couple of minutes ago,” Lapides answered, with no indication he was at all aware of the tone in Ackerman’s voice. “They’re there, and your lights are out. Only one car in the driveway. Your wife is safe.”

  Ackerman mopped his brow, although it was cool outside. “Thank you,” he said to Lapides.

  “Did the officers check with Mrs. Ackerman?” I asked. “It is possible someone got into the house before the patrol car arrived.” Ackerman once again looked perplexed.

  “It’s standard procedure,” Lapides told me. “They rang the bell, despite the late hour, and checked with Mrs. Ackerman. Everything was clear in the house.”

  I nodded at Lapides, and so did Ackerman. There was very little extra time left, so we all got into our vehicles and let the police SUV lead the way.

  Ms. Washburn was unusually quiet as she drove, making sure to keep Laverne Masters’s car visible, but at a reasonable distance. At 2:37 in the morning, there was very little traffic, even on the well-traveled US Highway 1. The drive could not have been difficult.

  “You are very quiet,” I said after eight minutes and fourteen seconds. “Is something troubling you?”

  Ms. Washburn shook her head. “I wouldn’t say troubling me,” she replied. “I’ve been thinking about the case.”

  “The question,” I corrected.

  She nodded. “The question. I think you’re right; there are a lot of things that don’t add up.”

  It would be interesting to see if Ms. Washburn had been struck by the same contradictions and incongruities as I had. “Please tell me,” I said. “What does not add up for you?”

  “Well, you mentioned two things. It doesn’t make sense to threaten Ackerman’s wife. He’s not the one refusing to pay. It would seem a lot more effective to threaten Arthur Masters or his mother.”

  “Laverne seemed somewhat unmovable on the subject,” I suggested. “Perhaps the thieves think they have a better chance of swaying Ackerman, or they know about a source of money that he has not yet tapped, nor told us about.”

  “I guess so, but the voice sounded so much more personal about it, like whoever it was wanted to hurt Ackerman, to scare him as much as they possibly could. I realize that’s not a fact; it’s an impression I got from the tone of voice, even though it was filtered.”

  “That’s exactly the kind of thing I need to have pointed out to me,” I told her. “You are an invaluable member of the Questions Answered team.”

  “You and I are the whole team so far,” Ms. Washburn reminded me, “and I’m not even really working there.”

  “You could be,” I answered, but that sounded unlike what I was trying to communicate. I decided to move on with the questions we were trying to answer. “What else bothered you? Something I didn’t mention.”

  She thought for seventy-six seconds. “I can’t figure out the dynamic between Arthur and Laverne Masters,” she said. “Sometimes he seems to be completely under his mother’s thumb, and other times …”

  “Other times, he’s flirting with you,” I pointed out.

  Ms. Washburn gritted her teeth a little but nodded. “But that’s not what I’m talking about. They walked into that room with a ransom figure in mind, and it was my impression that there had been an argument about it between them, and Arthur lost. And when the kidnapper on the phone said that there could be consequences and they wouldn’t see what’s left of Rita again, Arthur looked at Laverne, almost like he was asking her to be flexible, but she never so much as blinked. But Arthur is supposed to be the one clearly in charge of the business.”

  “It is not unusual in a family dynamic for one person to be considered the authority in a certain area, even if that is not his customary role,” I pointed out. “My mother often defers to my judgment on the brands of products she buys at the supermarket, largely because she knows I research the advantages and disadvantages of each.”

  Ms. Washburn took a quick glance at me, as if deciding whether she should voice a thought she was having.

  “Go on,” I said. “You won’t insult me.”

  “Why do you still live with your mother?” she said quickly. “You are—if you don’t mind the expression—high-functioning enough to have your own apartment. Why not do that?”

  I frowned. For one thing, the term high-functioning is somewhat insulting, although I was sure Ms. Washburn used it because she did not know a more accurate one. But my more immediate concern was that she seemed to be seeing me as something I was
not, and I wanted to explain my situation precisely.

  “My Asperger’s Syndrome is not the reason I still live in my mother’s house,” I said after a moment. “There are, in fact, a number of reasons. For one thing, Questions Answered is not yet profitable enough for me to pay rent on an apartment in this area, and I am not inclined to move far away where rents are lower. Part of that is because of my Asperger’s; I am uncomfortable in unfamiliar surroundings.

  “But I also have some concerns about my mother,” I continued. “Her health has been a little precarious for the past two years since she retired. There was a heart incident that required the implantation of a stent in one artery. And her legs are not strong. She has some difficulty walking, although not as much as Mrs. Masters, so you might not have noticed when you met her yesterday afternoon.

  “And I will admit, Ms. Washburn, that there are few people with whom I can comfortably and enjoyably spend an extended period of time. My mother happens to be one of those few. Not many people find my company enjoyable; she does. Not many people’s conversation interests me; hers does. So you see, I live with my mother chiefly because I like her.”

  Ms. Washburn turned off US Highway 1 onto the right-lane ramp (called a “jug handle” in New Jersey) that led to Rutgers Village, a development of single-family homes, almost all in the Cape Cod style, built on the border of New Brunswick and East Brunswick. The development was meant mostly as a haven for New Brunswick city police and fire employees when it was built, because there was a residency requirement for such personnel at the time and no suburban settings in the New Brunswick city limits for those with young children. It is a small section carved out of two large municipalities to accommodate those who served one. Living there, separated from the urban reality that the old city of New Brunswick represented, it seemed out of place.

  We followed Laverne Masters’s car into the development, and then Ms. Washburn said to me, “I didn’t mean to insult you.”

  “You did not insult me,” I answered. “I wanted to be sure you understood.”

  Ms. Washburn nodded but did not respond.

  We drove up Tunison Road into Rutgers Village and made a right turn past the homes, which were old enough now that they had been individually renovated and were no longer identical. Since the 1950s, when they were built, owners had come and gone and left their specific fingerprints on each structure: Some had additions on one side, others had full second floors with the dormers expanded for second or third bedrooms. A few were meticulously landscaped in the front yards, and others had stockade fences that blocked our view of any back yard at all.

  At the top of a small hill there was one area of open space separating Rutgers Village from Edgewood, its slightly more upscale sister community. The local utility had installed towers of high-tension electrical wiring through the open field, and they ran the length of the development and past it as far as the eye could see. We stopped the three cars at the opening to that field, and all of us except Laverne Masters got out of our vehicles and gathered at the entrance to the open space. A small fence—really just a piece of metal placed as a barrier less than two feet from the ground across the opening—was meant to delineate the space, but it could not possibly have been considered a deterrent to anyone who might want to enter. It was probably an insurance precaution, because a sign reading HIGH-TENSION—DO NOT ENTER had been hung on the fence. It was difficult to read the sign in this light.

  “This is where we’re supposed to leave the briefcases,” Lapides said. “Actually, over there.” He pointed to the middle of the field, where the towers bearing the electrical wires 50 feet above stood. “Next to the second high-tension tower. At the base of the northeast leg.” He started, suddenly, and drew a deep breath. “Did anybody bring a compass?” he asked.

  I pointed at the utility towers. “On the right side, nearest us,” I said. “The position of the stars indicates the directions perfectly.”

  Captain Harris took a long look at me then nodded. “Of course it does,” she said. “Well, let’s go.”

  Ackerman held up a hand to stop her. “The text message said I was to go alone, and when I was done, we were all to drive away. Whoever these people are, they’re going to be watching, and if they don’t like what they see, a lot of money is going away and nothing is coming back.” I found it interesting that he did not mention his wife or her safety.

  “How will the remains be returned?” I asked.

  “Once they’ve seen us leave, I’ll get another text message telling me where to go for the specimen,” Ackerman answered. “But when they find out all the money they asked for isn’t there …”

  No one responded to that, so Ackerman took a breath, stepped over the low barrier at the opening, and started walking toward the tower. He was not an especially athletic man, and more than fifty years old, but it was a straight walk, and not dangerous. There was a slight decline from the road toward the utility towers, and carrying five briefcases could not have been easy for Ackerman. The grass had not been recently mowed, however, and was high, so the walk was especially difficult—I’m not sure I could have done it, thinking only about the many insects that must have been living in that foliage. Once, Ackerman stopped, looked at the bottom of his shoe, said something disparaging about people who walk their dogs in unpaved areas, and scraped it on the ground. Then he continued walking.

  There had been some discussion on how he could carry five briefcases into the grassy area. With the money and the inside paper stuffing, the cases were not insignificant in terms of weight, but the thieves had been very specific about the number of cases, so consolidation was not a consideration.

  He slipped one under each arm and carried the other three, one in his left hand and two in his right, by their handles. He continued his walk toward the high-tension towers, but he was slowing, and often shifted the weight of the case under his left arm. He also set down the cases and fidgeted with something in his pocket, moving it from one side to another; it turned out to be his cell phone, as I determined when he opened it to check the time and the screen glowed briefly.

  “He looks so exposed out there,” Ms. Washburn said quietly. “It seems dangerous, even though he’s just walking.”

  “The instructions were for him to go alone from here,” I reminded her. “Any other presence would have increased the danger, as we can assume the thieves are watching us every moment from somewhere in the area.”

  Captain Harris looked at me with an expression I could not read. “Don’t be silly,” she said. “I have snipers on either side of the field, and one on the roof of a house right near the second tower. We’re not letting him walk out there alone.”

  I looked in the areas she had pointed out, and there were officers in all three sites. My mouth felt dry. “Don’t you think the thieves can see those snipers just as well as we can?” I asked.

  “Hardly,” she said. “They don’t want anything to happen to Ackerman. They just want their money. There’s no reason to get violent, and I doubt they could even get into a position to see him without our knowing it. I think you’re overestimating them.”

  At that moment, a low electronic chirp came from Captain Harris’s belt. Her face registered surprise as she reached for her cell phone. When she read the message there, her eyes widened.

  “My god,” she rasped. She reached for her communications link and said clearly into it, “All sniper positions stand down immediately. Repeat, stand down.”

  I must have been staring at Captain Harris, because she looked at me and said, “Fine. You know more than I do about criminal nature.”

  “I sincerely doubt it,” I said truthfully.

  Captain Harris did not answer, but she held up her cell phone, which showed a text message: MOVE YOUR SNIPERS AWAY OR ACKERMAN DIES.

  The timing of that message was especially unnerving. “Do you think they can hear us, as well?” I asked.

  The captain shook her head. “I’m not even sure they’re here. Th
ey could be watching from the comfort of their own homes with the right satellite link. But there’s no sense in taking a chance on something like that. We can see Ackerman, and that’s all that’s necessary at the moment.”

  Surely enough, when I looked back at the rooftop and the trees looking down at Ackerman’s position, the snipers were gone.

  While this exchange had been taking place, Ackerman had reached the second tower, and after a slight hesitation during which he looked in our direction, he placed the briefcases on the ground next to the northeast leg. He stood and looked at the cases for a long moment, then began his walk back.

  When he reached the point just past the first electrical tower, Ackerman seemed to hesitate, looking back at the cases as if they contained his own offspring, or something equally dear to him. Since all the cases contained was money—and none of it Ackerman’s—the move seemed a little bit odd.

  “I was planning on leaving some men behind to watch for the people who are going to pick up the money,” Captain Harris said. “Now I’m worried they’ll be seen.”

  “Is it possible to leave a camera or recording device?” I asked. “Positioned properly, that could make it possible for you to monitor the pickup, and be prepared to act on what you see.”

  The captain nodded and instructed her team to remove two video cameras from the SUV and set them up unobtrusively. We walked back to the car where Laverne Masters was sitting, door open, facing forward. “A good suggestion,” the captain said. “I can see why the North Brunswick police called you in to consult.”

  That was not correct. “The North Brunswick police …” I began.

  Detective Lapides cut off my sentence. “Now all that’s left to do is go back to the institute, wait, and hope the thieves will accept a million dollars as their ransom.”

  One million dollars? “Three million, detective,” I corrected him.