The Question of the Missing Head

by E. J. Copperman

  Commander Johnson snarled and said something I could not understand under his breath.

  Epstein cleared his throat again, presumably for theatrical purposes to indicate that everyone in the room should pay attention. “Will you all join me in the security station?” he requested. “I believe I can show you exactly what happened.”

  _____

  “Well, maybe I overstated it,” Jerome Epstein said.

  We had eagerly adjourned the meeting to the security station to hear Epstein’s report. The station, on the first level down from the ground level, was a rather small room, and it was difficult for the five of us to fit inside. Laverne Masters, having determined that the walk might be far, had chosen to stay in the conference room upstairs.

  “I can’t show you what happened,” Epstein continued. “But I can certainly show you exactly what didn’t happen.”

  Captain Harris looked perplexed. “You brought us here to show us something that didn’t happen?” she asked.

  “In a way, yes.” Epstein turned toward an electronic console in front of him that, in a downsized fashion, approximated what one might see in the control room of a television studio. He turned a dial and nodded toward an overhead flat-screen monitor. “Take a look at that screen,” he said. “This is the data that was recorded at the approximate time Dr. Springer was murdered, as close as we can estimate from the preliminary report of the medical examiner.”

  Everyone in the room immediately directed his or her attention to the monitor. After four seconds, it flickered to life, and we saw a very clear, full-color view of the specimen storage chamber, taken from inside the inner chamber door. It showed the left side of the room, with five full-body preservation units and eight for the preservation of the brain or full head.

  Nothing disturbed the picture. I noted the time and date etched at the bottom of the screen, and they were as accurate as I could estimate. There was sound being recorded, since I could hear the hum of the cooling units, but nothing else appeared on screen or made an audible sound while we watched.

  That trend continued for ninety-seven seconds before Captain Harris asked, “How long before we see something?”

  “You’re seeing it now,” Epstein replied. “This is what the security system recorded.”

  “I don’t understand,” the captain said.

  “Are you saying that no one came in and stole my sister’s remains?” Arthur Masters demanded. “That no one killed a woman who is quite clearly dead? Are you trying to cover for the institute?”

  Epstein shook his head. “Nothing of the sort,” he said. “I didn’t say this is what happened. I said this is what the security system recorded.”

  Detective Lapides took on a very stern look. “Don’t try to fool us,” he told Epstein. Lapides then looked at me, perhaps recalling that it was my recommendation to employ an expert that led to Epstein’s presence in the room.

  “What you’re seeing is the same recording that you looked at earlier today,” Epstein said. “And the fact is, the security system was told to record this image at the time of the theft, and at the time Dr. Springer died. But it is not the image the system should have been recording.”

  I began to understand what Epstein was trying to say. Like many scientists and technical experts, he was not especially adept at conveying his thoughts in anything but the technical jargon of his profession, so when he attempted to do so, he could be misleading or appear obtuse. It was a difficulty I understood quite well.

  “So something has been done to the security system to make it record the wrong image,” I said, attempting to clarify for Epstein.

  He nodded with enthusiasm and pointed his index finger at me. “Exactly,” he said. “Someone has tampered with the system. This is actually a recording of Preservation Room B, when it should be a recording of Preservation Room D.”

  That explained a great deal—how thieves could steal into the storage chamber without being detected, why the security system was not activated, why the previous security data we had examined had shown nothing. “What about the other cameras mounted in Preservation Room D?” Lapides asked. “There have to be at least four cameras in each room.”

  “There are six,” I told him. Lapides gave me a look that was not as appreciative as I had expected.

  “All of the security detection devices—cameras, microphones, and motion sensors—in Room D were switched off externally and rerouted to Room B at specific times,” Epstein explained. “So all of the data we got from the security system shows an empty room, interrupted only when a technician comes in to do a routine check during the night. And we have checked with the technician and her work log; she was indeed in Room B at the time this record shows her in Room D. Three other security personnel verify her account.”

  “Was this rerouting of the data done automatically or manually?” I asked.

  “Now, that’s very interesting,” Epstein replied. “The first time, when the remains of Rita Masters-Powell were stolen, was done automatically, and set up in advance. But when Dr. Springer was murdered later in the day, the system was breached manually, from inside the facility, only a minute or two before we can assume the assault on Dr. Springer took place.”

  “Is there any way of restoring the correct security record?” Captain Harris asked.

  I knew the answer, but I felt it was better to let Epstein explain. He shook his head. “There’s nothing to restore,” he said. “The footage was never taken. It’s like trying to replace a photograph when the lens cap was on the whole time.”

  Lapides raised his arms in what I took to be frustration. “Then there’s nothing we can do,” he said. “We’ll never know who stole the head, or who killed the doctor.”

  “There is a great deal we can do, now that we know how the perpetrators managed to commit their crimes undetected,” I argued. “Commander Johnson, how many people in your security crew would have the expertise and the access to the system to be able to reroute the security devices the way Mr. Epstein has described?”

  The commander put his hand to his chin and lowered his eyebrows, then turned his head abruptly and looked at me. “Wait a minute,” he said. As always when someone says such a thing to me, my mind noted that this is an imprecise and inaccurate phrase to use. If we had waited a full minute, he would not have been able to make his following point until we had stood still for sixty seconds. But I was sure Ms. Washburn would have advised me to let that point remain unexpressed, so I listened. “Are you suggesting that I had something to do with these crimes?” Commander Johnson asked loudly.

  “I am not suggesting anything,” I replied as calmly as he had spoken emotionally. “I am asking a question that is designed to help us uncover the truth.”

  “Answer the question, please, commander,” Captain Harris said quietly. Her face was without expression and her eyes did not blink as she watched him reply.

  He stood straight at attention, as I’d noticed he always did when performing a task he clearly did not consider a pleasant one. “Myself,” he said, then his eyes surveyed the room for reactions, which were not very noticeable, or which I missed. “Dr. Ackerman. My second-in-command, Jose Feliz, but only on those occasions when I am not present.”

  “Why would Mr. Feliz have access only when you’re not here?” the captain asked.

  “Because he would need a key card,” I said. Commander Johnson looked sharply at me. “I assume that the commander relinquishes the key card that sets and unsets the security system in the storage rooms only when he is not present, and that there is not a duplicate key for Mr. Feliz.”

  Commander Johnson barely moved his lips when he said, “That is correct. There is a second key, but I keep both of them and give Feliz his only when it is necessary.”

  “But you weren’t here when the remains were stolen,” I reminded the commander. “You said you received the call at home. Did you question Jose Feliz, Detective Lapides?”

  “Yes!” Lapides snapped. It was beco
ming quite crowded for my taste in the tiny room, and I began to wonder if Epstein’s presentation had concluded, so we could vacate to more comfortable quarters. “He had someone with him through the entire shift, and his movements during the questionable times were verified on the video records.”

  “Are we finished here?” I asked. Arthur Masters’s breath on the back of my neck was hot and unpleasant.

  “Just one thing,” Lapides responded, while I pondered exactly how long I could tolerate the close quarters. Lapides turned toward Epstein. “How would someone rig this up to automatically switch from one storage room to another? Wouldn’t that show up on the video record?” Looking at Commander Johnson, he added, “Don’t you have someone monitoring at all times?”

  “Of course we do,” the commander answered before Epstein, who tended to consider and draw breath before speaking, could. “But the blip from one empty room to another empty room would be almost imperceptible. The personnel monitoring would almost have to be watching for it.”

  “I intend to sue this facility whether we retrieve my sister’s remains or not,” Arthur said behind me, spraying the s on the word sue and again on sister’s. I reached for my handkerchief and wiped the back of my neck.

  Instinctively, I also checked for Ms. Washburn’s cellular phone. It was safe in my pocket but still was not receiving a usable signal.

  “What it indicates,” said Epstein, answering the question Lapides had asked, “is that the person or people who configured the video system to switch over had to have a very close working knowledge of the security procedures here. It is possible that if they were technically proficient enough, the whole thing could be done from outside the facility, but that would require some very sophisticated equipment that, quite frankly, would cost so much money it would no longer make the ransom seem like a very big haul.”

  “How does that help?” Lapides asked. It didn’t occur to me to look, but I noticed everyone in the room suddenly seemed to be looking in my direction, so I concluded that Lapides’s question was directed at me.

  “It narrows the list of suspects a bit, because it means the thief has to be someone who at least knows an employee of the institute very well,” I answered. “And since at some point a key card to the security system had to be used, it is clear that one of two things is true: Commander Johnson or Dr. Ackerman is involved in the theft and possibly the murder, or someone has stolen the duplicate key card that exists for Mr. Feliz’s use.”

  “There’s another key,” Commander Johnson said. “Ackerman has a spare, I’m sure. He said it helped increase security because he could never be without the proper key card.”

  It was becoming more difficult to think in this small room crowded with people. “Mr. Epstein,” I asked, “is there any reason for us to stay at this station?”

  Epstein shook his head. Everyone else in the room seemed to exhale at the same time, and Arthur opened the door, which allowed some welcome cool air inside as we began to file out.

  Marshall Ackerman was already walking toward us as we headed in the direction of the conference room. The cooler air in the hallway—and the lack of saliva on the back of my neck—made it easier to think. But I was not properly prepared for what Ackerman said when we reached him.

  I asked about his wife, and Ackerman said she was doing well and had gone to a hotel for the rest of the night, which would not be long; it was already close to five in the morning. But the police were watching her, he said, more closely now that an attempt had been made on her life by what Ackerman called “an unbalanced mind.” Ballistics tests were being made on the bullet found in Ackerman’s box spring.

  Something sounded wrong, but speech patterns often sound unusual to me, and I missed the counsel of my mother or Ms. Washburn. There was no time to dwell on it, however, because Ackerman’s cellular phone chirped, and he reached into his jacket for it. I considered the time: In another three hours, if the question was still unsolved, I would have to ask for use of the fitness center again to exercise every twenty minutes.

  His eyes widened when he saw the incoming number. “It’s the kidnappers,” he said, and opened the phone to read a text message. “They’re accepting the terms you laid out, Arthur. They’ll produce your sister’s remains in three hours if you can show them you are prepared to transfer the money to a numbered account they will specify.”

  Arthur Masters didn’t look happy, but he nodded. “I’ll need to talk to my mother,” he said and headed back to the conference room. The others followed, but I stayed behind.

  As Epstein passed, I was tempted to reach out and hold his arm, to get him to stop, but I am not given to touching strangers, so I said as quietly as I could, “Mr. Epstein.”

  Luckily he heard me and stopped walking.

  “Are you familiar with the aspect of the security system that makes it difficult to receive a cellular phone signal in this building?” I asked him.

  Epstein shook his head from side to side while tilting it, indicating that he was somewhat familiar with it, but not an expert on the subject. “Sort of,” he said. “What do you need to know?”

  “Is it possible for one phone to receive a signal, while another does not?”

  Epstein clenched his teeth as he thought about that. “It’s possible, I guess,” he said. “But I would consider it extremely unlikely. Why?”

  He had confirmed what I had already believed. “Because I think one of the thieves, probably one involved in Dr. Springer’s murder, is in this facility right now,” I told him.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  IT WAS NOT AN easy task to isolate Det. Glendon Lapides from the crowd. He was standing in the conference room, hunched over a table, which I supposed was used for a dais when panels or meetings were held here. Lapides was surrounded by Captain Harris, Commander Johnson, Ackerman, and Arthur Masters, who had left his mother sitting at the table. And he was not looking out into the hallway, where Epstein and I stood.

  Not wanting to alert the others to our conversation and unsure whether it would be possible to call or text Lapides on his cellular phone, I instructed Epstein, who had a talent for not being noticed, to walk into the room and inform the detective—very quietly—that I had an important matter to discuss with him in the hallway.

  The gambit did not go as smoothly as I’d hoped. Epstein was able to enter the conference room unnoticed and did whisper to Lapides, but apparently the detective had a hearing problem on his right side or the technician was whispering too quietly, because Lapides asked “What?” at least three times, the last so loud I could hear him outside the room. I managed to hide behind a potted plant to avoid the looks of the gathered group, but I did see Epstein pull Lapides aside and the others return their attention to a legal pad upon which Ackerman was writing something.

  Lapides did finally walk out to meet me, and the rest of the group in the conference room did not seem to notice.

  “What do you mean, the killer’s in this building?” Lapides said after I had told him the reason for the clandestine conversation. It baffled me momentarily that he did not seem the grasp the meaning of a simple declarative sentence, until I realized it was a way of asking why I thought the facts supported my conclusion.

  “The cellular phones prove the point,” I explained. “I was not able to get a signal on Ms. Washburn’s cellular phone. Are you able to call out on yours?”

  Lapides reached into his pocket and pulled out his cellular phone, which he opened. He shook his head. “But Ackerman said they would work on this level,” he said, seemingly baffled.

  “That is what he said, but the facts do not support it,” I told him. “Mr. Epstein here says it is unlikely such a selective system could be put in place. If the institute does not want cellular communications to be possible on the lower levels for security reasons, the cost of that provision is that such signals would not be possible anywhere in the building.”

  “But Ackerman received messages from the thieves, and so did I,” the de
tective noted. “I know I wasn’t pretending to get a text; was Ackerman?”

  I told him I thought not.

  “I suppose text messages could be sent through the institute’s Wi-Fi signal, which probably wouldn’t accommodate voice communication,” Epstein said. “I’ve seen it done. It’s similar to an intercom system, a closed system, all kept within the building, but more flexible. Places that need special security within their walls, like a company that prints lottery tickets, for example, would use such a system. This one is more sophisticated and can be made to work with cell phones, even if they’re not receiving signal from a tower or satellite.”

  I had never done research on that kind of technology, but what Epstein told Lapides and me appeared to make sense. With a security operation as sophisticated as the one at GSCI, proprietary technologies would no doubt have to be developed, and Ackerman had alluded to that earlier. It was probably one of the reasons that Ackerman and Commander Johnson had been so adamant about Epstein staying away from their system—it was entirely possible that some regulations had not been completely obeyed.

  “Does this mean that Ackerman is in on the theft?” Lapides asked. “How does it make sense that he would steal from his own institute?”

  “We must not jump to conclusions until we have all the facts,” I told him. “Ackerman might be legitimately ignorant of the technology. It is possible that he has never tried to use his cellular phone in the building, especially if he was told it would not work. During the day here, I saw him use a land line whenever he had to make or receive a phone call.”

  “What other explanation is there?” Lapides asked.

  “There are many. If Commander Johnson has lied to Ackerman about the limitations of the security system and communications, it is possible the commander is one of the thieves, or that he or his wife was the person who picked up the briefcases at Rutgers Village or attacked Mrs. Ackerman in her home.”