“You think Commander Johnson was involved?” Lapides looked shaken.
“I did not say that. I said it was possible. It is equally possible that the commander is trying to do his job well and has not been successful. We don’t know enough yet to make a determination.”
My mind was racing with possibilities. Surely the next question would be how to proceed, and there were far too many options to sift through before I made a decision. I trusted that Detective Lapides was honest, but his problem-solving skills did not appear to be on a very high-functioning level. I did not know Captain Harris well enough to judge her abilities and felt that I was without the benefit of a person I could use as a sounding board. I wished again that Ms. Washburn had not left.
“If at least one of the thieves is in the building, what should we do?” Lapides asked.
I would have to trust my own judgment, something I am not naturally inclined to do. “How many uniformed officers do you have in the building?” I asked the detective.
“Only two,” he answered. “We sent the rest home hours ago.”
“And how many levels are there in the building?” I knew the answer to this one but was buying myself time to think.
“Six,” Lapides answered.
“Very well. Excuse yourself from the conference room, and alert your uniformed officers. Each of you will be responsible for three levels. Ask for every cell phone from each person you find, and check the outgoing text messages. That might be a place to start. Would such texts be traceable, Mr. Epstein?”
Epstein thought and said, “I’ve never dealt with a system exactly like this one before, but I’m guessing they would be. The problem is that if the thieves are smart, and so far they have been …”
“Then they will have undoubtedly deleted the outgoing texts in question, I know,” I said. “But if Detective Lapides, in his proper role as lead investigator, were to confiscate any cellular phones he finds, the thieves would be deprived of a way to communicate their further conditions and demands. Anything that might force a rash move should be encouraged; the less time they have to plan, the better off we are. Right now, we have the element of surprise—they think we are still unaware of their presence here. Mr. Epstein, in your examination of the security system, could you find the avenues through which intercom communication might have gone?”
Epstein nodded. “It’s possible that an electronic log is kept of any communication that goes through that system, and that would be the most obvious place to look for this kind of text. I’ll double back and check. But keep that commander guy off my back. I don’t like the way he looks at me.”
“He looks at everyone like that,” Lapides said.
“If you start now, he’ll be engrossed in the conference inside and won’t even notice you’re gone,” I said. “Go.”
The two of them went off on their respective tasks, and I gathered myself, checked on the presence of Ms. Washburn’s cellular phone again, and walked into the conference room.
Ackerman looked up from his work, which appeared to be almost finished. Commander Johnson had broken away from the group and was at the other side of the room, pacing and looking displeased. Captain Harris, holding the yellow legal pad, was reading and nodding.
Arthur Masters was at the conference table, leaning over and talking to his mother, who appeared—for her—quite animated. She gestured with her left hand at her son.
“I’m not staying here another minute,” she was insisting as I entered. “I’ve had enough talk about remains and craniums and ransoms. That was my daughter, and whether we get back what’s left of her or not, she’s dead. No matter what Dr. Ackerman thinks, she’s going to stay dead forever. You run the business, Arthur. If you want to spend millions and get back nothing, be my guest. I’m old, and it’s numbers on a ledger to me. I don’t care, truly. But I’m not going to stay and watch it done; this place depresses me.” With that, she struggled to her feet, grabbed her cane from the section of the table on which it had been resting, and began to hobble toward the conference room door.
“Mother, we’ve made the offer,” Arthur pleaded. “We can’t renege on it now.”
“I’m not suggesting that you should,” Laverne answered him. “Go ahead and give away our money. It honestly doesn’t matter to me. But I’m tired and disgusted, and I’m going home. I’m perfectly capable of driving my own vehicle. I will see you later.”
Arthur looked at Ackerman and Commander Johnson in a gesture of embarrassment and what I perceived as frustration. Once Laverne had made it through the conference room door, he said, “I can’t let her try to navigate home in the dark; I’ll follow her in my car, then go home to oversee the transfer of funds from my house. Keep in close touch with me.” Before either of the other men could protest, Arthur had left. I saw him through the glass wall, catching up to his mother and taking hold of her arm.
“What caused that change of heart?” I asked.
Ackerman shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe she’s tired. Maybe she’s annoyed. No matter what, they’re planning on suing the institute, and I’ve already lost a million dollars tonight. What can I do for you, Mr. Hoenig?”
“How is your wife?” I asked.
He lowered his head a little. “I didn’t thank you properly for that, did I?” he said. “I apologize. You might very well have saved her life. I owe you a great debt.”
“That does not answer my question.”
As he often did, Ackerman hesitated one second before replying to me. “She’s doing well,” he said. “A little shook up, but she’ll be all right.”
“We’re on the clock,” Commander Johnson interrupted. “There’s no time for this. The thieves will be contacting us at any second with the final instructions. What are we going to tell them without Arthur and Laverne here?”
I wondered when the commander had reached a comfort level with the Masterses at which he could refer to them by their first names, but this was not the time to ask about that. “What is the current status?” I asked the commander.
“We are awaiting the final delivery instructions from the thieves,” he answered. “They should be arriving via cell phone any moment.”
I wondered about that, if Lapides and his officers were truly confiscating every cellular phone they found in the building. It was possible a hidden one would still be usable, or that they had not reached the right phone in time. But I kept my musings to myself and instead asked, “How are they going to comply with the demand to verify the remains before the ransom is paid?”
Captain Harris brought over the legal pad on which Ackerman had been writing when I’d looked in earlier. “We’ve made our demands to the disposable cell phone number we traced before,” she said. “This is what we sent.” She put the pad down on the table where I could read what Ackerman had written.
It read: Visual confirmation of remains by GSCI staff; mutually agreeable location—B&N lot; meeting before banks open; A. Masters on hand to verify.
“What does ‘B&N lot’ mean?” I asked.
“We proposed the parking lot of the Barnes and Noble store on Route One as the meeting point,” the captain said. “We can control that environment, and if the meeting takes place early enough—which we’re insisting on so they can’t demand the money before we see the remains—there won’t be anyone there at the time.”
There were numerous tactical problems with the location, but the rest of the plan appeared sound. I felt that since the message had already been transmitted, there was no point in alerting the police to the flaws in their plan—the huge number of cars driving by at any hour that could cause difficulties; the other stores in the strip mall that might open much earlier, for example—and moved on to the next point.
“I wish you hadn’t allowed Laverne and Arthur Masters to leave,” I told the captain. “Do you not consider them suspects in the crimes you are investigating?”
“I don’t see how they could have stolen the remains,”
Captain Harris said. “And they were definitely not in the building when that happened or when Dr. Springer was murdered. The security logs show they have never actually visited this building before Detective Lapides summoned them here today.”
“I consider it unlikely they are involved,” I said, “but it would be best to have all the suspects in one place.”
Before the captain could answer, the conference room door swung open and Charlotte Selby entered, looking angry. “What’s going on?” she demanded. “How come you sent that bozo Lapides to take away my cell phone?” She advanced on Captain Harris, who looked understandably confused.
I was more interested in the reactions the two other men in the room exhibited. Commander Johnson looked at Charlotte and narrowed his eyes. “Where’d you come from?” he snarled quietly.
Marshall Ackerman, however, did not seem annoyed or confused by Charlotte’s sudden reappearance. I am not very expert when reading the facial expressions of people I do not know well, but even I was practiced enough to have no doubt about Ackerman’s face.
He saw Charlotte, and he was terrified.
“What are you talking about?” Captain Harris asked. “I didn’t send Lapides anywhere to do anything.”
“The detective was responding to a suggestion I made,” I said. Every eye in the room turned toward me. “I thought it was best to know where every cellular phone in the building was when the next message from the thieves was received.”
“What?” the captain exclaimed. “Why?” Then she thought for a moment. “You think the perpetrators are in the building?”
“I see no reason to assume otherwise,” I told her. Then I turned toward Charlotte. “Where have you been the past few hours, Ms. Selby?” I asked.
“Are you saying I’m a suspect?” Charlotte responded angrily.
“Until I know definitively who is guilty, I assume everyone involved is a suspect,” I told her. “I imagine Captain Harris and Commander Johnson would agree.”
Just then, Lapides appeared around the corner outside the conference room, carrying a small bag in which, I gathered, the collected cellular phones had been stored. He walked into the conference room with a satisfied look on his face. “Eighteen people in the building, eighteen phones,” he said. Then he noticed Charlotte. “You’d be amazed how angry people get when you take away their cell phones,” he said, looking directly at her.
I checked to make sure Ms. Washburn’s phone was still in my pocket. It was.
Charlotte’s face registered irritation. “Well, I didn’t steal anything and I didn’t kill anybody,” she said. “Can I have my phone back now?”
I looked at Captain Harris, who said, “No. You can’t.”
“Why not?” Charlotte uncrossed her arms and put her left hand in the hip pocket of her jeans.
“Because we haven’t heard back from the thieves yet,” the captain explained. “Until then, no phones will be returned to their owners.”
In motion pictures, events often occur in a fashion much more convenient to a screenwriter’s desires than to a depiction of reality. So it was with some astonishment that I noted the moment, just then, that Ackerman’s cellular phone chirped. He looked at the phone and said, “Who?” But then he nodded. It was another text message.
The thieves were responding.
TWENTY-SIX
THE COMMUNICATION WAS BRIEF: It read simply, CONDITIONS ACCEPTED.
That left approximately three hours before the exchange would take place in the bookstore parking lot. Captain Harris and Lapides left to coordinate the police presence at the drop. I assumed their plan was to survey the scene at which the remains would be presented for inspection and either follow the representative of the thieves who appeared or attach some sort of GPS device on the person or his or her vehicle to better track the area where the thieves were based. I hoped there was no intention of making an arrest at the exchange point, because any chance of finding Dr. Springer’s murderer and the thieves of Ms. Masters-Powell’s remains would be lost. But the officers were gone before I could ask any further questions.
I asked Ackerman if it would be possible to examine the scene of Dr. Springer’s murder one more time.
“I think you’ve done enough,” he said, in a tone I think he meant to sound kind. “Let the police handle it. Get some rest.”
“I do not need rest,” I told him. “And I have been contracted to answer the question of Dr. Springer’s murder. Is it possible?”
Ackerman’s face suddenly looked angry. “I don’t want any more people down there,” he snapped. “I have to think about the rest of the guests we have in that chamber now. Any more tampering down there could mean the end of this institute, whether we get Rita’s cranium back or not.”
“I have disturbed nothing, and will disturb nothing,” I persisted. “You have seen that my work is precise and my intentions are the same as your own. You have no reason to deny me a few minutes of access now, Mr. Ackerman.” I realized immediately that Ms. Washburn would no doubt have informed me that addressing him as Dr. Ackerman would have probably have shown more respect, and be more likely to elicit a positive response.
Still, he managed through clenched teeth to say, “Ten minutes. You have ten minutes. If you’re still there in ten minutes and one second, I’ll have you forcibly removed. Is that clear?”
I did not answer his question, as I was already heading for the door. I did not want to waste any time. Then, it occurred to me that I had a question for Ackerman. I stopped abruptly and turned to face him.
“Is that ten minutes from now, or from the time I arrive at the chamber?” I asked.
“Just go,” he croaked, and I decided to start counting at that moment.
The elevator trip to the chamber level seemed slower than before, but I knew it had to take the same amount of time as each trip I had taken previously. The time limit on my visit was preying on my mind, and I knew I needed to concentrate on what I saw in the chamber.
I raced down the corridor to the chamber and almost knocked over Epstein, who was heading back to the elevator to find me, he said. “I checked the voice communication units,” he reported. “There is a way to trace the electronic signatures of any intercom or wireless communications that went on, but it’ll take some time, at least eight hours.”
I had only eight minutes and seventeen seconds before Ackerman was to have me ejected from the building. “Was Dr. Springer’s computer confiscated from the office, and any laptop or home computers taken by the police?” I asked Epstein quickly.
He did not have to think about it, which was a relief. “Yes, and we should be getting a report on what they found on the hard drives soon. Probably right after nine o’clock.”
“Too late,” I said, continuing toward the chamber door. “They’re making the exchange at eight.”
I did not hear Epstein’s reply because I was entering Preservation Room D’s outer area, having been cleared by the security officer inside on orders from Ackerman.
Inside, the officer nodded at me, continued to watch the monitor on his console, and paid me no more attention. I was grateful for that, because there were only seven minutes and thirty-three seconds left for me to make my evaluation.
I had been in the chamber a number of times in the past nineteen hours, so a basic examination was not necessary. I was there to answer three questions to my own satisfaction, and time was short. I could not think about the people who had used the protective suit before me as I put it on once again and entered the inner chamber.
The security cameras, no doubt activated by perceived motion, were turning to follow me as I walked through the door and evaluated the room. The police had left pieces of wire indicating the trajectory of the bullet that had been fired in the room, and that was helpful. It indicated that the person holding the gun had been just inside the door, which told me that he or she knew the security cameras were taking the feed from another room so there was no need to try to find a less-visible
firing point.
A bullet had clearly been lodged in the storage receptacle that had once held the remains of Rita Masters-Powell, but Dr. Springer was murdered after the remains had been stolen. Why would the shooter choose that receptacle to rupture, releasing the liquid nitrogen that would remove the oxygen from the room and suffocate Dr. Springer?
The trajectory did not show any other points of deflection, so the bullet was shot directly at the Masters-Powell receptacle.
Five minutes and four seconds left.
It was possible the answer to that question was not to be found in this chamber, so I moved on to the second. Why would Dr. Springer have entered the inner chamber without the protective clothing I was wearing, and why would she even consider handling the frozen receptacle without gloves, which must have been extremely painful and dangerous?
Of course, it was possible Dr. Springer had done so only because someone with a gun was forcing her to act against her will. But it would be necessary to explore any other options as well. The floor in the inner chamber was a smooth surface of rolled linoleum. That might have made it easier for Dr. Springer to lose her balance and fall if the floor had been wet. But the release of the liquid nitrogen, reducing the concentration of oxygen in the sealed and enclosed chamber, would have removed the oxygen from any liquid as well. I checked the floor for any sign of a suspicious powder that might have resulted from such an event, and found none.
Dr. Springer, then, probably fell to the floor as she asphyxiated, blacking out almost instantly. But if that were the case, why wouldn’t the shooter have asphyxiated as well? And how did the shooter get out of the room before the oxygen content dropped enough to cause unconsciousness and death? Why was I still feeling the effects when I’d made my initial examination, long after the liquid nitrogen should have evaporated?
There were two possible answers to those questions, and neither one was very likely: Either the person who killed Dr. Springer had been pushed out through the chamber door by the release of the liquid nitrogen when the bullet penetrated the preservation receptacle, which would have let more oxygen into the chamber and prevented Dr. Springer from asphyxiating; or the shot was fired somehow from outside the chamber.
The Question of the Missing Head Page 20