Even more bothersome to Bertram than the stuffed animals were the skulls. There were three of them on Siegfried’s desk. All three had their tops sawn off. One had an apparent bullet hole through the temple. They were used respectively for paper clips, ashtray, and to hold a large candle. Although the Zone’s electric power was the most reliable in the entire country, it did go off on rare occasions because of lightning strikes.
Most people, especially visitors from GenSys, assumed the skulls were from apes. Bertram knew differently. They were human skulls of people executed by the Equatoguinean soldiers. All three of the victims had been convicted of the capital offense of interfering with GenSys operations. In actuality, they had been caught poaching wild chimps on the Zone’s designated hundred-square-mile land. Siegfried considered the area his own private hunting reserve.
Years previously, when Bertram had gently questioned the wisdom of displaying the skulls, Siegfried had responded by saying that they kept the native workers on their toes. “It’s the kind of communication they comprehend,” Siegfried had explained. “They understand such symbols.”
Bertram didn’t wonder that they got the message. Especially in a country which had suffered the atrocities of a diabolically cruel dictator. Bertram always remembered Kevin’s response to the skulls. Kevin had said that they reminded him of the deranged character Kurtz in Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness.
“There,” Siegfried said, pushing the signed papers aside. With his accent it sounded more like “zair.” “What’s on your mind, Bertram? I hope you don’t have a problem with the new bonobos.”
“Not at all. The two breeding females are perfect,” Bertram said. He eyed the Zone’s site boss. His most obvious physical trait was a grotesque scar that ran from beneath his left ear, down across his cheek, and under his nose. Over the years its gradual contraction had pulled up the corner of Siegfried’s mouth in a perpetual sneer.
Bertram did not technically report to Siegfried. As the chief vet of the world’s largest primate research and breeding facility, Bertram dealt directly with a GenSys senior vice president of operations back in Cambridge, Massachusetts, who had direct access to Taylor Cabot. But on a day-to-day basis, particularly in relation to the bonobo project, it was in Bertram’s best interest to maintain a cordial working relationship with the site boss. The problem was, Siegfried was short-tempered and difficult to deal with.
He’d started his African career as a white hunter, who, for a price, could get a client anything he wanted. Such a reputation required a move from East Africa to West Africa, where game laws were less rigidly enforced. Siegfried had built up a large organization, and things went well until some trackers failed him in a crucial situation, resulting in his being mauled by an enormous bull elephant and the client couple being killed.
The episode ended Siegfried’s career as a white hunter. It also left him with his facial scar and a paralyzed right arm. The extremity hung limp and useless from its shoulder connection.
Rage over the incident had made him a bitter and vindictive man. Still, GenSys had recognized his bush-based organizational skills, his knowledge of animal behavior, and his heavy-handed but effectual way of dealing with the indigenous African personality. They thought he was the perfect individual to run their multimillion-dollar African operation.
“There’s another wrinkle with the bonobo operation,” Bertram said.
“Is this new concern in addition to the weird worry of yours that the apes have divided into two groups?” Siegfried asked superciliously.
“Recognizing a change in social organization is a damn legitimate concern!” Bertram said, his color rising.
“So you said,” Siegfried remarked. “But I’ve been thinking about it, and I can’t imagine it matters. What do we care if they hang out in one group or ten? All we want them to do is stay put and stay healthy.”
“I disagree,” Bertram said. “Splitting up suggests they are not getting along. That would not be typical bonobo behavior, and it could spell trouble down the road.”
“I’ll let you, the professional, worry about it,” Siegfried said. He leaned back in his chair, and it squeaked. “I personally don’t care what those apes do as long as nothing threatens this windfall money and stock options. The project is turning into a gold mine.”
“The new problem has to do with Kevin Marshall,” Bertram said.
“Now what in God’s name could that skinny simpleton do to get you to worry?” Siegfried asked. “With your paranoia, it’s a good thing you don’t have to do my job.”
“The nerd has worked himself up because he’s seen smoke coming from the island,” Bertram said. “He’s come to me twice. Once last week and then again this morning.”
“What’s the big deal about smoke?” Siegfried asked. “Why does he care? He sounds worse than you.”
“He thinks the bonobos might be using fire,” Bertram said. “He hasn’t said so explicitly, but I’m sure that’s what is on his mind.”
“What do you mean ‘using fire’?” Siegfried asked. He leaned forward. “You mean like making a campfire for warmth or cooking?” Siegfried laughed without disturbing his omnipresent sneer. “I don’t know about you urban Americans. Out here in the bush you’re scared of your own shadow.”
“I know it’s preposterous,” Bertram said. “Of course no one else has seen it, or if they have, it’s probably from a lightning storm. The problem is, he wants to go out there.”
“No one goes near the island!” Siegfried growled. “Only during a harvest, and it’s only the harvest team! That’s a directive from the home office. There are no exceptions save for Kimba, the pygmy, delivering the supplementary food.”
“I told him the same thing,” Bertram said. “And I don’t think he’ll do anything on his own. Still, I thought I should tell you about it just the same.”
“It’s good that you did,” Siegfried said irritably. “The little prick. He’s a goddamned thorn in my side.”
“There is one other thing,” Bertram said. “He told Raymond Lyons about the smoke.”
Siegfried slapped the surface of his desk with his good hand loud enough to cause Bertram to jump. He stood up and stepped to the shuttered window overlooking the town square. He glared over at the hospital. He’d never liked the epicene bookish researcher from their first meeting. When he’d learned Kevin was to be coddled and accommodated in the second best house in the town, Siegfried had boiled over. He’d wanted to assign the house as a perk to one of his loyal underlings.
Siegfried balled his good hand into a fist and gritted his teeth. “What a meddling pain in the ass,” he said.
“His research is almost done,” Bertram said. “It would be a shame if he was to muck things up just when everything is going so well.”
“What did Lyons say?” Siegfried asked.
“Nothing,” Bertram said. “He accused Kevin of letting his imagination run wild.”
“I might have to have someone watch Kevin,” Siegfried said. “I will not have anyone destroy this program. That’s all there is to it. It’s too lucrative.”
Bertram stood up. “That’s your department,” he said. He started for the door, confident he’d planted the appropriate seed.
CHAPTER 7
March 5, 1997
7:25 A.M. New York City
The combination of cheap red wine and little sleep slowed Jack’s pace on his morning bicycle commute. His customary time of arrival in the ID room of the medical examiner’s office was seven-fifteen. But as he got off the elevator on the first floor of the morgue en route to the ID room, he noticed it was already seven twenty-five, and it bothered him. It wasn’t as if he were late, it was just that Jack liked to keep to a schedule. Discipline in relation to his work was one of the ways he’d learned to avoid depression.
His first order of business was to pour himself a cup of coffee from the communal pot. Even the aroma seemed to have a beneficial effect, which Jack attributed to Pavlovian con
ditioning. He took his first sip. It was a heavenly experience. Though he doubted the caffeine could work quite so quickly, he felt like his mild hangover headache was already on the mend.
He stepped over to Vinnie Amendola, the mortuary tech whose day shift overlapped the night shift. He was ensconced as usual at one of the office’s government-issued metal desks. His feet were parked on the corner, and his face hidden behind his morning newspaper.
Jack pulled the edge of the paper down to expose Vinnie’s Italianate features to the world. He was in his late twenties, in sorry physical shape, but handsome. His dark, thick hair was something Jack envied. Jack had been noticing over the previous year a decided thinning of his gray-streaked brown hair on the crown of his head.
“Hey, Einstein, what’s the paper say about the Franconi body incident?” Jack asked. Jack and Vinnie worked together on a frequent basis, both appreciating the other’s flippancy, quick wit, and black humor.
“I don’t know,” Vinnie said. He tried to pull his beloved paper from Jack’s grasp. He was embroiled in the Knicks stats from the previous night’s basketball game.
Jack’s forehead furrowed. Vinnie might not have been an academic genius, but about current news items, he was something of a resident authority. He read the newspapers cover to cover every day and had impressive recall.
“There’s nothing about it in the paper?” Jack questioned. He was shocked. He’d imagined the media would have had a field day with the embarrassment of the body disappearing from the morgue. Bureaucratic mismanagement was a favorite journalistic theme.
“I didn’t notice it,” Vinnie said. He yanked harder, freed the paper, and reburied his face.
Jack shook his head. He was truly surprised and wondered how Harold Bingham, the chief medical examiner, had managed such a media coverup. Just as Jack was about to turn away, he caught the headlines. It said: MOB THUMBS NOSE AT AUTHORITY. The subhead read: “Vaccarro crime family kills one of its own then steals the body out from under the noses of city officials.”
Jack snatched the entire paper from the surprised Vinnie’s grasp. Vinnie’s legs fell to the floor with a thump. “Hey, come on!” he complained.
Jack folded the paper then held it so that Vinnie was forced to stare at the front page.
“I thought you said the story wasn’t in the paper,” Jack said.
“I didn’t say it wasn’t in there,” Vinnie said. “I said I didn’t see it.”
“It’s the headlines, for crissake!” Jack said. He pointed at them with his coffee cup for emphasis.
Vinnie lunged out to grab his paper. Jack pulled it away from his grasp.
“Come on!” Vinnie whined. “Get your own freakin’ paper.”
“You’ve got me curious,” Jack said. “As methodical as you are, you’d have read this front-page story on your subway ride into town. What’s up, Vinnie?”
“Nothing!” Vinnie said. “I just went directly to the sports page.”
Jack studied Vinnie’s face for a moment. Vinnie looked away to avoid eye contact.
“Are you sick?” Jack asked facetiously.
“No!” Vinnie snapped. “Just give me the paper.”
Jack slipped out the sports pages and handed them over. Then he went over to the scheduling desk and started the article. It began on the front page and concluded on the third. As Jack anticipated, it was written from a sarcastic, mocking point of view. It cast equal aspersion on the police department and the medical examiner’s office. It said the whole sordid affair was just another glowing example of the gross incompetence of both organizations.
Laurie breezed into the room and interrupted Jack. As she removed her coat, she told him that she hoped he felt better than she.
“Probably not,” Jack admitted. “It was that cheap wine I brought over. I’m sorry.”
“It was also the five hours of sleep,” Laurie said. “I had a terrible time hauling myself out of bed.” She put her coat down on a chair. “Good morning, Vinnie,” she called out.
Vinnie stayed silent behind his sports page.
“He’s pouting because I violated his paper,” Jack said. Jack got up so Laurie could sit down at the scheduling desk. It was Laurie’s week to divvy up the cases for autopsy among the staff. “The headlines and cover story are about the Franconi incident.”
“I wouldn’t wonder,” Laurie said. “It was all over the local news, and I heard it announced that Bingham will be on Good Morning America to attempt damage control.”
“He’s got his hands full,” Jack said.
“Have you looked at today’s cases?” Laurie asked, as she started glancing through the twenty or so folders.
“I just got here myself,” Jack admitted. He continued reading the article.
“Oh, this is good!” Jack commented after a moment’s silence. “They’re alleging that there is some kind of conspiracy between us and the police department. They suggest we might have deliberately disposed of the body for their benefit. Can you imagine! These media people are so paranoid that they see conspiracy in everything!”
“It’s the public who is paranoid,” Laurie said. “The media likes to give them what they want. But that kind of wild theory is exactly why I’m going to find out how that body disappeared. The public has to know we are impartial.”
“I was hoping you’d have a change of heart and given up on that quest after a night’s sleep,” Jack mumbled while continuing to read.
“Not a chance,” Laurie said.
“This is crazy!” Jack said, slapping the page of newsprint. “First they suggest we here at the ME office were responsible for the body disappearing, and now they say the mob undoubtedly buried the remains in the wilds of Westchester so they will never be found.”
“The last part is probably correct,” Laurie said. “Unless the body turns up in the spring thaw. With the frost it’s hard to dig more than a foot below the surface.”
“Gads, what trash!” Jack commented as he finished the article. “Here, you want to read it?” He offered the front pages of the paper to Laurie.
Laurie waved them off. “Thanks, but I already read the version in the Times,” she said. “It was caustic enough. I don’t need the New York Post’s point of view.”
Jack went back over to Vinnie and quipped that he was willing to return his paper to its virginal state. Vinnie took the pages without comment.
“You are awfully sensitive today,” Jack said to the tech.
“Just leave me alone,” Vinnie snapped.
“Whoa, watch out, Laurie!” Jack said. “I think Vinnie has pre-mental tension. He’s probably planning on doing some thinking and it’s got his hormones all out of whack.”
“Uh-oh!” Laurie called out. “Here’s that floater that Mike Passano mentioned last night. Who should I assign it to? Trouble is I don’t think I’m mad at anyone and to forestall guilt I’ll probably end up doing it myself.”
“Give it to me,” Jack said.
“You don’t care?” Laurie asked. She hated floaters, especially those which had been in the water for a long time. Such autopsies were unpleasant and often difficult jobs.
“Nah,” Jack said. “Once you get past the smell, you got it licked.”
“Please!” Laurie murmured. “That’s disgusting.”
“Seriously,” Jack said. “They can be a challenge. I like them better than gunshot wounds.”
“This one is both,” Laurie commented, as she put Jack down for the floater.
“How delightful!” Jack commented. He walked back to the scheduling desk and looked over Laurie’s shoulder.
“There’s a presumptive, close range shotgun blast to the upper-right quadrant,” Laurie said.
“It’s sounding better and better,” Jack said. “What’s the victim’s name?”
“No name,” Laurie said. “In fact, that will be part of your challenge. The head and the hands are missing.”
Laurie handed Jack the folder. He leaned on the edge of the
desk and slid out the contents. There wasn’t much information. What there was came from the forensic investigator, Janice Jaeger.
Janice wrote that the body had been discovered in the Atlantic Ocean way out off Coney Island. It had been inadvertently found by a Coast Guard cutter which had been lying in wait under the cover of night for some suspected drug runners. The Coast Guard had acted on an anonymous tip, and, at the time of the discovery, had been essentially dead in the water with their lights out and radar on. The cutter had literally bumped up against the body. The presumption was that it was the remains of the drug runner/ informer.
“Not a lot to go on,” Jack said.
“All the more challenge,” Laurie teased.
Jack slipped off the desk and headed for the communications room en route to the elevator. “Come on, grouchy!” he called to Vinnie. He gave Vinnie’s paper a slap and his arm a tug as he passed. “Time’s a wasting.” But at the door he literally bumped into Lou Soldano. The detective lieutenant had his mind on his goal: the coffee machine.
“Jeez,” Jack commented. “You should try out for the New York Giants.” Some of his coffee had sloshed out onto the floor.
“Sorry,” Lou said. “I’m in sorry need of some java.”
Both men went to the coffeepot. Jack used some paper towels to dab at the spill down the front of his corduroy jacket. Lou filled a cup to the brim with a shaky hand, then sipped enough to allow for plenty of cream and sugar.
Lou sighed. “It’s been a grueling couple of days.”
“Have you been partying all night again?” Jack said.