The Love Potion Murders In The Museum Of Man Part 8

Ms. Brattle's gavel came down with a bang. "Please. We were discussing erections."

Thad Pilty remarked as to how there was something called the IIEF, the International Index of Erectile Function.

"Thank G.o.d," said Izzy. "For a moment I thought you were referring to L Inst.i.tute International d etudes Francaises." L Inst.i.tute International d etudes Francaises."

"But does it define an erection?" Professor Athol asked.

"Not as such. I think the accepted definition is a p.e.n.i.s sufficiently rigid for una.s.sisted penetration of the v.a.g.i.n.a."

"I think it's like the judge said," Ms. Doveen put in. "I can't define it, but I know one when I see one."

"Can we all agree on Professor Pilty's definition?" Professor Athol asked.

"Why do we have to agree?" someone said. "It's been established that Mr. Jones had an erection."

"I think definitions are important," Professor Athol retorted. "Without the presence of an erection, rape is impossible."

"That's not true. Men rape women mentally and culturally all the time," Ms. Schanke put in. "So-called civilization is one long rape."

Ariel Dearth, a.s.siduously taking notes and uncharacteristically quiet, declared that "erections per se per se have no standing in law, as far as I know. I doubt there is a legal definition of an erection as such, but there's considerable case law as to what const.i.tutes penetration." have no standing in law, as far as I know. I doubt there is a legal definition of an erection as such, but there's considerable case law as to what const.i.tutes penetration."

"More to the point," Thad Pilty a.s.serted, "if Mr. Jones is accusing Ms. Sp.r.o.nger of rape then we have to establish that not only was there an erection involved but that under the circ.u.mstances its presence was involuntary."

During a tedious back-and-forth that ensued, the issue arose as to exactly how far into the act of heteros.e.xual intercourse in which the genitals of both partners are "in deep contact" can a woman legitimately change her mind and ask her partner to withdraw.

Professor Pilty cleared his throat and opined that once there had been "consensual penetration without any obvious trauma," it seemed unreasonable to ask the male to withdraw. Certainly, he continued, "once e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n has begun, it's unrealistic to think that a man can just stop and pull out."

"That's total bulls.h.i.+t," Ms. Berthe Schanke proclaimed. "Rape is rape and nothing you say changes that."

Constance Brattle reminded the subcommittee that coitus interruptus coitus interruptus had been practiced since ancient times and was considered a legitimate part of the s.e.xual repertoire. She wondered aloud why Mr. Jones, if he had wanted to end the intercourse, did not simply detumesce? had been practiced since ancient times and was considered a legitimate part of the s.e.xual repertoire. She wondered aloud why Mr. Jones, if he had wanted to end the intercourse, did not simply detumesce?

I'm afraid some of the men smirked.

Ms. Brattle, noticing that response, said, "What I'm saying is that he could have thought of something to distract himself."

"Such as?"

"I don't know...preparing his income tax..."

"Or sleet falling on nettles."

"Or battery acid."

"Or having a root ca.n.a.l."

"Or his wife."

"Please, gentlemen, this is a serious matter."

Izzy Landes sensibly argued that perhaps Mr. Jones was not in a position to withdraw given Ms. Sp.r.o.nger's considerable weight. "If a man is expected to desist at any point along the way, then certainly women should be expected to do the same."

Ms. Doveen, in what seemed to me an attempt to keep up s.e.xually, so to speak, with the Joneses from a gender point of view, retorted that "when a lady gets her groove going, there is nothing going to stop her."

Somewhat surprisingly, I was asked by Professor Athol for my opinion before I had a chance to proffer it.

I stated that whether a man is responsible or not for his erections, surely he remains responsible for what he does with them. I also remarked that I was starting to understand more and more why those so-called old fuddy-duddies of yore insisted on both high standards of conduct and their enforcement, through chaperones if necessary. Certainly if that young woman in the White House had been more closely supervised, there would not have been that encounter with the former President and the disgrace it brought to his exalted office.

No actual finding was made as to the merits of the case. We took the matter under advis.e.m.e.nt while recommending that both parties seek counseling and that they avoid having lunch together unless others were present.

I was not long back from this meeting when Mr. Castor accosted me by phone again. He asked me if I had any questions about the contract he had sent by overnight mail some days before. I told him I had no questions insofar as I had not read and did not intend to read the contract he had sent me and that my first answer was my final answer. When he tried to engage me in conversation I put him on hold long enough for him to hang up.

It should not have surprised me, but Malachy Morin lumbered into my office not long after lunch with the florid face of the freshly boozed. He lost no time in bl.u.s.tering on about Urgent Productions and the need to go ahead with "Brauer's project."

I told him he was wasting his time, something I have a feeling he is very good at. "I will not have the museum turned into a setting for sensationalism."

"Norm," he said, in that fake congeniality of his that makes me clench my teeth, "we live in a new age. Any public perception is better than none. People are gonna flock here."

I told him I did not approve of flocking people.

He stood and pulled himself up to his full six foot five or six, a grandeur compromised somewhat by a rather rotund middle and an agitation that showed itself in the color of his ears. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to overrule you, Norm."

"You don't have the authority to overrule me, Mr. Morin. The university has no warrant here that's in any way enforceable. We are establis.h.i.+ng that in court. If Mr. Castor or any of his minions as much as sets foot on museum property, I will contact the Seaboard Police Department and have him arrested on criminal trespa.s.s."

Mr. Morin shook his head with the a.s.sumed grimace of the worldly-wise and turned to go. At the door, just as in a certain kind of movie, he stopped and looked back. "You just don't get it, do you Norm. You just don't get it."

"What don't I get, Mr. Morin?"

"Mr. Morin, Mr. f*cking Morin. You know how to make it sound like a put-down. Well you ought to know, Bow Tie, that there's some serious and tough, very tough money behind this thing. I'm not talking about a couple of Hollywood f.a.gs, either, that want to make some kind of feel-good movie..."

"What are you trying to say?

"I ain't going to say any more. Just remember what I told you."

"It will take an effort."

At which point he stormed out.

There still has been no word from Korky. I finally got up the courage yesterday to tell Elsbeth he had gone missing. I was forced to, really. Not only has Korky been officially listed as missing by the Seaboard Police Department, but the Bugle Bugle is to run a front-page story tomorrow with an account of his disappearance. A goodly sum has been collected as a reward to anyone coming forward with information as to his whereabouts. But as time pa.s.ses, hope dims. is to run a front-page story tomorrow with an account of his disappearance. A goodly sum has been collected as a reward to anyone coming forward with information as to his whereabouts. But as time pa.s.ses, hope dims.

She took it well, as though, in facing her own death she already knew all she needed to know about disappearing. "I hope he's all right," she said. "But if he has gone to that great restaurant in the sky, I'm sure he's telling the head chef what he thinks of the ambrosia."

Lieutenant Tracy called me this afternoon as a courtesy to fill me in on some new developments. He told me Korky was last reported seen at the White Trash Grill, which opened some months ago at the old truck stop out on the bypa.s.s. According to the lieutenant, it is a hangout for a pretty tough bunch of what he called biker and trucker guys. He said prost.i.tutes of various persuasions cruise the trucks pulled up for the night, and this attracts other unsavory types. Korky's editor at the Bugle Bugle said he may have gone out there to do a review of the restaurant, but he didn't know for sure. As for suspects in any possible foul play, I told Lieutenant Tracy he might want to check Korky's clips at the said he may have gone out there to do a review of the restaurant, but he didn't know for sure. As for suspects in any possible foul play, I told Lieutenant Tracy he might want to check Korky's clips at the Bugle Bugle morgue. I daresay there are lots of restaurateurs out there who would love to see him choke on some indelicate morsel. At the same time, I don't know why, I cannot get out of my mind that Korky's disappearance has something to do with the Ossmann-Woodley case. morgue. I daresay there are lots of restaurateurs out there who would love to see him choke on some indelicate morsel. At the same time, I don't know why, I cannot get out of my mind that Korky's disappearance has something to do with the Ossmann-Woodley case.

Speaking of which, I informed the lieutenant what I had learned at the meeting of the Subcommittee on Appropriateness. We agreed the best course right now would be for me to contact the parties involved and try to find out quietly if what happened that afternoon in the storage closet at Sigmund Library has any bearing on the Ossmann-Woodley case. He told me to get back to him were I to run into any real obstacles.

Well, I think I'll wend my way home. I only hope that Sixy and Diantha will be going out tonight. The thought of listening to all that thumping dispirits me.

16.

Every person, I think, questions his own courage from time to time. And for me that time is right now. I have on the desk, not far from where my hands address the keyboard, a videoca.s.sette. My responsibility is clear: I must take this ca.s.sette to the Twitch.e.l.l Room, insert it into the VCR, and watch it.

But I cannot bring myself to do it.

Perhaps I should start at the beginning. As many people know by now, Corny Chard has been on an expedition to one of the very remote tributaries of the Amazon to witness the rituals of the Yomama tribe. Still "anthropologically untainted," according to Corny, the Yomamas are reportedly the last group in the world still practicing cannibalism. Concern has been mounting, both here at the museum and among his family, because no one, until today, has heard anything in weeks. (As to his family, I think his daughters are more concerned than is his wife, the merry Jocelyn, who keeps saying that Corny will come to a bad end.) This afternoon, just as I was about to descend to the Twitch.e.l.l Room for the annual meeting of the Visiting Committee to the Skull Collection, a likable young man by the name of Henderson appeared in my doorway. I surmised that he brought me news of Professor Chard inasmuch as he wore the garments of a field scientist or nature guide - loose-fitting chino jacket, matching trousers with a lot of pockets, and a well-worn leather hat with a wide brim. He also carried a canvas duffel betokening rough usage in rough places.

He came in at my invitation, apologizing for not having phoned ahead, but indicating that the purpose of his visit might justify the forgoing of such civilities. I glanced at my watch and told him I had a meeting to attend, but could spare him a couple of minutes. He nodded and sat down in a manner that betrayed the diffidence of one still not at ease with the amenities of civilization.

"I've just flown in from Manaus," he announced, as though apologizing for the state of his clothes. "I just came out of the bush."

"And you have news of Corny?" I wondered aloud. "Professor Cornelius Chard?"

He smiled uncertainly. "I think so but I'm not sure. I was given a package by a man I know from the Rio Sangre area. The man's Christian name is Fernando. He works as a jack-of-all-trades, you know, between the local tribes and the prospectors, loggers, anthropologists, and missionaries that make it into the area. He had this package for me. He kept saying, "Very important, very important. For Mr. Norman at museum." Then he paused as though trying to think of how to word something. "He seemed very upset, scared even. He was very happy to be rid of it."

He produced from one of his capacious jacket pockets a rectangular package roughly wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. "He said a Professor Chard promised him two hundred and fifty dollars if he could get it to you in America." He handed the package across the desk to me.

"And you paid him?"

"I did."

"I'll make sure you get compensated," I said, feeling the slight weight of the package with a premonition of excitement and dread.

He nodded his thanks.

"You have no idea what's in it?"

He shook his head. "It might be a videotape of some kind."

My hands just a little uncertain, I took scissors and snipped away the string and then carefully cut away a bit of what looked like duct tape. Young Henderson was right: Nestled in several layers of paper was a ca.s.sette from a video camera in wide use.

I called Doreen and asked her to get Mr. Henderson a check for $250. I glanced at the time. With relief I realized I couldn't watch it then because of the meeting in the Twitch.e.l.l Room. The equivocation of avoidance had begun. It deepened as, in a.s.sembling my papers for the committee meeting, I chatted with Henderson, learning about conditions in the region of the Rio Sangre. It did little to a.s.suage my misgivings when he told me that the unrest there had turned violent with murders, maimings, and mutilations.

I asked about the Yomamas. He shook his head. "Those are bad hombres from what I've been told. It's hard to get porters even to go near the area. They joke about being eaten, though most people think the talk about cannibalism is a lot of nonsense."

Reluctantly, shaking his hand, I left him in the good care of Doreen who, despite her new boyfriend, appeared quite taken with the young man.

All through the meeting with the committee my thoughts kept turning to the package, which I had brought along, determined to play the tape once the room was clear. I kept thinking of questions I should have asked. Where had he met this man Fernando? What else had the man said? I wondered why Corny himself hadn't turned over the tape to Henderson. Why hadn't he put my name and address on it? As I sat there listening to Alger Wherry detail his usual problems and some new ones that had developed over the past year, I was in the awful quandary of wanting to know what it was I really didn't want to look at.

I did, however, manage to impersonate an attentive museum director deeply engrossed in the problems of acquiring, curating, and storing human skulls. It turns out there is something of a crisis in the collection. In his subdued but pithy way, Alger reported that, because of s.p.a.ce limitations, you would have at present a better chance of winning a n.o.bel Prize than of getting your skull into the collection.

The members of the visiting committee listened attentively. The committee is little more than a holdover from the days when the university was tightening its grip on the museum. I added a few new members on my own, an action that prompted a rebuke from the university's Committee on Visiting Committees, which I ignored.

Morgan Marsden, Professor of Divinity Emeritus, an expert on the afterlife and a longtime member of the committee, scratched the back of his own fine skull and said that surely, with the repatriation of skulls to various American Indian tribes, there must be a lot more room for new specimens.

Alger, his head bones prominent, his complexion unnaturally sallow from spending a life virtually underground, reported that in fact the repatriation program had bogged down because of intertribal squabbles as to what skulls belonged to whom.

Why not just move some of the less valuable skulls into a "deacquisition" program, asked Hermione Cabot, the doyenne of curators at the Frock, Wainscott's small but well-endowed art museum.

Alger shrugged. "It's not that easy. They are human remains, and we'd have to bury them in a cemetery with all that entails. Crematoriums won't touch them without a death certificate. I mean you can't just load them into a Dumpster and have them taken to a landfill. Although, I suppose you could."

Alger also reported that the problem of bone mold, a pernicious form of which has afflicted our well-known Forensic Collection, is worse than initially estimated. He said they were running dehumidifiers around the clock, but it's been a wet summer and part of the bas.e.m.e.nt sits right on top of an old streambed.

We went down to the bas.e.m.e.nt for our usual tour of the collection, row upon row of grinning death. We examined a few serious cases of bone mold and looked at some new acquisitions for the Curiosities Cabinet.

When we pa.s.sed the room with the door of green baize behind which the Societe de Cochon Long Societe de Cochon Long used to hold its secret meetings, I tried the bra.s.s k.n.o.b and found it locked. "What's this used for?" I asked Alger. used to hold its secret meetings, I tried the bra.s.s k.n.o.b and found it locked. "What's this used for?" I asked Alger.

"Oh, we're thinking about it for storage," he said in a way that made me wonder.

The meeting finally ended with resolutions to pursue funding for warehousing off-premises "marginal specimens" as well as those contested by Native American tribes. A subcommittee was formed to look into the bone mold problem and report back to both Alger and me.

When the meeting concluded, I remained in the Twitch.e.l.l Room, thinking I would pop in the ca.s.sette and simply watch it. I have to confess I was relieved again to be told the room had been scheduled for a meeting of the museum's Subcommittee on Signage.

Before returning to my office, I dropped in on Alger and said I would like to take a look at the room with the green baize door.

He stalled me. He said something about not having the key. I mentioned that Mort would have one. Most reluctantly he produced one, and we made our way over there. I don't know why. I found nothing there out of the ordinary. Except, perhaps, for the barest whiff of a scent vaguely familiar and disturbing to me.

"So why not just store your overload in here?" I said to Alger.

"It doesn't have the proper climate controls," he said.

"But if they're all surplus skulls, who cares what happens to them?"

He nodded as though in agreement, but still with an odd reluctance.

Returning to my office, I learned that Lieutenant Tracy was on his way over to see me. Doreen offered to fetch coffee, and I sat down pondering what news the Seaboard constabulary had come up with that could not be trusted to the telephone. All the while, I was conscious of Corny's tape lying on my desk like an accusation.

The coffee served, the door closed, the lieutenant got right down to business. The preliminary a.n.a.lysis of blood and tissue from Bert and Betti indicate that they ingested compounds similar if not identical to those found in Ossmann and Woodley.

"Dr. Cutler called you?" I asked.

"Right. He says the dosage may have been different, but he can't really tell."

It does not reflect well on me, I know, but my real concern upon hearing this news involved the media. I did not want another circus. The lieutenant understood when I voiced my misgivings, agreeing that it was important not to have the information released until we had it all and until we had decided how best to handle it.

He then asked me about my follow-up to the incident in the library involving the two employees and their accusations of mutual date rape. I told him I had drawn a blank so far. I recounted how, despite my initial resolve, I had, like any dutiful citizen of the inst.i.tution, asked permission from Professor Athol to interview the disputants privately. He said he would have to refer the request to University Office of General Counsel, a veritable law firm, before taking any action.

We discussed as well Celeste Tangent and the slow progress we were both having in obtaining her CV. It was then I realized something I already knew: Lieutenant Tracy had other cases, lots of them. Indeed, he told me then of a body they had just found behind a derelict gas station in Seaboard's Old Town, a dicey sort of area.

"Not Korky k.u.mmerbund's?"

"I doubt it. A middle-aged man. Been there too long. We've called in Strom Weedly from the Herbarium."

"The forensic botanist."