The Love Potion Murders In The Museum Of Man Part 3

As though sensing my thoughts, Father O'Gould held forth that the time had come in the moral evolution of our species to consider the possibility of moving beyond the use of animals for our food and fiber needs.

Near the end of the meeting Ms. Brattle announced that early next week there would be an executive session of the Subcommittee on Appropriateness regarding a very sensitive case that had arisen between two employees in Sigmund Library, which serves the Psychology Department. The subcommittee, on which I serve - another gesture of goodwill - investigates and arbitrates on sensitive issues dealing with ethnic, gender, dietary, cla.s.s, language, olfactory, and s.e.xual orientation conflicts arising among students, faculty, and members of the administration.

The meeting concluded in a muddle of inaction, good intentions, and declarative excess, the way most such meetings end. I simply stopped trying to explain anything. The pall of impending grief that I had held at bay all afternoon descended like a bleak cloud. How trivial everything before me seemed, how like shadows on a stage that had come and would go, leaving no trace. My dear, precious Elsbeth is under sentence of death.

Well, I must call it a day. Or a night. I must go home now and help, as much as I can, Elsbeth into that other, endless night that awaits us all.

8.

I am upstairs in my study again. The night is cold, dark, and silent. I am not only staggered with a sadness beyond description, but I am in thrall to new and disturbing thoughts and feelings that I had never expected to contend with.

This afternoon I went out to our sophisticated little airport - it handles smaller pa.s.senger jets with alacrity - to pick up Diantha, Elsbeth's daughter. The dear girl could scarcely keep from weeping when she saw me, falling into my arms, clinging to me, her wet face buried in my neck. I was glad to be of comfort and cared not one whit for the stares of pa.s.sersby. I tried to rea.s.sure her as we waited for her luggage - three huge pieces - to come up the conveyer belt as though from Hades and start its clockwise stagger around the oval track of interleaved metal plates. I can tell from my prose that I am already equivocating.

To witness Diantha's shock and pity at seeing her mother in such evident decline opened afresh my own wound. I stood with my eyes damp as mother and daughter embraced and cried and then, not so strangely, started to laugh, as though life, deep down, even at its tragic worst, is comic, the joke of a whimsical creator.

They spoke for hours, it seemed. I served as bartender, cook, waiter, and sommelier, uncorking one, then two bottles of a plangent Graves that Izzy recommended. It went brilliantly with the seafood lasagna that Elsbeth taught me how to make. (The touch of fennel and rosemary is the secret.) We all got a little tipsy, but I think it helped Elsbeth and Diantha heal any lingering rift between them. They both turned to me on occasion during the course of the evening, each time with something akin to surprise and not a little pleasure in their faces. I like to think they found my presence comforting. It was a great relief not to act as referee, an office I reluctantly undertook during their last meeting and which had earned me, I sensed, Diantha's antipathy.

Now I have the strange, unnerving feeling that a whole new aura has entered the house. In an uncanny way, it's as though Elsbeth's replacement has shown up, a kind of premature reincarnation. Not that I know Diantha that well. She did come to the wedding, but her visit was brief.

We had a chance, doing the dishes together, to chat. "Your mom tells me you're in show business," I said by way of an invitation to her to tell me about herself.

She shrugged. "I've done some acting. Some modeling. I have an agent. I've had gigs and a zillion near misses for the big time. But that's not really what I do."

"What do you do?" I asked, noticing that she stacked the dishwasher exactly the way her mother does.

"I have this knack for sorting out programming problems that confuse people with a lot more smarts than I ever had. It's a kind of idiot savant flair. Even the high-end providers keep making the same mistakes." She laughed at herself. "They pay me lots of money and it leaves me enough time to screw up the rest of my life."

"I'm sure you underestimate yourself." I rinsed off Elsbeth's dish, noticing that she had eaten very little.

"Yeah, so I'm told. It's better than having other people do it for you. Mom says you're working on another murder."

"We're not sure they're murders."

"She says it's juicy stuff. Two people fu...did themselves to death."

"Yes. It seems there was...intercourse of some violence." In speaking I attempted to maintain the tone of objectivity, however spurious, that allows one to talk of prurient matters without the appearance of indulging in the prurience.

Diantha laughed one of her mother's laughs, a bright, mischievous hiccup. "It sounds like a great way to go."

"It wasn't a pretty scene."

"You were there? Afterward?" Her voice had a touch of awe to it.

"I looked at the crime scene photos. And the crime scene video."

She bent to put a gla.s.s in the dishwasher with, I thought, an exaggerated motion. "So you really get into it."

"I'm helping the police with inquiries, as the British put it, but not as a suspect. Not yet anyway."

She beamed at me. "That is so cool."

"That remains to be seen. I could just botch things up for them."

"Now you're the one underestimating yourself."

I smiled. "What did you say before? It's better than having other people do it for you."

As we closed up the kitchen for the night, she took one of my hands in hers. "By the way...Dad...Do you mind if I call you Dad?"

"I'd be honored."

"I want to thank you for taking such good care of Mom these last couple of years." Her eyes were bright and dark with sincerity, establishing as much as the warmth of her hand the closeness she wanted to have with me.

"She has taken care of me, too, you know. She has made my life..." At which point, for the first time all evening, I had to stop and take a deep sigh.

But there remains a jagged, nagging note to this sad and yet curiously jubilant occasion that I have been skirting around throughout this account. In saying good night to Diantha in the hallway upstairs, I leaned down to give her a chaste peck on the cheek only to find myself kissed full on the lips with a sensuality the sensation of which I cannot quite shake. I found myself reeling down the hallway in a kind of sensual time warp, every nerve alive, my imagination full of conjurations, my pulse racing. Though nearly six decades along in life, I find myself still burdened with a persisting virility, as though marriage to Elsbeth has re-endowed me with the manly vigor of youth. I thought the momentary pulse of l.u.s.t, distressing enough, would pa.s.s as I came to my senses. But it lingers and I find myself beset with images and forbidden desires.

It's as though my dear Elsbeth, lying in our bedroom suffering through a drugged, fitful sleep, has become a ghost, replaced in life by Diantha, who is the very embodiment of her mother at a younger age. She has the same full-bodied figure, the same dark glowing eyes, the same pretty if somewhat blunt features, and even, at times, the same dark timbre of voice intimating the essential mischievousness of life.

I may, of course, be reading too much into the incident. For Diantha it was no doubt a kiss that got away. Or perhaps that's the way people in show business comport themselves. Disport themselves more like it. Or perhaps she is needful of an affection that, under the right circ.u.mstances, can inflame one to more tangible desires. It may also be that the presence or probability of individual finality stirs us in ways that are only superficially grotesque. As Father O'Gould has reminded us on more than one occasion, it is easy to forget what we are descended from.

Speaking of which, Malachy Morin accosted me in the Club at lunch on Friday and I couldn't get away from him without agreeing to meet with him and "the big-money guys" from the Wainscott Office of Development. I do not consider myself a sn.o.b, but it seems to me the Club ought to be one of those places you can go to avoid people like Mr. Morin.

9.

Although it is still early in the afternoon, I have closed the door and asked Doreen to hold my calls while I peck at these keys and at a crabmeat salad sandwich we had sent in. I usually don't interrupt my workday to make entries into this subfile. But Lieutenant Tracy came in around eleven accompanied by Dr. P.M. Cutler, the Medical Examiner, and Dr. Arthur ffronche, a forensic endocrinologest from the state crime lab, and I want to record our conversation while it is still fresh in my mind.

Dr. Cutler, as those who read the account of the Cannibal Murders may recall, specializes in a.n.a.lyzing the stomach contents of individuals who have met a suspicious end. A professional gentleman of the old school, Dr. Cutler parts his abundant white hair in the middle, perches his half-moon spectacles on his nose, and wears bow ties bordering on the flamboyant.

Dr. ffronche, a large man of frowning if mischievous mien and extravagant hair in the style of Einstein, spoke English with a noticeable Irish accent.

Dr. Cutler gave us each a copy of his report, and, speaking in one of those Brahmin drawls that go with old silver, he took us through some of the more arcane findings.

"As I reported earlier, the victims, and I think we can safely a.s.sume they were victims, more than likely ingested the poison, or the substance that acted as a poison, with what might be called 'snack' amounts of recognizably ethnic Chinese food. These included dim sum, vegetarian spring rolls, and pork strips.

"Further a.n.a.lysis reveals the presence of a potent c.o.c.ktail of both neurophysiological and biomechanical agents. That is, substances that work on both the brain and the s.e.x organs."

"Unlike v.i.a.g.r.a," Lieutenant Tracy put in.

"Exactement," said Dr. ffronche. "This potion must work on the libido and, how do you say, the plumbing." He went on, "Sildenafil citrate, the active ingredient in v.i.a.g.r.a, acts, in these prescribed amounts, as a vasodilator in the p.e.n.i.s." said Dr. ffronche. "This potion must work on the libido and, how do you say, the plumbing." He went on, "Sildenafil citrate, the active ingredient in v.i.a.g.r.a, acts, in these prescribed amounts, as a vasodilator in the p.e.n.i.s."

The Medical Examiner, raising his calm gray eyes to both of us, said, "Not to bore you with the details, it prevents the breakdown of a compound, cyclic guanosine monophosphate, and that, apparently, releases nitrous oxide, which is what causes the smooth muscle cells of the arteries to relax, increasing the flow of blood."

Dr. ffronche nodded his agreement. "That is to say, it enables and prolongs, but does not cause, an erection."

"For that, you would need a psychoactive substance," Dr. Cutler explained.

"Unless the individuals involved were lovers," Dr. ffronche put in. "And in this case that is not the case, yes?"

"Yes," I said, "most emphatically not the case."

"Which leads us to the more problematic part of our report." Dr. Cutler glanced at his colleague as he spoke.

Dr. ffronche knit his brows together. "Absolutely. In this case we have a veritable c.o.c.ktail, as you say." He picked up his copy of the report. "We have found evidence of cannabis as well as an extract from the herb Turnera aphrodisiaca Turnera aphrodisiaca, a shrub of the south said to possess, as its Latin name suggests, aphrodisiac powers. We have also found a significant level of ring-subst.i.tuted amphetamines, that is to say, MDMA."

"MDMA?" I asked.

"Methylenedioxymethamphetamine," Dr. Cutler explained.

"Ecstasy," the lieutenant put in. "The drug of choice at raves..."

"Raves?"

"Club dances. Users mix it with v.i.a.g.r.a or Cialis and call it s.e.xtasy."

Dr. ffronche nodded knowingly. "Then there is what we must call ingredient X. I will not speculate on it now. It will take more research and even then we may never be sure. Alas, our resources are limited."

I sighed. "It's very possible then that we have a rogue researcher at large in the lab."

"Or several." Dr. Cutler glanced at his watch. "a.s.suming the 'c.o.c.ktail' originated in the lab. As Dr. ffronche has just noted and as the report surmises in its conclusion, there may be one or more unidentified substances that catalyzes the others or acts as a synergizing element, perhaps boosting bioavailability and reducing blood-absorption time."

"And," Dr. ffronche added with an emphatic gesture, "something that stimulates that most important s.e.x organ in the human body - the brain."

We had a few questions for the Medical Examiner and his colleague. In the course of these, he noted that Dr. Woodley, who was taking a nitrate-based prescription for hypertension, died from the consequences of a catastrophic drop in blood pressure. Professor Ossmann died of a heart attack apparently because he had a weak heart to begin with.

When Drs. Cutler and ffronche departed after vigorous handshakes and expressions of appreciation on our part, the lieutenant and I went over the less arcane facts of the case.

I raised an obvious point. "Wouldn't it be wise to check with all the Chinese restaurants in town to see where they might have gotten the snacks they had that night?"

The lieutenant's nod was an indulgent one, the kind a professional gives an amateur. "We've already done that."

"And...?"

"And. None of the thirteen ethnic Chinese restaurants in Seaboard or the surrounding communities reports sending takeout to the lab at that time. They keep very good records, and they all cooperated to the fullest."

"Was it strictly ethnic Chinese food?" I asked, thinking for some reason of the Green Sherpa.

"It was, but we checked all the restaurants that have Chinese-like food, you know, the Thai place downtown."

"And the Green Sherpa?"

The lieutenant reached into his case and withdrew a sheaf of papers. He ruffled through them. "And the Green Sherpa."

"Perhaps one of them brought the food from home. Leftovers."

"Right. Or the stuff you put in a microwave. No go. Mrs. Ossmann, who did not seem particularly bothered by what had happened to her husband, said neither of them knew how to do as much as make boiled rice. And they didn't keep anything like that in the freezer. But yes, they did occasionally go to Chinese restaurants, usually with friends. Ditto for Ms. Woodley's widower, a Walter Gorman. He was very shook up by the whole thing."

"I don't blame him," I said. "But what about the staff refrigerator? Leftovers get left in them all the time."

He nodded, took out his notebook. "I talked to a guy named Baxter. He was down on a list for keeping the refrigerator clean. It was his turn that week, and he's positive that there was no fresh or leftover Chinese food in the refrigerator when he left for home that night. He says he left late, about six forty-five. Woodley signed in at seven eighteen and Ossmann at seven thirty-two."

"So it would be unlikely but not impossible that someone came in and left the food in the refrigerator during that time."

"Possibly. But there's something else."

I waited.

The lieutenant shifted in his seat, the gunmetal eyes in his ruddy face taking on a sudden sharpness as he leaned forward. "At first it didn't seem significant." He paused. "We found no evidence of food wrappers, cartons, plastic forks, or anything like that at the scene. I went over the inventory list myself. I talked to crime scene people. They're good. They would have listed and bagged anything like that in a case like this."

"Perhaps they ate somewhere else."

"The ME's report estimates they ate the Chinese food no more than fifteen or twenty minutes before they...did to each other what they did."

"And the sign-in book in the annex shows they were each there at least an hour before they died."

"Right."

The officer rose to go. He put on his trench coat and the sharp trilby that makes him look every inch a detective. "We're going to announce it just before the evening news. That will give you a chance to alert people, control the damage."

"Many thanks, Lieutenant," I said. "It isn't just the bad news that bothers people, it's how they hear it. I'll make a few phone calls."

"Keep your ear to the ground, Norman. This is definitely murder."

Murder, I thought afterward, trying to grasp in my mind what it means to take the life of another. Why was it so prevalent among our species? Murder for hate, for love, for gain, for politics, for its own sake. It brought back last evening when I had what might be called a night out with the boys. Actually, I met Izzy Landes and Father O'Gould for dinner at the Club. We got into our cups - Izzy came up with a fine Australian Shiraz. We also grew just a bit morbid as the evening wore on. I mentioned Penrood's remark about how we may be the last generation to die. Izzy remarked that perhaps he and S.J. ought to do a book together on the history of death - before people forgot what it was.

We moved into the comfortable common room, and over coffee and a small brandy the good priest confessed how he privately lamented the memorial being erected on the Seaboard Common by the local Irish community to commemorate the Great Famine. "I fear that the Irish in America suffer from a kind of Holocaust envy," he said in his soft Cork accent. "Sure, will it not only add to the spirit of compet.i.tive victimization into which we all seem to have fallen. In the end is it not a divisive thing? Does it not keep us apart?"

I was a little surprised to hear Izzy say that he differed very much with Father O'Gould. "I would agree," he said, a world-weary look coming into his kind eyes, "that there is altogether too much made of the Holocaust. To dwell so disproportionately on that catastrophe is to imply that the other millions murdered in the twentieth century are less worthy of our compa.s.sion. As a tragedy for the Jews nothing and not enough can be said about the Holocaust. As a tragedy for humankind it needs be put into the context of all the other genocides of the twentieth century. Otherwise there is the danger that it will become a geek show, one that pathologizes the history of the Jews."

"I'm not sure I follow you," I said.

Izzy shook his head slowly. "I mean that the deliberate n.a.z.i extermination of Jews, Gypsies, gays, and others is the singular, most horrific ma.s.s murder of the past hundred years. But it is by no means the only ma.s.s extermination or the even the largest one. The Communists murdered tens of millions, perhaps a hundred million in all, in Russia, China, and Cambodia. If we are going to erect memorials to victims of twentieth-century genocides, we need include those victims as well."

"But in that case are we not then pathologizing human history itself?" Father O'Gould asked.

"Perhaps. History is the nightmare from which we are all trying to awake, after all, to quote the conscience of your own race, S.J. We need more, not less, memorials to what we have done to one another."