1 The Question of the Missing Head (14 page)

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Ackerman said. “The institute has always done everything possible to ensure the security of its guests. This regrettable incident—”

“Spare me the boilerplate you give to those unfortunate types you dupe into spending all their money on this science fiction fantasy of yours,” Laverne said. “I’m not interested in the kind words of sympathy you’ve rehearsed so thoroughly. What I want to know is exactly what’s being done to return what’s left of my daughter to where she should be. And keep in mind once that happens, I fully intend to remove her from your custody and have her remains disposed of in a proper fashion. Is that clear?”

Ackerman’s expression changed from his professional one of concern and empathy to another, colder and more calculating. “Crystal clear,” he said with an edge of hostility in his voice. “Detective Lapides here has already begun using the new information to root out the kidnappers, and as you insisted, we have re-commissioned Mr. Hoenig and his assistant here to aid in the investigation.”

So that was the truth about the sudden change in GSCI policy concerning Questions Answered. Ackerman had (probably very reluctantly) contacted the Masterses with the news of a ransom demand, and they—or more likely, Laverne—had demanded that Questions Answered once again join in the hunt. That certainly made more sense than the idea of Ackerman suddenly changing his mind.

I decided to use this newfound influence to move the proceedings forward more quickly. “Well then, Mrs. Masters,” I said, bypassing Ackerman and going directly to the center of attention in the room. “Have you decided if you will pay the ransom being demanded for your daughter’s remains?”

Ackerman shook a little, as if trying to restrain himself from taking violent action against me. Commander Johnson simply stared in a way that brought to mind the phrase,
If looks could kill
.

“We have decided,” Arthur Masters interjected, “to negotiate with the kidnappers the next time they make contact.”

Negotiate? Ms. Washburn looked at me with a question on her face, and I was wondering the same thing.

“Do you think that is wise?” I asked Arthur. “These people have broken through considerable security precautions and stolen something very valuable to you. They are most likely implicated in a murder that occurred here this morning. This is a carefully planned crime perpetrated by thieves who are very probably willing to use violence as a tool. Haggling over price now is not apt to bring a positive resolution to this situation.”

Ackerman, I noted, was nodding his head vigorously, but that probably had as much to do with his reluctance to risk the institute’s money as it did with my calculated analysis of the situation.

“We think that we have a unique bargaining position here,” Arthur answered. “They have something they want to sell, but it isn’t of value to anyone but us. If they don’t sell it to my mother and me, they will receive no return whatsoever on their investment. So we can offer them, perhaps, two million dollars, and they have to be satisfied with what they can get, or get nothing.” He looked in Ms. Washburn’s direction, as if anticipating her approval. She was not looking at him.

“I would advise you against that strategy,” I said directly to Laverne Masters. “This is not a business negotiation; it is a hostage negotiation. If they do not see this situation ending the way they want it to, I doubt that you will receive your daughter’s remains again, and I would be concerned about your personal safety.”

“Arthur has decided,” Laverne replied. “Quite frankly, I said we should tell these people to go screw themselves, but he thinks it’s important we at least make the gesture. If it were entirely up to me, I wouldn’t give them a dime.”

Before Ackerman or I could argue against that stance, the sound of a cellular phone chirp was clear in the room. Ackerman reached into his pocket after a moment and pulled out his phone. He glanced at the screen, presumably to see if the caller was a familiar one, and his eyebrows dropped precipitously. He pushed a button on the phone and said, “Yes?”

It took only a moment before his eyes widened and he paled. He mouthed toward Commander Johnson, “It’s them.”

I reached for a pad and pencil on the table—there was one at each seat, presumably left for those who attended meetings to take notes—and wrote quickly on it in all capitals,
SPEAKERPHONE
. I held it up for Ackerman to see. It took him a moment, as my handwriting is not especially legible, and then he nodded and pushed another button on his phone.

Lapides immediately moved away from the phone to speak into his communications link, no doubt to order a trace on the call, not realizing that Ackerman’s cellular phone had not been prepared for such an event, so it would be impossible to configure such a thing quickly enough.

The voice that came through the tiny speaker was filtered, probably with a mechanical device (the handkerchief over the mouthpiece often seen in motion pictures really does not do much to change the sound of a person’s voice). Whoever called was in midsentence when Ackerman pushed the speaker button, so what we heard first was, “… no deviation from the instructions I am about to give you.”

“Wait,” Ackerman interrupted. “I need to find paper and a pencil to write down your instructions.”

“Don’t insult my intelligence,” the caller responded. “You’re trying to keep me on the phone long enough for the police to triangulate my position. That won’t be possible; I won’t stay on long enough for that.”

Perhaps the thief believed the call to Ackerman’s cellular phone had been anticipated, and therefore the phone itself would be set up for a trace. It was the first mistake the perpetrators had made, and that was interesting, although not immediately useful.

“I wouldn’t try to insult you,” said Ackerman, pulling a tissue from a box on the table to wipe his brow. The tissue was not sufficient to the task; it almost immediately shredded into pieces while Ackerman continued to perspire. “But we’re having trouble raising the amount of money you requested, and—”

“The Masters family would not have even a little difficulty coming up with seventeen million dollars,” the voice insisted. “And if they refuse, I’m sure your institute would be more than willing to pay. Your reputation mustn’t be damaged so badly, wouldn’t you say, Ackerman?”

He began to answer but was shouted down by Arthur Masters, who immediately identified himself. “We have no intention of paying that much money for an … object you can sell to only one buyer,” he said. “We will make you a counteroffer, but you must be reasonable.”

“We have no intention of lowering our price,” the voice replied. “You will put the seventeen million in non-sequential bills into five separate briefcases and leave the cases beneath the high-tension wires in the Rutgers Village housing development between East Brunswick and New Brunswick immediately off Route Eighteen going north. You have two hours.”

Laverne Masters looked at her son, but I could not read her expression. Arthur stared straight ahead and did not so much as consider his mother.

“We will not pay seventeen million,” Arthur repeated.

The caller did not react to that statement. “If you need more incentive, Ackerman, keep in mind that we know where you live and we can get inside when we like. I wouldn’t want to be your wife if you were foolish enough to take us anything but seriously. Deadly seriously.”

Before anyone could react, the caller disconnected.

Ackerman sat motionless in his chair. “My wife,” he said. “Were they threatening my wife?”

I thought it more likely the caller had been making the point that Ackerman’s wife could be made very unhappy—that Ackerman
himself
was being threatened—but I was unsure about the social speech the caller had been using, so I chose not to express an opinion.

“Don’t worry,” Ms. Washburn said. “I’m sure Mr. Masters and his mother will pay the ransom now that negotiations have broken down.” She turned toward the Masterses. “Won’t you?”

Neither of them spoke. Indeed, neither moved a facial muscle. But for the first time, Arthur looked his mother in the eye. She did nothing.

“Detective Lapides,” I said. “Perhaps it would make sense to assign a patrol car to the area of Dr. Ackerman’s home for the rest of the night.”

Ackerman blinked twice. I am not certain he had heard everything that had just been said—and more specifically, what Laverne and Arthur Masters had
not
said.

“I’ll get right on it,” Lapides answered. He picked up the phone at the far end of the conference room and started to punch numbers.

“Much of what just happened is odd,” I said. “Perhaps it would be a good idea to review the phone call.”

“Is there time for that right now?” Ms. Washburn said. “We’ve
only been given two hours, and the money has to be collected some
how.” She was looking at the two Masters family members, neither of whom had moved or spoken since the phone call had ended.

“I don’t know where I can get that kind of money,” Ackerman said. He was speaking very quickly and breathing in and out quite deeply. “I’d have to get all the members of the board to sign off on it, and I just don’t think there’s time …”

Lapides got off the phone and walked back to the group gathered at the head of the table. “There’ll be a car near your house all night, Ackerman,” he said. “What’s the status of the ransom?”

Something was wrong, and I couldn’t quite discern what it could be. “You got the call on your cellular phone,” I said to Ackerman. “I thought they did not work in this building because of the security system you have in place.”

Ackerman seemed distracted, then snapped his head toward me quickly. “What?” he asked. I repeated my concern. “They don’t work on the lower levels,” he explained. “Cell phones will work on the street level. So will the police communication links.”

“And why would the thieves threaten you or your wife?” I asked. “Why wouldn’t they threaten Mr. or Mrs. Masters if they thought the ransom money was being withheld?”

Ms. Washburn walked up to me and forced eye contact. “Samuel,” she said. “These are legitimate questions, but this is not the time for that. Right now, we have to figure out what we’re going to do to resolve this situation in the next two hours.”

Captain Harris stood straight behind Ackerman and clasped her hands together. “She’s right,” the captain said, indicating Ms. Washburn. “It’s time to get organized.” She turned toward Arthur and Laverne. “I take it you are adamant in offering no money for the ransom.”

Arthur Masters folded his arms across his chest and shook his head. “We didn’t say that. What we said was that seventeen million was excessive. We’re willing to pay two.”

“Two million dollars?” I asked.

“Yes. We had that much cash organized, and brought it here with us. It is under armed guard downstairs.” Then he smiled grimly and added, “For whatever
that’s
worth.”

“All right,” the captain said. “Ackerman, how much do you think you can get here in the next hour, in cash?”

Ackerman was the very picture of a man overwhelmed. I have been incapacitated by loud sounds and social situations that I found difficult, but I have never been
completely
unable to think. Sitting stock still in his leather bound chair, that was the very impression the head of the institute was now presenting.

“Ackerman,” Captain Harris repeated.

“I’m not authorized,” he finally answered. “The board would have to be contacted. I can’t get more than two hundred thousand dollars in cash without that kind of approval.”

“Get the two hundred thousand,” the captain told him. “We’re going to have to do the best we can.”

It took Ackerman a moment, but he finally picked up the phone.

twenty-two

In the end, Ackerman
was able to contact a majority of the institute’s board and arrange another million dollars, making the total that would be offered in ransom three million. I have no idea how that much cash was found at this late an hour of the night, but it appeared promptly enough. It wouldn’t be nearly enough to satisfy the thieves, but Captain Harris believed that if the briefcases were lined deeply with real cash, and then stuffed internally with blank paper, the amount might be enough to fool them.

I disagreed but was shouted down. And when the shouting began, I reacted to the volume of the words, not their meaning, and did not offer much resistance. I could not think strategically over all the noise in the room.

The thieves made contact once again twenty-eight minutes later, sending a text message to Detective Lapides, perhaps just to remind us that they could. The instructions for dropping off the money were detailed in the text, which was quite lengthy for such a thing.

Within minutes, we were headed to the parking lot for a trip to the drop-off point in three separate vehicles: Lapides, Captain Harris, and Ack
erman would ride in a Sport Utility Vehicle provided by the county prosecutor’s office; Laverne Masters would ride in her own car with an officer driving; and Ms. Washburn was to drive her car with me in the passenger seat. Commander Johnson, much to his chagrin, was being left behind to assure that no further breaches of security occurred at the institute, and to convey any messages the thieves might send to that location. Arthur Masters flatly refused to go along, saying he though
t the exchange was destined to be a failure because the total amount demanded was not being paid. He felt he was more valuable at the institute monitoring with Commander Johnson, and had unsuccessfully lobbied his mother to stay behind as well, citing her health. She did not answer him.

Before we reached our respective rides, however (Laverne Masters waiting at the institute door for the officer to pull the car closer), Ackerman stopped dead in his tracks. “Charlotte Selby,” he said. “Did anyone see Charlotte Selby as we left?” He looked quite anxious.

“She was not anywhere we might have seen her,” I said, because I would have noticed if Charlotte been anywhere in the path we’d taken.

Ackerman picked up his cellular phone and pushed a button. “Johnson,” he said after a moment. “Is Charlotte Selby in the building?” He waited for a response, and his mouth dropped open for him to take in larger gulps of air. He put the phone back into his pocket without another word. I know that some sort of acknowledgment that the conversation has ended, such as
good-bye
, is expected in such situations, but Ackerman did not seem concerned about having ignored such an obvious social custom.

“She wasn’t there,” he said, seemingly to no one in particular. “She signed out only a few minutes after she left the conference room.”

I walked over to talk to Ackerman, Ms. Washburn just behind me. “I don’t understand,” I said. “Why are you so concerned about Ms. Selby’s whereabouts?”

Ackerman’s eyes flashed and moved to one side, then the other, very quickly. He looked like a man who was thinking about something other than what was being asked of him. “Don’t you see,” he said after a moment, “Charlotte is a blogger trying to make a name for herself in this field. She was privy to enough information to damage this company irrevocably. If she decides to go public with it before there’s a resolution to this problem, the institute could be finished no matter what happens tonight.”

I thought about that and nodded. “It is possible,” I said. “But I think it unlikely. I doubt Ms. Selby would want to trumpet her knowledge before the whole story is told. It would attract too many competitors who might have sources in more places than she does. The only way she manages to distinguish herself with this story is to tell the
whole
story.”

Ackerman again appeared to be only half-listening. “I hope you’re right,” he said. Then he turned toward Lapides. “Have you heard from the patrol car at my house yet?” he asked the detective. “I’m concerned about Eleanor.”

“Eleanor?” Lapides asked.

“My wife.” Ackerman’s voice had an edge that indicated he thought Lapides something other than an intelligent police detective.

“I checked in a couple of minutes ago,” Lapides answered, with no indication he was at all aware of the tone in Ackerman’s voice. “They’re there, and your lights are out. Only one car in the driveway. Your wife is safe.”

Ackerman mopped his brow, although it was cool outside. “Thank you,” he said to Lapides.

“Did the officers check with Mrs. Ackerman?” I asked. “It is possible someone got into the house before the patrol car arrived.” Ackerman once again looked perplexed.

“It’s standard procedure,” Lapides told me. “They rang the bell, despite the late hour, and checked with Mrs. Ackerman. Everything was clear in the house.”

I nodded at Lapides, and so did Ackerman. There was very little extra time left, so we all got into our vehicles and let the police SUV lead the way.

Ms. Washburn was unusually quiet as she drove, making sure to keep Laverne Masters’s car visible, but at a reasonable distance. At 2:37 in the morning, there was very little traffic, even on the well-traveled US Highway 1. The drive could not have been difficult.

“You are very quiet,” I said after eight minutes and fourteen seconds. “Is something troubling you?”

Ms. Washburn shook her head. “I wouldn’t say
troubling
me,” she replied. “I’ve been thinking about the case.”

“The
question
,” I corrected.

She nodded. “The question. I think you’re right; there are a lot of things that don’t add up.”

It would be interesting to see if Ms. Washburn had been struck by the same contradictions and incongruities as I had. “Please tell me,” I said. “What does not add up for you?”

“Well, you mentioned two things. It doesn’t make sense to threaten Ackerman’s wife. He’s not the one refusing to pay. It would seem a lot more effective to threaten Arthur Masters or his mother.”

“Laverne seemed somewhat unmovable on the subject,” I suggested. “Perhaps the thieves think they have a better chance of swaying Ackerman, or they know about a source of money that he has not yet tapped, nor told us about.”

“I guess so, but the voice sounded so much more personal about it, like whoever it was wanted to hurt Ackerman, to scare him as much as they possibly could. I realize that’s not a fact; it’s an impression I got from the tone of voice, even though it was filtered.”

“That’s exactly the kind of thing I need to have pointed out to me,” I told her. “You are an invaluable member of the Questions Answered team.”

“You and I are the whole team so far,” Ms. Washburn reminded me, “and I’m not even really working there.”

“You could be,” I answered, but that sounded unlike what I was trying to communicate. I decided to move on with the questions we were trying to answer. “What else bothered you? Something I didn’t mention.”

She thought for seventy-six seconds. “I can’t figure out the dynamic between Arthur and Laverne Masters,” she said. “Sometimes he seems to be completely under his mother’s thumb, and other times …”

“Other times, he’s flirting with you,” I pointed out.

Ms. Washburn gritted her teeth a little but nodded. “But that’s not what I’m talking about. They walked into that room with a ransom figure in mind, and it was my impression that there had been an argument about it between them, and Arthur lost. And when the kidnapper on the phone said that there could be consequences and they wouldn’t see what’s left of Rita again, Arthur looked at Laverne, almost like he was asking her to be flexible, but she never so much as blinked. But Arthur is supposed to be the one clearly in charge of the business.”

“It is not unusual in a family dynamic for one person to be considered the authority in a certain area, even if that is not his customary role,” I pointed out. “My mother often defers to my judgment on the brands of products she buys at the supermarket, largely because she knows I research the advantages and disadvantages of each.”

Ms. Washburn took a quick glance at me, as if deciding whether she should voice a thought she was having.

“Go on,” I said. “You won’t insult me.”

“Why do you still live with your mother?” she said quickly. “You are—if you don’t mind the expression—high-functioning enough to have your own apartment. Why not do that?”

I frowned. For one thing, the term
high-functioning
is somewhat insulting, although I was sure Ms. Washburn used it because she did not know a more accurate one. But my more immediate concern was that she seemed to be seeing me as something I was not, and I wanted to explain my situation precisely.

“My Asperger’s Syndrome is not the reason I still live in my mother’s house,” I said after a moment. “There are, in fact, a number of reasons. For one thing, Questions Answered is not yet profitable enough for me to pay rent on an apartment in this area, and I am not inclined to move far away where rents are lower. Part of that is because of my Asperger’s; I am uncomfortable in unfamiliar surroundings.

“But I also have some concerns about my mother,” I continued. “Her health has been a little precarious for the past two years since she retired. There was a heart incident that required the implantation of a stent in one artery. And her legs are not strong. She has some difficulty walking, although not as much as Mrs. Masters, so you might not have noticed when you met her yesterday afternoon.

“And I will admit, Ms. Washburn, that there are few people with whom I can comfortably and enjoyably spend an extended period of time. My mother happens to be one of those few. Not many people find my company enjoyable; she does. Not many people’s conversation interests me; hers does. So you see, I live with my mother chiefly because I like her.”

Ms. Washburn turned off US Highway 1 onto the right-lane ramp (called a “jug handle” in New Jersey) that led to Rutgers Village, a development of single-family homes, almost all in the Cape Cod style, built on the border of New Brunswick and East Brunswick. The development was meant mostly as a haven for New Brunswick city police and fire employees when it was built, because there was a residency requirement for such personnel at the time and no suburban settings in the New Brunswick city limits for those with young children. It is a small section carved out of two large municipalities to accommodate those who served one. Living there, separated from the urban reality that the old city of New Brunswick represented, it seemed out of place.

We followed Laverne Masters’s car into the development, and then Ms. Washburn said to me, “I didn’t mean to insult you.”

“You did not insult me,” I answered. “I wanted to be sure you understood.”

Ms. Washburn nodded but did not respond.

We drove up Tunison Road into Rutgers Village and made a right turn past the homes, which were old enough now that they had been individually renovated and were no longer identical. Since the 1950s, when they were built, owners had come and gone and left their specific fingerprints on each structure: Some had additions on one side, others had full second floors with the dormers expanded for second or third bedrooms. A few were meticulously landscaped in the front yards, and others had stockade fences that blocked our view of any back yard at all.

At the top of a small hill there was one area of open space separating Rutgers Village from Edgewood, its slightly more upscale sister community. The local utility had installed towers of high-tension electrical wiring through the open field, and they ran the length of the development and past it as far as the eye could see. We stopped the three cars at the opening to that field, and all of us except Laverne Masters got out of our vehicles and gathered at the entrance to the open space. A small fence—really just a piece of metal placed as a barrier less than two feet from the ground across the opening—was meant to delineate the space, but it could not possibly have been considered a deterrent to anyone who might want to enter. It was probably an insurance precaution, because a sign reading
High-Tension—Do Not Enter
had been hung on the fence. It was difficult to read the sign in this light.

“This is where we’re supposed to leave the briefcases,” Lapides said. “Actually, over there.” He pointed to the middle of the field, where the towers bearing the electrical wires 50 feet above stood. “Next to the second high-tension tower. At the base of the northeast leg.” He started, suddenly, and drew a deep breath. “Did anybody bring a compass?” he asked.

I pointed at the utility towers. “On the right side, nearest us,” I said. “The position of the stars indicates the directions perfectly.”

Captain Harris took a long look at me then nodded. “Of course it does,” she said. “Well, let’s go.”

Ackerman held up a hand to stop her. “The text message said I was to go alone, and when I was done, we were all to drive away. Whoever these people are, they’re going to be watching, and if they don’t like what they see, a lot of money is going away and nothing is coming back.” I found it interesting that he did not mention his wife or her safety.

“How will the remains be returned?” I asked.

“Once they’ve seen us leave, I’ll get another text message telling me where to go for the specimen,” Ackerman answered. “But when they find out all the money they asked for isn’t there …”

No one responded to that, so Ackerman took a breath, stepped over the low barrier at the opening, and started walking toward the tower. He was not an especially athletic man, and more than fifty years old, but it was a straight walk, and not dangerous. There was a slight decline from the road toward the utility towers, and carrying five briefcases could not have been easy for Ackerman. The grass had not been recently mowed, however, and was high, so the walk was especially difficult—I’m not sure I could have done it, thinking only
about the many insects that must have been living in that foliage. Once, Ackerman stopped, looked at the bottom of his shoe, said something disparaging about people who walk their dogs in unpaved areas, and scraped it on the ground. Then he continued walking.