1 The Question of the Missing Head (23 page)

Mother looked up from her cellular phone, alarmed. I confess that I was not very confident at that moment, either. People say their minds “race” in such situations. I am not sure what that might mean, but I do know it was difficult for me to think usefully just then. Ackerman began loading the gun with bullets from his jacket pocket. I lunged for them, but he slapped the revolver closed and pointed it at me.

“As I said, killing me will not help your chances of escape,” I reminded Ackerman.

He continued to point the gun but was not making eye contact with me. In retrospect, I am no longer sure he knew who was in the room with him.

“The first three bullets should start the process,” he said.

The process? Clearly, Ackerman was not talking about shooting me. I began to reconsider my decision to lock the chamber door, and started to walk toward it, seeing Lapides and Captain Harris, but not Ms. Washburn, through the window.

Ackerman shouted at me, “Don’t unlock that! Opening the door will spoil the effect!”

Since he seemed to have no objection to explaining his plans, I decided to ask directly. “What effect?” I said. “What is it you intend to do?”

Ackerman looked at me as if I must surely be a complete fool. Clearly, his intentions were obvious: “I’m going to shoot the big tanks.” He gestured with the gun toward the inner chamber.

That was a terrifying thought. If he ruptured enough of the larger stores of liquid nitrogen, the oxygen in the inner and outer chambers would be depleted to the point that anyone inside—and possibly some of those in the corridor, although that was unlikely—would asphyxiate.

“But you’ll die, too,” I said.

Ackerman ignored me and walked to the inner chamber door. I looked toward the floor, but Mother was no longer there.

Then I saw some movement near the ceiling of the room. One of the tiles in the dropped ceiling, no doubt put in for cosmetic purposes when the room was being insulated for its special usage, began to slide back on its own.

“I think with three bullets, I can put holes in at least five tanks,” Ackerman said, now seeming to talk to himself more than to me. “If I have time to reload, I could take out another five. That should be plenty.”

An arm, which appeared to be in a blue police uniform, appeared through the opening created by the moved ceiling tile. The hand was holding a police baton. It let go, and the baton dropped to the floor, but I did not hear it hit the tile, which did not seem to make sense. I understood the gesture—Mother had been texting with someone in the corridor, who had sent a uniformed officer through air vents to the ceiling. The baton had been dropped because another gun would simply multiply the danger of a tank being punctured.

Now if I could only make it to the dropped baton before Ackerman noticed it, or started shooting.

“If you’re going to commit suicide, just shoot yourself,” I suggested to Ackerman. “Why kill innocent people with you and destroy all your work?”

Ackerman began to laugh. “Innocent people?” he asked. “Who is innocent here?”

I did not want to mention Mother, since she was no longer in sight. I hoped she was crawling around the room to unlock the door, but I did not see her in that area of the outer chamber.

“I believe that I am innocent,” I said.

“You are irrelevant,” Ackerman said. “Just stand back and enjoy the show.” And he reached for the handle to open the inner chamber door.

That was my chance. I lunged forward and reached into Ackerman’s right jacket pocket. He turned at the movement, but did not point the gun. He seemed to be taken completely by surprise, as if he had forgotten I was behind him. I got what I wanted out of his pocket—his key ring—and stood back as he leveled the gun at me.

“My keys?” Ackerman laughed. “Couldn’t you see the gun in my hand?”

“I missed my mark,” I lied to him. Taking the weapon from him would have been far too risky. I backed up a few steps, shying from the weapon in his hand. “I was trying to grab the gun and slipped.”

“I told you,” Ackerman said, misunderstanding my retreat, “I’m not going to shoot
you
.” And he turned toward the inner chamber door again.

I dove in the other direction and got to the nearest security console quickly. Knowing exactly what I was doing, and exactly what it would mean, I took the security key from Ackerman’s ring and plunged it into the alarm slot.

I turned it before he could open the door.

The hellish alarm, with its impossibly loud siren, flashing red lights, and overwhelming sense of danger, began immediately. I had done my best to cover my ears as soon as I turned the key, but the sound was much too powerful to block out with only my hands. I fell to my knees, which was probably fortunate, given that the gun went off when Ackerman turned to see what had happened, and I heard the bullet pass over my head as I fell.

Also, the door to the inner chamber locked automatically, as did all the doors in the section.

I couldn’t hear Ackerman, but I saw his mouth form a common vulgarity. He started to reach into his pocket for his wallet, which no doubt held his key card, but it was inside the lab coat, which he had to unbutton. Ackerman appeared to be speaking directly to me, but I was unable to make out the words. I did my best to think of the action taking place in front of me, and not the nightmare scenario I had brought upon myself, but I knew I was once again bending at the waist with fear, and my hands occasionally came off my ears to flap at my sides, beyond my control.

In the midst of it, I was somehow aware of breaking glass behind me, and I saw Detective Lapides and Ms. Washburn rushing into the room. But I could not see Mother, and I was especially concerned when Ackerman shrugged, turned to the inner chamber, and broke the window glass with several blows from the butt of his gun. Then he aimed the revolver into the chamber, apparently intending to carry out his plan.

I might have been able to reach him in time, but I found myself incapable of movement. Lapides and one uniformed officer aimed pistols at Ackerman.

With my hands still on my ears, just seconds from screaming and falling to the floor in the fetal position, I shouted, “Don’t shoot at him! If you hit the tanks, we could all die!”

Ackerman laughed and took aim, saying something I could not make out. But from behind him, on a section of the floor I could not have seen from my previous position, Mother rose to her feet holding the police baton that had been dropped from the ceiling. And without hesitation, she pounded Ackerman hard on the head, stunning him, and then on the hand, making him drop the gun. The uniformed officer dove for the revolver and grabbed it before Ackerman could react. Lapides held Ackerman’s arms and quickly restrained him with handcuffs.

Behind me, Commander Johnson’s boots, which I recognized, appeared at the security console. He must have reset the system and turned the key, because the siren stopped.

I heard myself breathing. I did not hear myself whimpering, which was an improvement. And standing over me, suddenly, was Ms. Washburn, holding out her hands to help me to my feet. Slowly, after composing myself, I stood.

Ackerman was being led away, sobbing. His head was not bleeding, but his hand was discolored and swollen.

Mother’s face, with an expression I had never seen before, was intent on Ackerman as he was taken slowly from the room.

“That’s what you get when you threaten my son,” she said.

thirty-two

“There’s a lot to
sort out,” Detective Glendon Lapides said.

We were standing in the parking lot of Garden State Cryonics Institute, watching as Marshall Ackerman, Rita Masters-Powell, and Arthur Masters were helped, in handcuffs, into the back seats of three separate North Brunswick police vehicles. There would be a considerable amount of debriefing to be done at the police department’s headquarters later in the day, but for now, Captain Harris had decided that Ms. Washburn, Mother, and I should be allowed to go home and rest. I doubted that would be possible in my case, but it was certainly going to be worth a try.

“What is it you don’t understand, detective?” I asked. “You know that Ms. Masters-Powell killed Dr. Springer with an injection before making it look like a release of liquid nitrogen into an enclosed space had caused her to suffocate. She also tried to shoot Eleanor Ackerman, and probably would have continued to try if she had not heard the police or Ms. Washburn and myself outside. Arthur Masters was behind the financial end of the ransom demands, and there was never a frozen cranium to hold hostage, so Marshall Ackerman planned to use Ms. Washburn’s as a substitute. Arthur would ‘verify’ that the head’s was Rita’s. It’s all rather simple in the final analysis.”

Mother, standing to my right, shook her head and laughed. “Simple,” she said.

Ms. Washburn, off a short distance with her hand to one ear, was speaking into her cellular phone. “I’m perfectly fine,” she said with an edge in her voice. “I texted you that more than an hour ago. Don’t worry. I’ll be home soon.” Her husband was no doubt urging her to leave as quickly as possible, and in all likelihood would encourage her to turn down any offer of further employment at Questions Answered. I would have to find a way to counter that strategy, as I had found Ms. Washburn indispensable while answering the most difficult questions ever asked of me.

“I don’t get how you knew all that stuff,” Lapides said. “How did you figure it all out? I never had a clue.”

“Yes, you did,” I told him. “The clues were everywhere. Mrs. Johnson inadvertently provided one when she set off the alarm during our ‘demonstration.’ She made sure the alarm system activated when we were in the chamber together, so I did not see that the receptacle supposedly set aside for Ms. Masters-Powell’s cranium had never been frozen at all.”

“How would you have seen that?” Mother asked. She is always interested in hearing about my process.

“We found out that only three of the fifteen receptacles in that room were actually frozen,” Lapides said. “All the ones working were in the same section as the one that was supposed to have Rita’s, and they had really frozen that receptacle, too, just to make it look good. The others were displays, just to keep potential customers believing that the institute was a healthy, going concern.”

“In addition, we had the video security footage of Dr. Springer doing a routine check on the supposed Masters-Powell receptacle
after
the theft had been reported,” I explained. “She was doing what she always did because she had
always
known there was no cranium in the receptacle. She hadn’t been told about the ‘theft’ yet.”

Lapides shook his head. “A lot of the frozen receptacles were empty,” he said. “What a waste.”

“It is very likely that GSCI is on the verge of bankruptcy,” I added. “But there was a great deal more physical evidence in the chamber that ‘Charlotte’ did not want me to examine. First, when we discovered Dr. Springer’s body, she was not wearing a protective suit, as she would have under any normal circumstances. So it is reasonable to assume that she was forced into the chamber against her will, without the time it would have taken to put on the protective clothing.”

Ms. Washburn ended her cellular phone conversation and joined us as the three police vehicles, with Captain Harris in the first, drove out of the parking lot and onto US Highway 1, heading south.

“Also,” I continued, “the receptacle, supposedly kept under extremely cold temperatures in liquid nitrogen freeze, was on the floor behind her, and Dr. Springer was not wearing protective gloves or any other kind of covering on her hands. But they were not burned or scarred in any way. Either she had not handled the receptacle, which was unlikely since her fingerprints were found on it, or the more logical solution, the receptacle had been taken out of its frozen state long before. Because the conspirators knew they were going to stage the theft and wanted the receptacle at room temperature so they could position it properly after the ‘shooting.’ And the only reason that would happen was that there had never been any remains inside the receptacle, and no reason to keep it preserved at a low temperature.”

“How does that lead to Charlotte being Rita?” Lapides wanted to know. “That was the thing that made the least sense.”

“That was a complete stroke of luck,” I told him. “Ms. Washburn had taken a short video of me in my office yesterday morning, as part of a question unrelated to this affair entirely. When I looked at it early this morning, I saw that Ackerman, about to come in and hire Questions Answered—supposedly to find the missing ‘guest,’ but really to cover for the fact that he wasn’t calling the police—had driven up directly behind me and was visible in the video.”

“He was?” Ms. Washburn asked. “I don’t recall seeing him.”

“You were focused on your subject, and you knew the background would be digitally eliminated for our project,” I reminded her. With the suspects now removed, we began to walk back to Mother’s car, so she could drive Ms. Washburn home and then continue on to our home. “When I noticed his car in the background, it was clear there was a woman in the passenger seat next to him. It was the woman we knew as Charlotte Selby. Once Epstein e-mailed me the photograph of Rita Masters-Powell, I compared the two, and the face in the video was the same as the one in the photograph. Only her hair color had changed from blond to brunette, probably as a rudimentary means of disguise.”

“Or she ran out of hair dye,” Ms. Washburn suggested drily.

“You knew that Arthur Masters was behind the extortion plot,” Lapides said to Ms. Washburn. “How did you figure that?”

Ms. Washburn looked at the ground and said quietly, “I didn’t like the way he looked at me.”

“What?” Lapides asked.

“She said that Arthur had been adamant about paying the ransom while his mother resisted at all costs,” I said. “The fact that ‘Charlotte’ always chose to leave the room when Laverne Masters was there, but not when Arthur was alone, was telling. As a ‘citizen journalist,’ Charlotte should have resisted being removed from the action, but when Laverne was coming, she volunteered to leave. That indicated that Rita did not want her mother to see she was still alive, but Arthur knew the truth.”

Lapides blinked three times and stopped chewing gum for a moment. “She said all that?” he asked, indicated Ms. Washburn.

“Yes.”

The detective looked impressed. Mother smiled at me knowingly, but I could not discern what that expression was meant to convey.

We stood there for twenty-three seconds, during which I ran the details of the question through my mind, to see if there was anything I had missed. The others seemed to be doing something similar, each lost in thought and not saying anything.

“How did you know it was Ackerman?” Lapides finally asked. “I suspected something was up with him, but he always seemed so pained when anything would threaten the institute. How did you know he was behind the scheme?”

I did not make eye contact. I know I should have, but the fact is that I was embarrassed. “I did not know about Ackerman until very late,” I admitted. “Until he had me ejected from the building, just as I was beginning to piece the answers together, I had no suspicion. But even then, I thought I was reacting emotionally to being fired, that I was angry because he would not acknowledge that I was competent at my profession. I suspected something was amiss with him later, because of one moment.

“When we were supposedly dropping the ransom at Rutgers Village, Ackerman stopped at one point and took out his cellular phone. I initially thought he was merely checking the time in the dark, but I came to realize he was sending a text message to an ally, probably Rita, alerting her about the snipers Captain Harris had stationed nearby. Immediately, the captain received a text warning her about the snipers, and they were withdrawn.”

“I thought they were watching us,” Lapides said, “but Ackerman was one of them.” He shook his head again.

“Actually, the video footage of Ackerman kissing Rita Masters-Powell was the evidence that made me realize just how deeply he was involved,” I said with some embarrassment. “I should have seen it sooner, and perhaps I could have avoided a good deal of … unpleasantness.” I looked at Ms. Washburn, who shook her head slowly.

“It wasn’t your fault, Samuel,” she said. “Ackerman was unpredictable because he gave in to all the pressure. You couldn’t possibly have known what he would do, or that it would involve me.”

Her cellular phone rang again, and she opened it to answer the call when she saw the word
Home
on the screen. Clearly shaken, she walked a distance away and spoke in a tone that could not be heard from where we were standing.

“When it was clear that Laverne was not going to pay the money without considerable coaxing,” I went on, “the message came—from Rita as it turned out—that Mrs. Ackerman’s life would be in danger. Ackerman came out of the building as we were leaving to go to the exchange at Rutgers Village, and he was loudly, and rather animatedly, trying to find out where Charlotte Selby might be at that moment. He knew how unstable Rita was and truly worried for the fate of his wife.”

“But he didn’t do anything about it,” Mother pointed out. “He didn’t go to his wife, and he didn’t tell the police to look out for Charlotte at his home. If he was so concerned …”

“Ackerman was torn,” I said. “He wanted to believe he loved his wife, but he was having an affair with Rita. And when you sent a cruiser to his house, detective, I’m sure he thought his wife’s safety was secured.”

Lapides shook his head. “The whole business is beyond me. I’m glad you were here, Mr. Hoenig. Thank you for all your help.”

“I was pleased to do so, detective,” I told him. Perhaps the North Brunswick police might think to employ Questions Answered again sometime in the future, although I would prefer it involve a much less violent question.

Ms. Washburn scowled as she closed her phone sharply and walked back to Mother’s car. “Can you please take me home, Vivian? My husband is being … let’s just say I need to go home and discuss a few things.”

“Of course, dear,” Mother replied and unlocked the car with her radio frequency key fob. I nodded a good-bye to Detective Lapides and opened the passenger door. But Mother shook her head to indicate that I should let Ms. Washburn take my traditional seat. I did not understand the gesture but felt it was best to ask about it later, and did as Mother had suggested.

As I turned to open the rear door, I saw the entrance to GSCI open, and out walked Commander Johnson, flanked by two uniformed officers. Lapides had said the commander would be brought in for questioning in connection to his trying to help Ackerman escape. It was not clear if charges would be brought against him, but the police certainly wanted to find out how much the commander had known about the conspiracy, and if it was enough, perhaps a plea bargain could be arranged.

I stopped when I saw the commander, and he spotted me from the parked police cruiser in which he would ride to his questioning. Our eyes met for a moment. I was not sure if I should do or say anything. From this distance, conversation was surely impossible.

But the commander communicated in another way. He straightened up, as I’d seen him do many times in the past twenty-four hours, and then, in perfect military fashion, he presented me with a very well executed salute.

I knew from many motion pictures what I should do: I returned the salute, and the commander dropped his arm. Then each of us sat in the back seat of an automobile, and rode away.