Professor Pilty said in reply that some consideration had been given to a tableau in which a Neanderthal woman would be shown giving birth. Professor Mooney snickered openly at that and said, in that knowing way, that he was talking about sex, real sex. Thad Pilty was clearly unprepared for this. He cleared his throat and mentioned something about the number of children who were expected to visit the diorama. Ray Mooney, of course, was waiting to pounce with all the usual arguments about how we protect our children from the facts of life while foisting on them the most graphic images of violence and murder. Professor Pilty was about to respond when Professor Athol weighed in with his expertise, saying that the depiction of the sex act could be ethically sanctioned provided it was done tastefully in the context of a “long-term committed relationship.” Professor Landes pondered aloud if Professor Athol might provide the committee with a description of tasteful sex.
I know the good man was simply trying, with his needling wit, to puncture the ballooning absurdity of the whole thing, but his jab, in fact, only moved the discussion from “whether” to “how.” (No one, including myself, I have to confess, stood up to denounce the idea for fear of being labeled a prude.) Professor Athol said the couple might be situated “in one of the darker recesses of the planned cave,” where they would be engaged in “a standard sexual act.” “You mean the a priori position?” Professor Landes asked. Professor Athol did not know what a priori meant, and it had to be explained to him in terms of the contrasting notion of a posteriori.
Well, at this, just about everyone around the table wanted to get in their two-cents’ worth, with the exception of Mr. Onoyoko, whose smiles had given way to head-shaking laughter. Ms. Jackie seemed to be smiling ever more brightly, while Mason Twitchell’s likeness, perhaps because of the way the sunlight struck the oils, appeared to glower. Thad Pilty tried to diffuse the issue by explaining that little or nothing was known about the sexual habits of the Neanderthals. He noted that in the popular fictions of Jean Auel and Elizabeth Marshall Thomas, couples of the Late Paleolithic are depicted copula more canun. However, he went on to say that Desmond Morris and others had argued that, for physiological and psychological reasons, face-to-face copulation had probably evolved early among hominids. He cited Frans de Waal’s study, Peacemaking among Primates, in which Pan paniscus, the pigmy chimps, have been observed to mate face to face with considerable frequency.
Professor Mooney asked Mr. Quinn if there would be any difficulty arranging to have a couple of the models depicted having sexual intercourse. Mr. Quinn asked if the professor wanted “the genitals engaged.” When Professor Mooney expressed surprise that they had models with genitals, Mr. Quinn described what he called the Erotomax Series, a line of sexually active models. He said with some pride that his company was installing “a raft of them right now in an indoor theme park in Vegas for Panthouse Enterprises. I’ve seen some of the mock-ups. I mean, they’ve got everything, threesomes, clusters, the whole nine yards.” Professor Landes asked, facetiously I’m sure, if they had Aretino’s wheelbarrow as well. When Dr. Commer asked, “Whose wheelbarrow?” and Izzy explained it to him, even Constance Brattle smiled, and Mr. Onoyoko was all but banging his head on the table.
When the room settled down again, Mr. Quinn said that what he was trying to say was “that if you people want to have a couple of these Neanderthals getting it on, I’m sure we could modify a pair of our Erotomax models, I mean with all the hair and the faces and the short legs.” Izzy said it was starting to sound like the Paleobscene, getting a nod from Professor Pilty, who asked how expensive it would be. Mr. Quinn said he would price it out for us but thought it might even cost less as the hydraulics of the Erotomax line are “kind of elementary, with the servomechanisms mostly in the jaws and hips.”
At that point Professor Brattle said that, before they went any further with this suggestion, “I think it is important from the standpoint of the committee’s concerns that the position of any female partner in any depiction of sexual congress be given careful consideration.” Mr. Quinn agreed saying that, when it came to sex, position was everything. Professor Brattle said that she meant that she was opposed to having the couple engaged “doggy style” as that necessarily put the man in the superior position. Mr. Quinn said they could have them lying on their sides. Professor Mooney objected, saying that that would be boring. Mr. Onoyoko was wiping his eyes. Professor Brattle ignored him, although her eyes were rolling like those of someone suddenly stranded in a high place. She said that, whatever was decided, she wanted to make sure that the female model not be shown in an inferior position. Ms. Marlene Parkers, who had remained silent until then, said that if this “scene” was really going to be necessary, why not have them alternate positions? Professor Mooney asked Mr. Quinn if that were “technically feasible.” Mr. Quinn said that we were going to need a technician to come and “switch them over,” but as the contract calls for someone to come in every six months for general maintenance it could be done then. Professor Landes slapped the table. “My God, six months in the same position. Now that does sound boring. I mean, won’t the parts … wear out?” Mr. Quinn, ever the professional, said they would eventually, but that the “moving parts” on the Erotomax were made out of “really high-tech stuff.”
Ms. Schanke, who had been furiously eating donuts all this time, put up a powdered hand. “Let’s just hold on one minute,” she said. Then, after swallowing a mouthful: “I don’t see why consideration isn’t being given to showing two women having sex. Why do we always have to subscribe to phallocentric domination?” Mr. Quinn shrugged. “We can do that, too,” he said, turning to the chairperson. “And that solves the problem about who to put on top.” Meanwhile Mr. Onoyoko nearly gagged with laughter, as Professor Pilty declared with evident exasperation that there was no evidence of lesbianism among Neanderthals. Ms. Schanke countered that there was precious little evidence of anything among Neanderthals, so what difference did it make? Professor Landes countered, asking how, without heterosexual activity among our forebears, did we get here?
Well, it degenerated from there, if you can believe it. Ms. Schanke was hurling epithets at Professor Pilty so special as to constitute another language. It was a shame Father O’Gould was not there to point out that the graphic depiction of the sexual act would ruin the whole diorama because in fact that’s all most people, including the children, would notice. I am not a prude, but I think there are limits, and I had decided to step out of character again to voice not merely my objections but a veto on any such tableau in the diorama. As I waited for a suitable break in what was becoming an increasing acrimonious debate, a sudden lull descended on the room, in which the only sound was the staccato voice of Ms. Kushiro and the convulsive mirth of Mr. Onoyoko. I cleared my throat and was just at the point of speaking when Mr. Onoyoko’s laughter took on an ominous gargling sound. I glanced over to see that his normally pale face had turned a most unwholesome green. A moment later he collapsed with a thud on the table and, to the horror of us all, gurgled a bit and slid to the floor. Ms. Jackie continued to smile and gesture while the rest of us gathered around the fallen benefactor. Strangely enough, it was Dr. Commer, more alive than I have seen him in years, who rose to the occasion. Amid the usual cries of “give him air,” Dr. Commer knelt beside the stricken man, felt for his pulse, and announced, “He no longer needs air.”
I asked everyone to remain calm and not to leave the premises. I delegated Izzy to go to an adjoining office and put in a 911 call. When Professor Brattle glanced at me quizzically, I explained to her that I was now Director of the Museum of Man and under the circumstances in charge. I surreptiously took the half-filled paper cup of coffee Mr. Onoyoko had in front of him and, using a napkin, placed it on a high bookshelf. Repeating that everyone would have to remain until the police arrived, I left the Twitchell Room and its buzzing occupants and from an adjoining office put in a call to Lieutenant Tracy. I was patched through immediately, and he asked me to return to t
he meeting and keep everyone there until he arrived. I told him I had already done that and had secured Mr. Onoyoko’s coffee cup. He rang off saying he was on his way.
By the time a team of emergency medical technicians arrived, it was apparent that Mr. Onoyoko had entered the long night of history. Shortly thereafter, the lieutenant came in with a team of his own, and I helped arrange rooms for interviewing in some of the nearby offices. The lieutenant assured everyone that the questioning would be strictly routine, but that if anyone wanted a lawyer present it could be arranged. Even Ms. Schanke was subdued by what had happened, and no one put up any particular fuss, except Professor Athol, who appeared excited at the idea of being a suspect.
I spent some time with Lieutenant Tracy going over routine details — who sat where, who said what, and so on. I’m not sure he fully comprehended what I was saying when I tried to convey to him the topic and tone of the meeting. It was gratifying to have him ask me if I thought Onoyoko’s death could be linked to the murders of the deans. I told him I had yet to give it much thought. At first glance the man’s demise didn’t fit any logical plot. Unless, of course, the Japanese businessman had become privy to a conspiracy conducted in his name and had moved to stop it. In that case the Genetics Lab and the communications from Worried might take on real significance. We agreed it was useless to speculate until we had the results of an autopsy. He said he would keep me informed.
The fact is, I am not myself in the least distressed by Mr. Onoyoko’s death. Indeed, it may be the key to solving a lot of our problems. That is to say, without his beneficence we will not be able to afford the Primate Pavilion or the Genetics Lab. They will simply have to go.
Ah well, there goes the phone. I’m going to ignore it. I am going to the Club for a bit of self-indulgence. Strange how, with my new position, there seems a bit more respect in the air when I make my entrance there. I can’t say I don’t enjoy it. And just imagine, in seventeen days, barely more than two weeks, Elsbeth will arrive.
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 25
It is late. I am tired, and I must go home to dress for the annual dinner of the Seaboard Historical Society, an event that, for the first time, I do not look forward to with much anticipation. I mean, there will be the same food, the same faces, the same things said. But then my life has taken on a new zing of late, and my capacity for boredom has diminished accordingly. Still, I feel obliged to record the events of the past few days as they relate to my investigation into the murders of Fessing and Scrabbe.
First, I have had another disquieting communication from Worried in the Genetics Lab. As per usual, I will reproduce it here.
Dear Mr. Detour [sic]:
I am very afraid as I send this to you. I think my life is in danger sending you this stuff. I would not be surprised if Professors [sic] Fessing and Scrabbe met their horrible ends at the hands of one of Professor Gottling’s assistants or maybe even Professor Gottling did it himself. They are all fanatics except maybe Dr. Kaplan and he is scared of the others. They all want to go down in history. There’s been even more police around asking questions since Mr. Onoyoko died and my friend who really knows what’s going on says they’re hurrying things up for this big experiment code-named Mary Shirley or Shelly or something like that. He says they’re going to take a couple of fetuses out of the chimps and add some human genes and grow them in a special glass box. I’m not sure this is a good idea. I think someone out there ought to know what’s going on before we have a lot of little monsters running around and maybe getting loose. I almost forgot to tell you that Dr. Hanker has left the lab. Before he left there was an out of court settlement with Charlene that came from Dr. Hanker’s wife who is rich. Charlene has been wearing an engagement ring from her regular boyfriend who knows all about Dr. Hanker and has even seen the tape. He’s going to marry her to give the baby a real father although some people are saying he’s doing it because she really got a load from Dr. Hanker’s wife and that the kid is probably the boyfriend’s anyway because he’s been seeing her all along.
More Worried Than Ever
When Lieutenant Tracy dropped by this morning to tell me that the autopsy on Mr. Onoyoko’s body proved negative — he died of a heart attack — I showed him this latest missive from Worried. The lieutenant didn’t seem in the least perturbed and repeated back to me what I had told him about information received anonymously.
“Have you spoken to Gottling?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. He showed us around the whole facility. He’s a most impressive man.”
“What did he have to say about this series of e-mail communications I’ve received?”
“He said they were nothing more than ridiculous fabrications and insisted on seeing the originals.”
“Did you show them to him?”
“I didn’t. But I doubt very much, Norman, that Professor Gottling had anything to do with the murders.”
His enunciation of “Professor” made me raise my eyebrows. “Not personally, perhaps, but he does have people working for him.”
The lieutenant’s expression was comically pained. With some exasperation he said, “I know, I know, but he really is too —”
“Important?”
“Perhaps. Serious might be a better way of describing him.”
I allowed myself a slight smile. “But, Lieutenant, you are the one who has taught me that the most respectable of people are capable of the most heinous of crimes.”
He smiled back, and his “touché” had a most endearing uncertainty about it.
Still, I am going to pursue my own investigation into the Genetics Lab. I have sent Professor Gottling another note, this time telling him that I am to open discussions with Wainscott regarding the future of the lab. If that doesn’t get a response, I’m afraid nothing will. There’s nothing much else to report. Ariel Dearth’s office has called several times, but I have refused to take his calls or call back. Damon Drex has also been plaguing me. He wants to have a “meeting of the brains.”
Ah well, Elsbeth arrives in less than two weeks. I’m having the kitchen done over at a quite exorbitant cost, but the results are already manifest and gratifying. Amazing, isn’t it, the gadgets available today for cooking and disposing and whatnot. I micro-waved, if that is an acceptable verb, my first frozen dinner last night, beef something or other, and it really wasn’t all that bad with a bottle of good California zinfandel. Yvette’s coming a week from today to give the whole house a thorough cleaning. But I’m still not sure about investing in a double bed.
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 30
I have succeeded in meeting with Professor Gottling, and what I learned today has left me quite disturbed and, frankly, in a quandary as to what to do. I am convinced he has a motive for getting rid of the two deans if they were beginning to find out not only about the arrangements between the Genetics Lab and the Primate Pavilion but about the nature of his experimentation and research. At any rate, when he called me this morning it was more to put me off than to arrange a meeting. He told me that he had gone over everything with the police, and that if they were satisfied, why wasn’t I. When I mentioned Project Alpha he said it had been canceled. I informed him that my sources told me differently and that, as Director of the MOM, it was my responsibility to meet with him about this matter. He turned brusque and said he was a very busy man and did not have time to placate every administrator worried about rumors. I said in return that I would then have to call on the museum’s counsel to summon a Board of Inquiry as provided for in the Rules of Governance. After a bit of blustering about, he finally, and not very graciously, acquiesced to a meeting.
To prepare for the meeting, I reviewed the CV the Wainscott Personnel Office had obligingly sent me some time ago. I don’t need to reproduce it here. Suffice it to say that Stoddard Gottling was born fifty-six years ago not far from Boston. He received a Ph.D. in cytology and biochemistry from Harvard at an early age and worked at the Biological Laboratories there, Cavendish, and Cold Harbor, before
coming to the MOM some five years ago. It’s probably not coincidental that, at about the same time, Edo Onoyoko arrived and began taking an active interest in the research of the Genetics Lab. I will not pretend to understand the work he has been doing. He is an expert, I know, in the slicing and splicing of genes and has an enzyme insertion technique named after him, for which, apparently, he has been short-listed several times for the Nobel Prize.
Thus informed I went, a little after two this afternoon, through the labyrinth of tunnels in the subbasement that connects all three parts of the museum. (Because of the increasing number of restricted areas in both the Genetics Lab and the Primate Pavilion, ordinary access through the upper floors has all but ceased.) I was left to cool my heels in the office of his secretary before the eminent geneticist emerged and ushered me through several labs into his book-lined, paper-strewn office. He tried to be cordial, but I could tell it was not something that came easy for him. Almost immediately, he asked me if I had brought copies of the reports I had been receiving.
I told him I had brought along a summary of the reports, which I gave him in a manila envelope. I did not tell him that I had omitted some important accusations, which I thought best to bring up personally during our discussion. Professor Gottling appeared disappointed to the point of anger, but he hid it well enough as he glanced quickly over my summaries.
“This is preposterous,” he said finally, lighting a cigarette and setting up a veritable smoke screen. All the same, I think he was badly shaken. “I’ve gone over this already with the police. Certainly we are working on gene therapies. Everyone is working on gene therapies. But, really, it is quite another thing to be designing a new human genotype, as this person, whoever he is, alleges.”
The Murder in the Museum of Man Page 25
