“And Dr. Springer’s murder,” Ms. Washburn added.
“It would be an enormous coincidence if those two crimes were unrelated,” I agreed. “Ms. Selby, what else did the e-mail say?”
“We have printed out a copy,” Commander Johnson noted, and handed me a sheet of paper.
It read: We have taken possession of Rita Masters-Powell. If you want what we have back again, you will pay us $17 million. It is in good condition, and we can keep it that way indefinitely. We know you have already called the police, but you must not tell them about this communication. Gather the money in cash, bills no larger than $100, non-consecutive serial numbers, and await further instructions. They will not come through this e-mail address, so don’t bother to monitor outgoing messages. You will be contacted.
“This does not tell us much,” I said after reading the note. “I am not able to garner a great deal from reading it.”
“If it were up to me, you wouldn’t be reading it at all,” Commander Johnson replied. “I was against calling you back here.”
Ms. Washburn looked shocked at the commander’s words, but they were not surprising to me. He had appeared to consider me a threat from the moment we first met, and there was no reason to think the situation had changed.
“Indeed,” I said. “What can you learn from this communication, commander?”
He widened his eyes for a short moment, then he snatched the paper from my hand. “They want seventeen million dollars, and they can keep the head frozen as long as they want. They’ll get in touch again, but they don’t say when, and they won’t use the same e-mail address.”
“Something that isn’t stated directly in the e-mail, commander,” I suggested.
“What can you see other than what’s stated on the paper?” Charlotte asked me.
“Not very much,” I admitted. “There is no way of knowing whether the person writing the e-mail is telling the truth. We must operate on the assumption that Ms. Masters-Powell’s remains are indeed being kept in the proper condition, because any other circumstance would leave us with no positive options. So even if we have no evidence to that effect, we will begin from that premise.
“The ransom demand for seventeen million dollars is interesting,” I continued. “I wonder how they arrived at the figure. How much money would you say was available to the Masters family in cash, Dr. Ackerman?”
Ackerman looked startled, as if he had been expecting me to address someone else in the room about the Masterses’ finances. “How would I know that?” he asked.
“You would know because you would run a financial check on anyone paying a perpetual fee on a monthly basis. You would check it before the contracts were signed, and you would be certain that there would be no difficulty in obtaining the money. I would assume you’d have the family members sign a contract guaranteeing the payment of the fee in perpetuity. The only way any finance company would agree to such terms would be if a thorough analysis of the family’s assets was made and verified, again, before you agreed to store Ms. Masters-Powell’s remains. So I’ll ask again, Ackerman, how much money does the Masters family have available to it that it could convert to cash on an emergency basis?”
Ackerman, properly chastised, did not even have to look up the records on his computer. He simply looked at me and said, “Just about seventeen million dollars.”
I began to pace around the room. “So the thieves know exactly how much money they can expect, and they have no intention of asking for more, because it would slow down the process. Exactly what they don’t want to do.”
“Why not?” Ms. Washburn asked. “If they can keep the … remains preserved indefinitely, why would time be an issue for them?”
“This isn’t the kind of thing that can be done in your freezer at home,” Ackerman answered. “You need special equipment, special power sources, a sterile environment. Those things take up a lot of space, and in a residential area, for example, would attract a lot of attention. It shouldn’t be hard to find these people.”
I nodded. “That would mean they’ll want to get rid of Ms. Masters-Powell’s remains as soon as possible. In turn, that should mean we will be hearing from the thieves again shortly with further instructions. Have you contacted the Masters family?” I asked Ackerman.
He looked very uncomfortable. “Yes,” he said. “They’re in the process of deciding what step they want to take next. Arthur told me he and his mother are divided on whether or not they should invest that kind of money into what Laverne called a lost cause.” He seemed disgusted with the idea that a dead woman’s severed head could be considered anything less than a shining possibility for continued life.
“How soon before they get back to us with an answer?” I asked him.
Ackerman sat down behind his desk and looked unbearably tired. “Soon,” he answered. “They know that time is a factor here.”
“Are you prepared to pay the ransom if the family decides against it?” I asked.
His face went white and he took in a deep breath. “I couldn’t,” he said. “That would bankrupt us. I can’t allow the entire business to be brought down over one guest’s misfortune.”
It was an emotional argument, but not a factually based one. “You might be just as badly damaged by inaction,” I pointed out. “The institute’s reputation would be severely diminished once news of this incident was made public, and you can be assured it would become public knowledge the minute Detective Lapides were to file his report, which he is obligated to do. The next newspaper reporter to read through the police blotter would find it almost immediately.”
Ackerman sat back in his chair as if shot. He bit his lips.
“That does not even account for the lawsuit the Masters family would no doubt file against the institute, which could easily result in damages larger than the amount the thieves are demanding,” I added. “Given that the theft took place under the watch of your security personnel, you could certainly be held liable. I think it would be a legal probability, in fact.”
Commander Johnson stepped in front of Ackerman, his eyes wide and sweat visible on his brow. “You know it wasn’t my fault,” he hissed at me. “You know that.”
“I know nothing of the kind,” I answered. “Until the security technology expert hired by the police finishes his investigation, I have very few facts about the way the theft was executed, and therefore it is impossible to assign blame. But since you are in charge of security and the theft did take place under your watch, it would not be unreasonable to assume that in some way, you did fail at your job.”
“I knew it!” Johnson said, turning toward Ackerman to make his case. “He’s been vying for my job all day!”
I think I actually laughed. “I have no interest in your job, commander,” I said. “I’m merely pointing out that you have not done very good work, if the facts are examined rationally.”
The commander had no time to answer, because the phone on the table near Ackerman’s seat rang. Ackerman picked it up and said, “Yes.” He listened for a few seconds, said, “Yes,” again, and hung up. “Laverne and Arthur Masters are here,” he told us.
Charlotte Selby closed her reporter’s notebook and placed it inside her purse, which was quite large and enveloped the notebook immediately. I doubted she would be able to find it again easily. “This is a private moment for the family,” she said. “I’ll step out for this one.” That seemed like highly uncharacteristic behavior for a reporter of any kind, but she left just as she said she would, and quickly.
Ackerman nodded his head, looking like a man trying to think quickly. “We should be ready with a plan,” he said.
“Yes, you should,” I agreed.
Ackerman’s head turned quickly and he said, “What do you mean—” But he was cut off when he caught a glimpse of the Masterses through the glass wall to the conference room. He stood and walked to the doo
r to open it for Laverne Masters.
She entered ahead of her son and hobbled a bit to the seat closest to the door. She seemed a bit winded after having done so, and it occurred to me that she must have had arthritis or some other condition that limited her mobility.
Arthur, for his part, looked haggard. Clearly, both of them had been called after they were asleep, but that fact was not visible in Laverne’s case. She was dressed exactly as she had been earlier in the day, and she wore makeup. Arthur was in a sweatshirt and sweatpants and had a growth of beard.
“I won’t beat around the bush,” Laverne said when she could catch her breath. “We think that you’ve mishandled this entire affair from the beginning.”
Ackerman, to his credit, did not look wounded or say anything to contradict Laverne. Commander Johnson, however, straightened his neck and looked as if the top of his head might blow off.
“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 somehow.” She was looking at the two Masters family members, neither of whom had moved or spoken since the phone call had ended.
1 The Question of the Missing Head Page 15
