by Kathy Reichs
“The T-800 is gone.” RoboCop’s voice cracked as he grabbed the Joker by his purple suit lapels. “Missing! Taken! How is that possible!?”
“I don’t know.” His companion backpedaled, palms flying up. “I didn’t touch it!”
Edging closer, I could see broken glass glinting onstage.
Tempe spoke at my ear. “Something was stolen.”
“And it wasn’t small.” Shimmying sideways so the boys could see, I pointed to the center of the platform. “Whatever got swiped was the focal point of that huge glass house.”
We were bunched before a towering display that occupied space enough for five regular booths. It was styled to resemble a 1950s movie theater, with plush red carpet covering the floor and a neon “Movie Magic” sign hanging overhead. The stage itself was large and elevated—the type used for outdoor concerts—and set with famous memorabilia from films throughout history. Metal side staircases served as entrance and exit.
Parked on the platform’s near side was Ecto-1, the iconic red-and-white 1959 Cadillac ambulance-hearse combo driven by the Ghostbusters. On the opposite end was the A-Team van, black and gray with its vintage red stripe and eighties spoiler.
Between the vehicles rose chest-high pillars topped by Lucite boxes. One held Luke Skywalker’s original lightsaber from Return of the Jedi. Another contained the ruby-red slippers Dorothy wore while off to see the Wizard. A third box sported a scale model of the first Starship Enterprise. There were a dozen more dotting the stage.
But everyone was staring at the platform’s centerpiece: a giant, house-sized glass case backed by a bloodred wall. Inside the enclosure, on the left, was a puffy, foam-rubber replica of Shrek, standing at least ten feet tall. On the right side loomed an equally gargantuan King Kong.
The two figures loomed menacingly, frowning down at the convention, their hulking forms flanking a raised central dais.
Which was empty.
Except for broken glass.
Hence RoboCop’s panicked shrieks.
Yellow-shirted event staff were gathering at the foot of the stage. Their leader appeared to be a hefty blond man with a curly beard. He yelled into a walkie-talkie, his finger jabbing up toward the shattered case. Then, holstering his radio, he gestured for three staffers to follow as he stomped toward the metal steps.
“Oh no.” Tempe shot forward to intercept Curly Beard.
Ben poked between my shoulder blades. “What’s she doing?”
“Telling that guy to leave the crime scene alone,” I answered. “He probably doesn’t have any forensic training. Tempe does.”
Then I was knifing through the crowd, headed for my aunt’s side.
“Tory!” Shelton barked. “Hold up!”
Not a chance.
If Tempe managed to wiggle her way into this investigation, I was coming along for the ride.
“Wait for me!” Hi shouted, attempting to muscle through the crush of onlookers.
“Hang back a sec,” I yelled over my shoulder. “This may not work.”
Ben placed a restraining hand on Hi. “Let’s leave this one to the geniuses.”
“I’m pretty freaking smart, too,” Hi grumbled.
“Just be cool.” Shelton tugged his ear. “For all we know, they’ll both get arrested.”
Tempe had Curly Beard cornered, was ticking fingers as she spoke.
RoboCop spotted Tempe and stomped over, arriving just as I did.
“Who are you and why are you interfering?” Red-faced, the man seemed on the verge of passing out. The Joker hung back, eyes wide behind his garish face paint.
“My name is Dr. Temperance Brennan,” she replied patiently, “and I was telling this gentleman that he shouldn’t contaminate the crime scene. I’m assuming something was stolen?”
“Yes!” RoboCop shrilled, removing his helmet to reveal a mass of stringy black hair. He was younger than I’d thought, somewhere in his mid-twenties. “They took the T-800! It’s gone!”
Tempe frowned. “The T-what?”
“The Terminator!” RoboCop squeezed his eyes shut, as if gathering his strength. After several deep breaths he continued in a slightly calmer tone. “Not the one Arnold played, obviously, but the robot from the sequel’s opening sequence. It’s the only full-sized Terminator machine ever wholly constructed of metal. It’s priceless.”
“Priceless?” I instantly regretted speaking.
RoboCop fixed me with a baleful glare. “Yes, little girl. Well, no actually—I suppose it has a price. This T-800 was purchased at auction for five hundred thousand dollars.”
Curly Beard whistled. Then he unclipped his walkie-talkie and shouted into it.
RoboCop began peeling off his costume, layer by layer. “Who are you anyway? Why am I discussing this with convention guests?” The Joker moved to assist with the dismantling, but was angrily waved away.
“Dr. Brennan is one of the foremost forensic scientists in the world.” I couldn’t keep the edge from my voice. “She can help process your crime scene. You’re lucky to have her.”
“Yes. Well.” He seemed to regain a sliver of composure. “Thank you, then. I’m Lawrence Skipper. I’m responsible for this display. Until they fire me, anyway.”
I noticed a ripple in the crowd. “Aunt Tempe. Police.”
Two uniformed officers broke through the ring of onlookers and joined us by the stairs. “Who’s in charge here?” asked the older of the two. He had thick gray hair and a handlebar mustache. The younger cop was tall and painfully thin, with a long, narrow nose and tiny mouth.
“I am.” Skipper had shed the last vestiges of his costume, looked slightly ridiculous in a tight black turtleneck and wrinkled athletic shorts. “Lawrence Skipper, Multi-Media Magic Properties. We’ve been robbed. Although for the life of me I can’t figure out how.”
Young Cop flipped open a notepad. Old Cop turned to Tempe. “And you are?”
“Dr. Temperance Brennan.” She produced an official-looking ID from her pocket. “I’m a board-certified forensic anthropologist, and consult for the medical examiner’s offices of both North Carolina and Quebec. I’m here promoting a book on forensic investigation techniques in film, and noticed the commotion. I’d be happy to assist with the crime scene.”
Old Cop gave Tempe an appraising look, then spoke softly to his partner, who was scribbling furiously. Young Cop nodded, took Tempe’s ID, then moved off and began speaking into his shoulder radio.
“Name’s Flanagan.” Old Cop extended his hand, which Tempe shook. “If you’ve got CSI experience, I’m glad for the help. We don’t have a team stationed at the convention, and won’t be able to secure this area very long. Too many people. But I’ll need your daughter to step aside while we work.”
“I’m her assistant,” I blurted before my aunt could speak. “We’re a package deal.”
You will not shut me out of this, copper.
“That’s correct,” Tempe agreed. “Things will go a lot smoother if you allow Tory to assist me.”
“Very well.” But I could see the disapproval in Flanagan’s eyes. “Please wait a moment while I get this sorted. I need an okay from my sergeant before you touch anything.”
The boys snuck to my side while Tempe and the officers conferred.
“You getting arrested?” Hi asked, sweaty beneath his Iron Man leotard.
“Not yet,” I replied. “They might even let Aunt Tempe and me work the scene.”
Hi dropped his voice an octave. “What’s the story?”
I quickly relayed what we’d learned.
“A real T-800?” Shelton’s eyes widened behind his lenses. “Oh man, I’d kill to see that.”
Ben’s face grew pensive. “A thing like that would be big, right? Heavy?”
Shelton and Hi nodded in unison.
“So how’d the c
rook get it out of here?” Ben waved a hand at the cavernous chamber surrounding us. “There must be a hundred thousand people at Comic-Con.”
I shrugged. Then a wheedling voice caught my attention.
“I can’t explain it.” Skipper was pacing behind me, a cell phone to his ear. “Jenkins and I did a final check at six this morning. Everything was accounted for and show ready. I left Jenkins to drape the stage for the big reveal at ten.” Pause. “No, Connors didn’t show up. I’m sure he was off playing war games, or whatever he does. Jenkins and I did it without him.”
Jenkins? Connors? My gaze slid to the Joker, leaning dejectedly against a stanchion.
He must be one or the other.
Skipper massaged his forehead as he spoke into the phone. “I didn’t even know the T-800 was gone until I pulled the curtains. It makes no sense. How could anyone haul a six-foot Terminator machine out of the exhibit hall undetected? It weighs two hundred pounds. And at least a dozen other vendors were setting up close by.”
Skipper winced at whatever was said in response. “Understood, sir. I’ll do my best.”
He clicked off. Covered his eyes. Then, exhaling deeply, Skipper hurried over to Tempe and the officers.
“So people were around all morning.” Hi shaded his eyes to peer up at the stage. “Yet someone busted open that glass house and carted away a life-sized robot. Ballsy.”
“Crazy, more like.” Shelton wiped his glasses on his Jedi robe. “And stupid. If the thing really is one of a kind, how you gonna sell it? Sounds like a surefire way to get busted.”
I heard my name called. Glanced at Tempe, who waved me toward the stairs.
“I’ll keep you posted,” I told them, hurrying to join her.
“Get what you can,” Officer Flanagan instructed as Tempe and I climbed to the platform. “You’ve only got a few minutes before that glass will have to be cleaned up. It’s a clear safety hazard. There’s too much commotion in here to effectively seal the area, anyway. We’ve had two assaults and an attempted arson since breakfast, and the day is still young. I don’t have personnel to spare.”
Skipper’s face purpled. “But we have to find the T-800! My boss—”
“Has been contacted,” Flanagan interrupted. “He’s not happy, but that’s not my problem.” The grizzled cop turned to us. “Five minutes, then maintenance.”
“Understood.” Tempe nodded for me to follow her across the stage.
We weaved through the display pillars, alert for anything overtly suspicious, then reached the enclosure at center stage. I felt eyes upon me—dozens of people on the convention floor had stopped to watch, chattering excitedly.
I blocked them out. Focused on the task at hand.
I’m assisting Tempe. My wildest dream come true. Don’t screw it up!
The display case was a fifteen-by-ten glass rectangle backed by a red wall. Three large panes faced forward, with the left and right sections still intact. The center pane, however, was completely shattered. Shards of glass littered the enclosure floor.
I glanced at Shrek and started. “Aunt Tempe, look.”
The giant troll had been hacked to pieces, leaving a carpet of green foam-rubber chunks inside the display case. My head whipped left—King Kong, at least, seemed to have been spared the same indignity. The hulking gorilla glowered down at me, appearing fully intact. A placard indicated it was a theatrical prop from an old Broadway musical.
Between the two was a massive, obvious void. The dais was empty.
My eyes darted to the rear wall.
Specifically, to a hand-scrawled message taped there.
“Well, well.” Tempe ran a hand over her mouth. “Someone’s talking.”
Together we stepped inside the case, carefully avoiding the pools of glass fragments.
The note was short and to the point:
We have the T-800.
Transfer $50,000 to the Paypal address below, BY NOON TODAY, or the machine will be destroyed. Shrek was only the beginning.
Tempe and I shared a glance.
“You have one of those grab bags from my signing?” she asked.
I tapped my pocket. “Right here.” Then I snapped a pic with my iPhone.
Tempe checked her watch. “The deadline is less than two hours from now.”
“Guess they’re in a hurry.” But something nagged at me. I stepped closer to the ransom demand. “How much did RoboCop say this thing was worth?”
“Half a million.” Tempe tapped her lip, considering. “The low demand is shrewd. Small enough for the owner to obtain quickly, and not too much to risk to save the investment. But still a hefty chunk of change.”
I nodded, but my uneasiness persisted. “But why not at least try to sell the Terminator on the black market? Even at half its value, they’d net five times as much money. If you’re capable of getting that thing out of here undetected, why not take a shot at a bigger score?”
“Got me.” Tempe did a slow 360, surveying the rest of the enclosure.
“See anything of use?” I asked, duplicating her move.
“Nothing obvious, and we don’t have time to do this properly.” Tempe pointed to the note. “One sheet of blank copy paper, affixed to the wall with blue-green duct tape. The tape is sloppily cut, as though done in a hurry, or maybe even ripped by teeth.”
“Could it be tested for DNA?” I suggested.
“For a smash-and-grab robbery?” Tempe shook her head. “Probably not in the budget. But the tape itself might tell us something. Tape can usually be identified by manufacturer, and fibers within a roll can be matched microscopically.”
“But we’d need to find the specific roll used.” I looked out at the sea of vendors and booths. “How many rolls are floating around this exhibit hall? Hundreds? Thousands? I doubt we have that kind of time.”
“Agreed.” Tempe frowned, eyes still surveying the stage. “Other than the note, there’s almost zilch to work with here. I wouldn’t bet on finding fingerprints. Seems too professional.”
I nodded, feeling deflated. “Other than the glass.”
“True.”
Tempe removed a swag bag from her pocket and pulled on rubber gloves. Then she squatted and selected a shard the size of her fingernail. “This is tempered glass. Very strong, and safety-designed to fragment upon impact. Similar to what’s used in car windshields. Expensive. It takes a lot of force to break this stuff. Almost like . . .”
She rose. Scrutinized the red backstop of the case.
“What are you looking for?” I asked, spinning to follow her gaze.
“Bullet holes. A gunshot seems the most likely way to shatter one of these panes. I could whack at this glass all day with a golf club, and still get nowhere.”
We examined the enclosure’s rear wall top to bottom. No bullets. No holes. Then we scanned the floor for shells or casings. Nada.
“I guess that’s out.” Tempe’s brow crinkled. “So how in the hell did the perp break in?”
I removed the gloves from my gift bag, snapped one on, then reached down and snagged a block of lime-green foam rubber. “Shrek sure took a beating.”
Tempe nodded, hands on her hips. “It’s weird. One figure slashed, one stolen, and one untouched.”
“Maybe they’re making a movie critique,” I joked lamely. “No more CGI.”
“Dr. Brennan?” Flanagan was outside the enclosure, looking impatient. “That’s all the time I can spare. This debris is a public safety hazard, and the scene is drawing eyeballs like flies. Officer Palmer and I can’t secure the area alone regardless. I have to let the staff clean up.”
Tempe gave him a level look. “At least have your partner snap some photos.”
“Will do.” Flanagan barked new orders into his radio. A staticky voice responded.
Tempe carefully removed the ranso
m note, then began digging in her swag bag. “Who knew these suckers would be so handy?”
“You’re always thinking ahead,” I quipped.
Tempe snorted. “Thank my publicist, who’ll likely kill me for abandoning my post. Can you fill your other glove with glass fragments, and then find a plastic bag in your kit? It’s empty. Please gather a few sponge-rubber samples in there.”
I did as instructed. Then, when Tempe wasn’t looking, I slipped a few of each into my pocket. You never know.
Tempe placed the ransom note inside her own plastic bag, then handed it to me. “Tie off that glove, then seal and date the two baggies, please.”
Which I did. But not before tearing a scrap of tape off the note.
I can’t help myself.
“Okay, ladies.” Flanagan shifted unhappily. The lanky officer appeared at his back, digital camera in hand. “Let’s go. Palmer will shoot the scene, as you requested.”
Tempe shrugged. “Best we can do, I guess. Come on, Tory.”
With a last look at Shrek and Kong, I followed her from the case.
Three Yellow Shirts fired across the stage, toting brooms, dustpans, a vacuum cleaner.
Below, the Joker and a rail-thin woman in a navy pants suit were roping off the stage area. The looky-loos began to dissipate, drawn by more exciting action springing up elsewhere on the convention floor.
As Tempe and I descended, I spotted the boys waiting impatiently behind the cordon.
Skipper closed in like a falcon. “Find anything?”
Tempe handed Officer Flanagan the ransom note. His mustache actually bristled as he read the message.
Skipper, reading over his shoulder, paled, then yanked out his iPhone.
“Is there another way onto that stage?” Tempe asked.
Skipper answered in a strangled voice, offhandedly tugging at his turtleneck. “There’s a trapdoor at stage center, but it’s kept locked, and is barely large enough for someone to crawl through anyway. No one could steal the T-800 that way. Jenkins has the only key.” He gestured toward the Joker.
Interesting.
Tempe must’ve had the same thought. “Mr. Jenkins?” she called.
