The Counterfeit Murder in the Museum of Man

by Alfred Alcorn

  There is the jerky movement of walking as he goes down the hall, down two flights of the fire escape stairs and out the back door next to the loading dock. The car comes into sight. The window rolls down. Heinie is heard saying, “Get in,” just as the door opens and he comes into view. The sound is raspy but clear enough so that what’s said is intelligible. Most of the time the lens, which is wide-angle, includes the driver in its field of view. Heinie says, his gloved hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead as though driving, “You’ve really messed things up, you know that, Butler.”

  “My name is de Buitliér.” The voice is closer, muddied, but still distinct enough.

  “Whatever. You had to go messing with my coins, didn’t you. You had to make a fool of me …”

  “They’re fakes. It was my responsibility …”

  “Bullshit. You were doing anything you could to make me look bad.”

  “So what? That doesn’t change the facts.”

  “Even if it destroyed me in the process.”

  “I was only doing my job.”

  There’s a silence in which von Grümh reaches down beside him and comes up with the revolver. “And I’m about to do mine, damn you.”

  De Buitliér’s voice is shaky. Whose wouldn’t be? “You should know that this whole thing is being taped. I have a setup through my cell phone.”

  Von Grümh laughs. “You always were a sly one. Phony as a …”

  “You should talk.”

  “You little …”

  “Heinie … give me the gun and we’ll pretend this never happened.”

  “I’ll give it to you if you’ll shoot me in the heart with it.” He lapses into a mutter. “Everyone’s been screwing me. Or my wife.”

  There’s a silence. In the distance, through the front window, a dim figure can be seen walking a small dog on a leash.

  “I can’t do that.”

  Von Grümh laughs. “Because you think I’m not worth shooting?”

  De Buitliér says, reverting to his ersatz brogue, “You’re right enough there …” He trails off.

  Heinie says, “You don’t think I have the balls to shoot myself, do you?”

  De Buitliér is silent for what seems a long time. Then, in an accent that is neither here nor there, he speaks. “Why would I think that? All you have to do is put the gun to your head and pull the trigger. All of your misery will be ended. Nothing could be simpler.”

  A mad hope sounds in Heinie’s voice. “I don’t want it to look like a suicide.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because people who commit suicide are losers.”

  “There’s something to that.”

  “Look, if I do it … will you take the gun?”

  “I should take it anyway. To keep someone else from getting it. It would be the responsible thing to do.”

  Heinie snorts at that. “God, you’re a coldhearted little bastard.”

  “He’s right there,” the sergeant interjected.

  There’s another long silence. As though impatient, de Buitliér says, “Heinie, just give me the damn thing. You don’t have what it takes to shoot me or yourself.”

  In the silence that follows, von Grümh nods slowly, the gun still pointing firmly at the curator. When his voice is heard again, it’s as though from a distance. “You may be right.” He turns to de Buitliér. “But if I kill you first, then I won’t have a choice, will I? And this whole dirty nightmare will be over. I mean, I won’t have a choice. Not if this is all being recorded … for posterity. Posterity. What the hell does that word mean?”

  Von Grümh, gripping the steering wheel with his free hand, stifles a sob and keeps talking. “With my net worth, I could buy and sell this whole miserable town. Did you know there have been some very important people, I mean, A-list movers and shakers, who wanted me to run for governor. I could have done that. Then senator. And then, who knows … Because I know how things work. I know … Instead, all I did was write checks. All my life, I’ve been trying to make other people happy. God knows I’ve tried. All I’ve done is give, give, give. And at every turn I’ve been betrayed. Betrayed …”

  He sounds like a man trying to bare his soul only to find that he doesn’t have one.

  He says, “So you’ll take the gun after I’ve …”

  “I’ve said I would.”

  In a movement that takes less than seconds but replays in the mind with slow, awful clarity, von Grümh raises the gun to his head and cocks it. He holds it there for what seems an eternity. He gives a short, strangled cry. A blinding noise is heard. The body slumps forward and a trickle of blood comes out of the wound in the right temple.

  De Buitliér momentarily sounds panicked. He says, “Jesus!” Then the camera pivots around, scanning the area around the car as though to check for witnesses. There are none. No lights go on anywhere. With one last “Jesus,” de Buitliér reaches over, unclutches the dead man’s hand, and takes the revolver. The screen goes blank.

  It was then that I remembered the detail that had been tantalizing me to the point of distraction for weeks: Heinie had been wearing gloves. He had cold hands even in warm weather. I looked at de Buitliér. “You also removed his gloves, didn’t you?” I swear I could have punched him in the face, such was my anger.

  “No, why would I?”

  “To make it look like a murder,” Lieutenant Tracy said. He stood up and disconnected the cell phone. “I’ll be taking this for the time being. It obviously clears you of von Grümh’s murder. But you may still be charged with tampering with evidence.”

  “For what crime, may I ask?” De Buitliér had some of his old confidence back. “Suicide was decriminalized in this state several years ago.”

  “Then why did you take the gun?”

  “Someone else might have found it and used it to commit a crime.”

  With uncharacteristic sarcasm, the lieutenant said, “You mean you were being a public-minded citizen?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Why didn’t you just lock the car?”

  “I didn’t think of it.”

  The police officers asked him a few more questions and told him not to leave town without calling first. Turning to me, the lieutenant said, “I’ll call you. Good work.”

  When they had left, I regarded de Buitliér for a long minute. “So why?” I asked finally.

  “Why what?”

  “Why not come forward when I got accused of accessory to murder?”

  A red flush of anger suffused his face, but he kept his voice in check. “Why not?” He stood up and pointed his finger at me. “Because people like you … you look down on people like me. You get all the credit and we do all the work. But I got my own back, didn’t I?”

  “You did it deliberately just to get at me?”

  “Don’t pride yourself. I did it … for reasons of my own.”

  “You did it because Malachy Morin promised you that he would name you director of the MOM if you found a way to get me out of the way?”

  He shrugged as though to say, So what?

  “And the fake coins were only a start?”

  “Yeah, that was nice. And I kept my eyes open. Then I heard about the problems with the Neanderthal exhibit.”

  “And you leaked that to the Bugle?”

  “Leaked? No, I just turned on the spigot.”

  “And you took the gun more to discredit me than to honor your promise to Heinie?”

  “I did. The fact that it was your gun was a bonus.”

  I turned to go. I stopped at the door. I tried to think of something utterly damning to say to him. But nothing sufficed. It would be like trying to insult a cockroach. “Keep packing” was all I said.

  25

  From where I lounge I can see a rubythroat preening its gossamer wings with its long, slender bill. I have read that they use spider silk to line the tiny nests in which they lay their tiny eggs. Yet what large, enchanted lives they lead, including an annual round-trip to Mexico
or thereabouts. To watch in angled light one of these creatures stationary in flight over a nectarous, deep-throated flower is to know that evolution, among other things, is the wellspring of beauty.

  I am rusticating. Some golden days of summer remain, and I have retreated to the cottage by the lake with Diantha, Elsie, and Decker. Here I spend hours drowsing on the porch, book or notebook in hand, undergoing something akin to isostatic rebound — the slow rising of compressed land after an ice age, when high glaciers retreat and release all beneath from their cold, heavy grip.

  There are the usual loose ends to this sad case of Heinrich von Grümh. The original coins have not been found. According to Lieutenant Tracy, Interpol reports that the person known as Alain LeBlanc has lived up to his name. I picture him enjoying life in some Swiss lodge with a mountain view as he moves his loot, a few coins at a time, to private collectors not overly scrupulous about their provenance.

  Which doesn’t trouble me unduly. Valuable things have a way of taking care of themselves. The coins will gather in other collections. Those collections will be bought and sold and perhaps donated to museums by wealthy numismatists (provided they are honored for doing so and provided they receive an adequate tax break).

  But then what is life but one big loose end that we strive mightily to keep from being tied up? In the several weeks since de Buitliér’s “confession,” time itself has snipped off or bundled up much that had become unraveled. And more.

  Diantha and I are in love again. The beautiful people with their sleek lives little know what passion can burn in what seem the most placid, even humdrum of marriages. We are mindful of each other, gentle, considerate, and at times perhaps too careful in what we say and how we say it. In the past couple of weeks, Diantha has positively clung to me. It may be nothing more than a late-summer lassitude, but I doubt it. Or the possibility that she is pregnant again, which gives me great joy even though at my age it may look like she is having my grandchildren. All the rest is commentary, as the Talmud tells us.

  Alphus has landed on his feet or on all four hands, as he likes to say. He has privately confirmed reports that the advance for book and film rights to his memoir amounts to nearly five million dollars. His new wealth has allowed him to rent a secured bungalow not far from Sign House. There he lives with his official keeper, a young graduate student in anthropology who travels with him and vocalizes his signing when necessary. Through a trust set up by Felix, he has bought a vacant lot close to the Arboretum where he hopes to build a habitation suitable to his needs, a leopard-proof tree house I am told.

  The guy is suddenly everywhere — news interviews, talk shows, the cover of People magazine, a visit to the Oval Office. The public cannot get enough of him. With great fanfare and with Felix at his side, he has applied for “personhood,” with all the rights that pertain thereto. The problem is that the requisite agencies to grant such a thing are not in place, not to mention the legal hurdles.

  From the heat of the debate that has flared up — apparently another round in the culture wars — you would think the imminent fate of civilization hung in the balance. The usual arguments are trotted out: If chimpanzees are admitted as members of the human family, will dogs be next? What about cats, canaries, snakes, pet rocks? One respected theologian has asked, “Does he have a soul?”

  It begs the question whether any of us have a soul, other than the one we might fashion for ourselves out of the vicissitudes of life. By that measure, Alphus may well be more soulful than a lot of people.

  His friend Ridley has also landed on his feet. Though he completed only a couple of years at Vanderbilt, his flair for mathematics is such that he has been admitted to Wainscott at a graduate level. And while he still “hangs” with Alphus, I’m told he has found or been found by a young woman who takes up much of his time.

  Speaking of which, Doreen has been delivered of a bouncing baby boy, which is the good news. The less than good news for me is that she wants to stay home and raise the child the old-fashioned way while helping her husband with his ministry in a small church a fair distance from Seaboard. This happy event necessitated a visit on my part to our Human Resources Department to begin the process of hiring someone to replace the dear woman. When I used the word secretary, the efficient person in charge informed me that the proper title for the position was administrative assistant. To no avail did I point out that if the nation can have a secretary of state, why could I not have a plain secretary? Surely that title carries more weight and dignity. You don’t find anyone called an administrative assistant of defense.

  Merissa and Max are now very much a couple. We had them over for a cookout not long ago. She remains quite irrepressible. “Max and I are getting married, aren’t we, Max?” she announced as we sawed into the thick steaks I had done with lots of fresh oregano on charcoal.

  Max smiled and nodded and kept chewing.

  “And we’re going to have lots of babies.”

  Max sipped wine and raised his glass. “Whatever you say, darling.”

  Professor Laluna Jackson remains undaunted by her failure to take over the museum to use as headquarters for the Victim Studies Department. It seems that funds are being raised for a new building to be designed by the same therapeutic architect who would have gutted our fabulous old pile. I also hear that Ms. Jackson is contemplating something called the White Male Apology Initiative. It apparently involves collecting signatures from members of that designated group on a document attesting to their remorse for all the evil they have caused through the millennia. I wonder if, as the former John J. Johnson, she will sign it herself.

  Malachy Morin. The man simply will not go away. Incredible as it seems, he has been appointed President pro tem of Wainscott in place of George Twill, who has retired a year ahead of schedule because of failing health. But then, as Izzy Landes had remarked, chief executives of universities are not the people of substance and stature they used to be. Izzy claims that knowledgeable people can usually name more members of the Red Sox starting lineup than they can the presidents of even the premier universities.

  I take some comfort in the fact that Mr. Morin will have a year in which to mess things up enough to prevent his permanent accession. That is not a remote possibility given that one of his first acts has been to appoint Feidhlimidh de Buitliér director of the Wainscott News Office despite the role he played in the suicide of Heinrich von Grümh.

  Regarding Mr. de Buitliér, I do not think justice has been served however exculpated he may be in the eyes of the law. He cannot be charged with the murder of von Grümh, but he certainly abetted the man’s self-slaughter. At the very least, he should have tried to stop him. Yet what makes my inner skin crawl is the theft of the dead man’s gloves. To imagine him peeling them off those lifeless, limp hands just to make it look like murder …

  But who am I to judge? I have not had a change of heart about Heinie however much I know I should regret the man’s decease. I am scarcely sorry that I am not sorry. I am working on it, but I cannot pretend to have a large enough spirit to forgive. That capacity remains for me, at least in this case, the realm of saints. Or of fools. I believe it too much to ask a man to forgive someone who threatened your life, who duped you with forgeries, who not only slept with your wife but gloated about it, and who very nearly ruined your career. The best I can summon for Christian charity is to tell myself and a God I doubt is listening that Heinie is better off dead if only because his life had become such a torment. I also think it presumptuous to second-guess the judgment of suicides in cases like his.

  I regret not having taken the gun from him when I had a chance to. Doing so would have avoided this whole dreadful mess and, perhaps, his untimely death. Unless, in possession of my weapon, and surely I would have recognized it as such, I might have shot the wretch myself. And while I can now deny having the wherewithal to kill any human being in cold blood, I know too well that most of us have a dark side no matter who we are. I am not speaking here of the re
ptile within, of the despots old and new, of the blank-faced serial killer, of the bowlegged gunslinger. No, I am referring to you and me and the guy driving by in his car. I am referring to good old, highly evolved Homo homicidens, a species distinguished by, among other things, a propensity to murder its own.

  As for some final perspective? The question, curiously enough, has become academic, at least where I am concerned. Marvin Grimley, the Director of the Center for Criminal Justice and a friend of Harvey Deharo’s, has invited me to give the annual Bernard Lecture in October. After considerable thought, I have decided the title will be something like “Crimen Delectabile and the Moral Problematics of Using Murder as Amusement.”