The Love Potion Murders in the Museum of Man

by Alfred Alcorn

  “It wasn’t a pretty scene.”

  “You were there? Afterward?” Her voice had a touch of awe to it.

  “I looked at the crime scene photos. And the crime scene video.”

  She bent to put a glass in the dishwasher with, I thought, an exaggerated motion. “So you really get into it.”

  “I’m helping the police with inquiries, as the British put it, but not as a suspect. Not yet anyway.”

  She beamed at me. “That is so cool.”

  “That remains to be seen. I could just botch things up for them.”

  “Now you’re the one underestimating yourself.”

  I smiled. “What did you say before? It’s better than having other people do it for you.”

  As we closed up the kitchen for the night, she took one of my hands in hers. “By the way … Dad … Do you mind if I call you Dad?”

  “I’d be honored.”

  “I want to thank you for taking such good care of Mom these last couple of years.” Her eyes were bright and dark with sincerity, establishing as much as the warmth of her hand the closeness she wanted to have with me.

  “She has taken care of me, too, you know. She has made my life …” At which point, for the first time all evening, I had to stop and take a deep sigh.

  But there remains a jagged, nagging note to this sad and yet curiously jubilant occasion that I have been skirting around throughout this account. In saying good night to Diantha in the hallway upstairs, I leaned down to give her a chaste peck on the cheek only to find myself kissed full on the lips with a sensuality the sensation of which I cannot quite shake. I found myself reeling down the hallway in a kind of sensual time warp, every nerve alive, my imagination full of conjurations, my pulse racing. Though nearly six decades along in life, I find myself still burdened with a persisting virility, as though marriage to Elsbeth has re-endowed me with the manly vigor of youth. I thought the momentary pulse of lust, distressing enough, would pass as I came to my senses. But it lingers and I find myself beset with images and forbidden desires.

  It’s as though my dear Elsbeth, lying in our bedroom suffering through a drugged, fitful sleep, has become a ghost, replaced in life by Diantha, who is the very embodiment of her mother at a younger age. She has the same full-bodied figure, the same dark glowing eyes, the same pretty if somewhat blunt features, and even, at times, the same dark timbre of voice intimating the essential mischievousness of life.

  I may, of course, be reading too much into the incident. For Diantha it was no doubt a kiss that got away. Or perhaps that’s the way people in show business comport themselves. Disport themselves more like it. Or perhaps she is needful of an affection that, under the right circumstances, can inflame one to more tangible desires. It may also be that the presence or probability of individual finality stirs us in ways that are only superficially grotesque. As Father O’Gould has reminded us on more than one occasion, it is easy to forget what we are descended from.

  Speaking of which, Malachy Morin accosted me in the Club at lunch on Friday and I couldn’t get away from him without agreeing to meet with him and “the big-money guys” from the Wainscott Office of Development. I do not consider myself a snob, but it seems to me the Club ought to be one of those places you can go to avoid people like Mr. Morin.

  9

  Although it is still early in the afternoon, I have closed the door and asked Doreen to hold my calls while I peck at these keys and at a crabmeat salad sandwich we had sent in. I usually don’t interrupt my workday to make entries into this subfile. But Lieutenant Tracy came in around eleven accompanied by Dr. P.M. Cutler, the Medical Examiner, and Dr. Arthur ffronche, a forensic endocrinologest from the state crime lab, and I want to record our conversation while it is still fresh in my mind.

  Dr. Cutler, as those who read the account of the Cannibal Murders may recall, specializes in analyzing the stomach contents of individuals who have met a suspicious end. A professional gentleman of the old school, Dr. Cutler parts his abundant white hair in the middle, perches his half-moon spectacles on his nose, and wears bow ties bordering on the flamboyant.

  Dr. ffronche, a large man of frowning if mischievous mien and extravagant hair in the style of Einstein, spoke English with a noticeable Irish accent.

  Dr. Cutler gave us each a copy of his report, and, speaking in one of those Brahmin drawls that go with old silver, he took us through some of the more arcane findings.

  “As I reported earlier, the victims, and I think we can safely assume they were victims, more than likely ingested the poison, or the substance that acted as a poison, with what might be called ‘snack’ amounts of recognizably ethnic Chinese food. These included dim sum, vegetarian spring rolls, and pork strips.

  “Further analysis reveals the presence of a potent cocktail of both neurophysiological and biomechanical agents. That is, substances that work on both the brain and the sex organs.”

  “Unlike Viagra,” Lieutenant Tracy put in.

  “Exactement,” said Dr. ffronche. “This potion must work on the libido and, how do you say, the plumbing.” He went on, “Sildenafil citrate, the active ingredient in Viagra, acts, in these prescribed amounts, as a vasodilator in the penis.”

  The Medical Examiner, raising his calm gray eyes to both of us, said, “Not to bore you with the details, it prevents the breakdown of a compound, cyclic guanosine monophosphate, and that, apparently, releases nitrous oxide, which is what causes the smooth muscle cells of the arteries to relax, increasing the flow of blood.”

  Dr. ffronche nodded his agreement. “That is to say, it enables and prolongs, but does not cause, an erection.”

  “For that, you would need a psychoactive substance,” Dr. Cutler explained.

  “Unless the individuals involved were lovers,” Dr. ffronché put in. “And in this case that is not the case, yes?”

  “Yes,” I said, “most emphatically not the case.”

  “Which leads us to the more problematic part of our report.” Dr. Cutler glanced at his colleague as he spoke.

  Dr. ffronche knit his brows together. “Absolutely. In this case we have a veritable cocktail, as you say.” He picked up his copy of the report. “We have found evidence of cannabis as well as an extract from the herb Turnera aphrodisiaca, a shrub of the south said to possess, as its Latin name suggests, aphrodisiac powers. We have also found a significant level of ring-substituted amphetamines, that is to say, MDMA.”

  “MDMA?” I asked.

  “Methylenedioxymethamphetamine,” Dr. Cutler explained.

  “Ecstasy,” the lieutenant put in. “The drug of choice at raves …”

  “Raves?”

  “Club dances. Users mix it with Viagra or Cialis and call it sextasy.”

  Dr. ffronche nodded knowingly. “Then there is what we must call ingredient X. I will not speculate on it now. It will take more research and even then we may never be sure. Alas, our resources are limited.”

  I sighed. “It’s very possible then that we have a rogue researcher at large in the lab.”

  “Or several.” Dr. Cutler glanced at his watch. “Assuming the ‘cocktail’ originated in the lab. As Dr. ffronché has just noted and as the report surmises in its conclusion, there may be one or more unidentified substances that catalyzes the others or acts as a synergizing element, perhaps boosting bioavailability and reducing blood-absorption time.”

  “And,” Dr. ffronche added with an emphatic gesture, “something that stimulates that most important sex organ in the human body — the brain.”

  We had a few questions for the Medical Examiner and his colleague. In the course of these, he noted that Dr. Woodley, who was taking a nitrate-based prescription for hypertension, died from the consequences of a catastrophic drop in blood pressure. Professor Ossmann died of a heart attack apparently because he had a weak heart to begin with.

  When Drs. Cutler and ffronché departed after vigorous handshakes and expressions of appreciation on our part, the lieutenant and I w
ent over the less arcane facts of the case.

  I raised an obvious point. “Wouldn’t it be wise to check with all the Chinese restaurants in town to see where they might have gotten the snacks they had that night?”

  The lieutenant’s nod was an indulgent one, the kind a professional gives an amateur. “We’ve already done that.”

  “And …?”

  “And. None of the thirteen ethnic Chinese restaurants in Seaboard or the surrounding communities reports sending takeout to the lab at that time. They keep very good records, and they all cooperated to the fullest.”

  “Was it strictly ethnic Chinese food?” I asked, thinking for some reason of the Green Sherpa.

  “It was, but we checked all the restaurants that have Chinese-like food, you know, the Thai place downtown.”

  “And the Green Sherpa?”

  The lieutenant reached into his case and withdrew a sheaf of papers. He ruffled through them. “And the Green Sherpa.”

  “Perhaps one of them brought the food from home. Leftovers.”

  “Right. Or the stuff you put in a microwave. No go. Mrs. Ossmann, who did not seem particularly bothered by what had happened to her husband, said neither of them knew how to do as much as make boiled rice. And they didn’t keep anything like that in the freezer. But yes, they did occasionally go to Chinese restaurants, usually with friends. Ditto for Ms. Woodley’s widower, a Walter Gorman. He was very shook up by the whole thing.”

  “I don’t blame him,” I said. “But what about the staff refrigerator? Leftovers get left in them all the time.”

  He nodded, took out his notebook. “I talked to a guy named Baxter. He was down on a list for keeping the refrigerator clean. It was his turn that week, and he’s positive that there was no fresh or leftover Chinese food in the refrigerator when he left for home that night. He says he left late, about six forty-five. Woodley signed in at seven eighteen and Ossmann at seven thirty-two.”

  “So it would be unlikely but not impossible that someone came in and left the food in the refrigerator during that time.”

  “Possibly. But there’s something else.”

  I waited.

  The lieutenant shifted in his seat, the gunmetal eyes in his ruddy face taking on a sudden sharpness as he leaned forward. “At first it didn’t seem significant.” He paused. “We found no evidence of food wrappers, cartons, plastic forks, or anything like that at the scene. I went over the inventory list myself. I talked to crime scene people. They’re good. They would have listed and bagged anything like that in a case like this.”

  “Perhaps they ate somewhere else.”

  “The ME’s report estimates they ate the Chinese food no more than fifteen or twenty minutes before they … did to each other what they did.”

  “And the sign-in book in the annex shows they were each there at least an hour before they died.”

  “Right.”

  The officer rose to go. He put on his trench coat and the sharp trilby that makes him look every inch a detective. “We’re going to announce it just before the evening news. That will give you a chance to alert people, control the damage.”

  “Many thanks, Lieutenant,” I said. “It isn’t just the bad news that bothers people, it’s how they hear it. I’ll make a few phone calls.”

  “Keep your ear to the ground, Norman. This is definitely murder.”

  Murder, I thought afterward, trying to grasp in my mind what it means to take the life of another. Why was it so prevalent among our species? Murder for hate, for love, for gain, for politics, for its own sake. It brought back last evening when I had what might be called a night out with the boys. Actually, I met Izzy Landes and Father O’Gould for dinner at the Club. We got into our cups — Izzy came up with a fine Australian Shiraz. We also grew just a bit morbid as the evening wore on. I mentioned Penrood’s remark about how we may be the last generation to die. Izzy remarked that perhaps he and S.J. ought to do a book together on the history of death — before people forgot what it was.

  We moved into the comfortable common room, and over coffee and a small brandy the good priest confessed how he privately lamented the memorial being erected on the Seaboard Common by the local Irish community to commemorate the Great Famine. “I fear that the Irish in America suffer from a kind of Holocaust envy,” he said in his soft Cork accent. “Sure, will it not only add to the spirit of competitive victimization into which we all seem to have fallen. In the end is it not a divisive thing? Does it not keep us apart?”

  I was a little surprised to hear Izzy say that he differed very much with Father O’Gould. “I would agree,” he said, a world-weary look coming into his kind eyes, “that there is altogether too much made of the Holocaust. To dwell so disproportionately on that catastrophe is to imply that the other millions murdered in the twentieth century are less worthy of our compassion. As a tragedy for the Jews nothing and not enough can be said about the Holocaust. As a tragedy for humankind it needs be put into the context of all the other genocides of the twentieth century. Otherwise there is the danger that it will become a geek show, one that pathologizes the history of the Jews.”

  “I’m not sure I follow you,” I said.

  Izzy shook his head slowly. “I mean that the deliberate Nazi extermination of Jews, Gypsies, gays, and others is the singular, most horrific mass murder of the past hundred years. But it is by no means the only mass extermination or the even the largest one. The Communists murdered tens of millions, perhaps a hundred million in all, in Russia, China, and Cambodia. If we are going to erect memorials to victims of twentieth-century genocides, we need include those victims as well.”

  “But in that case are we not then pathologizing human history itself?” Father O’Gould asked.

  “Perhaps. History is the nightmare from which we are all trying to awake, after all, to quote the conscience of your own race, S.J. We need more, not less, memorials to what we have done to one another.”

  “To remind ourselves,” I said.

  “Exactly. Because we like to think it was done in the past by people not like us. But that is a mistake. The genocides have continued, haven’t they? In Uganda, in Rwanda, in northern Iraq, in the Balkans, in Darfur. We need to remind ourselves of what humankind is capable of. We need to remember that we are all at risk.”

  “But are you saying, Izzy, that we should look upon murder, even mass murder, as a natural phenomenon?” asked Father O’Gould, who was still skeptical.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “The way cancer is natural,” I said without thinking.

  “Indeed, Norman, the way cancer is natural.” And there was a subtle, acknowledging sympathy in Izzy’s voice.

  The Jesuit reluctantly nodded his understanding. “I suppose you are right, Israel. I mean, in the sense we need to remind ourselves that the natural and the good are not always the same thing.”

  I wondered if the good priest was referring to his vows of celibacy, but I said nothing.

  I walked home rather than accepting a lift from Izzy or calling a cab. I wanted to think, to sort out in my own life the conflict between what is good and what is natural. For me, at the moment, it is more than an abstract conundrum.

  The fact is that I have conceived a most powerful amorous longing for Diantha. I trouble these pages with this revelation because, not given to therapeutics, I need to tell someone, even if it is only this mute screen. Imagine my torment. Here is Elsbeth, my beloved wife, visibly shrinking to extinction before my eyes, while I stew myself in concupiscent fantasies for her daughter. I dare not put on paper the details of the scenes with Diantha I have concocted in my fervid imagination, especially after I have had one or two stiff ones and my inner inhibitors have toppled like candlepins.

  Though not biologically my child, Diantha is surely my child morally. It doesn’t help that she is something of a flirt and, having lived for some time in Southern California, is altogether careless about modesty. The night before last, as an example, she took a shower
in the main bathroom and left the door open. I looked right in, right through the transparent shower door, and saw her, a full-bodied naiad oiled with water. And then myself, in the fogged mirror, amid the steam, a peeping old Priapus in a silken gown in the throes of nympholepsy.

  There may be relief on the way. Elsbeth tells me that one Sixpak Shakur, Diantha’s “on-and-off” boyfriend, whatever that means, is arriving next week for a short stay. “Sixy,” as Diantha calls him, is some sort of pop singer.

  When I asked Diantha about him, she said, “He’s a rapper, Dad.”

  “Of presents or knuckles?” I asked, not knowing in the least what she was talking about.

  It filled her with amused amazement to learn I didn’t know who Sixpak Shakur was, and didn’t know or particularly want to know what rap music was. It charmed her when I told her I treasured my ignorance of such things. She gave me a kiss and told me I was like a precious antique.

  Still, there are distinct advantages to Diantha’s presence. She keeps Elsbeth company during the day. Apparently they watch a lot of soap operas on the television. I don’t know what they find in these travesties of normal life, travesties in the sense that they show no moments of repose. Not only does everyone have what looks like steroid-induced complexions, but they continually teeter on the verge of some apocalyptic revelation that, when it comes, turns out to be some predictably banal betrayal about love or money.

  But they do occupy dear Elsbeth. She says she no longer has the energy to read murder mysteries, most of which, as she blithely admits, are not very plausible, just another form of pulp fiction, fantasies, really, especially when the protagonist drags in details of his or her personal life, which invariably happens.

  We are all growing more concerned about the fate of Corny Chard. At the behest of Jocelyn Chard, I have contacted the State Department and requested that they make some inquiries with the local government agencies in the area Corny was last reported seen. We haven’t heard from him in some time. I’ve had calls from the Department Chair, who persists in believing that the museum funded most of the expedition. He keeps reminding me that Corny is scheduled to teach the second half of the semester in a seminar on the origins of beauty among primitive peoples. I realize Corny’s in a place that renders him virtually incommunicado, but surely, with modern communications, such places are becoming exceptional. I do hope the State Department can help us.