The Question of the Missing Head

by E. J. Copperman

  “How would you have seen that?” Mother asked. She is always interested in hearing about my process.

  “We found out that only three of the fifteen receptacles in that room were actually frozen,” Lapides said. “All the ones working were in the same section as the one that was supposed to have Rita’s, and they had really frozen that receptacle, too, just to make it look good. The others were displays, just to keep potential customers believing that the institute was a healthy, going concern.”

  “In addition, we had the video security footage of Dr. Springer doing a routine check on the supposed Masters-Powell receptacle after the theft had been reported,” I explained. “She was doing what she always did because she had always known there was no cranium in the receptacle. She hadn’t been told about the ‘theft’ yet.”

  Lapides shook his head. “A lot of the frozen receptacles were empty,” he said. “What a waste.”

  “It is very likely that GSCI is on the verge of bankruptcy,” I added. “But there was a great deal more physical evidence in the chamber that ‘Charlotte’ did not want me to examine. First, when we discovered Dr. Springer’s body, she was not wearing a protective suit, as she would have under any normal circumstances. So it is reasonable to assume that she was forced into the chamber against her will, without the time it would have taken to put on the protective clothing.”

  Ms. Washburn ended her cellular phone conversation and joined us as the three police vehicles, with Captain Harris in the first, drove out of the parking lot and onto US Highway 1, heading south.

  “Also,” I continued, “the receptacle, supposedly kept under extremely cold temperatures in liquid nitrogen freeze, was on the floor behind her, and Dr. Springer was not wearing protective gloves or any other kind of covering on her hands. But they were not burned or scarred in any way. Either she had not handled the receptacle, which was unlikely since her fingerprints were found on it, or the more logical solution, the receptacle had been taken out of its frozen state long before. Because the conspirators knew they were going to stage the theft and wanted the receptacle at room temperature so they could position it properly after the ‘shooting.’ And the only reason that would happen was that there had never been any remains inside the receptacle, and no reason to keep it preserved at a low temperature.”

  “How does that lead to Charlotte being Rita?” Lapides wanted to know. “That was the thing that made the least sense.”

  “That was a complete stroke of luck,” I told him. “Ms. Washburn had taken a short video of me in my office yesterday morning, as part of a question unrelated to this affair entirely. When I looked at it early this morning, I saw that Ackerman, about to come in and hire Questions Answered—supposedly to find the missing ‘guest,’ but really to cover for the fact that he wasn’t calling the police—had driven up directly behind me and was visible in the video.”

  “He was?” Ms. Washburn asked. “I don’t recall seeing him.”

  “You were focused on your subject, and you knew the background would be digitally eliminated for our project,” I reminded her. With the suspects now removed, we began to walk back to Mother’s car, so she could drive Ms. Washburn home and then continue on to our home. “When I noticed his car in the background, it was clear there was a woman in the passenger seat next to him. It was the woman we knew as Charlotte Selby. Once Epstein e-mailed me the photograph of Rita Masters-Powell, I compared the two, and the face in the video was the same as the one in the photograph. Only her hair color had changed from blond to brunette, probably as a rudimentary means of disguise.”

  “Or she ran out of hair dye,” Ms. Washburn suggested drily.

  “You knew that Arthur Masters was behind the extortion plot,” Lapides said to Ms. Washburn. “How did you figure that?”

  Ms. Washburn looked at the ground and said quietly, “I didn’t like the way he looked at me.”

  “What?” Lapides asked.

  “She said that Arthur had been adamant about paying the ransom while his mother resisted at all costs,” I said. “The fact that ‘Charlotte’ always chose to leave the room when Laverne Masters was there, but not when Arthur was alone, was telling. As a ‘citizen journalist,’ Charlotte should have resisted being removed from the action, but when Laverne was coming, she volunteered to leave. That indicated that Rita did not want her mother to see she was still alive, but Arthur knew the truth.”

  Lapides blinked three times and stopped chewing gum for a moment. “She said all that?” he asked, indicated Ms. Washburn.

  “Yes.”

  The detective looked impressed. Mother smiled at me knowingly, but I could not discern what that expression was meant to convey.

  We stood there for twenty-three seconds, during which I ran the details of the question through my mind, to see if there was anything I had missed. The others seemed to be doing something similar, each lost in thought and not saying anything.

  “How did you know it was Ackerman?” Lapides finally asked. “I suspected something was up with him, but he always seemed so pained when anything would threaten the institute. How did you know he was behind the scheme?”

  I did not make eye contact. I know I should have, but the fact is that I was embarrassed. “I did not know about Ackerman until very late,” I admitted. “Until he had me ejected from the building, just as I was beginning to piece the answers together, I had no suspicion. But even then, I thought I was reacting emotionally to being fired, that I was angry because he would not acknowledge that I was competent at my profession. I suspected something was amiss with him later, because of one moment.

  “When we were supposedly dropping the ransom at Rutgers Village, Ackerman stopped at one point and took out his cellular phone. I initially thought he was merely checking the time in the dark, but I came to realize he was sending a text message to an ally, probably Rita, alerting her about the snipers Captain Harris had stationed nearby. Immediately, the captain received a text warning her about the snipers, and they were withdrawn.”

  “I thought they were watching us,” Lapides said, “but Ackerman was one of them.” He shook his head again.

  “Actually, the video footage of Ackerman kissing Rita Masters-Powell was the evidence that made me realize just how deeply he was involved,” I said with some embarrassment. “I should have seen it sooner, and perhaps I could have avoided a good deal of … unpleasantness.” I looked at Ms. Washburn, who shook her head slowly.

  “It wasn’t your fault, Samuel,” she said. “Ackerman was unpredictable because he gave in to all the pressure. You couldn’t possibly have known what he would do, or that it would involve me.”

  Her cellular phone rang again, and she opened it to answer the call when she saw the word Home on the screen. Clearly shaken, she walked a distance away and spoke in a tone that could not be heard from where we were standing.

  “When it was clear that Laverne was not going to pay the money without considerable coaxing,” I went on, “the message came—from Rita as it turned out—that Mrs. Ackerman’s life would be in danger. Ackerman came out of the building as we were leaving to go to the exchange at Rutgers Village, and he was loudly, and rather animatedly, trying to find out where Charlotte Selby might be at that moment. He knew how unstable Rita was and truly worried for the fate of his wife.”

  “But he didn’t do anything about it,” Mother pointed out. “He didn’t go to his wife, and he didn’t tell the police to look out for Charlotte at his home. If he was so concerned …”

  “Ackerman was torn,” I said. “He wanted to believe he loved his wife, but he was having an affair with Rita. And when you sent a cruiser to his house, detective, I’m sure he thought his wife’s safety was secured.”

  Lapides shook his head. “The whole business is beyond me. I’m glad you were here, Mr. Hoenig. Thank you for all your help.”

  “I was pleased to do so, detective,” I told him. Perhaps the North Brunswick police might think to employ Questions Answered again sometim
e in the future, although I would prefer it involve a much less violent question.

  Ms. Washburn scowled as she closed her phone sharply and walked back to Mother’s car. “Can you please take me home, Vivian? My husband is being … let’s just say I need to go home and discuss a few things.”

  “Of course, dear,” Mother replied and unlocked the car with her radio frequency key fob. I nodded a good-bye to Detective Lapides and opened the passenger door. But Mother shook her head to indicate that I should let Ms. Washburn take my traditional seat. I did not understand the gesture but felt it was best to ask about it later, and did as Mother had suggested.

  As I turned to open the rear door, I saw the entrance to GSCI open, and out walked Commander Johnson, flanked by two uniformed officers. Lapides had said the commander would be brought in for questioning in connection to his trying to help Ackerman escape. It was not clear if charges would be brought against him, but the police certainly wanted to find out how much the commander had known about the conspiracy, and if it was enough, perhaps a plea bargain could be arranged.

  I stopped when I saw the commander, and he spotted me from the parked police cruiser in which he would ride to his questioning. Our eyes met for a moment. I was not sure if I should do or say anything. From this distance, conversation was surely impossible.

  But the commander communicated in another way. He straightened up, as I’d seen him do many times in the past twenty-four hours, and then, in perfect military fashion, he presented me with a very well executed salute.

  I knew from many motion pictures what I should do: I returned the salute, and the commander dropped his arm. Then each of us sat in the back seat of an automobile, and rode away.

  THIRTY-THREE

  I DID NOT SEE Ms. Washburn again for three days, and then it was only to help complete the Yankee Stadium answer and, she was very clear, to conclude our business together.

  Mother, who had taken to coming into the office for part of each day “just to get out of the house” (but probably to make sure that I was not taking on any further dangerous questions), was quietly knitting in the rear of the storefront, near where the pizzeria kitchen once operated. She had greeted Ms. Washburn with an enthusiastic embrace when she had arrived, and smiled more as she knitted than I had seen her smile in quite some time.

  “Here, we can extend this swing by just a frame or two, and the follow-through will appear to generate more power than it did before,” Ms. Washburn pointed out. “That will make the idea of a home run into the stands more natural-looking. I can put Mark Teixiera’s face over yours if you like.”

  “I am not sure that would look natural,” I told her. “I do not have an athlete’s physique.”

  I enjoyed working with her again. After the marathon ordeal at Garden State Cryonics Institute, I had missed having Ms. Washburn explain where I might have misunderstood a facial expression or misinterpreted a turn of phrase that I found unusual or illogical. I had become dependent on her very quickly, which was strange, and had found her absence oddly disturbing.

  We completed the work in less time than I probably would have liked, and after I paid Ms. Washburn for her work, we started to discuss the GSCI question and its aftermath. I told Ms. Washburn that Lapides had called after we both had been thoroughly questioned by the police, to indicate that the prosecutor would bring homicide charges against Rita Masters-Powell alone, but extortion charges against Rita, Marshall Ackerman, and Arthur Masters. Rita and Ackerman would also face attempted homicide charges for their actions against Mrs. Ackerman, Ms. Washburn, Mother, and me.

  The prosecutor had, as I expected, failed to charge Commander Alvin Johnson with any crime, but “had given it a lot of thought,” Lapides reported, sounding disappointed. Instead, the commander and his wife had agreed to testify against Ackerman, Masters, and Masters-Powell.

  He also said the medical examiner, now alerted to check for succinylcholine in Dr. Springer’s system, had found the drug that had caused her to asphyxiate, and the injection site on her right hip as well.

  Miles Monroe had finally called Lapides from his vacation in Australia. He confirmed that he had been discharged from GSCI without a sufficient explanation, and that there had never been any insinuations of maltreatment by the staff of any of the institute’s guests. “I was wondering what that was all about,” Lapides said he had remarked. “Now I know why I got the golden parachute.”

  “The whole thing seems like it was a long time ago,” Ms. Washburn said as I handed her a bottle of green tea from the vending machine. I was drinking from a bottle of spring water. “It’s almost like it happened to someone else, and I just heard about it or watched a report about it on TV.”

  “It happened,” I assured her. “And you played no small part in it. Without you, I doubt the questions would have been answered completely.”

  Ms. Washburn raised an eyebrow in a gentle warning. “Don’t butter me up, Samuel,” she said. That raised a disturbing image in my mind, but I did not comment. “I promised my husband that I wouldn’t come back to work here because it’s too dangerous. And even though our marriage isn’t necessarily in the best place right now, I’m going to stick to my promise.”

  “I would not want to cause any undue stress in your marriage or otherwise,” I told her honestly. “I am merely trying to thank you for helping out so ably in the work you’ve already done.”

  She frowned, and that did not make sense to me. “That’s it?” she asked. “You’re not going to try to convince me?”

  Mother’s eyes looked up, but she did not stop her work.

  “I do not understand,” I told her. “I was under the impression you did not want me to try to convince you to stay.”

  “Samuel,” she said, shaking her head, “you have a great deal to learn about women.”

  “You can say that again,” Mother chimed in. She had warned me once again before Ms. Washburn had arrived that she was a married woman, to which I had replied that the reminder was unnecessary.

  “None of this makes any sense,” I said, my mind receiving more information than I could process at once. “So you do want me to talk you into working here again? Because I would very much like you to come back.”

  Ms. Washburn let out a long, slow laugh and sat back in her chair. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “I really will have to decide. I do want to work here, Samuel, but I don’t want to complicate my marriage any further. Give me a few days to think about it.”

  “You may have as long as you like,” I said. “The invitation remains open.”

  She nodded and took a sip of the green tea. “If I do come back—and remember I said if—you’re going to have to get some diet soda in that machine,” she said. “But Samuel, there’s one thing I wanted to ask you.”

  That triggered something in the back of my mind, but I stayed on topic, keeping Ms. Washburn’s conversational desire in mind. I nodded.

  “What’s your favorite Beatles song?” she asked.

  I did not hesitate. “ ‘Strawberry Fields Forever,’ ” I said. “Although it is one of many.”

  “Why that one?”

  “Because no one else is in my tree.” At her blank expression, I quoted the exact lines to her.

  Ms. Washburn smiled. “I think there might be more people in your tree than you realize,” she said quietly.

  We sat for a while and drank our beverages. The silence was quite comfortable. But then, I returned to the point I’d just recalled. Ms. Washburn had not said anything for thirteen seconds, so I could assume a new topic would be acceptable.

  “There is something about which I have been remiss,” I said. “Ms. Washburn, when you came here that first morning, you had a question you wanted answered, and I never considered it. What was it that brought you here that day?”

  Ms. Washburn blushed and waved a hand. “It’s not important,” she said. “It was just something silly that morning.”

  “Please,” I urged her. “I would feel I had
cheated you.”

  She moved her head from one side to another, looking around as if trying to find a spot to focus upon so she would not have to face Mother or me. “It was just … I was doing the Times crossword puzzle, and I got stuck on a clue.”

  I smiled. “And you wanted me to answer it for you. But you can look those up on the Internet, or call a number the Times prints next to the puzzle every day. Why didn’t you do those things?”

  Ms. Washburn still did not look at me. “That would be cheating,” she said.

  I decided not to point out that asking me was just as dishonest. “Very well. What was the clue?”

  It took three minutes of persuasion, but Ms. Washburn was finally convinced that this would settle the business between us to everyone’s satisfaction. “Fine,” she said with a resigned tone. “It was an eleven-letter word, and the clue was, ‘Those which prevail.’ ”

  “Did you have any of the cross letters?” Mother asked.

  “Yes. They were—”

  “No need,” I said, standing. I must have been smiling very broadly, because both Mother and Ms. Washburn grinned at me with identical looks of expectation.

  “What?” they said at virtually the same moment.

  “The answer. To ‘those which prevail.’ It’s very apropos.” I believe I might have chuckled.

  “What is it?” Ms. Washburn demanded.

  “COOLER HEADS,” I said.

  THE END

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  E. J. Copperman is the author of the Haunted Guesthouse series (Berkley Prime Crime) with more than 100,000 copies sold. Jeff Cohen has published two nonfiction books on Asperger’s Syndrome, including The Asperger Parent.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Information

  Dedication