The Love Potion Murders In The Museum Of Man Part 1

The love potion murders in the Museum of Man.

A Norman de Ratour mystery.

by Alfred Alcorn.

1.

It is with reluctance and foreboding that I trouble these pages with an account of a tragic, unseemly, and suspicious incident here at the Museum of Man. I say "reluctance" as I do not wish to serve as amanuensis to a nightmare. Nor do I wish to prompt iniquity with words. I would rather, on this lovely evening, sit back and gaze out of my high windows at the Hays Mountains, where I can see the first flares of autumn touching with scarlet and gold those rolling, mist-tendriled hills. But write I must. Because yet again I have a presentiment of evil uncoiling itself within the womb of this ancient inst.i.tution.

Let me start with this morning. Just as Doreen was heading down to the cafeteria for our coffees, Lieutenant Tracy of the Seaboard Police Department appeared in the doorway of my fifth-floor domain. Dapper as ever in charcoal suit, b.u.t.tondown off-white oxford s.h.i.+rt, and plaid tie, the officer reminded me that he took his coffee black. The amenities of small talk attended to, the door closed, we got down to business.

"I'm here to see you, Norman, about the Ossmann-Woodley case." His tone indicated that he spoke off the record.

"Ossmann-Woodley," I repeated with a sigh, not entirely surprised. "I was under the impression, Lieutenant, that the case was too riddled with imponderables to begin an investigation. It's most unusual, I know, and not a little embarra.s.sing for the museum, given Professor Ossmann's affiliation."

Thanks to the tabloids and those television programs devoted to the tawdry and the sensational (for which my dear wife, Elsbeth, has a decided weakness), much of the world knows that, just a week ago, Professor Humberto Ossmann and Dr. Clematis Woodley, a postdoctoral student, were found dead quite literally in each other's arms; indeed, in an unequivocally amorous embrace.

Foul play, other than double adultery - they were both married - has not been ruled out. In short, we have two corpses and enough circ.u.mstantial evidence to indicate corpus delicti corpus delicti. For instance, a security guard found them, not in some comfortable bed or even on the couch available in a nearby office, but on the floor of one the laboratories. There, judging from the disorder - an overturned chair, some smashed pipettes, and a terrified white rat running loose - their lovemaking had been spontaneous and energetic, if not violent. Rape does not appear to have been involved inasmuch as Professor Ossmann was a smallish man, a good two inches shorter and twenty-five pounds lighter than the formidable Dr. Woodley, who played rugby for Rutgers, albeit on the women's team. Moreover, neither partic.i.p.ant had disrobed in a manner suggesting premeditated lovemaking. Professor Ossmann's trousers and boxer shorts were down around his ankles, and Dr. Woodley's panties had been clawed off, but by herself, judging from the fragments of matching material found under her fingernails.

Finally, both victims, if that is what they are, entertained a deep and abiding antipathy for the other. Professor Ossmann had blocked Dr. Woodley's appointment to a tenure-track position a year or so back. Dr. Woodley for her part had taken to calling Professor Ossmann "Pip" to his face, "Pip-squeak" being the nickname colleagues used behind his back.

I know the case in considerable detail, not only from the lurid and often inaccurate coverage in the Seaboard Bugle Seaboard Bugle, but also from briefings I arranged between the SPD and important university officials in an attempt to keep the rumor mills from working overtime.

The postmortems, done by the venerable Dr. P.M. Cutler, have provided only preliminary findings. The Medical Examiner reported gross inflammation of the genitals of both parties, who otherwise presented no signs of trauma or a.s.sault. Professor Ossmann succ.u.mbed to a coronary thrombosis while Dr. Woodley died of ma.s.sive systemic failure when her blood pressure, for which she was taking medication, dropped below what is necessary for life. Curiously enough, according to Dr. Cutler, despite prolonged s.e.xual activity, no evidence of e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.e was found. Whether Dr. Woodley had experienced a physiological o.r.g.a.s.m could not be determined with any certainty. a.s.says on blood chemistry, other bodily fluids, stomach contents, and organs are presently being conducted and should tell us a lot more as to what happened on that Friday night in early September when the lab was deserted except for those two.

Sergeant Lemure, Lieutenant Tracy's blunt-spoken deputy, put the matter in words of a characteristic crudity, which I will refrain from repeating here.

The lieutenant regarded me closely. "Officially, Norman, it is a low-priority case because we cannot determine whether it's a murder, an accident, or some kind of bizarre suicide pact. But something about this case reeks."

His remarks struck a chord, if nagging doubts can be said to resonate. Despite myself, I have acquired of late a knack for suspicion. It's related, no doubt, to my work with the Seaboard police on what have come to be called the Cannibal Murders, which gained Wainscott University, the museum, myself, and others such notoriety a few years back. Indeed, the account of those grisly events that I kept in my journal at the time was subsequently entered as evidence in the case against the Snyders brothers. Published initially over my objections, it was well received in those circles devoted to the "true detective" genre.

Moreover, I have found that working as a private sleuth - or a public sleuth, for that matter - sharpens one's apprehension of those slight discordances that indicate the presence not so much of clues but of what might be termed "negative clues" - the dog that doesn't bark. It makes one aware of anomalies within anomalies, life being full of the anomalous, after all. And this case, if a case it be, is loud with silent hounds.

While I was thus cogitating, Doreen came in with the coffee. The dear girl had been offered a higher salary to go back to her old boss, Malachy Morin. But she told me she wouldn't even consider it, calling the man "a serial groper." She has a new beau and has finally ceased inflating out of her mouth those gaudy-hued, condom-like bubbles of gum.

After Doreen had withdrawn and closed the door, I noted the obvious. "We have no real evidence of foul play. At least not until the lab tests come in."

The lieutenant lifted an eyebrow at the implied collaboration in the "we," as though both realizing and acknowledging that we were once again, however unofficially, a team.

"No real evidence, it's true," he said. "It's as though someone got there before the bodies were discovered and tidied things up."

"Really?" I was somewhat taken aback. I had not been told of this before.

"Yes, and there are a few other details you might be able to help us clear up."

"Well, I'm at your service, Lieutenant," I said, trying to dissemble a s.h.i.+ver of excitement as my pulse quickened. The lieutenant's request for a.s.sistance made real what had heretofore been little more than a premonition. Indeed, I have developed a keen predilection for the blood sport of murder investigation. For that's what it is, at bottom, a blood sport. And deeper, in the darker reaches of my heart, I could also feel that strange craving for the reality of evil, if only for something to confront and vanquish.

Lieutenant Tracy smiled. He has one of those smiles the scarcity of which makes it the more appealing. "I knew I could count on you, Norman. And also on your discretion. My visit here, strictly speaking, is unofficial."

I nodded. "What is it that I can tell you that you think will be of help?"

"Could you tell me, what exactly was Professor Ossmann's connection with the Genetics Lab?"

His question made me frown. The Genetics Lab has over the past couple of years changed beyond all recognition. The Onoyoko Inst.i.tute, suffering in the general stagnation of the j.a.panese economy and the blaze of bad publicity in the wake of the Cannibal Murders, has long since gone, replaced by the Ponce Research Inst.i.tute. Though nominally nonprofit, the Ponce has proved an absolute boon to the museum. It has given us the wherewithal to resist persistent attempts on the part of the university to take us over on terms other than those ensuring the integrity and longevity of this inst.i.tution as an actual public museum.

I chose my words carefully in responding to the lieutenant's question because, truth be known, I was not entirely certain what const.i.tuted the late professor's connection with the lab. I cleared my throat. "Professor Ossmann, as you know, was a consultant at the Ponce, as the inst.i.tute is generally called. He worked on therapies having to do with the cardiovascular system, which was his primary research interest."

As I paused, the lieutenant leaned forward. "You seem skeptical of your own description."

"I am," I said. "This can go no farther than this room, but I've suspected for some time, Lieutenant, that Professor Ossmann was as much an agent provocateur agent provocateur for the university administration as an active consultant." for the university administration as an active consultant."

"In what way?"

"He played an active role in the higher councils of the university. He served on the New Millennium Fund Steering Committee. He was on the somewhat controversial Benefits Subcommittee of the Faculty Reform Committee. He also served for a while as chair of the Steering Committee on Governance. In fact, it was during his tenure in that last position that he and I had one or two significant disagreements."

The lieutenant said nothing, but his listening appeared to intensify.

"The same old story," I said. "Wainscott wants to take us over. We, the museum, were the subject of a long report by Ossmann's committee. My own Board of Governors rejected the report outright."

"How did he end up over here?"

"We have a goodly number of consultants from the university who have contracts with the inst.i.tute. It remains something of a sore issue between the university and the museum."

"Why is that?"

"Money," I said and smiled. "Lieutenant, I don't want to bore you with the endless petty politics that go on in inst.i.tutions of higher learning, but it's clear to me now that the university is trying to get its hands on the museum for nothing less than the income it can derive from the research done in the Genetics Lab under the auspices of the Ponce Inst.i.tute."

His brows knit in thought as I went on. "And they might have succeeded had we not had in our employ a canny young attorney named Felix Skinnerman who has been handling our affairs with Wainscott for nearly two years now. He has learned, for instance, that the university's charter was amended during the heady days of the nineteen sixties to the effect that no faculty member can benefit directly from research, patents, royalties, and the like taking place under university auspices or on university grounds."

The lieutenant shrugged. "Why doesn't Wainscott simply amend its charter?"

I related in some detail how they could not change the clause without the unanimous consent of the Board of Regents - which, by charter, has to include three faculty members, one of whom reliably objects.

"How does all this connect with Ossmann?"

"It doesn't really," I continued, "except to provide the context for Ossmann's activities in the lab."

"Activities?"

"He was something of a troublemaker. He liked to object, to talk a lot about issues. He liked to speak to the press."

"But enough so that someone would want him out of the way?"

"Perhaps. I mean, if he was about to blow the whistle on some shady dealings or some off-the-books research. Of course I may be mistaken. I'm sorry, Lieutenant, but I feel like I'm offering you little more than wretched stalks."

The lieutenant smiled and rose to go. We shook hands. "That's all any of us are doing right now, Norman, clutching at straws. But if you hear anything..."

"Of course," I said. "We will stay in touch."

I finished my coffee alone. The lieutenant's visit reminded me anew that the unfortunate deaths of these two people, both estimable in his and her own way, have cast another shadow over the Museum of Man. While both were on the faculty of Wainscott University, they were, as biochemists, under contract to the inst.i.tute directly and to the Genetics Lab indirectly. The shadow is real, darkened by the press, which has hounded me daily, all but accusing the museum of perpetrating a cover-up.

Indeed, the university's Oversight Committee, a claque of inquisitorial busybodies, has requested "in the strongest terms" that I attend a meeting to discuss "its concern with the unseemly recent events in the Genetics Lab." I have responded to Constance Brattle, who still presides over the committee, reminding her that I have myself (for my own good reasons) remained an ex officio ex officio member. I said I would acquiesce to her request but only if it was clearly understood that where the museum was concerned, the committee's involvement must remain purely advisory. I also stipulated that the press was to be excluded and all statements kept privileged. I reminded her that, as Director of the Museum of Man, I was as concerned as she in maintaining the high repute of both the university and the museum. member. I said I would acquiesce to her request but only if it was clearly understood that where the museum was concerned, the committee's involvement must remain purely advisory. I also stipulated that the press was to be excluded and all statements kept privileged. I reminded her that, as Director of the Museum of Man, I was as concerned as she in maintaining the high repute of both the university and the museum.

Strange how, when you start to worry about one thing, it leads you to worry about something else. For instance, no one has heard for some time from Cornelius Chard. Corny, the Packer Professor of Primitive Ethnology in the Wainscott Anthropology Department, inveigled the museum into underwriting some portion of his expedition to the Yomamas. It's a venture I tried to talk him out of. There's been considerable unrest in the area, apparently because of logging operations.

The Yomamas are a small tribe who inhabit an all-but-inaccessible plateau astride the Rio Sangre, one of the more remote tributaries of the Amazon. The tribe, according to Corny, are the last "untouched" group of hunter-gatherers left on earth. He also contends that they are the last people in the world actively practicing cannibalism. He has gone virtually alone to witness, as he puts it, the actual thing. He says he wants to refute once and for all what he calls, in questionable taste, "the cannibalism deniers."

Where he raised the majority of his funding, I don't know. It's one of those mysteries. He claims it's a perfectly legitimate source that will in no way taint the objectivity of his research. His very protest makes me wonder. I do know he a.s.sociates with some strange people.

Through Elsbeth, who goes way back with Jocelyn, Corny's wife, I have gotten to know the man better, perhaps, than I might have wanted to. He's an advocate of anthropophagy and author of The Cannibal Within The Cannibal Within, among other works. I never go to dinner at their home without wondering what, exactly, it is we're eating.

I believe Corny organized his Rio Sangre expedition because, though he won't admit it, he's envious of all the publicity Raul Brauer has been getting for his book A Taste of the Real A Taste of the Real. Brauer, some people may remember, was involved in the cannibalism of a young volunteer on the Polynesian island of Loa Hoa back in the late sixties. His account was something of succes de scandale succes de scandale and is, I've been told, being made into a movie. and is, I've been told, being made into a movie.

Still, it's a relief to get these things down on paper if not off my mind. Now I must brace myself for another meal out with Elsbeth and her friend, the food critic Korky k.u.mmerbund.

For the life of me I cannot see what Elsbeth sees in "the restaurant scene," as she calls it. What is this cult of the gustatory that seems to have afflicted half the good people of Seaboard? What has happened to the days when one simply went to a restaurant of good reputation, ordered a recognizable dish and a decent wine, enjoyed it, paid for it, and left?

I have nothing against Korky; he is an engaging young man, and he is devoted to Elsbeth. But the food! I scarcely recognize any of it anymore. And the menus. They read like parodies of p.o.r.nography. Then we have to sample one another's portions and, worse, talk about them. I have small relish in "savoring the complexity" or "thinking with my taste buds," as Elsbeth and Korky urge. For me, the life of the digestive tract and the life of the mind do not mix. Of late I have hankered simply for a plate of old-fas.h.i.+oned beef stew served with mashed potatoes and peas.

But I really don't want to complain, certainly not about Elsbeth. My world, after all those years of barren bachelorhood, has been utterly enriched by her presence, by her vitality, by her love. Our happiness is very nearly a public scandal. We have become the toast of Seaboard's better tables. Last year we won the waltz contest at the Curatorial Ball. Ah yes, and those little billets doux billets doux we leave for each other! No, I do not complain. A meal out from time to time in some new bistro is small sacrifice on my part for the woman I love. we leave for each other! No, I do not complain. A meal out from time to time in some new bistro is small sacrifice on my part for the woman I love.

This evening we're to go with Korky to the Green Sherpa, a restaurant that specializes, they tell me, in a fusion of Himalayan and Irish cuisines. I can't imagine what they'll be serving, no doubt some kind of braised yak with boiled cabbage gotten up to look like something exotic.

2.

It is another beautiful day, despite the rain and the wind, which began this morning and has been bl.u.s.tering about most of the afternoon and rattling the windows here on the fifth floor of the museum. Though now Director, I have kept my old corner office, with its view of the hills to the west and that stern and rockbound coast to the north of s.h.a.g Bay. Ah, yes, the beauty of the world, even in - especially in - an autumn rain.

I am surrounded by beauty within as well. Which is to say I have redecorated my office, jettisoning the mournful array of plaques and citations I acc.u.mulated over more than three decades as Recording Secretary, a position, I'm afraid, I have allowed to lapse somewhat. To replace them, I have truffled through the storage bins and closets deep within the bowels of this magnificent old pile and come up with some rare treasures.

Just over the door, I suppose to remind myself of my executive responsibilities, I have mounted an elegantly shaped nineteenth-century executioner's sword from the Ngala of the Congo. It has a wide short blade, crooked in the middle into a sickle shape just wide enough for a human neck. In a gla.s.s case I have a marvelous Chinese robe of silk satin embroidered with a swirl of peac.o.c.ks, b.u.t.terflies, and flowers, all in brilliant hues. And on the mantel over the fireplace (which I have kept in working order), there's a figurine of Eros with a dog, a piece that by rights should be on display in the permanent exhibits.

In my more Machiavellian moments, I have considered resurrecting a pair of shrunken heads, a missionary and his wife, if I'm not mistaken, that I came across in the Papuan storage area. I have thought of putting them in a gla.s.s-fronted case near my desk with a curtain I could draw aside when meeting with people I want to disconcert. But for the nonce I have made do with a montage of fantastic funereal masks from Melanesia.

Speaking of which, I cannot, in the wake of Lieutenant Tracy's visit yesterday, get out of my mind the unseemly deaths of Humberto Ossmann and Clematis Woodley. I have a feeling my good friend knows something about that bizarre tragedy that he's not telling me. Elsbeth and I were away at the time of the deaths, staying with a friend of hers in Boston and visiting museums. As a result, I didn't get back until well after the crime scene, if that's what it was, had been restored to some semblance of normality.

I also missed, according to Doreen, a veritable plague of grief counselors who descended on the museum telling people not to hold back their feelings. Doreen, who has the st.u.r.dy good looks of a backcountry girl, said one of the group, a student from the Divinity School, came by several times and left his card. When she finally told the young man that she had never met either of the victims and hadn't really given them much thought, his disappointment was such that she had to spend time consoling him. And, apparently, one thing led to another.

The good lieutenant called again this morning and wondered aloud if it would not be a good idea for me to try to contact Worried. He is the anonymous tipster who works in the Genetics Lab and proved instrumental in solving the Cannibal Murders. I told the lieutenant I would put out an e-mail to all in-house addresses, asking "Worried" to please contact me when he gets a chance. Worried may be able to tell me something relevant about what that collection of wily eggheads are concocting over in the lab.

But Woodley and Ossmann. I am perfectly willing to consider the possibility that they were murdered or, in one way or another, murdered each other. But how? Murder requires an instrument. But what? Some elisir d'amore? elisir d'amore? Are they brewing up some magic love potion over there in the lab? It seems too cartoonishly Larsonesque to imagine them sipping some philter from a dripping retort and then transmogrifying into s.e.xual monsters. But stranger things have happened. Are they brewing up some magic love potion over there in the lab? It seems too cartoonishly Larsonesque to imagine them sipping some philter from a dripping retort and then transmogrifying into s.e.xual monsters. But stranger things have happened.

As I am Director of the museum, of which the Genetics Lab remains an integral part, one might suppose that I could simply walk in there and demand to know what's going on. Ah, the illusion of power. People tell you either what they want you to know or what they think you want to hear. The truth? Another of those illusions by which we live. I don't know. But if murder has been done, the truth must out if justice is to prevail.

Which reminds me, I received a call today from Malachy "Stormin'" Morin, "the lead blocker of the consolidation team," as he calls himself. He asked to schedule a meeting between me and "the big-money guys" in Wainscott's development office. Mr. Morin and other worthies in the Wainscott bureaucracy persist in the fiction that "the consolidation process" is actually happening.

Mr. Morin, who ought to be languis.h.i.+ng in jail for the grotesque way he caused the death of young Elsa Pringle, fancies himself my boss. He has somehow managed to insinuate his bl.u.s.tering persona and considerable bulk - he's six feet, six inches and four-hundred-odd pounds - into the Wainscott hierarchy as Vice President for Affiliated Inst.i.tutions. I have to keep reminding him that the MOM is affiliated with the university strictly on its own terms and that he has absolutely no authority concerning our affairs. But for the sake of good relations, I did agree in principle to meet with "the big-money guys," telling him I would get back to him.

On a more positive note, I have received word from Corny Chard. It came by way of a telegram, the diction of which made me think of the old days. (You might call it telegramese, a dying literary convention.) NORMANHAVE REACHED HEADWATERS OF RIO SANGRE STOP LOGGING AND UNREST EVIDENT STOP HAVE SET UP BASE CAMP STOP WILL PROCEED WITH MINIMAL CREW TO YOMAMA AREA STOP BEST TO EVERYONE STOP.

CORNY.

On an even brighter note, I have been invited to attend the inaugural Cranston Fessing Memorial Lecture that my good friend Father S.J. O'Gould, S.J., is to give in November. It has a curious t.i.tle: "Why Is There No Tuna-Safe Dolphin to Eat?" There's to be a dinner afterward, a black-tie affair, to which Elsbeth and I have been invited.

Speaking of dinner, our evening at the Green Sherpa was not a success. The proprietor, a strange fellow named Bain, fawned all over us, especially when he noticed Korky k.u.mmerbund tucking in his napkin. Korky took it all in good grace, politely refusing to let Mr. Bain, who managed to appear both obsequious and threatening, pick up the tab. Korky did allow one special dish "on the house" to be sent over. Still, it was disconcerting to have Bain, a big blond fellow in a tunic-like outfit who spoke British English with a foreign accent, hovering over us through half the meal.

I had some sort of pummeled goat while Elsbeth, always game, had what looked like the remains of a rodent. She hasn't felt well ever since. Indeed, I'm beginning to worry about her. So it was with some relish that I read Korky's review of the place in today's Bugle Bugle. He concluded a quite thorough savaging of the food with, and I quote: "Despite its elevated ambitions, the Green Sherpa serves up little more than a pastiche of yak-whey chic and tortured potatoes in a mushy chinoiserie cuisine that induces the gastric equivalent of alt.i.tude sickness."

But Elsbeth. I'm afraid my love is starting to show her age. Although still full-bodied with abundant dark hair (thanks to chemicals, of course), fresh coloring, and brilliant agate eyes, the ravages of time have not left her untouched. There's a stoop to her now, a fine wrinkling about the eyes, the slightest tremor in her hands. I should talk. I'm getting a bit long in the tooth myself and a bit stringy, as tall ones are wont to do. But I've kept a good deal of my perpetually thinning hair and am at least not a candidate for a shaved head. So many men look like convicts these days. And I will not go into the unspeakable puncturing that young people do to their various bodily parts.

Oh, well, just like the old days, I'm off on my own to the Club tonight. Elsbeth a.s.sures me that, though not up to going out, she is perfectly capable of taking care of herself. Still, I do worry about the dear girl.

3.

Dear Mr. Ratour,I got your message loud and clear. Maybe I should have told you this sooner, but n.o.body around here, not on the maintenance crews, anyway, thought that the Ossmann-Woodley thing was suspicious. I mean the researcher types get up to all kinds of things you wouldn't believe. Back in August one of the security guys was going over a tape from a camera no one knows about and he found footage of one of the research a.s.sistants, a really good-looking babe, doing two guys at once. Anyway, he modified it and put it out on the Internet as one of those things you can e-mail to people. Home movies stuff if you know what I mean. You can click on the icon down below and watch it yourself though I don't think it's evidence of anything. Anyway, everyone around here just thought the two professors [sic] that died got carried away and you know s.h.i.+t happens. But now that the newspapers are saying it's under investigation and all that stuff, I maybe ought to tell you that about a week before it happened, I heard Professor Ossmann arguing with another researcher. Ossmann kept saying things like the core discovery is mine and you know it. The other guy who sounded like he was from Minnesota kept answering something about how he figured out the experimentation and without that they wouldn't be where they were. Dr. Penrood, he's the English guy who complains about tea bags all the time, tried to act like the referee. I don't understand him that well because he sounds like he's talking through his nose but he kept saying something about it being a team effort. But I don't know what they were talking about. I'll let you know if I find out anything else.Worried I confess it was at the expense of some qualms that I clicked on the icon and watched the nearly ten minutes of indistinct but quite graphic video footage that unrolled on my screen. I scrupled that the possibility of its being evidence in the Ossmann-Woodley case outweighed any invasion of the already violated privacy of the individuals involved.

I found it oddly moving, inasmuch as amateur erotica can be far more stimulating than the professional "soft" stuff that Elsbeth, who has a weakness for the meretricious, occasionally finds on the so-called adult channels. The woman involved in this incident, a well-fleshed blonde, knelt away from the camera on all fours fellating a man whose face was obscured in shadow. The second gentleman, back to camera, copulated vigorously with the woman au chien au chien, so to speak. I thought it would be interesting, for forensic purposes, to hear what they were saying, if anything. Perhaps the tape could be enhanced enough for us to learn who the three individuals are. I am not being prurient in this matter. For a sleuth the most seemingly incidental knowledge can be crucial. Nor am I interested in the morals of these individuals. Regarding affairs of consensual activity among adults I subscribe to the dictum of my friend Israel Landes: Keep it private and don't scare the horses.

I did venture another e-mail to Worried, asking if there was any possibility of an enhanced version of "the tape," perhaps with sound. I have to risk that he may think me interested for p.o.r.nographic reasons.

I also called Dr. Rupert Penrood's office and arranged to meet with him Thursday morning after he gets back from London. Penrood is the Director of the inst.i.tute, and I have yet to have a really good chat with him about the incident. It might be helpful to find out exactly what Professor Ossmann and the gentleman with the Minnesota accent were arguing about.

On my own initiative I moved last week, with the backing of the Seaboard Police Department, to secure those offices and files Professor Ossmann and Dr. Woodley maintained in the lab. Because it is not yet officially a murder case, the SPD balked at the cost of hiring a forensic biochemist to examine the lab notes, work in progress, computer files, and anything else of relevance to the case left behind by both researchers.

I have come up with an elegant solution. It turns out that Nicole Stone-Lee, the daughter of my good friends Norbert Stone and Esther Lee, is not only a doctoral candidate in biochemistry but also knowledgeable about the areas in which both Ossmann and Woodley were involved. After an interview that went very well, I hired her as a special consultant to the museum. She is to report any findings both to me and to the Seaboard police. I'm sure that if the Wainscott Counsel gets wind of this arrangement, all h.e.l.l will break loose. But frankly, I don't care. Were I to wait on their acquiescence, any important data would be long gone.

Quite as an aside, I must say I was taken with Ms. Stone-Lee. What a gorgeous race of hybrids we are breeding! With her combination of animation and repose, with that delicate molding of the face, and with a reddish tinge to her features, she makes me feel my own genes are just a bit dated. She is also a distinct pleasure to work with.

Which is more than I can say about the University Oversight Committee. While I have acceded to the committee's entreaty to meet with me on the Ossmann-Woodley matter, I remain concerned about that body prying into the affairs of the museum. I have gone on record, I have put it in writing, that the museum desires to maintain "cordial and mutually beneficial relations" with the university. Indeed, as a token of our goodwill, I have continued to sit on the committee in an advisory capacity, at the same time informing the university that the committee's warrant where the museum is concerned likewise remains advisory.

The fact is that the Oversight Committee, hypersensitive to every ingenious whim of group disgruntlement, has become little more than a tool of the Select Committee on Consolidation, whose sole purpose, as I see it, is to take over the MOM lock, stock, and endowment through any means whatsoever. Indeed, they might have achieved their goal had there not been a series of serendipitous events, chief among them our financial independence.