The Mammoth Book of Perfect Crimes & Impossible Mysteries (56 page)

“Welcome to Monkeyland,” said Rackham. The smugness in his voice was much more pronounced.

I should have been prepared, knowing that most of the work done in The Slab involved biological and chemical warfare, but I wasn’t. The entire back wall of the laboratory was covered from floor to ceiling with monkey cages. There must have been fifty metal pens in total though I never did spend the time to count them. Each cell, which is what they resembled most, held one small monkey-one small
shrieking
monkey, looking miserable in a boxed environment that barely gave it space to move. Each monkey wore a skull cap with electrodes protruding from it. With horror, I realized that researchers had removed the tops of the monkeys’ heads, stuck electrodes into their brains, and then topped the hideous surgery with what looked like party hats from hell. It was no wonder the monkeys were shrieking. The combined noise of
dozens
of monkeys was nerve shattering.

Adding to the beasts’ misery, the cages were arranged in rows, and since each pen had a solid metal floor to keep waste and food from dropping through the bars, the monkeys on the lower levels lived in a perpetual twilight. Those on the top row had the light, but because the fixtures were never shut off, they lived in perpetual sunshine. It was cruel torture either way.

Needless to say, the smell of half-eaten food, waste and urine didn’t improve my opinion of the lab. How anyone could conduct research in such a place was beyond me, but then again, I’m not a scientist. I turned to Rackham.

“Aren’t there laws about treating lab animals?” I said. “Are we really allowed to remove their skulls and literally torture them to death like this?”

“Yeah, we’re allowed. It’s how basic research is done: on animals. And it’s worse than what you’re seeing here. From what I hear, the scientists don’t let the animals eat or drink much, and they give food and water to the monkeys only if the monkeys cooperate during experiments. As for the lighting and cages and all that sort of thing, talk to the contractor who built this place for Homeland Security,” said Rackham. “They cut corners but got the job done fast. Friends in high places wanted results and if a few laws were broken, no one complained.”

Call me a naïve bumpkin. I should have realized that even during a time of war against terrorism or terror groups or radicals of any one cause or another, no-bid contracts and kickbacks never went out of style. And I should have realized that, just because the public doesn’t hear about the torture, doesn’t mean the torture isn’t going on.

“Look at the walls,” said Rackham, making no attempt to hide the anger and contempt in his voice. “There are cracks in the concrete due to water seepage and not enough support in the foundation. We’ve got mice in the basement and bats make their nests in the roof.”

“Bats?”

“Bats,” repeated Rackham. “Concrete walls are nice and dry, better than most caves. Drive by this complex at night and you’ll think you’re in Transylvania.”

Bats, plague, ebola germs, monkey brain surgeries, electrodes, and a building called The Slab. I was starting to feel like I had walked into a bad horror movie. I looked down at the floor. The outline of a body had been drawn in front of the monkey cages in blue chalk. It served as the last testament to Dr Carl Schneider.

The professor, his degree being in neurobiology, had been found the morning before when his assistant entered the lab. Schneider was slumped in front of the cages, with one door open and a monkey sitting on the nearby lab table chattering at the cold corpse. The researcher had been working on a hush-hush project involving monkeys and incurable motor function diseases, and he had spent the night in the lab. He had been alone when the slabs locked him in, and there was no record of the concrete blocks moving during the night. In effect, the scientist had been sealed inside a concrete box. Nobody came in, and nobody left.

All the physical evidence pointed to Schneider having just taken the beast out of the cage when a heart attack dropped him down. Both hands occupied with the scrambling monkey, the doctor never had a chance to grab for the phone and call for help. Everything suggested that Schneider had unfortunately suffered from sudden cardiac arrest and died in an instant.

There was no sign of a struggle. No wounds on his body, not even a scratch. The food and drink in the refrigerator had been tested and no poison detected. Gas was similarly ruled out, as polluting the air supply would have killed the monkeys in the lab as well as the doctor. Even the autopsy results pointed to a killer heart attack.

Why then the frantic call to Penelope Peters and my presence in the lab the next day? Because Dr Carl Schneider was thirty-one years old, was in near perfect health and, as far as anyone could tell, didn’t have a bad habit in the world. People like that don’t usually die from heart attacks.

“Any phone calls?” I asked, knowing the answer.

“Neither incoming or outgoing,” said Rackham. “Phone system works fine, in case you’re wondering. We checked it immediately after finding the body. He obviously died before he could contact the front desk. Not that it would have mattered. Once this place is sealed, it stays that way till morning.”

I walked around the lab, stared at the concrete walls, noted the tiny holes near the top. Big enough for a spider to crawl through, not much more. Attacked by a baby bat, I wondered, then dismissed the idea as beyond belief. A poisonous insect, perhaps? I was reading too many spy novels.

“Any chance the project he was working on caused his death?”

“No,” said Rackham. “Anything that would kill a man would kill all the monkeys in the lab. And they’re still alive.”

Definitely. The beasts screamed continually as I prowled around, trying to look like I knew what I was doing. Bright lights and screaming monkeys, it was enough to drive a man to drink. But murder? I couldn’t see how.

“Could he have been scared to death?” I asked, knowing how preposterous the idea sounded. “Was Schneider afraid of bugs? Maybe the janitor drew invisible paintings on the wall that could only be seen when the lights were turned off?”

Rackham snorted. “Dr Schneider was the most rational person I ever met. He had absolutely no imagination. Not the type to be scared by invisible ink. Besides, all of the maintenance crews are Marines with top-secret clearance. Plus the lights in this lab are never shut off.”

On the wall over the desk was an award paper in a gold frame. The paper indicated that Schneider had won a prestigious science award and $100,000 prize only last year. A framed photo of a skinny, pale white man with thinning brown hair dressed in a bathing suit standing next to an equally pale blond woman wearing a modest two-piece outfit rested alone on the desk. Some words were scribbled on the bottom of the picture.

“That Schneider?” I asked.

“The one and only,” said Rackham. “With Professor Mary Winfree, from the plague lab, down one floor.”

“To Carl, with lots of love, Mary.” It sounded like the possibility of a motive to me. Love, as the song said, changes everything. “Let’s go visit Professor Winfree.”

If Schneider’s lab was Monkeyland, then Winfree’s domain was obviously Mouseville. The lady professor’s laboratory was one floor down from the murder scene and was arranged in much the same layout as the room above. Cages to the rear, scientific equipment of all sorts to the left, minimal living comforts to the right. When we entered the lab, Winfree was examining a slide under a microscope while in the rear two assistants in white coats were feeding the mice. The professor peered at us with wide blue-gray eyes. “Can I help you gentlemen? This is a restricted area.”

“This whole building is a restricted area, Professor,” said Rackham. “We all know that. I’m Captain Rackham, and this is Mr O’Brien. We’re investigating Dr Schneider’s death.”

“Oh, yes,” said Winfree, a faint blush rising in her cheeks. “Carl’s death. So unfortunate. Investigating? I don’t understand. I thought he died of natural causes?”

“A heart attack at thirty-one?” I asked. “Rather young for heart disease, don’t you think?”

Winfree stood up, her fingers fluttering. She looked like she was ready to fly away. “I – I never considered that. But why question me? Carl and I weren’t close. The last time I spoke with him was a week ago.”

“There was a photo on his desk,” I said. “Signed by you,
with lots of love?”

The professor giggled, a high-pitched sound that startled the mice in the rear of the lab, which began squeaking. “A brief flirtation at the beach last summer. A few weeks in the sun. Surely not a reason for foul play. Carl and I were still fond of each other. Sometimes we even talked about going on another trip, but it never amounted to much. That’s because neither of us was willing to abandon our first love.”

“First love?” I asked.

“Our work, of course.”

“Right,” I replied. “Anyone you suspect other than terrorists or PETA activists who would have wanted to harm Dr Schneider? Angry relatives, old girlfriends?”

“No-o-o,” said Winfree, drawing the word out the length of a sentence. “Carl didn’t associate with people outside of the complex. None of us do. We’re devoted to our work. It’s our life.”

I nodded. Obsessed. Great for the country, bad for a murder investigation.

“I wasn’t even here the other night,” continued Winfree. “I was giving a lecture at the university. You should ask Otto if anything strange happened. He’s always around.”

We left Professor Winfree after a few more questions. If she was guilty of murdering Schneider, then I was a monkey’s uncle. Though, I’ve been wrong before. Plenty of times.

“Who’s Otto?” I asked.

“First floor,” said Rackham. “Otto Klax, Professor of Neurobiology, the man in charge of our MEMS program.” Rackham sighed. “Another genius with underdeveloped social skills. At least he doesn’t work with lab animals. Not enough room in his lab for anything other than him and his ego.”

MEMS referred to mechanical components on the micrometer size and included 3D lithographic features of various geometries. They were made using planar processing similar to semiconductor processes such as surface micromachining. Devices using them ranged in size from a millionth of a meter to a thousandth of a meter. Too small to even imagine, yet they were the hottest item in military circles. I noted that both Schneider and Klax were neurobiologists, yet while Schneider concentrated on the brain, Klax’s focus was on MEMS. “Why would a neurobiologist be working with MEMS?” I asked Rackham.

He shrugged. “More sadistic torture of innocent animals, I suppose. They build tiny electrical and mechanical devices that they implant into animal brains. Klax builds the devices, Schneider uses them. Klax does a lot of the hard work, Schneider gets the glory. Not that I’d call an award for torturing animals to their deaths,
glory.”

I had to agree with Rackham. Even the salary of a Klax or Schneider was nothing more than blood money.

If Otto Klax had even the slightest trace of personality, he could have played a mad scientist in a horror movie. He definitely looked the part, standing six foot six and weighing no more than a hundred and fifty pounds. Thin enough that if he turned sideways he didn’t leave a shadow. Jet black hair, a thin moustache, and tiny black eyes that darted around the room, never making direct contact with anyone. He spoke softly and in a rush, making his speech almost incomprehensible.

“What do you want with me?” he asked, seconds after we introduced ourselves. “I’m much too busy for anything you want to talk about anyway. Much, much too busy for idle chit-chat. Not enough time in the day as it is. What do you want, why are you bothering me?”

“Dr Schneider died in his lab the night before last,” said Rackham. “Professor Winfree suggested we ask you if anything strange happened in the complex that evening.”

“Mary said that?” said Klax. “I don’t know why she would think so. I was in my office working, as usual. All night, every night. Locked in here like a rat in a trap, no way out, nothing to do but wait till morning. If anything weird took place, I wouldn’t know. Not me, locked behind these concrete slabs.

“Besides,” continued Klax, “Schneider worked with monkeys and I hate monkeys. Dirty rotten little beasts. There’s nothing for me to gain from Schneider’s death. Only one who benefits is Arronds, his assistant. Talk to him, he’s the one with a motive. Now, get out. I have machines to build, reports to write. Get out, get out. Stop wasting my time.”

Marvin Arronds had waved good night to Schneider when the slabs closed and locked, and had found the professor’s body in the center of the lab the next morning. According to the few locked-room mystery stories I’ve read, that made him the most likely candidate for murdering his boss. Unfortunately, none of those stories offered any explanation about how Arronds could have managed the task with no one the wiser. Nor did they explain the two Marine guards who had also seen Schneider alive when the slabs had locked shut.

“Me? Kill the professor?” said Arronds, a short, rotund man, with a shaved head and a voice that boomed like a megaphone. Necessary to be heard over the monkeys, I guessed. “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard. Sure, I worked in the laboratory, but Dr Schneider was the genius. Besides, the professor was my friend. Sure, he was a nerd, but that was okay. Everybody liked him.”