The Violet Crow (8 page)

He nodded at the Chief, who had a slight grin of anticipation. “I see the horse crap right over there,” he chortled, pointing at a pedestal supporting several large clumps of dried horse manure, complete with projecting tufts of straw.

“It was brilliant, really. Entirely Dr. Fischer's creation. He altered the gene for an enzyme in the horse's digestive system. This allowed us to recapture unused nutrients in horse excrement by treating it with a simple reagent. In other words, we could feed the animal the same food over and over again. Not 100% of course. More like 65%, but still a significant savings. Obviously, this could have been a boon to people everywhere. It cuts down on the cost of owning animals. Reduces the amount of land and water needed to raise the crops to feed them. And the amount of pesticides and herbicides that farmers have to use …”

—“But remember, how all those chefs came over from France,” Chief Black recalled. “Talk about a difficult, obnoxious bunch of people.”

“I know all too well,” said Jurevicius, “as I am French, myself.”

The Chief reacted immediately. “I feel terrible for saying that. Let me apologize. You have no accent …”

—“Now that you mention it, I can hear it, just a little bit,” Bruno observed.

“… and I didn't mean to generalize. I had to arrest several of them and they did nothing but complain about the food and accommodations. You'd think I was running a hotel.”

“They wouldn't have liked that either,” Jurevicius observed. “They are all pompous asses, without exception. I came here several years ago when my parent company in France became the largest investor in NewGarden.” He stole a glance at his watch. “Come, I'd like to show you my contribution.”

He led them through the greenhouses. Each room recreated a different environment: a rice paddy, a wheat field, a field of sunflowers. Finally they stopped in a large expanse planted with corn. Jurevicius grabbed an ear and husked it on the spot. The kernels were bright blue in color.

“This is our most successful product. We call it Scarecrow Corn. It is corn that's genetically modified to keep birds away. I'd prefer not to tell you where the gene came from that performs this trick. Let's just say it is not from a fish …”

“But is it edible for people?”

“Entirely harmless, but it doesn't taste very good. The idea is to plant the fields with, say, 15% Scarecrow Corn and the rest with our parent company's insect-resistant cultivar. That mixture is very effective in keeping both the birds and the bugs away. The resulting crop is intended as animal feed. The pigs don't seem to mind the taste, it's equally nutritious, and the violet color immediately identifies it, so it doesn't get mixed up with human food stocks.”

“Very impressive.”

Jurevicius led them to the next room. What they saw there caused them to gasp in astonishment. Flitting from tree to tree were crows. More than a dozen of them. All of them a brightly colored, iridescent blue.

“A harmless publicity stunt,” explained Jurevicius. “We spliced a gene from the hyacinthine macaw into the DNA of crows and sent them to Seattle the winter we launched Scarecrow Corn. We thought having brightly colored birds stealing their garbage might cheer them up during the rainy season. This would send a message that good things are on the way. Of course we also rendered them sterile so they wouldn't permanently affect the corvine gene pool. Nevertheless, we sustained protests from the usual host of environmental groups.”

“Polite, but nasty,” said the Chief, recalling his arrests. “They kept complaining about the coffee.”

Bruno didn't notice. The violet crows fascinated him. They were quite tame. One perched on his shoulder and stared at him. Bruno felt uncomfortable with the formidable beak so close to his eyes. He transferred the crow to his hand, but it immediately flew off to rejoin its buddies.

A moment later, they were back in the museum and Dr. Jurevicius was concluding his tour. “Here's the thought I'd like to leave you with.” He pointed to an empty pedestal. “This represents all of the people who have ever been harmed by biotech gone awry. It's empty. Thirty years. No casualties.”

As if on cue, Rhonda appeared and Jurevicius thanked them for their time. “I think you understand some of our concerns now and our need for security,” he said. “Please let Dr. Fischer know as soon as Master Quentin decides about our offer.”

“Quite a performance,” Chief Black commented under his breath to Bruno, as Rhonda escorted them past the silent lobby guards.

“Never seen anything like it,” Bruno agreed.

Just then Rhonda pulled up abruptly. “I f
owr
got to give you something.” She ran back to her desk—as much as anyone can run in high heels—and picked up a slim package, which she handed to Bruno. “It's our annual rep
owr
t,” she said, turning her head to catch his eye. Her jerky movements and the quizzical, almost beseeching, quality of her gaze reminded him of the bird's behavior in the aviary a few minutes before.

“I th
aw
ght you might find it interesting,” Rhonda said.

As Bruno reached to take the package, he noticed with a start that her eyes were the same shade of violet as the crow's plumage. “Psychic overload,” Bruno muttered to himself. He grabbed the envelope and hurried for the door.

Chapter 16

“Who's the psychic here, you or me?”

Chief Black had just commented that Dr. Fischer seemed upset by something. “He used to be solid, steady. Every other time I saw him, nothing seemed to faze him.”

“And today? What was different? Could you tell what he was thinking?”

It was the Chief's turn to be indignant. “That's your area. I just saw what I saw.”

“Aha. The rational mind confesses its limitations.”

“We use psychology all the time. I never said I was psychic. Did you manage to pick up anything?”

“Like you, I noticed his agitation. But his thoughts were in synch with what he was saying. He felt like an open book to me. He wasn't keeping anything back.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. He's got a big chip on his shoulder. He works hard, he's idealistic and successful. But instead of getting credit, he feels people are blaming him instead. That whole devil thing really bothers him. I'll tell you, I can relate …”

“What do you mean?”

“Being psychic. It can be tough …”

“Don't tell me you're letting Peaches get to you.”

“Peaches—
shmeaches
. It's more the everyday stuff. Regular people …”

“Women?”

“Hey, you're pretty slick with the psychology, Chief. Or was that a psychic observation? Speaking of slick, that Jurevicius can
hulyeh-hulyeh
with the best of 'em. I never knew there were already so many biotech products out there. Pretty bizarre stuff, too. Maybe they can figure out a way to turn off my psychic gene.”

“Really? You'd want to do that? I think it's a gift.”

“A gift with strings attached.”

“And you don't think it's tampering with … you know … what you said in there?”

“Go ahead, Chief, you can say it. ‘God's creation.' Don't be afraid.”

“You'd let them try to fix your DNA. You're not against biotech?”

“Nah. I was just trying to get a rise out of Dr. Fischer. Which worked by the way. Did you notice?”

“I did,” the Chief admitted. “But you said nothing useful came of it. Did you figure out what's going on between him and Master Quentin?”

“I think it's just what he said. He feels Quentin judges him … for not being quiet enough. Tampering with nature. Making money. Being in a business that employs armed guards. It goes way back. A long-standing feud. Now Quentin may need his help, but is acting too proud or stubborn to accept it graciously. Dr. Fischer feels vindicated, but it's a lousy situation with the school and the kids and the girl. He really feels bad about that girl.”

The Chief perked up. “Really? Do you think he knew her?”

Bruno thought it over. “I don't think so. It was just her … face. That emptiness. And the fact that they found her in the meeting house. He was shook up. Horrified, really. Same way I felt about it. I just figured it was a normal response.”

“But you actually saw her,” the Chief persisted. “It's not likely he ever did, unless he deliberately went down to the morgue. Was he … I don't know how to ask this? Was he picturing her face or just thinking about it in a general way?”

“This kind of reading is pretty fuzzy. It's emotions. Not words. Not pictures.”

“Is there any way you can tell if he actually saw her face?”

“I can try to do a remote viewing. But then I see what he's seeing and hear what he's hearing. But it's not possible to dredge up a memory, unless it happens to be in his consciousness while I'm connected with him.”

“It's worth a try, I guess.”

“I'll need a photograph of Dr. Fischer. Preferably a recent one where he's by himself.”

“No problem. You already have one.”

“If I do, I'm not aware of it.”

“It's in your hand,” the Chief indicated the annual report. “Those things always have photos of the execs. I guess your friend Rhonda must've known what she was doing. Anticipating your every need. She's cute. Maybe you should ask her out.”

Bruno pursed his lips like a hamster. “No, noo,
nyo
way,” he protested, trying to imitate her accent.

“Not nice,” clucked the Chief.

“I like Rhonda,” Bruno protested. “But she's not my type. Too high maintenance.”

“She's just dressing up for work. Besides, with what we're paying you, you can afford to buy her a few trinkets,” said the Chief.

“First you're psychic. Now you're a
shadkhan
, a matchmaker. How do you know she's available?”

“Because I'm Shotgun Buddy Black and something tells me the two of you are made for each other.”

Chapter 17

“No record Dr. Fischer ever visited the morgue,” Sergeant Harry Abraham reported to Chief Black.

The Chief mulled over the information.

“There's also this,” Harry mumbled. He pushed a sheaf of printouts in the Chief's direction.

“What's all this?”

“Chatter from the student message boards.”

Chief Black scanned the documents.

Sociology 40. Introduction to Deviant Behavior

Nathaniel Littlejohn

T,Th 2:00-3:20

A systematic examination of deviancy as a social construct. The course surveys the ways in which society uses normative ethics as a means of controlling behavior and also explores the concept of deviant groups and their role in revolutions. While some reading is required, the course emphasizes empirical research to familiarize students with a variety of deviant acts.

Then he started reading the first message in the pile:

Disregard the syllabus. This course is awesome. You actually learn useful stuff like: deviance as a weapon; identity theft; creating disinformation; covering your ass; manipulating the media; leveraging the legal system; and creating a sleeper cell. The only requirement is to commit a deviant act and write about it …

“Charming.”

“I found out about it from the campus police,” explained Harry. “Happens every spring and drives 'em crazy.”

“What are they dealing with?”

“A lot of pranks, mostly. Soap bubbles in the fountains. Graffiti. Minor shoplifting. Now there's a lot of computer-based stuff. Hacking. Identity theft. Sometimes viruses. And then there's the occasional off-the-wall event that defies description …”

“Can't the university shut it down?”

“Academic freedom. The professor's kind of a cult figure. And the kids love having a course where they don't have to read anything. It's a tradition.”

“Did you find out anything else on the message boards?”

“A lot of bragging. One-upmanship. The class has a nickname, Doggin' 'n' Dissin', and that's all we know right now,” Harry concluded.

The Chief handed the folder back to Harry. “Maybe Bruno'll run into something when he's over there …”

In fact, at that very moment Bruno was buried in the Penn library, reading up on Quakerism and the origins of the university. It surprised him to learn that Benjamin Franklin was not a Quaker and that William Penn had no direct connection with the college.
So why did they call themselves the Quakers?

Not far away, in another part of the campus, Alison knocked on the door of Professor Littlejohn's office.

“I'm very excited about the way my project is developing,” she told him as she took a seat.

“That's good,” said Littlejohn, studying the person sitting across the desk from him. The course was a large lecture, so he didn't ordinarily get to know many of the students. He'd never seen Alison before and she struck him as a typical undergrad. Face not formed yet. Baby fat, yet with a hard edge. Chewed fingernails. Atrocious posture. Ample breasts. Child's temperament in a woman's body fueled by adolescent rage. A bomb waiting to explode. He told himself to keep his distance, for the hundredth time. Then he heard himself saying, “It's always exciting when you step outside normative morality for the first time …”

That was all Alison needed. “I think it's immoral to obey unjust laws. Like Gandhi. He equated laws with superstition. People really have a duty to disobey. Just like you teach in the course.”

Littlejohn tried to be modest, but he couldn't help beaming. “I can't take any credit. Students, people your age, are so idealistic and dedicated. It's the best time of life in many ways. One of the reasons I offer this course is to learn from you. All of that creativity is an inspiration.”

“Well, I really put a lot of thought into it,” she gushed. “My project has to do with the corporate manipulation and appropriation of the global food supply, which forces millions into poverty and submissiveness.”