The Love Potion Murders in the Museum of Man Read online

  “That’s not true, Mosy, and you know it.”

  “Please, Ms. Spronger, allow Mr. Jones to continue,” said Professor Athol. “Mr. Jones …”

  “Then, I don’t know. I never did lose my woody, so we were into it again. You know what I’m saying. I think she was coming again.”

  From the rest of his account, events apparently continued in that fashion for some time before the couple, sexually exhausted and horrified at what had happened, were able to separate and make themselves presentable.

  “What made you stop finally?” Ms. Brattle asked.

  Mr. Jones shrugged. “I lost my woody.”

  “If the arms of the wheelchair were lowered,” Izzy asked, “how did Ms. Spronger manage to stay in place?”

  “I only lowered them halfway down.”

  By this time I was in an agony of interrogative anticipation. I had a dozen questions I could have asked them. What did they have to eat? Where did their lunch come from? How long after they started eating did this strange and sudden passion come over them? What was the exact nature of this passion? I did ask Mr. Jones, “Had you ever felt any sexual attraction to Ms. Spronger prior to this encounter?”

  “No way. I mean she digs other chicks. That’s not my scene. I am one with the Lord on this.”

  When there appeared to be no more questions, Professor Athol thanked the disputants. They in turn thanked the committee and, in the company of Ms. Cowe and her assistant, withdrew.

  The subcommittee at this point entered the deliberation phase preparatory to making a preliminary finding. By degrees and perhaps inevitably, the discussion turned to the nature of erections.

  Ms. Schanke, working on the Lemon Filled, stated with some force that “Erections are a social construct devised by males to punish women and keep them subservient.”

  Ms. Doveen gave her an eye-rolling glance. “Speak for yourself, darling.”

  Thad Pilty stepped into the fray, spelling out the matter in simplified biological terms. He said that from a physiological point of view, both the advent and maintenance of an erection is not entirely a voluntary act and becomes less so in the throes of intercourse. “Erections occur,” he said, “when hormones cause the blood vessels leading to the penis to relax and those leading away to constrict, causing the member to become engorged with up to eleven times the amount of blood it has when flaccid.”

  Izzy opined somewhat wistfully that for gentlemen of a certain age natural erections are something of a gift.

  “Is there a female equivalent?” someone asked.

  Professor Pilty responded that there was obviously no real equivalent. “In a state of sexual arousal, a woman’s nipples, her clitoris, and her vaginal labia become engorged, and there’s usually a concomitant secretion of lubricating moisture on the walls of the vagina.”

  “What’s it called?” Professor Athol asked.

  Thad shook his head. “I’m not sure the phenomenon has a term.”

  “Perhaps we should create one,” someone said.

  Professor Pilty shrugged his shoulders. “How does lubrition sound? In the sense that a man has an erection and a woman has a lubrition?”

  “Sounds good to me,” Ms. Doveen said as the rest of us passed.

  Izzy shook his head, holding back a laugh. “Good enough to cause vagina envy.”

  “I’m not sure it’s within the purview of the committee to decide medical terminology,” Ms. Brattle stated. “I think —”

  “There are possible legal consequences,” Mr. Dearth interrupted.

  “Or consequential legal possibilities,” I muttered.

  Mr. Dearth’s eyebrows raised. “Yes. Yes.”

  “We could certainly suggest the term to the appropriate authorities,” Professor Athol put in.

  “I think women and women alone should decide what to call it.” Ms. Schanke spoke with considerable vehemence.

  “By that standard only the elderly should be allowed to coin terms for geriatric medicine.”

  “Surely there must be a committee on nomenclature within the medical establishment that the issue could be referred to.”

  “The real question is whether this body is authorized, as an official act, to suggest nomenclature to any such entity.”

  “It doesn’t have to be an official act.”

  “What’s the point if it’s not official?”

  “What do we mean when we say ‘official’?”

  “It means with the stamp of office.”

  “But we don’t have an office.”

  “No, but we perform an office.”

  “That’s right. An office as an official function.”

  “What’s the etymology of the word, anyway?”

  “I’m not sure. Probably from facio, Latin ‘to make or do.’ You find it the root of such words as factory, manufacture, effect, efficient, fact …”

  Ms. Brattle’s gavel came down with a bang. “Please. We were discussing erections.”

  Thad Pilty remarked as to how there was something called the IIEF, the International Index of Erectile Function.

  “Thank God,” said Izzy. “For a moment I thought you were referring to L Institute International d Études Françaises.”

  “But does it define an erection?” Professor Athol asked.

  “Not as such. I think the accepted definition is a penis sufficiently rigid for unassisted penetration of the vagina.”

  “I think it’s like the judge said,” Ms. Doveen put in. “I can’t define it, but I know one when I see one.”

  “Can we all agree on Professor Pilty’s definition?” Professor Athol asked.

  “Why do we have to agree?” someone said. “It’s been established that Mr. Jones had an erection.”

  “I think definitions are important,” Professor Athol retorted. “Without the presence of an erection, rape is impossible.”

  “That’s not true. Men rape women mentally and culturally all the time,” Ms. Schanke put in. “So-called civilization is one long rape.”

  Ariel Dearth, assiduously taking notes and uncharacteristically quiet, declared that “erections per se have no standing in law, as far as I know. I doubt there is a legal definition of an erection as such, but there’s considerable case law as to what constitutes penetration.”

  “More to the point,” Thad Pilty asserted, “if Mr. Jones is accusing Ms. Spronger of rape then we have to establish that not only was there an erection involved but that under the circumstances its presence was involuntary.”

  During a tedious back-and-forth that ensued, the issue arose as to exactly how far into the act of heterosexual intercourse in which the genitals of both partners are “in deep contact” can a woman legitimately change her mind and ask her partner to withdraw.

  Professor Pilty cleared his throat and opined that once there had been “consensual penetration without any obvious trauma,” it seemed unreasonable to ask the male to withdraw. Certainly, he continued, “once ejaculation has begun, it’s unrealistic to think that a man can just stop and pull out.”

  “That’s total bullshit,” Ms. Berthe Schanke proclaimed. “Rape is rape and nothing you say changes that.”

  Constance Brattle reminded the subcommittee that coitus interruptus had been practiced since ancient times and was considered a legitimate part of the sexual repertoire. She wondered aloud why Mr. Jones, if he had wanted to end the intercourse, did not simply detumesce?

  I’m afraid some of the men smirked.

  Ms. Brattle, noticing that response, said, “What I’m saying is that he could have thought of something to distract himself.”

  “Such as?”

  “I don’t know … preparing his income tax …”

  “Or sleet falling on nettles.”

  “Or battery acid.”

  “Or having a root canal.”

  “Or his wife.”

  “Please, gentlemen, this is a serious matter.”

  Izzy Landes sensibly argued that perhaps Mr. Jones was not in a
position to withdraw given Ms. Spronger’s considerable weight. “If a man is expected to desist at any point along the way, then certainly women should be expected to do the same.”

  Ms. Doveen, in what seemed to me an attempt to keep up sexually, so to speak, with the Joneses from a gender point of view, retorted that “when a lady gets her groove going, there is nothing going to stop her.”

  Somewhat surprisingly, I was asked by Professor Athol for my opinion before I had a chance to proffer it.

  I stated that whether a man is responsible or not for his erections, surely he remains responsible for what he does with them. I also remarked that I was starting to understand more and more why those so-called old fuddy-duddies of yore insisted on both high standards of conduct and their enforcement, through chaperones if necessary. Certainly if that young woman in the White House had been more closely supervised, there would not have been that encounter with the former President and the disgrace it brought to his exalted office.

  No actual finding was made as to the merits of the case. We took the matter under advisement while recommending that both parties seek counseling and that they avoid having lunch together unless others were present.

  I was not long back from this meeting when Mr. Castor accosted me by phone again. He asked me if I had any questions about the contract he had sent by overnight mail some days before. I told him I had no questions insofar as I had not read and did not intend to read the contract he had sent me and that my first answer was my final answer. When he tried to engage me in conversation I put him on hold long enough for him to hang up.

  It should not have surprised me, but Malachy Morin lumbered into my office not long after lunch with the florid face of the freshly boozed. He lost no time in blustering on about Urgent Productions and the need to go ahead with “Brauer’s project.”

  I told him he was wasting his time, something I have a feeling he is very good at. “I will not have the museum turned into a setting for sensationalism.”

  “Norm,” he said, in that fake congeniality of his that makes me clench my teeth, “we live in a new age. Any public perception is better than none. People are gonna flock here.”

  I told him I did not approve of flocking people.

  He stood and pulled himself up to his full six foot five or six, a grandeur compromised somewhat by a rather rotund middle and an agitation that showed itself in the color of his ears. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to overrule you, Norm.”

  “You don’t have the authority to overrule me, Mr. Morin. The university has no warrant here that’s in any way enforceable. We are establishing that in court. If Mr. Castor or any of his minions as much as sets foot on museum property, I will contact the Seaboard Police Department and have him arrested on criminal trespass.”

  Mr. Morin shook his head with the assumed grimace of the worldly-wise and turned to go. At the door, just as in a certain kind of movie, he stopped and looked back. “You just don’t get it, do you Norm. You just don’t get it.”

  “What don’t I get, Mr. Morin?”

  “Mr. Morin, Mr. f*cking Morin. You know how to make it sound like a put-down. Well you ought to know, Bow Tie, that there’s some serious and tough, very tough money behind this thing. I’m not talking about a couple of Hollywood fags, either, that want to make some kind of feel-good movie …”

  “What are you trying to say?

  “I ain’t going to say any more. Just remember what I told you.”

  “It will take an effort.”

  At which point he stormed out.

  There still has been no word from Korky. I finally got up the courage yesterday to tell Elsbeth he had gone missing. I was forced to, really. Not only has Korky been officially listed as missing by the Seaboard Police Department, but the Bugle is to run a front-page story tomorrow with an account of his disappearance. A goodly sum has been collected as a reward to anyone coming forward with information as to his whereabouts. But as time passes, hope dims.

  She took it well, as though, in facing her own death she already knew all she needed to know about disappearing. “I hope he’s all right,” she said. “But if he has gone to that great restaurant in the sky, I’m sure he’s telling the head chef what he thinks of the ambrosia.”

  Lieutenant Tracy called me this afternoon as a courtesy to fill me in on some new developments. He told me Korky was last reported seen at the White Trash Grill, which opened some months ago at the old truck stop out on the bypass. According to the lieutenant, it is a hangout for a pretty tough bunch of what he called biker and trucker guys. He said prostitutes of various persuasions cruise the trucks pulled up for the night, and this attracts other unsavory types. Korky’s editor at the Bugle said he may have gone out there to do a review of the restaurant, but he didn’t know for sure. As for suspects in any possible foul play, I told Lieutenant Tracy he might want to check Korky’s clips at the Bugle morgue. I daresay there are lots of restaurateurs out there who would love to see him choke on some indelicate morsel. At the same time, I don’t know why, I cannot get out of my mind that Korky’s disappearance has something to do with the Ossmann-Woodley case.

  Speaking of which, I informed the lieutenant what I had learned at the meeting of the Subcommittee on Appropriateness. We agreed the best course right now would be for me to contact the parties involved and try to find out quietly if what happened that afternoon in the storage closet at Sigmund Library has any bearing on the Ossmann-Woodley case. He told me to get back to him were I to run into any real obstacles.

  Well, I think I’ll wend my way home. I only hope that Sixy and Diantha will be going out tonight. The thought of listening to all that thumping dispirits me.

  16

  Every person, I think, questions his own courage from time to time. And for me that time is right now. I have on the desk, not far from where my hands address the keyboard, a videocassette. My responsibility is clear: I must take this cassette to the Twitchell Room, insert it into the VCR, and watch it.

  But I cannot bring myself to do it.

  Perhaps I should start at the beginning. As many people know by now, Corny Chard has been on an expedition to one of the very remote tributaries of the Amazon to witness the rituals of the Yomama tribe. Still “anthropologically untainted,” according to Corny, the Yomamas are reportedly the last group in the world still practicing cannibalism. Concern has been mounting, both here at the museum and among his family, because no one, until today, has heard anything in weeks. (As to his family, I think his daughters are more concerned than is his wife, the merry Jocelyn, who keeps saying that Corny will come to a bad end.)

  This afternoon, just as I was about to descend to the Twitchell Room for the annual meeting of the Visiting Committee to the Skull Collection, a likable young man by the name of Henderson appeared in my doorway. I surmised that he brought me news of Professor Chard inasmuch as he wore the garments of a field scientist or nature guide — loose-fitting chino jacket, matching trousers with a lot of pockets, and a well-worn leather hat with a wide brim. He also carried a canvas duffel betokening rough usage in rough places.

  He came in at my invitation, apologizing for not having phoned ahead, but indicating that the purpose of his visit might justify the forgoing of such civilities. I glanced at my watch and told him I had a meeting to attend, but could spare him a couple of minutes. He nodded and sat down in a manner that betrayed the diffidence of one still not at ease with the amenities of civilization.

  “I’ve just flown in from Manaus,” he announced, as though apologizing for the state of his clothes. “I just came out of the bush.”

  “And you have news of Corny?” I wondered aloud. “Professor Cornelius Chard?”

  He smiled uncertainly. “I think so but I’m not sure. I was given a package by a man I know from the Rio Sangre area. The man’s Christian name is Fernando. He works as a jack-of-all-trades, you know, between the local tribes and the prospectors, loggers, anthropologists, and missionaries that make it into
the area. He had this package for me. He kept saying, “Very important, very important. For Mr. Norman at museum.” Then he paused as though trying to think of how to word something. “He seemed very upset, scared even. He was very happy to be rid of it.”

  He produced from one of his capacious jacket pockets a rectangular package roughly wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. “He said a Professor Chard promised him two hundred and fifty dollars if he could get it to you in America.” He handed the package across the desk to me.

  “And you paid him?”

  “I did.”

  “I’ll make sure you get compensated,” I said, feeling the slight weight of the package with a premonition of excitement and dread.

  He nodded his thanks.

  “You have no idea what’s in it?”

  He shook his head. “It might be a videotape of some kind.”

  My hands just a little uncertain, I took scissors and snipped away the string and then carefully cut away a bit of what looked like duct tape. Young Henderson was right: Nestled in several layers of paper was a cassette from a video camera in wide use.

  I called Doreen and asked her to get Mr. Henderson a check for $250. I glanced at the time. With relief I realized I couldn’t watch it then because of the meeting in the Twitchell Room. The equivocation of avoidance had begun. It deepened as, in assembling my papers for the committee meeting, I chatted with Henderson, learning about conditions in the region of the Rio Sangre. It did little to assuage my misgivings when he told me that the unrest there had turned violent with murders, maimings, and mutilations.

  I asked about the Yomamas. He shook his head. “Those are bad hombres from what I’ve been told. It’s hard to get porters even to go near the area. They joke about being eaten, though most people think the talk about cannibalism is a lot of nonsense.”

  Reluctantly, shaking his hand, I left him in the good care of Doreen who, despite her new boyfriend, appeared quite taken with the young man.

  All through the meeting with the committee my thoughts kept turning to the package, which I had brought along, determined to play the tape once the room was clear. I kept thinking of questions I should have asked. Where had he met this man Fernando? What else had the man said? I wondered why Corny himself hadn’t turned over the tape to Henderson. Why hadn’t he put my name and address on it? As I sat there listening to Alger Wherry detail his usual problems and some new ones that had developed over the past year, I was in the awful quandary of wanting to know what it was I really didn’t want to look at.