After the mayhem last night, it was a relief to get down to business and meet with the medical examiner. And this guy wasn’t just the coroner—he was a Chambeaux & Deyer client as well.
Archibald Victor (emphasis on the bald) was an intense man with pallid skin and a cadaverous complexion. He was a diminutive, even goblinesque, human of the mad-scientist variety, with eyes as large and round as ping-pong balls and thin skittering fingers that might have made him a good pianist, though he devoted his dexterity to dissection instead.
He was completely hairless, yet for some reason—I was embarrassed to ask him why—Dr. Victor wore a dark toupee on top of his scalp, meticulously combed and moussed. It lay on his head like roadkill, obvious to the point of incomprehensibility.
Robin and I sat at the conference table. “How can we help you, Dr. Victor?” she asked, ready to take notes on her yellow legal pad.
The coroner set two pickle jars on the table in front of Robin and me. One jar contained floating blobby tissue, a discolored organ that I could not identify; biology had never been my best subject in school. The larger jar held a rippled grayish mass that was obviously a human brain. He looked intently at us, narrowing his too-large eyes, keeping one hand on the jars, as if to protect them. “Before I engage your services, I must know that I can count on your absolute discretion. This is a private matter, ahem, and I wish it kept private.”
“That’s why I call myself a private investigator, Dr. Victor.”
“And I’m bound by attorney-client privilege,” Robin said. “You can speak freely.”
“Good, good.” He fluttered his fingers. “I’m not ashamed of my hobby—lots of people do it. Nothing abnormal about eccentric behavior.”
The little coroner had my attention now. I owed him a favor anyway: During the autopsy of Snazz the gremlin, this man had proved that even though I’d been found at the scene of the murder, I was not responsible for killing the furry pawnbroker.
“We’ll keep this professional, Dr. Victor.” Robin clicked her pen. “How may we help you?”
He seemed embarrassed. “My wife says I’m obsessed, but in an endearing sort of way. You see, ahem, body building is a passion of mine.”
I looked at his scrawny, pallid form—he was the last person I’d expect to find in a gym. And here I thought Archibald was going to say he liked to dress up in women’s clothing. I wondered what strange hobby he was talking about.
McGoo had told me of a case where a psychotic dentist became obsessed with collecting human teeth; he’d only been caught because the insurance company complained that too many patients were filing claims for full sets of dentures after coming in for a routine teeth cleaning. When an insurance claims adjuster investigated, he was incapacitated with nitrous oxide and woke up giggling in the dentist’s chair with bloody gums and no teeth. The dentist had tried to flee, but was caught at the airport because all the fillings in the jars of stolen teeth had set off the metal detector.…
Archibald Victor tapped his spidery fingers on the conference table. “How to explain this to someone who won’t understand? You know how some people like to put together models of sailing ships?”
With a wistful smile, I said, “I built a few of those plastic molded kits. You snap them together or use model cement.” I let out a sigh. Ah, to be a kid again! “We used to float them in the duck pond and blow them up with firecrackers.”
Archibald blinked his large eyes, touched his toupee as if to make sure it was still there, then said, “Ahem, I was talking about something more involved than that. Truly dedicated hobbyists build the ships piece by piece, sand and paint every wooden part, tie the rigging rope with tweezers, cut and string the sails. A meticulous craftsman can take up to a year to build a single model.”
The hairless coroner grew even more animated. “Now, think of a hobbyist who builds a ship in a bottle, using tweezers for every step—it requires the patience of a Zen master. And when he’s done, ah, the sense of pride and accomplishment …” He drew a deep breath, let it out slowly. “The challenge of what I do for fun is ten times harder.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Body building?”
“Yes, ahem, I’ve become quite adept with ‘build your own person’ kits. You assemble a human being from the skeleton up, organ by organ, stitch by stitch.”
Robin set her pencil down, concerned. “I thought that was illegal. Weren’t there raids on a few mad scientist laboratories?”
“Not exactly illegal—it’s still a gray area of the law,” the coroner said. “I’m familiar with the cases you mentioned, but those were extraordinary circumstances, and the mad scientists in question are not members in good standing of the guild. They should have known not to use non-voluntary body parts and organs. They give us all a bad name.”
“Non-voluntary body parts?” I asked. “Who’d give voluntary body parts?”
“Oh, there are sources,” Archibald said. “Usually mail-order catalogs or websites.”
In a short break between answering the incessant phone calls—the press release about Death Warmed Over had done its work—Sheyenne entered the conference room carrying coffee for me and the coroner, green tea for Robin. Sheyenne looked at the pickle jars on the table, glanced at the preserved brain, then focused on one of the lumpy organs.
“Oh, a spleen,” she said. “But an odd-looking one. Is it damaged?”
Archibald brightened. “Why, yes! That’s exactly what I mean—it’s defective. I did not get what I ordered. And though I’ve complained to the company, I received no satisfaction.”
“You ordered a spleen from a catalog?” Sheyenne asked.
“Online. The warehouse is local, but I prefer to remain anonymous, get my components in unmarked packages delivered right to my home. It’s Tony Cralo’s Spare Parts Emporium, budget prices for collectors, researchers, hospitals. It’s quite a booming market, ahem.”
“You learn something new every day,” I said.
“At least every other day,” Robin added.
“I’m building two models right now at home, getting ready for a big body-building competition coming up. I received an honorable mention last year. But when the wrong piece shows up, it throws everything out of whack.” He tapped the jar lid. “This spleen is in such bad condition, even your assistant spotted it at first glance.”
“I did take two years of med school,” Sheyenne said.
Archibald looked at Robin. “So, I want to enlist your services, ahem. Can you get my money back and stop the company from hurting other people? Look at this!” When he lifted the larger container, the formaldehyde sloshed from side to side, and the disembodied brain bobbed as if it were nodding. “This is shit for brains! Not mint condition by any means. Look at the medulla oblongata! And can you see the damage there to the cerebellum?” He made a sound of disgust. “Looks like somebody removed the brain with a meat cleaver and a set of bacon tongs.”
Sheyenne nodded. “He’s right. The damage is quite apparent.”
Robin said, “We’ll look into the matter, Dr. Victor. We handle consumer complaints as well, and we have several options. We can threaten to bring bad publicity for the Cralo Spare Parts Emporium, maybe arrange a boycott among mad scientists.”
“Oh, no, no, no!” Archibald wrung his hands. “This has to be discreet. I’d be laughed at in my job, and I couldn’t take the shame. I want people to think of me as a perfectly normal person, ahem.” He bowed his head, and the ridiculous toupee nearly fell off. “If you come to my home, I’ll show you my kits. You’d understand better.”
“I could drop by, if I’m out in that area,” I said.
Robin tapped her pen on the yellow legal pad. “We’ll contact the company first, visit the manager, put them on notice. They need to improve their quality control, or they could lose a large part of their customer base. Don’t worry, Dr. Victor—there’s usually some quick way to avoid a misunderstanding. We file a lawsuit only as a last resort.”
I added, “I’ll see that you get a replacement brain and spleen, Dr. Victor. Maybe even convince them to throw in a free set of lungs while we’re at it.”
“Oh, that would be nice.”
“We can’t work miracles,” Robin cautioned, “but we’ll do what we can.”
The phone rang again, and Sheyenne flitted out to answer it. She rushed back into the conference room through the wall, ignoring the door, and from her expression I could tell that the call wasn’t just another book reviewer hoping for a free copy of Death Warmed Over.
“Officer McGoohan’s looking for the medical examiner. There’s been a murder—and even he thinks it’s unusual.”