Rhesus Factor, Part Two

Back at my apartment I showed Rachel the note from my windshield. “Can you get anything from this?”

            She paused the game on her laptop. “I don’t get a kiss?”

            Rachel has red hair and hazelnut eyes. She’s my upstairs neighbor. She’s kind of psychic, and she’s definitely my girlfriend. After a rough patch, we’d been doing better than ever in the past few weeks.

So a certain amount of time elapsed before I could get back to business.  

Afterward, sitting on the couch with the latest episode of The Crown streaming on my TV, Rachel picked up the note. “Oh, wow.”

            “What?” I tried to focus.

            “Someone’s scared.” She rubbed her fingers over the paper. “I can’t tell who, or what they’re scared of. But it’s all over this.”

            “Huh.” I took a sip of coke. “I guess I’ll have to find out.”

I spent the next morning researching the researcher online. Chuck Tillers had multiple degrees, two books, and dozens of articles, all dealing with apes. He’d been born in England, spent years in various African countries, and been a contestant on Jeopardy!

            For the heck of it, I looked up rhesus macaques. According to Wikipedia, the first monkeys were set free in Florida by a tour boat operator in the 1930s who wanted to make his “jungle cruise” more authentic. According to one myth, monkeys were also released for filming of a Tarzan movie. And many of them had indeed escaped from zoos damaged or destroyed by hurricanes.

One interesting fact: Their fur tends to be gray or brown. But the monkey who’d startled me had red fur, at least around its ears. I’d have to ask someone if that was normal.

            I made a few phone calls from my other cases, ate a quick sandwich, and drove back out to the zoo.

            I interviewed a few different researchers who hadn’t been around yesterday. They mostly said the same thing: Tillers was smart, devoted to the monkeys, and an occasional prick.

            One of them, a young woman named Janet Polk, told me that red fur on macaques was unusual but not unknown. I asked her how many fingers the monkeys typically had, remembering the photo of six-fingered Arlo.

            “Just five.” She cocked her head, puzzled. “Why?”

            “Just wondering.”

            I went back to Tillers’ office and turned on his computer. The password had changed. I texted Averill.

            He called me back 30 seconds later. “I can’t give you access to the computer system.” He sounded annoyed with me. “There’s confidential information on there. I shouldn’t have let you see it yesterday.”

            Great. “This could get in the way.”

            “If there’s anything specific you need, we can take it on a case-by-case basis.”

            If I was looking for anything specific I wouldn’t need to search the computer. I decided to save that argument for later. “Has Tillers’ locker been cleared out? I’d like to take a look there.”

            “We’re still expecting him to come back.” But Averill told me he’d send someone with a key.

            The locker room smelled like lemony disinfectant fighting the odor of stale cigar smoke, and almost winning. A janitor—not the one from yesterday—unlocked Tillers’ door.

            I found a spare set of clothes, a brown paper bag with a sandwich and a banana, both going bad, and a few books. Paperback thrillers, not scientific tomes.

            Half the lockers were open and empty—there were 26 in all. A shower stall sat at the end of the room, next to a sink and toilet. I walked down the row of lockers, running my hand along the dented metal.

            Then I sat down on a red wooden bench to count. Sixteen men worked here, and three women. If they all shared the same locker room—which wasn’t likely—there would be 19 locked doors. But I counted 17 doors.

            Sixteen men, 17 locked doors? I went to find the janitor.

            He had to call Averill for permission, but in a few minutes he slid the key in the lock and yanked on the door.

            A dead, mutilated macaque tumbled out onto the floor.

It was wrapped in a blood-soaked thermal blanket, which had probably kept the stench from seeping through the locker vents. Now that it was free, the smell permeated the room. The janitor threw up—although just the sight of the corpse was enough to make me regret eating my lunch two hours ago. But I managed to get a few pictures on my phone.

            Averill came, along with Martin Kell and the veterinarian, Georgette Johnson. Other researchers crowded the door outside the locker room.

            “What the hell?” Averill pressed a checkered handkerchief against his face. “What’s that doing here?”

            “It’s Arlo.” Johnson knelt next to the body, apparently immune to the odor and the sight of blood.

            Yeah. I’d noticed the sixth finger on each paw.

            Kell stood near the door. “Where did he come from?”

            I pointed at the locker. “In there. Why didn’t anybody notice he was missing?”

            “There’s no tag.” Johnson was examining Arlo with heavy gloves. “If it fell off, it might have still showed up on the system. Maybe one of the other macaques took it.”

            That didn’t make much sense to me, but I wasn’t going to argue right that right now. “What happened to him?”

            “It looks like he’s been dissected. Or autopsied.” She stood up and backed away. “Everyone should get out of here. We’re going to have to suit up to get him into the med center.”

            Averill waved everyone back. Kell retreated with the rest.

            I followed Averill down the hall until he got to his office door. Then I leaned forward. “What kind of research are you doing here, anyway?”

            Averill reached for the doorknob, his arm shaking. “Studying the macaques. Trying to prevent them from spreading disease.”

            “Why does Arlo have six fingers?”

            He blinked. “What? That can’t be right. You must have—”

            “I saw it on Chuck’s computer. Before you locked me out of it. And I saw them just now. Is Johnson really going to examine Arlo, or just cover this up?”

            Averill shook his head. “Your job is to find Chuck Tillers. Not to investigate our work. Which is very sensitive. If you can’t do that, send me a bill and go home.” He opened his door. “That’s all, Mr. Jurgen.”

            He didn’t quite slam the door, but it closed with a firm click.

            So now what? I was no closer to find Tillers than I had been yesterday when I’d walked in the door. But I had a lot more questions.

            I wandered around and found the med center. The door was locked, but it had a small square reinforced window, so I peered inside.

            Johnson and someone else in a hazmat suit had Arlo on a cot. I couldn’t see what they were doing, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to, but I saw one of Arlo’s arms hanging off the bed, and I made sure to count his fingers. Six.

            I went back to look at the habitat. Two scientists in protective gear—not full hazmat suits—were walking around, examining the monkeys as well as they could. They had to wait for a macaque to come to them, and then they stroked furry arms and offered treats. Other monkeys prowled around, jealous or bored. I looked for the one with red ears.

            “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

            It was Tina Waller. Young and blond, in jeans and a loose blue blouse. A silver ankh dangled from a necklace across her chest. I moved to give her a better view. “They’re quiet now.”

            “It happens in late afternoon. They’ll get more active, then they’ll sleep.” She peered through the reinforced glass. “Have you found Chuck yet?”

            “No.”

            I felt her hand inside the pocket of my jacket. “Call me. And keep an eye on Marty.” She turned and headed up the hall.

            Outside a breeze blew the now familiar scent of smoke through the air. Sitting in my Honda I searched my pocket. A scrap of paper had a phone number in neat letters.

            Okay. I added it to my nearly endless list of contacts from previous and current cases, stuck the paper in my wallet, and turned the ignition key.

            Then I spotted Kell, unlocking a green Subaru.

            Keep an eye on Marty, Waller had told me. Well, I had nothing else to do.

           

Kell drove to Tillers’ house.

            I parked up the street and called Rachel. “So there’s a dead monkey, a scientist who wants me to call her, and maybe a cheating wife. Where do you want me to start?”

            “The scientist—is she cute? Why does she want you to call her? Is she cute? Wait, I asked that already, didn’t I?” Rachel gets territorial sometimes.

            I chuckled. “Yes, I don’t know, yes, and yes. I assume she’s got information, not because I’m devastatingly handsome.”

            “You’re fishing for an argument, aren’t you? Wait—a dead monkey?”

            “Yeah.” I spared her the most gruesome details. “I’m not sure if it fits into this. Or the maybe affair, or anything else. But they’re trying to cover something up.”

            “Is that your Spidey-sense tingling?”

            I sighed. Too many of my cases veer into strange, supernatural, paranormal territory. I’m like a magnet for the weird. If I’d become an accountant like my dad—and like my mom wanted—I’d probably be dealing with angry ghosts moving debits and credits around on a balance sheet.

            “The dead monkey had six fingers. They’re not supposed to. Something’s strange at that lab. They locked me out of the computer system. They’re worried about sensitive information. What kind of information?” My reporter’s instincts were kicking in. But I had more questions than answers. In a way, that was good. It gave me more leads to go on—until one or more of them dried up.

            “Well, be careful, okay?” I heard loud punk music in the background. “I’m making vegetarian lasagna. I’ll save you some.”

            I sat and watched the house, feeling hungry again.

            I couldn’t exactly sneak up and peek through the windows. Kell visiting Tillers’ wife wasn’t exactly solid evidence of an affair, but putting that together with the fact that Natalie had ignored her phone the night her husband disappeared . . . well, it wasn’t conclusive, but it made the case for hanky-panky a little more substantial.

            Still, staking out houses, motels, and the occasional parking lot tended to get boring fast. After an hour I gave into temptation and called Tina Waller.

            Waller picked up her phone after two rings. “Yeah?”

            “Ms. Waller? Tom Jurgen. You gave me your number today.”

            “Oh. Right. Hang on.” I waited until she came back. “Sorry. I’m driving home. But I’m parked now. Can I trust you?”

            What? I checked the rearview mirror. “Well, you told me to call you.”

            “Yeah. I recognized your name the minute we met. We’ve been keeping an eye on you.”

            Uh-oh. “What are you talking about?”

            “Red Watch.” Waller sucked in a breath. “Recognize it?”

            Oh hell.

            Red Watch was an animal rights activist group. I’d run across them years ago. They’d shut down a facility experimenting on humans turned into zombies. I’d helped—sort of. More recently, a Red Watch member had infiltrated a farm breeding giant mutant ninja  chickens for cage fights. I’d been part of breaking that up, too.

            They weren’t just activists. Red Watch broke into testing facilities, destroying data and freeing animals into the wild. The police considered them terrorists.

            I didn’t want anything to do with them. But Waller was a source. She had information that might help me find Tillers and figure out what was really going on at the zoo.

            “I’m listening.”

            “Not over the phone.” Cars whooshed by her ear. “There’s a bar on Clinton. O’Reilly’s? Meet me there in 45 minutes.” Waller hung up.

            I checked the address. I’d barely make it in an hour. Then I called Rachel. “Red Watch is in this.”

            “Oh, hell.” Disgusted. “How?”

            “Not sure. That scientist belongs to them. I’m meeting her in a bar called O’Reilly’s on Clinton in an hour.”

            “Her?” Suspicious. “The cute one? Where is this place?”

            “She’s not that cute, and it’s called O’Reilly’s on Clinton. I’ll call you when I know anything.”

            Rachel groaned. “Did I mention lasagna?”

            I started the car. “Keep it warm for me.”