The Brain Vault (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 3) (7 page)

“And how did you rule out the other two techniques?”

“Boiling makes a mess, warps the bone, and dissolves all the cartilage—shrinks just about everything. Even if you’re very careful, all the articulating fiber is destroyed. No, I’m sure it wasn’t boiled. That leaves bacterial maceration, which is just fancy talk for rotting the meat off the carcass. It’s the equivalent of throwing the specimen in a cesspool. Darn thing usually smells so bad afterward that you can’t get rid of the stench.” Jack sniffed the skull and winked at us. “Odor free. Another thing, your specimen was chlorine bleached, that’s why it’s so white. Professionals don’t do that. It looks good but there’s too much chance the chlorine will damage the bone.”

“How should it be whitened?” Lido asked.

I knew where Lido was going with his line of questioning, way back to his adolescence. This was no longer a detective’s line of questioning, but more of a twelve-year-old’s curiosity. He had an eager partner in Evans Jack. I could tell that at any moment now they’d lay down their peashooters and start trading baseball cards.

“Mostly peroxide,” Jack replied.

“Ordinary household peroxide?” Lido asked.

“Pretty much. It does the job and it doesn’t mess with the bones too much. Cheap too—a four percent solution’s all you need, and it can be reused two or three times.”

Neat!

Lido seemed surprised. Apparently he had used peroxide on a booboo before and was surprised that it could be used to bleach something as cool as a human skull. “Really, I didn’t think peroxide was strong enough to do that kind of work—I mean if you pour it on a cut, it just sits there and bubbles, kind of like soda pop.”

“And after a few seconds, your skin turns white and puffy, doesn’t it?” Jack asked.

Lido nodded. “Now that you mention it.”

“Well, how do you think your skin would look after a good twenty-four hour soak?”

“I get the picture,” Lido said.

“Good old H2O2 does the trick ninety-five percent of the time. For real tough stains they use Biotex.”

“What’s that?” Lido asked.

“A product that comes out of the UK,” Jack said. “It’s not alkaline, so you don’t have to worry about it turning your bones to jelly. We maintain a small bug cleaning room on premises. Care to have a look?”

Oh dear God, is he kidding? Ambler looked up from his Blackberry and shot me a stealthy snicker. I had less than no interest in Jack’s bug room and was about to tell him so when Lido jumped eagerly out of his chair. What is it with boys? They love all that stuff: dinosaurs, bugs, the Discovery Channel. I have to go celibate once a year when they air Shark Week. I can’t get Lido away from the stupid TV.

We went merrily on our way into Evans Jack’s bug room. I looked back at Ambler who hadn’t budged from his seat.

“Been there,” Ambler said. “You enjoy.”

No one was looking, so I flipped Ambler the bird. He grinned and turned back to his Blackberry.

You could see how much Evan’s Jack loved his work. He was like a tour guide at Disney World.
Stay close together, keep your hands out of the bug boxes—no one under fifty-four inches admitted.
“We keep the bugs separate from everything else because if these critters get hungry enough, they’ll eat anything, bones, gristle, your lunch, and your clothes—almost anything. We take added precaution in the bug room. I’ll explain as we go along.” Jack handed us dust masks. “The beetles produce lots of dust. I’m allergic to it, so I’m gonna do this one, two, three, alright?”

By all means.

The room was divided by long tables, with Formica tops on metal frames. Glass aquarium tanks resided on the tables. They were of varying sizes. A large air scrubber was mounted on the ceiling. The room was dead silent.

“This is where it happens,” Jack said. “The butcher shops use any kind of crap that’s handy to house the beetles, but we rely solely on steel reinforced glass aquariums. We visually inspect each colony at least twice a day.”

“Different sized tanks for different sized specimens?” Lido asked.

“Exactly right,” Jack was glowing with pride as he walked over to a twenty-gallon aquarium. “A large bone, like a human tibia might go into a tank this size. We try to make the tanks no bigger than necessary because you’ve got to keep these hungry bastards fed.”

“You’re kidding,” Lido said.

Lido peered into one of the tanks. He closed his eyes and reared backwards, away from it. “What’s going on in there?” I could see that he found the bugs repulsive and yet intriguing at the same time.

Jack walked over to the tank that Lido had asked about. A log sheet was taped to the side of the tank. “Adult male skull, found in the New Jersey Swamp.”

“Jimmy Hoffa?”

Jack chuckled, “You never know.” He tapped the tank gently, where the beetles could be seen crawling through the eye sockets. “Not for everyone, is it?”

“How long does it take for these things to eat the meat off a skull?” Lido asked.

All right, Gus, it’s time to go—no more questions, please.
I was starting to get the willies.

“Depends on conditions, Detective. You’ve got to control their environment.
Dermestes maculatus
like it warm, moist, and dark, about eighty degrees Fahrenheit. There are four stages in the beetle’s life cycle: egg, larva, pupae, and adult. A good hot colony of larva could clean a large bone in a couple of days, maybe less.”

“How about an entire human body?” Lido asked, showing a macabre interest in all things icky and dorky.

“About a week if prepared properly.”

“How much prep work do you have to do?” Lido asked.

I was about to run screaming from the room. I yawned dramatically, hoping Lido would pick up on it. He didn’t. Another two minutes and I’d have to start popping buttons off my blouse.

Evans Jack laughed. “It’s not like throwing the specimen into a vat of boiling acid, for God’s sake; you’ve got to remove the skin and all the hair. Most of the flesh gets trimmed away before the specimen is ever introduced into the tanks. You’ve got to take out the eyes, the tongue, and the brain—all the internal organs. As voracious as Dermestes beetles are, they can be very discriminating. For example, they will not eat the flesh off the feet unless you remove all the skin and split the toe pads.”

“Such discerning palates. Gus, it’s time to go. It’s past midnight and I make it a point to only study entomology during the daylight hours.”

Evans Jack laughed and then thankfully, he sneezed, signaling that his allergy was kicking in. He sneezed again, this time so loudly that it reverberated through the bug room. “Allergies,” Jack reminded us. “What do you say we get some fresh air?”

“My thoughts exactly. Thanks for the tour.”

Evans Jack took us back to the conference room. Ambler thanked him for staying so late, and then he left, which thrilled me as Lido looked like he wanted to hang out and talk bugs all night long. I really wasn't not up for a stimulating all-nighter on the subject of earthworms and centipedes.

Ambler had finished his coffee and had placed the skull in a brown paper evidence bag.

“I guess we’ll take that back with us. Where’s the chain of evidence receipt?” I said.

“Not so fast, Chalice,” Ambler said. “I’ve got one more trick up my sleeve. Can I hold onto this a little longer?”

I could see in Ambler’s eyes that he had not lost hope. “Yes, sure—let’s catch up with each other in the morning. All this bug talk is making my skin crawl. I’m going home to take a shower and incinerate everything I’m wearing.” With the building deserted, I leaned over and gave Ambler a peck on the cheek. “Talk to you tomorrow, G-Man.”

There was a lot on my mind, but for now it was time to rest and let my premonitions come to me in the form of dreams. I was nodding off in the car as Lido drove home. I was picturing him dressed like a little leaguer, with freckles and tousled hair. There was a huge grin on his face as he rounded third, digging for home. The throw to home was on its way in. The catcher ripped off his mask, revealing Yours Truly. I was crouched to tag him out as he slid feet first into the plate. Then, before I knew it, it was morning. Lido was already awake, smiling at me with a mischievous look on his face. Batter up.

D
amian Zugg drove along Shore Road to where the tall grass grew in tufts along Long Island Sound’s sandy embankment.
The windows of his old
BMW
were rolled down. His vintage
2002 tii
was equipped with air conditioning, but Zugg preferred the feel of the wind in his face and The Sound’s salty musk filling his nostrils.

Gazing out across the water, Connecticut was sharply in view as he maneuvered his Beemer into the small parking lot the Town of Bayville had recently repaved for the few North Shore residents savvy enough to know the existence of oft deserted Ransom Beach.

He stepped from the car without locking it and walked to the narrow strip of beach. It was still early morning and Zugg was virtually alone on the beach. Off in the distance, blissfully out of earshot, a solitary Asian family with three small children played in the sand.

Zugg lay down on the sand with his toes just inches from the water’s edge. The pain of his migraine headache was intense. He squeezed his eyes shut to cope with the pain. Staring out at the water, he was unable to concentrate. The Sound was already busy with sport boats. A powerful cigarette filled the air with the throaty burble of its powerful engines. The deep bass notes of the boat’s thunderous exhaust pounded mercilessly against his temples.
Faster! Hit the throttle and gun that piece of shit!
Zugg counted backwards from ten, watching the cigarette grow small in the distance, ultimately thanking God for the silence. He immediately pulled a small syringe from his shirt pocket, purged the air, and injected himself with six milligrams of Imitrex. He closed his eyes and waited for the blinding migraine to subside. A sharp breeze blew south off the water, cooling his face and filling his ears with its rushing noise. He smiled and wished for the few minutes of sleep the long night had denied him.

He felt the pain begin to ebb, opportunity enough for his fatigue to take hold. His head filled with images. He pictured the small tumors that stretched out across his frontal lobe, throbbing and red as he had seen them through the infrared camera. Their pattern was like the island chain that made up the Philippine Archipelago. He imagined them fading from red to a soft pink as more medication migrated through the blood-brain barrier, extinguishing the pain. And then with a merciful wash of serenity, he drifted off.

He was not quite awake when he sensed the presence of someone lying next to him. “How long have you been lying there?” Zugg opened his eyes slowly, squinting against the rising sun. He was immediately aware that his head was for the moment free of pain.

Herbert Ambler folded his newspaper and stowed it under his butt to keep it from flying away. “Maybe twenty minutes. How long were you out?”

Zugg checked his watch. “Something short of a good night’s sleep. Didn’t have any trouble tracking me down, did you?”

“A man as predictable as you? No… I was careful not to wake you.”

“Well, aren’t you just precious.” Zugg grinned. “Always happy for your company, my friend.” His gaze went immediately to a brown paper bag on the sand beside Ambler. Zugg slapped Ambler on the knee. “What did you bring me for breakfast?”

“No, not breakfast.” Ambler smiled and then turned to look across The Sound. “It’s like heaven out here, isn’t it? Sometimes I wonder how God had the inspiration to create such beauty. I hear the pounding of the surf and it makes me feel like we share the same origin.”

“We all arose from the ooze, now didn’t we?”

Ambler smiled, still looking out to sea. When he turned back, he noticed the empty syringe lying between them on the sand. “Rough night?”

Zugg followed Ambler’s gaze. He nodded. Finding the cap to the syringe, he fitted it over the end of the needle and put it back in his shirt pocket. “So what’s in the bag?”

“Are you up for a challenge?”

“Worried you’re going to overtax me?”

“Not really, I’m sure you’re up to the task.”

“You’re full of crap, my friend. But don’t worry. To quote the irreverent Richard Prior, ‘I ain’t dead yet.’”

“No you’re not, but just for the record, Damien, how are you?”

Zugg turned to look down the beach. The Asian couple that had been playing with their kids was now loading them into a shiny
BMW
SUV. “How is it that just about everyone can afford a sixty-thousand dollar truck nowadays?”

“Credit to George W.”

“Bush—you’re kidding, right?”

“He gave us daily affirmation that the American system of capitalism was idiot proof—God love ‘em.”

Zugg smiled. “You’ve got a real future in political satire.”

“I’m a regular Lewis Black.”

“Who’s more pissed off at the world than you?”

Ambler pried a small mussel out of the sand with his fingertip, examined it, and tossed it into the water. “No more jokes. How are you feeling?”

“I’m three months into what may very well end up being the last year of my life. I’m trying to keep busy.”

“Busy is good.”

“I’ve got a friend over at NASA’s jet propulsion laboratory in Pasadena. He pulled some strings and got me in for the testing phase of their new thermal imaging system. You can see them clear as day, Herb, over seven thousand microscopic lesions and growing. You can’t see them on the MRI, but they’re there, real as life…real as death. Hard to get an image like that out of your head.”

“What about treatment?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Does it sound like I’m kidding?”

“Stereotactic radiation of the frontal lobe? I’ve had fifty good years. I’m not going to spend my last days, deaf, drooling, and wetting my pants.” He raised his hand. “It’s not open to discussion.”

The wind switched direction. Zugg tugged on the brim of his Yankees cap to keep it from blowing off. Ambler could see the trailing end of Zugg’s surgical scar where the cap didn’t quite cover.