History lies, as they say, in the details. Criminology textbooks of the future will dwell with quaint, scholarly obsessiveness over lists of clues not found, leads not followed, witnesses not interviewed, fundamental tenets of police procedure and forensic science not observed. But the truth of the matter is that I had my man the moment she ordered us drinks at the cozy little bistro across from the museum, not two hours into the case.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. First, there was the body. All of my best cases have begun with a body; or rather, and somewhat unfortunately, with me looking at a body. It's something I try to avoid whenever possible.
"Have a look at this," offered the medical examiner at the scene.
"Describe, if you please," I retorted, keeping my back resolutely turned. "I have vomited more than my fair share this morning already, and have no desire to push my quota further."
But he need hardly have bothered, for my keen eye had already catalogued, albeit involuntarily, every salient detail: the top of the skull, cracked open like the shell of a hard-boiled egg and lifted clean from the victim's head; and the brain simply gone, scooped out like so much
"Pudding."
Boskins, my faithful man-boy, stood at the edge of the exhibit hall, pointing to a spattering of gray-green, mucilaginous lumps. "Pudding, sir. Still fresh, by the look of it."
"Your diligence is charming but, as usual, redundant, Boskins, for I have already tasted the pudding. Lentil pudding, unless my gustatory faculties have left me. Ready yourself, Boskins," I announced, "for I have deduced the killer."
Boskins obediently produced pen and notepad. "Fire away, sir."
"Only one creature on earth could have committed this murder with such precision, such cold-blooded deliberation, and that is a cleverly designed robot. And only one man on earth could have programmed that robot: the renowned, and quite late, computer scientist Edsger Dijkstra."
"You believe a robot did this, sir?"
"Don't be absurd, Boskins. This crime scene looks like a harvesting tractor went berserk in an encephalitis ward. It is the very opposite of precision. However, it is just as obviously the work of someone desperately striving for precision. And why is that?"
"Because he wants to make us think it was done by a robot?"
"Follow me, Boskins, follow me!" I chided. "I am talking about motive! The killer desires what he cannot have. He has neither a robot, nor the means to program one. How does he acquire these things? It follows as a dog follows the scent of its own offal he intends nothing less than to resurrect Edsger Dijkstra's corpse!"
A familiar look of incredulity came over Boskins' face. "But how is that possible, sir?"
"Boskins, I would punch you in the kidneys were your ignorance not so endearing. Has it not occurred to you, why the body was discovered here, of all places, in the Albermarle County Historical Society Museum? And why at this particular exhibit, 'Great Presidents of the Eighteen-Aughts'?"
"No, sir, it hasn't."
"Typical! I'm sure I need hardly remind you, Boskins, that it was Thomas Jefferson who abolished slavery, shortly after inventing the lightning bolt in 1901; it is something every schoolchild learns by rote. But now I will pose you a question that they teach you not to ask in school. Where did he put it? The slavery, Boskins where did Jefferson put it? Nature abhors a vacuum, Boskins, even more than it abhors you. One cannot simply will slavery away; one must put it somewhere. So Jefferson put it in the only place he could... the only place available to him... in his pants."
I whirled around. "Behold the exhibit, Boskins! Focus your dullard's eye on the life-sized diorama of Jefferson arm-wrestling Aaron Burr for chamber-pot privileges. Seek out the most obvious detail, the grossest discrepancy, and tell me what you see."
Boskins peered at the exhibit, while I closed my eyes, near-sclerotic with anticipation.
I heard him gasp. "The mannequin..."
"Yes?"
"It's missing..."
"Yes, Boskins? What? It's missing what?"
"It's missing its pants!"
I drew a deep, calming breath. "I think it is time to invite the curator out for a light lunch."
The clink of silverware, the murmur of conversation. Lunch was on the menu, but justice was served. I let her order for us both, under the guise of chivalry.
"So," she said, lowering her thick, vixen's lashes. "The undead corpse of Edsger Dijkstra... Thomas Jefferson's pants... two scoops of pudding... you believe these are all related to the murder?"
"I believe nothing, Madame Curator. I merely indicate what cannot be overlooked by even the feeblest of intellects. Jefferson's pants contain the greatest concentration of pure slavery existing on this planet, more than enough to command and, indeed, to countermand death itself. A more foolproof method of resurrecting Herr Dijkstra could not be concocted even by me. With this, the murder virtually solves itself. I need hardly explain the significance of the missing brain. We are talking about zombies, after all."
"And the pudding?"
"That I haven't quite figured out. But it is of small importance. For you have walked into my trap, Madame Curator, as easily as I might walk into a screen door."
She tilted her head inquiringly. Ever the coquette!
"When you gave our waiter your order, what did you request?"
She glanced nervously down at her plate. Her eyes were like my third wife: beautiful... and prone to betrayal.
"...to drink?" I prompted.
She frowned. "Tea?"
"Just tea?"
"Er, hot tea?"
"Would you describe it as 'hot', Madame Curator? Or would it be more accurate to say, warm tea?"
"..."
"..."
"Okay, let's say I ordered 'warm' tea."
"...in?"
"... a mug."
"And with that," I concluded, "you gave yourself away. To your credit, you could not have been aware that I spent my formative years touring the American Midwest as a backup vocalist for a David Bowie cover band. It is an episode of my life that I am not proud of, but now I would not trade the experience for all the concubines in Persia, for during that time I had ample opportunity to study the arcane dining practices of the British. But even a mere tourist could tell you that a true Brit drinks warm tea not from a mug, but from a champagne flute, through a bendy-straw filtered with linen batting. The game is up, Madame Curator. You are no more British than I am."
"But I never claimed to be."
"Even so."
"And here I thought you were going to make something of the fact that I also ordered a big bowl of lentil pudding."
Silverware jingled as I struck the table with my fist. "Enough of your siren's logic!" I bellowed. "Do you deny having masterminded this entire scheme?"
She dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin. "Of course not. Dijksie," she added, raising her voice, "kill."
The dignified old programmer burst through the kitchen doors and lurched toward us, groaning about self-stabilizing systems in four-state machines and leaving bits of rotted epidermis in his wake. Customers shrieked and scrambled out of his way. In a flash, faithful Boskins leapt from his hiding place and interposed himself between us and the foul revenant.
"The pants, Boskins!" I shouted. "Strike at the creature's pants!" But it was too late; Dijkstra seized my lifelong companion by either arm and, with almost casual effort, de-winged him like a well-cooked squab. Blood geysered in two directions. Consumed by unspeakable hunger, Dijkstra broke Boskins' skull open and proceeded to feast.
Poor Boskins! Now I will never have the chance to confess to you that I have been sleeping with your wife for the last eight months. But where a door closes, as they say, a window opens.
"Fiend!" I cried, grabbing the curator by her shapely, delicate wrist. "Do you think I will allow this depravity to go unavenged? Why do you smile so?"
"Because," she said calmly, "None of this is happening. You've forgotten to take your meds again, and you're hallucinating. Rather severely, I imagine."
And just like that, the world began to waver. I gripped my head in my hands. Could it be possible? Was this all just a dream, a feverish, fantastical lie?
A clattering crash woke me from my reverie. The curator had knocked over a waiter, and was sprinting for the door.
Damn!
I always fall for that!
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