The Counterfeit Murder in the Museum of Man by Alfred Alcorn Read Free Book Online Page B

than whole, less than what they could have been. It’s difficult to resist the inevitable assessment and the kind of inner discounting that ensues. Which in turn provokes a fierce love and pride alloyed with tragedy. And, out of pity and guilt
(What did I do wrong?)
, you find yourself in the grip of a deep, protective love. My dear silent little girl is ever more precious to me.
    And then, gradually and without exercising what I would call deliberate virtue, the notion of deficiency abates and the state of being mute becomes just another kind of normality.
    Speaking of which, Felix has returned to Seaboard to my great relief. But he can be a strange bird. Rio, he told me, “is tush city, derrière central, butt capital of the world. Talk about neck pain. What I mean, Norman, is don’t ever go there for a honeymoon.”

4
    That I had yet to tell my friend and colleague Lieutenant Tracy all that transpired on the night of Heinie’s murder provoked in me an unease that shadowed and sharpened everything I did. In all honesty, I felt like an impostor. Even as I met with Dr. Harvey Deharo and Professor Thad Pilty to discuss the Neanderthal problem, I kept recalling what had happened on that fateful evening. And what I had not told the police.
    I managed to be plausibly attentive when I sat down with these two eminent scientists along with Emmanuel Quinn, the representative from Humanation Syntectics, the firm that designed and manufactured the animated mannequins we use in the Diorama of Paleolithic Life.
    As I have mentioned, in an attempt to render the models in “postracial” hues, we had tinted them a light grayish brown, a complexion that may be the future of the human race but apparently wasn’t that of our Neanderthal antecedents.
    I let Thad, who personifies gravitas with his Amish-like beard and stolid squareness of stature, delineate the problem. He pointed out that the issue had also arisen several years before while planning the diorama. He admitted he felt troubled then about resorting to a kind of non-tone for the skin color of the models. All the same, he emphasized that the real purpose of the diorama — informing the public about life among these extinct humans — had been very successful. He conceded that perhaps it was time to review the whole thing.
    Mr. Quinn, one of those salesmen who believe in what they sell, took the opportunity to tell us about a new line of models with up-to-date robotics that looked and acted so real, they scared people.
    “That would be quite an investment,” I put in.
    “Big bucks,” said Mr. Quinn. “But worth it. I mean from a revenue point of view.”
    Harvey Deharo nodded thoughtfully. He is a Harvard-trained specialist in genetic anthropology. Of Caribbean origins, he claims Spanish, African, Converso, Irish, and French antecedents. A regular salad, he called himself at a dinner party where the host had been pouring drinks with a generous hand. His pale eyes, set in a long, strongly sculpted face, remain in one’s mind a good while after one meets him. He is tall, graceful of movement, and articulate in at least three languages. The man could get by on looks and charm alone, but he combines his worldliness with competence in his field and with an offhand managerial flair I marvel at. We’ve had Harvey and his delightful wife, Felice, over for dinner and have been to their farmhouse, which is located some miles out of town. He is gracious and subtle toward me in his gratitude while I, mellow with his good wine on one occasion, told him, “It is you, sir, that makes me and the museum look good.”
    Now he cleared his throat. “Perhaps, if the investment was not too great, we could consider updating the whole exhibit.” In that easy island accent of his, he pointed out the cost would also have to include revenues lost during the time the diorama was closed to the public.
    I ventured the possibility that we could, given the latest research, gradually phase in