“Listen up,” the policeman said an hour later. “You’re free to go now. Just be sure to stay out of the areas behind the yellow tape.”
Margo raised her head from her arms with a start as a hand landed on her shoulder. Tall, lanky Bill Smithback clutched two spiral notebooks in the other hand, and his brown hair looked, as usual, as if he’d just gotten out of bed. A chewed pencil was tucked behind one ear, his collar was unbuttoned and his grimy tie knot pulled down. The perfect caricature of a hard-driving journalist, and Margo suspected he cultivated the look. Smithback had been commissioned to write a book about the Museum, focusing on the Superstition exhibition that would open next week.
“Unnatural doings at the Natural History Museum,” Smithback muttered darkly in her ear as he folded himself into a chair beside her. He slapped his notebooks on the table, and a flood of handwritten papers, unlabeled computer diskettes, and photocopied articles covered with yellow highlighting spilled across the Formica surface.
“Hello, Kawakita!” Smithback said jovially, slapping him on the shoulder. “Seen any tigers lately?”
“Only the paper variety,” Kawakita replied dryly.
Smithback turned to Margo. “I suppose you must know all the gory details by now. Pretty nasty, huh?”
“They didn’t tell us anything,” Margo said. “All we’ve heard is some talk about a killing. I guess Prine must have done it.”
Smithback laughed. “Charlie Prine? That guy couldn’t kill a six-pack, let alone a biped. No, Prine just found the body. Or should I say, them.”
“Them? What are you talking about?”
Smithback sighed. “You really don’t know anything, do you? I was hoping you’d heard something, sitting in here for hours.” He sprang up and went over to the coffee urn. He tipped and rattled and cursed it and came back empty handed. “They found the Director’s wife, stuffed in a glass case in the Primate Hall,” he said after settling himself in the chair again. “Been there twenty years before anyone noticed.”
Margo groaned. “Let’s hear the real story, Smithback,” she said.
“All right, all right,” he sighed. “Around seven-thirty this morning, the bodies of two young boys were found dead in the Old Building basement.”
Margo pressed a hand to her mouth.
“How did you learn all this?” Kawakita demanded.
“While you two were cooling your heels in here, the rest of the world was stuck outside on Seventy-second Street,” Smithback went on. “They’d shut the gates on us. The press was out there, too. Quite a few, in fact. The upshot is, Wright’s going to give a press conference in the Great Rotunda at ten to quell the rumors. All that zoo talk. We’ve got ten minutes.”
“Zoo talk?” Margo pressed.
“It’s a zoo around here. Oh, God. What a mess.” Smithback was savoring not telling what he knew. “Seems the murders were pretty savage. And you know the press: They’ve always assumed you’ve got all sorts of animals locked up in here.”
“I think you’re actually enjoying this,” Kawakita smiled.
“A story like this would add a whole new dimension to my book,” Smithback went on. “The shocking true account of the grisly Museum killings, by William Smithback, Junior. Wild, voracious beasts roaming deserted corridors. It could be a best-seller.”
“This isn’t funny,” Margo snapped. She was thinking that Prine’s laboratory wasn’t far from her own office in the Old Building basement.
“I know, I know,” Smithback said good-humoredly. “It is terrible. The poor kids. But I’m still not sure I believe it. It’s probably some gimmick of Cuthbert’s to boost publicity for the exhibition.” He sighed, then started guiltily. “Hey, Margo—I was really sorry to hear about your father. I meant to tell you earlier.”
“Thanks.” Margo’s smile held little warmth.
“Listen, you two,” Kawakita said, rising, “I really have to—”
“I heard you were thinking of leaving,” Smithback continued to Margo. “Dropping your dissertation to work at your father’s company, or something.” He looked at her curiously. “Is that true? I thought your research was finally getting somewhere.”
“Well,” Margo said, “yes and no. Dissertation’s dragging a bit these days. I’ve got my weekly eleven o’clock with Frock today. He’ll probably forget, as usual, and schedule something else, especially with this tragedy. But I hope I do get in to see him. I found an interesting monograph on the Kiribitu classification of medicinal plants.”
She realized that Smithback’s eyes had already started to wander, and reminded herself once again that most people had no interest in plant genetics and ethnopharmacology. “Well, I’ve got to get ready.” Margo stood up.
“Hold on a minute!” Smithback said, scrambling to gather up his papers. “Don’t you want to see the press conference?”
As they left the staff lounge, Freed was still complaining to anyone who would listen. Kawakita, already trotting down the hall ahead of them, waved over his shoulder as he rounded a bend and disappeared from sight.