NEW YORK MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY
INTERNAL MEMORANDUM
To: Curators and Senior Staff
From: Lavinia Rickman
CC: Wright, Lewallen, Cuthbert, Lafore
As a result of recent unfortunate events, the Museum is under intense scrutiny by the media and by the public in general. This being the case, I [169] wanted to take the opportunity to review the Museum’s policy on external communications.
Any dealings with the press are to be handled through the Museum’s public relations office. No comments on Museum matters are to be made, either on or off the record, to journalists or other members of the media. Any statements made or assistance given to individuals who are engaged in preparing interviews, documentaries, books, articles, etc. dealing with the Museum are to be cleared through this office. Failure to follow these guidelines will result in disciplinary action from the Director’s Office.
Thank you for your cooperation in this difficult time.
“Christ,” muttered Smithback. “Look at this. ‘Individuals engaged in preparing books.’ ”
“She means you, Bill,” Kawakita laughed. “So you ace? My hands are tied.” He extracted a handkerchief From his back pocket and blew his nose. “Allergic to bone dust,” he explained.
“I just can’t believe this,” Smithback said, rereading the memo.
Kawakita clapped an arm around Smithback’s shoulder “Bill, my friend, I know this story would make great copy. And I’d like to help you write the most controversial, outrageous, and salacious book possible. Only I can’t. I’ll be honest. I’ve got a career here, and—” he tightened his grip “—I’m coming up for tenure. I can’t afford to make those kinds of waves right now. You’ll have to go some other route. Okay?”
Smithback nodded with resignation. “Okay.”
“You look unconvinced,” Kawakita laughed. “But I’m glad you understand, anyway.” He gently propelled the writer to his feet. “I’ll tell you what. How about a [170] little fishing on Sunday? They’re predicting an early hatch on the Connetquot.”
Smithback finally grinned. “Tie me some of your devilish little nymphs,” he said. “You’re on.”
= 26 =
D’Agosta was all the way on the other side of the Museum when yet another call came in. Emergency sighting, Section 18, Computer Room.
He sighed, shoving his radio back into its holster, thinking of his tired feet. Everyone in the damn place was seeing bogeymen.
A dozen people were crowding the hall outside the Computer Room, joking nervously. Two uniformed officers were standing by the closed door. “Okay,” said D’Agosta, unwrapping a cigar. “Who saw it?”
A young man edged forward. White lab coat, slope-shouldered, Coke bottle glasses, calculator and pager dangling off the belt.
“I didn’t actually
[172] D’Agosta turned to the two cops. “Let’s check it out.”
He fumbled at the door knob and someone produced a key, explaining, “We locked it. We didn’t want anything coming out—”
D’Agosta waved his hand. This was getting ridiculous. Everyone was spooked. How the hell could they be planning a big opening party for the following night? They should have shut the damn place down after the first murders.
The room was large, circular, and spotless. In the center, standing on a large pedestal and bathed in bright neon lights, was a five-foot-tall white cylinder that D’Agosta supposed was the Museum’s mainframe. It hummed softly, surrounded by terminals, workstations, tables, and bookcases. Two closed doors were visible on the far walls.
“You guys poke around,” he told his men, popping the unlit cigar in his mouth. “I wanna talk to this guy, do the paperwork.”
He went back outside. “Name?” he asked.
“Roger Thrumcap. I’m the Shift Supervisor.”
“Okay,” D’Agosta said wearily, making notations. “You’re reporting noises in Data Processing.”
“No, sir, Data Processing’s upstairs. This is the Computer Room. We monitor the hardware, do systems work.”
“The Computer Room, then.” He scribbled some more. “You first noticed these noises when?”
“A few minutes after ten. We were just finishing up our journals.”
“You were reading the paper when you heard the noises?”
