Chapter 12: Thursday, Oct. 26

In which Worried reveals the ugly truth about two dead bunnies and Malachy Morin talks big bucks and brass plates.

By Alfred Alcorn

Jul 25, 2001 | I have received an e-mail from Worried that confirms what Professor Tromstromer told me about missing research animals.

Dear Mr. Ratour:

I found out what happened to the guy that asked me to bury the rabbits. He's still around town and I'd give you his name but then he'd tell you who I was and I don't want to get involved in this thing anymore than I already am. So I called this guy and asked him about what was going on. And I think he's telling the truth because I told him I was getting pressure from the cops and that if he didn't come clean with me he'd have to deal with them. Anyway, he tells me that the rabbits weren't part of any experiment, just a couple left over from a thing they were doing on hair-grooming. So one morning he comes into work and there are the two rabbits, a male and a female, dead in a cage together. He says it looked like they had been fighting. He says there's some kind of state regs that make you find out what happened when an animal dies for no reason even when they're not part of some experiment. He says it's a pain in the ass. You got to have them examined. You got to do paperwork. You got to file the thing in triplicate. So he cleans out the cage, puts the things in a bag, and gives them to me. Anyone asks questions it's hey, maybe the Haitains took them. I mean that's the joke around here with the cleaning ladies. When anything's missing, rats, mice, anything, the Haitians took them, you know, for lunch, for voodoo, for whatever. Anyway, I think the guy's telling me the truth. I'll let you know if I hear anything else.

-- Worried

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I think tomorrow I'll print out a copy of this and take it over myself to Nicole Stone-Lee. She might find it useful. Perhaps I'm being overcautious, but you can't be too careful about these things falling into the wrong hands.

Speaking of which, despite my initial reservations, the meeting I had this afternoon with Malachy Morin and two gentlemen from the University Development Office left me quite enlightened. I say gentlemen advisedly, as they struck me as the lodge member types, full of that heartiness which is always ready for a good laugh. Indeed, the individuals involved, taking their cue from Malachy Morin, carried on in an underlying tone of risibility that I find puzzling and disturbing in retrospect. Perhaps it's just that I find the annoyance of it all distracting and am in much need of distraction.

We met in the offices of the Wainscott Next Millennium Fund, which are located in the upper reaches of Grope Tower, that architectural wart that ... but you've heard me on that topic already. "We're here, Norm, to help you and the Museum," Mr. Morin began portentously. "We're here, Norm, to make you a player in the Fund. We're here to make you an offer you can't refuse." To which his two colleagues supplied what sounded to me like canned laughter.

One of them, a Mr. Jeff Sherkin, a short, plump young man with black mustache, fresh complexion, and nervous blue eyes, professed amazement that the Museum did not have a development program of its own. This, for some reason, got a frown from Mr. Morin.

"I'm not sure we need one," I said. "We have income adequate to our purposes."

"Development isn't just about raising money," put in the other, a Mr. Peter Flaler, his voice condescending. The apparent Mutt of this duo, Mr. Flaler was thin, tall, and apparently unable to relieve his narrow face of a supercilious smirk. He went on to explain in the manner of one speaking to a dullard, "People of substance like to and want to give to worthy institutions."

"Yes, and to receive due recognition, of course," chimed in Sherkin.

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