Noche de Muertos: A Tale of the Arts Department

Playa Del Carmen, Mexico/2012

Malik stared Death in the eye.

“Gracias, no,” Malik murmured, pulling his Bureau ID. “Gringos federales.”

The eyes behind Death’s deep ocular orbits narrowed, and a hearty laugh erupted from beneath the clenched teeth. He slipped the fat, expertly rolled Havanas – illegal in the States, freely available in Quintana Roo – into his cloak.

 “Was that necessary?” Agent Drees sighed beside Malik. “How long you think before word gets out the feds are in town?”

“Relax, Austin – get into the Día de los Muertos spirit,” Malik dismissed, scanning the colorful sugar skulls and marigolds that had augmented the usual T-shirts, silver, pharmaceuticals, and vanilla on sale along the major boulevard.

“Yeah, Happy Halloween,” Drees muttered.

“It’s not Halloween. This is a time of celebration, of laughing into the countenance of Death. Meso-American tradition meets Catholic ritual, with a healthy dose of mescal thrown in. I’m merely craving an agua fresca and something to mellow you a bit.”

**

“¡Hola, my friend!” Karl greeted, pulling Malik into an embrace.

Malik inspected his host’s rumpled lab coat and antiquated trousers. “Fermi?”

“Bingo!” the Nobel Prize-winning physicist sang. “And how did you guess?”

“The pants are Italian-cut, and, of course, the badge on your lapel says ‘Enrico.'”

Karl chuckled. “Marlaine always finds my costume choices a bit, ah, esoteric. She wanted me to flag you into the kitchen as soon as you arrived. She’s preparing a genuine Hanal Pixen – Día de los Muertos – feast.”

Malik felt conspicuous amidst the imposters scattered across the caramel tiles of the Phipps’ condo. El Diablo himself hung sloppily over a portly Wonder Woman. A blonde Vampirella theorized about black matter to a throng of costumed colleagues for once oblivious to quantum mechanics. This was a Halloween-themed observance of Dia de los Muertos, but Drees had been in no mood to haggle over a Death mask with one of the village’s aggressive vendors.

Marilyn Monroe, maturely pretty in her infamous white sundress, stood at a marble-slabbed island amid a mountain of masa harina, shredded meat, and corn husks. “Pibikutz,” Marlaine Phipps explained. “Turkey tamales. Traditionally, they’re cooked in a pit for eight hours. We’re breaking with tradition, unless you want to eat around 2 a.m.”

“Screw tradition.” Malik asserted. “How is academic life down here?”

“Really smart people are really smart people the world over. First-class, petty pains.”

“And Karl?” Malik had told Drees about Karl’s efforts to come fully to grips with his daughter’s far-spectrum autism.

The archaeologist shoved long, calloused fingers into the masa harina. “Here’s the world’s top expert on particle theory, speaks seven languages, and he’s always shopping for a ‘cure’ for Kate, like some housewife hooked on QVC. Right now, it’s this Ouija shit.”

Malik frowned for a moment, then winced. “Facilitated communication.”

Marlaine nodded approvingly. “I always thought you were in the wrong field.”

Malik shrugged. “Agent Drees thinks so, too.”

**

“An Australian teacher developed the theory in the late ’70s,” Malik explained to Drees. “You use a keyboard or other device to help patients surface their ‘undisclosed literacy,’ to ‘speak’ what they’re physically unable to say.”

“In FC, a facilitator physically guides the subject’s movements, potentially resulting in subconsciously biased results,” Karl said. “The Ouija’s less subject to facilitator manipulation.”

Drees looked skeptically down at nine-year-old Kate, huddled on her bedspread over an 18-by-12 board. The alphabet was printed on the board with the numbers 1 through 0 displayed below. In the upper corners were a smiling full moon next to the word “Yes” and a scowling crescent moon beside the word “No.” Kate Phipps sat straight-backed and still, eight-year-old fingers poised over a triangular pointer.

“Kate won’t engage with the board unless she’s alone,” Karl advised. “C’mon – let’s leave her to it.”

“The reactions among our friends have ranged from atheistic horror that I’d bring this ‘voodoo’ into our home to outright terror of what portal I might open,” the physicist related downstairs. “This is merely a therapy that seems to have legitimate provenance.”

“Legitimate?” Drees turned to a rail-thin, goateed man in a leather jacket and Fedora. “Indiana Jones” shook his head disgustedly. “The more suggestible the ‘player,’ the more dangerous this nonsense is. Players become increasingly reliant on the board, seeking ever new ‘revelations.’ Kate already is isolated enough without this kind of single-minded obsession.”

Karl smiled coolly. “Agent Drees, Malik, Manuel de Lugo. He’s an engineer at the Institute. A technician.”

De Lugo sighed. “Focus on your daughter’s adjustment to the world, and abandon this pseudoscience.”

Karl’s eyes flashed. “I have to help Marlaine.”

De Lugo watched the scientist retreat. “Followes was irresponsible to give Karl that ‘game.'”

 “Followes?” Drees pursued.

“One of the IT guys. A real bicho raro.”

“I do speak the language, de Lugo.” The voice behind Drees was wounded but amused. David Followes’ plaid shirt was tucked untidily into the waistband of his khakis, and his wire-rimmed glasses dipped slightly on the left. “I read some of the latest Harvard research and figured it couldn’t hurt for Karl to give it a try. Found an old set on eBay. So, FBI, huh?”

“We’re with the Bureau’s art crimes section,” Malik smiled.

“The Joaquin Clausell – the one in Karl’s study,” de Lugo amplified. “An unknown seascape he found in a market in Guadalajara and that Malik fears may either be part of a haul from a Sante Fe collector heist five years ago or a fraud. Roughly a fourth of Clausell’s works are large-scale paintings, and so this smaller piece could be a key find.”

Malik impulsively lapsed into the pioneering artist’s debt to Van Gogh, saturated hues, and impasto brushwork, but Followes nodded disinterestedly. “I ought to circulate a little,” he mumbled, beating a retreat. De Lugo saluted Malik and made for the now-free-floating Vampirella.

“We gonna get a look at the painting some time before the witching hour?” Drees groused.

“Whatever the fates may allow.”

“You smell like turkey,” Drees said.

**

Malik had switched from atole – a fruit-flavored corn meal beverage – to cerveza between the pibikutz and candied pumpkin, and he and Karl leaned back on the sofa in a pleasant stupor.

 “So what’s up at the Institute?” he asked Karl. “Quarks or leptons?”

The physicist awoke quickly from his stupor. “How–?”

“Quark and lepton particles are fermions,” the agent said, nodding toward Karl’s costume.

Karl chuckled. “The DOE and Defense are cooperating with the Mexican government to see if it’s possible to capture quark energy. If we could generate enough mass at the subatomic level, well, I’d better stop there.”

Malik’s response was interrupted by a child’s cry, prolonged and pained.

“Katie!” Karl exploded off the couch, Malik close behind. Drees abandoned Vampirella, and the trio took the stairs rapidly. Karl threw Kate’s door open. The girl was rocking on her bed.

“Baby,” Karl cried out. Kate continued to wail and rock as he embraced her, a strong breeze rustling the physicist’s unruly hair.

“Karl,” Malik drawled. “Do you normally leave that window open?”

“We keep it locked. Too dangerous.”

Malik rushed to the tall window. David Followes was sprawled on the sidewalk below, blood blossoming about his crushed skull.

Malik turned stunned from the windowsill. Something appeared to be missing, but he couldn’t immediately place it. The room was Spartan, the Ouija board undamaged…

“The planchette – the pointer,” Malik gasped. “It’s missing.” Kate’s rocking became more agitated. “Quick, a piece of cardboard, something. And scissors.”

Drees returned with a FedEx envelope. Malik fashioned an outsized guitar pick with a hole near the apex. He straightened the Ouija board, and placed the homemade planchette at its center.

Kate grew still. Her small pink fingers found the makeshift pointer, and the planchette began to move. After a few centimeters, it halted.

2.

Kate’s hands again guided the planchette.

0.

The pointer moved smoothly back to the other side.

1.

And finished its journey.

Drees craned at the board. “2012. What’s that mean?”

“Around these parts, maybe just the end of the world,” Malik replied.

**

“Among the major accomplishments of the ancient Mayans was a calendar more accurate than even the Gregorian model,” Malik explained after the Quintana Roo policia cleared the scene. “Some predict the completion of the thirteenth B’ak’run cycle in the Long Count of the Mayan calendar will signal a major change in world order. Others suggest that at the end of that cycle – on Dec. 21, 2012 – the end will come with a major planetary alignment.”

“This alignment will be merely a visual phenomenon from the earth’s perspective,” de Fugo challenged. “Other than the tilt of the earth, nothing will be any different than any other solstice.”

“What are you trying to suggest?” Marlaine hadn’t changed out of Marilyn’s sundress. “My little girl is some kind of Nostradamus?”

“Childhood savant skills can include advanced calendar calculations, such as the ability to pinpoint the day of the week when a specific date will fall years off,” Karl suggested. “Kate’s message could refer to a calendar date.”

“What’s perplexing to me,” Drees obfuscated, “is how Followes took that dive out the window. Mrs. Phipps, you said it’s normally locked, right?”

“We installed a special bolt high up to allow a five-inch opening.”

Drees nodded. “No way Kate could reach that bolt. That leaves Followes. But that window’s more than 15 feet off the ground -- can’t imagine he’d attempt to carry a child out of the house that way.”

Karl inhaled. “If Kate or Dave didn’t open the window, could it be someone else did, perhaps with intent to harm Kate? This is a classified project with potential weapons applications…”

“Karl!” de Fugo snapped.

The physicist waved him off. “What if Dave was merely trying to protect Kate?”

“But then how did the intruder get out of the room?” Malik objected. “We came running the second we heard Kate screaming, and the same problem applies to leaving by the window – how’d he get to the ground without ladder or rope? Besides, I still feel there was something kind of, oh, off-kilter about Followes. Had you known him long, Karl?”

“I’d seen him at a couple of conferences. He was a bit detached –he’d turned down tonight’s party invitation, only showed up at the last minute. And even then, he wouldn’t come in costume.” Karl pulled off his glasses and wiped them slowly on his shirt tail.

Malik sat back, frowning. “Was Followes in on those all-night brainstorming sessions you told me about?”

“No, Stage 3 clearance. Manny and I are Stage 4.”

Malik’s eyes lit. “Kate?”

Karl smiled. “She’d sit in the corner and do puzzles while we talked of quantum physics and quarks. Why, Malik?”

“Great little shindig, Karl,“ Malik smiled. “Good night.”

**

“Followes had a brilliant analytical mind,” Nigel Prestwick breathed over the international line. Prestwick had headed a team including Followes that had radically rewritten every theory about spontaneous broken symmetry in subatomic physics. But he was everything I frankly despise in younger colleagues – ruthlessly rooting for the truth, totally indifferent to the human condition. I recall a particularly hectic deadline when one of the lab techs leaned his mother had passed. When Followes found out the poor lad had taken the first flight home, he was livid.”

Didn’t sound like the kind of guy who’d go game-hunting on eBay for an autistic child. “Thanks, Nigel,” Malik mumbled.

**

Malik gratefully accepted a cup of cinnamon-infused Mexican coffee from Marlaine. “We ran a check on eBay purchases over the past year, specifically a 1993 Parker Brothers Ouija Board, slightly bumped. Only board sold recently was an 1891 Charles Kennard. And there weren’t any charges or PayPal transactions at all on David Followes account. Bottom line is, I think you had a security leak at the Institute. At least until last night.”

De Fugo and Karl exchanged glances. “Followes?” the Mexican scientist asked.

“I’m guessing the real David Followes is dead. The man you knew replaced him on your project with the to gather intelligence. Whether for a foreign government or a high-tech company looking for an energy or weapons breakthrough, I don’t know.”

De Fugo scowled. “How in the world did you come to this conclusion?”

“Look at Karl. His glasses. What do you see?”

The scientist studied Phipps’ face. “Silver, wire-rimmed, functional but hardly stylish. The nose pieces are spread out, and they’re sitting rather lopsided on Karl’s face.”

“Yup,” Malik said happily. “What’s your dominant hand, Karl?”

“Right.”

“So was Followes’. Karl, wipe your glasses on your shirt.”

Peering strangely at Malik, he complied, rubbing first the left lens and then the right.

“Stop,” Malik ordered. “Now, look down. When you wiped your left lens, you reached over, rubbing from above. When you cleaned your right lens, your thumb was pressed against the earpiece, probably bending it slightly downward.”

“Another case cleared,” Drees murmured.

Malik glared. “I noticed ‘Followes’ was right-handed. But his glasses dipped on the left side from the pressure of repeated wipings. When Followes – the real one – was murdered, his double appropriated his glasses. A superficial detail that would reinforce his new identity. The original Followes was an asocial sort – not too many people would remember he was left-handed.

“Security at the Institute was tighter than Faux-Followes had assumed. He couldn’t risk bugging the lab or your condo. Then he learned of Kate’s presence at the team’s brainstorming sessions, and realized he had a Chesterton’s postman.”

“Chesterton’s what?” Marlaine mumbled.

“G.K. Chesterton,” de Fugo supplied. “In one of his mystery stories, the culprit was a village postman able to avoid detection because no one takes notice of the mailman.”

“Or a little girl. Who knows what Kate may have absorbed? ‘Followes’ decided the Ouija board might offer a way to tap that information with a major modification to the Ouija set he gave Karl. Manny, what is the planchette? In fundamental terms?”

“I suppose a navigational device.”

Malik grinned. “What do you know about RTK technology?”

“Real-Time Kinematic GPS. Took off in the mid-‘90s,” de Fugo recalled. “Some of the highest-precision positioning tech around. Your top consumer GPS systems have an accuracy of three to five meters max, but RTK systems can achieve centimeter-level accuracy of movement. You aren’t trying to suggest–”

“That Fake Followes planted an RTK sensor in the planchette. One capable of tracking movement on the Ouija board. Followes set up a GPS signal detector to intercept Kate’s Ouija ‘communications.'”

Karl shook his head vigorously. “Your theory, it’s so absurdly imaginative. And if the fake Followes stole the planchette, then where did it go between window and pavement?”

“My guess is the impact of Followes’ fall sent the planchette flying. The local PD should be able to locate some trace.”

“But what about Kate’s message? 2012?” de Fugo sputtered.

Malik shrugged. “Much as I hate to admit it, it’s probably not the end of the world.”

**

Rilke subtly readjusted the Glock in his waistband as he located the stucco apartment building that had served as Borges’ base. The mob might have called Rilke a “cleaner,” a Fortune 500 company a “troubleshooter.” Rilke’s duties were far more extensive and lethal than either.

No. 12 was at the end of the dusty corridor. The microscopic apartment was clean and spare. An open laptop occupied a folding table, along with a steno pad.

Rilke tapped the touchpad, and an array of letters and numerals appeared. He flipped open the pad. Borges had transcribed months of “communications” between the Phipps girl and her Ouija board. His employers would be ecstatic.

Then Rilke spotted a single line on the laptop monitor.

 “U…S…T…E…D…E…S…T…A…B…A…J…O…A…R…R…E…S…T…O…”

Rilke suddenly felt cold metal against his temple.

“Let me help you with that,” Malik murmured, as Drees advanced with the local policia in tow. “You’re under arrest.”

Millington, Illinois/2024

“Homeland Security confiscated ‘Followes’ notebook,” Assistant Professor Aboud concluded as he lamented his last blissful sip of atole. “Apparently, Kate may have discovered a few new applications for her dad’s fermion technology – rather earthshaking applications.”

A colorfully lovely if macabre spirit spun onstage in a final flourish. Thea Mason had crafted the traditional Oaxacan Traje de Tehuana dress in all its vibrant and intricate embroidery and ruffles for the campus observation, and Malik directed his applause not only toward the beaming young dancer with the sugar skull face, but also to the textile arts prof.

Arts Department Chairman Saanvi Deshpande never left a loose thread dangling. “Since it is the Season of the Dead, I fear you are about to reveal young Kate as our murderer.”

Malik grinned. “I checked every realtor in the area until I found a rental with the digits 2-0-1-2. 20 Avenida Norte, Apartment 12, was only a few blocks from the Phipps condo. Despite her gifts, the idea Kate could track a geospatial signal to a street address strains credibility, and the notion she could open a nearly floor-to-ceiling window and hurl a man to his death, well, that’s Stephen King fodder.

“If Kate was indeed the Chesterton’s postman, why wouldn’t Followes/Borges use the little girl’s room for secret communications with an associate? You should know, Borges’ transcription of Kate’s Ouija journal ended two days before his death. My guess is, his custom-made GPS device punked out, and he had to find a congested, chaotic window in which to replace it. Thus requiring a confederate on the street to receive the old transmitter and pass on a new one. After Borges fell from the high and stubborn bedroom window, his partner panicked and blew out of Dodge, too panicked to drop the planchette or its replacement at Borges’ rental, at the address Followes likely had provided over the phone with only a ‘little girl’ around.

“The human mind may be pliable and adaptive,” Malik concluded as he rose. “Fate is resourceful. Another round of atole?”