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A CHIMPANZEE IS CURIOUS
That evening, Schell tracked down Stintson's number through phone information and called, pretending to be a reporter for the New York Times who wanted to follow up on the professor's writings in opposition to the ERO. Apparently Stintson was eager to discuss the issue and bring his concerns to a wider audience. He invited Schell to visit him at his home the next day. I would accompany Schell and act as his assistant and photographer.
Early the next morning, as we tooled along Lawrence Hill Road, Schell told me, "I still haven't called the Barneses back to discuss the sйance. I have no idea what to tell them. They're looking for answers, and this thing just keeps getting more complex with zero payoff."
"Do you think Greaves had anything to do with it?" I asked.
"I doubt it," said Schell. "We're grasping at straws, focusing in on him. But he's all we've got at the moment. Granted, he's not likeable, he was on to our con, and he belongs to an organization that, as Emmet reported, and more than likely Dr. Stintson will corroborate, is practicing a rich man's subtle genocide on the weak, the lame, the hungry, and the foreign, but that doesn't mean that he murdered Charlotte Barnes. I'm afraid we've pretty much reached the end of the line with this."
"That's not going to look good for us, is it?" I said.
"Not if Barnes gets on the blower to his cronies and tells them we failed at what we have advertised as our expertise. No, that's going to be a direct hit on our business. Barnes probably knows every wealthy truebeliever on the Gold Coast of the North Shore. We may have to relocate. I've always thought Hollywood might be a good venue for us. Movie stars seem as if they'd be easy marks."
"I suppose this is a lesson in taking jobs for free," I said.
Schell shrugged, "Not the greatest policy, but we're still the richer for it."
"In what way?"
"You've found Isabel, and I've found Morgan. Money is not the only manifestation of good fortune."
There was something definitely wrong with Schell. It wasn't the sodden depression of a few weeks earlier, before the Parks sйance, but this optimism was completely unexpected. Was Schell becoming a romantic? I found it nearly as disturbing as the more mordant condition that preceded it. I mulled it over for a few minutes and was about to mention it to him, when he pulled up to the address Stintson had given him.
Stintson was a vital-looking older gentleman, who sat ramrod straight in his chair as he poured us coffee at his kitchen table. He had about him a kind of energy and a can-do attitude that, frankly, I found wearying. It was a certainty he'd been up at sunrise thinking intricate thoughts. Still, he was not at all averse to speaking with us as long as the conversation didn't flag. When I asked him to pose for a photo, he became exasperated at what he considered to be a waste of time.
"We wanted to find out about the ERO," said Schell, begi
"Yes," he said. "I understand."
"Have you worked there long?"
"Well, Mr. Schell, I don't spend much time there anymore. I still have a membership, so to speak, but…my interest has cooled over the years."
"Why's that?"
Stintson winced. "I found I was working at cross-purposes with the leaders of the organization. You see, many of us who worked there hoped that our research would eventually lead to cures for inherited maladies. But as time went by I began to realize that the intended mission, of those who were supporting it that is, was to disenfranchise, to persecute, to play God instead of help people. I still believe the research could lead somewhere positive, but not now, not in this climate."
"Doesn't it all just fit into Darwinian theory?" asked Schell. "Survival of the fittest?"
"Yes," said Stintson. "But who or what is the fittest? It's Nature's purview to make that selection. There are so many factors, both seen and unseen, that go into that selection; it's not humanity's job. Some of my colleagues there bring an almost religious zeal to it, definitely a subjective zeal. They never consider the fact that what might seem to them to be aberrant may, in the larger scheme of things, be the next rung on the evolutionary ladder-a solution of survival for our species."
Schell nodded, and I could tell he was truly contemplating the doctor's comments and how they fit with his worldview of marks and cons, predators and prey.
I could see Stintson was getting a little restless, so I put my hand on Schell's arm to draw his attention. "The photo," I said.
"Oh, yes," he said and held up the photograph from Parks's place. "Does this look familiar to you, doctor?" asked Schell, laying the picture on the table so that the professor could study it.
He took a look at it and smiled. "Probably one of the informal gatherings at ERO," he said. "That's me, looking somewhat younger, right there," he said, pointing. I looked and it was true-a more youthful Stintson, darker hair, fewer wrinkles, stared up at us from the static tableau.
"How about this gentleman?" asked Schell, pointing.
"That, I believe, is Mr. Parks. He was a contributor to the cause. A wealthy man, who, if I'm not mistaken, recently met with a grisly end."
"You don't say," said Schell.
I saw a look of suspicion flash across Stintson's face, but Schell obviously noted it also and pushed on. "And did you know this fellow, Greaves, here?" he asked.
Stintson bent forward to get a better look. "I know him, but his name isn't Greaves."
"What?" asked Schell. "I was told he was a Doctor Greaves."
"Why exactly are you asking these questions?" asked Stintson, suddenly cold. "I don't think I'll be answering any more."
"We're simply curious," said Schell.
"A chimpanzee is curious, a cat is curious," said Stintson. "What are you after?" He pushed back from the table and began to stand up, no doubt to show us the door.
"Have you heard the name Charlotte Barnes?" asked Schell.
Stintson stopped midway in his ascent and returned to his seat. "The girl who was found murdered," he said. All of his good humor had vanished.
"Yes," said Schell. "We're investigating her death, and I think this fellow either knows something or was involved in some way. Now you don't have to help us, but an i
"You're not with the Times, I take it. Are you police?" he asked. "Federal agents?" He looked at me as if the thought of me working for the government would be a bizarre revelation indeed.
"We're working for Barnes, and I can assure you we're the furthest thing from police as one can get," said Schell.
"Can you prove it?" asked Stintson. "Say I call Barnes?"
"Barnes won't admit that we're working for him. He's promised me that. We've told him we're spiritual mediums. He thinks we're communicating with the dead to find out who killed his daughter. Actually we're con men, but I swear we aren't taking any money from him."
"That sounds fairly preposterous," said Stintson.
"Do you have a deck of cards?" asked Schell.
Stintson went to a drawer in the kitchen and brought forth a deck of cards. Schell had them out of the pack and was putting them through their paces in a flash. Stintson smiled as he watched the incredible display. When Schell was finished with the cards he set them down, waved his left hand in the air, and a monarch butterfly appeared above the table. "Lean over here and shake hands with me," he said to the doctor. Stintson warily did as he was asked. They gripped hands briefly and then the old man pulled away.
"As I said," said Schell, "we're not cops." He pointed with his left index finger at his right wrist, where Stintson's watch now resided.