Authors: Carl Hiaasen
Chelsea went on, “I know it’s unpleasant, Joe, but you can leave as soon as Doc Kukor gives us a cause of death.”
Joe Winder nodded. “How many words?”
“Three hundred. And I need it for the early news.”
“Fine, Charlie. Later you and I need to talk.”
Chelsea was peering through the flaps in the tent, making sure that no gawkers had sneaked past the security men.
“Listen to me,” Joe Winder said. “There’s some big trouble in this park. I got the shit kicked out of me last night because of it.”
For the first time Chelsea noticed the battered condition of Joe Winder’s face. He said, “What the hell happened? No, wait, not now. Not with Mr. X around. We’ll chat later, I promise.”
Winder grabbed his elbow. “I need to know everything about the dead man at the bridge.”
Chelsea shook free and said, “Later, Joe, for heaven’s sake. Let’s tackle the crisis at hand, shall we?”
Together they returned to the autopsy. Instead of concentrating on Orky’s entrails, Joe Winder scanned the small group of official observers: a state wildlife officer, taking notes; the tow-truck drivers who had hauled the whale corpse to the tent; three of Uncle Ely’s Elves, apparently recruited as extra manpower; and Francis X. Kingsbury himself, mouthing obscenities over the gruesome ceremony.
Nervously Chelsea directed Joe Winder to Kingsbury’s side and
introduced him. “This is the fellow I told you about,” said the PR man. “Our ace in the hole.”
Kingsbury chuckled darkly. “Blame us for this? Some fucking fish croaks, how can they blame us?”
Joe Winder shrugged. “Why not?” he said.
Cutting in quickly, Chelsea said: “Dont worry, sir, it’ll die down. It’s just the crazy pro-animal types, that’s all.” He planted a moist hand on Winder’s shoulder. “Joe’s got the perfect touch for this.”
“Hope so,” said Francis X. Kingsbury. “Meanwhile, the stink, holy Christ! Don’t we have some Glade? I mean, this is fucking rank.”
“Right away,” said Chelsea, dashing off in search of air freshener.
Kingsbury gestured at the billowing tent, the murmuring onlookers, the husk of deceased behemoth. “You believe this shit?” he said to Joe Winder. “I’m a goddamn real-estate man is all. I don’t know from animals.”
“It’s a tricky business,” Winder agreed.
“Who’d believe it, I mean, looking at this thing.”
It was quite a strange scene, Joe Winder had to admit. “I’m sure they can find a new whale for the show.”
“This time mechanical,” Kingsbury said, jabbing a finger at Orky’s lifeless form. “No more real ones. Computerized, that’d be the way to go. That’s how Disney would handle it, eh?”
“Either that or a hologram,” said Joe Winder with a wink. “Think of all the money you’d save on whale food.”
Just then Dr. Kukor, the veterinarian, tripped on something and fell down inside Orky’s closet-sized stomach cavity. Two of Uncle Ely’s Elves bravely charged forward to help, hoisting the doctor to his feet.
“Oh my,” Kukor said, pointing. The elves ran away frantically,
their huge curly-toed shoes slapping noisily on the blood-slickened asphalt.
“What?” barked Francis X. Kingsbury. “What is it?”
“I don’t believe this,” said the veterinarian.
Kingsbury stepped forward to see for himself and Joe Winder followed, though he was sorry he did.
“Call somebody,” wheezed Dr. Kukor.
“Looks like a human,” Kingsbury remarked. He turned to stare at Winder because Winder was clinging to his arm. “Don’t puke on me or you’re fired,” said Kingsbury.
Joe Winder was trying not to pass out. The corpse wasn’t in perfect condition, but you could tell who it was.
A wan and shaky Dr. Kukor stepped out of Orky’s excavated carcass. “Asphyxiation,” he declared numbly. “The whale choked to death.”
“Well, damn,” said Francis X. Kingsbury.
Joe Winder thought: Choked to death on Will Koocher. Koocher, in a mint-green golf shirt.
“Somebody call somebody,” Kukor said. “This is way out of my field.”
Winder reeled away from the scene. In a croaky voice he said, “That’s the worst thing I ever saw.”
“You?” Kingsbury laughed harshly. “Three fucking tons of whale meat, talk about a nightmare.”
“Yes,” Joe Winder said, gasping for fresh air.
“I’m thinking South Korea or maybe the Sudan,” Kingsbury was saying. “Stamp it ‘Tuna,’ who the hell would ever know? Those little fuckers are starving.”
“What?” said Winder. “What did you say?”
“Providing I can get some goddamn ice, pronto.”
Charles Chelsea decreed that there should be no mention of Dr. Will Koocher in the press release. “Stick to Orky,” he advised Joe Winder. “Three hundred words max.”
“You’re asking me to lie.”
“No, I’m asking you to omit a few superfluous details. The whale died suddenly overnight, scientists are investigating, blah, blah, blah. Oh, and be sure to include a line that Mr. Francis X. Kingsbury is shocked and saddened.” Chelsea paused, put a finger to his chin. “Scratch the ‘shocked,’” he said. “‘Saddened’ is plenty. ‘Shocked’ makes it sound like something, I don’t know, something—”
“Out of the ordinary?” said Joe Winder.
“Right. Exactly.”
“Charlie, you are one sorry bucket of pus.”
Chelsea steepled his hands on his chest. Then he unfolded them. Then he folded them once more and said, “Joe, this is a question of privacy, not censorship. Until Dr. Koocher’s wife is officially notified, the least we can do is spare her the agony of hearing about it on the evening news.”
For a moment, Winder saw two Charles Chelseas instead of one. Somewhere in the cacophonous gearbox of his brain, he heard the hiss of a peacock, blowing off steam. “Charlie,” he said
blankly, “the man was eaten by a fucking thirty-foot leviathan. This isn’t going to remain our little secret very long.”
Chelsea’s brow wrinkled. “Eventually, yes, I suppose we’ll have to make some sort of public statement. Seeing as it was our whale.”
Joe Winder leaned forward on one elbow. “Charlie, I’m going to be honest.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Very soon I intend to kick the living shit out of you.”
Chelsea stiffened. He shifted in his chair. “I don’t know what to make of a remark like that.”
Joe Winder imagined his eyeballs pulsating in the sockets, as if jolted by a hot wire.
Charles Chelsea said, “You mean, punch me? Actually punch me?”
“Repeatedly,” said Winder, “until you are no longer conscious.”
The publicity man’s voice was plaintive, but it held no fear. “Do you know what kind of day I’ve had? I’ve dealt with two dead bodies—first the man on the bridge, and now the vole doctor. Plus I’ve been up to my knees in whale guts. I’m drained, Joe, physically and emotionally drained. But if it makes you feel better to beat me up, go ahead.”
Joe Winder said he was a reasonable man. He said he would reconsider the beating if Charles Chelsea would show him the suicide note allegedly written by Dr. Will Koocher.
Chelsea unlocked a file drawer and took out a sheet of paper with block printing on it. “It’s only a Xerox,” he said, handing it to Winder, “but still it breaks your heart.”
It was one of the lamest suicide notes that Joe Winder had ever seen. In large letters it said:
“TO MY FRIENDS AND FAMILY, I SORRY BUT I CAN’T GO ON. NOW THAT MY WORK IS OVER, SO AM I.”
The name signed at the bottom was
“William Bennett Koocher, PhD.”
Winder stuffed the Xerox copy in his pocket and said, “This is a fake.”
“I know what you’re thinking, Joey, but it wasn’t only the voles that got him down. There were problems at home, if you know what I mean.”
“My goodness.” Winder whistled. “Problems at home. I had no idea.”
Chelsea continued: “And I know what else you’re thinking. Why would anybody kill himself in this …
extreme
fashion? Jumping in a whale tank and all.”
“It struck me as a bit unorthodox, yes.”
“Well, me too,” said Chelsea, regaining some of his starch, “until I remembered that Koocher couldn’t swim a lick. More to the point, he was deathly afraid of sharks. It’s not so surprising that he chose to drown himself here, indoors, rather than the ocean.”
“And the green shirt?”
“Obviously he wasn’t aware of Orky’s, ah, problem.”
Joe Winder blinked vigorously in an effort to clear his vision. He said, “The man’s spine was snapped like a twig.”
“I am told,” said Charles Chelsea, “that it’s not as bad as it appears. Very quick, and nearly painless.” He took out a handkerchief and discreetly dried the palms of his hands. “Not everyone has the stomach for using a gun,” he said. “Myself, I’d swallow a bottle of roach dust before I’d resort to violence. But, anyway, I was thinking: Maybe this was Koocher’s way of joining the lost voles. A symbolic surrender to Nature, if you will. Sacrificing himself to the whale.”
Chelsea squared the corners of the handkerchief and tucked it into a pants pocket. He looked pleased with his theory. Sagely he added, “In a sense, what happened that night in Orky’s tank was a purely natural event: Dr. Koocher became part of the food chain. Who’s to say he didn’t plan it that way?”
Joe Winder stood up, clutching the corners of Charles Chelsea’s desk. “It wasn’t a suicide,” he said, “and it wasn’t an accident.”
“Then what, Joe?”
“I believe Koocher was murdered.”
“Oh, for God’s sake. At the Amazing Kingdom?”
Again Winder felt the sibilant whisper from a valve letting off pressure somewhere deep inside his skull. He reached across the desk and got two crisp fistfuls of Chelsea’s blue oxford shirt.
“I sorry but I can’t go on?”
Perplexed, Chelsea shook his head.
Joe Winder said, “The man was a PhD, Charlie. I
sorry but I can’t go on?
Tonto might write a suicide note like that, but not Dr. Koocher.”
Chelsea pulled himself free of Winder’s grip and said: “It was probably just a typo, Joe. Hell, the man was terribly depressed and upset. Who proofreads their own damn suicide note?”
Pressing his knuckles to his forehead, Winder said, “A typo? With a Magic Marker, Charlie? I
sorry
is not a bummed-out scientist making a mistake; it’s an illiterate moron trying to fake a suicide note.”
“I’ve heard just about enough.” Chelsea circled the desk and made for the door. He stepped around Winder as if he were a rattlesnake.
Chelsea didn’t leave the office. He held the door open for Joe Winder, and waited.
“I see,” said Winder. On his way out, he stopped to smooth the shoulders of Chelsea’s shirt, where he had grabbed him.
“No more talk of murder,” Charles Chelsea said. “I want you to promise me.”
“All right, but on the more acceptable subject of suicide—who was the dead guy hanging from the Card Sound Bridge?”
“I’ve no idea, Joe. It doesn’t concern us.”
“It concerns me.”
“Look, I’m starting to worry. First you threaten me with physical harm, now you’re blabbing all these crazy theories. It’s alarming, Joe. I hope I didn’t misjudge your stability.”
“I suspect you did.”
Warily, Chelsea put a hand on Winder’s arm. “We’ve got a tough week ahead. I’d like to be able to count on you.”
“I’m a pro, Charlie.”
“That’s my boy. So you’ll give me Orky by four o’clock?”
“No sweat,” Winder said. “Three hundred words.”
“Max,” reminded Charles Chelsea, “and keep it low key.”
“My middle name,” said Joe Winder.
In the first draft of the press release, he wrote:
Orky the Killer Whale, a popular but unpredictable performer at the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills, died suddenly last night after asphyxiating on a foreign object
.
Chelsea sent the press release back, marked energetically in red ink.
In the second draft, Joe Winder wrote:
Orky the Whale, one of the most colorful animal stars at the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills, passed away last night of sudden respiratory complications
.
Chelsea returned it with a few editing suggestions in blue ink.
In the third draft, Winder began:
Lovable Orky the Whale, one of the most colorful and free-spirited animal stars at the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills, was found dead in his tank this morning
.
While pathologists conducted tests to determine the cause of death, Francis X. Kingsbury, founder of the popular family theme park, expressed deep sorrow over the sudden loss of this majestic creature
.
“We had come to love and admire Orky,” Kingsbury said. “He was as much a part of our family as Robbie Raccoon or Petey Possum.”
Joe Winder sent the press release up to Charles Chelsea’s office
and decided not to wait for more revisions. He announced that he was going home early to have his testicles reattached.
Before leaving the park, Winder stopped at a pay phone near the Magic Mansion and made a few calls. One of the calls was to an old newspaper source who worked at the Dade County Medical Examiner’s Office. Another call was to the home of Mrs. Will Koocher, where a friend said she’d already gone back to Ithaca to await her husband’s coffin. A third phone call went to Nina at home, who listened to Joe Winder’s sad story of the dead vole doctor, and said: “So the new job isn’t working out, is that what you’re saying?”
“In a nutshell, yes.”
“If you ask me, your attitude is contributing to the problem.”
Joe Winder spotted the acne-spackled face of Pedro Luz, peering suspiciously from behind a Snappy-the-Troll photo gazebo, where tourists were lined up to buy Japanese film and cameras. Pedro Luz was again sucking on the business end of an intravenous tube; the tube snaked up to a bottle that hung from a movable metal sling. Whenever Pedro Luz took a step, the IV rig would roll after him. The liquid dripping from the bottle was the color of weak chicken soup.
Joe Winder said to Nina: “My attitude is not a factor.”
“Joe, you sound …”
“Yes?”
“Different. You sound different.”
“Charlie made me lie in the press release.”
“And this comes as a shock? Joe, it’s a whole different business from before. We talked about this at length when you took the job.”