Robbing the Memory Bank
(June 2015)
8: At Baggage Claim
Stanford had no idea what Dr. Erasmus Helving looked like, only that he was a British scholar who had written extensively on matters of the supernatural. That Saturday morning, therefore, when he arrived at the Portland airport, Ford came equipped with a hand-lettered placard that bore Helving's name, as neatly block-printed with a broad-tipped marker by Mabel. She had also decorated it with stickers of bunnies.
Feeling as if it made him stand out even more than his polydactyl hands, Ford rather awkwardly located the baggage carousel for the morning flight in from Chicago and stood holding up the placard at chest level. As if to counteract the colorful sign, he wore a dark-blue suit and conservative tie. People hurrying out with their luggage gave him curious glances, but no one stopped.
Then Ford noticed a trim man, probably in his fifties but maybe in his sixties, standing amid a group of three suitcases. He looked about the right age—short gray hair, thin, rather prominent nose, patient expression, brown tweed suit that looked a trifle baggy. He stood as if waiting for something to happen.
Ford approached him. "Dr. Helving?"
The stranger's expression brightened at once. "Yes, I am. I just noticed your sign," he said with a smile. "And you are—?"
"Stanford Pines," Ford said, shaking hands. "I've read your articles and books, and I'm the one who kept pestering you with questions last December. Thanks for agreeing to come in for a consultation."
"Quite the contrary," Helving said with a chuckle. "It's my pleasure, I assure you, Dr. Pines. Thank you for paying for my airfare and for putting me up. I've always wanted to visit this area of your country—Twin Peaks in Washington, your corner of Oregon." His voice sounded thin and reedy, with a lilting north-of-England sort of accent.
Ford hefted the two larger suitcases. "It's about two hours and a bit to Gravity Falls," he said. "Odd name for a town, I know. It's a fascinating place, full of anomalies. And also full of eccentric people!"
"I shall be interested in learning about the history, the mysteries, and the eccentrics," Helving said, picking up the smallest of the three suitcases and falling into step beside Ford.
"Oh, you'll hear all you want!" Ford assured him. "However, I urgently wanted to consult you on one specific matter. On the drive over, I can tell you about the problems we've been having. It involves the T'klatlumodh and the Wheel of Sperling."
"The Zodiac wheel. My word," Helving said. "No one has seriously believed in the T'klatlumodh's existence for, oh, close to five hundred years!"
"Yes, but as I told you in my electronic mails, it very definitely is involved in the present case."
"Indeed. I'll ask you to tell me everything all over again, then, just to make sure it's all fresh in my mind. I had long thought the T'klatlumodh was just a Medieval tale—though, to be sure, I have several times encountered references to what might be a modern instance of the thing."
"It manifested in Gravity Falls," Ford assured him. "Classic materialization, a swarm of black spirit-serpents. It was called into our dimension by a Schreckgesicht, a horrific demonic effigy of a face very much like the one described by von Zauberer in his book Geheimnisse der Teufelsleute and pictured in the woodcut on page 42."
"Have you actually seen that volume?" Helving asked. "It's an exceedingly rare book!"
"I've only seen the facsimile version published in Amsterdam in 1914," Ford said. "I have a partial copy—mine was damaged in a World War II bombing, but the first half of the book is intact, up to page 201."
"Ah. I have held in my hands an extraordinarily well-preserved exemplar of the first printing. Extraordinary incunabulum. You know, it's believed to have been printed in 1470, only fifteen years after the Gutenberg Bible."
"And five after von Zauberer's horrible death," Ford agreed. They had reached the short-term lot. "This is my car." He unlocked the trunk of the Lincoln and stored the suitcases there. The two men got into the automobile, Ford paid the parking fee, and they drove out of the airport lot. "Sir," Ford asked, "are you hungry? If so, I can recommend some good restaurants along the way."
"Oh, no, no, my dear fellow, not at all," his passenger said with good humor. "I had a late breakfast—for me—and am quite set until tea-time. Will I be staying at an hotel?"
"No, my friend and former colleague Dr. McGucket owns an enormous house, and you'll be his guest for the three days you can spare us. My wife and I are temporarily staying there too, so it will be easy for us to consult with you."
Modestly, Helving said, "I didn't anticipate being a guest in your home. Oh, that's very kind indeed."
"It's the least we can do," Ford insisted. "Now, as I told you, all of this seems to tie in with a version of the so-called Zodiac of Sperling—"
Behind them, not far from the airport, a visibly confused and disoriented man staggered onto a highway overpass. He hesitated, but in the end did what he had been ordered to do: he climbed on the rail, ignored honks from some passing cars, and poised like a diver until a semi came rumbling along at high speed on the highway below.
The man launched himself and landed on the concrete an instant before the semi struck him.
The gruesome accident snarled traffic for hours. The victim had no identification of any kind. His clothing was of cheap Sprawl-Mart provenance. Though it was very difficult to determine an age, the medical examiner finally settled for "Male, age 50-70." What he had looked like before the accident was conjectural.
His blood type was O-positive. He had no teeth—and no dentures. Recovering fingerprints was problematic, though one thumb was nearly intact.
He had no illegal drugs in his system. He did have traces of lisinopril, a prescription drug used to treat hypertension. An examination of stomach contents indicated that his last meal had been coffee and a doughnut or sweet roll.
The best estimate of his height was five feet, nine inches. His weight was approximately 160 pounds.
About two hours after the accident, an alert policeman inspecting the bridge discovered a pair of eyeglasses. They had apparently been dropped or had fallen as the man had leaped.
The best guess of the police was that the man was a homeless person.
However, two days later they discovered that the eyeglasses had not come from the USA. The brand of lens was Swiss. The frames were French.
Ordinarily, European tourists to Oregon do not divest themselves of identification and walk a mile and a half from the airport in order to commit suicide.
The case dossier wound up in the hands of Detective John Rao. "Why me?" he groaned.
The sergeant who had tossed the file to him said, "Because you never give up."
With a groan, Rao opened the folder and began to read.