The Naturalist (The Naturalist #1)(5)
While I’m relieved my hands aren’t in handcuffs or plastic bags anymore, I’m concerned at how Detective Glenn’s ears had perked up when I mentioned a specific word.
Predators.
CHAPTER FOUR
SELF-INCRIMINATION
Detective Glenn is still cordial and treating me like an invited guest as he leads me down a hallway. “I appreciate your cooperation, Dr. Cray.”
As we walk past open offices and people glance up from their desks, I notice I’m being scrutinized, and not casually.
Clearly, I’m a suspect, or a person of interest, as the news says. But they won’t tell me what for.
At this point I should be more tense, but strangely, the fact that I’m being kept in the dark makes it easier to deal with. It’s not like waiting for the results of a screening for an aggressive form of cancer. Not knowing the stakes is somewhat dreamlike and unreal.
Glenn unlocks a room lined with filing cabinets with a large table in the middle. “Have a seat, Dr. Cray.”
“Call me Theo,” I say as I sit down. I normally correct people earlier, but I’ve been a little preoccupied. “I like to reserve ‘doctor’ for the medical kind.” I save him my diatribe about people with bullshit EdDs and PsyDs that I’ve run into in academia who couldn’t pass a fifth-grade science exam all insisting that they be addressed with the same reverence as the head of oncology at a research hospital.
“Just Theo?” Detective Glenn riffles through some filing cabinets behind me, pulling out folders. “Aren’t you a genius or something?”
“You mean the award? That’s MacArthur. I won a Brilliance award. It’s a bit different. The name is atrocious. I don’t put it in my bio.”
Glenn sets the folders on the table and takes a seat across from me. “Come on. Obviously you’re a genius of some kind. Admit it, you’re a real smart guy.”
He’s playing to my ego, trying to work me. But toward what? “Not smart enough to know why I’m here.”
He waves his hands in the air. “It’s just procedural nonsense. We’ll be done soon.”
Which could mean me back in handcuffs.
“As a biologist—excuse me, a bioinformatic . . . What do you call yourself?”
“It changes at every conference. I just say computational biologist.”
“Okay. As a clever guy, I want to show you some photos. Different cases. I’m curious to know what impressions you get.”
“Impressions? I’m not a psychic.”
“Poor choice of words. I’m just curious to see things through your eyes. Humor me.”
I want to point out that I’ve been humoring him for the last two hours. But I don’t. I’m not very confrontational.
He pushes a folder toward me. The edges are worn and the label faded. I open it and find myself staring at a man’s split-open head. One eye stares at the camera while the rest of his face is missing. Splattered blood covers the tile beneath his head. I close the folder and push it away. “Ever hear of a trigger warning?”
“What?” Glenn takes the folder back and glances at the contents. “Jesus. Sorry about that one. I meant to give you this.” He pushes a different folder across the table. “What do you make of this?”
It’s an image of a cow with bloody marks around its neck and a slit-open abdomen. “In my professional opinion?”
“Yes.”
“This is a dead cow.”
“Yes. But how?”
“Is this a test?”
“No. It’s been a mystery around here. More of a joke. The rancher says it was a chupacabra. Others say aliens. It definitely looks like coyotes gnawed at its stomach. But the marks on the neck are a mystery.”
“Seriously?” I examine the wounds again.
“Absolutely.”
I examine the trauma and try to remember everything I know about cows, which isn’t much, but enough to have a notion of what happened. I toss the photo back on the table, unsure if I’m being tested. It seems rather obvious now. “Do you want my answer or the path to the answer?”
“The path?”
“Yes. How I arrived at my guess.”
He smirks. “Okay, Professor, give me the path.”
“As I said before, I study systems. A system can be DNA. A cell. A body. A pond. A planet. We all function in different systems. What system do we see here?” I push the photo toward him.
“Well, by the coyote bites, we see where the cow sits on the food chain.”
“Sure. But what other system?” I point to the bloody markings on the neck. “What could cause this? Have you found it on other animals?”
“Yes—”
I interrupt. “I’m going to guess on sheep. But not pigs or horses. Correct?”
Glenn nods. “That is correct.”
“Well, the answer should be obvious.”
“Obviously . . . and that is?”
“Coyotes.”
“Okay, but what about the marks on the neck?”
“All of those animals I named share a system. What is that?”
“A farm,” Glenn replies.
“Let’s be more precise.”
“A ranch?”