Anyway, here is part one (it's a long 'un). Part two will be posted tomorrow.
To be continued...The Amphibian Brief
“Twister, sir?” asked Jordan.
Santos shook his head.
“Parcheesi?”
Santos, again, shook his head. This was getting monotonous, bordering on the pleasurable. Santos liked the monotonous. When things became shook up, it usually meant someone had died, which most people, Santos included, did not find particularly entertaining. Such is the life of a cop. Lieutenant Jordan, perhaps because of his youth or perhaps because of some deep, psychical torment, disliked monotony. Not that he was a fan of people dying, however; he was hoping to some day find a happy middle ground.
“Lying down in the road and letting trucks drive over you?”
“What?”
“Oh, sorry, I got the cards mixed up. That was some kind of fad that swept the country not too long ago, inspired by a scene in some Hollywood film. Ummm. . . .”
He flipped through some cards. “Chutes and Ladders?”
“No.”
“Captain, is this getting us anywhere?”
“It depends where you want to go,” said Santos philosophically.
“Oh, god, you’re in one of those moods again. Captain, why is it crucial that we know what game Dennis Renstor was playing when he disappeared?”
“I never said it was crucial,” said Santos.
“Then why the devil have we spent the last five hours running through these index cards I made of every game I could think of, as well as some I couldn’t think of?”
“Because, you can’t solve a problem unless you have all the data. Even negative data can be useful, despite what the referees of academic journals may think.”
“Leapfrog?” continued Jordan with a sigh.
“Hmm. Something about that rings a bell.”
“Well, you’ve heard about the game, I’m sure. I never played it myself, and was never quite sure why it was named as such.”
“Well, as I understand it—and I don’t—it is so-named because the way in which the children—or adults, for that matter—leap over each other’s backs is supposed to resemble the manner in which frogs leap, despite the fact that few frogs actually leap over each other’s backs like that. Well, actually they kind of do, but only during mating season, which I’m sure the inventors of this game did not have in mind.”
“You never know.”
“True. The age of innocence is but a myth, not to mention a pretty dull movie.” He paused. “Leapfrog. I’m certain it means something, but damned if I know what. I shall have to give it no thought at all, and I’m certain it will come to me.”***Later that afternoon, Santos and Jordan appeared at the Lakeside Elementary School after a break-in had been reported. They were seated in the principal’s office and awaited his return.
“It’s been a long time since I was in a principal’s office, Captain,” said Jordan, eyeing the football trophies the school’s team had won in the previous year’s basketball championship. It wasn’t a very good team. “Despite the fact that now I’m a reasonably respected member of the police department as well as a hell of a good ballroom dancer, I used to spend an awful lot of my time in the principal’s office for some disciplinary infraction or other. Smoking, usually.”
“Smoking? In grammar school? A bit precocious, weren’t you? It wasn’t because of that extra Y chromosome, was it?”
“No, I used to have a smoking habit. I picked it up from my father. He used to manufacture sausages, and he and I used to spend hours smoking them. It became a habit. On many occasions teachers caught me smoking sausages in the bathroom. It wasn‘t strictly illegal, mind you, but there were a number of vegetarians who went to school there and lodged a formal protest. I grew up in California, after all.”
It was at that point, thankfully, that the principal entered. He was a very tall, thin man, and had a habit of wearing golf clothes during school hours. Oddly enough, every Sunday when he played golf, he wore a three-piece suit. Go figure.
“I’m Edgar Bormann, the Principal of Lakeside Elementary School. But you can call me Nigel.”
“Nigel?” asked Santos.
“It’s a nickname given to me by several of our English students. I’m told it’s a reference to King Lear.”
“But there’s no one named Nigel in King Lear. ”
“I know. We don’t have a very good English department.”
“At any rate . . . Nigel . . . I’m Captain Bernard Santos and this is Lieutenant Jordan. We’re from the police department, Homicide, actually.”
“It does seem odd, headquarters sending two Homicide cops to investigate what can only be called the complete lack of any sort of homicide.”
“Well, ours is not to reason why . . . on occasion. So, what does appear to have occurred here?”
“It’s rather hard to explain, but our Biology department’s frogs have disappeared.”
“Actually,” said Jordan, “that was pretty easy to explain.”
“No,” said Nigel, “it’s easy to describe, but difficult to explain.”
“That, Jordan,” said Santos, “is a distinction that is fundamental to all police work.”
“Come,” said Nigel, leading them from the office, “let me show you where the frogs aren’t. The Biology department is on the Eighth Floor.”
“But,” said Santos, “from outside it appears as if there are only two floors in this building.”
“I know. We may not have a very good English department, but we’ve got one heck of a bunch of architecture students.”
He led them up a spiral staircase, which wended its way up eight stories. They stood outside the open door of the Biology classroom, where about twenty-five fourth-grade students were listening to the teacher lecture.
“Now, molecular biologists,” the teacher was lecturing, “can make primer molecules of DNA, which are about 18 bases long and will bind to a unique position in the genome. With enzymes, they can then extend a bound primer by several hundred more bases complementary to the genomic DNA. And by sequencing the elongated primer, they can then determine the genome sequence. The basic problem with this approach is that it is incredibly labor intensive. Synthesizing a new 18-base primer typically takes a day, and when you consider that three billion base pairs make up human DNA, you’re talking about a good deal of work. Now, are there any questions?”
A hand shot up.
“Suzy?”
“Mr. Crick, why can’t they simply use a library of hexamers, along with a protein that binds to single-strand genomic DNA. The binding protein will prevent the individual hexamers from pairing stably with the DNA, but three end-to-end hexamers will reinforce each other enough to force the protein out of the way. And since there are only 4,096 different types of hexamers, instead of the 68 billion base-pair primers, it would seem to take far less time and stuff.”
“Actually, Suzy, researchers have been using that very technique.”
At that point, the end-of-class bell rang, and the students began gathering together their books.
“Now, class,” said Mr. Crick above the rising din, “don’t forget, I want your isolated nucleotides on my desk first thing tomorrow morning.”
The students began filing out past Santos, Jordan, and Nigel.
“Ah, Nigel,” said Mr. Crick, noticing the principal lurking in the doorway, “please, come in.”
The three approached the teacher, who was erasing gene maps from the blackboard.
“Mr. Crick, this is Captain Santos and Lieutenant Jordan from the police department. They’ve come about the frogs.”
“Oh, well, that’s a relief. Here,” he led them through a door at the back of the room, “this is where they had been kept.”
He pointed to a large room filled with vegetation and other living matter, but which was curiously devoid of frogs.
“As you can see,” Crick said, gesturing around the room, “we had created a habitat similar to that which the frogs—in our case, the Gigantorana goliath or Goliath frog of Africa—would find had they spawned in the wild. We meticulously constructed the African jungle in this room, which is remarkable in its detail, right down to the insect life.”
“Ahhh!!” screamed Jordan. “Something just bit my ankle.”
“Oh, it’s probably nothing to worry about. What shots have you had recently?”
“Anyway, Mr. Crick,” said Santos, “perhaps the frogs are simply hiding somewhere amongst all this vegetation.”
“Not a chance. Do you know how large a Goliath frog can get?”
“Not particularly.”
“About the size of a fox terrier. Ours were a little larger. It doesn’t seem likely that they could hide easily.”
“When did you last see them?” asked Santos.
“I think it’s swelling rather badly,” said Jordan, his voice growing weaker.
“I first noticed their absence this morning, just before my third-grade lab on artificial heart implantation using an intraventricular cannula pump. When I returned about forty-five minutes later, the frogs were gone.”
“There doesn’t seem to be any sign of a struggle,” said Santos.
“There appears to be some kind of fluid oozing from my leg, Captain,” said Jordan.
“Actually, Lieutenant,” said Santos, “the oozing of fluid means that whatever bacteria has got into the wound is being flushed out. So, consider yourself lucky. Mr. Crick, can you think of any reason why someone would want to kidnap your frogs?”
“Not particularly, no.”
“Hmm. Lieutenant, dust for prints.”
Jordan wiped the ooze from his swollen ankle with a handkerchief. “But Captain, I don’t believe that we’ll have the frogs’ prints on record.”
“Well, then dust for human prints. We’re probably somewhat more likely to have those on file.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it, sir. You know how Commissioner Beale feels about fingerprints.”
Nigel and Mr. Crick were looking at Santos quizzically.
Santos explained. “Unfortunately, our police commissioner is, well, a bit on the fanatically neat side. He can’t stand the sight of fingerprints—on glasses, windows, doors, or even police records. It’s kind of frustrating, but we humor him. Especially since he could ruin all of our lives irreparably. Lieutenant, dust for prints anyway. I think the commissioner will be going on vacation in a week or so, and we can do our cross-checking then.”
Jordan quickly took a set of a variety of prints from a number of different locations around the room, although he did have a problem dusting some of the insects, which wouldn’t remain stationary long enough to pull a good impression off their chitinous shells.
“Mr. Crick,” said Santos, “is there anyone else who regularly has access to this room?”
“Just Nigel, and my lab assistant. But he didn’t come in today.”
“Where might we be able to get in touch with him?”
“I don’t know. When he leaves this building, he just tends to disappear. Of course, I’ve never had any need to get in touch with him when he’s not here, so I suppose it could be that he’s perfectly apparent to the outside world and I just have never noticed him beyond this room. Of course, I myself haven’t been out of this building—or even off this floor—for several years, so what he does on his own time—or mine, for that matter—is strictly his own business. He may even have his own business, for all I know.”
“Well, the next time he turns up, please let him know we’d like to have several words with him.”
They made their farewells and reassured Nigel and Mr. Crick that they would do everything in their power to return the missing frogs to their rightful home. Well, not technically their rightful home, but as good a home as any.***“Captain, have a look at this. In the New York Times. ”
“Oh, you’ve finished the crossword puzzle. And on a Friday, too. I’m very impressed, Lieutenant.”
“No, Captain, it’s an article from Tuesday’s science section entitled ‘The Continuing Mystery of the Missing Frogs.’ Apparently, biologists everywhere are puzzled over the bizarre disappearance of the world’s frog population.”
“The whole world? Let me see that.” He took the paper from Jordan. “You’re right. According to this, amphibians from around the globe are disappearing in alarming numbers.”
“Does anyone have any theories? You took the paper before I could get very far.”
“A few, including fragile frogs’ eggs being destroyed by enhanced ultraviolet radiation due to depletion of the ozone layer, pollution, et cetera. Someone mentioned suicide, but that I believe has been almost universally disregarded.”
“Have they ruled out foul play?” asked Jordan.
Santos scanned the rest of the article. “There’s no mention of it.”
“I’m sure it’s doubtful that there’s some nefarious reason for the amphibians’ disappearance. After all, the logistics of such a plot would be nearly impossible to work out.”
“No, not impossible. Extremely improbable, but not impossible.”
“But why would anyone want to bump off all the world’s frogs?”
Santos pondered that question. “Ransom, perhaps. After all, many biologists say that it is the health of the amphibian population that gauges the health of an ecosystem as a whole. Without frogs, salamanders, or newts it may not be possible to determine the extent of damage done to a particular environment, which then opens doors for a variety of environmental trashing procedures.”
“But certainly biologists have other means of determining how healthy an ecosystem is. Didn’t you read Edward O. Wilson’s The Diversity of Life?”
“Mm. That’s a good point. Again, I shall have to give this situation no thought at all, and I’m certain that it will come to me.”
“Speaking of which, have you come to any conclusions regarding Dennis Renstor?”
“No, not yet.”
“You don’t think that Renstor’s disappearance is related to the frogs’ disapperance?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me, Lieutenant. If I remember his photographs correctly, he was somewhat frog-like in appearance. It would be an easy mistake to make.”
Easy mistake indeed.***The following day, Jordan walked into Santos’s office with the mail.
“Sir, something came in the mail that you may find of interest.”
Santos flipped through the pile Jordan handed him. He frowned. “But I’ve told Time-Life a hundred times I’m not interested in their serial killer books.”
“No, not that. This.” He pulled out an opened manila envelope and handed it to Santos.
“What is it?”
Jordan removed a bound sheaf of papers from the envelope and flipped through it. “It’s something called ‘The Amphibian Brief.’ It was written by a young herpetology student at the University of Arizona. It purports to explain what happened to the world’s frogs.”
“What does this person claim?”
“The abstract reads as follows: ‘In this paper, I will explain how one being’s megalomania resulted in the abduction of the world’s amphibian population, an abduction that so far has caused the disappearance of the Earth’s frogs, and is likely to claim salamanders and newts within the next year.’ Basically, Captain, the author asserts that the Ace Rubber Novelty Company has plans to replace all the world’s real frogs with fake ones. They’re going to ransom the frogs back to herpetologists and environmentalists, but the frogs that are returned will be rubber wind-ups that look and act exactly like the real things. Supposedly, the prototypes that already exist are perfect replicas. But since the company doesn’t yet have the technology to allow the mock frogs to reproduce themselves, each generation of frogs will have to be purchased anew from the company, which could be quite lucrative for them.”
“Jordan, that’s diabolical. They must also manufacture computer software. But what proof does this person have for this?”
“Supposedly, there was a memo sent from the President of the Ace Rubber Novelty Company to the Director of Marketing outlining the whole plot. This memo is not included in this brief, but is being held in a safe deposit box here in town. Included with it is a copy of a draft of a press release that was to be sent to newspapers around the world—and elsewhere—once the switch was made.”
“But how can they ever expect to get away with this?”
“Well, the whole scheme is apparently premised on the fact that there really is no law on the books in any country that pertains to frogs. Amphibians, alas, have always been left out of the legislative process. They are, the author claims, the forgotten minority. And the whole thing is being done in secret so as to be able to complete the operation before any special interest groups can get legislation passed.”
“Who is the president of the Ace Rubber Novelty Company?”
Jordan shrugged. “No one knows. His identity has always remained a secret. Everything that has come out of his office has always been signed simply ‘the President.’ No one has ever seen him, and no name has ever appeared on any official documents.”
“Jordan, I want you to do some digging. Start in my garden. There are several weeds I would like removed. Then, I want you to investigate the Ace Rubber Novelty Company. Their corporate headquarters is here in Moistville. I want you to try to find out who the president is, and perhaps where the frogs are being held. Time is of the essence, as it’s likely that the live frogs are going to be killed after all the faux frogs are manufactured. Therefore, also see if you can find out when that is likely to be finished.
“Yes, sir.”
“Also, fax this report to Schlickelmeinengrubenbieder. I want him to try to get in touch with the author of it. He’s at the University of Arizona this week, delivering a lecture entitled ‘Fabrication, Falsification, and Outright Lying as a Means of Effective Forensic Analysis,’ so if I know him he’ll have something by the time he returns. Or, at the very least, he’ll have made up something useful.”
“Funny how the stuff he makes up is more useful than the stuff he finds empirically, isn’t it?”
Funny indeed.***But later that afternoon, Santos and Jordan found themselves back at Lakeside Elementary School. They met Nigel and Mr. Crick in the room in which the frogs were last seen.
“I’m sorry to call you up here, Captain,” said Nigel, “but, well, you had asked to be informed when Crick’s lab assistant turned up.”
Santos stared down at the body of young man of about twenty-six. “That’s him?”
“George Dunhill. He was the best lab assistant I ever had,” said Mr. Crick, visibly upset. “He had such high hopes for his future. He wanted to get his Ph.D. and be a famous biologist. And even though there was no chance of that happening here—what with this being only an elementary school and all—he was completely dedicated.”
“Who found the body?” asked Jordan.
“Suzy Watson. She was one of my students, quite brilliant, too. I suggested to the Nobel Committee that they consider awarding her a prize for her paper ‘What I Did on My Summer Vacation.’”
Jordan bent down to examine the body. “Although I can’t be certain of the cause of death, my suspicion is that it has something to do with his body being completely stuffed with large beetles.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Crick, “it appears that all the beetles in this room have been gathered together and stuffed into his mouth. It’s a gruesome way to die.”
“Is it possible that the beetles acted alone? I mean, was he a mouth-breather and maybe dozed off or something?” Jordan asked. “Many insects do like warm, moist places.”
“No, not a chance. He had a special relationship with all the insect life in this room. They all respected him. In fact, when he played in a local tennis championship, they all made it a point to go out and watch him play and cheer him on. They would never have done something like this themselves. They had to have been put up to it, probably with a good deal of money. Or dung.”
“Captain,” said Jordan, “none of the insects survived.”
Crick sighed. “Another of life’s little lessons. Never turn on your friends.”
“Mr. Crick, where was Mr. Dunhill the day the frogs disappeared?” asked Santos.
“As I told you before, I’m afraid I don’t know. He came into the lab very late that day, and he didn’t say why. And since he’s not actually paid to be here, I saw no reason to pry. But if you’re thinking he had anything to do with the frogs’ disappearance, I’m afraid you’re mistaken. He loved those frogs, and would never do anything to harm or inconvenience them.”
“Just like the insects wouldn’t have harmed Mr. Dunhill unless compelled by some third party, right?”
“But a man is not an insect, Captain,” said Nigel.
“I’ll grant you that,” said Santos, “but something is fishy here. Come, Jordan, I need to pace a bit in the car park.”
Sure enough, outside in the car park, Santos paced.
“I take it you didn't have a chance to check out the Ace Rubber Novelty Company yet.”
“No, sir, I haven’t. But I did find out something you may find of interest. You know the safe deposit box that the ‘Amphibian Brief’ said contains the incriminating memo? It was rented under the name of George Dunhill.”
“That is good news. Is there a way we can get into it?”
“The only other name authorized to open the box is ‘Maggie Dunhill’.”
“His wife?”
“His cat.”
Santos looked at Jordan. “Huh?”
“Yes, the only other ‘person’ authorized to open his safe deposit box is his cat.”
“Well, let’s pay a visit to his cat, then.”***George Dunhill’s apartment was on the thirty-ninth floor of a large highrise in the heart of downtown Moistville. They found a spare housekey concealed inside a plastic rock placed in the corridor.
“He kind of missed the point of these things, didn’t he?” said Jordan, replacing the rock on the carpet.
They unlocked the door and, upon entering, were immediately assaulted by Maggie Dunhill, who apparently hadn’t been fed in a while. Jordan led the cat into the kitchen and put some food in her bowl. The cat looked at Jordan, glanced back down at the food, then back up to Jordan.
“I’m not playing ‘choo-choo’ with you,” Jordan said to the cat.
“Lieutenant,” said Santos “keep in mind we will need the cat’s cooperation.”
“Yes, sir,” grumbled Jordan.
“Meanwhile, I’ll look around for the key to that safe deposit box. And anything else I can find.”
Santos wandered around the neat, one-room apartment, but couldn't find anything particularly relevant to the case at hand.
“Here comes the choo-choo,” he heard Jordan saying, in a high-pitched voice.
“Choo-choo!”
Santos hoped Jordan wouldn’t think that he’d ever let him forget this episode. When it sounded as if Jordan was finished feeding the cat, Santos walked into the kitchen. Jordan was holding the cat, an empty spoon and can of cat food in his hand. The cat looked happy. Jordan did not.
“I’ve been unable to find the key to the safe deposit box—”
Santos reached over and examined the cat’s collar. There was a key attached to it, behind the cat’s I.D. tag.
“I think we’ve found the key. Let’s head over to the bank now, before it closes. It’s nearly four-thirty. Unless you’d like to play with the cat some more.”
“No, I think we’re done.” The cat meowed loudly in protest. Jordan glared at her. “Oh, bite me, cat.”
And she did.***A short time later, Santos, Jordan and Maggie Dunhill entered the bank. They approached the woman at the desk reserved for safe deposit box requests.
“We’re here to open a safe deposit box. I’m Captain Bernard Santos with the police department, and this is Lieutenant Jordan and Maggie Dunhill. The box is in the name of George Dunhill, who has recently been murdered.”
The woman, without looking up, flipped through some cards. “Ah, yes, George Dunhill. And the only other person authorized to open that box is . . . Maggie Dunhill.” She looked up and saw the cat. “You’re kidding. That’s Maggie Dunhill?” Santos nodded. “I’ll need to see some identification.”
Santos removed the cat’s collar and handed her Maggie’s I.D. tag. She wasn’t quite sure how to handle this, so she called her bank manager over and explained the situation.
“The cat believes,” explained Santos, “that there is a can of tuna in that box and, not having opposable thumbs, is unable to avail herself of it without human assistance.”
“Well, seeing as you are the police, I don’t have a problem with it this time. But check these things more carefully in the future, Miss Jenkins.”
“Yes, sir.” She stood up, glowered at the cat, and led Santos, Jordan, and Maggie to the safe deposit box room.
Santos opened the box and removed its contents. There was a sheaf of paper, and a videotape, which Santos examined.
“The Last Boy Scout?” said Santos.
“What’s that note attached to the back of it?” asked Jordan.
“It’s from Dunhill. It says, ‘I bought this movie, thinking it would be good, but I was wrong, and really didn’t want anyone to find it in my apartment should I meet my end before taping over it. Now I figure if you’ve got this far, I’ll have far more to be embarrassed about than a weakness for Bruce Willis.’ Well, I guess that explains that.”
They closed up the box and walked back through the lobby. As they walked out the front door of the bank, they heard the screeching of tires coming from around a nearby corner. Santos thought this a little odd, what with them being on the twentieth floor of an office building. At that point, a black sedan appeared from around the corner, and successfully demolished the ashtray in front of the elevator. When the cloud of white sand cleared, Santos, Jordan and Maggie Dunhill found themselves looking on in horror as the sedan came charging straight at them.
They ran back into the bank, the sedan in hot pursuit. Several bank workers and patrons screamed, more in surprise than true terror, as the sedan plowed through rows of filing cabinets, desks, and computer terminals.
“We do not have a drive-thru window!” screamed the bank manager as the sedan roared past him.
Santos and Jordan, who was still clutching a somewhat bewildered Maggie Dunhill, leapt over the teller counter and watched as the sedan screeched to a halt in front of them. Santos was able to slightly discern a face inside the car. The bank security guard, an older man not quite prepared for this kind of thing, walked over to the silent car, tentatively. He drew his gun. It was at that point that the car exploded.
“Well, that was odd,” said Santos.
Odd indeed.***When Santos and Jordan returned to police headquarters, Schlickelmeinengrubenbieder was waiting for them.
“I got your message, Captain, and I’ve brought you back something from Arizona. Please meet Julia Ranida, the herpetologist we’ve heard so much about lately.”
“My forensics examiner went to Arizona and all I got was this lousy herpetologist,” said Santos shaking the hand of the quite attractive woman.
She smiled. “Pleased to meet you, Captain. Adolf speaks of you often. He also likes to dress up in your clothes in front of the bathroom mirror. Chacun à son goût, I guess.”
“Bernard,” said Schlickelmeinengrubnenbieder, “I promised her sanctuary. There are many people trying to kill her. The Ace Rubber Novelty Company has agents, assassins, and salesmen everywhere. We barely escaped Arizona with our lives.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes. Rather than carry our lives on the plane, we made the mistake of checking them with our baggage. Needless to say, the airline lost them. We had to send away to Hawaii for them.”
“Actually, Schlickelmeinengrubenbieder,” said Santos, “we were just about to go through the material we retrieved from George Dunhill’s safe deposit box.”
“You’ve probably found The Last Boy Scout already then,” said Julia.
“You knew George Dunhill?” asked Jordan.
“Not very well. We were married briefly several years ago. We were undergraduates together. I was studying amphibians, he was studying insects, and I guess I just caught him rather like a frog catches a fly. I guess it was lucky that I have an extensile tongue. We married young, and it didn’t work out. We kept in touch, though. It wasn’t a bitter divorce. I let him have custody of all the cockroaches in the kitchen. It was the least I could do. It was through him that I found out about the Ace Rubber Novelty Company.”
“How?” asked Santos.
“He had been hired by them as a consultant for their line of ‘fly in the ice cube’ practical jokes. They wanted to be excruciatingly accurate in their party gags. I mean, let’s face it, if a guest at a party finds an ice cube with a fly embedded in it, the joke doesn’t work if the fly is a species not native to wherever the party is being held. After all, there are over 100,000 species of Diptera, or ‘true flies.’ It was completely by accident that he stumbled on the memo that outlined the frog plot.”
“Did he know who the President of the Ace Rubber Novelty Company was?” asked Jordan.
“I believe he did, but he never told me who it was. All he would say is that I had dated his brother, but that wasn’t a particularly specific clue. For a brief period after our divorce, I dated hundreds of peoples’ brothers.”
Santos didn’t want to hear any more. “Well, we had a difficult enough time getting this material from the safe deposit box, so let’s at least find out what’s in it.”
He opened the large manila envelope and removed its contents, spreading the material out on his desk. There were a number of sheets of paper, some magazines, several sealed letter-size envelopes, and a few other random objects.
“Hmm,” said Santos, riffling through everything quickly before delving headfirst into it. “Cat Fancy magazine, a letter from Ed McMahon, some slices of cheese, and—what’s this?” He removed a blue, typed sheet of paper. Julia and Jordan read it over his shoulder.
“It’s the memo,” said Julia. “The one from the President of the Ace Rubber Novelty Company detailing the plan.”
Santos read the memo:
“To: Edgar Benjamin, Director of Marketing
From: The President
Subject: Kidnapping the Frog Population of the World
Ed:
It has recently come to my attention that many biologists the world over feel that one of the most important members to any ecosystem is the frog. The frog’s sensitivity to a variety of changes makes it an essential indicator of an ecosystem’s health, which can help guide environmental policy. Similarly, we here at the Ace Rubber Novelty Company strive for technical excellence in our replicas of popular species. For example, our XJ-5000 Rubber Roach has terrified housewives for many years. We did not achieve this by skimping on detail. Along the same lines, I feel our mock frogs are the best ever produced, perhaps even superior to what nature has created. And our frogs don’t fall ill at the slightest change in temperature, or burn to a crisp just because of enhanced ultraviolet radiation. Nature is not for wimps. If we were to remove all the world’s frogs and replace them with our own, we could control environmental policy for years, if not weeks. If the robust health of species could be fabricated, environmentalists would have nothing to gripe about, and those of us in industry—the backbone of the modern world—would be able to whatever we wanted and not be pestered by environmental restrictions. Naturally, confidentiality must be complete for our scheme to work. Therefore, you, as head of Marketing, should regard this as business as usual, and make no effort to publicize or advertise what we are doing.
I have the greatest of faith that this effort will be the most important—if not the creepiest—industrial undertaking the world has ever known.
-The President
P.S. Bwa-ha-ha-ha."
“Well, we seem to have all the evidence we need to convict right here,” said Jordan.
Santos looked pensive. “Not really. Until we catch them in the act of actually substituting those frogs, this memo could be considered by a court of law to be merely a joke or harmless prank, but only by a judge or jury that has a sense of humor, like the O.J. jury.”
“So what is your plan, corporal?” asked Schlickelmeinengrubenbieder.
“We’ll have to stake out every swamp, marsh, and bog within our jurisdiction,” said Santos.
“Even the statehouse?” asked Jordan.
“Well, no, I think they can handle themselves well enough. And I can’t really say that it would be particularly grievous if everyone there were replaced by plastic replicas. . . . At any rate, Ms. Ranida, where in this county would we be likely to find the largest frog population?”
Julia thought. “Lakeside Elementary School.”
Santos shook his head. “Nope, too late. It’s been hit already.”
“Then the only other substantial frog population would be in Hengrove Marsh, just off route 30, next door to the paper mill.”
“Jordan, I want several men to go under cover and stake out that swamp.”
“Um, Captain, how exactly do you go to a swamp under cover?” asked Jordan.
“That’s your problem.”
Problem indeed.
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