No Sign of Murder Page 9

  Harrison bit his lip, and the word “damn,” at the same time. “I forgot.” It was an explanation, not an apology. “And today is not a good day.”

  “I won’t take up too much time.”

  He opened his pursed lips, and threw me a verbal penny. “Very well. You may follow me around and ask your questions while I work, provided you do not interfere.” I followed him. The living room looked organized compared to what must have been the main office. Two volunteers opened envelopes in one room and answered phones. A large pile of letters waited to be answered. A bulletin board was littered with reminders, and an oversized calendar was blackened with entries. I could feel the fat finger of the little Dutch boy all around.

  We were joined in the room by a woman who carried her world on a clipboard. I wasn’t introduced, but it was clear that she, and her clipboard, were the only things between civilization and the Visigoths. Point one was a reminder to Harrison about the news team coming at three. Point two was that someone had to go into town for the food pickup because Ted wasn’t coming today. And point three wasn’t entirely a point but a question: since Barbara wasn’t coming in until two for Ted’s shift, who was going to take Joseph between noon and two?

  The phones started ringing, and over them Harrison announced he’d handle both the grocery pickup and the teaching chores. The Point Woman’s clipboard was hardly empty, but Harrison didn’t wait to hear more. He walked out the back door, and I followed. Two large oak trees and a lot of manzanita took up the distant expanse, but close to the house the land had been cleared and tilled. A flat tract stretched for about fifty square yards. Shoots were springing up, some several feet tall. Harrison paused to examine one, then remembered me.

  “Bamboo,” he said. “The gorillas love it.”

  We walked around to the driveway and got in an old pickup. It started on the third try. I appreciated my rental’s suspension that much more as we barreled along. Harrison drove quickly. His inclination was toward silence, but I took advantage of the relative peace and talked over the noise of the engine.

  “Tell me about Anita.”

  “A good worker.”

  “Which means?”

  “Always on time. Willing to work extra. Not continually going out of town.”

  “Are most of your staff volunteers?”

  “Yes.”

  “I take it money’s tight?”

  “I haven’t drawn a salary in the last five years.”

  “How do you get funding?”

  “We have our membership. And there’s always our begging.”

  Harrison would starve, I was sure, before his gorillas.

  “Is it hard getting teachers?”

  “Yes. You have to either be, or become familiar with, ASL—American Sign Language. And then you have to sit with the gorillas for hours on end and encourage them to participate. That’s the hard part. They could learn quickly enough if they wanted to, but they’re smart enough to want to do other things. There’s a lot of repetition that makes for some boring sessions.”

  The boredom he mentioned was in his voice. It was clear his interest wasn’t in humans, missing or not. He lived and breathed his gorillas twenty-four hours a day. There was no other world for him. I put Anita in the proper context.

  “How many gorillas do you have here?”

  “Two. Anita’s charge was Joseph.”

  “Why that name?”

  “Biblical. Remember Joseph and his coat of many colors? Our Joseph is a lowland gorilla, a silverback. His coat’s mostly black, but as he matures it will become more silver. In the right light you can see red, too.”

  “What’s the other gorilla’s name?”

  “Bathsheba. We’ve had them since they were babies. Their mothers were killed by poachers. Gorilla-paw ashtrays are considered very chic in some parts of the world.”

  There wasn’t outrage in his voice, there was reasoned death. Not the reasoned death of the gorillas, but of the poachers, and those who would drop their ashes in such a hand. Having pronounced death, Harrison remembered himself.

  “The names were provided by missionaries. They were brought to the mission as babies, and cared for by them.”

  “Tell me about the project.”

  “It’s a lifelong project. The gorillas are very special. They have vocabularies upwards of six hundred words. They sign in response to questions, or independently initiate conversation. We have tapes of them talking—signing—to themselves.”

  “I’ve heard they lie.”

  “I prefer the word ‘equivocate.’ They’re like children. If they’ve done something naughty, they’ll blame the other for what they’ve really done. Or if you ask them to show you a color, and they feel contrary, they’ll purposely display every other color than the one you asked for.”

  “What were Anita’s responsibilities?”

  “Basically everything. Like all teachers.”

  “Be specific.”

  “There’s a lot to being a teacher. They have to instruct, and they have to observe. Most days the teachers are given a vocabulary list and told to test the gorillas on those words, make them sign or show they understand them. And there are other daily worksheets teachers have to keep current. They have to note whether the gorillas spontaneously sign, or if they sign in relation to stimuli, and how they sign, under what conditions, et cetera, et cetera. The teachers also have to take care of feeding the gorillas, and keep track of their diet.”

  “How long are the shifts?”

  “Four to five hours.”

  “Are they very structured?”

  “Yes and no. There’s always work to do, but the teachers know the gorillas are more responsive if they have some diversions from their lessons. Some teachers read to them, or play music. They prefer classical, you know.”

  His last remark seemed fatuous, and set me off. “No, I didn’t. But, I’m willing to bet Anita didn’t discuss Bach with Joseph, and didn’t read to him either, since she’s both deaf and nonverbal.”

  Harrison gave me a quick glance, then calmly responded. “There are many ways to interact with the gorillas. There is a bonding between teacher and gorilla. They find matters of mutual interest. I know Joseph and Anita used to play ‘chase’ quite a bit.”

  He made the sign with his hands, two fists coming together horizontally.

  “And I know she brought in magazines and picture books and turned the pages for him to see.”

  “You witnessed her teaching?”

  “Of course. And I always read her logs.”

  “Logs?”

  “All teachers keep a log of every session. They record basically everything that goes on in their shift. Why did Joseph go and look out his window? Was there noise? And how did he react to visitors? Anything at all.”

  “May I see those logs?”

  “Later, yes.”

  We pulled into the parking lot of a supermarket and drove around to the back. I followed Harrison through a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. He greeted a few box boys and a butcher, and then found the manager. Everyone appeared slightly amused by Harrison, this scarecrow figure who moved so quickly, but I noticed their languid pace accelerated in his presence. Harrison briskly led the manager and me to the loading and unloading area. Maybe the man was a miracle worker. The manager pulled out a set of keys as if a stopwatch were on him, produced the right one, then turned it to open the metal delivery doors. Over their clatter he pointed out which crates were for the gorillas. Harrison knew the routine well enough to barely take notice. With one breath Harrison gave both perfunctory thanks and dismissal to the manager.

  Some of the boxes and crates were heavy, and not a few were slimy. Harrison was quite content to have me take on the heavier loads. “Too bad the gorillas couldn’t help with these,” I said while tussling with one particularly bulky crate.

  I saw Harrison smile a little, the proud father remembering. “They could carry them easily enough if they had a mind to, but I don’t think we co
uld get them to lift a finger. No, they’d be in the truck, probably honking with impatience.”

  “Do they ever ride in the truck?”

  “Not anymore. They did when they were young. And if they’d been extra good during the day, I’d give them a sip of soda during the drive. People always stared at us when we drove along the road. They’d look three or four times, even stop their cars. I was afraid we’d cause an accident.”

  “Are their riding days long past?”

  “Twelve years past. People talk about kids growing up fast. They should see gorillas. Joseph’s well over three hundred pounds now, and Bathsheba’s over two hundred pounds.”

  I listened while struggling with another container. Harrison seemed to take some pleasure in my efforts. “You’re a big man,” he said. “How much do you weigh?”

  “Two-twenty.”

  “And by human standards you’re strong. But Joseph would have been able to beat you at arm wrestling by his first birthday. And now he’s many, many, times stronger than you are.”

  “If his olfactory senses are many times stronger,” I said, “I’m surprised he’d eat this food.”

  Harrison actually gave a little laugh, and told me it might be considered human bad, but it was certainly gorilla good. The Gorilla Project gratefully accepted the supermarket discards, the week-old lettuce, ten-day-old squash, the squishy tomatoes, growthy potatoes, bruised apples, misshapen oranges, and overripe eggplants. We finished filling the truck with fruits and vegetables and stale bread, and then started back. Harrison said the food would last for three or four days, which reminded me of an old gorilla joke. I wondered if Harrison had heard it.

  “What do you give to a four-hundred-pound gorilla?” I asked.

  “Anything he wants,” said Harrison.

  He was still able to smile at that one, so I knew it was safe to ask other questions.

  “Do the gorilla workers do social things together?”

  “Not too much. I try to throw an open dinner once a month. It’s gorilla fare all the way. We’re carrying a lot of good foods disguised as discards. Healthy soups, sautéed vegetables, eggplant parmesan, banana-nut bread, casseroles. You name it.”

  I did. “Indigestion.” But I didn’t say it out loud.

  “How did Anita hear about the Gorilla Project?”

  “I work with the administrators at Greenmont. They place some of their older students here.”

  “Did you interview her?”

  “Beyond saying, ‘Thank you, Lord, for sending another body’? No. How many qualified people do you think are willing to donate their time? And how many will work for an old fussbudget like me who’s usually too tired to give them a pat on the back and tell them what a fine and important job they’re doing?”

  “Was Anita friendly with anyone else at the project?”

  “No. She pretty much arrived, worked with Joseph, then left. Sometimes she slept over in the guest house when the weather was bad. She didn’t like the long drive back to the peninsula when it was wet.”

  “How many times did she sleep over?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe half a dozen times.”

  “Is that common for workers?”

  “Not uncommon. We have several unused beds.”

  “Who else lives on the property as a rule?”

  “We frequently have visitors, but I’m the only permanent inhabitant. That’s probably why it’s a mess.”

  “You’re not married?”

  “No,” he said. We turned off the main road and drove up to the gate. “But you may as well meet my family. Why don’t you get out and open the gate?”

  I met Bathsheba first. She had a woman teacher who didn’t look pleased at our interruption. The teacher bore a resemblance to Bathsheba, but I liked the gorilla better. Bathsheba was more coquettish, and obviously cared more for men, and what she lacked in looks she made up in style. She draped herself in a blanket and sashayed as well as a gorilla can sashay round a cage. In an evening dress she might have passed muster. She blew me some kisses, but I have a firm rule against falling for someone hairier than myself.

  Harrison asked some questions of the teacher while I watched Bathsheba. She had lots of toys and was interested in showing them to me. Her dowry, I supposed. She kept digging things out for display, but even when her back was turned, she was attentive to everything going on in her house. The slightest movement brought a glance from her, as if she really did have eyes in the back of her head. A few times I guessed she was motioning to play, but I wasn’t exactly sure what she wanted to do. She signed a few things at me, and I was frustrated because I couldn’t respond.

  “What’s she saying?” I asked.

  Harrison glanced over to interpret. In terms of signing, Bathsheba wasn’t the best. Her hands weren’t held up as high or as clearly as her human cousins, and her digits weren’t as well formed. But she was saying something.

  “Bathsheba love,” translated Harrison.

  Bathsheba took her hand and brought it under her teeth to make a little sound.

  “And now she’s signing for a nut. I’m afraid sometimes her love is inextricably combined with the wants of her stomach.”

  “May I give her a nut?”

  “She’s already been fed,” the woman said.

  “She doesn’t exactly look like she’s on a diet,” I said.

  Harrison became the diplomat. “I think it would be all right to give her a few nuts, don’t you, Helen?”

  Helen clearly didn’t think so, but didn’t say so to Harrison. She reluctantly gave me a handful of peanuts. I leaned forward, ready to put my hand through the bars.

  “Do that, and chance losing a finger.”

  I was surprised Helen uttered a warning. I looked to Harrison for confirmation of danger.

  “Bathsheba’s playful,” he admitted, “and she might decide to grab hold of your finger a little too hard and a little too long. I’m the only one who goes in the cage with her these days. But what you can do is let her reach out for the nuts, or you can put them on the floor.”

  I decided to be brave. No one’s ever accused me of having small hands, but my fingers looked like toothpicks near Bathsheba’s. Bathsheba took and then ingested the peanut. Then she reached for more. She was gentle about taking them, but expedient. She had my entire supply and was signing for more in less than a minute.

  “That’s enough, Bathsheba,” said Harrison. Dad spoke, and Bathsheba stopped her begging. “Now what do you say?”

  She flipped her wrists up, moved a couple of digits. “She said, ‘Thank you.’ ”

  “Why does her signing look so different from human signing?”

  “We have flexible thumbs. And she’s lazy. ASL has evolved, or devolved, to GSL. Sometimes you have to coax the gorillas to sign properly. They don’t feel like making the effort to stretch their fingers, or linger on their words. Sometimes they slur.”

  Bathsheba was hanging from her legs on a suspended tire. With her head brushing the ground, and her body swinging back and forth, she signed at me.

  “That’s another problem with a gorilla signing,” said Harrison. “They do it anywhere, in any position. Most humans don’t sign while hanging upside down.”

  “What’s she saying?”

  “She’s asking for a drink.”

  “She has water.”

  “Bathsheba has a sweet tooth. She prefers fruit juice.”

  At least she didn’t prefer Scotch. I could see taking her to the Castle and calling out for drinks. But knowing the bartender, Mal, he probably wouldn’t bat an eye. Polk Street was nearby.

  Harrison had a few more things to discuss with Helen, so I continued to watch Bathsheba. She liked being the center of attention, liked my talking to her. I was surprised when she responded to my words. I told her to bring me a red rag, and she did. Flukes happen, so I asked if I could see her robe. She took it off and waved it in front of my eyes. Then I asked her to go get her brush, and she went off to compl
y.

  I turned to Harrison excitedly. I was surprised Bathsheba understood my commands so well, and wondered how many of my spoken words she had understood. But maybe what I should have wondered was how obedient she was to those same spoken words. Bathsheba was halfway to her brush when I turned my eyes from her. A human mind wouldn’t have been able to react to a slight so quickly. Her two hundred pounds turned very quickly and very quietly, more quickly than two hundred pounds should ever turn. One second’s inattention cost me a button.

  “That’s very bad, Bathsheba. Give the button back right now.”

  Harrison signed as he spoke. He was severe and Bathsheba looked chagrined. But she did bite the button first, learned it was an imitation pearl, then handed it back to Harrison. He dropped it in my hand with a “sorry.”

  “You were too close to the cage,” said a sympathetic Helen.

  “Maybe I like females to rip the buttons off my shirt,” I said.

  We left the room, the gorilla signing, “Bathsheba love, Bathsheba love,” and the woman thinking, “Asshole, asshole.” One admirer, one detractor. I beat my usual averages.

  Outside I asked Harrison the question I had given up a button for: “How much of what we say do the gorillas understand?”

  “Quite a bit. They know objects. They know the names of individuals. They can follow much of what you’re saying as long as it relates to their world. E equals MC squared wouldn’t mean much to them.”

  “Nor me. How smart are they?”

  “IQ tests put them at eighty and up. Bathsheba and Joseph test at a little more than that.”

  “So why aren’t they working for the government?”

  We ended up at Joseph’s bungalow. Harrison explained that he had to teach for the next two hours and preferred not to be interrupted. I bargained a little.

  “I’d like to watch. Get an idea what Anita did. I won’t be a bother.”

  He wavered, and I decided not to chance it. “And afterwards I’ll store all the gorilla groceries.”

  That clinched it, and I followed Harrison inside. While Joseph was delighted to see papa, he was shy of me. For the first few minutes he appraised me from the corners of his eyes. Harrison told me not to take his actions personally, but to accept them as typical gorilla reactions to a stranger. That was before Joseph started bouncing against the walls. “Displaying,” Harrison said. “Terrifying,” I said. He was a San Francisco earthquake by himself. Gradually he quieted down. Between the banging, Harrison gave me a primer on gorilla etiquette.