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It wasn't the first time we'd had a severed head kept alive in a glass jar for a client. Johann Christoph was handsome - at least from the neck up. From the neck down, he was tubes, machinery and tanks of oxygen on a wheeled cart. Pushing the cumbersome apparatus was Christoph's father, Jacob. From the look on the old man's face, his son's ordeal had taken its toll. I offered to hang his topcoat with the others, but he brushed past me and into the office toward the confrontation arranged by my boss, World Famous Private Investigator Harry Slothe.
Mr. Slothe was seated behind his desk, eating, with three guests in the uncomfortable wood chairs. When the old man caught sight of the group - one of which was most likely responsible for his son's condition - it took all of my strength to restrain him. "You committed this outrage," the elder Christoph yelled. "Look what you did to my son!"
"Dad, please," pleaded the head of Johann Christoph. "You're making a scene."
The voice of his son helped calm the old man, and I was able to get him into a chair placed separately from the others. He loosened the top button of his overcoat while his son's apparatus wheezed and beeped. Mr. Slothe took a deep breath.
"If there are no more hysterics, Mr. Christoph, I will introduce the representatives of the Rural Organ Bank. Mr. Langerhans is the chief administrator."
"And I assure you, Mr. Christoph," the nervous businessman interjected, "we are in no way responsible for what happened to your son. All of us at ROB adhere to the strictest legal and ethical guidelines." The middle-aged man took off his glasses and dabbed at one blue-gray eye.
The old man was out of his chair and about to respond when Mr. Slothe continued with his introductions. "Your son is acquainted with Mr. Thalamus, ROB's recruiter."
The swarthy Greek was no more than thirty-five, prematurely bald, with a nervous twitch that made his hip periodically jerk like Elvis Presley. He wore brown patent leather shoes with a double insole. "Johann, I don't know what to say. When I convinced you to donate your organs, I had no idea that something like this . . ." He gestured helplessly toward the weighty apparatus and ran the other hand over his moist scalp.
"Finally," concluded the enormous detective, "this is Miss Wurlitzer, the organ bank's comptroller.
Except for a blouse that needed ironing, Miss Wurlitzer was very easy on the eyes, with medium length brown hair, a skirt that didn't quite cover her knees and black pumps with a modest heel. A glance at Christoph's father told me I wasn't the only one who noticed her finer qualities. Mr. Slothe, being blind, is immune to good looks.
"What are you going to do about my son, you . . . you butchers?" The old man was beside himself.
"Mr. Christoph, it hasn't been proven that the Rural Organ Bank was responsible for the disappearance of your son's body. While I concede that it seems the most likely explanation, it is by no means the only one. My assistant, Mr. Baloney, has spent the afternoon going over the bank's records, and while they do show a few organs whose origins are unaccounted for -"
"Just a minute, Slothe." It was Mr. Langerhans, the administrator. "ROB is in the inner city. When an organ is left on our doorstep in the middle of the night, we see that it gets a good home. Without asking questions. But it is not our policy to sneak into a donor's house while he's sleeping and remove organs. Besides, the unregistered organs we've placed in the past month wouldn't account for even half of the useable tissue from Johann's body."
"An interesting observation, Mr. Langerhans. Joseph, a moment."
I went to the gargantuan sleuth's desk for a whispered conference, mostly a description of events in the office as I've put them down for you. It was hard to tell if my boss was listening or sleeping. When I returned to my chair a moment later, I was still uncertain. Just as I was beginning to think he'd suffered another stroke, he spoke. "My assistant raises an interesting issue. Mr. Christoph - Johann - what shape was your body in when it disappeared?"
"My butt had a crack in it," said the head, "but otherwise, it was in perfect shape. I'd had a physical as part of the donor program."
"Interesting. What about you, Mr. Langerhans? How is your health?"
"My health? My health is irrelevant."
"No, the fact that I weigh 64 pounds on the moon is irrelevant. Your health, on the other hand, has a bearing on this case."
"If you must know, I suffer from syphilis."
"More than I needed to know. Mr. Christoph, you will be happy to learn that your organs are still intact. Joseph, do you have your gun handy?" I replied in the affirmative. "Then I shall phone Inspector Kramer to come and take the criminal into custody."
WHAT WAS MR. SLOTHE'S SOLUTION TO THIS PUZZLING AFFAIR?
Back to the scene:
"Since the victim's entire body had vanished, I assumed the culprit had wanted it in one piece. When Mr. Baloney described the victim's father, I found a new object for my attention. The old man kept his body covered with a topcoat, while the others were in their street clothes. He effortlessly pushed his son's apparatus into the office - and I'm something of an expert at wheeling heavy loads. His struggle with Mr. Baloney further betrayed the strength of a young body, despite his age. Finally, his arousal at the sight of Miss Wurlitzer confirmed my suspicions."
"But Dad," the young head queried, "Why?"
"You're 28 years old. You live at home. You sit around all day watching television. You don't date. . . it's not like it was going to cramp your lifestyle. And with the money we'll save on clothes, we can finally afford that big screen."
"Dad," said the teary-eyed youth, "I love you."
"I love you too, son."
The old man was found guilty and sentenced to life imprisonment.