PORT MORESBY, PNG
Angus Norbis, the detective with the Australian Federal Police (AFP) assigned to Port Moresby, stood at the blackboard in his office at the PNG Constabulary headquarters in the suburb of Konedobu. Meeting with him that sweltering morning were two senior members of the Royal Papua New Guinea Constabulary (RPNGC). Norbis, one of fifty Australian police officers assigned to aid the PNG force of 4,800, ran his fingers between his neck and shirt collar, and wiped beads of perspiration from his prized rust-and-gray walrus mustache. The office’s air-conditioning, never especially efficient under the best of circumstances, had stopped working completely. Repairmen would try to get there by day’s end but no promises.
“So, Angus, what is this all about?” one of the constables asked.
“The King case,” Angus said, pointing to a crude chalk chart on the blackboard. He addressed one of the constables. “No sign of Waksit?”
“No, nothing. The landlady let us into Waksit’s apartment and we looked around. She says that the place came furnished, which explains why he would leave the furniture behind. The only thing missing as far as we could tell were suitcases, and clothing from his closet. At least we assume he had luggage to carry the clothing.”
“Did you check the bathroom for toilet articles?”
“Yeah. Gone.”
Norbis grunted and looked at the blackboard. There were four items contained in boxes outlined by yellow chalk lines. The first was the name Dr. Preston King. In the box next to it was the name Walter Tagobe. To its right was “Razed Land.” Eugene Waksit’s name occupied the fourth box.
“A question,” the second constable said. “I thought Waksit was cleared of any suspicion in the doctor’s murder.”
“That’s right, he was. I personally questioned him. He had a partial alibi for the night of the murder, a woman with whom he spent time. It took us a few days to locate her. She says that they were together but not for the entire night, leaving him plenty of time unaccounted for.”
“A quickie, huh?” the first constable said, laughing.
Norbis ignored him. “It was also my judgment at the time that Mr. Waksit had no reason to kill the good doctor. He spoke highly of him and was treated fairly and with a generous salary.”
“So, Angus, what has changed?”
“I spoke with Dr. King’s daughter, Jayla King, when she came here from the States. Not only had her father been murdered, whoever did it stole the results of his years of research.” He waited for a response until saying, “We’ve been going on the assumption all along that Dr. King was killed by a druggie looking for a quick fix and money.” Norbis smiled knowingly. “Unfortunately we come to such conclusions all too quickly and frequently.”
“That’s because it’s usually the case. I still think it was an intruder, a lowlife,” said one of the constables. “We have plenty of them here in Port Moresby.”
“Except,” Norbis said, forefinger in the air for emphasis, “somebody like that wouldn’t know to steal the doctor’s research results.”
“So what are you saying, Angus, that maybe it was this Waksit fella?”
“I’m not saying that at all,” Norbis said. “But I got a call from the attorney who’s handling Dr. King’s estate. You’ve heard of him, Elgin Taylor, very respected here in PNG. He’d received a call from Waksit during which he claimed that Dr. King had promised that if he died Waksit would inherit all his research results.”
“Ah,” a constable said, “a motive.”
“That’s assuming that the doctor actually did say that to Waksit, of which I’m not at all confident. Elgin Taylor is not the sort of man who would fabricate such a thing, but maybe Waksit is.” He paused before continuing. “Dr. King also bequeathed Waksit five thousand U.S. dollars in his will. The attorney told Waksit when he called that he would have to be able to get ahold of him once the estate was settled. Waksit said he would call again. He hasn’t.”
“Five thousand,” a constable said. “Seems he would stay around to collect it.”
“Unless what he took from the doctor’s laboratory is worth more—a lot more! I’ve contacted AFP in Sydney to keep an eye out for Mr. Waksit. But let’s not have any misunderstanding. Waksit is not considered a suspect, at least not at this time. But his leaving Port Moresby so suddenly, and his claim that Dr. King had left him the fruits of his research, make it prudent to have another talk with him. Check the airlines to see if he’s taken a flight recently, but keep up the investigation on the street in case anything new turns up.” Norbis consulted a sheet of paper. “All right then, enough of the King case. Let’s move on to the next item on the agenda.”
* * *
Before heading out for the evening, Eugene Waksit arranged for the Sydney, Australia, hotel in which he was staying to place his black leather briefcase in its safe. He debated doing it. Since leaving Port Moresby the satchel had never been out of his view. He trusted no one, and kept it close to his person.
But after two days in the upscale hotel, and taking three meals a day in its restaurant, he felt the urge to get out, if only for a few hours.
After walking aimlessly he found himself in Kings Cross, Sydney’s red-light district, an area of the city in which prostitution was legal, and where adult clubs lined both sides of the street. He ignored the pitches made by young streetwalkers and settled at the bar of one of the clubs where he sipped drinks and watched the nude dancers perform. He was approached a number of times by prostitutes working out of the club but shunned their advances. While some of them appealed, he was afraid to allow anyone to get close.
Leaving Port Moresby had been a last-minute decision. The police investigating Dr. King’s murder hadn’t said anything to him about staying for further questioning, and he saw no need to tell them of his plans. As far as he was concerned he was not even remotely considered a suspect. He was free to do what he pleased and to travel where he wished.
His call to the attorney Elgin Taylor had been, in retrospect, a foolish, impetuous decision. What he’d said to the attorney hadn’t been an outright lie in his mind, although he had wildly stretched what Dr. King had said: “Maybe one day you and my daughter can carry on this work.” Or, “I appreciate the work you’ve done, Eugene, and value what you’ve contributed to the research.” Taylor had been courteous and pleasant on the phone, but Waksit picked up on his underlying message—that they’d have to have further talks and that Waksit would need to provide more tangible proof of what he was alleging.
His mind kept going back to the briefcase at the hotel and he left the club; he’d be more comfortable back at the hotel with the briefcase in his physical possession.
He drew a sigh of relief when he’d entered the hotel lobby, went to the desk, and presented his chit for the satchel. Alone in his room now, the briefcase on his lap, he watched a TV show until hunger set in. He ordered room service and ate while watching a movie. When it ended he clicked off the set and opened his laptop on which he’d been researching pharmaceutical companies around the world. There were a number of them in Australia, including that country’s largest, CSL, and he’d considered approaching one of them with the results of Dr. King’s work. But he’d decided to eliminate them from the list, reasoning that it would be better to deal with companies in another country, particularly the United States. Without written, certified proof that he’d legally been given the rights to King’s research, the Australian legal system might step in and challenge his claim. He rationalized that his status as an outsider might hold him in better stead in America.
His online research of American pharmaceutical firms resulted in a number of possibilities, too many to make an informed judgment. He knew little about the American pharmaceutical industry, didn’t have a clue as to which companies would be the most likely to respond favorably. He needed advice from someone with a broad overview of the industry and who could point him in the right direction. He spent another hour peering at the screen, and making notes on a legal pad.
Finally, he sat back and exhaled. He’d made his decision. He would fly to the States and contact someone named Eric Morrison, who was listed as a lobbyist for the Pharmaceutical Association of America, which put him in the position of knowing which of its members would be most likely to be amenable to an approach.
He called his old college roommate, who’d settled in Los Angeles, and arranged to spend a few days with him before continuing his trip to Washington where PAA and Morrison were located. He was fond of American movies and looked forward to seeing where most of them had been made. His next call was to book a flight for tomorrow evening to L.A. He’d wait to reserve a flight to Washington after he’d outlived his welcome with his college chum.
As he mentally prepared for the trip, thoughts of Jayla King came with regularity. She’d worked with her father in the lab and likely was familiar with his successes. Too, she worked for a pharmaceutical firm and lived in Washington, D.C. Would she offer what she knew to her employer? That could seriously get in the way of what he intended to do.