Pete Thwacker was right. The next morning, the news was all about the escaped tiger. And not just the local news. Even though it seemed to me there were far more important things going on in the world, Kashmir was the lead story on every channel. You might have thought Iran had strapped nuclear weapons to the tiger’s back for all the coverage. Every show had plenty of footage of Kashmir wreaking havoc: Several park employees had used their phones to film him, then uploaded their videos to YouTube. I even caught a glimpse of myself and Mom in one shot, standing to the side and watching, although there was no mention of us by name—or that fact that we’d been in direct danger.
My family wasn’t really surprised we’d been left out of the story. What did surprise us was the revelation that FunJungle knew who had let the tiger out. At some point in the night, they’d even issued a press release to that effect: The event had been an act of sabotage perpetrated by the Animal Liberation Front.
Pete himself appeared on all the major morning news shows via satellite. He was surprisingly well-kempt and confident, given the state of mind he’d been in the night before. “The ALF has a history of sending threatening letters to FunJungle and other zoos, despite our commitments to conservation and quality animal care,” Pete stated. “Now they have attacked. Setting Kashmir free was a blatant terrorist attack designed to both make FunJungle look bad and hurt our bottom line without any consideration for the safety of our guests last night. Thankfully, our keepers handled the situation professionally and no one was hurt. The sad thing is, that while the ALF claims to be looking out for the animals’ best interest, it is they, in fact, who are doing harm to the animals in their desperate bid to discredit us.”
“How’s that?” the news anchor asked.
“Our internal investigation has uncovered evidence that the ALF was also behind the death of our beloved Henry the Hippo.”
Mom, Dad, and I all turned to the television, stunned by Pete’s announcement.
His interviewer was visibly startled. “Are you saying Henry was murdered?”
“No. But he definitely died—whether premeditated or not—because of actions perpetrated by the ALF.”
“What is your evidence?”
“I’m not at liberty to reveal that at this time for fear of jeopardizing the ongoing investigation. But I can say that full details will be released as soon as possible, most likely after the funeral services for Henry this afternoon.”
Even I had to admit, while Pete was a moron when it came to animals, he was awfully smart when it came to PR. In just a few sentences, he had turned the scandal over the escaped tiger around to focus the blame on the ALF—and even got in a plug for Henry’s funeral as well. After his interview, the news program’s staff had forgotten entirely about Kashmir; all they could talk about was Henry.
Pete—or his minions in the PR department—worked the same magic on the other morning shows as well.
“I thought FunJungle didn’t want anyone to know Henry was murdered,” I said.
“I suppose they’d rather have people talking about that than the escaped tiger,” Mom replied.
Pete’s words were bittersweet for me, though. While I felt redeemed to have finally got the word out that Henry had been murdered, it was annoying to get no thanks for all my hard work—and to be so shut out of the investigation that I had to hear the recent developments on the news like every other person in America. Plus, something about the quick reveal that the Animal Liberation Front was responsible rubbed me the wrong way. Despite all the claims that evidence had been uncovered showing their link to Henry’s death, I hadn’t found anything along those lines, and I’d been the first one to investigate.
I told Mom and Dad this. To my surprise, they were as uncomfortable with Pete’s accusations as I was.
“I know plenty of people who’ve been involved with the ALF over the years,” Dad said. “They’re radical and even destructive, but I have a hard time imagining them doing something like this.”
“Then why is FunJungle saying they did?”
“To deflect attention from whoever did do it,” Mom said.
“Then . . . do they know who did it?”
“Not necessarily,” Dad replied. “But finding the real criminal isn’t the point of PR. It’s making everyone think no one at FunJungle is to blame.”
“So then, FunJungle might not really be trying to find the bad guy at all? They might only be trying to find someone to take the fall?”
“Possibly.”
“But then the real bad guy gets away.”
“Not if we can help it,” Dad said.
So we set off to learn answers to the questions Dad had posed: How many animals had died at FunJungle, and what was the metal groove in Hippo River?
I was thrilled to have Dad home and helping the investigation. Even though Summer had lent a hand, things were different with my father. Despite the attempts on my life, with him at my side, the investigation felt less dangerous and more like one of our adventures.
Plus, Dad’s presence made investigating easier. First, he was highly respected around FunJungle. And simply put, he was an adult.
When you’re a kid, everyone’s naturally suspicious of you. I know I didn’t have the best reputation around FunJungle, but still, if an adult acts like they belong somewhere, more often than not, no one gives them a second glance. As a kid, you stick out. There are plenty of places you’re not supposed to go. There are plenty of questions you can’t get away with asking. It’s very hard to be taken seriously when everyone’s wondering where your mother is.
Dad didn’t even have to make up a story to be allowed into the veterinary hospital. He simply pushed the buzzer, waved at the security camera and said, “Hey, Roz, it’s me.”
Roz quickly buzzed both of us in, then greeted us with a warm smile. “Welcome back!” she cooed to Dad. “How was China?”
“Wonderful,” Dad said, and then regaled her with a few amazing tales of giant pandas to get her in a good mood. Dad had a way with women—particularly older women like Roz. They’d just stare at him dreamily as he told his stories. (Mom always said they were imaging themselves thirty years younger.) If Roz had any idea we’d nearly been munched at the party the night before, she didn’t show it; she just hung on every word.
Once Dad had her really hooked, he smoothly segued to the task at hand. “I could talk to you all day about this, but we both have work to do. I was told you had a list of all the animals that have died at FunJungle.”
Roz reacted, more curious than suspicious. “What do you need that for?”
“McCracken wants photographic documentation of every animal that’s come to FunJungle. His office gave me a list of every animal that’s been shipped here, but they said it’s not completely accurate because it doesn’t take into account the animals that have died. I don’t want to go running around all day looking for an animal that no longer exists, so they sent me here for the list.”
“I see. Only, I don’t have any list like that.”
“No. No one ever told me to keep one.”
“Could you remember all the animals that died?” I asked.
Roz grimaced, finding the thought of doing this distasteful. “I suppose . . .”
“It’d be a great help,” Dad said, flashing his best smile.
That put Roz over the edge. “Well, let’s see. Sadly, there have been quite a few. First, there was Carl the Capybara. Such a shame. He was a real sweetheart. So adorable. I think he had some sort of gastric disorder.”
Roz’s true love for animals was definitely showing through. A capybara is the world’s biggest rodent. It looks more like a compacted Airedale than a giant rat, but I’d still never heard anyone refer to one as a “sweetheart” before.
“And then there was Sidney the Sloth. I never got to know her. She got some sort of infection in transit and died en route. I’m sure she was lovely, though. All sloths are.”
“She died before she got here, but they still named her?” Dad asked.
“Oh no, darling. I named her. I name all the animals, no matter what. Sidney’s so much nicer than calling her Sloth Number 6, don’t you think?”
“I suppose,” Dad said, though I could tell he didn’t mean it.
“Then there was Alistair . . .”
“Let me guess,” I said. “An alligator?”
“No. An anaconda. I’m not partial to snakes myself, but he was darling. Unfortunately, some foolish cargo employee let his tail get crushed during delivery. It got infected, and by the time he got here, it was too late to save him.”
Dad was growing concerned now. Not because of the deaths, but something about them. “I don’t need to know the details behind how they all died,” he said. “I only need to know their, uh . . . names.”
“Let’s see. There was Harriet the Howler Monkey, Oswald the Ocelot, Agnes the Agouti, Wally the Wildebeest, Andrea the Anteater, and Jerry the Jaguar. Plus, there were quite a lot of little creatures that died en route, frogs and fish and such, but I’m afraid I don’t have names for them all. Doc didn’t autopsy the small ones. He just had them buried, I think.”
I doubted this last part was true; it was probably something Doc had told her to protect her delicate sensibilities. As much as Doc liked animals, he couldn’t take the time to bury every one that died. He got rid of the small ones the way most people did—by flushing them down the toilet.
“That’s quite all right,” Dad told Roz. “You’ve been extremely helpful. Thanks for your time.”
“Feel free to come by anytime,” Roz cooed.
The moment we were out the door, Dad asked me, “Did you notice what all those animals had in common?”
I nodded. “Except for the wildebeest, they’re all from the Amazon rain forest.”
Dad smiled, proud of me. “Exactly.”
“That’s suspicious, right?”
“Extremely. First, that’s a very long list of large animals to die in such a short time. But even if the deaths were natural, the probability is that you’d have dead animals from random places all over the world. Instead, we have a pattern. Almost every large animal that died is from the exact same region. And that suggests something’s wrong here.”
“What about the wildebeest?”
“He’s probably not significant. I’m betting he truly died from natural causes.”
“But all the others were murdered?”
“I didn’t say that. But I’d bet good money they didn’t die for the reasons Roz says they did.”
“You think Roz is in on this . . . ?”
“No. I think she’s been lied to.”
“But the only person who does the autopsies is Doc. . . .”
“I know.”
I frowned. “I can’t imagine Doc killing all those animals. Sometimes, I can imagine him killing people . . . . But never animals.”
“Same with me. And I’m not saying he did. But I’ll guarantee he knows something about all this.”
“He’s probably in the hospital right now. Why don’t we go back and talk to him?”
“All in good time,” Dad said. “There’ll be plenty of opportunities to talk to Doc. Right now, we have to find out about that metal groove in Hippo River, and we only have a limited time to do it.”