"Odd."
"What?"
"It appears to be insect fragments."
"A bee! Could it be a bee?"
"They appear to be too small for that."
"Oh," said Tammy, deflating.
Carefully, the M.E. scraped the fragments into a waiting envelope. He carried them over to a microscope, deposited the fragments onto a glass slide and inserted it into the microscope.
Bending over, he peered within.
"Can I see?"
"No."
"Okay, can you tell me what you see?"
"I see the crushed remains of a very small insect."
"A killer bee! It's got to be a killer bee!"
"I am no specialist, but bees don't grow to this size. It cannot be a bee."
"It's gotta be a bee. If it's not a bee, I have no killer-bee story. I need a killer bee for my story."
"It is not a bee of any kind," the M.E. said, straightening. "But this is very strange. I don't know what kind of insect could inject a man with fatal consequences."
"A wasp, maybe? Could it be a killer wasp?" No.
"How about a hornet? The alleged hit man was wearing a Charlotte Hornets ball cap."
The M.E. looked at Tammy Terrill as if she were not quite sane. "What are you babbling about, miss?"
"Nothing. Aren't you going to test the body for bee venom?"
"I will examine the tissues for foreign toxins, of course. But I don't expect to find bee venom. And now I must ask you to leave this building."
"You're welcome," Tammy said frostily.
OUTSIDE, SHE SNAPPED Open her cell phone and got her news director.
"I think I have a story, Clyde. Listen to this ...."
At the end of it, Smoot was skeptical. "Killer bees are passe. Strictly seventies."
"I think they're back. Put me on the air, and let's see where this goes."
"You're on. But first get to the library."
"What's there?"
"Books on bees. Do your research. I want this story backed up by hard facts."
"I have film and a chain of coincidences. What do I need facts for?"
"Facts," the Fox news director said, "will keep the snowball rolling down the happy hill. And the longer it rolls, the bigger it will be."
"Not as big as I will be," Tammy breathed, clicking off.
Chapter 8
"Her name is Grandmother Mulberry," said Remo into the pay phone at the Vietnamese market around the corner from Castle Sinanju.
"First name?" asked Harold Smith.
"That's all I have. I think it's an alias. And dollars to doughnuts she's an illegal. I want her deported. Preferably to the dark side of the moon."
"What will the Master of Sinanju say?"
"This time, for once, I don't freaking care. He can storm around like Donald Duck, screaming like Chicken Little and make my life generally miserable. I want the old bat out of my hair and my life."
"One moment, Remo."
Harold Smith was at his Folcroft desk. The buried amber monitor was active. Tapping the illuminated capacity keyboard with his thin gray fingers, he input "Mulberry" and executed a global search of his data base.
He was expecting no results from such meager data, but Smith's gray right eyebrow involuntarily jumped as something popped up. He read it through the lenses of his rimless glasses.
"Remo, I believe I can confirm 'Grandmother Mulberry' is an alias."
"I knew it! What's her real name?"
"According to this, Grandma Mulberry was an historical or possibly mythical person in old Korea. She was left stranded by the closing of the tides over a stone bridge to an island, her fate unknown."
"How long ago did this happen?"
"An estimated five hundred years ago."
"Well, the old bat looks old enough to be that Grandmother Mulberry," Remo said sourly.
"I suspect Master Chiun is playing a joke on you."
"How about if I get you her fingerprints?"
"If she is illegal, they will be useless," Smith answered. "And if she is legal, she cannot be deported."
"What if she's a North Korean spy?"
"That is a farfetched theory."
"I'll grasp at any shaky straw at this point."
The Nynex computer operator asked Remo for another dime, and he deposited the coin.
"Why are you calling from a pay phone?" Smith asked.
"So nobody knows it's me dropping a dime on the old bat."
"We may have to live with this woman until Chiun decides otherwise," Smith said.
"That's easy for you to say. You don't have to live with her."
"She calls me Sourpuss when I answer," Smith said.
"It's better than being a pussy-willow-faced pillow-biter," Remo growled.
"What did you say, Remo?"
"Never mind. Look, I'm going stir-crazy here. Got an assignment for me? I'll happily squash any terrorist or mafioso you care to finger."
"There is nothing on my desk at the moment."
"Are there riots anywhere? Send me to the worst section of Washington, D.C. I'll clean up the crack houses and paint them any color you want."
"Local law enforcement will handle Washington, D.C."
"Not from what I read. The town is practically a Third World hellhole, and no one can do anything about it."
Smith sighed like a leaky radiator valve. "If you stay on the line, I'll see what my system comes up with."
A dollar-fifty in change later, Smith's voice came back on the line.
"Remo, a man was killed yesterday in a bizarre fashion."
"It would have to be real bizarre to impress me. I've seen bizarre. I've done bizarre. What's your definition of bizarre?"
"He collapsed while crossing Seventh Avenue at Times Square and was found with his eyes and brains consumed by some as-yet-unknown agency."
"Sounds like the IRS to me."
Smith's voice actually winced audibly. "That is not funny."
"But it's true. You've been audited. Okay, it's bizarre. Where do I start?"
"I want you and Chiun-"
"Whoa! Where does Chiun fit into this?"
"The medical examiner who autopsied the victim died himself under strange circumstances. Chiun is an expert on exotic deaths, especially poisons. His knowledgeable eye might be useful."
"As long at that Korean battle-ax doesn't tag along," Remo growled, looking over his shoulder at Castle Sinanju.
"See that she does not," said Smith, and hung up.
RETURNING HOME, Remo broke the news to the Master of Sinanju.
"Smith's got an assignment for us."
"You go. I am busy."
Remo saw that the Master of Sinanju was sorting teas. Oolongs and Pekoes and greens in tin containers were arrayed about him on the floor. Chiun carefully opened and sniffed each container, disposing of stuff that had gone bad. He reminded Remo of King Croesus counting his wealth.
"Smith says you're needed on this one."
Chiun looked up, delight touching his wrinkled countenance. "Emperor Smith said that. Truly?"
"Yeah. A guy was killed somehow. When they found him, his brains and eyes were missing. Then the guy who did the autopsy died under mysterious circumstances."
"Someone does not wish the truth to be discovered."
"What truth?"
"The truth which we will soon discover."
"Smith said the second guy died of poison. You know about poisons. That's why your help is needed here," Remo explained.
The Master of Sinanju rose to his feet, a golden puffball with rose-stem limbs.
"I go where my emperor bids me to go," he intoned, his visage suffused with a golden pride.
"You go where he says because it keeps the gold flowing."
"Do not be crass, Remo."
"I call them as I see them."
"That is the motto of the crass."
THE MEDICAL EXAMINER in Manhattan examined Remo's Department of Health credentials, eyed the Master of Sinanju with a mixture of dubiousness and, nodding respectfully, he said, "I have not yet determined a cause of death."