Free Did Not Survive by Ann Littlewood Page B

media types who bore an assortment of cameras and microphones. A press conference.
    â€œWhat’s up?” I asked Jackie. “The cubs?”
    She shook her head, busy with the phones. I waited while she put three callers on hold and looked up, her face tight with strain.
    â€œNot the cubs. Wallace’s sister let the hospital disconnect his life support. He died an hour ago.”
    I flinched in dismay. Dr. Reynolds was right. Kevin Wallace wasn’t going to resolve anything.

Chapter Six
    Damrey was not acting in her own best interests. She paced in the front stall, tail stuck out behind her, ears flat to her head, trunk waving around. She rumbled and blew long gusts and generally announced that she was upset, unhappy, and having a really bad day. Nakri wasn’t as wound up, but neither was she the picture of pachyderm passivity. The cows milled about the barn, scuffling through straw and wood chips, pacing in and out of the two stalls.
    This was a change from their calm cooperation half an hour earlier in the morning. Ian had stood by while I wielded the cup on a stick, tooted the whistle, and pitched out dried fruit. Damrey was no dummy and had searched the floor in front of the hay rack for her raisin reward before realizing that this time I had managed to dunk the wad properly into the hay rack. Nakri was the soul of cooperation. Anything for dried mango seemed to be her operating principle.
    But now people were gathering inside the barn, in clusters by the service door and in the aisle along the viewing window. The zoo was not yet open, so no visitors or activists would be observing, or so I hoped.
    Damrey was apparently not pleased to have all these strangers nearby. I relaxed my jaw and opened my fists. No one was at risk. It was only an excited elephant safely behind bars. I joined our team—Sam, Ian, Dr. Reynolds, Hap, Kayla, and Mr. Crandall. Two uniformed police officers, the two who responded to my emergency call when Wallace was first injured, stood with Detective Quintana to make the second team. They all stayed well clear of the elephants.
    Mr. Crandall introduced three strangers who had to be the National Association of Zoos committee. Ed Berchtold was a small, handsome man of about fifty, the senior elephant keeper at a major Eastern zoo, wearing jeans, a thick green chambray shirt, and steel-toed boots. Dr. Barry Morgan, a veterinarian specializing in elephants, was casual in boots, shorts, and a Hawaiian shirt. The third, Dr. Lorene Rasmussen, was a research biologist. Mr. Crandall said she had spent twenty-five years studying Asian elephants in zoos and in the wild. She sported khaki safari pants with cargo pockets and a short-sleeved blue shirt with snaps. The three seemed to know each other well.
    Mr. Crandall announced the Finley Zoo staff’s names and roles. He said, “Having us all here is an opportunity for a complete review of the events that led to Kevin Wallace’s death, with all interested parties present.”
    I heard no gasps. Word had gotten to us all that Wallace had died.
    Mr. Crandall continued. “The police are here because every unattended death requires an investigation. I am grateful they agreed to participate with the committee instead of requiring another disruptive session with the zoo staff. Unfortunately the OSHA representative has the flu and can’t make this meeting. I’ll address their concerns at a later date.” He folded his hands in front and stepped back, ceding leadership.
    I assumed that the vet in the tropical shirt, Dr. Morgan, was in charge, but it was the tanned, weathered Dr. Rasmussen who led off with a second formal statement. “First, I want to express to those of you who worked with Mr. Wallace that the committee is very sorry for your loss.” She let that sit a beat. “Today we are here to determine, if possible, what led to the accident that occurred last Saturday and how to prevent anything