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An attractive, distracted woman in her fifties, Ms. Rossini works in Wainscott’s international office. She pushed aside wisps of her abundant dark hair and, like a district attorney with an ironclad case, read the bill of indictment. This she prefaced with remarks about what she called “the lurid publicity surrounding recent events at the museum.”

Then her statements began, with bullets in front of them. “First, authorities found it necessary to break up a pornographic ring within the museum that involved students, younger faculty, and dangerous animals.”

“That’s nonsense,” I heard myself say. There’s nothing like false accusations to get the blood boiling.

“You’ll have your turn, Norman,” old Remick said.

Ms. Rossini shuffled her papers. She continued. “The museum management, despite warnings from its own expert, accepted a significant number of coins that proved to be fakes. The incident, unfortunate in and of itself, has called into question the integrity of the entire collection.”

I looked around the table at the grim faces. Where the hell was Felix? Not that his presence would change anything.

Ms. Rossini droned on. “The current administration of the museum has caused irreparable harm in its relations with the disadvantaged communities of Greater Seaboard and beyond by proposing that the models in the Stone Age exhibit be made fair-haired and white-skinned.”

Harvey Deharo raised his pencil. “I’ll address that one.”

“In due time.”

“In due time.”

The next one took me by surprise. Ms. Rossini, still reading from her bill of particulars, said, “It has come to the attention of this body that the museum has turned down a proposal from a member of the board that entailed a significant and generous donation. While currently solvent, I think we would all agree that the MOM needs all the assistance it can get during these times of financial decline.”

I glanced in the direction of Elgin Warwick. He pretended I wasn’t there. I had my answer to the letter I sent him.

Ms. Rossini paused to frown and went on. “Under its current management, the museum has become involved in no less than two murders. It turns out, according to reliable media reports, that the planning for the murder of Martin Sterl, a prominent businessman, took place in the aforementioned Stone Age diorama. More seriously, the murder of one of the museum’s own curators, the late Heinrich von Grümh, took place in the parking lot of the museum.”

I didn’t even bother to shake my head.

“And finally and most lamentably, Mr. de Ratour has been arrested and charged with accessory in the murder of Curator von Grümh.”

Before anyone could clear their throats, Ms. Rossini went on. “I would like to add a professional note to these proceedings. Under Mr. de Ratour’s administration, relations between the museum and the university have reached an all-time low. He has refused to acknowledge that Wainscott and the Museum of Man are and have been for generations part and parcel of each other. His campaign to assert the independence of the museum despite solid legal, historical, and institutional ties to the contrary have contributed not a little to the situation in which we find ourselves today.”

“Thank you, Maryanne, for that sad litany,” Robert Remick intoned. “Are there any comments.”

Harvey spoke up. He demolished the item regarding the pale-skinned Neanderthals. “And most of the rest of these allegations are so spurious as to be ludicrous.”

“Norman?” Remick turned to me. “Do you have anything to say?”

“Before you pass sentence?” I joked. I contemplated making an impassioned plea for my job, my career, my reputation. But I knew it would be to no avail. I simply shook my head.

“The chair will entertain motions.”

Ms. Rossini said, “I move that we ask Mr. de Ratour for his resignation. And, failing compliance with that request, that we vote to dismiss him as Director of the Museum of Man.”

Someone had seconded the motion when the door opened and Felix Skinnerman came in with a flourish worthy of the stage. I had the novel experience