Icejacked
Chapter 2

In the Car Again

Audis are such comfortable cars, aren’t they? This thought encouraged me as I headed out of St. Gallen. I needed that comfort. I was at the start of a four-hour drive to in Italy.

Yesterday, I felt as if I had the phone glued to my ear all day. It’s amazing how much you can do in a single day if you really try. As soon as he was available, I met with the head of the university to discuss the iceman replace and my plans to get involved. It was hard to keep a lid on my excitement. It quickly became clear that he shared my enthusiasm and was keen to have a representative from on this case. He gave me the three-month release I requested and agreed it was fine to feed in material from wherever I am based and have it count toward my future studies and doctorate.

The thought did cross my mind that, once my name was all over the newspapers, my detractors would have to eat their words. Unlike Indiana Jones, who was able to roam the world at the drop of a hat or crack of a whip, no expense spared, in the real world, I had to face up to the boring and practical issues of how to finance my three-month trip.

I called up the guys at Archiv History, the small Schaffhausen-based magazine to which I regularly contributed, and explained my plans. I was delighted to discover they wanted the story. They quickly saw it was a big plus for them to have a man on the spot. This made my negotiations easier than I had expected.

They agreed to pay me three months up front. The deal was that I would continue to write my weekly column, plus a regular iceman special. I even squeezed a higher rate out of them.

I called my parents to give them the good news, and still more pieces of the financial jigsaw fell into place. They offered an early transfer of my quarterly allowance, gently extracting a promise from me to keep them in the loop with news of my iceman. When you add on the three-month break from paying my doctorate fees, I was in business.

It was long after midnight before I got everything completely sorted. I had never stayed so long at the university. Who says men can’t multitask? I was talking on the phone, sorting papers, surfing different language websites, and making copious notes all at the same time. I hope the researchers are correct that mobile phone radiation does not fry your brain.

I achieved my main goal of becoming a member of the iceman team. I wasn’t sure what I would be doing. It would probably be a very junior role, and I sincerely hoped it wasn’t making tea. After a furious eighteen-hour scramble, my normal day-to-day routine was now on hold. I was off to , where my man now resided in the local morgue.

From my extensive phone calls and research on the various language websites, the first impressions were that he wasn’t as old as Ötzi. The description of the clothing and other items found alongside the body indicated he was a much more modern man, perhaps only two thousand years old. My expertise should come into its own here.

The blurry view they initially had of his clothing mystified the rescuers a little. They assumed he had died recently and possibly got lost on his way home from a fancy dress party. But would you really go climbing in the Tyroleans dressed like that? Highly unlikely if you had any sense!

When Ötzi was discovered, they dug him out very crudely with a small jackhammer. Unfortunately this punctured his hip. Ice-cutting technology has advanced dramatically in the last fifteen years, and this time around, the salvage team quickly cut this new iceman free, keeping him safe and sound. The extraction was simplified further because he was not completely buried, but in an ice protrusion requiring only one vertical cut. He was then winched into a helicopter and transported to , snugly contained in the ice block.

Unusually, the epidermis was intact. This body still seemed to have its original skin on, which was extremely rare. Perhaps that was why they initially assumed he wasn’t very old. It was incredible how quickly the bloggers, news feeds, and forums had gathered information about this new iceman. Some of it might have been conjecture, so I was keen to see for myself what was fact and what was reporting hype, hence my urgency to get there. Even after such a long day and a very late night, my adrenaline was still pumping, and I found no trouble at all in making an early start.

Since my childhood, I had been fascinated with Ötzi, so being part of a similar investigation would be incredible. Also perhaps it would make me famous. And as always, there was my underlying determination to prove my peers incorrect about my style of operation.

The drive, although long, was uneventful. When I finally arrived, I managed to book into an incredibly cheap hotel. It was just a bed and place to wash, but that was all I needed at the moment. I pushed open the door to my room and found there wasn’t much room to move. It was long and narrow. The single bed was pushed against the far wall; a tiny shower room was in the opposite corner. Squeezed between the bed and the shower was a small desk complete with a reading lamp and Wi-Fi connection. Alongside, that was the smallest wardrobe I had ever seen.

I unpacked my battered suitcase and carefully hung up its contents. I precariously placed my toiletries on the narrow shelf in the shower room. I glanced in the mirror. My blue eyes were red-rimmed with purple smudges underneath from lack of sleep. I ran my hand through my bushy, sandy hair and shrugged. I badly needed a haircut, but never seemed to have the time. I brushed my teeth, grabbed my notebook, and left for the morgue.

I was so keen to take my first look at the body, but as I pulled to a stop in the car park, I started to worry that all my phone calls yesterday might not give me the access I needed. I began fretting that the messages had not been passed on as promised. It would be tedious and terribly disappointing to have to start again.

My anxiety was raised further when I entered the reception and the girl behind the desk viewed me suspiciously. But after scrutinising my university ID and Archiv press pass, her demeanor changed dramatically.

She beamed and said, “Hello, Mr. Shynder. We have been expecting you.”

She picked up the telephone, punched in a number, and spoke into the receiver, “Mr. Beck, Mr. Shynder is in reception.” She replaced the phone. “He’ll be with you in a moment, and I think you will replace he has rather surprising news for you.”

I was relieved that all the messages got through without a hitch, but a new worry now beset me. I had just completely altered my entire life and driven for four hours. Anticipation filled me at being part of this amazing project.

Are all my hopes about to be dashed at the outset? It all seems to be going far too smoothly. My genes, unfortunately, predisposed me to the half-empty glass syndrome. I sat restlessly, pushed my hair out of my eyes, and chewed at my nonexistent nails.

A tall, bearded man strode in and shook my hand. “Good morning, Mr. Shynder. Good to meet you. I’m Mr. Beck, the manager here.” He turned to the girl on reception. “Could you please rustle up some coffee?”

I followed him to his office, and we both took a seat. He shuffled some papers on his desk and stroked at his beard. He eventually looked up.

“Well now. This is a very strange case.”

“You mean because the epidermis is intact?”

“That is part of it, but there have been some rather curious developments, to put it mildly.”

“Can we go and have a look at the body?” I tried to mask my impatience.

“Well, no. I’m sorry, but you can’t. There isn’t a body any longer, not in the sense that we in the morgue understand that word.”

I was rather bemused. I opened my mouth to speak, but he held up his hand and stopped me before I could begin.

“Let me tell you what has happened. Then you can make up your own mind about what to do next. When the body came in, we put it in a specially prepared container in the morgue, and the ice began to melt. We noted the skin seemed to be normal. This could be clearly observed as the ice became thinner. The body seemed to be in very good condition. We were also able to observe the clothing that looked like a Roman tunic. Once the ice had fully melted, the body started to warm up. We had specialists on standby with the necessary equipment. You know how quickly these types of artifacts deteriorate when not properly preserved.” He paused to gauge my reaction.

I simply nodded, keen for him to continue.

“As it warmed, we were very surprised at how supple the body was, so we decided we could actually remove the clothing, which I have to tell you we wanted to do as it smelt so poorly.”

The receptionist discreetly entered the room and placed cups of coffee and biscuits on the desk between us.

“What did it smell of?” I asked.

She looked at me quizzically. I smiled at her confusion.

“Thanks for the coffee,” I said. “Don’t worry. I’m referring to some clothing.”

She smiled with relief and left the room. I was grateful to get a caffeine fix and gulped at the hot liquid.

“Well, at a guess, I would say urine,” he replied. “We have sent it to the university for the boffins to examine. We can’t be sure at this stage.”

”Urine would make sense if the body were of Roman origin, particularly if they were reasonably well-off Romans. They had a very strange custom of often washing their clothes in the stuff.”

Mr. Beck nodded at my comment and continued, “After removing the clothing, we had placed the body on a slab, and I was dealing with some urgent phone calls. You could imagine the stir this is causing. I was speaking to the university and the museum and sorting out the details for your visit, Mr. Shynder.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate how quickly you organised this for me, but please continue.”

“One of my junior associates was with the body, carrying out some standard tests, and he shouted for me to come. He was so insistent that I cut my call mid-conversation. When I joined him, he had his hand on the heart of the iceman and looked at me in consternation. He told me he thought he could feel a heartbeat. Of course, I laughed and told him this was impossible. This man has been frozen for thousands of years.”

“He was so agitated. He beckoned me to feel for myself. To humour him, I put my hand on the body, and to my amazement, Mr. Shynder, I felt something. It was weak, but it was definitely beating!”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. My iceman dreams were melting away. I started firing off questions. “What are you saying? Is this is a recent missing person who has been found on the mountain? What fluke is this? How can he still be alive even though he was encased in ice?”

Again, he held up his hand to check my inquisition. “We don’t know what to think. We have reached no conclusions. We have moved him to .”

“He’s been moved to the hospital!” I checked myself. I was close to losing it.

“Yes,” he spoke quietly, as if trying to calm me down. “We packed up his stuff—the belongings we found alongside his body, his odd little purse, and the peculiar money—and put it into his strange little bag. We arranged for an ambulance to transfer him.”

“I see.” I regained control with great difficulty. “What now?”

“We only deal with dead ones here. For anyone with a beating heart, this is not the place to be. I’m sorry, Mr. Shynder, there is nothing more I can do for you. You need to continue your investigation at the hospital.”

“Thank you for your time,” I said and wandered out into the late afternoon.

I was confused, bitterly disappointed, and at a loss about what to do next. I suddenly felt utterly weary and ravenous. I drove slowly back to the hotel. The streets were busy with commuters on their way home. They all seemed to be walking with direction and determination. They had plans. They had homes to go to. They had fulfilling jobs and a sense of purpose and direction. The car behind me honked impatiently, letting me know the lights were green. I shook myself mentally and decided the best medicine for this pity party was to replace a cozy restaurant, eat something comforting, and down a few beers.

The hotel room, which seemed so ideal for my purpose this morning, seemed bleak and comfortless this evening. I showered, shaved, and unsuccessfully tried to make my hair look less like an overgrown bush. I promised myself I would replace a barber the next day.

The hotel receptionist gave me directions to her favourite eatery, and I headed off to replace it. The menu was eclectic and my spirits rose a little when I spied a childhood favourite, bangers and mash, a most unexpected item to replace on an Italian menu until I noted the owners were English/Italian. A favourite aunt of mine who used to visit us in the school holidays had introduced me to this feast when I was seven years old, and I had loved it ever since.

I was not disappointed. Big, fat, juicy onions were nestled in shiny, smooth gravy, swamping a large plate of the fattest bangers and smoothest of mash. As I ate slowly, my equilibrium returned. With a beer at my elbow, I began to wonder what I should do tomorrow.