by Aaron Elkins
"Just say the word ‘plaque’ and he comes unglued,” Pratt said amiably.
Tremaine looked at him, surprised. Did a dormant sense of humor actually lurk somewhere in that gaunt and dour frame?
"I am not unglued,” Fisk replied pettishly, “I just want to get on with the damn thing."
Tremaine wanted to get on with it too. “Well, I'd say that wherever Mr. Tibbett—"
He was interrupted by a cry from Walter, who had been wandering aimlessly, shoulders hunched and hands in his pockets, kicking without point at chunks of gray, decaying ice. “Good God!" he shouted. “What in the world..."
The others turned to him to find him staring at the ground at his feet. On the wet gravel, lying among the softening pieces of ice that had fallen away from the glacier, lay a glistening ivory shaft of bone, six or eight inches long, broken roughly off at one end.
The thought leaped among them like a spark, almost visible in the whitish air. Once before, a few years after the tragedy, the glacier had disgorged some grisly shreds of the dead expedition members. Had it happened again? They stared, fascinated and appalled. Were they looking at a piece of James Pratt? Of Jocelyn Yount? Steven—
Shirley made a gagging noise. “Look, another piece,” she said, pointing. “Oh, God.” She shuddered and moved closer to Tremaine, presumably for support, but looming some three inches over him. “Are they...are they human? Can you tell?"
Tremaine shook his head. “I'm not sure. I believe they might well be. How horrible, how utterly horrible.” His heart was leaping with joy. It was too good to be true; he couldn't have dreamed up better publicity himself. Perhaps the publication schedule could be moved up to make the best use of it. He would have to call Javelin as soon as—
"Probably bear,” Pratt said offhandedly. “Plenty of ‘em around here."
Tremaine glared at him. He didn't care for the bear hypothesis at all. “Mr. Tibbett? Do you know?"
"Me?” said Tibbett, who seemed to respond habitually in this disingenuous and annoying fashion. “Well, they could very well be bear, all right. And then again, maybe not. I'm not a naturalist myself,” he finished lamely (and unnecessarily), “I'm more in the administrative line."
"Well, I'm a dentist and I've seen human bones before,” Fisk announced, “and I say those bones are human.” For the first time Tremaine almost liked him.
The matter was settled beyond doubt by Anna Henckel, who had been rooting in the glacial detritus while the others stared at the bones.
"Look,” she said flatly and held out a waterlogged, brown, ankle-height shoe, rotted and misshapen, the lugged sole curling away from the leather upper. “A Raichle boot,” she said.
When nobody, including Tremaine, seemed to grasp the significance of this, she added darkly: “It is the shoe we were outfitted with."
"Still,” said Walter, who seemed thoroughly shaken, “what does that prove? Other people wear Raichles. Anyone could have thrown away a shoe, or—"
Grimly, Anna shook her head. “There is no mistake.” She dipped it so that they could look into the opening in the top. Inside, in a welter of rotten, dirty-gray wool, was a jumble of narrow bones.
Shirley shuddered convulsively. “How can you touch that?"
This was followed by a long, tortured silence, broken at last by the familiar, elegant baritone of M. Audley Tremaine.
"Will this cursed glacier,” he cried in a voice laden with passion, “never let their bones rest in peace?"
He glanced around, swiftly and surreptitiously. Had he overdone it? No, they all seemed genuinely moved. (Not the immovable Anna, of course.) What a line it would make in the book, what a marvelous scene. He didn't know about the “cursed,” though. A little too melodramatic? He'd have to think that through.
"I imagine we should bring these remains back with us,” Anna said, still holding the shoe. She looked at Tibbett. “Is there a suitable container on the boat?"
"Seems to me,” offered Pratt, “that we ought to leave ‘em where we found ‘em. Been here for thirty years. Don't see much point in moving ‘em."
"Not much point?" Shirley was shocked. “Are you nuts, or what? This could be what's left of your brother, for God's sake! Do you want to leave it for the animals to chew on?"
"Bears been chewing on ‘em all this time,” was Pratt's unsentimental reply. “Don't see much point in moving ‘em now."
"Jesus,” Shirley said, having recovered enough by now to speak out of the side of her mouth again, “can you believe this guy? Look, this could be my sister too, you know, and if it is, I don't want her lying out here anymore.” To Tremaine's amazement, her horsey face suddenly bunched up and reddened; tears spurted from her eyes. “Damn,” she said, and turned away.
Pratt shrugged and shifted his weight from one foot to another, looking abashed. “Either way,” he said around his pipe. “Dudn't much matter to me."
"Mr. Tibbett, what is the proper course?” Tremaine asked, not overly optimistic about getting a definitive reply.
"Oh,” Tibbett said, still looking at the shoe with extreme distaste, “well.” He cleared his throat. “I'm not absolutely sure, to tell you the truth. I'll go back to the boat and radio my chief ranger. He's more familiar with this...this sort of thing, you know. He'll know the right way to go about it."
"And in the meantime,” Anna said decisively, “we look some more and see what we can find."
* * * *
"Mort, how would I claim a set of Lego blocks?"
FBI Special Agent Morton Kessler resignedly clicked off the microphone of the dictating machine into which he was recording a memo to file and looked wordlessly at his colleague. It was the sort of question you expected John Lau to ask, and Kessler had learned not to be surprised. Other agents’ expense statements listed hotel bills, taxi rides, and meals, but John Lau wasn't quite like other agents. He had come to the FBI late, in his thirties, and unusual expense statements were the least of the many ways he didn't quite fit the mold.
Kessler had gotten to know Lau well in the four years since the big Hawaiian ex-cop and former NATO security officer had joined the bureau. What with the partitionless bullpen arrangement on the sixth floor of Seattle's federal building, you learned a lot about the other agents in your squad. The desks were placed in groups of three, arranged in a triangle, with the agents facing in toward the center. It wasn't very often that all three agents were in off the street at the same time, but even so, you got to know your desk mates pretty well.
"Like anything else,” Kessler said. “Put it under miscellaneous and hope for the best."
"Right, thanks."
Kessler tried without success to go back to his memo. Again he flicked off the machine. “John, I know I'm going to be sorry I asked, but what the hell is a set of Lego blocks doing on your claim form? I mean, it's not something you see every day."
"Well,” John said, continuing to write, “this informant was getting mixed up drawing the layout of a house in Renton, so I thought if I got him a set of Legos he could—"
"—build you a model. Right. Of course. It's obvious.” He got up out of his chair. “I need to get a file in rotary. If anybody calls be back in ten."
The single telephone shared by the three desks rang. Kessler hung back while John picked it up.
"Five-Squad. Lau."
"Mr. Lau, this is Annie. Will you hold, please?"
"For me,” John mouthed to Kessler, who waved and headed for the filing unit.
"The SAC wants to speak with you, Mr. Lau,” Annie went on.
Abbreviations and acronyms were not John's long suits; no more than claims and paperwork. “SAC?"
From halfway across the room Kessler turned. “Special agent in charge, for Christ's sake!” he hissed. “The boss.” He shook his head once, briefly raised his eyes to the fluorescent lights, and continued on his way.
John waited, ear to the telephone. The special agent in charge of the Seattle field office was Charlie Appletree, a veteran
from the old school who still wore a dark suit and white shirt to the office every day, and still sported a crew cut, although there wasn't much to cut anymore. He had been a confidant of every director since Hoover, with the exception of William Ruckleshaus, whom he had openly regarded as a naive, pipe-smoking do-gooder. “I don't know where you came from,” he was reputed to have told the gentle Ruckleshaus in a celebrated exchange, “or who the hell you are, but you sure as hell aren't the director of the FBI."
Generally speaking, however, he was more restrained; soft-spoken, intelligent, subtly political.
"Hello there, John. How are you today?"
"Fine, sir."
"Look, I've just had a call from Dan Britten, the SAC in Anchorage...” He paused, familiar with John's small failings. “Uh, you know what SAC means...?"
"Sure.” John laughed with amusement at the question. “Special agent in charge."
"That's right, that's right.” Appletree sounded pleased. “Good. Well, it seems Dan got a call from the resident agent in Juneau, who got a call from the National Park Service people at Glacier Bay. They've turned up some bones there, apparently human, and they need some help."
"Foul play involved?"
"No, nothing like that. It's a matter for the NPS, not the bureau. They're pretty sure they're the remains of a scientific party that was lost years ago in an avalanche. No question of murder."
"Uh-huh.” John toyed with his pen. “I guess I don't see how we're involved."
"We aren't, really. But they need a forensic anthropologist to sort out the bones and tell them what they have, maybe get them positively identified. The Glacier Bay people asked the Juneau agency to help them out, but the woman they usually use is somewhere in South America at the moment. So Juneau called Anchorage, and Charlie remembered that anthropologist you've brought in a few times—"
"Gideon Oliver."
"Right, Oliver...” The name seemed to start him thinking. John heard the creak of his high-backed leather chair. Appletree was no doubt leaning back, tapping his lower lip with one of the pencils he used instead of pens. “He does tend to stir things up, though, doesn't he?"
"In what way, sir?” John asked. Not that it wasn't true.
"Well, I have nothing against him, you understand. He's done some good things for us. It's just that whenever we put him on some simple, cut-and-dried case, it...well, it always seems to turn out to be anything but cut and dried. Or haven't you noticed?"
John smiled. “I noticed. It's just that he's good at what he does, that's all. He finds things other people miss.” He paused. “At least that's what I think it is."
"Well, what the hell, this one will be Anchorage's baby, not ours. Can you get hold of him? Do you think he'd be available to go up to Glacier Bay and help them out for a few days?"
"To Glacier Bay?” John leaned back in his chair and laughed. He and Marti had gone out to dinner with Julie and Gideon the night before they'd left for Alaska. “Yeah, I think he'd be available."
"Good. Can he get out there right away? Where is he now?"
"Boss, you wouldn't believe me if I told you. I'll get right on it."
* * * *
"I just don't know, Owen.” Tibbett shook his head darkly. “It isn't...well, seemly."
Chief Park Ranger Owen Parker threw up his hands and disagreed succinctly with his supervisor. “Seemly? What's seemly got to do with anything? It has to be done, Arthur."
"Why does it have to be done? We brought the remains in, didn't we? We know who they belong to, don't we? Why do we have to go through all this forensic analysis crapola?"
"Because..." Parker couldn't keep a matching note of irritation out of his voice. Arthur had already approved the process of calling in a forensic expert to identify the bones; he was just being difficult, just covering his ass in case there were some kind of administrative repercussions; although why would there be repercussions? But of course you never knew. No doubt the ever-prudent Arthur would write a memo to file, expressing his reservations, just in case.
Parker's exasperation was, as usual, short-lived. What the hell, it wasn't really the guy's fault. He'd spent too many years behind a desk in D.C., that was his problem. You just had to be patient with him.
"Because,” Parker said more quietly, “how else do we deal with the remains? They'll have to go to the nearest relatives, right? Do we just divide the bones into three piles and split them between them? For that matter, how can we be absolutely positive those bones are from the expedition until—"
Tibbett waved him down. “Oh, come off it, Owen, really. Of course they are."
Parker shook his head. “A lot of people have disappeared out there, Arthur."
"Right on the edge of Tirku Glacier? Practically on the spot where the avalanche happened? Don't be ridiculous."
Parker shrugged. “I don't know. We're just lucky we have Dr. Oliver here"—he tipped his head in Gideon's direction—"to help us out."
Gideon nodded back with a smile, but in fact he shared some of Tibbett's discomfort. Working on a set of bones—two sets? Three sets?—with the putative next of kin practically looking over his shoulder was going to be a peculiar experience.
Tibbett began to rock rapidly, or rather to vibrate, in his swivel chair. “Well, I don't want the press making some gruesome, sensational story out of this. We don't need that kind of publicity for Glacier Bay."
"I absolutely agree,” Parker said. “No need for it at all."
Owen Parker made a marked contrast to his pudgy, skittish supervisor. Decisive, easygoing, quietly self-assured, the chief park ranger was a handsome, copper-skinned black man of forty with the trim physique of a swimmer, a physique earned in 1968 when he'd made it to the Olympic trials. His gray polyester uniform shirt, with its crisp, permanent-pressed creases, lay as neatly against his flat belly as a shirt on a department-store mannequin.
"No need for it at all,” he repeated soothingly.
The three men sat in the cluttered, one-room frame building that served as the ranger station, about a quarter of a mile from the lodge, part of the National Park Service complex in a wooded nook on Bartlett Cove. The gray, white-trimmed building was rustic, almost primitive, the location remote and serene. Otherwise it was like just about every other federal office Gideon had ever been in. The walls were layered with notes, charts, annotated calendar pages, and dog-eared cartoons ("You want it WHEN???"). The furnishings were standard GSA-issue: three aged gray-steel desks with Formica tops, three gray-steel file cabinets, gray-steel bookcase, gray-steel table, and gray-steel chairs enlivened with spinach-green seats and backs of waterproof, tearproof, maybe bulletproof plastic. The furniture was ranged along the walls, leaving a small open space in the middle, where the three had rolled chairs to face each other.
Gideon had been hunted down by Park Ranger Frannie Martinez an hour earlier, at loose ends and leafing without interest through a copy of Alaska Geographic in the lodge lobby. His new non-goal-directed approach to life had not been a marked success, and he had almost hugged the woman when she told him what it was about: The Tremaine party had found some bones at Tirku Glacier a couple of hours before; the bones had been brought back by boat; the FBI in Juneau had been asked for a skeletal expert and they had recommended him. Would it be possible for him to enter into a limited consulting arrangement with the National Park Service (a) to determine if the bones were human, and (b) if they were, to identify them to the extent possible? The standard hourly consulting fee of $32.50 would, of course, apply.
Yes, he had told her gratefully, yes, it would be possible, it would be highly possible. Forget the fee.
She had driven him in a Park Service pickup truck to the compound and left him at the station. Since then he had been listening to Parker and Tibbett go back and forth over the same ground: Tibbett indecisive, cautious, obstructive; Parker calmly reassuring and consistent.
"And you, Gideon?” Tibbett said.
Gideon's attention had been wandering.
“And me what?"
Tibbett continued his nervous rocking. “How do you feel about publicity?"
Tibbett's attitude toward him had become more subdued, more wary, since he'd realized that Gideon was the Skeleton Detective (a sobriquet hung on him by an over-imaginative reporter who'd participated in a case at another national park, Olympic, a few years earlier). Gideon was sympathetic; he wasn't too keen on being the Skeleton Detective himself.
"I'm sorry, Arthur. What do you mean, publicity?"
"I'm asking if you see any problem with low-profile involvement here?"
"Low-profile—” He caught himself before he laughed. This was what came of being the Skeleton Detective. “Arthur, I'm happy to help out on this if I can. As far as I'm concerned, I don't see the need for any publicity at all."
Tibbett, mollified, finally brought his chair to a halt. “I'm relieved to hear that. Fine, then. I just wanted to hear you say it."
"Well, then,” Gideon said, “maybe we ought to have a look at the bones."
Parker shot him a grateful look and was out of his chair before Tibbett had a chance to do any more vacillating. “Here they are, right here."
They were in a Del Monte tomato-sauce carton on top of the bookcase. Parker took the box down, used his forearm to clear a space in the center of the table, and put the box there. Tibbett unobtrusively pushed off with his feet to roll his chair a few inches farther away.
Gideon got up to look into the open carton. There wasn't much. A warped, split shoe, still damp, with the bony remains of a foot inside; the upper third of a right femur; and most of a mandible with a single tooth still in place. There were some animal bones too: part of a sacrum and two ribs—mountain goat, probably.
He handed the animal bones to Parker. “Not human."
One at a time the ranger flipped them basketball-style at a wastepaper basket. The sacrum took a second try. Tibbett watched the acoustical-tiled ceiling with practiced forbearance.
"Well, there isn't much,” Gideon said, “but I think we ought to be able to come to a few general conclusions about just who we have here. Tell me, do you lose many people out there?"
