Nora took a seat near the rear as a fellow named Lathrop was winding up a PowerPoint presentation on the facial reconstruction, using pictures of the dead man’s face.
“We employed the method outlined by Taylor and Angel in Craniofacial Identification in Forensic Medicine,” he was saying in a pretentious British accent, standing next to an image of the deceased person’s reconstructed face. “We think it gives better results than computational forensics. Wouldn’t you agree, Agent Swanson?”
Corrie nodded curtly as Lathrop continued clicking through the photos.
“We determined,” Lathrop went on, “that our man was an emaciated fellow, in his fifties, balding on top with a fringe of hair, skin weathered from years in the sun. We took all this into account as we painstakingly reconstructed the face, added wrinkles and hair and a leathery tan. We think we’ve achieved an excellent likeness, and the proof is that we already have a tentative ID.”
He looked around. “Any questions?”
Many hands went up. Lathrop picked one.
“Okay, but was it murder?”
Corrie started to answer, but Lathrop interrupted. “Nothing definitive either way,” he said. “At least from a forensic point of view.”
“But this is an official case now?” someone asked.
This time, Corrie answered. “Yes, it’s official and approved by the SAC.”
There were a few more questions about how Lathrop had reconstructed the face, what the actual process involved, which the man answered with plummy self-confidence and panache while Corrie stood next to him.
“Thank you, Dr. Lathrop,” said Corrie, rather abruptly, as the questions wound down. She took over as Lathrop nodded and retreated, resuming his seat with a satisfied smile. “Yesterday,” she said, “Sheriff Watts and I showed these photographs to some old-timers in the Socorro area, and we have a tentative identification of the victim as one James Doolin Gower. So far all we have is the name, but we’ll be confirming the ID and following up on the details of his life. Now, I want to introduce Dr. Nora Kelly, a senior curator at the Santa Fe Archaeological Institute. Dr. Kelly excavated the remains and has been studying the artifact found with the body. Dr. Kelly?”
Nora stood up and went to the podium. She had prepared a small PowerPoint presentation of her own, which she now fired up with a remote Corrie handed her. Lecturing at the Institute had become second nature to her, and any nervousness she might have felt at speaking in front of a roomful of government agents quickly fell away.
The first image appeared on the screen: a photograph of the cross, pictured against black velvet. It fairly glowed, and there was a faint murmur from the audience.
“Dr. Orlando Chavez and I have examined the cross, and we have some preliminary findings. It appears to date from the Spanish colonial period, pre–Pueblo Revolt—that is, between 1598 and 1680. It was probably made in the New World, with both the gold and gems having a New World origin.”
She went to the next slide: a close-up of the mounted turquoises.
“The turquoise has been identified as coming from the ancient Chalchihuitl mine in the Cerrillos Hills, south of Santa Fe, which was a major source of prehistoric and historic turquoise. It has a very distinctive pale green color and pattern. The other gemstones are harder to source, but the nephrite jade is probably from central Mexico. The cross is of particularly fine workmanship and was probably made by a master goldsmith in Mexico City. There’s a good chance it was carried into New Mexico by a padre as a personal holy object.”
She brought up the next slide.
“There are what appear to be some unusual assay marks on the cross, which my colleague at the Institute is now researching.”
She ended the presentation. “Finally, since you’re all law enforcement, you’ll be interested to know that there’s no documented history or provenance for this artifact. It’s not from any public or private collection that we know of, and there’s no record of a theft of any object like this. That’s all we can say about it so far, but when we identify those assay marks we will know much more. Thank you.”
Corrie stepped forward. “And thank you, Dr. Kelly. Any questions?”
A dozen hands went up.
“How much is the artifact worth?” one person asked.
“From a historical point of view, it’s very rare. There’s nothing quite like it in my experience.”
“But on the open market? Can you give us a monetary value?”
“I’d guess somewhere in the six figures.”
“What’s this Pueblo Revolt you mentioned?” asked somebody else.
Nora had wondered how much historical background the group might need. Looking around the room, she realized most of these agents probably had come from other parts of the country and knew next to nothing about local history.
“A good question,” she said. “Let me give you a little historical context. New Mexico was first settled by Europeans in 1598 by the Spanish conquistador Don Juan de Oñate and a group of European colonists, along with a number of friars. Those padres fanned out to all the subjugated Puebloan Indian settlements along the Rio Grande, where they built mission churches. These churches needed ecclesiastical goods—crosses, bells, chalices, statues of the Virgin, that sort of thing. So a lot of workshops in Mexico City began churning out holy items to supply the churches along the northern frontier. Since they had access to plenty of gold, silver, and gems pouring out of the mines, some of these religious articles were quite spectacular. They were carried up from Mexico City and distributed to the mission churches across New Mexico. That, we think, is the case with this cross. It’s heavily worn, so we assume it was carried by a padre rather than placed in a church.
“In 1680, the Indians rose up, killed four hundred settlers and dozens of padres, and drove the rest of the Spanish out of New Mexico. This was the Pueblo Revolt. The Pueblo Indians proceeded to erase every trace of Spanish occupation. They destroyed houses, burned churches, smashed the crosses, and ground up the statues. Anyone who’d been baptized was ritually washed clean. All marriages performed by a padre were dissolved. That’s why it’s rare to find an object that survived the destruction—particularly one made of gold.”
“Why gold in particular?” asked another person.
“The Puebloans had come to think of gold as an accursed metal that made Spaniards crazy, the thing most responsible for their enslavement in the mines. They are said to have blocked up and hidden those mines so the Spanish couldn’t reopen them if they returned. And when the Spanish did return in 1692, some of the mines did, as far as we know, remain hidden.”
The level of excitement and interest in the room had intensified. Gold, Nora thought. The magic word.
“So why would a guy like that be carrying this cross in 1945?”
“We don’t know.”
“He must have gotten it from somewhere.”
“It might have been passed down in the man’s family. He might have found it or stolen it. As I said, there’s no documentary evidence that we’ve been able to find, except the assay marks I mentioned. It’s possible we’ll never know where it came from.”
More hands were up, and a murmur of excited voices filled the room. Morwood, Corrie’s boss, stood up and turned to the group, holding up his arms. A hush fell, and one by one the hands lowered.
“I’d like to remind the group that this is a potential homicide investigation. The gold cross is intriguing, but let’s not take our eye off the ball. We’ve no reason yet to think it’s associated with the man’s death—even if the death is a homicide. What I find more significant are the signs of violence—the cracked skull, the broken ribs, the mule shot in the head. They, not the cross, have bearing on whether the man was the victim of homicide.”
He turned to Corrie. “In your opinion, how serious were the injuries sustained by the victim?”
“None fatal, or even disabling, to be honest. Looks like he might have fallen off his mule.”
This elicited a murmur of laughter.
“I wouldn’t rush to any conclusions,” said Morwood. “He might have been in a fight, and there might also have been internal injuries of a more serious nature. Have you looked into that?”
“Yes, sir. The peritoneal cavity showed no signs of internal bleeding. The organs are still out at the lab, but so far nothing indicates internal damage. The remains are scheduled for a CT scan, which will give us a more definitive answer.”
“Good. And, Dr. Lathrop? I commend you and Agent Swanson for that excellent facial reconstruction.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Lathrop. “Thank you indeed!”
*
Corrie walked down from the stage. She couldn’t believe that shithead Lathrop had hogged the credit for her reconstruction. Maybe she should have objected when Morwood had suggested, ever so gently, that Lathrop be the one to present the findings. She had agreed—and then he’d flat-out stolen credit for her work.
She saw Nora approaching. “Great presentation,” Corrie told her. “Much appreciated, thanks.”
“Glad to help.” Nora looked at her closely. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” said Corrie under her breath as she gathered her files together and put away her computer.
While the room emptied, Morwood came up and shook Nora’s hand. “I want to thank you, Dr. Kelly, for speaking today.”
“Of course.”
“There was quite a lot of interest in the cross, as you saw.”
“Gold, gems, lost mines—that gets people’s attention.”
“Sometimes too much.” He turned to Corrie. “A fine piece of work with the reconstruction.”
“You should know, sir,” Corrie began, “that Dr. Lathrop took credit for work that I—”
Morwood held out a hand. “Dr. Lathrop is the world’s expert on telling a horse skull from a mule skull. Is that what you’re about to tell me? Because I don’t want to hear any complaining.”
Corrie fell silent, her face coloring.
Morwood’s voice softened. “A bit of advice: let others share credit, even if undeserved. It’ll work wonders for your career.” He leaned forward. “I know who did the reconstruction, and I’m the one who counts.”
“Yes, sir.”
Morwood turned to Nora. “I’d like a private word with Corrie, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course.”
Nora left the two alone in the conference room. Corrie could see a stern look gathering on Morwood’s face. “I need to speak to you about Brad Huckey,” he said.
Corrie folded her arms. “What about him?”
“You and I have had several conversations about how important it is to get along with everyone, even those who are difficult. At the FBI, we place a high premium on maintaining good working relationships. It’s the nature of our business to come in contact with unsavory, retrograde, obnoxious, and even criminal individuals.”
Corrie stared at Morwood, feeling a flush of anger. “So what, exactly, did Huckey say?”
“He said—take this with a grain of salt—that you were difficult to work with, insulting, and uncooperative.”
Corrie waited a beat. “Anything else?”
“That you misidentified a bone he recovered and interfered with his search protocol.”
“And you believe him?”
Corrie hadn’t meant to assume such a challenging tone, and the question seemed to take Morwood aback. “No, I don’t, except to the extent that it represents a failure on your part to get along.”
Corrie took a deep breath. “I’m perfectly willing to get along with unsavory, retrograde, obnoxious, and even criminal people as part of my job.”
“I’m glad to hear it, but—”
Corrie interrupted him. “Excuse me, sir, but what I’m not willing to do is put up with co-workers like that. There’s a difference. Right from the get-go, Huckey was loud, insulting, arrogant, and sexist. He disparaged me in front of Sheriff Watts, he treated the site with contempt instead of respect, and when we were inside the mine, rather than acknowledging the tragedy that took place there, he thought it would be amusing to drop an old case of TNT at my feet. His behavior was unprofessional from start to finish.” She took another deep breath. “Are you telling me I should put up with that?”
Morwood frowned. “Well, in principle—”
“Then forgive me if I just come out and say it: I won’t put up with it. Not from co-workers, and especially not from someone technically subordinate to me. That undermines my authority as a special agent. Wouldn’t you agree, sir?”
A long silence filled the room. Morwood gazed steadily at Corrie. At last, he asked: “Was he really that bad?”
“Worse. And I might also point out that I was willing to let it go. It was Huckey who complained—not me.”
“He reported you called him, among other things, a ‘dickless wonder.’ That’s not exactly professional on your part.”
“Perhaps not. But I still maintain that if he’d treated a guy like he treated me, he would’ve gotten his butt handed to him.”
Morwood nodded slowly, his brow furrowed. “Okay. I hear you. I don’t want my agents to have to deal with that kind of behavior.”
“Thank you, sir.” She almost asked him what he planned to do about it but realized that might sound like she was angling to have Huckey reprimanded. Frankly, she didn’t give a shit what happened to him, as long as she didn’t have to work with him again. A guy like that was never going to change.
Morwood nodded crisply and turned to the door. Corrie finished packing away her stuff, heart beating like a drum in her chest. Had she just screwed her career? Or was standing up for herself a good thing? She had no idea one way or the other and was filled with confusion. She knew only one thing: she was never going to put up with a bully like Huckey again. It was too much like her miserable high school days.
She emerged from the conference room to find Nora waiting for her in the hall.
“Sorry that took a while,” Corrie said.
“No worries.”
“What are you doing now?”
“Heading back to Santa Fe. And you?”
“I’ve got to drive down south to some godforsaken hole and interview someone who might be a relative of Gower’s.” Then Corrie added, almost without thinking: “Want to come?”
“Me?” Nora said in surprise. “Why?”
“Because it’s a long, boring drive … and, well, I could use the company.”
Nora hesitated for what seemed a long time. Then she nodded. “Sure.”
21
JESSE GOWER LIVED in a log cabin with a tin roof, surrounded by ponderosa pines and looking out over the Magdalena Mountains. A battered chicken coop—still populated, judging from the occasional cackling noise—stood across a dirt yard from the cabin, next to what looked like a shuttered toolshed. It would have been a nice place, Nora thought, if the yard weren’t full of old cars, two refrigerators, a washing machine, rolls of barbed wire, a broken cattle gate, and other miscellaneous junk. Since the phone had been disconnected, Watts had suggested they go there and hope to find him at home.
Nora had been struck by Sheriff Homer Watts. He was utterly different from what she’d expected—he was a tall, skinny guy, ridiculously young, with an easygoing, aw-shucks manner. But it was his cowboy hat she particularly noticed. It was glorious, a 100X beaver Resistol in silver belly that she was sure cost well over a thousand dollars. Watts babied the hat, brushing every bit of dust off and keeping it immaculate—and no wonder, because when he wore it he looked remarkably like a young Gary Cooper. She couldn’t help but wonder if something might happen between him and Corrie, despite—or maybe because of—the awkward formality of their interactions, all “Agent Swanson” and “Sheriff Watts” and that sort of thing.
He’d been surprised when Corrie suggested that Nora come along but had voiced no objection. They had all gone together in the sheriff’s car, and now Watts pulled up some dist
ance from the house. “I think we’d better wait a bit,” he said. “Not a good idea to surprise the guy.”
So they waited and waited, but nothing happened, save a squawk and some activity from the henhouse.
After a few minutes, Watts shifted in his seat. “Why don’t you all stay in the car and I’ll go knock on the door?”
“Why don’t I go and you stay here,” Corrie said. “I’m less threatening. You’re big and tall and in uniform.”
“Well, now … ” Watts didn’t finish the sentence, but it was clear he wasn’t happy with the idea.
“I’m armed and trained,” Corrie said.
“I’m just wondering,” said Watts with a laugh, “how it’s going to look to people around here if I stay in the car and you get shot.”
“All the grievance warriors out there will give you a medal for recognizing gender equality,” said Corrie as she got out.
Nora waited with Watts while Corrie walked slowly up to the porch and waited at the base of the steps. “Jesse Gower?” she called. “You in there?”
No answer.
Nora watched while Corrie mounted the steps and knocked on the door. “Jesse, you in there? It’s Corrie Swanson.”
The door opened slowly, almost as if a ghost were operating it, and a scarecrow of a man appeared: dressed in pale clothes, face hollowed out, lanky yellow hair tied back in a messy ponytail that fell practically to his waist. His nose looked as if it had been broken, then healed imperfectly. Several day’s worth of stubble completed the picture of a terrifying wreck of a man. An addict for sure, thought Nora. Crank, or smack—or both.
The Scorpion's Tail (Nora Kelly Book 2) Page 11
