by Brock Law
central fountain and up the steps to the main entrance. Inside, both Miths stopped and gawked at the scene in the lobby.
Philadelphia police officers took frantic notes from an enraged crowd of suited university executives and museum staff ruggedly dressed for field work. Everyone was shouting, some directly at each other and with no shortage of pointing fingers. Some of the elder educators were clustered on a bench by the front desk, hanging their heads and moaning shamefully. Will and his dad were motionless as the mass reverberation of accusations clashed above their heads.
“Professor Mith,” an approaching colleague called.
Professor Mith reacted in kind, “What’s happened?”
“It’s the upstairs galleries. Come with me,” the other academic instructed.
The three men entered the fray. Fellow professors and archaeologists jostled them as they weaved through, imploring the harried Miths for aid and explanations. Professor Mith held up his hands to the crowd and indicated for calm so he could pass. The roar of the conversation offered single worded details, which heightened Will’s dread, but mostly the throng’s cries were incoherent wails. Once they eventually escaped the crowd in the lobby, they jumped into the elevator. Their guide punched the button for the third floor. Already, the pandemonium communicated the seriousness of the problem. Will strained as his father removed his glasses to reveal a defeated expression.
When the elevator opened they stepped into a more solemn hall, but one just a busy. The Etruscan gallery was filled with more museum employees and police officers. The condition, however, was as immaculate as it was the day before. Then a flash caught the Miths’ eyes. Will and his dad looked into the adjoining Roman collection, where the expulsive discharges of cameras emanated. They raced towards the action. Professor Mith froze at the threshold of the room, where Will nearly collided with him. Both men cupped their mouths.
A marble stele had been thrown from its pediment. A sarcophagus lay ajar. Busts of nobility were scattered on the floor. Massive painted amphorae were smashed. Rubble from many smaller clay containers mingled with the shards of modern glass that once protected them. Taking pictures and descriptions throughout were pairs of agents in FBI polos and t-shirts.
“What’s the FBI doing here?” Professor Mith inquired of his colleague.
His fellow educator shrugged. Attracted to more commotion in the next room, they skirted around the agents. At the entrance to the Canaanite and Israeli gallery Professor Mith gasped.
The room before them was devastated. Nearly every display case was broken. Clay fragments of inscribed tablets were scattered alongside chunks of stoneware. Bent remains of practical and decorative household bronze objects lay in brittle flakes. Small gold trinkets were included amongst dull blades of ancient weaponry on the floor. As Will and his dad gawked at the damage, two FBI agents approached.
“Excuse me,” one of the agents addressed the Miths while rifling through a folder of dossiers, “are you Professor Joseph Mith?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
The agent continued, “Of Pine Street?”
“Correct.”
“I understand you’re one of the top men here, Professor,” said the agent.
“Certainly.”
“Good. I’m the regional director. I’d like to ask you some questions.”
“Of course,” Professor Mith replied with a nervous gulp.
“Were you in museum yesterday?”
Professor Mith sifted through a blanked memory before answering, “Uh, no, I was at home.”
“Have you noticed any strange activity around the museum lately? Any suspicious persons, or regular visitors to the Levant and Mediterranean sections?”
“No, not that I’ve noticed. Is that the extent of the damage?”
“It appears to be concentrated amongst those collections,” the director indicated.
“What’s been taken?”
The director answered, “Nothing, so far as we can tell, just damaged. The archives in the basement are in far worse shape though. It will take some time to go through the whole catalogue. When was the last time you were in the Holy Land?”
Professor Mith looked befuddled. “Uh, not in decades, with a group of graduate students.”
“When you were there did you work on any high profile religious sites, or bring back anything of unusual cultural value?”
“Nothing extraordinary, at least not in monetary value, just what’s in the collection,” Professor Mith replied.
“You don’t keep any artifacts at home from your travels?”
“No, of course not. It’s all here,” Professor Mith reinforced.
“Our records show that your private home was broken into last week, is that right?”
“Yes, it was. I was out of town at the time,” Professor Mith answered with beads of sweat beginning to swell on his forehead.
“Do you have any reason to believe that someone may be targeting you, or would want to interrupt your research?”
“Targeting me?” Professor Mith grew wary. “I don’t think so. I don’t know why anyone would. I’m just a teacher.”
“I figured as much,” the director muttered to the other agent. “It doesn’t quite fit.”
Professor Mith impelled, “What do you mean?”
“In the past month,” the director began, “there have been similar disturbances at several of the city’s historic sites. The Betsy Ross House, Carpenter’s Hall, the Masonic Temple, Bishop White’s house, the Tomb of the Unknown Revolutionary Soldier in Washington Square, Old Swedes Church, the graves of the seven signers buried at Christ Church, the Constitution Center, and most recently the Art Museum where a security guard was killed. Were you aware of those incidents? Does it mean anything to you?”
“I can’t imagine,” a stunned Professor Mith stuttered as he racked his brain. “Do you think it’s terrorists?”
“Nothing has been ruled out at the moment, but we would expect the damage to be more catastrophic if that were the case,” the director theorized. “At each location, there is obvious tampering, yet there doesn’t seem to be anything missing. It appears almost as if someone is looking for something in particular. I would like your help, Professor, to figure out what that might be.”
“Absolutely, but I don’t understand how it’s possible,” Professor Mith anguished.
“It would take a large group of coordinated people to cause this much damage in such a short period of time. It was the humidity sensors inside the display cases that first alerted the system to a major fault,” said the director. “Local response time was under two minutes. Essentially, everything would have to have been broken at once to allow enough time for looting and escape. How long might it take the sensors to activate once recognizing a change in the controlled atmosphere?”
“Perhaps just a few seconds this time of year,” Professor Mith guessed. “It depends upon the conditions necessary to maintain the object.”
The director continued, “What else do you know about the museum’s security features?”
“There are cameras outside, and the windows and doors are alarmed,” said Professor Mith. “How could anyone get in without tripping the exterior system?”
“We are still reviewing the footage, but probably through the back. There is no camera above the service entrance in the driveway,” the director begrudgingly replied.
For the first time in minutes, Will exhaled.
“But it’s a steel door with a code,” Professor Mith challenged.
“And you should probably come up with a more original combination,” the director said sourly. “The last entry was logged at 8:17 PM. We don’t know who that was yet, but perhaps they have some useful information. Do you know who may have been here that late?”
“It could have been anyone. Maybe one of the field archaeologists, a curator or a guide, the chef, even a graduate TA could have access,” Professor Mith said and suddenly motioned to a startled Will. “My son was across the str
eet at the stadium late yesterday. Will, did you see anyone still here when you left?”
Unable to form thought or sound, Will stared at his dad and the two agents. All three looked at him with mounting curiosity as he remained shy. Finally he shook his head.
The director opened his folder again and read, “And you are William Mith?”
Will struggled to get his voice past the lump in his throat. “Yeah.”
“Why were you at the stadium?” the director probed.
“I play football,” Will answered dumbly. “I was using the weight room.”
“About what time did you leave?” the director pursued.
“I don’t remember,” Will hesitated. “Sometime after seven I think.”
The director’s brow rose, “You were working out until 7PM during the summer offseason?”
Will affirmed with a wordless tilt of his head. Skeptically, the director monitored the young man’s odd awkwardness. He then looked over to the accompanying agent.
“That’s some dedication for an Ivy League player,” the director esteemed. “Quick, call Jeff Lurie.”
The director and the agent chuckled.
“Professor,” the director turned, “would you assist us in the archives. Unfortunately, there’s a lot of material that needs to be accounted for.”
“Certainly,” Professor Mith obliged.
The director indicated towards the stairwell. Professor Mith followed, but Will remained. He was glued to the floor. His brain was churning, unable to resist his flight response.
“Dad,” Will interjected, “I’ve got to head over to see the
