Razing the Dead (9 page)

James and I carpooled to work the next morning. Would
we do that when we lived together? Our schedules were so unpredictable and erratic that it probably wouldn't work, except on rare occasions like today. Did FBI agents ever go anywhere by train? That didn't really mesh with my mental image of them emerging from unmarked dark sedans with unusually powerful engines.

When I arrived at work, Latoya was waiting for me, as was a cup of coffee, thanks to Eric. I smiled at him as I led Latoya into my office.

“What's up?” I asked.

“As you know, Ben Hartley is starting this morning. I wondered if you'd like to show him around, introduce him to people.”

I took a few seconds to think about that. Did Latoya just want Ben to get off to a good start, with my apparent blessing? Or did she want to make it clear to the rest of our staff that Ben was my hire, not hers? “Why don't we just take him around together?”

“All right. I'll bring him up when he arrives.”

I sat at my desk and sorted through papers and messages until I'd finished my coffee. Latoya arrived with Ben, who looked marginally less—what, hostile? Wary?—than he had the last time I'd seen him. He said quickly, “Thank you for this opportunity, Nell.”

“Ben, we need someone with your skills, period. I'm glad you could join us. We're going to throw you straight into it, but first I'd like you to meet your colleagues. This way.”

I led the way around the office, introducing Ben to our staff—Shelby in development; Felicity, our head librarian; even Front Desk Bob—then took him to the processing room, where Rich and Alice were already at work. I was surprised to see Lissa there, too, talking with Rich, who was explaining some document he had laid out on one of the work surfaces. “Hey, guys,” I said, and waited until I had their attention. “I'd like you to meet our new registrar, Ben Hartley. He's starting today. I know you're all busy, but I'd appreciate it if you could show him how we do things here. Latoya, have you set him up with computer access?”

“Of course,” Latoya said formally. “He'll be using that desk when he's working with physical objects in here, right?” She nodded toward the one in the corner that our former registrar had staked out, and I felt a pang—I had no idea if it would work with a wheelchair.

“If you need a different configuration, Ben, let us know,” I said. I made the introductions. Lissa spoke up. “I'm short-term, Ben, but pleased to meet you. Uh, Nell, is it all right to talk about, you know . . . ? I haven't said much yet.”

“It's already been in the news, and I mentioned it to Rich and Alice yesterday.” I turned back to the others. “Lissa is working with Mitchell Wakeman on the historical background of a piece of land in Chester County, where he's planning a new development. She'll be here full-time for three months or so, unless she's out in Chester County. I know, this place just keeps getting more crowded all the time. Ben, you have any questions?”

“I need to familiarize myself with the computer and software setup. Latoya, you'll walk me through the computer procedures?” Ben asked.

“I will—as far as I understand them. I'm no computer expert myself, but I hope what you'll find in your space is current and clear.”

“Great, thanks.”

“Well, then, back to business. Ben, you want to have lunch today, sort of a welcome? Latoya, can you join us?”

Latoya shook her head. “I have a prior commitment, but I'll be spending time with Ben this morning. You two go ahead.”

We all scattered to our respective workstations. Eric handed me a stack of papers and together we sorted through them, assigning priorities or handing them off to other staff members to deal with. It was a productive morning that passed quickly, and I was surprised when Ben appeared at my door. “We still on for lunch?”

I checked my watch: noon. “Sure. Any place around here you'd like to go?” I wondered if that was tactless. How many of my favorite restaurants would be hard for a guy in a wheelchair to access?

“I don't know the neighborhood. You can choose.”

“There's a nice lunch place the next block down—nothing fancy, but good sandwiches.”

“Sounds fine.”

We made our way out the side entrance and to the restaurant, one where I ate (or got takeout) regularly. I'd remembered it as a place with widely spaced tables that I hoped would be easy to fit a wheelchair, and I was relieved to discover that I was right. I was going to have to rethink a lot of small things like this, if Ben stayed on. If? Well, the last registrar hadn't lasted long, and Ben faced special challenges working in our old building. Plus, who knew how well the job would suit him?

Once we were settled and had ordered the day's specials, Ben spoke quickly. “Look, if this doesn't work out, no hard feelings. I know you're taking a chance on me.”

I admired his directness, even as I fumbled for an answer. “Heck, you're taking a chance on us, too. I don't know how much James has told you, but we've had some rather peculiar events happen recently.”

Ben's mouth twisted in a reluctant smile. “So I've heard. But I don't know how much Morrison has told you about me, either. Look, here's the deal: I'm good with computers. I'm less good with people. That was true before this.” He nodded toward his lap. “I have limited background in history, but I'm told I have a good eye and I can string together an accurate description. I'm assuming that describing something as ‘old pink vase' is not going to cut it with you guys, but I can learn.” Ben took a large bite of his sandwich and chewed and swallowed before continuing. “I like some aspects of history. I kind of got into military history when I was in the army—it's interesting to analyze where battles went wrong and, in hindsight, how the commanders could have done things better. The analysis that goes into that is probably transferrable to dealing with your artifacts.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you've got a building full of things. My job, as I understand it, is to define that stuff so that you and researchers can put it together in a meaningful and coherent way. I mean, take that pink vase I mentioned earlier. It's a lot more useful if I can describe it as ‘nineteenth-century Chinese export blue willow,' isn't it?”

“Bingo. And don't be afraid to ask for help—Rich in particular knows his stuff,” I said.

“Look, if I can lay my cards on the table—I don't want to be a pity hire. If I'm doing something wrong, I want to hear it. I won't fall apart or blow up at anyone. Morrison probably told you I have some issues with anger, about what happened, but I don't want people walking on eggshells around me.”

“I would have anger issues, too, in your place. You got a lousy deal.”

“But that's my problem to deal with, not yours. Let me do the job—that's all I want. If I can't hack it, you can get rid of me. But I appreciate the chance.”

The waitress arrived with our sandwiches, which provided a welcome break from our rather heavy conversation. When she had retreated, I said, “Look, is this off the record? Because if whatever government agency is responsible for employer-employee relations hears us, I don't want to have problems.”

“You mean, am I going to turn you in for being legally or politically incorrect? Don't worry.”

“Good. If I ask you personal questions, it's not that I'm prying, but if we're going to work together, I'd appreciate a few details. Look, the Society isn't a big place, so we all kind of know each other. Some people have been working there for years—far longer than I have. I got bumped into the president position through a strange series of events, and I'm still kind of feeling my way. Nobody makes a lot of money. Most people stay because they love history—their reward is getting to handle the real documents of our past. Carefully, of course. It's not just a nine-to-five job for most of them. Do you know what I'm saying?”

“Yeah, I get that.”

“So, tell me something about yourself. Like, where are you living?”

“A few blocks from here. Ground-floor apartment.”

“I thought you said you didn't know the neighborhood.”

“I'm still learning how to get around in this thing.” Ben slapped the arm of his wheelchair. “So I haven't done a lot of exploring.”

“Do you drive?”

“Not yet. I'm told I could get a special vehicle, but I don't go far—I chose this neighborhood because it had everything I needed close by. I figured when I found a job, I could get there easily enough as long as it was in Center City.”

“You live alone?” I wondered if I was pushing too far.

Ben didn't seem to mind. In fact, he grinned for the first time. “You asking if I'm a weirdo creep or if I'm available?”

“The former, I guess. As for the latter, I'm off the market.”

“Yeah, I got that impression from Morrison. You know, this isn't exactly the conversation I expected to have with my new boss on my first day.”

“Maybe not, but you know what? I think you'll fit in just fine.”

We chatted amiably through the rest of lunch, then made our way back toward the Society. I set a slow pace because it was hot, not to accommodate Ben, who actually moved rather quickly. I followed him around to our handicap-access lift at the side of the building and rode up with him, then parted ways in front of my office, as he headed for his new work space.

I turned to find Eric frantically signaling to me. He threw a wary glance toward my office, then came around his desk, grabbed my arm, and dragged me down the hall the way I'd come.

“Eric, what's wrong?” I said quietly. I'd never seen him this upset.

“Mr. Wakeman is in your office,” he whispered.

“Did we have an appointment? Did I miss something?” I asked.

Eric shook his head vehemently. “No. He just showed up and he said he had to talk to you, and I guess nobody knew how to stop him. So I parked him in your office. He's been there about fifteen minutes. I'm sorry.”

“Don't worry about it, Eric,” I reassured him. Stronger men than Eric had been cowed by Mitchell Wakeman, I suspected. “I've spent enough time around him already to know that he can kind of steamroll people to get his own way. I guess I'd better go see what he wants.” I strode back down the hall and entered my office like I belonged there—which I did. He didn't, not right now. “Mr. Wakeman, what can I do for you today?”

Before he had a chance to answer, I noticed that Eric had left a message from James on my desk. No, two messages. And then the phone rang, and two seconds later Eric stuck his head in, looking scared. “It's Agent Morrison—he says it's important.”

Wakeman was glaring at me, but damn it, this was
my
office. “Excuse me,” I said, “but I have to take this.” I picked up the phone and turned my back on my fuming guest. “What's going on?”

James said abruptly, “The dogs found more bodies. Two.”

I had not expected to hear that. “Wow. Uh, who knows about this?”

“Just the cops and the coroner. We've called in the FBI forensic team—there's something odd about these.”

“What do you mean?”

“I'll explain later, when I'll probably know more. Oh, and by the way, it looks like Bowen was killed where the bodies were found.”

I didn't have time to digest that information, not with Wakeman sitting across from me. “I see. You sure no one else has been informed? Because I have a guest in my office . . .”

James sighed in pure exasperation. “Wakeman?”

“Exactly.”

“Does he know?”

“I can't say, but I'll find out.”

“You do that. Call me after.” He hung up.

I turned slowly to Mr. Wakeman, whose expression was a truly strange mix of sheepishness and belligerence.

“Why did you want to see me?” I asked him.

“Same reason that FBI guy just called you—those bodies. We need to talk.”

I sat down slowly behind my desk and gestured toward the chair in front of it. “So talk.”

Much as I yearned to fill the silence with polite chatter,
I clamped down hard on my tongue and waited for Mitchell Wakeman to explain. I had a sneaking suspicion that not many people successfully stared Wakeman down, but he had come to me, not the other way around. In the end he kind of wilted a bit, and said, “They found more bodies on the site this morning. The dogs were out early, before it got too hot.”

I nodded but kept my mouth shut. I'd just heard the same news from James, but I had no idea how Wakeman could know so fast—or why he was coming to me with this information. So far, I didn't see why he was here. I waited.

Finally, he stopped waiting for a reaction from me. He added, “They're old.”

Aha. I was beginning to see a glimmering of light.

He went on, “The thing is, nobody will say how long the bodies have been there. The science guys are gonna take a look at them. But best guess is a couple of hundred years.”

Now he definitely had my attention. Centuries old? Really? That could put them in the Revolutionary War. Wow.

And had Mitchell Wakeman known or suspected they might be there? Was that why he had come to me and the Society?

“How did they happen to find them now, after all this time?” I said carefully.

“The dogs did. Looks like that Bowen guy had been poking around the place where they were buried. That's why the dogs found 'em. They were following Bowen's scent. Right to where they were buried.”

This was one of the oddest conversations I'd ever had. “Excuse me, but why are you telling me this?”

He sighed. “If these bodies are as old as they say, they're
historic
old. I want you on top of this.”

I suppressed a fleeting image of me lying on top of a few corpses—trying to protect them or to cover them up? “What do you mean?”

He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his face, then faced me again. “I told you, I came to you because I didn't want another Duffy's Cut mess. People in Malvern, even the college researchers, got pissed off because the railroad wouldn't let them take the time to excavate those graves properly. You've gotta know, there could be bodies and historic sites all over the place around here, including the land I now own. All I wanted was to be ready to handle it if and when something was found, just like this.”

We studied each other silently for a few moments. Then he resumed: “Finding two old bodies can cut either way. They're a piece of history—and of course my people would treat that part of the site with respect, not just slap a café on top of it. But I think we'd all be better off if we knew who those dead guys were and why they were there, and fast. And make sure we're not going to be stumbling over more. That's where you come in. I could tell you what I think the story is, or you can wait for that FBI agent guy to give you the official story. Either way, I'm betting the history angle just got a lot more important. I want you on it.”

“We've hired Lissa to do the research . . .”

“Fine, keep her and let her do the book work. But I want your face out there when we talk about it for the press and the public. You're the chief here.”

Maybe I was beginning to see his logic. I'd never claimed to be an expert on old bodies, but I
was
the official face of the Society. “Let me get this straight. You think the bodies they've just found on your development site are really old, and if that's true, you're afraid you're going to have issues with the local historical community unless you handle this problem carefully. So you want me to make sure we've done all the research we possibly can, and then explain it all to the public?” And, in addition to that, the evidence suggested that the dead man—the modern one—might have found them first, but that was not my problem, so I didn't bring it up.

He nodded. “Yeah, exactly. And I don't want some little part-timer trying to deal with the press and local groups and all that crap. I want you.”

I was both flattered and horrified. Did he really see me as the spokesperson for Philadelphia regional history? When had
that
happened? Or maybe he saw me as the figurehead for historical crimes around here. Less good, but his position made a strange kind of sense either way. But did I want to get involved? I could still walk away, wash my hands of him and the whole project. “If I may be blunt, Mr. Wakeman, what's in it for me?”

“What do you want?” he shot back, unfazed. I guess I was talking his language.

If we were horse-trading, that is. I wasn't about to sell him my carefully tailored opinion in exchange for, say, a new top-to-bottom security system or a modern HVAC for the stacks. Not that I wasn't tempted, if briefly. “Mr. Wakeman, let me tell you up front that I will not make false statements, nor will I spin whatever the findings are to make your problems go away. If this is in fact a historic site, there are protocols to be followed, and I have little or no control over those.” Not exactly a direct response to his question, but at least I'd defined my position: I wasn't going to lie for him.

“Hell, I'm not asking you to fudge the facts. All I want is to be sure that whatever research is done on whatever they've found is rock solid and above criticism. I'm not knocking the kid you've hired, but her opinion doesn't carry any weight around here. I want you and your whole team here to vet whatever she comes up with. I'll make it worth your while.”

Still vague, but I could live with that. From what I'd heard, Mitchell Wakeman kept his promises. “No matter what we find?”

“I want the truth, and I want it to be open and aboveboard. That's all.”

Maybe he
was
one of the good guys. I'd have to wait and see. “All right. What's your time frame?”

“The news of these bodies is going to hit today's news cycle, and I can't do squat about that. Can you be ready with a statement today, or tomorrow? I want to set up a press conference.”

Was he crazy? Lissa hadn't even started working on the research end of things. “Mr. Wakeman, that is unrealistic. If you'd like me to stand beside you and make a nonspecific statement that we are throwing all our resources at this and will have more detailed information shortly, I can put something together. But right now we have no facts.”

“The FBI will, in a couple of hours—they're handling the autopsy. Tomorrow morning, then. I'll have my people call you.” He stood up and stalked out of my office and down the hall, and Eric raced to catch up to activate the elevator for him. I was left sitting at my desk, stunned. What had just happened, and what had I agreed to?

I had to talk to Lissa, fast. No, wait—I'd promised to fill James in on whatever Wakeman had to say. I hit his speed dial.

“He gone?” James answered without preamble.

“Just left. How did he find out so fast?”

“He's probably got plenty of local people on his payroll. What did he tell you?”

“He knows the bodies are old. He wants the Society to do the historic research on the property ASAP. He wants to make it clear that he's not trying to cover anything up. He wants me to be the face for the cameras, starting tomorrow with a press conference. You have anything new?”

“Not yet. Our people have the bodies—I told you there were two, right? You have anything on the history of the place yet?”

“Good heavens, no! We only started yesterday. At least Lissa knows the area pretty well. I'll ask her what she can pull together quickly so I won't look like a dithering idiot in front of the cameras. You'll let me know if you learn anything else? Like from the autopsies? That could help.”

“Of course. Nell, are you okay with all this? You can still say no to Wakeman.”

I gave that idea about three seconds of thought. Saying no to Wakeman could make a significant enemy for the Society; saying yes but not coming up with anything that helped him could have risks of its own. But if these were historically old bodies, the Society had some sort of responsibility to at least look at them. Besides, I didn't want to bow to Penn or anyone else around here to do this kind of research. Wakeman had come to me first. “I don't think I can or should do that. Don't worry—I can handle it.” I hoped. “See you later?”

“I'll call.” He hung up, all business.

On to my next problem: talking to Lissa. Heck, now that the stakes were higher, maybe she'd bail out on the whole deal, leaving me worse off than I was now. At a minimum I had to put together a short-but-coherent statement for the press, but I didn't know anything, and I'd look stupid mumbling generalities for the news. “Protect our sacred heritage,” “treasure the past,” blah blah blah. Not my style. Maybe I could find something to say about the interesting intersection of history and forensics—assuming the forensics folk found anything worth talking about. I hoped James would let me know in time to use it.

I hauled myself out of my chair and went to the processing room, wondering if Lissa would still be there. Luckily she was, and I gestured her over. “We need to talk,” I said, keeping my voice low so that Rich and Alice wouldn't hear. Not that they wouldn't know everything in short order, but I didn't have time to explain at the moment.

“Okay,” Lissa said, looking mystified as she followed me back to my office.

When we were settled, I said, “Mitchell Wakeman was just here.”

“What? Why?” Lissa asked quickly.

I explained what he had told me, and how he expected the Society to handle things. When I was done, I asked Lissa, “Is that a problem for you? You can still drop out of this if you want—I wouldn't hold it against you.”

“No, I'm fine with it. In fact, it's kind of a cool challenge. I'm glad you'll be doing all the public speaking—I'm lousy at that. I'll just go do my research thing and tell you what I uncover.”

“Thank you, Lissa,” I said, feeling relieved. Things were happening fast, and I needed her
now
—there was nobody else to pass this off to. “Look, I expect to collect more information on the new—or rather, old—find later today or tonight, but that doesn't give us much time to whip it into shape to present publicly—Wakeman said he was going to set up a press conference tomorrow morning. Can you put something together from what you've got so far?”

“That should take about two minutes. I haven't had time to scratch the surface,” she protested.

“I know, I know. But two minutes is probably the amount of face time I'll have on the news, if it comes to that, so we can keep this general until we know more.” My brain was galloping ahead of my mouth at the moment. “Listen, maybe we should plan on going out to Chester County in the morning and paying a call on the historical society there. It would be good to have them on our side, and they should have useful information. You should come, since you'd be the one working with them. Can you do that?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess. Should I find my own way out there? Can you meet me somewhere?”

“You live near Penn, right?” When she nodded I said, “Catch a local train at Thirtieth Street Station. I can pick you up at the Paoli train station and we can drive from there. Okay?”

“Sounds good. Thanks for filling me in, Nell. This whole thing is crazy, isn't it?”

“That it is. Thanks for hanging in, Lissa.”

Lissa's comment about transport made me realize I needed to touch base with James again. I picked up the phone.

“We're good but we're not that good,” he said when he answered. “I don't have anything new since I talked to you fifteen minutes ago. What's up?”

“I talked to Lissa and she's going to do her best, but she doesn't have a whole lot to work with yet. Part of that involves whatever you guys find.
And
I think she and I need to be in Chester County in the morning, but I want to go over whatever your findings are with you before that.”

Smart man: he went straight to the heart of the matter. “I'll take you home tonight.”

“You are brilliant.” Why hadn't I thought of that? Because I didn't want to ask for favors? “We can pick up dinner on the way.”

“Great. I'll call when I can break free to pick you up.”

“See you later.”

James came by to collect me at the Society about six, and
we fought commuter traffic all the way back to Bryn Mawr. At least James could drive and talk and think all at the same time, a very useful skill set.

“Okay, what've you got?” I asked as I buckled my seat belt.

“Wait until I get onto the Schuylkill—I need to pay attention for that. So how was the rest of your day?”

“Ben started work, and we had lunch. I like him. I introduced him around and told him he could ask Rich and Alice if he needed any help with collections jargon. Latoya is reserving judgment, as far as I can tell, but since she hired the last one—and we know how well that turned out—I get a turn now.”

We talked about minor stuff from our respective days until we were on the parking lot known as the rush hour Schuylkill Expressway, where there were few driving decisions to be made, and most of them occurred at about five miles per hour. “Okay, now talk,” I said.

“I'll give you what I've got, which is more questions than answers. This morning about six, local handlers took their search dogs to go over the Garrett property to see if they could find any other locations the victim might have visited. They followed a scent that led to a wooded area on the east side of the property and stopped there. The handlers observed some recently disturbed soil and investigated further, and came upon a pair of skeletonized remains in a shallow grave.”

“Okay, so based on that we now know that Bowen was there recently.”

James smiled briefly at me before returning his gaze to the road. “Exactly. The handlers freaked, the dogs freaked, and they called for reinforcements—i.e., us. We arrived shortly after eight thirty. After a couple of hours, our people determined that it was not a recent crime scene, so they packed up the skeletons and transported them back to the city for further study. As you've heard, the techs said the skeletons looked old, as in centuries. They're usually pretty accurate.”