Skorpio (5 page)

CHAPTER NINE

"Department Party"

The CU Anthropology Department had benefitted munificently in the past year. In addition to Jepson Hayes choosing them as the custodians of the Azuma Collection, an alumnus named Daniel Potts had bequeathed them two million dollars. The End of Semester party was a tradition among most departments at CU and each celebrated in its own way.

The Athletic Department held theirs in a beer hall with brats and deep-fried cheese. The English Dept. celebrated at an Italian restaurant. Anthropology always held theirs in the tony University Club, hub of the University Golf Course. Joel Liggett was a longtime member and avid golfer.

The Beadles turned their car over to the chauffeur under the Frank Lloyd Wright-designed porte cochere and entered the club through double oak doors. The tinkle of ice and of laughter drifted out of the Lake Tipton room, down the hall on the left. Inside, three dozen people had gathered in clusters, some at the square tables or in the booths overlooking the lake, some at the curving bar. White liveried waiters circulating among them distributing canapes.

There was a minute rustling as the Beadles entered, like sunflowers turning to the sun. They looked so glamorous, more like celebrities than faculty. Beadles sensed admiration, fear, envy and loathing. The rotten fruit of academic infighting. Donations from the Alumni Foundation were down across the board due to the economy and disagreement with school policies. The Creighton Catamounts' football team had pieced together three losing seasons. The B-ball team was mediocre. New speech guidelines enraged some alumni who held to the quaint proposition that universities should be laboratories of free speech and open inquiry.

Anthropology was the exception due to the Azuma Collection and the Potts Endowment. Beadles and Betty gladhanded their way through the crowd accepting backslaps, hugs and accolades.

An already boozy Wilmar Childs, specialist in Early Mesopotamian Society, weaved through the crowd with a silly grin. Wilmar looked like a parking meter, skinny as a rail with a big bald dome.

"Beadles, old boy! Congratulations on landing the Azuma Collection! I don't suppose there's any chance getting a peek this week?"

Beadles shook Childs' clammy hand. "You know the rules, Wilmar. No one is supposed to go in there except the curators until we know what we've got. However I intend to spend the next month going through the collection. I'd like to open it up as quickly as possible."

"Do you think," Childs said weaving slightly, "that your status as an American Indian had anything to do with Mr. Hayes' decision?"

A warning bell went off in Beadles' skull. Childs was one of Liggett's cronies. Beadles had marked that he was part Native American on his application.

"I doubt it, Wilmar. Mr. Hayes made it clear he was honoring Creighton because his granddaughter, Meredith Hayes, played varsity basketball here."

"Well good for you. I've always thought the department was too damned white!"

Beadles knew Childs wasn't kidding. Childs carried White Guilt around like a shroud. He'd urged the department to add a Professor of Hip-Hop.

Betty to the rescue. "Hello, Wilmar!" She kissed him on the cheek and took his arm. Childs was undone. He would have swooned if Betty hadn't held him up.

"Vaughan, I hate to break this up but there's someone I want you to meet."

Beadles excused himself and let Betty lead him to the bar.

"Cavalry to the rescue," he murmured.

"Oh Wilmar's harmless." She led Beadles to a tall old man with a silvery widow's peak in a somber banker's three piece.

"Vaughan, this is Daniel Potts, class of '64."

Beadles and Potts shook hands. "That was a very generous endowment, Mr. Potts."

"Call me Dan. They tell me you're in charge of this new Anasazi collection."

"The Azuman Collection, yes."

"And you think it may be evidence of a previously unknown tribe?"

Beadles nodded, wondering how Potts had known. His theory was of little interest outside rarefied academic circles.

"My son Ronnie thought the same thing. He lost his life trying to prove it."

"I'm so sorry," Beadles said. "What happened?"

The old man was clear-eyed and sober. "He would have been fifty had he survived. Ronnie and his best friend Curt went out into the Arizona desert in 1985 searching for proof the Azuma existed. They were never heard from again. We searched for days by land and air. To this day, we haven't a clue as to what happened. I have offered a fifty thousand dollar reward to anyone who can tell me what happened to those two boys."

"Does this have anything to do with the endowment?" Beadles said.

"In a way. But of course this is my alma mater and I've always been proud to be a Catamount. I was track and wrestling. I've been blessed to have a successful career, a son and daughter who survive and eight healthy grandchildren. I'm afraid one of them is going to turn me into a great-grandfather shortly."

"Congratulations."

The old man shrugged. "I'd be happier if she were married but at my age I'll take what I can get. I read your paper in the summer, '11 Journal of
Anthropology
. I always believed Ronnie was right. I would welcome proof of the Azuma."

Beadles had been planning a fall expedition if he could get the funding. "Funny you should mention that, Dan."

Twenty minutes later a spoon tapping crystal drew everybody's attention. Liggett stood at the entrance to the dining room chiming away. He was a round little man, bald on top with a fringe of hair, a bulbous nose and close-set eyes.

"Folks if we can start moving into the dining room?"

Liggett stood at the entrance greeting everyone as they passed through. He shook Beadles' hand warmly.

"Here's our star professor! Can't wait to see what you come up with, Vaughan. Betty, beautiful as always."

"Thank you, Joel," Betty replied.

`They filed in and took a seat at a round table in the back with a couple of department newcomers, Adjunct Professor Clayton Gray and his wife Doris. Gray was a pale and nervous young man with round glasses. Doris was a thick young woman in an oversized shirt.

Gray turned to Beadles with a worried expression. "Did you hear? They're thinking of reducing our hours to comply with the new health care law. We will no longer be eligible for university health insurance."

"I've heard," Beadles said. "It's bad news for everyone. They've put a freeze on hiring."

"We hear they're going to start laying off faculty," Gray said.

Doris put her hand on his arm. "Clayton, can we talk about something else?"

A waiter appeared and plopped down salads. A young teaching assistant and his boyfriend joined them, both with long hair and bangs. All expressed delight at the Azuma acquisition and confidence that Beadles would produce a world-class collection.

Shortly after dessert Liggett struck his crystal wine glass with his silver spoon. It was time for the department speech.

***

CHAPTER TEN

"Speech"

"Anthropology!" Liggett boomed in a surprisingly deep voice. "The science of humans and their works!"

Betty elbowed Beadles in the ribs.

"I have always considered it the noblest of professions save for perhaps medicine. I am thrilled and honored to welcome you to our annual dinner. As I gaze out among you I see so many of you who have become more than colleagues, you are my friends and together we share not only a passion for learning, but a burning passion for justice and a better tomorrow, for it is only through understanding the past that we can endure the present and confront the future."

Teaching assistant Ben whispered in his friend's ear and they giggled. Beadles knew just how they felt.

"It has been an astonishing year by any measurement," Liggett continued. "From the discovery of a Mayan pyramid in Georgia to new evidence that South Sea islanders may have settled South America, the revelations have been unrelenting. As you all know, Mr. Jepson Hayes of Cross Creek, Arizona has chosen Creighton to be the recipient of the Azuma Collection, a treasure trove of what many believe to be a heretofore unknown tribe. This was due in no small part to the ongoing research of our distinguished Professor of Anthropology, Vaughan Beadles! Stand up, Vaughan."

Smiling good-naturedly Beadles stood to enthusiastic applause. None clapped harder than Liggett although Betty was close. Vaughan did a formal little bow in three directions and sat.

"As many of you know, Vaughan's 2011 paper, "Lost Tribe of the Southwest," appeared in the February issue of
Modern Anthropology
and inspired a Discovery Channel Special."

They'd filmed it in the desert. It had been 110 degrees.

"It is this type of research that brings credit to our college and fills the seats with students. Anthropology has been doubly blessed this year. As some of you already know, Mr. Daniel Potts, Class of '57, has generously endowed our department to the tune of two million dollars! Stand up, Dan."

Liggett already had him scoped. Beadles followed Liggett's gaze and saw the tall man shaking his head no and waving off the suggestion but his tablemates thought otherwise. Reluctantly he stood, essayed a chilly smile and sat.

There was more boilerplate and a couple of deans spoke. It was nine by the time the Beadles finally pulled themselves free and drove home. Lights glowed softly from the little house on Maple St. They parked the Ford in the drive and entered through the front door so as not to wake Lars. They could see Stephanie Byrd watching
Game of Thrones
on the flat screen TV through the big front window.

She got up to greet them as they opened the door.

"Hello. How was your evening?"

"Very nice, Stephanie. Thank you. How's Lars?"

"He's a little sweetheart. We played with some of his toys for awhile, I gave him the warm milk and he fell right asleep."

Betty checked the kitchen. Everything ship-shape. Beadles pulled out his wallet and paid Stephanie forty bucks. "Thank you very much."

"Thank you, Professor. And if you need me again please call."

Betty went to check on Lars. Beadles waited until Stephanie had taken her bike down to the street and left before turning off the outside lights and locking the door. He went into the bedroom and took off his sports jacket. The disconnect between Liggett's effusive praise and their personal chemistry bothered him. The department head didn't like him. There had been nothing overt. A few disparaging comments about their own "GQ celebrity," an instant of undisguised lust directed at Betty.

Mrs. Liggett was bigger than her husband and had a sour expression. Beadles had no doubt their home life was less than ideal.

Betty swept into the room. "Lars is down for the count! Give me a minute to slip into something more interesting…"

Bam. Just like that he had a stiffy. Beadles peeled off his shirt and trou. Betty came out of the bathroom wearing a filmy black baby doll. As they made love he couldn't help thinking does it get any better?

"Did you see Doris Liggett?" Betty said lying in his arms after. "She looked like she was training for a pie-eating contest."

"Now Betty. Be nice."

"The Haverhills are going to have us over for dinner."

"Who's that again?"

Betty stretched languidly. "Ollie Haverhill runs Madwire Media. I ran into him at the bar. His wife Lois heads the Illinois Women of Influence. They've asked me to join them."

"That's great, Bet!"

"So all of a sudden you're an Indian?"

Beadles felt a ripple of shame. "I thought you knew that."

"Let me guess. Cherokee."

"Yes, that's right. I knew I told you."

"No you didn't tell me. I guessed Cherokee because every white American who claims Indian blood says Cherokee. Don't ask me why. Maybe it's that long march. Maybe they impregnated every farmer's daughter along the way."

"My mother told me I had Indian blood," Beadles said in a slightly defensive tone. "It's part of our family history. I think my great, great grandmother on my mother's side was a full-blooded Cherokee."

"Show me the papers."

"I don't got to show you no stinkin' papers!" Beadles said.

Heavy pounding on the door.

Beadles and Betty looked at each other in astonishment. Who could it be at that hour of the night?

The pounding resumed. A muffled shout.

Betty looked at Beadles with bafflement. "Did he just say it was the police?"

Beadles pulled his trousers on and threw on a Catamount T-shirt. He padded through the darkened house. The living room danced gaily with red and blue strobes through the front window. Beadles looked out the front door. Two police cars had pulled up, one in front and one in the drive. Three police officers stood on the porch waiting to be let in.

***

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"Nightmare On Maple Street"

The cops were big. They were city cops, unknown to Beadles. Beadles opened the front door. The lead cop handed Beadles a folded warrant.

"Mr. Beadles, I'm Officer Whitaker of the Creighton Police Department. We have a warrant to search your home for artifacts believed to be taken from a collection owned by the university."

Beadle's face looked like counter-rotating gears. "Are you serious?"

"We're very serious, Mr. Beadles. If you'll please step aside."

Beadles looked at their uncompromising faces and stepped back. They all looked like linebackers. Betty appeared in the hallway wearing a terrycloth robe.

"What is it?"

Lars started to cry.

"These gentlemen have a warrant. They think I've stolen artifacts from the university."

"That's ridiculous!" Betty snapped, whirling and heading toward their son. One cop moved as if to stop her but Whitaker put a hand on his arm. A lady cop appeared. Her tag said Gonzalez.

"Officer," Whitaker said, "follow Mrs. Beadles and keep her company."

Like she was going to take the baby and run. Beadles watched in horror as the fat-hipped lady cop walked down the corridor, her black service shoes echoing on the hardwood floor. Soon Betty reappeared holding a fussy Lars accompanied by Officer Gonzalez.

"Do I have the right to know who's accused me of theft?" Beadles said with a self-righteous stain.

"The document was generated by a credible but confidential source," Whitaker said. "We're only following the judge's orders."

A cop went to the basement stairs and turned on the light. Drawing a flashlight he descended followed by a fourth cop who had come in the door. Beadles felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. It wasn't possible. How could they know? The moisture fled from his mouth as he listened to the cops opening drawers and moving boxes.

"This is ridiculous," Betty hissed. Lars kept up a low level sob. "Do you mind if I put my child back to bed?"

Whitaker nodded at Gonzalez. "Please accompany Mrs. Beadles."

They disappeared down the hall leaving only Beadles and Whitaker.

"This is somebody's idea of a malicious prank," Beadles said.

"Sir," the cop said, "do you have any firearms in the house?"

Beadles goggled. "What? What is this, a fishing exhibition? No, I don't have any firearms in the house!"

There was a grunt from below. Minutes later the two cops emerged, the one in front toting a cardboard box. He set the box on the floor between Beadles and Whitaker and shined his flashlight in it. The interior contained an Anasazi pot, six inches tall by seven wide, decorated with the characteristic squiggle of the Azuma. Beadles had never seen it before. It easily could have come from the collection. He hadn't even started to catalog and had only looked at a small portion.

"I've never seen that before!" he protested.

Whitaker drew his cuffs. "Sir, you're under arrest for theft. Please turn around."

In a stupor Beadles turned his back. He felt the cold steel of the cuffs clamp around his wrists. Like some stupid nightmare.

"Sir I am advising you of your Miranda Rights. Anything you say can and will be used against you. You are entitled to have a lawyer present during questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, the court will provide one. Do you understand these rights?"

"Yes. Yes, goddamn it! Betty! Call Mel Berenson! Tell him what's happening!"

Betty ran down the hall sans Lars, terrycloth robe flapping. She looked at her handcuffed husband. "Oh no. Oh no. There's got to be some mistake."

"Betty! Did you hear what I said? Call Mel! Get him out of bed! Have him meet me down at the fucking jail! Where are you taking me?"

"Steubenville Justice Center on 10th St. I doubt a judge will be available to grant your bail at this hour. The earliest that could happen would be nine Monday morning."

Betty watched in shock and disbelief as the cops took Beadles, one at each elbow, led him down the stairs and put him in the back of one of the cruisers.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" Betty said.

"Ma'am," Officer Gonzalez said coming up behind her. "There's no call for that kind of language."

***