CHAPTER 2

 

 

   “Let me get this straight,” Julie said, swabbing up cream-cheese dip with a carrot stick. “You want me to use up a week’s vacation so I can go listen to a bunch of anthropologists mumble in their beards about the place of Marapithecus in hominid evolution? Like last year in Detroit?”

“That’s Ramapithecus,” Gideon said unwisely. “And those were evolutionary anthropologists. True, they can get a little stuffy. But these are forensic anthropologists. Chardonnay or Chablis?”

“Which one’s open?”

“Chardonnay.”

“That’s what I’ll have.”

He poured glasses for both of them, the cold wine clucking into the bottoms of the hollow-stemmed glasses, then carried Julie’s to her.

“Fancy glasses,” she said. “I almost forgot we had them.” “Fancy dinner,” Gideon told her. “As you’ll soon see.” Julie was in the living room, browsing through the day’s mail, while Gideon worked in the open kitchen, talking to her over the wide counter. Thursday was one of his nights to make dinner, inasmuch as he had only a 10:00 A.M. class, and an easy one at that, while she worked her usual 8:00 to 5:00, winding up with the dreaded weekly staff meeting. Today’s, from what she’d told him, had been even more lunatic than usual, and he was happy to see her start to relax.

“Anyway,” he said, “forensic anthropologists are a much looser crowd, more lively, more irreverent.”

“Oh, I’ll bet. I can just imagine all the great ‘topics of conversation: handling decomposed remains, time-of death estimates…”

“Well, yes, but it’s not all business. A lot of people bring wives and husbands. There’ll be plenty of time for taking in the sights and just being lazy. Look, read the letter, will you? The one from Miranda Glass, with the Museum of Natural History letterhead.”

Julie foraged in the plate of raw vegetables and came up with a broccoli stalk. Then she fished the letter out of the pile of mail. Behind her, the big bay window looked out onto a wet, somber world. It had been a typical early-May day in Port Angeles, Washington: raw, overcast, and drizzly. The sky at 6:00 P.M. looked exactly the way it had at 8:00 A.M., a featureless and dismal slaty gray. According to the KIRO weather report, it was going to look much the same tomorrow.

“‘To Members of the Western Association of Forensic Anthropologists,’” she read aloud. “‘Esteemed Fellow Body-Snatchers. June 16-22, the week of our eagerly anticipated bone bash and weenie roast, is fast approaching. As this year’s host I hereby bid you a genial welcome.’”

She looked up at him from under lifted eyebrows. “Bone bash and weenie roast? Well, you’re certainly right about them not being stuffy.”

He smiled. “Miranda’s a little more irreverent than most. Read on.”

“‘Fittingly enough,’” she continued, “‘this year’s enlightenment and jollification will be held where it all started: the decaying but still scenic Whitebark Lodge near Bend, Oregon. I must tell you that the lodge is not quite what it was ten years ago (who among us is?), but the management promises to do its best. Dinner and continental breakfast will be provided daily, and those of you who wish more variety will find the restaurants of Bend and Sisters just a short drive away. In addition, the general store in nearby Camp Sherman stocks an ample supply of gourmet comestibles (bologna, American cheese, tuna Fish), which you may prepare in the privacy of your cottages. As usual, we’ll set up a kitty to take care of lunch and beverages so that we are not unnecessarily torn away from our scholarly pursuits. Naturally, potables stronger than Diet Coke are the responsibility of the individual. As always, cocktail hour begins at sunrise.’”

Smiling, she glanced up again. “Maybe I ought to go, just to keep an eye on you. Don’t you guys do any work?”

“Sure, we do. Don’t let Miranda’s style throw you off. We may be informal, but WAFA is a dignified, professional organization, and we work damn hard. Listen.” He had come into the living room to get some vegetables and dip for himself, and he took the letter from her, turning to the second page.

“Here. ‘Round-table topics will include the adjustment of aging standards in light of today’s accelerating maturation rates; race-linked differences in sexual dimorphism; blunt-force skull fractures; and new developments in computerized forensic data nets.’”

“Very impressive.”

Gideon accepted this with a magisterial nod. “‘In addition, we’re trying to scare up an FBI agent or high-level working cop to put on a session on crime-scene do’s and don’ts, which, it pains me to say, most of us can sorely use. (Contact me if you know any likely candidates for this. No honorarium, but we’ll cover expenses.) As usual, one of our conference highlights will be…’” He coughed and folded up the sheet. “Well, you get the idea.”

She snatched it away from him. “‘…will be our competition for the wildest, weirdest case of the last ten years. Present the most bizarre, off-the-wall doings you’ve had the good (?) fortune to be associated with in the last decade. Winner will receive a T-shirt with an appropriate and meaningful WAFA slogan, such as “Ten Years of Beer for Breakfast.”’

Julie nodded soberly. “‘Dignified’ hardly does you justice.”

“Didn’t I say it wasn’t all business? Forensic work can get pretty grim. You need some comic relief.”

“Right,” she said, beginning to read aloud again as he went back to the kitchen. “‘Another highlight, she said hopefully, will be the opening, after almost a year of feverish preparation, of the Murder, Mayhem, and Miseries exhibit in the Central Oregon Museum of Natural History. This, as you know, is the country’s first permanent, large-scale forensic anthropology exhibit, and if I do say so myself, it’s going to knock your socks off!

“‘Sunday afternoon is reserved for unwinding, greeting old friends, hoisting a few, and similar intellectual pursuits. In the evening, please plan on being the guests of the museum for an open house and reception. On Monday we roll up our sleeves and get down to business with our first working session. Spouses/lovers/friends/whatever can soak up some rays around the pool, or play tennis, Ping-Pong, or basketball, or go horseback riding or hiking—or, if desperate enough, can always sit in on our sessions.

“‘An extra treat this year will be a chuck-wagon breakfast to break up things at midweek. On Thursday morning we’ll have a three-mile group horseback ride to a rustic picnic spot where the works—bacon, eggs, coffee, and so forth—will be waiting for us, compliments of the lodge.’”

Julie sipped her wine pensively. “I’ll admit, it sounds like fun.”

“Of course it does,” he said, heartened. “And don’t a few days in central Oregon sound good? Blue skies, warm sun, dry air—”

“Not really, thanks.”

Naturally not. Raised in the Pacific Northwest, she thrived on the cool mists and lush, wet green of the Olympic Peninsula. So, amazingly enough, did Gideon, a native Southern Californian. All the same, by the time May arrived—after half a year of dark days and endless, drifting gray rain, with two more months of it yet to come—he was ready to bargain away his soul for a few days of hot, flat, cloudless sunshine. It was hard to remember that anyone could feel otherwise.

Glass of wine in hand, she began reading again, then lifted her head as he turned up the heat under some olive oil. “Mm, it’s starting to smell good. What are we having, anyway?”

“Rock shrimp with garlic-basil sauce and pine nuts over fettucine.”

She was patently impressed. “That sounds wonderful. How long will it be? I’m starving.”

“I don’t know, I’ll see what it says on the can.” “No, seriously.”

He peered at the recipe and did some quick arithmetic. “Oh, should be no more than half an hour. Say seven o’clock at the latest.”

Julie sighed. “Say eight o’clock,” she murmured more or less to herself.

Julie was an amazingly fast cook. Her stints in the kitchen were blurred, efficient flurries of activity, with everything seemingly done at the same time. Gideon had a more leisurely approach, slicing, chopping, and arranging things well ahead of time, so he could putter pleasantly through the cooking with his own glass of wine beside him. The result, they both agreed, was that he enjoyed it more, but what took her forty minutes was likely to take him two hours.

“Say seven-thirty,” he told her. “Have another carrot stick.” He poured her some more wine and went back to cutting basil leaves.

Julie returned to the letter. “‘The Annual Albert Evan Jasper Memorial Weenie Roast, Singalong, and Chugalug Contest will begin at its time-hallowed hour of 7:00 P.M., Friday, and end God only knows when.’”—She looked at him quizzically. “Do you really have a singalong?”

“Absolutely. It’s great fun.”

“And a chugalug contest?”

He laughed, dumping the basil into the blender along with some garlic and Parmesan cheese. “Poetic license.”

“And who’s Albert Evan Jasper? I know the name…”

“One of the pioneering physical anthropologists. A student of Hrdlicka’s. He was one of the first ones to really get into forensic work. The whole idea of WAFA came out of a sort of retirement party for him, put on by some of his own ex-students. They all got together at this Whitebark Lodge for a few days and talked forensic anthropology.”

“Yes, I’ve heard these retirement parties can get pretty wild.”

He smiled. “I guess some good discussion came out of it, and they decided to expand it and make it an every-other-year thing. I’ve been to a couple of them so far, and they’ve been useful. Fun too.”

“I gather Jasper himself is dead now?”

Gideon flicked the blender on and off a couple of times.

“Yes, he died right there in Oregon, as a matter of fact. Never got to enjoy his retirement.”

“He died at his own retirement party?”

“Well, not exactly at, but right after. He was killed in a bus crash on the way to the Portland Airport.”

“And now,” she said reflectively, “he has an annual weenie roast and chugalug contest named after him. I wonder how he’d feel about that.”

“Oh, he was an eccentric old bird. From what I know about him I think he’d have gotten a kick out of it.” He dipped a wooden spoon into the basil-garlic mixture, tasted it, and added a few more shavings of Parmesan. “What do you say, Julie? Will you come? It’d be something different for you.”

“Gideon, I’d like to, but that third week in June is a real stinker for me. I already have four meetings set up.”

“Couldn’t you put them off a week? Move them up a week?”

“Impossible, it’s quarterly review time.”

“What about asking Don to take them for you? You could use some time to relax.”

“Would you want me to do that? Slough off my responsibilities?”

Julie was a supervising park ranger at Olympic National Park headquarters, there in Port Angeles. As Gideon well knew, she took her increasingly pressure-laden job seriously.

“No. Yes.”

“Thanks, that’s helpful.”

“Ah, Julie, it’s just that—well, I hate being away from you if I can help it. Nine days…”

She softened instantly, leaning forward to put her hand on the back of his. Her black eyes shone. “Well, why didn’t you put it like that in the first place, dopey? What was all that stuff about relaxation and sunshine?”

He hunched his shoulders. “I was embarrassed. Mature people aren’t supposed to be so damn dependent on other people.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” She tilted her head, smiled. “So do you want to make the flight reservations, or should I?” Gideon laughed. “I’ll do it.”

He started spooning the basil mixture into the hot olive oil. “You know what I was thinking?” he said over his shoulder.

“What? My God, that smells good.”

“I was thinking of asking John if he’d like to do that session on crime-scene do’s and don’ts. It’d be fun to have him along, don’t you think?”

“John Lau? Our John? You’re kidding.”

“What’s wrong with the idea? He’s a bona fide FBI agent, isn’t he? He’s a first-rate cop, and he knows crime-scene procedure—he’s sure given me hell when I’ve messed things up. I think he’d love the chance to tell an audience of professors to watch where they put their feet.”

“I think he’d hate it. He can’t stand giving lectures. Not that it wouldn’t be nice to have him there.”

“Oh, I bet I can bring him around.”

“What are you, kidding me? You think I’m gonna stand up and give a speech to a bunch of Ph.D. professors with long gray beards? You’re out of your mind.”

Gideon smiled into the telephone. “What is it with beards? I’m a Ph.D. professor. Do I have a beard?”

“I’m not doing it, Doc. Find somebody else.”

“I’m doing you a favor, John. You’re always complaining that forensic types don’t understand police work. This is your big chance. You’ll have a captive audience.”

“No way.”

“You can have four hours if you want it.”

“Thanks a heap.”

“The meeting’s not far from Bend.”

“Bend?”

“Bend, Oregon.”

“What’s in Bend, Oregon?”

“Sunshine.”

Silence. Gideon waited.

“People ski in Bend, Oregon.”

“Only in the winter, John. The climate’s high desert. Yesterday’s temperature was almost seventy, humidity eighteen percent. Sunny. I checked it in the paper.”

What hadn’t worked for Julie, Gideon knew, was likely to do the trick for John, a native Hawaiian whose idea of good weather was a July day in Yuma, Arizona. Even Hawaii had been too cool to suit him, and too wet. The FBI, with bureaucratic caprice, had assigned him to Seattle, with its two months of sunshine (in a good year) and ten months of bone-penetrating drizzle.

“We could probably justify two or three days there for you,” Gideon said. “You’d be welcome to sit in on the other sessions if you wanted…or you could just lie around the swimming pool.”

“Three days?” John said, and Gideon knew it was settled. He could picture John on the other end of the line at his fifth-floor desk in the Federal Building, wistfully looking out on the rainy streets of downtown Seattle and the gloomy, fog-drenched Sound a few blocks away. In a way, Gideon had cheated, or at least stacked the deck; he’d waited a few days before calling, letting a brief spell of relatively tolerable weather pass, until another truly miserable day came along.

“Might be nice,” John said. “Who pays?”

“We do. And if you want, I can have a letter sent on WAFA letterhead requesting your services.”

“That’d be good. Applewhite would probably let me do it on work time.”

“Great, I’ll take care of it right now.” He started to hang up.

“Wait, wait!”

Gideon brought the receiver back to his ear. “What?” “Don’t you sign it, Doc.”

“Why not?”

“Because you make Applewhite nervous,” John said with his usual candor. “Nothing personal. He just says every time we use you, things get weird.”

“I report what I find,” Gideon said. “I’m sorry if it makes things difficult for you.”

“Hey, don’t get mad at me. Applewhite just likes nice simple cases, no complications.”

“Well, this isn’t a case; this is just a bunch of graybeards getting together to talk about bones, remember?” “Yeah. But all the same, do me a favor, okay?” Gideon sighed, then laughed. “All right, I’ll have Miranda Glass sign it, how’s that?”

“Fine. Just keep your name out of it altogether, okay? No offense, Doc.”

When it came time to book their airline tickets, they changed their minds and decided to drive. Eight or so hours in a car would be a sort of floating, between-two-places decompression period for Julie, whose job wasn’t being made any easier by the usual freezes, cutbacks, and other hysterics that traditionally went along with the federal government’s fourth fiscal quarter. They took their time, not that there was any choice in this part of the world. Port Angeles was situated at the very top of Highway 101, where it narrowed to two lanes and looped around the Olympic Peninsula, and you could go either east or west and still wind up in Los Angeles three days later, presuming of course that that was what you wanted to do.

They drove east and then south, skirting the Olympics, down along the Hood Canal, dawdling through sleepy towns built around oyster beds, down past Duckabush and Liliwaup and Dosewallips, none of which looked as if they gave much of a damn about fourth-quarter reallocation problems. They stopped for lunch at Tumwater and did their duty as tourists, touring the brewery and enjoying it.

Then it was out of the mistiness and ferns of the peninsula and onto Highway 5, a genuine freeway, where the country opened up and flattened out. South of Chehalis, Mount St. Helens reared into view, colossal and unmistakable, its scooped-out summit obligingly trailing a monumental, picture-postcard plume of white steam.

They spent the night at a motel in Portland, relishing the quiet sense of adventure that went along with being in a place where no one in the world knew they were. In the morning they stopped in Salem for a late, unhurried breakfast and took the Santiam Pass road up into the Cascades, over the weird, black volcanic crest of the pass itself, and halfway down the wooded eastern slope, covering in three easy hours what had taken the wagon trains ten grueling, dangerous days not so very many years before.

At two o’clock they pulled into the shaded parking area in front of Whitebark Lodge’s main building. Miranda’s letter had led them to expect a decrepit hulk of a place, and it was true that there were signs of neglect everywhere: forest-brown cottages unpainted for years or possibly decades; ample, once-lush lawns that now looked like goat-cropped meadows, hummocky and dandelion-infested; lavishly planted flower-borders half hidden by weeds; rust-colored algae thriving on the surface of the shallow pond that had been formed by diverting an arm of the creek that ran through the property. But the overall effect was of rustic comfort and rugged Western homeliness, of a relaxed and cordial matron (or better yet a madam), perhaps a little down on her luck right now, but with plenty still going for her.

Their three-room cottage had dust balls in the corners and a curling, soiled flyswatter lying on a windowsill, but there was also a fresh country quilt on the pine bedstead, a reasonably clean kitchen that dated back no further than the fifties, and a massive river-rock fireplace in one corner of the living room. There was thickly shellacked, gleaming, knotty-pine paneling on the wails, the doors, the floors, the cabinets, even the ceilings. Underneath the surface dust, which was easily gotten rid of with a broom from the closet, everything seemed clean, and all in all they thought it was just fine.

As far as Gideon was concerned, the sunshine slanting through the windows as if it were the most natural thing in the world didn’t hurt either.