CHAPTER 28

The American Museum of Natural History,

Central Park West,

between Seventy-eighth and Eighty-first streets

“You entertain dark suspicions, gentlemen. My own poor skills may not be up to the task of confirming them.” Professor Saul Loman pushed his glasses back up from where they had fallen to the tip of his nose.

“We’ll take that chance,” Alistair said, clearing his throat as he made a weak attempt at humor. “We also appreciate that no other bone expert in this city would meet us on such short notice to analyze these remains and tell us something about their own er’s age, gender, and life history.”

Saul chuckled. “You have high hopes, my friend.”

The electric light inside flickered in response to a loud thunderclap— for a full-fledged thunderstorm was now raging outside. It was past midnight in the bowels of New York’s Museum of Natural History. Alistair had managed to locate a telephone at the hotel in Greenport before we boarded our train home: he had made two telephone calls. His frantic call to Saul Loman had convinced the paleontologist to open his lab to us after-hours, when he should by all rights have been home in bed. And his call to Frank Riley had prompted the reporter to search old news files for any missing-persons cases on Shelter Island during the past decade. I had made one call myself, to an old friend in the Fifth Precinct; he had promised to run a search through police records as well as the city directory for any mention of Robert Coby.

Alistair had explained to me earlier that Saul Loman was one of the museum’s elite researchers, handpicked by Henry Fairfield Osborn to help restore several impressive dinosaur-fossil discoveries. But I cared more for what Professor Loman might tell us about the bones we had found on Shelter Island. With each passing hour, Thursday night’s premiere of Romeo and Juliet drew nearer. And I needed proof to secure Mulvaney’s help.

“I realize we’d be better off with a human anthropologist,” Alistair said by way of apology. “Or even someone from the coroner’s office.”

“So why did you call me?” The professor’s voice was gruff, belying the gleam of interest that flickered in his eyes. “There are other men with far more expertise. Aleš Hrdlička at the Smithsonian specializes in human remains analysis. And George Dorsey at the Field Museum in Chicago has experience with sensational murder cases, including that one involving the sausage maker a few years ago. Either man,” he said, “would provide far better help than I can offer.”

My words sounded desperate, even to my own ears. “We needed someone’s help immediately. Even tomorrow morning may be too late for us.”

He remained dubious, so I added, “We’re actually working at the moment in an unofficial capacity.”

“Ah.” An even brighter glint appeared in his eyes. And I saw that he was more than a man of discretion: he actually enjoyed the prospect of participating in a secret, unofficial investigation. It excited him in ways that a more traditional inquiry did not. I should have known that a man who would meet us in the dead of night— unlocking the door to the museum where he worked— was a maverick of sorts. Just like Alistair, I reflected. Saul Loman would risk a great deal for any cause he supported; fortunately, based on what ever Alistair had told him, he appeared ready to support ours.

“All right then.” He moved closer to the skeletal hand, which was laid out on a white sheet. Touching it gently with a small instrument that resembled a toothpick, he began his analysis.

“Well, I can tell you straight off, these bones are indeed human. You can see how they match up here.” He showed us an anatomical chart—a virtual diagram of the human skeletal hand. “The finger bones here are called phalanges. Note how well each correlates to the diagram. For example, look at the thumb.” He touched the relevant bone fragment with his instrument. “We can see the tip, or distal phalanx, the proximal phalanx, and the metacarpal. The bones in the palm, here,” he continued to point, “are the carpals.”

He opened an overstuffed manual titled Human Anatomy that he had pulled from his bookshelf soon after we arrived. “The bones you have, unfortunately, are not the most dispositive in yielding information about this skeleton’s life history. The pelvis bone, for example, might have allowed me to tell you conclusively that these are the bones of a woman. That’s because, to accommodate childbirth, the female pelvis is typically wider than that of the average male. The skull might have allowed me to estimate her age based upon the presence and condition of her teeth.”

“We understand there will be limits to what you can tell us.” Alistair moved closer to the table, listening to the professor with rapt attention.

“And what I tell you will not necessarily be accepted by all scientists— or even the majority of them. It may prove nothing.” Quickly flipping to a section on measurements, Loman continued to talk. “Long bones provide more accurate information, but based on the mea sure ments of the finger bones here, I believe this hand is from a female skeleton. You’ll see the fingers are actually within the averages compiled by researchers for typical female phalanges.”

“And of course, that would make sense given the circumstances in which we found them: wearing a ring,” Alistair said.

“Can you tell us how quickly her corpse would have decomposed into these skeletal remains?” I asked.

Professor Loman shrugged. “It depends, based upon where her body was found. For example, if animals or insects had access to it, then she might have skeletonized in as little as one to two months.”

“And what’s the outside estimate, assuming her corpse decomposed more slowly?”

He took a breath, considered it, and said, “A conservative estimate would be around six months. More than that, her bones will not tell me. She may have lain in a forest for three months— or for three years. The fact that her hand is now a skeleton only really tells us she did not die in recent weeks.” He pulled out his magnifying glass to examine the thumb. “I can see that she once broke her thumb. The small bump here,” he used his toothpick to touch the area, “shows a well-healed fracture.”

“How long before her death?” Alistair asked.

He shrugged. “Impossible to tell, but I suspect it was a childhood injury. It’s something else that may help you with identification. Assuming, of course, that the owner of the ring and the remains are one and the same.”

I thought again of the gold ring, its sapphire gem anchored on either side by two tiny diamonds. It was the kind of ring typically worn by a young lady. Of course, it was possible that Robert Coby had simply found the ring. Or that it was a family ring, taken from his mother’s possessions. Yet I believed it had significance, if only because I had some idea of the man with whom we were dealing. For Robert Coby did not make insignificant choices.