Carbon Dating

by Jerusha Jones

  Our rendezvous point was the main offices of the Northwest Archaeological Institute, which turned out to be a neat little bungalow built in a highly geometric form of half-timber construction in north Portland. There was a lot more gray stucco than reddish-tinted beams visible on the exterior, but the squat shelter seemed sturdy enough. In a former life, it had been a private residence, but had been converted to the headquarters for the ragtag group of scientists and researchers in the 1960s. The only nod to modernity was in the basement, where they had a climate-controlled archive room with towering rolling racks of shelving and several forensic laboratories with stainless steel sinks and glaring overhead lighting.

  I didn’t see the plastic tubs that had been removed from the gravesite stacked in any of the rooms, and I didn’t ask. My tour guide was Tanith Hammermesh, the agency’s office manager and administerial maven who was delighted to show me around while I waited for Chloe’s arrival and chatter my ear off about just about everything. If she was grieving the loss of Dr. Zales, she sure wasn’t showing it. But that was another subject I didn’t mention, just in case she didn’t know yet.

  And when I referred to the staff as ragtag, it was a frank description of their appearance. But no doubt there were a lot of brains behind the scruffy beards, knit caps, and baggy, pocket-laden clothing of the people who happened to pass us in the creaking, narrow corridors and who ducked shyly into stuffy rooms bristling with the scent of Pine-Sol and the burnt dust odor typically produced by old furnaces being asked to fire up for the first time at the start of a chilly autumn.

  Other than Tanith, I saw no women, and I was struck by how much of an anomaly Chloe must be in this setting. Yet another marker in her favor that she was qualified to assume Dr. Zales’ responsibilities. She must have earned her chops.

  At the end of a short tangential hall, I spotted a familiar slouchy figure leaning against a copy machine, his face knotted in consternation as he perused a printed document that was heavily inscribed with handwritten comments in blue ink—Heath Rooney.

  “Ah.” I nudged Tanith. “I’ll just impose on Heath for a bit, if you don’t mind. Will you ring me when Chloe arrives?”

  “Good luck with that, honey. But make yourself comfy. Coffee’s in the breakroom we just passed.” She flapped a hand in the direction of a dimly-lit cubbyhole that had probably previously been a broom closet and hustled back to her primary domain at the front of the building, the wide bell-bottoms of her not-entirely-retro polyester pants swinging gaily about her ankles.

  I quietly sidled up to Heath. He was so engrossed that he didn’t notice me until I touched his forearm. Then he noticed by practically jumping out of his skin.

  I smiled sweetly at him as he suppressed several startled ejaculations and tugged at the Henley collar of his sweatshirt. He was suddenly sweating profusely, dribbles running down through his sideburns.

  “Geez,” was the first fully civil and clearly enunciated comment he managed to produce. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” Then he leaned in, far closer than I felt comfortable with. But before I had a chance to back up a step, he whispered, “Have you heard?”

  I nodded, leaving the airwaves between us open, hoping he’d fill them in.

  He didn’t disappoint. “No one else here knows yet. I got a call—I have an acquaintance—uh, well, I guess it’s hush-hush until, uh, certain parties have been notified.”

  That was news to me. But maybe not unexpected. I wondered who Dr. Zales’ nearest kin was, other than his ex-wife.

  “I just wonder,” Heath continued to whisper hoarsely, “which one of us is next.”

  My mouth dropped open.

  “Oh, yeah,” he hissed in return. “The work we do here—not everybody likes it. Secrets, call-to-accountability stuff. Not everyone wants their dirty laundry aired.”

  It was a mouthful of clichés, but I had to admit he had me hooked. My eyes had narrowed of their own accord.

  Heath kept nodding knowingly, grabbed my wrist, and tugged me into a tiny room where a desk—I presumed his—overflowed with binders, reports, and paperwork in all thicknesses and stages of dog-earedness.

  “He received lots of threatening letters,” Heath continued. “Also plenty of the more upfront kind from corporate lawyers vaguely insinuating financial or professional damage if his findings weren’t to their liking. We’ve all made enemies, usually the kind with oodles of money. Really makes you wonder which one of them had it in for the old guy. And whoever takes over whichever of his cases that was the cause of the conflict will be squarely in the crosshairs.”

  He dropped into the ancient padded chair and rammed the document he’d been holding into a bottom file drawer which he couldn’t quite close all the way. He straightened and waved toward a metal folding chair that currently hosted three cardboard file boxes.

  I chose to remain standing and leaned against the doorframe instead. “Are you saying Dr. Zales was murdered?”

  Heath scowled at me for forgetting to lower my voice and glanced past me into the hallway. It was empty—I’d already checked. “Nope. Just saying there’ll be plenty of people who aren’t sad he’s gone.”

  I’d already noticed that phenomenon too. I also thought Heath was one of those people. I crossed my arms over my chest. “Why do you do this job, then?” I asked. “If it’s so dangerous and unpleasant.”

  He shrugged. “Thrill of the find, I guess. The chance to do what no one else does. Uniqueness. Prestige.”

  “Dirt. Mud. Worms. Rain down your back and numb, freezing fingers,” I added.

  Heath snorted. “That too. Beats sitting behind a desk.”

  It was a day for hearing repetitions. “And yet—” I flicked my hand at the deluge of paperwork surrounding him.

  “Yeah, well.” He stretched his arms wide, then clasped his hands behind his head and tipped back in the creaking chair. “Welcome to the less glamorous side.”

  “What are you working on now?” I asked, remembering that Chloe had said he wasn’t available to help her with the archive research. I was, however, pleased that he was behaving more civilly today. Maybe it was a turf issue—he was more comfortable in his own little, untidy fiefdom here at the end of the hallway.

  Heath shrugged again. “Stuff.”

  So he wasn’t going to tell me. Couldn’t? Or wouldn’t? I was suddenly intensely curious about what type of nondisclosure agreements the archaeologists might be required to sign before beginning many of their most critical projects. As Heath had stated earlier, who doesn’t want the truth to come out? Lots of people, that’s who. I began to think that a police investigation might be a breath of fresh air for these researchers of ancient secrets.

  My phone buzzed with an incoming text message—Tanith, letting me know that Chloe had just triggered the rolling gate that guarded the parking lot behind the house. The institute had more security features than were readily apparent to the naked eye. Probably out of necessity.

  I nodded good-bye to Heath and retraced my steps to the front entrance.

  oOo

  I was still hungry. Ravenous, actually—breakfast having been notably absent that morning. But, first things first, and that was a press conference.

  I’d spent the past hour in a small conference room brainstorming with Chloe about what she wanted said on behalf of the institute. Tanith had a few insights to offer as well, and together we hammered out a brief statement.

  Chloe’s main concern had been, “Do we have to stand behind you, all solemn and silent while you make the statement? I’ve seen that on TV, the row of people behind the speaker that are just there for something else to look at.”

  I’d reassured her that she and the other staff had no need to be anywhere near the cameras, and she’d slumped back in her chair, visibly relieved. The strain of the past few days was obvious in her bloodless face and taut shoulders. Even her ponytail hung dispiritedly down her back.

  I’d patted her hand. “It’ll be over soon. How about th
ose diaries? Anything good in them?”

  Chloe had zapped to life again. “I’m going to find out.” And she’d eagerly ducked into her tiny office to immerse herself in that much more meaningful task.

  The news of Dr. Zales’ death had spread quickly in spite of Heath’s allusion to the proper sequence for notification. I’d heard whispers in the halls, and there were a few sniffles among the staff, but it almost seemed as though they’d expected the worst. Certainly no one appeared surprised.

  I also gathered that this wasn’t the first time Zales had been hospitalized for mismanaging his disease. It seemed his obstinacy had extended into the medical realm as well—he’d refused to be fitted with an insulin pump that was connected wirelessly to the internet so his doctors could monitor his blood glucose and insulin levels in real time, insisting instead upon maintaining his privacy and autonomy by performing all his own treatment manually. In a way, I sympathized with his sentiments. I knew just how invasive even the most well-intentioned monitoring scenarios could become, considering I’d participated in some of those in my old job for a subcontractor of the National Security Agency.

  I’d also been fending off increasingly urgent requests from a pack of reporters. And I’d reached the limit of profitable stalling. I’d been trying to give Vaughn as much time as possible to contact the volunteers, and I’d successfully missed the window to make the noon-hour news updates, but not by much. So most people, except the junkies who were absolutely glued to their screens or radios, wouldn’t hear of Zales’ death until that evening.

  “Okay, you’re doing it?” Vaughn said into the phone. He sounded distracted. I’d called to give him advanced notice.

  “Yep. At one-thirty.”

  He sighed. “I have three more volunteers to interview. One flew out of town this morning to visit her grandchildren. The other two are together on a winery tour in the Columbia Gorge.”

  “But there’s a bright side,” I replied. “One, they’ll be in a good mood when you find them. Two, they likely won’t be watching television or sitting on social media in the meantime. Grandchildren and winery tours are pretty absorbing.”

  He chuckled, but there was a weary note to his rumble. “Good luck.”

  “Back atcha.”

  I’d picked my spot. Having the front entrance to the institute as a backdrop was ideally picturesque. Also, the renewal of a driving rain was a bonus atmospheric feature. Nothing like relaying bad news in weather that makes everyone wish for a roaring fireplace and hot cocoa—fewer questions that way.

  The canvas awning over the portico was flapping noisily in the gusty wind. I selected a crack in the sidewalk as my mark, providing several feet of clearance between my backside and the glass door of the institute. The edge of Tanith’s desk was just visible through the doorway, but she had no more wish to appear on camera than Chloe did, and she’d announced her intention to spend the duration of the press conference in the archive room, catching up on some long overdue filing.

  The television vans were packing in, cheek-by-jowl, and their drivers were hurriedly slinging cameras wrapped in clear plastic shrouds with just their lenses poking through the damp-proofing onto their shoulders. The reporters weren’t faring quite so well, but in this part of the country they all come equipped with squall jackets that have their stations’ logos embroidered on the left chest so they can hold the microphone close to their hooded heads while presenting live coverage. Oh, the hardships they endure. I wasn’t feeling particularly sympathetic to their plight since I was right there with them.

  Couldn’t complain, though, since the whole setting was conducive to what I was about to say. As the sole point of contact for both Heritage Farms and now Northwest Archaeological Institute, and as a de facto spokesperson for the Fidelity Police Department for this one investigation, I had a lock on the information. I couldn’t keep the reporters from speculating, but I could control their ability—and more importantly, their inability—to confirm any rumors. Doubtless some of the stations would still run with the rumors, lesser levels of journalism being rampant these days, but it was still a major coup on my part.

  Now to handle it properly. Smile a little, not too much. Nod. Greet everyone, especially the cameramen, by name. No notes or papers since they would immediately become sodden messes of pulp anyway. Hands in my pockets for once, a bit of a sad curve to my shoulders, which I could get away with due to my height. I’d been blessed by a fortuitous wardrobe choice that morning—it’s amazing how a potential knock-’em-down-and-drag-’em-out catfight outfit can also double as a grieving colleague outfit.

  And I was on, surrounded by red blinking indicator lights as the cameras rolled. The briefing was short and to the point.

  But, as usual, the questions weren’t. Reporters have a morbid fascination with autopsies, probably because they’ve never actually observed one. No doubt Vaughn wouldn’t have minded trading places with a lucky lottery winner from the reporter pool for just such an honor, but, of course, that was wishful thinking about reversed roles. So I tried my best to minimize the media’s expectations regarding the schedule.

  Autopsies are conducted carefully and thoroughly by a qualified forensic pathologist—i.e. they take a while, and it takes even longer for the results to be released. In other words, don’t get your hopes up for a scoop on all your buddies who are standing right beside you hearing the exact same words you’re hearing this afternoon.

  So then they wanted me to speculate on the outcome of the autopsy. Sometimes you just have to wonder what sort of deaf-as-a-doorpost parallel universe reporters live in. Death isn’t funny, whether of natural or unnatural causes—but asking stupid questions about death can be, if the situation is played right. I managed to get them chuckling and agreeing that they might be pushing the boundaries of human consciousness with some of their requests.

  Reporters are a lot like dogs chasing squirrels, but with the attention spans of gnats. Whichever squirrel is moving at the moment is the one they’re all trundling after. They zigzag around together like a pack, panting, trying to catch up, elbowing each other out of the way. The key is in being the squirrel that doesn’t move, the one that gets ignored. Which meant the gravesite at Heritage Farms was off the table as a topic—however briefly, but I’d take whatever relief I could get. Whew.

  We wrapped in under fifteen minutes. The reporters and cameramen beelined for the shelter of their vans, and I retreated into the institute.

  There was only person’s response that I was worried about, and it was Denise Puttnam’s. She definitely had the ability to upstage me and my measured caution about the cause and consequences of her ex-husband’s death. I wondered if she was Heath’s secret source.

  CHAPTER 14

  I felt like a reporter myself when I called Vaughn again a few minutes after the press conference and relayed everything that had happened. I also indulged myself by passing along Heath’s hints about the possibility that one of Dr. Zales’ clients might not have appreciated what he had or was about to discover and publicize.

  “The idea had crossed my mind,” Vaughn admitted. “Will you put in a good word for me with the office manager, Tanith Hammermesh? I could take the long route and get a search warrant, or she could make it easy for me and hand over information about Zales’ cases.”

  “Don’t worry,” I promised. “She’ll be delighted to assist you.”

  “Do me one more favor,” Vaughn murmured.

  “Anything,” I replied, thinking that I still owed him a kiss after the chair fiasco. Somehow my priorities had taken a tumble along with my pride in the momentary mayhem.

  He chuckled. “Find out if the institute has legal representation on retainer. I’m thinking they’re going to need it, but I’d also rather not have to deal with an attorney whose default setting will be ‘No comment’ until he or she can figure out what’s going on, which might be a while—too long—considering the complexity of the investigations the institute conducts, and the nu
mber of interested parties to those investigations.”

  “I’m on it.”

  Tanith was predictably forthcoming, and I walked away from our short consultation with the contact information for the law firm that handled their legal matters. I left her cheerfully packing a cardboard file box with copies of the reports—both the completed reports and those still in progress—from all the projects Dr. Zales had worked on in the past twelve months. She was also tangibly excited to meet the detective who was going to drop by later in the afternoon and pick up the file box, as demonstrated by the number of questions she fired toward my retreating back.

  I might have happened to mention that he was handsome, and cast her a parting wink.

  “Oooo,” she giggled. But her movements took on an even more hurried efficiency.

  Home. Home. Home. I’d lived in the Tin Can for only a few months, but already it was the most solid, secure, and welcoming home I’d ever had—even if it was floating. And I was desperate to get back to it—to my own bed, my own ratty but comfortable yoga pants and sweatshirt, my own desk, and most especially, my own kitchen. I was in need of solace and rest in the form of some honest-to-goodness baking. The weather, if not the circumstances, demanded it.

  It hardly seemed supportable, the idea of recovering from a hectic few days with a sugar binge—the same instigator of Dr. Zales’ fatal emergency, but there you have it. The poison is in the dose.

  oOo

  You know that feeling when there’s so much riding on the line, but there’s nothing you can do about it? Worrying doesn’t help. Fine-tuning your facts and their presentation doesn’t help. All those interim press releases are for naught. And you end up wandering, if not in body, then at least in mind. That’s what I was doing.