The Last Monument

by Michael C. Grumley

“But agreeing on that is something easier said than done. After all, not even some of history’s greatest scientific minds could accept that premise. Even Charles Darwin, the father of evolution, a naturalist and biologist and arguably one of the most open minds of his century, could not accept the idea that all humans were equally capable.”

  One student raised his hand. “Well, but isn’t he right to an extent? I mean, indigenous people all over the world are still living in huts. Or riding animals instead of driving.” He smiled humorously and held up his phone. “And they don’t use these.”

  Behind him, the class laughed.

  Their female professor revealed an attractive smile and stared at him but said nothing. Instead, she allowed the laughter to fade and moved back to the lectern, where her computer was resting. She typed briefly on the keyboard and a picture suddenly appeared on the giant screen above her. A young, native African woman, with her dark head wrapped in a bright headdress, was sitting on a log, her feet bare. In her hand was a small phone with tiny wires running up to each of her ears.

  The classroom fell silent and the professor shrugged. “She seems to be doing all right with one.”

  The student grinned back.

  “There’s a difference between inventing a tool and using a tool. We can all learn. Can’t we?” She stepped forward with a piece of chalk still in her hand. “Are there people who are smarter than others? Of course. But on average, when adjusted for certain cultural biases, there is no indication that one society is significantly smarter than the others. In other words, we all have similar cognitive abilities, even if we don’t all have the same means to apply them.”

  The professor’s steady green eyes traveled across the faces of her students before stopping on two faces she did not recognize. They sat in the top row near the door. One was older than the other, and clearly neither was part of her class, but they remained listening intently.

  She continued. “So, if we can accept that as a species we are equally capable, then anthropology, at its core, is the attempt to understand how we grew to be so different.” She glanced at her watch. “Which is what we will be discussing next week.” She returned her chalk to the blackboard. “You have your assignments. Ember, Ember and Peregrine. Read and be ready to discuss.”

  There was a rumble through the large room as dozens of laptop screens were closed at once and chairs slid back. Students began talking and standing up, dropping their belongings into backpacks.

  At the front, the professor walked back to her own computer and killed the display overhead. She closed several programs before carrying her laptop to the table and setting it back down, noting the two she’d spotted above making their way down the carpeted steps past the students.

  When they reached the bottom, they climbed three steps onto the raised floor. “Dr. Reed?”

  The professor, in her early thirties with shoulder-length, dirty-blonde hair, smiled. “The good news is you’ve only missed two classes.”

  Gutierrez’s face became serious. “Uh, we’re not students.”

  “Really?”

  She relaxed and smiled when she sensed the professor’s humor.

  “What can I do for you two?”

  “Doctor, my name is Dana Gutierrez, and this is Joe Rickards. We’re from the National Transportation Safety Board.”

  The woman paused and looked up. “That’s a first. Don’t think I’ve had one of you in here before.” She opened her leather bag and slid in her computer. “Call me Angela. You two looking for help with an investigation?”

  “You could say that,” said Rickards.

  She glanced at him, noting his lightly colored flannel shirt and tie. A little casual compared to the government employees she’d seen.

  “What kind of help are you looking for?”

  “Doctor,” Gutierrez said and corrected herself. “Sorry, Angela. I presume we’re the first to come talk to you today.”

  “Yes,” she replied. “Why?”

  The younger agent took a deep breath. “It’s… about your grandfather.”

  Angela Reed froze. “What?”

  Dana Gutierrez gave a slight wince. “I think you’d better sit down.”

  8

  Angela Reed’s face lost all color. She stared at both agents, her expression suddenly nervous.

  “Did something happen?”

  Gutierrez nodded solemnly. “I’m afraid so.”

  “Is…is he…”

  Gutierrez shook her head.

  Angela brought both hands to her mouth. “Oh no.”

  “I’m sorry,” she offered, with Rickards standing quietly behind her.

  Tears immediately welled. The woman closed her eyes in a vain attempt to hold them back but couldn’t. Instead, streams streaked down each cheek. “Oh my God. I can’t—” Her mouth trembled and she stopped.

  “I’m truly sorry,” Gutierrez said again, glancing at the older agent. “We’re both very sorry.” Rickards nodded in agreement.

  “It’s not that,” Angela said, half stuttering. “I just…I haven’t…” She closed her eyes and squinted hard, forcing more tears to stream down her face. “Damn it.”

  For a full minute, she stared straight ahead, blinking, until finally composing herself and peering back up. “I…haven’t…seen him in a while. We…” She inhaled. “I just haven’t been to the home lately and—” After stopping in mid-sentence, she struggled, then looked at both of them with an odd expression.

  “Where did you say you were from?”

  “The NTSB.”

  Angela’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you notifying me?”

  It was a good question. Astute. Even overcome by grief. This kind of notification normally came in the form of a call from the nursing home. Or a visit from a police officer. Not agents from the National Transportation Safety Board.

  She wiped her eyes with both hands and blinked. “What happened?”

  “We’re afraid your grandfather was in an accident.”

  “An accident?”

  “An airplane accident.”

  Angela’s expression turned to shock. “What?!”

  Gutierrez nodded. “A small private aircraft.”

  “That’s impossible.” A quick glimpse of hope returned to her face. “You must have the wrong person.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because my grandfather hated to fly. And there’s no way he would get into a small plane!”

  Dana Gutierrez glanced at Rickards, who was listening quietly.

  “I’m afraid it is him. I’m truly sorry.”

  “No.” Angela Reed shook her head defiantly. “In a small plane crash? Not possible.”

  Rickards quietly handed the plastic bag of papers to Gutierrez, who then passed them to Angela. “We found some of his things.”

  She opened the documents and read, then shook her head again. “These are just travel documents. There could be other reasons why—”

  Next came the passport.

  Angela Reed halted again, examining the small book.

  “There was more,” Rickards said. “Including several bottles of medication, which we traced back to his doctors. Then his dentist. And from there, a copy of his dental records. The coroner just confirmed his identity.”

  The pain returned to Angela’s face, along with another wave of tears. She continued shaking her head, not wanting to believe it. “But…what on earth was he doing in an airplane?”

  “Actually, we were hoping you could tell us.”

  It was a rhetorical statement. There was clearly no way the woman knew why her grandfather was aboard that Cessna.

  “Do you know a Jim Huston?”

  “Yes.” She nodded. “Wait. Don’t tell me he was the pilot!”

  “As a matter of fact…”

  “This is impossible. I don’t think he’s flown in years.”

  “Yes, we know.”

  “Why would they both…?” She blinked incredulously. “It doesn’t make any sense.�
��

  Gutierrez nodded sympathetically. “If it helps, that’s more or less what we were thinking.”

  She stared at both agents. “What…exactly happened?”

  “It was a small crash,” Rickards said. “Just outside of Denver. Late last night.”

  “Last night?”

  “Yes.”

  Angela Reed rolled her eyes. “At night, with Uncle Jim, in a small plane. That’s just impossible. He wouldn’t have done any of those. Let alone all three.”

  “You’re sure about that.”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” she said. “I think I know my own grandfather. The man raised me!”

  “Is there anyone else in the family we should notify?”

  “No. It was just me. And my grandmother, but she died several years ago.”

  “Were you close to your grandfather, Ms. Reed?”

  Angela’s gaze looked painfully at Gutierrez. “I used to be. But we haven’t talked much lately.”

  “Why is that?”

  “We had a falling out.”

  “Over…”

  She shook her head. “It’s a long story.”

  “When was the last time you talked to him?” asked Rickards.

  “A little less than two years, probably.”

  “Any idea at all why he would try to fly somewhere in the middle of the night in bad weather?”

  She scoffed. “I’m telling you he wouldn’t have climbed into a small plane in the middle of the afternoon in perfect weather. He was scared to death of those things.”

  Rickards frowned. Things were making less and less sense. “Dr. Reed, do you know anything about a letter your grandfather received recently?”

  “What kind of letter?”

  “The assistant director at the home, a Ms. Cannon, said your grandfather received a letter a couple weeks ago--one that appears to have excited him.”

  “What does excited mean?”

  “We don’t know. But Ms. Cannon said there was a noticeable change in his mood.”

  Angela shook her head. “What did the letter say?”

  “We don’t know. Apparently, no one does. He didn’t share its contents with anyone.”

  Angela folded her arms. “No one at all?”

  “We couldn’t find anyone who knew anything.”

  Reed’s face seemed to harden slightly. She remained quiet, her lips pursed, until she finally looked around the empty classroom. “Did he…suffer?”

  “No.”

  “But they knew they were going to crash. At some point.”

  Gutierrez shrugged. “It’s hard to tell. Often in bad weather, things happen very quickly.”

  Angela nodded.

  The younger agent frowned and turned to find Rickards quiet again. Motionless and stoic, as if studying Reed.

  9

  Rickards’ stoic expression was very similar to that of his boss, Kevin Wilkinsen, now peering at the phone on his desk in a muted stare. But there was no disdain in his eyes. None at all. Wilkinsen had nothing but respect for the woman on the other end. His reaction was to the message, not the messenger.

  “He won’t talk.” The woman’s voice sounded through the speaker.

  “At all?”

  “He talks, yes. But not seriously. He’s still holding it in.”

  “So, where does that leave us?”

  “Nowhere good, I’m afraid. Some people are easier than others. Some just want to get it out. But others, usually men, keep things inside. Bottled up. Until…”

  “Until what?”

  “Until what he’s holding in finally forces its way out. Into real, tangible problems. Manifesting in ways that may become not just his problems, but your problems.”

  Wilkinsen stared at the phone for a long moment. “So you’re recommending what, then? Suspension?”

  “What I really need is for him to open up. But you can’t force that. You wouldn’t want to even if you could. But, either way, the man is going to crack. They all do, eventually.”

  “Well, I’m not going to fire him. The guy’s been through hell.”

  “Yes. Almost literally.”

  “Then what do I do?”

  The psychiatrist on the other end of the phone pursed her lips, contemplating. “One thing that’s clear is that he’s holding on to one of the few crutches he has left, which is his job. It’s a common reaction for people under this kind of stress. Focusing on something else to avoid the pain. Rickards is no different. If anything, he’s worse. And taking that crutch away could result in unpredictable behavior.”

  “Wonderful.” Wilkinsen frowned and turned to peer out his office window. His gaze returned with a tired sigh. “Are you saying this could turn violent?”

  “That’s a question I would ask you. You’ve known him longer.”

  Wilkinsen considered the question, and after a long silence, shook his head. “I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.”

  “He’s going to have to face it sooner or later,” the woman on the phone said. “Allowing him to keep this crutch will only prolong things.”

  “But putting him on leave and removing that crutch could be just as bad. Isn’t that true?”

  “Possibly, yes.”

  “So, I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t.”

  “Unless you think there’s a possibility of violence. Then I have a legal mandate.”

  “A leave of absence.”

  “Yes, for starters.”

  “But you don’t think he’s violent.”

  “I haven’t spent enough time with him yet,” the doctor replied.

  Wilkinsen shook his head. “So, according to the law, you’d have to put him on leave to protect him, even though it could be the very thing that sets him off.”

  “It wouldn’t be to protect him,” she said. “It’s to protect everyone else.”

  10

  Gutierrez peered at Rickards and spoke softly.

  “What do you think?”

  “About what?”

  The younger agent raised her hands to her hips. “I feel bad for the woman, but let’s be honest, this is getting beyond the scope of our investigation. Regardless of what motivated these old men to get in that plane, we have more than enough for the report. Pilot negligence and unsafe weather conditions. Pretty cut and dry.”

  Rickards glanced at Angela Reed, who was still sitting at the table, emotionally dazed.

  “Maybe that letter made the old man do something desperate,” Gutierrez said. “Tried to visit a dying friend or family member. I don’t know. But I don’t think it’s going to change the cause of the crash. Besides,” she said, glancing at her phone, “Wilkinsen says he wants us back.”

  The younger agent glanced sympathetically at Angela and continued in a hushed tone. “If you want to look into this more, be my guest. I’ll tell him you’re wrapping up some loose ends. But it sounds like we have most of what we need.”

  ***

  After apologizing and excusing herself, Gutierrez left Rickards quietly standing in front of Angela Reed, shifting uncomfortably.

  The professor watched him for several minutes, wondering what had happened. The man was clearly capable. Intelligent. But something about him seemed off. Was he one of those quirky detective types who were uncomfortable around other people? No, his stance and demeanor appeared normal. Perhaps just irritated, or something else.

  “Your grandfather was headed south. Did he have any friends or family downstate he may have needed to see?”

  “Not anyone I can think of,” she said in a slow, bereaved tone. “Most of his longtime friends were already gone. Jim--Mr. Huston--was one of the last.”

  “How well did they know each other?”

  “Very well. Since the Korean War.”

  Rickards thought a minute and was about to reply when he suddenly stopped and looked back at the exit doors, frowning to himself.

  “Something wrong?” When he didn’t answer, Angela managed a polite grin. “Was she your ride?
”

  “Actually…yes.”

  “Didn’t that come up when you two were over there talking?”

  “We don’t normally drive together.”

  “How long have you been doing this for?”

  Rickards frowned sarcastically.

  Angela Reed sighed and stood up. “I can give you a ride. I need to go to the nursing home anyway.”

  “I’d like to accompany you, if that’s all right?”

  “Fine.”

  She gathered her things and retrieved keys from her purse to lock the giant classroom, which was now eerily quiet.

  ***

  The end-of-day traffic was already building, slowing cars on the I25 freeway to a near crawl, made even worse by the road’s icy conditions.

  From the passenger seat of the red Subaru, Rickards could make out several of Denver’s two hundred renowned city parks in sight of the freeway, each covered by a pristine, untouched blanket of new white snow. Absently, he touched the side window with the back of his hand to feel the cold glass.

  With the radio off and surrounded by dozens of cars inching alongside, Angela Reed remained quiet, clearly lost in thought. Or grief. Or both.

  Having to face families of victims was one of the worst parts of Rickards’ job. Completely devastated, always grappling, not just with the pain, but the emotional shock of not having the opportunity to say goodbye.

  As if it would have made it any better.

  “How long have you been at the university?” It was an obligatory question and one to which he already knew the answer.

  “Twelve years.”

  “Why anthropology?”

  She opened her mouth to respond and thought it over before simply saying, “It’s complicated.”

  Rickards let it go and turned back to the window, watching the cars outside whose bottom halves were all caked with a thin layer of dirt and mud.

  It didn’t matter. He had long ago lost the desire for small talk.

  11

  Her grandfather’s room had changed little in the time since Angela had seen him. He’d shared it with another man, Frank, who had already lost much of his memory and sadly was one of the beneficiaries of the nursing home’s fake bus stop out front. He had gotten worse since she’d seen him last. She fondly remembered how her grandfather would patiently but constantly repeat himself to Frank.