A Rumor of Bones: A Lindsay Chamberlain Mystery

by Beverly Connor

  "Sure thing."

  "How accurate do you think Mickey Lawson is in his record keeping?" Lindsay asked.

  "I think you can probably take them to the bank. Mickey is well known for his obsessive record keeping. He drives his assistants nuts, I've heard."

  "I'll be finished shortly."

  "I'm sorry about my temper when we arrived. I didn't like seeing the Pruitts put through this."

  Lindsay smiled at the sheriff. "I didn't notice."

  She went to the back room and performed calculations regarding shadows in the photograph. Lindsay was replacing the remains in the box when the sheriff came in and pulled up a chair.

  "I've done all I can do for now with the identification," she told him. "If I can get Peggy's medical and immunization records, I may be able to do something with some calcium deposits in the growth zones"

  "So you couldn't make a positive identification?"

  "They are Peggy's bones, all right." She smiled at the sheriff. "I like a lot of detail in my records, too. The more corroborating details you have, the easier time you have in court."

  The sheriff nodded his head. "Yeah, those defense lawyers will tear into any little sign of uncertainty."

  Lindsay took the recordings and showed the sheriff. "All the facial measurements are consistent. See this tooth? The upper left canine? It is slightly forward and casts a shadow on the incisor next to it. The lighting angle allowed me to measure its distance from the incisor next to it in the photograph. It appears to be the same distance forward as the upper left canine in the skull. Also, the teeth in the photograph are the same size and shape as those in the skull. You can see why the accuracy of the photographer's measurements is so important. I thought I would drop by his studio sometime and take a look at his setup."

  "What can I tell the Pruitts?"

  "You can tell them these are their daughter's remains."

  "I'll call them. Then let me take you to the diner for a cup of coffee."

  "That would be good" Lindsay leaned toward the sheriff and said in a low voice. "I can tell you this: you have a serial killer. The pelvic damage on these remains is the same as on Amy Lynn Hasting's."

  "I was afraid of that." Duggan stood up. "Come on, let's forget about this for a while."

  "By the way, before I forget," said Lindsay, "I found this in the cranial cavity of Burial 23." She gave him the bullet. "I'll give you a report on the bones in a couple of days."

  The sheriff held up the vial and looked at the bullet. "Small caliber," he commented, then locked it in his desk drawer.

  After he called the Pruitts, he took Lindsay to the cafe down the street. They sat in a booth in the back corner.

  "This is not easy for you, is it?" he said after the waitress brought them coffee and lemon pie.

  Lindsay's eyes misted over. "He hurt them really bad. He had to have gagged them in some way. I don't think he would have trusted that their screams would not be heard, even in a remote location. That may help in your investigation. I don't know"

  "Do you get upset over the Indian bones?"

  "Sometimes. Child burials are sad, when you think how grieved the parents were. Infant mortality was high, and children were very precious. But mostly at Indian sites you're looking at a normal life cycle. The population lived, were happy perhaps, and died of natural causes."

  "They are very real to you, these Indians."

  "They were real. Every burial represents a person who once walked around just as you and I. They were happy and sad, loved and hated, worried about making a living, and enjoyed celebrations, just as we do. Mostly, working with the skeletal population is a pleasure. It's like going back in time and talking to them. Their bones tell me a lot about how they lived and died."

  "Happier than police work?"

  "Sometimes. There was this one site that still haunts me, though. It's dated to the time of European contact." Lindsay took a sip of coffee and a bite of pie before she continued. "You find that sites of the same time period range from wealthy villages with an abundance of fancy artifacts and large populations, to tiny villages that were very poor. This one was small and poor. It wasn't occupied long; we think it was a seasonal camp. Anyway, the burials were almost entirely women, children, and the elderly. There were only a few young adult males. I don't know how deeply you studied medieval weapons, but European medieval battle wounds have specific patterns. We often find those patterns on Indian burials that date to Spanish contact. Every one of the burials at this particular site had those wounds, even the children. In my mind I could see the mothers, children, and grandmothers running from the Spanish conquistadors, who were on horseback cutting them down while the few males who were left in the village tried to defend them. The males' wounds were in front, whereas the women and children's were from behind. I suppose the other males were off hunting. When they returned, they found their families slaughtered and their village burned to the ground. They buried them in mass graves. After that, they left, and the village was never inhabited again."

  "It must have been like uncovering an ancient crime scene," he said. "And there was no one to bring to justice."

  Unexpectedly, Derrick appeared and slid into the booth beside Lindsay. "You look kind of pale, kid," he said.

  "Just telling stories of ancient crimes," she said.

  "I hear that the Indians aren't too pleased with having their ancestors dug up," said the sheriff.

  "That's why we have a policy in the archaeology department of examining the bones and repatriating them very quickly."

  "I suppose that means that you rebury them. You have any regrets or misgivings about that?" the sheriff asked.

  Lindsay nodded. "I regret that the skeletal remains will be lost to us when they are returned to the ground. The techniques for analyzing bones are improving every day. Once the bones are back in the ground, further analysis is lost. It would be nice if one day we could analyze the DNA and match a site with presentday tribes. Then we could know for certain whose ancestors are whose."

  "How do you feel about it?" the sheriff asked Derrick.

  Derrick took a drink of the water that the waitress had brought him before he answered. "To Native Americans, archaeologists rank below lawyers and politicians. You can't blame them for feeling that way. In the past some archaeologists have not treated the bones with much respect. In fact, they have been rather haphazard with them, keeping them in boxes on shelves for years. I had one professor intentionally crush a skull to make a point about how bones break. These are the remains of people."

  "That's true," said Lindsay. "Not every archaeologist has had the purest of motives or the greatest skill either. Archaeologists, like everyone else, have had to learn some lessons about sensitivity and the strong feelings some people have regarding the excavation of burials." She looked at Derrick a moment, remembering the moment in class when the professor dropped the skull in a parking lot and how they were all shocked speechless. "But we are finding and recovering something that has been lost. Sometimes we are able to set right a historical record that has gone wrong, or docu ment an ancient injustice like the slaughter of the village I told you about. Mostly, we are just recording the details of a lost knowledge. In my mind, it would be tragic to lose the knowledge forever."

  "Sounds like you two have had this conversation before," said the sheriff.

  "You could say that," agreed Derrick, smiling at Lindsay. He took another drink of water. "I found some things I thought the sheriff ought to see," he said. "They're in the jeep."

  The sheriff sighed. "Let's go take a look."

  They walked out to the jeep, and Derrick opened the back. "Here is some clothing." He opened a box containing a large plastic storage bag. "This box contains another set. I made this map of the crime scene. It shows the relationship of the clothing to the graves. In with each set of clothing was about a four-inch piece of duct tape." Lindsay and the sheriff looked at each other a moment. "And some rope," he finished. "The rope, tape, an
d clothes that were found together are bagged together.

  "Also, we found this." He pulled out a small box and opened it. An open Swiss army knife caked with dirt lay inside. "It was near the grave of the bones I brought in a while ago"

  "The clothes will help identify the remains," said the sheriff.

  "There's more." Derrick pulled out several more plastic sandwich bags. "This is a quarter, a dime, several weathered candy wrappers, and a ball point pen." Derrick pointed to a place on the map. "They were found here and here, just a few feet apart. I think it's where he parked his car, and these things were lost when he got out on the driver's side and the little girls got out on the passenger side."

  The sheriff looked impressed. "You have a knack for detective work, son," he said.

  "Yes, Derrick," said Lindsay. "I think you were Sam Spade in another life."

  Derrick grinned. "If archaeology hits a slump, Lindsay and I can open a detective agency. Anyway, we've found a cart load of other stuff you will have to look at," Derrick told the sheriff. "I think it is miscellaneous trash. It fans out from the immediate scene, but some of it may be important. I also found the rest of the dog's bones."

  "This is good," said the sheriff as he studied the meticulously drawn map. "Real good"

  "Some scout troops are coming out to work on the dig, so I'm going to ask Frank for a few more crew members. I think I can have this finished in another day or two"

  "Great. I appreciate your help." The sheriff hesitated a moment, looking at Lindsay and Derrick. "Are you two related, brother and sister?" he asked.

  Derrick looked puzzled, but Lindsay knew what he meant. "The hair," she said. Lindsay and Derrick had almost identical long, chestnut-brown hair.

  "Oh," said Derrick. "No, it's just some kind of cosmic coincidence."

  The sheriff just grinned.

  After Derrick dropped the evidence off at the sheriff's department, he and Lindsay headed for the site in his jeep.

  "Wait," Lindsay exclaimed. "I have to stop off at Mickey Lawson's portrait studio. It won't take long."

  "Sure thing. I needed to stop at the hardware store anyway to see if my shovels are ready. This guy they recommended does a good job of cutting them off straight and putting a good edge on them"

  "I'll walk over to the hardware store when I'm finished," she said as Derrick let her out in front of the studio.

  The display windows of Mickey Lawson's studio contained rows of family, school, wedding, and various club photographs. She opened the glass door and walked in. A middle-aged woman sitting behind a mahogany desk looked up with a smile as Lindsay entered.

  "Can I help you?"

  "My name is Lindsay Chamberlain. I called for an appointment with Mr. Lawson."

  The receptionist put on a solemn face. "Yes, about little Peggy. That is so sad. Sarah and Mike are just broken-hearted, just like when she disappeared. Now they have to grieve all over again. But it was so hard for them, not knowing what happened to her."

  Lindsay nodded. "Is Mr. Lawson in?"

  "He stepped out for just a moment"

  "Thank you. I'll just walk around and look at these pictures."

  "Mr. Lawson is a good photographer."

  "I see that"

  "People come from all over. Clubs particularly like him. He has done some nice pictures for the garden club."

  The photographs were mostly typical family and wedding portraits: full face and profiles in the same portrait, portraits with silhouettes, and portraits taken with fancy filters.

  Beside the wedding photographs hung a series of portraits of the garden club members, each with a flower in an oval inset. Marsha's picture was there, with a large red rose.

  "Those of the garden club are good, don't you think?" asked the receptionist.

  "Yes, they are. Did each member grow the flower in her portrait?"

  "They certainly did. Many are prize winners, too"

  "They are quite lovely."

  On the opposite wall hung several pictures taken at various local functions: one of the sheriff giving a campaign speech, which made Lindsay smile, and one of a magician with a large mustache in top hat and tails, thrusting a white rabbit in one hand and his hat in the other toward the camera. The photograph was foreshortened so that the rabbit, the hat, and the magician's arms projected out from the photograph and appeared large. There was a series of circus pictures: clowns, elephants, bareback riders, trapeze artists, all taken with varied camera angles and styles. Some pictures of the clowns, the lights, and the crowd were surreal. These, thought Lindsay, were pretty good, better than the more traditional ones. She wondered how often Mickey indulged his creativity.

  When Mickey Lawson returned, he greeted Lindsay with a broad smile. He had a boyish face underneath thick, sandy brown hair. She had seen him with the Pruitts but hadn't paid close attention to him then. She guessed him to be about 30. He was tall, large boned, and slim.

  "Sorry," he said. "I had to go up to Tylerwynd to see Grandmother Tyler. When she talks, we all listen." He gave a little laugh.

  "I was just enjoying your photographs," remarked Lindsay.

  He blushed slightly and bobbed his head, pleased. "Thanks. People around here seem to like them. Come back to the studio. Tell me again what you want."

  "Just some information for the report. I used many of your measurements in the identification, and I just need to see them myself. If I have to go to court, I can say I saw your studio and how you take your measurements."

  "Sure. Can I ask how you use them?"

  "I do calculations from the photograph and find out the actual size of the head. Then I can compare the calculations with the skeletal remains."

  "I see. I'm glad I keep such good records."

  His studio looked like most studios Lindsay had ever been in. He had a large box camera, a stage, and an array of lights. Toys and various props sat neatly on a shelf. A red light above a door in the corner of the room revealed the location of the darkroom. Beside the door several metal filing cabinets lined the wall.

  Painted on the floor were measurements from the camera to the stage, from the camera to the lights, and from the lights to the stage.

  Lindsay took out a tape measure and measured the floor markings. "They correspond to my tape measure," she said. "That is basically all I needed to know. Why don't you take a picture of the floor here and send it to the sheriff's department?"

  "Sure." He grinned broadly, obviously appreciating Lindsay's attention to detail. "I find the way to be consistent with my photography is to take careful notes of each picture. Those filing cabinets are full of information on every photograph I have ever taken. I can use my notes and re-create a photograph exactly as it was made the first time."

  "That's good to know. I won't take up any more of your time. Thank you for showing me your studio."

  "You're welcome. Just call or come by if you need anything else."

  Derrick was looking in the window of Mickey's studio when she emerged. "The shovels weren't ready. That's the bad thing about this guy. He's kind of slow."

  They climbed in the jeep, and Derrick headed for the site. After five minutes of silence, Derrick patted Lindsay's hand.

  "You okay, Lindsay?"

  "Yeah"

  She told him about the injuries she had found on the bones of the children.

  Derrick took her hand and held it. "I don't understand it," he whispered.

  "Neither do I. I told the sheriff about the massacre site. This is the same kind of madness."

  "You know what we need to do?"

  "What?" asked Lindsay.

  "Go dancing. Real dancing."

  "Yeah, we do. We haven't done that in at least a year."

  "I'll scout around for a place. Maybe good old Marsha knows somewhere"

  Lindsay grinned. "Maybe she does."

  "You and Frank seem to be getting close again."

  "We went to the movie the other night, that's all."

  "Did you hav
e a good time?"

  "It was nice. Why do you ask?" She gave him a sideways glance.

  I like to keep an eye on you, Lindsay. I have to make sure my best dancing partner is happy"

  " 1 think I would be a lot happier if I hadn't become involved in identifying these bones. I love working with bones, but ... it's hard when they are children."

  Derrick reached over and took her hand. "I know."

  "Well, speak of the devil," said Lindsay, "isn't that Good Ole Marsha's Lincoln parked beside Frank's Jeep'? We can ask her about a place to go dancing."

  ... and the bones came together, bone to his bone ... the sinews and the flesh came up upon them, and the skin covered them above: but there was no breath in them.

  Ezekiel 37:7-8

  Chapter 4

  WHEN LINDSAY AND Derrick arrived at the site, Marsha, Frank, Jane, and Thomas were sitting at the picnic table drinking Cokes and laughing. Marsha's hand was resting on Frank's arm as she ended some funny anecdote about her garden club. Lindsay sat down opposite Marsha and Frank while Derrick got the two of them a Coke from the cooler.

  "Marsha. Just the person we wanted to see." Derrick sat beside Lindsay and handed her a bottle. "Is there any really good place to go dancing near here?"

  "Oh, yes, is there?" cried Jane. "You should see Lindsay and Derrick dance. They've won tons of competitions."

  "I had forgotten that you and Derrick dance," Frank said. "I didn't realize it was that serious. So you've won competitions together?"

  "Well, as a matter of fact, there is a place," said Marsha, before Lindsay had a chance to speak. "Not here in Merry Claymoore, but about 40 miles from here. Why don't we all go? I'd love to see Derrick and Lindsay dance."

  Great, thought Lindsay. Marsha just wrangled a date with Frank.

  "Let's do it," agreed Jane. "You all are in for a treat."

  Lindsay gave Jane a pained smile. "You're building us up quite a bit."

  "We can deliver." Derrick grinned and put an arm around her shoulder.

  "Speaking of delivery," Frank said. "A package arrived for you, Lindsay. I put it in your tent"

  "Oh, I know what it is." She downed the rest of her drink. "See you guys later. Let me know when we're going dancing." She left for her tent just as Marsha invited Frank for coffee in town.