by Leta Serafim
“Someone she’d contacted about it. An authority in Athens.”
McLean sat back, making a tent with his long fingers. “Well, now. What was it she found? A temple felled by an earthquake like the one in Crete? Where the boy was being bled out? The skeleton of a giant bull with human femurs in its pen? What?”
“I don’t know exactly. Among her things were photos of a site that appeared to be untouched. It was full of bones, thousands of bones. I don’t know if that means anything. I’m just a layman.” He thought the secret would be safe with the Englishman. Though McLean’s Greek was good, he didn’t strike Patronas as a man who would befriend a native. No, the Englishman’s contacts would be limited to the waiters and maids in the hotel. Staff, in other words. People who were there to serve him, who knew their place.
“Perhaps the photos were from someplace else. Crete perhaps.”
“No. They were taken on Chios. We recognized the location.”
“Where was it?”
“A hill near Profitis Ilias.”
“If that’s true and not some police trick, it would be an astounding discovery. Minoan skeletons from the time of Thera are extremely rare. None have been found at Akrotiri. The feeling among archeologists is that the people there must have fled. No one knew where to, though. It’s long been a mystery. The consensus is, they must have been consumed in the ensuing cataclysm.”
Patronas regarded him intently. “Maybe not. Maybe they made it here.”
“I suppose anything is possible.” The archeologist was unwilling to concede the point.
“We plan to turn the site over to a team from Athens on Monday.”
“Good idea. They’ll sort it out.”
“One last question: did Alcott discuss the murders with you?”
“Yes. He was as horrified as I was. The sheer brutality of it. Petros, especially. You told me he held him down and cut his throat.” Interesting, he hadn’t told him that. Not exactly.
“Do you have any idea why someone would do that?”
“You mean like a sacrificial lamb?” McLean said this casually. “I think it was protective camouflage, Chief Officer, a stage set designed to mislead you.”
“Is that why the killer mutilated Eleni Argentis?” He described what the two fishermen had found at the beach.
“I don’t know. Perhaps the killer was just trying to scare her and it got out of hand.” Realizing his poor choice of words, McLean covered his mouth, his eyes wide. He’d been naughty and it amused him. He looked over to see if Patronas had noticed.
“Out of hand.” Patronas had noticed all right. “Yes, I suppose it did.”
* * *
The British tutor at Oxford had been reluctant to speak to him. “Ah, yes, Devon McLean.” There had been a lengthy silence. “You said you’re with the police?” His voice held no surprise.
“Yes.” Patronas had gone back to the police department to make the call. He had his English-Greek dictionary open on his lap, his pad and pencil ready. “We’ve had a number of homicides on the island and are trying to eliminate suspects. It would help us greatly if we could determine what kind of man he is.”
“He’s extremely intelligent. By far the most brilliant young man I tutored in my thirty years here.”
Not quite the answer he was seeking. He flipped through the pages of the dictionary, seeking the word he wanted. “What about his character?”
Another long silence. “I always thought he might have been happier in business,” the professor finally said. “Something competitive, perhaps involving money.”
“Really? Not archeology?”
The man sighed. “There is little glory in this field, little fame to be had. Take the Institute of Archeology at Oxford, for example. It is far newer than the rest of the university and was originally housed not in one of the colleges, not in Balliol or Christ Church, but in rooms on Beaumont Street. Have you ever been to Oxford, Chief Officer?”
“No.”
“Well, Beaumont Street is not one of the more august addresses in town. Of course, this has all changed. The Institute has expanded and we now have wonderful facilities. Computers. All the modern accoutrements. However, though we are scientists, we are not biologists or chemists or physicists. No one wins Nobel Prizes in archeology. As for the nature of the field itself, I fear, Indiana Jones to the contrary, the time of Sir Harold Carter and Robert Evans and Schliemann—the time of incredible discoveries by individual men—has come and gone. Archeology is far more painstaking today, and consequently a great deal more collaborative. Devon McLean was always frustrated by that. He wanted to be a star, as it were. To stand alone and be applauded on a bigger and far more lucrative stage.”
“So money was important to him?”
“Undoubtedly. Prestige even more so. He was obsessed with it. He was like an American in that respect. Money and fame. Hollywood’s key to a happy life. If I had to summarize, I’d say they were the key to Devon McLean as well.” Hardly obtuse now. The professor hadn’t liked his student much.
Another moment with the dictionary. “Would you say he is unscrupulous?”
“Let me say he was persistent. Determined. Resourceful. And occasionally more enterprising than was warranted.”
What did this doubletalk mean, ‘more enterprising than was warranted’? Patronas took a chance. “Dishonest? You mean he was dishonest?”
“Not necessarily. Self-aggrandizing would be a more accurate description. He would always, and I do mean always, put forth the most grandiose interpretation of any work he was involved in. It was never a simple dig with him. It was always ‘historic findings of unparalleled consequence.’ He’d never find a skeleton, for example. Left to his own devices, it would be the skull of Plato. He was rather like Schliemann in this respect, though Schliemann can be forgiven. As a nineteenth century amateur, he really didn’t know any better. Devon McLean certainly did and yet he persisted.”
The chief officer tried again. “Are you saying he’s dishonest?”
“Free and easy with the truth if it would further his reputation. Jealous of his colleagues. A man you would be unwise to turn your back on professionally.”
“A man who would do anything?”
There was a long pause. “Yes.”
“A dangerous man?”
Another long wait. “Possibly.”
“He said he was working off the coast of Cyprus. What do you know of this?”
“Only that it was an ill-advised project, grandstanding of the first order. It has been going on for at least three years with very little to show for it. We would not support it here at Oxford. He had to appeal to the United States, to some little school in the Midwest to get academic sponsorship and to buy a boat for him.”
“What kind of a boat?” Patronas kept his voice steady.
“A fast one. Fast and expensive.” The professor was warming up to his subject, his antipathy to both McLean and people who funded him becoming more and more apparent. “Apparently, he found himself a private benefactor, an American or Japanese industrialist—I don’t remember which—willing to underwrite the whole sad endeavor. The consensus among his colleagues here at Oxford is that Devon—please excuse my use of the vernacular—was ‘milking him dry.’ He has a group of Americans working for him, Elderhostel volunteers and the like, personnel from third and fourth class museums, scouts more like it from places which aren’t too careful about the provenance of the items they exhibit in their display cases. It’s second rate, the whole affair. Exceedingly second rate.”
“McLean’s kind of people, in other words.”
“One would say.”
“What was his relationship with Jonathan Alcott?”
“The American? He did not have a relationship with Jonathan Alcott. Jonathan Alcott loathed him.”
“Perhaps Mr. McLean wanted to be—how shall I put this?—Professor Alcott’s ‘special friend.’ Maybe he was looking for ….” He hesitated. What word? What word to use? �
�Affection from him.”
“I don’t know what you are implying, Chief Officer, but if you continue, I am done here. No matter what I may think of Devon McLean’s character or his worth as an archeologist, I will not speculate with you or anyone else about his sexuality, his emotional investment in men. I will not participate in a sexual witch hunt. Do you understand?”
Patronas apologized, afraid he’d lost him.
“I must say,” the scholar went on, “I am very disappointed that a law enforcement official in this day and age would resort to sexual innuendo and character assassination under the guise of investigating a homicide. Maybe in the time of Oscar Wilde, it was permissible for a policeman to discuss who was or wasn’t a homosexual with a potential witness, but no longer. Now if you will excuse me ….”
“I am sorry, the English, it is hard for me.” He thickened his accent, thinking the man, an Oxford don, would feel superior to him and let his guard down. He’d often found playing the fool to be useful in police work. With certain types of people, he’d say something he knew to be false and they’d rush to correct him, to fill in the blanks. They couldn’t help it, and he’d learn something he hadn’t known before. He didn’t think it would work here, as the man already had his back up, but it was worth a try. “Mr. McLean says he was Alcott’s assistant on a project here—”
“He most certainly was not. He was there as part of a consortium. Now if you will excuse me—”
“One last thing. Do you know who the people were from Chios that he worked with when he was here as part of the consortium?”
“I was Devon’s tutor, not his keeper, Chief Officer. My job was to educate him, not keep track of his friends.”
Patronas hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair. “Well, now.”
Chapter 35
He who becomes a sheep is eaten by the wolf.
—Greek proverb
“Professor Alcott?” The door was open and Patronas made his way into the room. The suite was a pigsty, dirty clothes and room service trays on the floor. Patronas kicked an empty beer bottle aside. Must be hard on the maid, vacuuming around this mess. “Professor Alcott,” he called again.
“Out here.”
Alcott was outside on the balcony, sunning himself on a chaise lounge. A row of beer bottles was lined up against the wall behind him. He made an effort to rise, but only got halfway up before sinking back down again. The balcony overlooked the harbor, and Patronas could see water on all sides from where he stood, cruise ships lying at anchor below. It was like standing on the prow of a boat.
“How about a beer?” Alcott asked.
Patronas shook his head. “This isn’t your first trip to Chios, is it?” He got out his notebook and pen. “You and McLean, you’ve been here before.”
Alcott nodded. “Three times for me. Twice for him. I supervised an excavation not too far from here a couple of years ago. Didn’t come to much. The site had been occupied a long time, and it was hard to unscramble it. What we archeologists call ‘a pile-up.’ ” He took care with his speech, enunciating each word carefully or at least trying to.
Drunk, Patronas concluded. It’s eleven o’clock in the morning and he’s drunk.
“Saracens, Genovese, Romans, Dorians,” Alcott went on. “There was even evidence of a Jewish settlement on Chios during the Middle Ages. Probably Sephardic Jews from Spain fleeing the Inquisition.” Alcott’s skin was ashy and damp, and his hand trembled slightly as he raised the beer bottle to his lips. The American had been drunk for days.
“When was this?”
“About eighteen months ago.”
“Was Devon McLean involved?”
“Yes. A number of universities participated, Oxford being one of them. I don’t remember how long Devon stayed. I know my graduate students participated. They’d work a couple of weeks and then another group would come and replace them. I wanted everyone to learn how to assess, excavate and evaluate the finds from potential archeological sites.” He sounded alive for the first time. “Kids need practical experience before you turn them loose in the field. They need to get their hands dirty, but under careful supervision. It’s so easy to destroy the past when you come upon it, to muck it up forever.”
“Who helped you with the dig? Did you have laborers?” Patronas was after a local relationship, some tie-in with Chios.
“Not as such. Spiros Korres furnished our supplies and drove us around in his truck that summer. He seemed to think we would find buried treasure. He had archeologists confused with pirates. He never really mastered the concept.”
Add Spiros to the list. “Did you visit Profitis Ilias on that trip?”
“Yes. We joined the locals up there on July twentieth, the feast day of the saint, I believe it was. Our crew invited us, said we’d enjoy it, and so we went. They were grilling lamb in the courtyard and wanted us to stay and eat.” He finished his beer and set the bottle down. “I demurred. Eleni and Devon might have stayed. I’m not sure. It was a long time ago.”
“Was there anything different about the monastery then?”
“Back off, Chief Officer. I know where you’re going. You think Devon and I ‘cased the joint’ then came back a year later and killed her.”
“That’s not why I’m here, Professor. Eleni was right. There is a Minoan settlement there. We just discovered it. Those boxes of shards were the least of it. We think she might have stumbled on something as important as Akrotiri. She might even have found evidence that the Minoans practiced human sacrifice.”
“You don’t say?” he said bitterly. “I’m sure the news will make her very happy.”
“This will be big, won’t it? I was told archeologists have been debating whether or not the Minoans practiced human sacrifice for years.”
“Not the Greek ones. They don’t want to hear about it. According to them, your ancestors were wise men discoursing on philosophy in the agora. Not people who sacrificed cows and goats and daughters.”
“Do you think the killer was trying to reproduce Minoan rituals? Could that be the reason he cut off her leg and hand?” He hadn’t shared this information with Alcott previously and was watching him carefully, trying to gauge his reaction.
Alcott refused to be drawn in. “Human sacrifice? No, Chief Officer, I don’t think Eleni was mutilated as part of some ancient religious rite. I think whoever did it, did it to hurt her. Was she alive when they cut her up or was it done post mortem? My guess is it was post mortem, and the reason was practical: disposing of the body to get rid of the evidence. Though the taking of a limb as punishment has a long history in human society. In Saudi Arabia, they cut off the hands of thieves, in other places, the feet of runaway slaves. As recently as the late nineteenth century, the colonial government in the Belgian Congo paid for human hands. Did you know that? Native hands, African hands. Bought them by the sack full. No one knows to this day if anyone bothered to apply a tourniquet or if the victims simply bled to death—”
Ever the expert. Patronas cut him off. “How important would a find like this be to an archeologist?”
“It would make him immortal the way King Tut made Howard Carter immortal, Knossos did Sir Robert Evans, Machu Picchu and Hiram Bingham. As long as the field of archeology existed, he would be remembered.”
“Do you think someone would be willing to kill for it?”
“I assume you are talking about Devon McLean or perhaps me. I don’t know, Chief Officer. That’s the truth. It does seem death and archeology have a natural affinity for each other. Take Devon, for example. He’s been plumbing the depths of the sea, trolling for the bones of sailors who drowned in a Dorian shipwreck. Trying to resurrect their last meal, what clothes they had on when their boat sank, what they were ferrying from Cyprus to Egypt. If their wretched bones could talk, he’d be interviewing them. If that’s not grave robbing, I don’t know what is. I’m resigning when I get back to the United States. I’m done with archeology. Done with graves. Done with death.”
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br /> Patronas flipped through his notebook. “But you said when last we spoke, and I quote, ‘Someone should go through the dig site. That bull you showed me, the one that was mixed in with the shards, it might well be the only one in existence. Perhaps if we resumed the excavation, we could find more.’ You weren’t done then.”
“I just wanted to keep Devon McLean away from the site. That’s another thing archeologists are, Chief Officer. They’re thieves, poachers. In addition to stealing from the dead, they steal from each other.”
“Well, if you still want to take a look at the shards, you can. I’m moving the investigation out of Profitis Ilias. I’ve already notified the Archeology Department of the University of Athens. I plan to turn the site over to them on Monday.”
They talked for a few more minutes, Patronas switching back and forth between Greek and English. Listening to his answers, the chief officer was sure Alcott could never have mounted a criminal conspiracy in Greece. His grasp of the language was too poor. One mistake after another. He confused the Greek word for Englishman, agglos, with the one for angels, aggelos, and called a colleague a kathiki, shit pot, instead of kathighiti, professor. Patronas switched back to English. “I’ve also decided to release you and Devon McLean. As of today, you are free to go.”
“So I’m no longer a suspect,” Alcott said. “I guess that’s something. However, if it’s all the same to you, I would like to stay and see this through.”
“Will you please inform Devon McLean that he may reclaim his passport today? I neglected to tell him when I saw him earlier in the day.”
“Sure, I’ll tell him.”
* * *
Petros’ grandmother was outside, working in the garden on the side of her house in Castro. On her hands and knees, she was digging up greens with a small spade. She got up when she saw him, dropping a handful of horta, wild dandelion greens, in a plastic bag, and wiped her hands on her skirt. “Not much good now.” She waved at the patchy soil with her spade. “Too dry.” She was dressed all in black, her apron and stockings smeared with dirt. Out in the open away from her house, she seemed diminished, more vulnerable.