“I do—I’ve got a friend who does some consulting on this type of thing. But what exactly are you hoping for?”
Gin drew a breath. “The truth, I suppose. This thing was found in the soil underneath the body. Not in the body. I’m not sure how much a ballistics expert can tell from an artifact this old, but maybe they can at least tell if it was fired.”
“Even if this gives more credibility to the case for shutting down the site.”
“If you’re suggesting I’d hold this back to cover it up—”
“I’ve seen people do a lot worse and justify it to themselves.”
“No. Absolutely not.” Maybe it was a product of the job Gin had done for so long, but not pursuing the truth was unthinkable. “Look, it doesn’t prove anything. There was no damage to the skeleton that would indicate a gunshot wound, but the ball could have missed the bones entirely. Or it could have been fired many years ago, then someone could have dropped it in the hole with the body for reasons of their own.”
“Then why are we even bothering?”
“Because I don’t know what else to do,” Gin said. “Because Jake’s barely speaking to me, and I don’t know how else to help.”
Gin could practically sense Tuck deliberating. “Look, Gin. If we do this, it’s completely off the record. You can’t reveal I helped you.”
“Understood.”
“Where are you now?”
“Still at the university, why?”
“There’s a bar in Squirrel Hill, not too far from where you are. I can be there in an hour.” He gave her the address.
“And you’re sure your friend can meet us?”
“Oh, yeah, I’m pretty sure. If you don’t hear from me, assume I’ll be there. I’ll let my friend know to expect you—his name’s Dusty, and he’s pretty hard to miss.”
“Okay. Look, I’m not expecting much. This probably is just going to make their case for them. But I guess . . . well, I guess I need to know the truth. There’s a lot riding on this, and . . . well, I don’t want to look back and think I didn’t do everything I could.”
She could hear him breathing. After another long pause, he finally said, “I can clear out of here in a few minutes. I’ll be there as fast as I can.”
“Okay. See you soon. And . . . Tuck?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
16
The Squirrel Hill neighborhood of the East End of Pittsburgh was a lively mix of shops and restaurants and old houses and apartment buildings where hip, young students rubbed elbows with longtime residents, recent immigrants, and artists. The bar Tuck had directed her to, however, was in a seedy pocket catercorner from an abandoned gas station and wedged between a decrepit apartment building and a body shop. There was no sign out front, and Gin knew she was in the right place only because, as she drove by the address dubiously, two men stumbled out of the door looking like they’d spent the entire day hunched at the bar.
She found a parking spot around the corner and walked back with a sense of trepidation. Tuck wouldn’t be here for a while, and she could have waited in the car except that it was too cold.
A cup of coffee would be nice. But she doubted that this place brewed fresh coffee very often.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. There was the gentle knock of pool balls against each other and the murmur of conversation from a couple of women in their sixties who’d taken a booth in the corner and were smoking cigarettes, exhaling toward the window, which they’d opened slightly. Gin could feel the draft from where she stood and headed toward the back of the long, narrow room. She found a seat at the end of the bar and was eying the long rows of bottles when a man rose from a table and lumbered over to join her.
He was not a tall man, but he was thick and powerfully built, every inch of exposed skin up to his jaw covered in elaborate, scrolling tattoos. His muscular arms bulged in his tight-fitting T-shirt, and when he sat down on the stool next to her, his presence panicked her for a moment.
“You Gin?”
She gave him a weak smile, relief washing through her. “I am. And you must be Dusty.”
He laughed. “Only to Baxter, and a few other donuts. To everyone else, I’m William.”
“Donuts?”
The bartender materialized with a bottle and a glass and poured an inch of amber liquid, pushing it across the bar without a word. Then he pointed at the bar in front of Gin.
“He don’t say much,” William said. “What are you having?”
“A Coke?”
The bartender nodded impassively and moved away.
“Okay, so ‘donuts’ was a nickname our class of recruits earned. Tuck and I went through academy together. He didn’t tell you that?”
“No, actually.”
“Yeah, we had some real clowns in that bunch. A few of us got into the habit of meeting in this little donut shop before class. Not many of ’em around anymore. Hell, I went out on disability almost fifteen years ago.” He patted his knee. “Went over a fence I should have left alone, spent three months in a cast and came back hooked on painkillers. Took another couple of years to sort that mess out. Anyway, now I set my own hours, pick my clients . . . it’s all good.”
“Tuck says you have your own consulting business.”
“Yeah, mostly testing new product. I work with weapons manufacturers in the design phase, run their testing prior to qualifying. And I’ve done some work with body armor, especially when they come out with new armor-piercing rounds. But I do a little private client work on the side.” He paused, searching her face. “Very private, which I understand is what you’re looking for.”
Gin dug the sample bag from her purse. “So I need to know if this is authentic,” she said. “Do you know anything about Civil War–era armaments?”
“Oh, hell yeah,” William said, his eyes lighting up. “Kind of a specialty of mine. I work with some reenactors—those dudes are freaks about the details, you know? I’ve worked with muskets, breech loaders, all kinds of shit. This is pretty standard, though. Called a minié ball. They cast these things with whatever they could get their hands on—lead, obviously, but there’s often an iron plug in the core. It’s made to expand when fired, see, so it didn’t have to be the same diameter of the barrel. Made it a lot easier to load—which was kind of the point if you had someone running at you with a bayonet.”
“Looks like you two started the party without me.” Tuck came walking toward them and clapped William on the shoulder. “I see you’ve already made each other’s acquaintance.”
“Dude, you said she was hot,” William said. “You didn’t say how hot.”
Tuck raised his eyebrows and scowled. “I said no such thing. Please excuse him, Gin.”
“Sorry. Okay, prissy pants, you said she was an ‘attractive brunette.’ I mean, who even talks that way? Still spending your evenings playing Madden NFL? Tell Cherie her Uncle Dusty says hi, by the way.”
Tuck laughed. “Tell you what, I’ll buy a round—why don’t you guys get a table?”
“Take my seat,” William said, finishing off his beer. “This won’t take long. I’ll be back before you finish your wine cooler.”
“You’re—testing it now?” Gin asked.
“I may have forgotten to mention he lives upstairs,” Tuck says. “You can’t think I picked this place for the atmosphere.”
“Ta,” William said, heading for the doors.
“You need another?” Tuck said, pointing at her half-empty Coke. Without waiting for an answer, he signaled the bartender. “Straub IPL and another for the lady.”
Gin laughed. “You really are kind of old fashioned, aren’t you? I wouldn’t say prissy, exactly . . .”
“Your mood seems to have improved.”
“I don’t know, maybe I just needed to get away for a while. And I like your friend.”
“Dusty? Yeah, he’s a good guy. And a hell of a lucky one. Doctors didn’t think he’d survive, bac
k when he got shot.”
“I thought—he said he went out on disability for his knee.”
“Yeah, his knee and the two bullets in his chest,” Tuck said. “He didn’t just fall over that fence on his own.”
“Oh.” Gin sipped at her fresh Coke. “Sometimes . . . sometimes I wonder why anyone would choose to do the job you guys do.”
“Well, in my case, it’s because I couldn’t make ends meet playing pool. What do you say, Gin, want to wager a buck or two?”
Gin slid off her barstool and grabbed a cue from the rack. “Those are fighting words. We had a pool table in the basement when I was growing up.”
For the next hour they played, neither of them making as many shots as they missed. Someone put old Springsteen on the jukebox, and Gin let Tuck talk her into trying the local beer. By the time William returned, she’d almost forgotten the gravity of her errand. It seemed like such a long time since she’d had this much fun.
“It’s a fake,” William said without ceremony, sliding back on his stool. The bartender was already reaching for his whiskey.
“You’re kidding,” Gin said. “How do you know?”
William pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. It was covered with numbers and acronyms and technicalese. “I ran a few different tests on this—pretty standard stuff, started with ultrasonic diagnostics and then radiography and particle inspection. And for the most part, the composition is indistinguishable from the real thing. But I found traces of zinc and calcium, which you would not expect to find in a nineteenth-century sample. Nowadays, amateur casters get their lead mostly from wheel weights. So the calcium could be from battery plates, and the zinc from zinc weights. But I still couldn’t be sure.”
He took the small lump of metal out of the bag and held it up. “There’s one more thing all casters use, and that’s some sort of flux.”
“Flux?”
“Some substance to improve flow. Early examples of things people used include beeswax, rosin, even sawdust and salt. But whoever made this little guy used Marvelux.”
“No kidding,” Tuck said, shaking his head. “Hell, that blows this whole thing out of the water.”
“Wait, why? What’s Marvelux?”
“It’s a fluxing agent—people like it for lead because it’s nonsmoking and nonfuming. But more importantly, it’s only been around since the seventies.” He tossed her the ball. “No way this is more than forty years old.”
“I don’t know how to thank you,” Gin said.
“I take it that’s the answer you were looking for?” When Gin exchanged a glance with Tuck, William shook his head. “No, don’t tell me anything about your case. It’s better for me not to know. But I’m always glad to have a satisfied customer.”
“Listen, William, one more thing. You said you knew some reenactors?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you think you could make an introduction?”
“Sure, but you don’t need an introduction. They’re way short of chicks. Show up at one of their meetings and they’ll be lining up to talk to you. Here, I’ll write down the name.” He scrawled something on a cocktail napkin and handed it to her. “Just Google that. They meet in the basement of the Veterans Hall in Munhall.”
Gin glanced at what he’d written. “Pennsylvania Volunteer Infantry.”
William shrugged. “Not very catchy, but it gets the point across, I guess.”
“So what do I owe you for today?” Gin asked, tucking the napkin and the sample bag containing the ball carefully into her purse.
“Tell you what—Tuck picks up this round, we’ll call it even.”
“No, I couldn’t,” Gin protested. “I want to compensate you for your time and expertise.”
“How about you just keep an eye on my buddy here,” William said. “Since he took off for the sticks, I’ve been a little worried about him.”
Tuck pulled some bills out of his wallet and tossed them on the bar. “I got a call from impound. They’ve got an ID on the motorcycle’s owner. Can you come to the station and take a look?”
“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” William said with a wink. “You two have fun at the impound.”
* * *
Gin and Tuck headed back for Trumbull in their own cars. Gin dialed Stillman on the way. He picked up on the first ring.
“Stillman here,” he barked.
“Detective, this is Gin Sullivan. I wonder if you could meet to talk? I have some new evidence that I think you’ll be interested in.”
“Is that right.” She could hear him sigh over the phone. “I really don’t have time for this. We’re handing the case off to the Park Service. They’re sending in experts with the Battlefield Protection Program. They’ve got their own attorneys, their own PR machine.”
“That’s—that’s really premature. I’m in no way convinced that the body found on the Rudkin estate dates back to the Civil War.”
“Dr. Sullivan, I was in that autopsy room. There was not one goddamn shred of proof that the body wasn’t lying there for the last hundred and fifty years, and now we’ve got confirmation that the uniform is authentic. There’s this thing us cops have called circumstantial evidence—you may have heard of it?”
“I’m not saying that it’s impossible; I—”
“What I’m wondering is, could your position have anything to do with the fact that you’re shacking up with Jake Crosby? I did a little digging myself. I’m sure you already know all this, but he stood to make a lot of money on that deal. Which must have looked pretty good to both of you.”
Gin felt her face burn with anger. “It’s none of your business, but it’s true that Jake Crosby is very important to me. But I think a lot of other people would want to know the truth about this. The media’s certainly interested.”
“They’re interested as long as the story’s relevant,” Stillman said. “People want to believe that body belonged to a soldier, not some bum who got himself rolled and stuck in a hole. Listen, Captain Wheeler’s sister serves on the Historic Review Commission. She’s practically peeing her pants with excitement over this discovery.”
“That’s not—”
“Your mother’s in her first term of office, isn’t she? Seems like she could turn this into a real boon for business if she plays this right.”
“But it isn’t true! That man was probably not a Civil War soldier, and pretending otherwise won’t make it so.”
“Let me give you a little advice, Gin, and then I’ve got to go. Trumbull’s been nothing but a mosquito bite on the county map for quite a few years now. But times are changing, and your mom has managed to breathe some life into it. Just like Wheeler, she knows how to keep the wheels greased—and those of us who follow her example are doing okay. You ever wonder why your new chief of police ended up down there?”
“I—no.”
“Well, you might let him be your cautionary tale,” Stillman said. “Just like you, he didn’t know how to let well enough alone. All right, this has been a laugh riot as usual, but I’ve got work to do.”
He hung up, leaving Gin staring at a line of traffic stretching as far as she could see. The rush-hour backup was already beginning, and she had lost sight of Tuck’s car up ahead.
When she arrived at the police station half an hour later, the receptionist directed her around the back of the building. Tuck Baxter was standing in the drafty garage that served as the county motor pool, talking to a man sporting coveralls and a full gray beard. Nearby, the mangled motorcycle was lying on its side on the floor.
“Took you long enough,” Baxter said by way of a greeting, but the smile he gave her was warm.
Gin rolled her eyes. “Maybe if I was driving a cop car, I could have exceeded the speed limit all the way back too.”
Tuck chuckled, then turned serious. “Gin, this is Darby McKenna. He’s the one who found the VIN.”
Darby wiped his hands on a rag. “It wasn’t easy. They filed it clean off t
he steering neck. It took me a while, but I was able to raise all but two digits. Then I ran it against the database and came up with all possible matches, then narrowed it down based on DMV records.”
“Wait—if the number was filed off, how did you read it?”
“Here, come take a look.” Darby took a small flashlight from his pocket and shone it on the bike. Gin leaned closer, and sure enough, she could make out the faint impression of numerals on a section of metal that had been polished to a shine. “When the number is stamped on the metal, the material underneath gets compressed and hardened. What we do is put acid on the area, and it eats away the metal at different rates depending on the density. Then we photograph it and refine the image until we can make out the numbers. That’s if we’re lucky.”
“So today was lucky?”
“I don’t know if I’d say that,” Tuck said. “Come on in my office.”
They went back into the building through the garage. Gin was grateful to be inside, where it was warm. She removed her coat and hung it over the extra chair in Tuck’s office. He pulled his own chair around to her side of the desk, and when they both sat down, their knees were almost touching. Gin glanced at the door, which Tuck had shut behind them.
Suddenly, the office seemed very small indeed.
“So. Here’s what we know,” Tuck said, regarding her closely. “That bike’s a 2006, but it hasn’t been registered in three years. Secondly, it belongs to a Marvin Morgensen.”
“Not Griffin Rudkin? Could he have bought it from his shop, maybe?”
“Rudkin’s shop wasn’t in business in 2006, and Morgensen has owned it since it was new.”
“But—I have no idea who that is. Why would he come after me?”
“I don’t know. Morgensen lived in Clarion County his whole life before moving to Trumbull. He was born in Perry township and grew up around there. Joined the service after graduating from high school, then came here after serving in the army and went to work as a mechanic. Eventually opened up his own shop—mostly emissions testing, small jobs. Not all that successful. Never married, kept his nose clean for the most part, though he was picked up a few times for peeping about twenty-five years ago. Liked to show his goods to young girls, apparently, though after the cops talked to him a couple of times, he seems to have stopped. And there’s one more thing—apparently he’s been involved, off and on, with a local group of reenactors.”
All the Secret Places Page 17