and to embellish the story somewhat. “I’m a field geologist, Mrs. Moreland, and I’ve just returned from Central Africa, where I came upon a grave in a remote village. The headstone said that the man who was buried there, one Chester Bowie, died in 1942. A village elder remembered the man was also a geologist who had come to the region by himself and that he was mauled to death by a lion.”
“How awful,” the elderly librarian said.
“Yes. He went on to say that the village has experienced nothing but bad luck ever since, cattle diseases, drought, and the like. He believes that because Bowie’s family doesn’t know how or where their ancestor died that his spirit still haunts them. It sounds a little strange to us, but animism is the prevalent faith in this part of Africa.”
“Dr. Mercer, I’m from New England. I know all about ghost stories.”
“I promised the headman that I would try to contact the Bowie family to tell them what happened to Chester.”
“And you think I can help?”
“It’s a hunch but I believe he was a rather gifted geologist and it’s possible that you have records of his academic career. Your records online go back only to 1900 and I was wondering if you could dig back a couple more years.”
“No digging required. We are about to load the years 1890 to 1899 onto the site. Give me a moment.” She typed so slowly that Mercer spelled out the name in his head. “And here we are. Chester T. Bowie, class of 1899 from Keeler State in New Jersey.”
He knew it. “Thank you, Mrs. Moreland. I can contact the college. Hopefully they have records going back that far that give some family history.”
“I’m not sure if that will help.”
Her tone sent a stone plummeting to the base of Mercer’s stomach. “How so?”
“It indicates here that this Chester Bowie graduated summa cum laude with a degree in ancient Greek history.”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t think this is your man. He wasn’t a geologist. He was a historian.”
Mercer cursed and immediately sensed Mrs. Moreland’s disapproval over the phone. He apologized, thanking her for her time. He stared into space for a minute, his hand still holding the portable phone. “What the hell,” he said and dialed information for the small New Jersey college.
“Our records go back to the day the school was founded by Benjamin Keeler in 1884,” a perky coed named Jody in the alumni office assured Mercer when he asked.
“I’m looking for information about Chester Bowie. He graduated in 1899.”
“Oh sure,” Jody said as though she knew the man. “Bowie the booby.”
“Excuse me?”
“Oh, it’s a nickname he had. He is sort of, like, a legend here.”
“How so?”
“He was a student here and then became a teacher. I guess he was a real whack job. He vanished in the 1930s or something.”
The timing could fit had Mercer been wrong about the African woman’s age. “Why do you say he was a whack job?”
“I’m not sure. Students here use his name if someone does something stupid, like you know ‘pulling a Chester.’ It’s just, like, a thing we say.”
Mercer had thought using the word “like” so often had died out a decade ago. “Is there anyone in the office who could give me a bit more information?”
“Um, not really. I’m here by myself and I don’t know when my boss is coming back. She’s on maternity leave.” Jody went quiet before perking up once again. Her voice jumped several octaves. “But hey, there was like this book written a couple years ago. This woman wrote it and she had a section about Bowie the booby. She gave a couple of signed copies to the school. There’s one here someplace.” She fumbled through a bunch of drawers, slamming them so the metal rang in Mercer’s ears. “Yes! I found it.
Science Beyond the Fringe: Alchemy to Perpetual Motion and Those who Sought the Free Lunch
by Serena Ballard.”
Mercer was more than a little intrigued that a historian of
“How awful,” the elderly librarian said.
“Yes. He went on to say that the village has experienced nothing but bad luck ever since, cattle diseases, drought, and the like. He believes that because Bowie’s family doesn’t know how or where their ancestor died that his spirit still haunts them. It sounds a little strange to us, but animism is the prevalent faith in this part of Africa.”
“Dr. Mercer, I’m from New England. I know all about ghost stories.”
“I promised the headman that I would try to contact the Bowie family to tell them what happened to Chester.”
“And you think I can help?”
“It’s a hunch but I believe he was a rather gifted geologist and it’s possible that you have records of his academic career. Your records online go back only to 1900 and I was wondering if you could dig back a couple more years.”
“No digging required. We are about to load the years 1890 to 1899 onto the site. Give me a moment.” She typed so slowly that Mercer spelled out the name in his head. “And here we are. Chester T. Bowie, class of 1899 from Keeler State in New Jersey.”
He knew it. “Thank you, Mrs. Moreland. I can contact the college. Hopefully they have records going back that far that give some family history.”
“I’m not sure if that will help.”
Her tone sent a stone plummeting to the base of Mercer’s stomach. “How so?”
“It indicates here that this Chester Bowie graduated summa cum laude with a degree in ancient Greek history.”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t think this is your man. He wasn’t a geologist. He was a historian.”
Mercer cursed and immediately sensed Mrs. Moreland’s disapproval over the phone. He apologized, thanking her for her time. He stared into space for a minute, his hand still holding the portable phone. “What the hell,” he said and dialed information for the small New Jersey college.
“Our records go back to the day the school was founded by Benjamin Keeler in 1884,” a perky coed named Jody in the alumni office assured Mercer when he asked.
“I’m looking for information about Chester Bowie. He graduated in 1899.”
“Oh sure,” Jody said as though she knew the man. “Bowie the booby.”
“Excuse me?”
“Oh, it’s a nickname he had. He is sort of, like, a legend here.”
“How so?”
“He was a student here and then became a teacher. I guess he was a real whack job. He vanished in the 1930s or something.”
The timing could fit had Mercer been wrong about the African woman’s age. “Why do you say he was a whack job?”
“I’m not sure. Students here use his name if someone does something stupid, like you know ‘pulling a Chester.’ It’s just, like, a thing we say.”
Mercer had thought using the word “like” so often had died out a decade ago. “Is there anyone in the office who could give me a bit more information?”
“Um, not really. I’m here by myself and I don’t know when my boss is coming back. She’s on maternity leave.” Jody went quiet before perking up once again. Her voice jumped several octaves. “But hey, there was like this book written a couple years ago. This woman wrote it and she had a section about Bowie the booby. She gave a couple of signed copies to the school. There’s one here someplace.” She fumbled through a bunch of drawers, slamming them so the metal rang in Mercer’s ears. “Yes! I found it.
Science Beyond the Fringe: Alchemy to Perpetual Motion and Those who Sought the Free Lunch
by Serena Ballard.”
Mercer was more than a little intrigued that a historian of
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