meeting?”
“WAFA?” Honeyman said.
“Western Association of Forensic Anthropologists. Their first meeting was at Whitebark Lodge. In 1981.” Honeyman laid down his pencil. For the first time a flicker of real interest showed in his eyes. “Is that so? All these same people?”
“Well, just a few of us,” Nellie said. “We’ve grown quite a bit since then, you know. Back in 1981 there were only…”
He stopped in mid-sentence, forgetting to close his mouth, his head tilted as if he were listening for something.
“What?” Honeyman said nervously. “What is it?”
“By gum,” Nellie said softly, incredulously. Jammed between the side of Honeyman’s desk and the wall, he leaned as far back as he could in the straight-backed chair, locked his hands behind his neck, and stared, seemingly at the marked-up boxes of a big “Executive Plan-Your-Month” calendar over Honeyman’s head. But his eyes were unfocused and Gideon could see that his mind was racing. He sat like that for a long time, then lowered his gaze and faced them, still not altogether back from wherever he’d been.
“By gum,” he said again. “I believe I know who that skeleton is.”
CHAPTER 8
“Well…who?” Honeyman asked.
“Chuck Salish,” Nellie said, and looked dreamily at Gideon. “Has to be. Think about it.”
Gideon frowned back at him. “Nellie, I don’t know who Chuck Salish is. Was.”
It took a moment for this to register. “You don’t—
No, of course you don’t. You weren’t there. Forgive me, I forgot. Chuck and Albert were going to go into business together when Albert retired, you know. Albert—”
“Albert, Albert, who’s Albert?” Honeyman was growing increasingly edgy.
The interruption seemed to wake Nellie up. His eyes drifted back into focus. “Albert Evan Jasper, of course. They were going to open a forensic consulting outfit. It would have been one of the first.”
“Chuck Salish,” Gideon repeated. The name was completely unfamiliar. “An anthropologist? I’ve never heard of him.”
“Anthropologist? No, what gave you that idea? He was an FBI agent, out of the Albuquerque office. He was—”
“FBI
agent?”
Honeyman stood up, opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. Still, it was a few seconds before anything came out. “You’re telling me I’ve got a—a dead FBI agent, a
murdered
FBI agent, lying on a table in the museum?”
“Yes, that’s right,” Nellie said calmly. “He was retiring, too, at about the same time Albert was. They’d worked together on a case or two, you see, and they’d gotten along, and they’d decided to go into business together, so—”
“Dear God, why me?” With a pitiful groan Honeyman flung himself back into his chair. “Well, what was he doing around
here?”
he demanded accusingly.
Nellie looked mildly back at him. “Do you suppose we could get out of this room? I could stand a little fresh air. And, my word, I’d give my soul for a hot cup of coffee. Farrell, you look as if you could use something yourself, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“What I could use is unhearing what you just told me,” Honeyman muttered.
A few minutes later they were settled around one of the awning-shaded tables outside Goody’s Soda Fountain on Wall Street, a block north of the Justice Building. Gideon was as glad as Nellie to be out of Honeyman’s stuffy office. It was a relief, almost a surprise, to see that the air was still clean and fresh, and to be among people who weren’t talking about buried skeletons and murdered FBI agents. Despite the temperature, which had now climbed into the promised nineties, Nellie had his hot coffee, a double espresso. Gideon had iced tea in front of him. Honeyman had bought a bottle of fruit-tinged mineral water.
Nellie tossed down half the coffee in two swallows and heaved a great sigh. He searched in the roomy pockets of his Bermudas, hauling out his pipe and two tobacco
“WAFA?” Honeyman said.
“Western Association of Forensic Anthropologists. Their first meeting was at Whitebark Lodge. In 1981.” Honeyman laid down his pencil. For the first time a flicker of real interest showed in his eyes. “Is that so? All these same people?”
“Well, just a few of us,” Nellie said. “We’ve grown quite a bit since then, you know. Back in 1981 there were only…”
He stopped in mid-sentence, forgetting to close his mouth, his head tilted as if he were listening for something.
“What?” Honeyman said nervously. “What is it?”
“By gum,” Nellie said softly, incredulously. Jammed between the side of Honeyman’s desk and the wall, he leaned as far back as he could in the straight-backed chair, locked his hands behind his neck, and stared, seemingly at the marked-up boxes of a big “Executive Plan-Your-Month” calendar over Honeyman’s head. But his eyes were unfocused and Gideon could see that his mind was racing. He sat like that for a long time, then lowered his gaze and faced them, still not altogether back from wherever he’d been.
“By gum,” he said again. “I believe I know who that skeleton is.”
CHAPTER 8
“Well…who?” Honeyman asked.
“Chuck Salish,” Nellie said, and looked dreamily at Gideon. “Has to be. Think about it.”
Gideon frowned back at him. “Nellie, I don’t know who Chuck Salish is. Was.”
It took a moment for this to register. “You don’t—
No, of course you don’t. You weren’t there. Forgive me, I forgot. Chuck and Albert were going to go into business together when Albert retired, you know. Albert—”
“Albert, Albert, who’s Albert?” Honeyman was growing increasingly edgy.
The interruption seemed to wake Nellie up. His eyes drifted back into focus. “Albert Evan Jasper, of course. They were going to open a forensic consulting outfit. It would have been one of the first.”
“Chuck Salish,” Gideon repeated. The name was completely unfamiliar. “An anthropologist? I’ve never heard of him.”
“Anthropologist? No, what gave you that idea? He was an FBI agent, out of the Albuquerque office. He was—”
“FBI
agent?”
Honeyman stood up, opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. Still, it was a few seconds before anything came out. “You’re telling me I’ve got a—a dead FBI agent, a
murdered
FBI agent, lying on a table in the museum?”
“Yes, that’s right,” Nellie said calmly. “He was retiring, too, at about the same time Albert was. They’d worked together on a case or two, you see, and they’d gotten along, and they’d decided to go into business together, so—”
“Dear God, why me?” With a pitiful groan Honeyman flung himself back into his chair. “Well, what was he doing around
here?”
he demanded accusingly.
Nellie looked mildly back at him. “Do you suppose we could get out of this room? I could stand a little fresh air. And, my word, I’d give my soul for a hot cup of coffee. Farrell, you look as if you could use something yourself, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“What I could use is unhearing what you just told me,” Honeyman muttered.
A few minutes later they were settled around one of the awning-shaded tables outside Goody’s Soda Fountain on Wall Street, a block north of the Justice Building. Gideon was as glad as Nellie to be out of Honeyman’s stuffy office. It was a relief, almost a surprise, to see that the air was still clean and fresh, and to be among people who weren’t talking about buried skeletons and murdered FBI agents. Despite the temperature, which had now climbed into the promised nineties, Nellie had his hot coffee, a double espresso. Gideon had iced tea in front of him. Honeyman had bought a bottle of fruit-tinged mineral water.
Nellie tossed down half the coffee in two swallows and heaved a great sigh. He searched in the roomy pockets of his Bermudas, hauling out his pipe and two tobacco
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