Old Bones, page 21
“Go on.”
“The Institute hopes to recoup the cost of the expedition by…recovering a hoard of gold believed to have been hidden near the camp.”
Corrie could hardly believe what she’d just heard. “You mean, as in buried treasure?”
“Essentially, yes.”
“Would you please explain?”
Corrie listened as Nora related the history of Wolfinger’s chest of gold, his murder, and the gold coins they had discovered on two sets of remains. “We believe the rest is hidden close by,” she said in conclusion.
“Have you been looking for it?”
“Yes. After Peel left. We thought it best to—to get that part of the expedition safely out of the way, if possible.”
“But you haven’t found it?”
Nora shook her head.
“What’s the total estimated value?”
“Twenty million dollars.”
It took Corrie a moment to process this. “Twenty million? And it goes to the finder?”
“No. It’s to be divided, a third to the state of California, a third to the feds, and a third to the Institute. For obvious reasons, we have to keep that aspect of the expedition under wraps. But it’s all spelled out in the fine print of the permits.”
Corrie scribbled in her notebook, trying not to appear incredulous at this revelation. She considered asking Nora why she hadn’t mentioned it before, but realized she’d probably get an evasive answer. The archaeologist had not exactly been cooperative, failing to notify her when she found the Parkin skeleton, and she sure as hell hadn’t mentioned anything about any gold on Corrie’s brief first visit to the camp. There was something bizarre, if not fishy, going on up here, she now felt sure—and she felt equally sure that, one way or another, it was linked to the missing Parkin remains she was investigating.
“Who else knows about the gold?” she asked.
“Everyone in camp. A few individuals at the Institute. We’ve obviously been keeping the information restricted. The last thing anybody wants is for this place to be overrun with treasure seekers.”
“So Peel knew of the gold?”
“Actually, no. He left before we confided in the full team.”
“And Dr. Benton?”
“He was the one who first became aware of its existence.”
Corrie paused. This was such an unexpected turn, she was finding it hard to formulate questions.
“Getting back to Peel’s death,” she said. “What were his relations with the others in camp?”
“He was a bit of a loner. I never got to know him well.”
“No conflicts?”
“Not that I knew of. No friends, either.”
“Nobody who might have reason to want him dead?”
Nora stared at her. “You don’t think Peel was murdered, do you?”
Corrie pondered this. She wasn’t sure of the answer herself—but stirring the pot now just might produce results.
“It’s possible.”
“Anything’s possible. Why would you think that?”
“My understanding is that Peel was an expert horseman and wilderness guide,” said Corrie. “He had a headlamp. Most important, there was a contusion on his head that looked like it might have happened prior to the fall.”
“You mean, he was clobbered on the head and then thrown off the cliff?”
“Yes.”
“I saw Peel’s head. It was a mess, and I noticed several contusions—not just one. How can you be sure they weren’t caused by the fall?”
This was, unfortunately, a fair question. Given the environmental conditions and the state of the body, Corrie couldn’t answer it—not without a meticulous examination at a forensic lab. So she said nothing.
“But who would have done it? I mean, as far as I know, we’re the only people up here.”
Corrie let the tension build. Silence, she had been taught in interrogation classes, was one of the most effective tools.
“Are you suggesting,” Nora said, her voice rising, “it was one of us?”
“We can’t rule out unknown persons up in these mountains, but that scenario seems less likely.”
Nora stared in disbelief and growing anger. “And this is why you want to question us?”
“Yes.”
“I can tell you, none of us are killers. Besides, why would anyone murder Peel?”
“In recent months, three Parkin graves have been robbed and a grave digger murdered. A living Parkin has disappeared, presumably murdered as well. And now another Parkin skull is missing—and the man who stole it is dead under suspicious circumstances.” She paused. “Someone seems awfully interested in the Parkin family.”
Nora shook her head. “It just seems so crazy. Why?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
Corrie could see Nora was shaken up. “Could you please ask Dr. Benton to come in? And after him I’d like to question your archaeological team, and the others tomorrow.”
34
AFTER NORA LEFT, Corrie took a moment to jot some questions in her notebook and check the recording she’d just made while waiting for Dr. Benton to arrive. The tent was pleasantly warm, the air fresh. It was nice being in the mountains, even if this was her first real job in the field and she felt stressed out as a result. She took another deep breath and tried to tamp down her nervousness. The practice interrogation sessions at the Academy had been straightforward, leaving her ill-prepared for the sort of investigation she was engaged in now—in which she could see no motive, develop no hypothesis of a crime. All she had were a lot of disconnected facts and coincidences, along with a gut feeling.
One of the things she’d been taught at the Academy was to clarify the facts, work chronologically, and—especially—resist forming ideas. But as Clive Benton entered the tent, Corrie realized she had already formed an idea about him, and it wasn’t good. The man was not a slope-shouldered, meek, bespectacled historian; he was tall and fit, not rugged exactly, but with a good-looking, weather-beaten face from which two baby-blue eyes looked out at her own. Maybe it was the good looks that put her off, but more likely it was the fact that he, and no one else, had set in motion the events that led to the discovery of Albert Parkin’s skull—now, unfortunately, missing.
“Please have a seat,” she said.
He pulled up the folding chair and sat down. His attractive face was marred by a scowl he made no effort to hide.
Corrie turned on the recorder again and went through the preliminaries.
“Dr. Benton,” she said, “I’d like to know the source of your interest in the Donner Party history.”
He gave a sigh of impatience. “I’m a collateral descendant of the Breen family. They were one of the families that formed the Donner Party. I’ve been fascinated with the subject from childhood. I majored in history in college and got a PhD from Stanford. My dissertation was on the Donner Party. You know most of this already.”
“I know we’ve discussed some of this before, but I’m going over these points for the record, if you don’t mind. How did you get from that interest to this specific excavation?”
He gave a distinct sigh of annoyance. “Historians had known that Tamzene Donner, George Donner’s wife, kept a journal. It had never been found. I managed to track it down.”
“How?”
“I found it in a deserted house that once belonged to the daughter of Jacob Donner.”
“How did you know to look there?”
“An educated guess.”
“That’s rather vague. You didn’t have more specific information?”
“I was pretty sure the daughter had it, and I figured it must still be somewhere among her stuff, given that no one else ever saw it or remarked on it.”
“You found it and…what? Bought it from the family?”
A hesitation. “Well, no. The house had been vacant for many years.” He sat back rather defiantly. “I entered the house to save it from imminent destruction.”
“Let me just clarify this point,” Corrie said. “You trespassed and took the journal, even though you had no legal right to it. In other words, you stole it.”
The defiant look grew more pronounced. “It was a priceless historical document. It would have been lost forever. The bulldozers were about to tear the place down. So yes, I broke the law. Go ahead and arrest me.” He held out his hands in dramatic fashion, as if for handcuffs.
“Dr. Benton, you can put your hands away.” For now, she almost said.
He withdrew his hands.
“That explains the first step. So how did you go from the journal to this project?”
“When I read the journal, I realized it contained vital information regarding the location of the Lost Camp. Since I’m not an archaeologist, I brought the idea to Nora and the Institute. I suggested they finance it with the gold presumed to be hidden in the area.” He spread his hands. “End of story.”
Interesting that, unlike Nora Kelly, Benton had not hesitated to bring up the gold. “And you’re the one who figured out there was gold hidden up here?”
“Historians have known forever that one of the pioneers, Wolfinger, was carrying gold, but I was the first to determine the amount.”
“How?”
“Old bank records.”
“I see. And where do you think this gold might be hidden?”
“Somewhere in those cliffs that surround the dig site.” He leaned forward. “I might note that, having realized almost a year ago the gold was up here, I could have come up on my own, found it, and bugged out with no one the wiser. But I didn’t.”
“Why not?”
He laughed. “You certainly are direct. I didn’t because I’m an honest man. I care more about history than money. It was important for the gold to be recovered in the right way, through a legitimate dig. Even though it meant I wouldn’t get a penny of it.”
These points were all hard to refute, Corrie thought as she made notes. She moved on to the next set of questions in her notebook. “Where were you on May second?”
“What happened then?”
“That’s the day Rosalie Parkin disappeared. The floor of her bedroom was covered with so much of her blood, it’s being treated as a likely homicide.”
“And I take it you’re looking for an alibi?” He laughed again. “I don’t even need to check my calendar. I was driving up here from Santa Fe, along with all of the scientists now here on the dig.”
“And on April twenty-second?”
“April twenty-second.” He pulled out his phone and did examine his calendar. “I temporarily put aside preparations for this expedition and took a flight from Santa Fe to attend a western history conference. At the University of Oklahoma in Norman, with hundreds of witnesses. Did something sinister happen on that date, as well?”
“That’s the night a Parkin corpse was exhumed from the cemetery in Glorieta Pass. And a body was shot and left on top of the coffin.”
“Looks like I’m off the hook, then,” he said, wiping his brow in mock relief.
“These are routine questions, Dr. Benton.”
“Routine?” He rose and placed his hands on the table, leaning toward her. “Let me just tell you to your face: this whole idea is ridiculous.”
Corrie was about to respond, but she remembered what an instructor at the Academy had said: when they’re angry, shut up and let them keep talking.
“From what you’ve told us,” he went on, “it seems these Parkin disappearances have been going on for less than a year. My research into the Donner Party and the Lost Camp has been a twenty-year project. Not to brag, but my scholarly credentials are impeccable. I’ve already demonstrated my honesty by not scooping up the gold. You are absolutely barking up the wrong tree, and I doubt if you’re doing your career any good in the process.”
Corrie waited. He seemed finished.
“Any more questions?” he asked.
“Not for now. I may have more after I interview the others.”
“I’ll bet they’re just lining up.” He turned to leave.
Corrie said evenly, “Could you please send in Jason Salazar?”
“Sure, why not?” He exited the tent, shaking his head, and called for Salazar.
35
AFTER CORRIE FINISHED interviewing Salazar and Adelsky—they had little of note to add—she asked Nora to show her Parkin’s broken clavicle, then packed up her stuff and hiked the half mile down the trail to the camp. She arrived around three in the afternoon to find the place deserted. She went back to her tent, organized her gear, read through her notes, and made a few more. And then she began writing a preliminary summary for Agent Morwood.
She heard Maggie outside, banging pots and pans as she started to get things ready for dinner. Corrie emerged from the tent and sat down by the fire, next to Burleson, who was reading The Education of Henry Adams.
“Mr. Burleson?”
He looked up.
“I’d like to address the group tonight at dinner. If you could please make sure everyone is present, I’d appreciate it.”
She found his eyes lingering on her questioningly. “Is it about Peel?”
“That—and other things.”
He nodded.
By sunset, everyone had straggled back into camp. Burleson was opening a bottle of wine—apparently, an evening ritual.
“If you’ll all gather around the campfire,” he said, “Special Agent Swanson wanted an opportunity to speak to the group.”
As Maggie stirred a simmering pot of stew, all eyes turned to Corrie. She swallowed and tried to tamp down her nervousness.
“Thank you,” she began. “Tomorrow, I’d like the opportunity to question the three of you from Red Mountain Ranch. I’ve already spoken to the archaeological team.”
Wiggett, the assistant wrangler, raised a finger. “The sheriff already spoke to us. He says it was an accident. What’s there to talk about?”
Corrie shifted. She could feel the resistance from the group. “I’m not sure I agree with the sheriff.”
At this, a collective murmur rose. “Come on,” said Wiggett. “You don’t actually think Peel was murdered, do you?”
“I’m still gathering information.” She hesitated, then decided to go ahead and share her suspicions. “But in my opinion, at least one of the injuries to Peel’s head looked as if it predated the fall.”
This caused considerable consternation.
“You think one of us did it?” Maggie asked.
“I haven’t drawn any conclusions.” Corrie began to feel annoyed by this questioning.
“But you think it,” Maggie said. “I can see it in your face!”
Nora broke in. “Hold on. I’m as unhappy about this as anyone, but Agent Swanson is only doing her job.”
Thank you, Corrie thought. She was surprised—especially given Nora’s own feeling about drawing conclusions, given the state of the corpse.
“Why the hell would anyone kill Peel?” Maggie repeated. “Where’s the motive?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Corrie said. “The twenty million dollars in gold hidden around here might well be motive enough for a homicide. I noticed nobody was in camp when I returned this afternoon. I wonder what all of you were up to.”
“Now just a minute,” Burleson said. “If you’re suggesting we were out treasure hunting, I’ve already forbidden that.”
“All I’m asking,” Corrie said, trying to keep the exasperation out of her voice, “is everyone’s cooperation.”
There was a restless movement among the group.
“If you really think it’s murder,” Maggie said, “then you’ve got to suspect one of us. Right? It’s like an old mystery novel, where everyone’s trapped on an island or something. Ain’t nobody else up here.”
“There’s no need to speculate,” Corrie said. But she could see that what Maggie said was already beginning to take root.
“The honest truth is, we don’t know who might be in this neck of the woods,” Burleson said. “This is big country—anyone could be wandering around up here. Camping. Eavesdropping. And who knows how far the rumors of gold might have leaked?”
“Are you suggesting one of us has a hidden partner, out there in the mountains?” Salazar asked.
“I’m only saying my team didn’t know about the gold until we were already here—and our only connection to the outside world is your satellite phone.”
“So by elimination, one of us from the Institute set this up?”
“I’m not saying anybody set anything up,” Burleson told Salazar. “Besides, even if Agent Swanson is right, it’s not necessarily us, or you—there are people at the Institute who know about the gold.”
“Only the president and chairman of the board,” said Nora. “And there’s no way either one of them would divulge it.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand why we’re even talking about this,” Wiggett said. “The idea that one of us was involved in Peel’s death is bullshit. The idea that Peel was murdered is bullshit.”
“Maybe so,” said Corrie. “But if we are dealing with a homicide, regardless of whether it’s someone in the group or outside, it might be a good idea for you all to stay in pairs when leaving camp from now on—especially after dark.”
That, she noted, shut them up.
* * *
Dinner was a silent affair. Corrie ate fast and then retreated to her tent to work on her notes. Being an FBI agent was hard in ways she hadn’t expected. She wasn’t quite sure how it happened, but it seemed that, in trying to do her job, she had managed to piss off just about everyone: the archaeologists and the ranch staff, the sheriff and Forest Service guys. What was she doing wrong? Or was this how it always was?
As she lay on top of her sleeping bag long after everyone had gone to bed, wondering if there was a way she could be handling things better, she heard a blood-curdling scream. Leaping up, she grabbed her holster and pulled out the Glock. She raced out of the tent. Headlamps and flashlights were going on all over as everyone piled out to see what had happened.
The cook, Maggie Buck, stood before her tent in her pajamas, hugging herself, sobbing and shaking.
