"Actually, Arthur, I'd need something a little more accurate. This-"
"Accurate?" Arthur cried. “Good heavens, man, this is a Cusinart!"
"Well, I know, and I'm sure it's a good one. But it's a spring scale. I need a-what do you call it-a beam scale, a counter scale."
"You don't mean the old-fashioned kind where you put little weights on one side?"
"Right, and something that will weigh in grams and centigrams."
"I'll see what I can do,” Arthur said. He was put out. The box was snatched back. “I'm afraid I have more bad news for you,” he said grumpily. “We've been unable to come up with the records you wanted. If such things ever existed."
"Records?"
"Of the recovery of those bones in 1964; the ones that came out of the glacier. Owen told me you were interested."
Gideon had forgotten all about that too. First-thing-in-the-morning corpses had a way of clearing the mind. “Damn, they could have been useful. You don't have any files on it at all?"
"We don't have any files from 1964. On anything."
"Maybe your office in Washington, D.C.-"
Arthur shook his head. “I called. Nothing."
"But there was a skeletal-identification expert involved. He must have submitted a report somewhere."
"No doubt, but it's a little difficult when we don't even have a name to go on."
Gideon nodded. “Well, thanks for trying, anyway.” Arthur took pity on him. “I still have Owen working on it for you. Maybe he'll turn something up."
"Maybe."
"You never know,” Arthur said more cheerfully, his mind turning elsewhere; to his coming press conference, perhaps. “You just never know."
It didn't take Owen long to turn something up. By the time Gideon got back to his room to wash up, there was a note under the door.
Gideon Found your skeletal-identification expert for you. Professor Kenneth Worriner, University of Alaska Anthropology Department. Retired, still lives in Juneau. Telephone number 586-3774.
We aim to please.
Owen
Glacier Bay Lodge, which advertised itself as Alaska's premier wilderness resort, took the “wilderness” part seriously. Communication with the outside world wasn't easy. There were no television sets, no radios, no telephones in the rooms. There was a single pay phone on the veranda, but it required a calling credit card, which Gideon was unable to find in his wallet. (Did he own one? He made a mental note to ask Julie.) The only other telephone was in the manager's office, where the shaken Mr. Granle had taken refuge behind his locked door.
He answered Gideon's knock, understandably apprehensive, and when he saw it was Gideon he shrank back. The message on his drawn face was as clear as if he'd spoken: My God, what's happened now?
"It's all right,” Gideon said quickly. “I just wanted to use your phone."
Mr. Granle motioned to it and edged out of his office as Gideon came in, giving Gideon plenty of room. He closed the door softly behind him.
Gideon dialed the number, a little uneasy about calling Worriner now that he was doing it. Say Worriner had been in his forties in 1964; he'd be in his seventies now. If he'd been in his fifties, he'd be in his eighties. How welcome would this call be? How much would he remember? How much would he care?
The telephone was answered on the third ring. The voice was thin, pinched. “Hello?"
In his eighties, Gideon thought. Well into them. “Professor Worriner?"
A noticeable hesitation. “Yes.” No one had called him professor in a while.
"My name is Gideon Oliver, sir. I'm a physical anthropologist too. I'm up at Glacier Bay, and I'm working on some human skeletal fragments-"
"Please hold on, I better turn down the TV.” The telephone clunked down. The old man's speech had been a little slurred. Dentures not in? A stroke? Was Worriner up to this? Gideon shifted uncomfortably.
Worriner returned after what seemed like a long time. “Yes?"
"I'm working on some skeletal fragments up here, sir, and-"
"Excuse me. Is this going to take a while?"
"Well, a few minutes, I suppose. It's about-"
Gideon heard a querulous sigh. “Hold on, I better turn down the soup.” The telephone was put down again, more softly. A murmured, regretful “almost ready, too,” was just audible.
Gideon shifted again in the overpadded chair. He was keeping Worriner from his meal, something octogenarians didn't usually take lightly. This wasn't going very well.
After a good ninety seconds Worriner returned. “Yes, hello?"
"Sir, if this isn't a convenient time, I can-"
"No, it's quite all right.” He paused. “I'm sorry if I sounded uncordial."
"Not at all. The bones I'm working on seem to be from the same party that you worked on in 1964, and-"
"Gideon Oliver, did you say?"
"That's right."
"I know you by reputation, of course.” It was his first show of interest. “It's a pleasure to talk to you."
"Thank you.” Gideon wished intensely that he could say the same thing, but he'd never heard of Kenneth Worriner. He almost said it anyway, but settled for safety's sake on, “It's a pleasure to talk to you, sir."
"And you say you've found some more skeletal material from the Tirku survey?"
"That's right,” Gideon said, relieved. At least Worriner remembered.
A chair scraped. Worriner grunted as he sat down. “Well, that's very remarkable. What do you have? Where did you find it? Have you been able to make an identification?” His dry voice, vacant and listless a few moments before, was crackling. “Listen, have you seen a copy of my report? Did you find any evidence of-"
Gideon needn't have worried. When, after all, had he ever met an old physical anthropologist who'd lost his enthusiasm for the field? Mention bones and they came alive, whatever shape they were in. Gideon had high hopes of becoming such an old anthropologist himself one day.
"I'd like very much to see a copy of your report,” he said. “That's why I'm calling. Things have gotten more complicated, Professor. It looks as if there was a homicide involved."
"Please, call me Kenneth, will you? A homicide? Do you mean to say you've found signs of presumptively lethal antemortem trauma not attributable to the avalanche?"
Gideon smiled. That would have been a mouthful even for a man with his dentures in. “That's right, Kenneth; a one-inch perforation along the right squamous suture, at the parietal notch. Definitely lethal, definitely antemortem."
"Have you identified the skull? As I recall, there were two people involved, weren't there? No, three; two men and a woman. Is that right? It's been a long time."
"That's exactly right."
"Ah, you have no idea how much I'd like to come up and see what you have, Gideon. Unfortunately, I don't travel much anymore. I use a walker these days, you see, and people at airports seem to be in such a hurry-well, that's neither here nor there. Why am I nattering on? Of course I'll send you a copy of my report. And would you mind letting me know how things turn out?"
"What I'd really like is to come down to Juneau tomorrow and meet you, if that's possible. You could have a look at the fragments yourself; I'd appreciate your opinion."
There was a startled pause. “You mean come here? With the bones?
"If it's convenient."
"Convenient? My dear man, I'd be delighted. I may be a bit rusty, you understand."
"I'll take my chances. I don't suppose there are any photographs in the report? I thought we could try matching the new fragments against them. Maybe there are some pieces of the same bones."
"Photographs?” Worriner laughed. “Yes, there are photographs, but I'll do better than that."
"You mean you have casts? That's terrific. We-"