“You get into a rhythm,” said Quigley. “The Zen of digging, I call it. These young kids, they attack it full-bore, all that nervous energy. They think it’s a treasure hunt and they’re in a rush to find the gold before anyone else does. Or before the semester ends, whichever comes first. They exhaust themselves, or they find only dirt and rocks and they lose interest. Most of them do, anyway. But the serious ones, the rare ones who stick with it, they understand that a human lifetime is just a blink of the eye. In a single season, you can’t dig up what took centuries to accumulate.”
Frost pulled off his sunglasses and mopped the sweat from his forehead. “So, uh, what are you digging for down there, Professor?”
“Garbage.”
“Huh?”
“This is a trash midden. An area where refuse was discarded. We’re looking for broken pottery, animal bones. You can learn a lot about a community by examining what they chose to throw away. And this was a most interesting community here.” Quigley rose to his feet, grunting with the effort, and swiped a sleeve across his weathered brow. “These old knees are about ready for replacement again. That’s what goes first in this profession, the damn knees.” He clambered up a ladder and emerged from the trench.
“Isn’t this a magnificent spot?” he said, gazing around at the valley, where ancient ruins studded the landscape. “This canyon was once a ceremonial site, a place for sacred rituals. Have you toured the park yet?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Jane. “We just flew into Albuquerque today.”
“You come all the way from Boston, and you aren’t going to take a look at Chaco Canyon? One of the finest archaeological sites in the country?”
“Our time’s limited, Professor. We came to see you.”
He gave a snort. “Then take a look around you, because this site is my life. I’ve spent forty seasons in this canyon, whenever I wasn’t teaching in the classroom. Now that I’m retired from the university, I can devote myself entirely to digging.”
“For trash,” said Jane.
Quigley laughed. “Yes. I suppose one could look at it that way.”
“Is this the same site where Lorraine Edgerton was working?”
“No, we were over there, across the canyon.” He pointed to a tumble of stone ruins in the distance. “I had a team of students working with me, both undergraduate and graduate level. It was the usual mix. Some of them were actually interested in archaeology, but some were here just for the credits. Or to have a good time and maybe get laid.”
That was not a word she expected out of a seventy-eight-year-old’s mouth, but then this was a man who’d lived and worked for most of his career alongside randy college students.
“Do you remember Lorraine Edgerton?” asked Frost.
“Oh, yes. After what happened, I certainly remember her. She was one of my graduate students. Thoroughly dedicated and tough as nails. As much as they wanted to blame me for what happened to Lorraine, she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself.”
“Who wanted to blame you?”
“Her parents. She was their only child, and they were devastated. Since I was supervising the dig, of course they thought I should be held responsible. They sued the university, but that didn’t bring their daughter back. In the end, it probably caused her father’s heart attack. Her mother died a few years after that.” He shook his head. “It was the strangest thing, how the desert just swallowed that girl up. She waved goodbye one afternoon, rode off on her motorbike, and vanished.” He looked at Jane. “And now you say her body’s turned up in Boston?”
“But we believe she was killed here, in New Mexico.”
“So many years ago. And now we finally learn the truth.”
“Not all of it. That’s why we’re here.”
“There was a detective back then who questioned us. I think his name was McDonald or something. Have you spoken to him?”
“His name was McDowell. He died two years ago, but we have all his notes.”
“Oh, dear. And he was younger than me, too. They were all younger than me, and now they’re dead. Lorraine. Her parents.” He looked at Jane with clear blue eyes. “And here I am, still hale and hearty. You just never know, do you?”
“Professor, I know it’s been a long time, but we want you to think back to that summer. Tell us about the day she disappeared. And about the students who were working with you.”
“Detective McDowell interviewed everyone who was here at the time. You must have read his notes.”
“But you actually knew the students. You must have kept some field notes. A written record of the excavation.”
Professor Quigley shot a worried look at Frost, whose face had flushed an even brighter shade of scarlet. “Young man, I can see you’re not going to last much longer in this heat. Why don’t we talk in my office, at the Park Service building? It’s air-conditioned.”
Lorraine Edgerton stood in the last row in the photograph, shoulder-to-shoulder with the men. Her black hair was pulled back in a ponytail, emphasizing the square jaw and the prominent cheekbones of a deeply tanned face.
“We called her the Amazon,” said Professor Quigley. “Not because she was particularly strong, but because she was fearless. And I don’t mean just physically. Lorraine would always speak her mind, whether or not it got her into trouble.”
“Did it get her into trouble?” asked Frost.
Quigley smiled as he gazed at the faces of his former students, who would now be well into middle age. If they were still alive.
“Not with me, Detective. I found her honesty refreshing.”
“Did the others?”
“You know how it is in any group. There are conflicts and alliances. And these were young people in their twenties, so you have to factor in the hormones. An issue I try my best to stay away from.”
Jane studied the photograph, which had been taken midway through the dig season. There were two rows of students, the front row crouched on their knees. Everyone looked trim and tanned and healthy in T-shirts and shorts. Standing beside the group was Professor Quigley, his face fuller, his sideburns longer, but already the lanky man he was today.
“There are a lot more women than men in this group,” Frost noted.
Quigley nodded. “I find it’s usually that way. Women seem drawn to archaeology more than men, and they’re more willing to do the tedious work of cleaning and sifting.”
“Tell me about these three men in the photo,” said Jane.
“What do you remember about them?”
“You’re wondering if any of them could have killed her.”
“The short answer would be yes.”
“Detective McDowell interviewed them all. He found nothing to implicate any of my students.”
“Nevertheless, I’d like to know what you remember about them.”
Quigley thought about it for a moment. He pointed to the Asian man beside Lorraine. “Jeff Chu, pre-med. Very bright but impatient sort of boy. I think he got bored out here. He’s a doctor now, in Los Angeles. And this one’s Carl something-or-other. As sloppy as they come. The girls always had to pick up after him. And this third fellow here, Adam Stancioff, was a music major. No talent as an archaeologist, but I remember he played the guitar quite well. The girls liked that.”
“Lorraine included?” asked Jane.
“Everyone liked Adam.”
“I meant, in the romantic sense. Was Lorraine involved with any of these men?”
“Lorraine had no interest in romance. She was single-minded in the pursuit of her career. That’s what I admired about her. That’s what I wish I saw more of in my students. Instead they come into my class with visions of Tomb Raider. Hauling dirt isn’t what they have in mind.” He paused, reading Jane’s face. “You’re disappointed.”