Aaron Elkins - Make No Bones

A quick search of the museum this morning had not turned up anything. A more thorough search was now under way, but without much hope. The bones with their Styrofoam base weighed only a pound or so. Break the plastic in half, and they could have fit into an attache case or a bag and been carted off anywhere.

When she finished, Miranda dropped into a chair. “So, somebody tell me. What’s this all about? Where do we go from here?”

“Miranda,” Gideon said, “if it didn’t get discovered until this morning, how do you know when it happened? Why couldn’t it have been after ten last night?”

“No, impossible. That’s when we locked up the place. I saw to it myself. And we have a good security system on the doors and windows, and a guard with a dog inside. Nobody got in after ten.”

Gideon nodded. “I see. And we know it didn’t happen before five, because that’s when we were all there in the room looking at it.”

“Exactly. It happened between five and ten. Had to.”

“Wait a minute,” Les said. “If your security system is so great, why didn’t the alarm go off when they opened the case?”

“Because there aren’t any alarms on the cases. They’re just on the doors and windows.”

“So, whoever did it, you’re telling me all they had to do was unscrew the front of the case and walk away with the bones? I mean, jeez, Louise.”

“Don’t look so amazed, Les. It’s pretty standard in museum work. In the first place, security costs money, something skeletal collections don’t have, and-”

“And in the second,” Leland interjected, “why worry, right? After all, who would want to steal a bunch of beat-up old bones?”

Miranda nodded with a wry smile. “That’s about it.”

The fingernail-clicking, which had gone on all this time, finally ceased. “If you have a night guard,” Callie said, “why didn’t he notice it was missing last night?”

“Because he didn’t know it was supposed to be there. That case has been sitting empty for almost a week. The exhibit only went into it yesterday morning, and nobody told Security about it.”

“Now wait, Miranda,” Harlow said slowly, “if it happened when you say it did, and the museum was closed to the public, that means that one of us-that is, one of the WAFA people-must be responsible.”

Leland raised his eyebrows at Gideon and tapped the side of his head with a forefinger. “Quick,” he murmured, “the man is quick.”

“Yes, I think we have to accept that, Harlow,” Miranda said patiently. “Any one of us who wanted it had the run of the museum. With everybody wandering around chattering during cocktails, anybody could have disappeared for half an hour without being noticed.”

“Honestly…” Callie uttered a disbelieving and unhumorous laugh. “Now really…I mean, the question is, who would…”

“No, Callie,” Leland interjected. “The question is, why anyone would-”

“No,” Les said, finishing the last of a raspberry Danish and licking his thumb, “the question is, who gives a shit? Oh, hey, sorry, Leland.”

“Really, Les-” Leland began.

Les shrugged him off. “Look, we’re not exactly talking about stealing Peking Man here, you know. What we’ve got here is a prank, no big deal. There was a lot of booze flowing last night. Some of the grad students had a few too many and figured it’d be funny. It is funny, sort of. They’ll give it back, don’t worry.”

“God, I hope you’re right,” Miranda said.

“Well, I can’t agree with Les,” Callie said, jerkily grinding out a half-smoked cigarette. “I don’t think it’s a joke, I think it’s a cry.”

Leland regarded her sadly, emitting a long, audible sigh. “A cry,” he said.

“A cry, a statement. For empowerment, for self-actualization. An appeal to be noticed, to be accepted as whole, valid individuals in their own right, not as, quote, students, end quote.” She pushed herself heatedly up from the table. “Look, I’m not saying that’s what it’s about on a conscious level, but on a deeper level, yes. I see it as an attempt to shake up the existing status-role hierarchy, the distribution of power, or rather the nondistribution of power.”

Empowerment. Self-actualization. Status-role hierarchy. From somewhere-the sociology department at Nevada? The business school?-Callie had appropriated these and similar terms, and made frequent and ardent use of them. She was reputed to run her own department using fearsome-sounding techniques like sociotechnical systems analysis and instrumented team facilitation. At the last WAFA meeting Gideon had attended, she had conducted a session called “Values Clarification for the Forensic Scientist: A Nonevaluative Simulation.” He’d sat through all three hours of it and come away thoroughly baffled.

Generally speaking, he kept well clear of Callie. No matter how impassioned she got, there was always a part of him that hung back, unwilling to buy what she was selling. The jargon might be right, but somehow the behavior didn’t quite jibe. And, genuine or not, all that concentrated earnestness could be overwhelming. After a conversation with her he tended to come away drained, while she seemed to go her way with more energy than ever.

“I believe the woman somehow feeds on one,” Leland had once remarked along similar lines, “like a veritable goddamn vampire.”

Her assessment of the theft left them in silence for several seconds. Harlow blinked nervously at her, one finger digging fitfully at a spot below his sternum. Leland stared out the window looking distantly amused. Les grinned more openly.

“Don’t you just love it?” he said to Gideon.

“Have the police been notified?” Leland asked.

“Well, that’s one of the reasons I wanted to talk to you,” Miranda said. She mooched a cigarette from Callie and lit it like someone not overly familiar with the process. A choky little cough when she inhaled confirmed this. “The fact is, I haven’t called them yet, and I’m not sure if I should. I think it’s just a prank too-”

Callie, drawing deeply on a fresh cigarette, shook her head theatrically.

“-and I think the bones will be returned,” Miranda went on. “At least, I’m hoping they are. Well, if that happens, I don’t see the point of a lot of publicity and fuss, maybe even a police record for some of the kids.”

“Call the police, Miranda,” Leland said firmly. “For one thing, they’re not ‘kids’; they’re in their twenties and thirties. For another, putting the fear of God into them just might have a salutary effect, even at this late juncture.” Miranda looked uncomfortable.

“No, I just can’t agree with that, Leland,” Callie said tightly.

“Somehow,” Leland said, “I fail to be astonished.”

Callie flushed but said nothing. Unlike the others, Callie let Leland get under her skin. An ability to take things with a grain of salt was not one of her strong points.

“Come on, give them a chance to return them on their own,” Les said. He scratched his short beard. Biceps bulged. “Come on, guys, let’s be honest: we all did things just as dumb when we were going to school.”

“I most certainly did not,” Leland said.

Les grinned at him. “Hey, I believe you, Leland.”

“Is there any insurance involved?” Gideon asked.

“No,” Miranda said. “Just on the cases, not the contents.”

He nodded, unsurprised. Objets d’anthropologie were not quite the same as objets d’art. What was the market value on a bunch of burned or otherwise mutilated human bones? What was the estimated replacement cost? And if you could arrive at one, just how would you go about replacing them?

“I’ll tell you what’s really worrying me,” Miranda said. “What’s the museum board going to say? And what about Jasper’s family, for God’s sake?”