Douglas Preston - White Fire

Corrie Swanson stepped into the ladies’ room for the third time to check how she looked. A lot had changed with her since she’d transferred to the John Jay College of Criminal Justice at the beginning of her sophomore year. John Jay was a buttoned-down place. She had resisted it for a while, but finally realized she needed to grow up and play the game of life instead of acting the rebel forever. Gone were the purple hair, the piercings, the black leather jacket, the dark eye shadow and other Goth accoutrements. There was nothing she could do about the Möbius strip tattoo on the nape of her neck, beyond combing her hair back and wearing high collars. But someday, she realized, that would have to go as well.

If she was going to play the game, she was going to play it well.

Unfortunately, her personal transformation had taken place too late for her advisor, a former NYPD cop who had gone back to school and turned professor. She got the feeling his first impression of her had been that of a perp, and nothing she’d done in the year since she’d first met him had erased that. Clearly, he had it in for her. He had already rejected her first proposal for the Rosewell thesis, which involved a trip to Chile to do a perimortem analysis on skeletal remains discovered in a mass grave of Communist peasants murdered by the Pinochet regime back in the 1970s. Too far away, he said, too expensive for a research project, and besides it was old history. When Corrie replied that this was the point — these were old graves, requiring specialized forensic techniques — he said something about not involving herself in foreign political controversies, especially Communist ones.

Now she had another idea for her thesis, an even better one, and she was willing to do almost anything to see it happen.

Examining herself in the mirror, she rearranged a few strands of hair, touched up her conservative lipstick, adjusted her gray worsted suit jacket, and gave her nose a quick powdering. She hardly recognized herself; God, she might even be mistaken for a Young Republican. So much the better.

She exited the ladies’ room and walked briskly down the hall, her conservative pumps clicking professionally against the hard linoleum. Her advisor’s door was shut, as usual, and she gave it a brisk, self-confident rap. A voice inside said, “Come in.”

She entered. The office was, as always, neat as a pin, the books and journals all lined up flush with the edges of the bookshelves, the comfortable, masculine leather furniture providing a cozy air. Professor Greg Carbone sat behind his large desk, its acreage of burnished mahogany unbroken by books, papers, family photographs, or knickknacks.

“Good morning, Corrie,” Carbone said, rising and buttoning his blue serge suit. “Please sit down.”

“Thank you, Professor.” She knew he liked to be called that. Woe to the student who called him Mister or, worse, Greg.

He settled back down as she did. Carbone was a strikingly handsome man with salt-and-pepper hair, wonderful teeth, trim and fit, a good dresser, articulate, soft-spoken, intelligent, and successful. Everything he did, he did well, and as a result he was an accomplished asshole indeed.

“Well, Corrie,” Carbone began, “you are looking well today.”

“Thank you, Dr. Carbone.”

“I’m excited to hear about your new idea.”

“Thanks.” Corrie opened her briefcase (no backpacks at John Jay) and took out a manila file folder, placing it on her knee. “I’m sure you’ve been reading about the archaeological investigation going on down in City Hall Park. Next to the location of the old prison known as the Tombs.”

“Tell me about it.”

“The parks department has been excavating a small cemetery of executed criminals to make way for a new subway entrance.”

“Ah yes, I did read about that,” said Carbone.

“The cemetery was operational from 1858 to 1865. After 1865, all execution burials were moved to Hart Island and remain unavailable.”

A slow nod from Carbone. He looked interested; she felt encouraged.

“I think this would make for a great opportunity to do an osteological study of those skeletons — to see if severe childhood malnourishment, which as you know leaves osteological markers, might correlate with later criminal behavior.”

Another nod from Carbone.

“I’ve got it all outlined here.” She laid a proposal on the table. “Hypotheses, methodology, control group, observations, and analysis.”

Carbone laid a hand on the document, drew it toward himself, opened it, and began perusing.

“There are a number of reasons why this is a great opportunity,” she went on. “First, the city has good records on most of these executed criminals — names, rap sheets, and trial records. Those who were orphans raised in the Five Points House of Industry — about half a dozen — also have some childhood records. They were all executed in the same way — hanging — so the cause of death is identical. And the cemetery was used for only seven years, so all the remains come from roughly the same time period.”

She paused. Carbone was slowly turning over the pages, one after another, apparently reading. There was no way to tell what he was thinking; his face was a blank.

“I made a few inquiries, and it seems the parks department would be open to having a John Jay student examine the remains.”

The slow turning of the pages paused. “You already contacted them?”

“Yes. Just a feeler—”

“A feeler…You contacted another city agency without seeking prior permission?”

Uh-oh. “Obviously I didn’t want to bring you a project that might get shot down later by outside authorities. Um, was that wrong?”

A long silence, and then: “Did you not read your undergraduate handbook?”

Corrie was seized with apprehension. She had in fact read it — when she’d been admitted. But that was over a year ago. “Not recently.”

“The handbook is quite clear. Undergraduate students are not to engage other city departments except through official channels. This is because we’re a city institution, as you know, a senior college of the City University of New York.” He said this mildly, almost kindly.

“I…Well, I’m sorry, I didn’t recall that from the handbook.” She swallowed, feeling a rising panic — and anger. This was such unbelievable bullshit. But she forced herself to keep her cool. “It was just a couple of phone calls, nothing official.”

A nod. “I’m sure you didn’t deliberately violate university regulations.” He began turning the pages again, slowly, one after the other, not looking up at her. “But in any case I find other problems with this thesis proposal of yours.”

“Yes?” Corrie felt sick.

“This idea that malnourishment leads to a life of crime…It’s an old idea — and an unconvincing one.”

“Well, it seems to me worth testing.”

“Back then, almost everyone was malnourished. But not everyone became a criminal. And the idea is redolent of…how shall I put it?…of a certain philosophy that crime in general can be traced to unfortunate experiences in a person’s childhood.”

“But malnourishment — severe malnourishment — might cause neurological changes, actual damage. That isn’t philosophy; that’s science.”

Carbone held up her proposal. “I can already predict the outcome: you’ll discover that these executed criminals were malnourished as children. The real question is why, of all those hungry children, only a small percentage went on to commit capital crimes. And your research plan does not address that. I’m sorry, this won’t fly. Not at all.”