Tess Gerritsen - The Keepsake

“Why?”

“For too long, I left the operational details entirely in the hands of Dr. William Scott-Kerr, our former curator. I was abroad so much, I didn’t know what was happening here at home. But Mrs. Willebrandt saw his deterioration. How he began to misplace papers or affix the wrong labels to displays. Eventually he became so forgetful, he couldn’t identify even common implements. The tragedy is, this man was once brilliant, a former field archaeologist who’d worked all over the world. Mrs. Willebrandt wrote me about her concerns, and when I got home, I could see we had a serious problem. I didn’t have the heart to immediately dismiss him, and as it turned out, I didn’t have to. He was struck by a car and killed, right outside this building. Only seventy-four years old, but it was probably a blessing, considering the grim prognosis had he lived.”

“Was it Alzheimer’s?” asked Jane.

Simon nodded. “The signs were probably there for a decade, but William managed to cover it up well. The collection was left in complete disarray. We didn’t realize how bad things were until I hired Dr. Robinson three years ago, and he discovered that accession ledgers were missing. He couldn’t find documentation for a number of crates in the basement. In January, when he opened up the crate containing Madam X, he had no idea what was inside it. Believe me, we were all stunned. We had no inkling there was ever a mummy in the collection.”

“Miss Duke told us that most of the collection comes down from your family,” said Frost.

“Five generations of Crispins have personally wielded trowels and shovels. Collecting is our family passion. Unfortunately, it’s also a costly obsession, and this museum has sucked up what was left of my inheritance.” He sighed again. “Which leaves it where it is today-short of funds and dependent on volunteers. And donors.”

“Could that be how Madam X ended up here?” asked Frost.

“From a donor?”

“Donated artifacts do come our way,” Simon said. “People want a safe home for some prized antiquity that they can’t properly care for. Or they want a nice little plaque with their name on a permanent display for everyone to see. We’re willing to take almost anything.”

“But you have no record of a donated mummy?”

“Nicholas found no mention of one. And believe me, he searched. He made it his mission. In March we hired Josephine to help us with the Madam X analysis, and she couldn’t track down the mummy’s origins, either.”

“It’s possible Madam X was added to the collection when Dr. Scott-Kerr was curator,” said Debbie.

“The guy with Alzheimer’s,” said Jane.

“Right. And he could have misplaced the paperwork. It would explain things.”

“It sounds like a reasonable theory,” said Jane. “But we have to pursue other theories as well. Who has access to your basement?”

“The keys are kept at the reception desk, so pretty much everyone on staff does.”

“Then anyone on your staff could have placed Madam X in the basement?”

There was a moment’s silence. Debbie and Simon looked at each other, and his face darkened. “I don’t like what you’re implying, Detective.”

“It’s a reasonable question.”

“We are a venerable institution, staffed by excellent people, most of them volunteers,” said Simon. “Our docents, our student interns-they’re here because they’re dedicated to preservation.”

“I wasn’t questioning anybody’s dedication. I just wondered who had access.”

“What you’re really asking is, Who could have stashed a dead body down there?”

“It’s a possibility we have to consider.”

“Trust me, we’ve had no murderers employed here.”

“Can you be absolutely certain of that, Mr. Crispin?” Jane asked quietly, but her gaze left him no easy escape. She could see that her question had disturbed him. She had forced him to confront the awful possibility that someone he knew, now or in the past, could have brought death into this proud bastion of learning.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Crispin,” she finally said. “But things may be a little disrupted here for a while.”

“What do you mean?”

“Somehow a dead body ended up in your museum. Maybe she was donated to you a decade ago. Maybe she was placed here recently. The problem is, you have no documentation. You don’t even know what else is in your collection. We’re going to need to take a look at your basement.”

Simon shook his head in bewilderment. “And just what are you expecting to find?”

She didn’t answer the question; she didn’t need to.

“Is this absolutely necessary?” said Nicholas Robinson. “Do you have to do it this way?”

“I’m afraid we do,” said Jane, and handed him the search warrant. As he read it, Jane stood by with her team of three male detectives. Today she and Frost had brought in Detectives Tripp and Crowe for the search, and they all waited as Robinson took a painfully long time examining the warrant. The ever-impatient Darren Crowe give a loud huff of frustration, and Jane shot him an annoyed look of Cool it, a pointed reminder that she was in charge of this team, and he’d better toe the line.

Robinson frowned at the paperwork. “You’re searching for human remains?” He looked up at Jane. “Well, of course you’ll find them here. This is a museum. And I assure you, those bones on the third floor are ancient. If you’d like me to point out the relevant dental evidence-”

“It’s what you have stored in the basement that interests us. If you’ll unlock the door down there, we can get started.”

Robinson glanced at the other detectives who stood nearby and spotted the crowbar in Detective Tripp’s hands. “You can’t just go breaking open crates! You could damage priceless artifacts.”

“You’re welcome to observe and advise. But please don’t move anything or touch anything.”

“Why are you turning this museum into a crime scene?”

“We’re concerned that Madam X may not be the only surprise in your collection. Now, please come down with us to the basement.”

Robinson swallowed hard and looked at the senior docent, who’d been watching the confrontation. “Mrs. Willebrandt, would you call Josephine and tell her to come in right away? I need her.”

“It’s five minutes to ten, Dr. Robinson. Visitors will be arriving.”

“The museum will have to stay closed today,” said Jane. “We’d prefer that the media not catch wind of what’s going on. So please lock the front doors.”

Her order was pointedly ignored by Mrs. Willebrandt, who kept her gaze on the curator. “Dr. Robinson?”

He gave a resigned sigh. “It appears we have no choice in the matter. Please do as the police say.” Opening a drawer behind the reception desk, he took out a set of keys, then led the way past the wax statue of Dr. Cornelius Crispin, past the Greek and Roman marble busts, to the stairwell. A dozen creaking steps took them down to the basement level.

There he paused. Turning to Jane, he said: “Do I need an attorney? Am I a suspect?”

“No.”

“Then who is? Tell me that much at least.”

“This may date back to before your employment here.”

“How far back?”

“To the previous curator.”

Robinson gave a startled laugh. “That poor man had Alzheimer’s. You don’t really think old William was storing dead bodies down here, do you?”

“The door, Dr. Robinson.”

Shaking his head, he unlocked the door. Cool, dry air spilled out. They stepped into the room, and Jane heard startled murmurs from the other detectives as they glimpsed the vast storage area, filled with row upon row of crates stacked almost to the ceiling.