Linda Fairstein - The Bone Vault

Gaylord passed a large metal ring with dozens of long keys dangling from it to Erik Poste and walked out.

Chapman took his cell phone from his pocket to see whether there were any messages.

“You can forget about getting calls down here, Detective,” Anna Friedrichs said. “Might as well use the phone on that table. We’re so deep inside the museum that cell phones don’t penetrate. Too many thick steel beams in the foundation. It’s the bane of my existence when I’m stuck working in the basement.”

He dialed the number from the museum phone and asked for Mercer Wallace, who got on the line. “Don’t tell your boss what I’m about to ask you to do, ‘cause someone up there dropped the ball on this. See if you can find a sixty-one from spring or summer of last year. Three-four precinct. Your complaining witness is a Katrina Grooten. Female, white, about twenty-eight years old. Sneak a copy of the file out, and Coop is buying us dinner at-?” He looked at me for the answer.

“Primola.”

“Hear that? Meet us there any time after seven.”

The complaint report, the NYPD’s uniform force form number 61, along with the follow-ups from the detective division known as 5s, would tell the story of Katrina Grooten’s assault. Precinct cops would likely have responded to the original complaint and filled out the initial paperwork, referring the investigation to the detectives of the well-trained Special Victims Squad. If the case had been closed without an arrest, these papers would have to explain why.

“Shall we get started?” Erik Poste led us out of the room. Mike walked beside him while I followed with Anna Friedrichs, and Lissen brought up the rear.

“Each department has its own storeroom, acres and acres of it here under the museum.”

“Turf battles?”

“Of course, Detective. Mr. Gaylord’s Egyptian galleries are crowd pleasers, always have been. His exhibits take up an inordinate amount of space. Giant stone sculptures and actual pieces of temples and tombs. Dendur was shipped over here from the Aswan as six hundred and eighty-two enormous pieces of rock, and stored wherever they could find a niche, until it could be reassembled as you see it today.”

We reached another doorway and Erik Poste searched for an engraved number on the shank of one of the keys. He found one that matched the lock and opened the door. Ahead of us on either side were endless lines of funerary objects, some exposed and others sticking partway out of packing crates, with painted figurines and jasper animals sitting upon their backs. Many had plastic drop cloths draped over them, while hundreds more collected dust.

“I believe Mr. Gaylord has about thirty-six thousand objects from his collection on display upstairs. If you care to hazard a guess about how many remain down here, I’ll be happy to take the bet.”

Mike was walking up and down the narrow rows, looking at labels and reading tags affixed to the objects. He called back to Poste and Friedrichs, “But all the Egyptian stuff is in here, right?”

“Not exactly. There’s overflow, especially because so many of the pieces are oversize, and that goes into some of our underpopulated areas.”

“What would they be?”

“Islamic art, for example. It’s one of our smaller departments. Artifacts, miniatures, ceramic tiles. The pieces aren’t as bulky, don’t take up as much room. Same for musical instruments. It’s not uncommon for some larger pieces-whether Egyptian relics or American period furniture-to be moved for the purpose of storage.”

“Do the other curators get annoyed at Gaylord for using their space?”

“Of course not. And he’s not the only one who trespasses. I’ve got thousands of paintings in my division. And I need room to do restoration. Many of the pieces are quite sizable and the canvases must be spread out for weeks while workers tend to them. You call on a friendly neighbor, examine his quarters, and find some way to beg for the area you need.”

Mike walked back to us. “These things aren’t even in numerical order. They’re all out of whack.”

“That’s why we have students and scholars, Detective. Eager young interns. They like nothing better than poring over these treasures and having that ‘eureka!’ moment when they’ve put their hands on a missing masterpiece. I can assure you that all of these things are carefully cataloged in each department and in the overall collection. They can all be tracked and traced. At least, we’ve always assumed that.”

“The sarcophagus in which Ms. Grooten was found, do you know about that?”

Friedrichs answered: “Mr. Gaylord told us about it shortly before you arrived here.”

“Why is it that no one can tell us where it had been stored?”

“There are several possibilities, Miss Cooper. We expect to narrow it down within the week.” Erik Poste played with his key chain. “Mr. Lissen and Miss Drexler are going over all the records. This storeroom is one of them.”

“Makes it look like trying to find a dollar bill you’ve dropped on the floor at Grand Central Station,” Chapman said, trying to sketch the layout in his notepad.

“I’ll show you some of the other areas as well, where the Egyptian overflow usually goes. I guess you’ll have us all looking for the missing mummy now, won’t you, Detective?” Poste said as he walked back to the doorway.

“Have you had a good look at the sarcophagus?” Friedrichs asked. “If it was ever considered for the bestiary exhibit, it might even have been carted over to Natural History at some point in the last few months, to be vetted and photographed for the show.”

“Why vetted?”

“To be certain it was authentic. We’ve suffered that embarrassment before. Put on the big show only to learn that the featured artwork was a forgery or a fake.”

“Why would the coffin be in the show?”

“Some of those ancient Egyptian pieces are richly decorated with animal paintings. Not just the ones that belonged to royal families, but also just the well-to-do. You’ll see baboons with their arms raised in worship of some god, the hippopotamus that was the patroness of women during pregnancy, or a cobra whose tail encircled the sun for some reason I can’t remember. There were falcons and scarabs and sacred cats, many of them portrayed on funeral objects of the wealthy.”

“I doubt anyone would have gone to the trouble of moving a sarcophagus over to Natural History,” Erik Poste said.

“Objects-even large, heavy ones like that-were being carted back and forth every week,” Anna said, correcting him. “Somebody must have put it on the list to be shipped overseas. I’ve asked Maury to check out those intermuseum transfers, too.”

We continued back along the long, gray corridor and around another corner, more than a city block away. Again, Erik Poste inserted a key in a lock and stepped away to let us enter. Here, hundreds of paintings were displayed, one on top of another until they reached the high ceiling, all encased in glass for the entire length of the room. The lighting was dim and none of it shone directly on the canvases. It was obvious we had come to the European painting area, Poste’s professional home.

“It’s a bit easier to store paintings. Although the size varies, and our walls can make the accommodation to hold them, they’re all quite flat. I have a much easier time keeping records of what’s in here.”

Again, Mike walked up and down the long rows, examining tags and sketching the setup. “What’s this door?” He was out of sight, at the far corner of the room.

“It’s open, Detective. Go right in.” We made our way back to find Chapman, who was standing inside a room the size of my office. It was like a carpentry workshop, with pieces of wood and parts of gilded frames against the walls and on the tabletops. “In each department’s storage area, there are shops like these. Some are for the conservators who restore works of art, others make frames or do repairs.”