Linda Fairstein - The Bone Vault

We walked out onto Park Avenue and back to Mike’s car. “There’s probably a reason you didn’t tell me Mad Shirl was back in your life again. I’d like to know what that is.”

“Look, I called the squad. They’ll get it done. It’s not like she’s back after me, out on the street. You always overreact to situations like that.”

“Like a woman who’s walking around with a gun, thinks you’re the devil, knows where you work and where you live, and you don’t have a clue about how to find her? Damn right I want to know about it. Anything in that set of facts you don’t understand?”

“Sorry. I’ll keep you up to speed.” I glanced at my watch. “So we’re supposed to have most of the people who were working on the big exhibition gathered at Natural History. We’re a bit late, so they should all be assembled by now.”

“They opening up just for us?”

“Nope. The only two days the museum closes are Thanksgiving and Christmas. Who do you want to start with? Any ideas?”

“We’re gonna go with the group approach first. See some of the dynamic between the-”

“Among them.”

“That little grammatical dictator can’t ever shut off, huh? You’re just pissed off ‘cause the group meeting left you with such a bad headache last time we tried it.” He grinned at me, and I remembered our interrogation up at King’s College last December.

We parked and made our way past the entrance guards, who recognized us now, and called down to the basement, where the meeting was to be held. A student led us through the maze of corridors and staircases, down past the signs that readTHE BESTIARY and into a makeshift conference room in which the mostly familiar faces were talking over their coffee.

Anna Friedrichs poured a cup for each of us and pointed to seats at the table. I sat next to Erik Poste, who was examining a large woodcut, discussing it with a man I did not recognize.

“Hello, I’m Alexandra Cooper.”

“Richard Socarides, African mammals.”

Poste moved the black-and-white image so that I could see it. It was a stunningly detailed drawing of a rhinoceros with its singular horn, whiskered neck, scaly legs, and armored-plated body. “Can you imagine this, Miss Cooper?”

I studied the wonderful print, which seemed a perfect example for the show.

“Albrecht Dürer drew this beast. There he is, in Germany, 1515. No magazines or books or television to let him see the animal. The only rhinoceros ever shipped to Europe from Africa drowned on its way there. All he had to work from were the verbal descriptions of other people. And still to this day, no one has ever produced a better drawing of a rhino. From my collection, of course.” Poste, I remembered, was in charge of European paintings at the Met.

Socarides appeared to be about forty years old, with a serious mien and a more elegant style of dress than most of the Natural History staff. He was wearing a pinstriped suit, tasseled loafers, and a shirt with his monogram on the barrel cuff. “Better than the real thing, Erik. How goes your investigation, Ms. Cooper?”

“Fine, thank you. We’re making progress, slowly.”

“I would think the odds are against you. I watch all those forensic shows on television. The statistics are rather appalling. If the matter isn’t solved within the first seventy hours, the odds of identifying the killer drop off the charts.”

“And every now and then we get lucky, Mr. Socarides.”

“Yeah, the perp drools on a body and the first place we come is the Natural History data bank, making sure it wasn’t one of your taxidermists getting some practice. Mike Chapman. Homicide.”

“What data bank?” Poste asked.

“Not quite like your shop, Erik,” Socarides said. “We’ve all given samples of our DNA. Have to do it so we don’t confuse a new species of woolly mammoth with some hair that’s rubbed off my alpaca overcoat.”

Elijah Mamdouba called the meeting to order. “What you have here, Mr. Chapman, Miss Cooper, is the organizing committee of the joint exhibition. From our museum, that is myself and Mr. Socarides. From the Met,” he said, pointing around the table, “you have Mr. Poste-European paintings, Miss Friedrichs-the arts of Africa, Oceania, and the Americas, and Mr. Bellinger-from the Cloisters. So we are missing…”

He scanned the room, trying to recall the other curator.

“Gaylord. Timothy Gaylord. Eygptian art,” Mike said. “Still at the mummy congress.”

“Certainly. Well, let’s see if we can answer some more of your questions.”

Mike let me start the conversation. We both had a preference for the bad cop role-me out of a penchant for cross-examination, and Mike because he was naturally distrustful and impatient.

“We’ve found out a great deal more about Katrina Grooten than we knew when we met each of you the first time. Some of her friends have been very helpful to us.”

Every head in the room seemed to respond to that bluff. Mamdouba was the first to jump at the bait. “So, the people here at the museum that we spoke of on Friday, you’ve located them?”

“It wouldn’t be wise to identify our witnesses to you, sir. We’ve had some contact with a few of her acquaintances in other lines of work, too. One of the things that has us a bit stymied are the differing snapshots of her personality.”

“You mean before she became ill versus afterward?” Bellinger asked.

“No. There are those who have described her as very quiet and, well, meek and shy. Others have said she could be feisty if she was passionate about something. You, Mr. Poste, and you, Ms. Friedrichs, each described her differently. We’re trying to account for that. See if you can tell us what her passions were, exactly.”

Poste spoke first. “As I told you, I only knew Katrina as a serious young scholar, a bit aloof, if I had to use one word to describe her.”

“I’m the one who told you she had another side,” Anna Friedrichs said, clasping her hands and leaning forward on the long Formica table. “I certainly saw it. Hiram, I think you did, too.”

“Well, there was a good deal more of it in evidence before the attack. Before she was raped, I mean.”

“Raped?”Poste asked. “You mean the killer raped Katrina?”

“No, no. Not that I’m aware of. Is that right, Detective?” Bellinger looked at Chapman. “When she was raped in Fort Tryon Park last year, leaving work.”

“I never knew about that,” Mamdouba said.

“Neither did I,” Poste was quick to add.

Anna Friedrichs was annoyed. “I told both of you, I know I did.” The two men looked at each other and were either truly puzzled by her statement or had a similar talent for playing dumb. “Erik, really. Elijah. I made a point of telling you and asking you to keep the confidence. I was afraid she’d be jumpy if she was alone in this place late at night.”

This was exactly what Mike wanted to happen. He wanted to divide the united front, which was most often an artificial response to the unwelcome entry of a law enforcement agency, and find out what fractionalized these colleagues. What drew the fire in the belly of both museums, where ninety percent of their collections lay under wraps?

“It’s clear Katrina had a long-standing interest in medieval art. That was her training and education. That’s what she came to the Met to do. And yet here she was, leaving New York and returning to Africa in December to pursue an entirely new direction.”

“If I may say, Miss Cooper”-it was Mamdouba speaking-“I believe it was her father’s health that was the main reason for her decision to go home.”

A bit late for that, I thought to myself. Something else had to be at the bottom of her change of focus. I counted on Clem to help us figure that out later tonight, but we also needed to see what these curators thought.