Carved in Bone - Jefferson Bass [85]
“Copy that,” drawled the dispatcher, not nearly as impressed as he’d hoped. “Holler when you’re done. We’re starving, and we need somebody to make the deli run.”
It wasn’t long before two TBI techs arrived, light sources and evidence kits in hand, and began surveying the room methodically. Morgan and I stepped out into the hallway, but I leaned into the doorway to watch the techs at work. When they turned on the ultraviolet lights, purple prints showed up on every surface. Most of them were mine, I knew, and probably the rest belonged to graduate students. “Excuse me, sir,” said one of the techs, “can you tell me where this door leads?”
“Sure, it leads to the skeletal collection room.”
He wiggled the knob—it was locked, I knew from checking it myself—and inspected the frame for signs of forced entry. Finding none, he turned his attention back to my desktop.
Morgan cleared his throat to get my attention, then began a litany of questions—when had I left my office, how long was I gone, who knew my class schedule, how many different exits could the thief have taken, did I see anybody or anything suspicious, and so on, and so on. Finally, when he’d exhausted my factual knowledge, he asked the question that had been hanging in the air all along: “So who do you think might have done it?”
“Well, my first thought is the sheriff, of course. I still think he’s afraid of where the murder investigation is leading.”
“Has he ever been here before?”
“No, but it wouldn’t be hard to find out where it is.”
“Yeah, but that’s only half the battle,” said Morgan. “This office isn’t exactly easy to get to. You’re tucked away about as far from the rest of the Anthropology Department as you can get without burrowing clear under the AstroTurf.”
“Makes it easier to hole up and concentrate,” I said defensively.
“I’m not criticizing; just thinking out loud. Is there anybody who has been here before that might have an interest in stealing that skeleton?”
“Well, there’s the sheriff’s deputy, Leon Williams.”
“A deputy?” Morgan sounded dubious.
“You asked, and he’s been here before. He could have come to fetch it for the sheriff.” Suddenly I remembered Art’s Scenario E, the unknown possibility: “Or he could be working some angle we don’t even know about. Maybe he’s setting up the sheriff for a fall?” The more I thought about it, the surer I was that this was Williams’s handiwork.
“ ’Scuse us,” Morgan said to the UT policeman, taking my elbow and steering me into the stairwell. He checked the flight of stairs above and below the landing where we stood, then leaned close to me and spoke in a near whisper. “Listen, you didn’t hear this from me—if it got out that you did, I’d be in deep shit with Agent Price—but I guarantee you Williams was not the one who broke into your office and took those bones.”
“You can’t be sure of that.”
“Yes I can,” he hissed.
“How?”
“Because he’s spent the last two hours in a roomful of FBI and TBI agents, that’s how.”
I had to admit, it was a pretty good alibi.
“Then it’s got to be the sheriff. Or maybe his brother. Orbin doesn’t seem the sort who would shrink from a little breaking and entering. Can’t you guys please get some sort of surveillance going on them?”
He checked the stairs again. “The paperwork’s in motion even as we speak,” he whispered. “Office, homes, vehicles. Should be in place within a week.” He gave my arm a sharp squeeze. “Remember, we did not have this conversation.”
I nodded, grateful that we hadn’t.
CHAPTER 27
STILL AGITATED AFTER THE TBI crew left, I phoned Jim O’Conner to tell him about the theft of the bones. He sounded shaken and angry. “Listen,” I said, “I wonder if you could give me some more background on the Kitchings family. I can’t help thinking at least one of them is behind this, but I can’t figure out which one, or why.”
“I don’t think we should talk about this over the phone,” he said. “Drug seizure money up here has bought all sorts of fancy equipment in the past few years.” I’d ridden a top-of-the-line ATV