“Listen to this,” Evelyn said.
She was lying on Mars’s couch. Mars was at the kitchen table, directly across from Evelyn, working through the files Linda VanCleve had given him. It was almost three o’clock in the afternoon and the chief still hadn’t called. Mars had called Nettie just after one to ask what was going on. Nettie assured him the chief would call and that it was probably just taking the chief longer to make his contacts. So Mars kept on the files, waiting for the call.
He had been distracted from the paperwork by the opportunity to watch Evelyn without her knowing she was being watched. Evelyn was like Chris in her ability, when seriously interested in something, to concentrate so hard that the rest of the world fell away.
Since they’d first met in an interrogation room on the third floor of the Hennepin County Jail, Mars had been fascinated by the elliptical and complex attractions of the woman now lying on his couch. He had begun with her by being off-balance, something he wasn’t used to when dealing with a witness in a murder case. Even at their first meeting when she was bruised, drugged out, and bloodied—she’d been within splattering range of the head wound that had killed her boyfriend—she’d had an unnerving serenity at her core. She’d been still—still as in quiet and still, as in motionless.
Everything had been in her eyes, and in the small smile that was on her lips more often than not.
In their first few minutes together he’d missed the fact that she was beautiful. It took looking at her awhile to see it. Like trying to find a shot through a camera lens before you’ve focused, the image sharpening once you take time to find what it is you’re looking for. It had been the simplicity of her appearance that had misled him. Straight brown hair, smooth—almost translucent—skin, hazel eyes that went green depending on the light, and fine, well-balanced features. It had been her hands—long, graceful fingers with clean, square-cut nails—that had made him look at her again and consider that she was in fact beautiful. But more than any single physical feature, from the first it had been her intelligence that had caught his attention. The penetrating perception, the sharp wit, the eyes that saw and understood everything.
This afternoon, on his couch, reading, she was dressed in a gray sweatshirt and jeans, her shoes off, her head propped on a folded pillow, an ankle balanced across a raised knee. He liked that she looked good just like that. Liked that when she got up in the morning she washed her face with soap and water. Liked that she bent over, head down by her knees, to brush her hair and that when she straightened up, tossing her head back, her hair fell into a natural, shining order. He liked that from bed to fully dressed took her—at the outside—maybe three minutes.
She’d been reading the news clippings that VanCleve had pulled together for Mars on the controversy between Minnesota and Virginia over the Twenty-eighth Virginia regimental flag. Evelyn’s clear, smooth voice read out loud: “‘The battle colors of the Twenty-eighth Virginia were carried by Sgt. John Eakin. Eakin was struck three times by Union fire before dropping the flag. A private raised the flag again but was immediately shot. Then Col. Robert Allen raised the flag—only moments before he was mortally wounded, but not before he passed the flag to John Lee, who stepped up on the wall and waved the colors in the face of
enemy fire. The flag’s staff was hit by a shot, knocking the flag from Lee’s hands. Lee retrieved the flag before he fell wounded, still struggling to keep the colors of the Twenty-eighth Virginia flying.’”
After she’d read the passage, she’d dropped the article to her chest and stretched her legs, raising her heels slightly, then dropping them flat to the bed. “My God,” she said, “there’s passion for you. I’m not sure there’s anything anymore that people care that much about.”
“That,” Mars had said, “is the question we need to answer.”
Evelyn twisted to her side, bending her elbow and resting her head on her right hand as she looked at him. “Tell me how you’re going to do that.”
Mars stood, walked to the fridge for a Coke, calling back to Evelyn, “You want anything?”
“No. So, tell me. What is your strategy for figuring out why the flag would get Frank Beck killed?”
Mars walked back into the living room, dropping down on the bed at a ninety-degree angle from Evelyn, his feet on the floor, his back up against the wall. He picked her feet up, dropping them on his legs. “The first order of business is to be sure that Beck didn’t die for the simple reason that he had an ancestor who fought for the First Minnesota on the third day of the Battle of Gettysburg. If that’s all it is, we’ve got big problems. It means that the universe of potential victims is more or less unmanageable. What I’d like to find is something that lets us significantly narrow the potential victim pool. Couple of possibilities there. The most obvious one would be that Frank Beck’s ancestor captured the flag. But we know that isn’t true. All accounts of the flag’s capture are consistent. Marshall Sherman, a private in the First Minnesota Volunteers—”
“Marshall Sherman?”
Mars grinned. “No relation. And I don’t think anyone ever called him Mars. Anyway, Marshall Sherman captured the flag. He received the Medal of Honor for the capture. There’s some disagreement over the circumstances of the
capture, but no disagreement that it was Sherman who captured the flag. So the only possibility left is that Beck’s ancestor—Herman Beck—had some link to Sherman we haven’t figured out. That’s a particularly good possibility because Sherman never married and didn’t have any children. If someone today wanted to take revenge against Sherman’s descendents, they’d be out of luck. Nettie’s going over war department records that are on-line at Cornell University, trying to find a link between Herman Beck and Sherman. But we’re not kidding ourselves. The kind of records that are available more than one hundred thirty years later aren’t going to have much of the personal detail that would show the kind of relationship we’re looking for … .”
“How about personal correspondence? I’d think the Historical Society would have a fair number of letters, primary documents, from Minnesota soldiers who’d been in the Civil War.”
Mars nodded, with a little side glance of appreciation at Evelyn. You wouldn’t think a graduate student in English and a homicide detective would have much in common professionally. But this wasn’t the first time in discussing an investigation with Evelyn that he found they used similar methodology to do their very different jobs. “It’s what a liberal education is all about,” Evelyn had said when he’d mentioned to her that he was surprised by how much compatibility there was between how they did things. “Looking at details to reach a larger conclusion, finding relationships between seemingly unconnected facts, moving from the specific to the general, from the general to the specific … .”
“Nettie’s got Historical Society staff checking that now. So far, nothing.”
“What’s your backup plan?”
Mars frowned. “Option number two is a real long shot: that Beck had done something to attract the perp’s attention.”
“Like?”
“That’s what’s hard to figure out. Maybe making a contribution to the Historical Society or supporting something connected to the First Minnesota Volunteers. Nettie checked
both those possibilities out pretty thoroughly with the Historical Society this morning. Nothing there. And besides, neither of those possibilities is consistent with Beck’s style. He wasn’t a philanthropist and didn’t give a crap about anything other than the deal he was involved in at any given moment. Maybe there’s something else, something we haven’t found yet—but finding whatever it is, if it exists, doesn’t look real promising right now. When we know more about this other guy who died in Wisconsin, we might find something that matches with Beck … .”
Evelyn rolled over on her back, readjusting the pillow under her head. She wiggled her toes, and Mars took hold of her stocking-clad feet, massaging them gently between his hands. “So,” she said, “options one and two are in process and not looking very good. What else?”
“Nettie’s busting her butt trying to figure out what the final numbers—one and nine—on Beck’s arm mean. The other numbers gave us the links to the flag, the third day of the battle and the twenty-eighth Virginia. I’m hoping those last numbers will give us the link to Beck or other victims. And Nettie’s got a number of irons in the fire to locate the source of the fabric used in the noose. We find the source, we might be able to find who was accessing the source. So far, nothing on the noose or the last numbers.”
“This is really bothering you, isn’t it,” Evelyn said.
Mars tried to draw a deep breath, but tension tamped down his intake. He continued to rub Evelyn’s feet without knowing he was doing it. “I’ll relax when I’ve got a better handle on who’s out there we should be worried about. Guess I’m really counting on those last two numbers—one and nine—to tell us what we need to know.”
The phone rang. “And there,” Mars said, leaning across Evelyn to pick up the phone, “is my other main chance.”
Mars could hear the sound of people talking behind the chief’s voice on the other end of the line.
“Sorry to interrupt your holiday, sir …”
“Apologies all on my side, Marshall. Sorry to interrupt your convalescence.”
“I feel great. Especially now that I’ve gotten a little sleep. Nettie briefed you on what we think we’re dealing with?”
“In detail. Want you to know what I’ve done since I talked with Nettie this morning … .”
Mars interrupted. “Just want to make sure you’re comfortable proceeding with other jurisdictions before we’ve confirmed our Wisconsin case … .”
“Nailing it down will be useful, but based on what Nettie said, I think we’re on pretty solid ground. You’ve got doubts?”
“No. None. Just wanted to be sure you’re aware that there are still questions that have to be answered.”
“I appreciate that. But based on what we do know, I think we need to move sooner, rather than later. And remember, all we’re asking for at this point is information. We’re asking if there have been other hangings. Which is why I’ve been in touch with five chiefs—Kansas City, Baltimore, Phoenix, Atlanta, and Richmond. I’ve got good working relationships with all five of them. They’ll go the extra mile for us, even this time of year. All five promised to take the lead statewide on checking out hanging deaths. And John Durr at Kansas City is currently head of the National Association of Chiefs of Police. He’s gonna follow up at that level. I’m still trying to track down chiefs in Milwaukee, DesMoines, Sioux Falls, and Fargo. Would guess the five-state region is still our prime target area. Lots of descendants will have moved out of the Midwest, but I’m willing to bet the majority are still around Minnesota.”
“That’s great—any idea on when we can expect to start hearing back?”
“Sooner than if we didn’t have these fellas pushing from the top. But not as soon as we’d like. You know the problem, Mars. If there’ve been hangings where the number is involved, and the deaths weren’t investigated as homicides, there may not be any record of the number. It’s even possible that the number would get overlooked in a homicide investigation.”
“I know. Pure serendipity we made the connection here.”
The words were barely out of Mars’s mouth when he realized they weren’t true. They made the connection between Beck’s hanging and homicide because Danny Borg had taken the time and trouble to consider that there was more to the death scene than met the eye.
“Something I’ve been thinking about, Chief. Should we be going public on this yet? My feeling is no—but we’ve got people at risk. And we don’t have a clue who or where they are.”
“I had more or less the same thought—and came to the same conclusion. Talked about it with the other chiefs, and they’re in agreement. We put out a general notice that there’s a killer going around hanging descendents of a Civil War regiment, and we’re going to create a general panic. Most folks won’t even know if they have relatives who fought in the Civil War, much less with the First Minnesota. What I’m going to say next is gonna sound real cold, but truth is, I think the only way we have of getting this guy is to figure out his method of operation. We go public, he’s gonna change his MO. It’ll make catching him almost impossible. And like you said, until we’ve confirmed the connection with the Wisconsin death, there’s not enough to go on. Nettie said you’re working with the Historical Society to identify the descendent pool?”
“Yeah. I should be hearing back from Linda VanCleve at the History Center anytime now. She wasn’t encouraging, but she was going to get me an estimate of man-hours and costs to identify the pool. If we go forward with that, it may cost us some bucks … .”
“Uh-huh,” the chief said. “Not gonna worry about that now. Comes to that, we should be able to get other jurisdictions to pitch in. Not like we’re the only ones at risk here.” The chief was quiet again. Then he said, “One other thing. John Durr suggested it, and I agreed. There’s a guy from the FBI’s Forensic Science Unit out at Quantico. He’s done a lot of work on domestic fringe groups. Knows who’s involved in what, how they think. Durr was gonna put in a call and request that Boyle Keegan be sent out to Minneapolis. Got a
call back from Durr just before I called you. Keegan’ll be in Minneapolis day after tomorrow, Christmas Day.”
Mars grimaced. He didn’t want to have to waste time and energy managing the investigation with some hotshot from the FBI. But he understood that the chief couldn’t turn down assistance from Quantico on a case where this much risk was involved—especially when the risk extended beyond the chief’s jurisdiction. And there was always the possibility that Keegan might actually be helpful.
To the chief, Mars said, “I understand.”
Mars heard a wave of laughter on the chief’s end of the line. The chief said, “Appreciate your making Keegan at home. Think I’d better join the party.”
“Right,” Mars said. “Sorry to have bothered you. Just thought you should know how this is shaping up.”
“Not my party, Mars. I’m comin’ back to Minneapolis. Joinin’ your party.”
Linda VanCleve phoned seconds after Mars had hung up with the chief.
“I’ve got some rough estimates on what would be involved on our end identifying the First Minnesota’s descendent pool.”
“Good news or bad?”
“Worse than bad.”
Mars winced. “Isn’t there any way—”
“If it’s okay with you, I’ll just talk you through this. But be prepared, it gets complicated …”
Mars looked at his watch. “Linda? I hate to ask, but I think you understand how important this is. I was just about to head downtown. Could you meet me at city hall? I’d like to spend some time looking at this and developing some options.”
It was after 5:00 P.M. when Mars walked into the squad room. Nettie was hunched over the computer in concentration
so deep she didn’t hear him come in. Mars tiptoed up behind Nettie, lifting her bottle of Evian water off the desk. He held the bottle over her desk for a moment before bringing it down hard with a resounding slosh. Water spat out of the bottle like a geyser.
Nettie flew off her chair. “You turkey! You scared me half to death. And you’ve got water all over everything.”
“I am so sorry,” Mars said, grinning.
She stuck her tongue out and gave him a little push. Then she sat back down, twisting back and forth on her chair. “Progress on two fronts.”
Mars scooted closer to look at Nettie’s computer screen. The screen was dense with small script. “That looks like fun,” he said.
Nettie rubbed her eyes with the heels of her palms. “Army records from the Cornell University database. It’s god-awful. My big mistake was starting. I don’t dare stop for fear that the next file will tell me something worth knowing. The more time I put into it, the less I’m willing to waste that time by quitting. But this isn’t what I wanted to tell you about. First off, I got hold of Esther Moberg in Iowa.”
Mars held his breath. “And?”
“Her brother was a fifth-generation descendent of the First Minnesota Volunteers.”
Mars gulped. “She have any idea about why somebody would have wanted to murder him? Especially any reasons associated with the First Minnesota or the flag?”
Nettie shook her head. “She never considered that he’d been murdered. He’d been depressed since his wife died.”
“She say anything about the uniform he was wearing when he hung himself?”
“As it turns out, it was a Civil War–era uniform—which makes it pretty valuable. But it wasn’t the ancestor’s uniform. The brother had bought it several years back to use in reenactments. Here’s what’s interesting. She’d talked to her brother on the phone just before she had her hip surgery. He sounded a little more ‘up’ than usual. She said as much, and he said something exciting might be coming up related to
the First Minnesota. She pressed him about it, and he finally told her—in confidence—that he’d been contacted by someone who was interested in doing a documentary about the First Minnesota. Rowe told his sister the person didn’t want anyone to get wind of his plans until he had financing in place … .”
“Ahhhh,” Mars said. “So it could have been the same scenario that we worked out for Beck. The perp figured out what the vic’s hot button was and pushed it.”
“Exactly. And it could explain the uniform. Rowe might have put the uniform on to meet with the perp … .”
“Must have given the perp an extra thrill. The sister never talked to Rowe after the meeting? Do we know if Rowe’s death coincides with the timing of the meeting?”
“No to both questions. All I could pin down was that Rowe’s last telephone conversation with his sister occurred four days before his body was found. When she found out about the suicide, she figured the meeting wasn’t what her brother had been expecting. Kind of like the last light at the end of his tunnel went out. So he hung himself.”
Mars sat in silence before saying, “So what we’ve got is our nightmare scenario. A perpetrator who’s killing descendants of the First Minnesota. And we’ve got zip on identifying who those victims might be.”
“That’s how it’s looking.”
“You said you had two things.”
“Oh. Right. I’ve found out some stuff about the fabric on Beck’s noose.”
“Do tell.”
“Come with me.” Nettie stood up, stretching as she walked, arms extended straight up, twisting her wrists. Mars followed her to the lounge, a small, windowless room populated by the kind of furniture you find curbside on garbage pickup days. A steel-tube-frame couch with cracked plastic cushions, a matching chair, a wobbly-legged table, couple of lamps, and an old black-and-white television set sitting on a badly dented file cabinet.
There had been an addition to the room since Mars had
left. Taped on the wall were three large posters of sheep. A poster of rare English sheep breeds, a poster of major English sheep breeds, and a map of England with little sheep symbols dotting the map showing where in England various breeds were raised.
“Are you interested in cool coincidences?” Nettie asked.
“Those are a few of my favorite things,” Mars said.
“Julie Andrews, singing to the Von Trapp kids during a thunderstorm in The Sound of Music.”
Mars stared at her blankly.
“You just used a movie line, Mars. Wake up.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen The Sound of Music. I hope I’ve never seen The Sound of Music.”
“You’ve really led a sheltered life. It’s an okay movie. Except for a scene where a nun who looks like Barbara Bush in a habit sings ‘Climb Every Mountain.’”
“Skip the promo for The Sound of Music and tell me about the coincidences.”
“Coincidence, to be precise. I’ve been doing a lot of research on the Internet on sheep breeds and wool production—I should warn you. I sent Chris some sheep jokes. I looked at a couple and thought they were okay. Turns out they were pretty bad.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Oh, my God. They were so awful. Anyway—apart from the jokes—one of the things I found was the origin of the surname Sherman.”
“As in, Marshall Sherman?”
“Exactly.”
“And …”
“And it comes from the word shear, as in ‘shear sheep.’ It was an occupational surname for people who sheared sheep.”
“How this represents a significant coincidence escapes me.”
“I should probably tell you about the sheep first.”
“Start with where you got the posters.”
“Like I said, I was searching on-line for sources of information about wool production and found a guy with the
British Wool Manufacturers’ Association. Told him what I was looking for, and he sent me these. Better yet, I think there’s a good chance he’s going to be able to link the fabric in the noose to a specific farm in Yorkshire, England, that’s been producing wool since the sixteenth century—including wool that was used by the Army of Northern Virginia for flags and uniforms. The Twenty-eighth Virginia—if you haven’t already figured it out, was a regiment in the Army of Northern Virginia.”
Mars sat down, propping his feet on the table in front of the couch. “How’s he gonna do that?”
“I air-expressed a piece of the noose fabric to him. They’re going to do a chemical and microscopic analysis of the fabric ASAP—which may not be until next week, what with the holidays and all. He said some key staffers are out until then.” Nettie sat down next to Mars. “But the really extraordinary thing is how they know about this sheep farm in Yorkshire. Mr. Janes—that’s my contact at the BWMA, Piers David Janes—was involved in research several years ago with a British museum that was putting together an exhibit on British naval history. They were researching an English frigate that was sunk off the coast of Massachusetts during the Revolutionary War. Janes said sheep wool was mixed with tar to caulk the hulls of English ships during the period this ship was built. They knew—because the Yorkshire farm had records going back to the sixteenth century—that the ship they were looking for would have caulking that contained wool from the sheep on that farm. Herdwick sheep,” Nettie said, getting up and moving to the posters on the wall.
She pointed to a sheep on the rare breeds poster. “This guy,” she said. “Handsome devil, wouldn’t you say?”
Mars rose, moving next to her. A serious-minded critter stared back at them, horns curled over his ears, prodigious amounts of long, grayish white wool hanging all over his body, with the exception of the face and below the ankles—or whatever you called sheep’s ankles.
They continued standing in front of the posters as Nettie said, “To confirm that the sunken frigate was the ship they
were looking for, they separated the wool fibers from the tar and analyzed them. As it happens, most wool produced by sheep is indistinguishable from one breed to the next—but the Herdwick breed produces a fiber that is distinguishable. So they were able to prove that the sunken ship off the coast in Massachusetts was the ship they were looking for because they could tie the wool in the caulking to wool sold by the farm in Yorkshire to the shipyard that built the frigate … .”
Mars turned, pacing slowly around the lounge. “And Janes is saying that the farm has records documenting that wool from their Herdwick sheep was sold to the Army of Northern Virginia for regimental flag production?”
“Not quite,” Nettie said. “In fact, it’s better than that. The wool produced by the farm in Yorkshire was sold in bulk to a cloth manufacturer in Bradford, England. The weave used by that manufacturer is also quite distinct. Janes E-mailed right after he got the fabric sample I sent him from the noose. He said that even without doing the fiber analysis, he recognized the weave pattern as being the same as the Bradford manufacturer … .”
“So the Bradford manufacturer has been producing wool all these years?”
Nettie grinned, shaking her head, pleased at the complexity of her research. “No. They’ve been out of business since the end of the nineteenth century. What Janes said is likely is that the farm in Yorkshire has sold its wool to a manufacturer in the United States that specializes in manufacturing fabrics for historical reproduction purposes. Those manufacturers would try to replicate the fiber and the weave. I’ve been talking to some vexillologists in Philadelphia—”
“Whoaaa—some what?”
Nettie smiled her Cheshire Cat smile. “I’ve learned a new word. Vexillology is the study of flags.”
“This case may give you your first and last opportunity to use that knowledge.”
“Probably true,” Nettie said. “Nonetheless, the vexillolo-gist with whom I spoke in Philadelphia said there are a number of cloth manufacturers in the United States that specialize
in producing cloth for historical purposes—and that Civil War reenactors are among their biggest customers. She also said that flag reproduction is big business, particularly Civil War flags. Both for legitimate historical purposes and for the counterfeit market. The difference is the customers who buy for historical purposes have a limit in terms of what they’re willing to pay. For the counterfeiters, the sky’s the limit. She said that a couple years ago a legitimate flag collector paid over twenty thousand dollars for what he believed was a brigade flag for the Army of Northern Virginia—turned out to be a counterfeit made out of fabric made by one of these outfits. And the prices for Confederate flags are going up dramatically every year—which creates incentives for the counterfeiters.”
“Have we started contacting the manufacturers yet?”
Nettie gave him a look. “I love this we stuff. No, I have not started contacting manufacturers yet. I think it makes sense to wait until we get the fiber analysis back from England. One problem we’re going to run into in contacting these manufacturers is that they’re going to be protective of their customer information—in part because they make a lot of money from the counterfeiters. So I think we should be pretty sure about what we’re looking for and why before we approach them. The other thing to keep in mind is that they could—intentionally or not—tip a customer that inquiries are being made. Maybe a customer we’d prefer not to know that inquiries are being made.”
Mars continued to pace the lounge. Rubbing both hands through his hair, he said, “Agreed. Let me just walk through this once more to make sure I get what we’ve got. We are fairly confident that our noose fabric matches a weave used by an English manufacturer who produced cloth for the Army of Northern Virginia during the Civil War … .”
“Yup.”
“And your contact at the BWMA is going to be able to confirm—or disprove—that the fiber itself comes from a breed of sheep that is unique with respect to being identifiable from other breeds … .”
“Yup again—only because the farm on which the sheep are bred has—”
“—kept records going back to before the Civil War.”
“Exactly.”
“So. If we can establish that the fiber comes from that breed of sheep, we can trace the farm’s records of wool sales to U.S. manufacturers and identify which ones are using that wool to manufacture cloth for historical reproductions purposes.”
“That’s it,” Nettie said. “And it’s at that point that I think it makes sense to start the manufacturer contacts to try and get a look at their customer records.”
Mars turned in a tight circle, tossing his cigarette box between his hands. “Right. But I don’t think we’ll have enough legally at that point to subpoena the customer records if they don’t volunteer them. Probably need to get Glenn Gjerde from the County Attorney’s Office involved in thinking this through. My guess is, we’re going to have to have a firm suspect in hand when we go for the customer records.” He blew air through his lips, frustrated because he knew that being able to look at the customer lists was their best bet for picking up a name that rang bells.
Nettie said, “Will you please sit down? You’re making me nervous, pacing around like that.”
Mars dropped to the couch, still playing with the cigarette box.
Nettie frowned. “What is bugging you, anyway? Last week you were complaining that this case didn’t have enough ‘fizz’ to keep you interested. Now you’re like a guy who hasn’t peed for a month.”
“You’ve known guys who haven’t peed for a month?”
“Probably more like guys who haven’t pooped in a month. Tight asses.”
“It’s just that there’s so much risk here. And our hands are tied right now. We just have to keep putting pieces together until we’ve got something that gets us to either a serious suspect or a manageable number of target victims. And it doesn’t feel like we’re anything like close. Which reminds
me.” Mars looked up at the wall clock. “Linda VanCleve is on her way over with bad news.”
Mars and Nettie sat down at their desks; VanCleve stood opposite them. She looked exhausted. And for the first time since Mars had met VanCleve, her perfectly cut blond hair was messed up.
“I’m sorry to have to say this, but our plan isn’t going to work.”
Mars was looking up at VanCleve. “You’re gonna give me a crick in my neck. Sit down and tell me what your problems are.”
She sat on the edge of the desk. Mars shook his head and flapped his hand at her. “Lower. I want you on eye level.” VanCleve pulled over a chair, leaning forward, elbows on the desk, resting her head in her hands as she talked.
“It’s just too slow. Based on our trial run, I’d say to get to the fifth generation for each of the First Minnesota Volunteers is going to be—minimum—seven or eight hours. And that’s just to get to a current generation name—like a marriage or property record. To actually find where an individual is currently living—well, that could be at least another couple hours’ work per individual. So, we’re talking about more than twenty thousand manpower days to go through all seventy thousand descendents.” VanCleve rubbed her hands over her face. “Plus, I made a big mistake. I said we could eliminate twenty-five percent of the original four hundred and sixteen because not all of them would have reproduced. Problem is, we’d have to spend a fair amount of research time identifying that twenty-five percent … .”
“But we’re going to have a bunch of people doing the research,” Mars said.
VanCleve shrugged. “Okay. So divide the twenty thousand days by twenty-five—and I really can’t come up with more people than that who I’d have confidence could do the job right—and you’ve got twenty-five people working twenty-four hours a day for eight hundred days. More than
two years. I can’t support that commitment—and I would guess you can’t wait eight hundred days for us to identify the descendent pool.”
Mars started making popping sounds with his mouth. Then, sitting up straight, he said, “No. You’re right. This isn’t going to work. We need to come up with some way of narrowing—significantly narrowing—the descendent pool.” He looked at his watch. It was approaching 7:00 P.M. “Any bright ideas?”
Nettie said, “What if we came up with some specific criteria—like, specific things we know about Beck and the guy in Wisconsin … .” She stopped herself. “I was going to say, then we could select descendents based on that criteria. But that doesn’t really get us anything—we’d still have to identify the descendents to do the match.”
They spent another hour spinning out dead-end possibilities. When the city hall chimes pealed eight o’clock, Mars said, “We’re burning ourselves out. This just isn’t productive. Let’s pack it in for tonight and hope that one of us will have a brainstorm during the night.” To VanCleve he said, “You’re going to be reachable by phone for the next couple of days?”
VanCleve rose, yawning. “I have four house guests arriving tomorrow afternoon and another dozen people coming for dinner Christmas day. So, yeah, I’ll be in town.” She suddenly grinned broadly. “If you could come up with some sort of emergency that got me out of the house Christmas morning, I’d forever be in your debt.”
“I’ll work on it,” Mars said. “One other thing. The chief and I have agreed that this investigation needs to be confidential. So please—come up with what ever explanations will work for what you’re involved in. But nothing that tips our hand on a broad-scale murder investigation related to descendents of the First Minnesota.”
Mars and Nettie spent another half hour wrapping up loose ends after VanCleve left. Turning off her computer, Nettie rose, then bent over and touched her toes. Straightening slowly, she said, “Speaking of Christmas, do you know that Chris thinks he’s getting a dog?”
Mars turned and looked at Nettie. “He told you that?”
Nettie nodded. “Is he?”
“You know Denise, what do you think?”
“What is he getting?”
“A computer. From Denise and me together.” Mars made a face. “This is the first time Denise and I have had a serious disagreement involving Chris—apart from my insisting that Chris not wear secondhand clothes that Denise bought at garage sales. The only reason Denise doesn’t want Chris to have a dog is because dogs are messy. Which they probably are. But I know—and Denise knows—that Chris would take good care of a dog. He deserves to have a dog.”
“Denise and Chris in town for Christmas?”
Mars shook his head. “No. They’re going out to Denise’s parents tomorrow morning. They’ll be back next Monday.”
“Is he still awake?” Mars asked as he walked into the house.
“Barely,” Denise said. She was wrapping Christmas packages at the dining room table. “Every time I look in on him, he says, ‘Dad here yet?’” Denise gave him a close look. “You look okay. Tired, but okay. You’ve been at work all day?”
“I stayed at the apartment until late afternoon. Went down for a couple hours tonight. When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow morning. Soon as we’re both up and ready.”
Chris’s eyes flew open when Mars opened the bedroom door.
“Dad?”
“Hi. Just wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas before you leave.”
Mars sat down on the bed next to Chris as Chris punched a pillow in place behind his head. “So you’re okay?” Chris asked, his eyes serious.
Mars nodded. “Better than okay. I think that grungy appendix was poisoning my system for a long time. I get tired pretty easily, but overall, I feel a lot better than I did before the surgery.”
“Have you found anything else out about who hanged Mr. Beck?”
There was a question worth thinking about. “We’ve got a better idea about what motivated the killer. It’s about the flag you saw at the History Center last week. But there’s still a lot we don’t know.”
“Nettie’s found out some real cool stuff about sheep. She found this Web page on the Internet that’s got like a million sheep jokes. You wanna hear one?”
“I don’t know. Do I?”
“Where do you get virgin wool?”
“I’m thinking I don’t want to hear any sheep jokes.”
“From ugly sheep!” Chris rolled over on his side, gasping with laughter.
Mars picked up a pillow and punched it on Chris’s head. “Sounds like a joke James would appreciate.”
“I gave James the Web site address. He printed all the jokes out. There were more than forty pages. The one I told you wasn’t the worst. Some are really gross.”
“Just what James needed,” Mars said. Then he bent over, pulling Chris toward him in a hug. “I’ve gotta get going. You and Mom have a good Christmas with Gramma and Grampa. Mom and I are giving you a gift together this year, so you’ll get my gift on Christmas morning.”
“Give me a hint.”
The first hint in Mars’s mind was that his gift would give Chris access to more sheep jokes. Not happy with that thought, he said, “It’s useful.”
Chris frowned. “But is it fun, too?”
“One hint is all you get.”