CHAPTER 18

WEDNESDAY, JULY 10

Isaiah was sitting up and eating Cream of Wheat and toast for breakfast when Omari came in.

“Boy, you didn’t tell me you were coming back!”

“I wanted to surprise you. How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” Isaiah admitted. “But I’m out of Intensive Care and I’m eating.” They had moved him to the Cardiac Care unit. He was not allowed out of bed, and still hooked up to machines and an IV. But they were letting him eat, he could turn off the lights, and he had a TV, not that there was much he wanted to watch.

Omari put his briefcase on the bed and snapped it open. “Uncle Floyd and I talked with your doctor. He gave me thirty minutes to go over this with you—provided you don’t get excited and make the alarm on the screen with the squiggles go off.” He pulled out a photocopy. “I’ll talk. You eat.”

“Think you’re in charge now, boy?” Isaiah asked. He smiled so Omari would know he was teasing. Omari had always been a quiet, well-behaved boy. Did what he was told. Never a trouble to anyone. Isaiah liked the change he could see in him now. He stirred the Cream of Wheat and tasted it. It was still warm. He didn’t mind cold toast but he did prefer his cooked cereal hot. “Tell me what you’ve got, boy.”

Omari grinned. “It can wait. I wouldn’t want to interrupt a big breakfast like that.”

“Just tell me.” Isaiah ate quickly as he listened.

“Yes, sir.” Without looking at the photocopied document, he said, “Edward Thatcher was born in 1868. He married Mellie Bishop in 1889. Edward’s parents were Samuel Thatcher and Cynthia, no last name. Samuel’s father, who would have been Edward’s grandfather, was also named Samuel Thatcher; Edward’s grandmother was named Dessa Thatcher.”

“Both of them were named Thatcher?”

“Right.”

“Then Samuel Senior, and his wife Dessa, had to have been owned by the same master. Makes sense. And it could help us. What else you got for me?”

“You’ve got to stop interrupting and listen, Grandpa, or you’re going to get all tired out. Now, Samuel Senior and Dessa were both born in Jefferson City, Missouri.”

“It says that? It actually says that? Let me see.”

“Eat your toast, then I’ll show you.”

“Talk,” Isaiah said. As he spread jelly on the cold toast, he wished they would allow him to have butter.

“Samuel Junior was born in Little Fort, Illinois, in 1835. He died in 1878, when his son Edward was ten years old. Here.”

Isaiah looked at the copy of Edward’s marriage application without touching it. Tears came to his eyes and he brushed them away. “You go see if I can have a little more coffee, boy.”

He wiped at his eyes, then looked down at the Xeroxed copy and touched each name with his finger as he said them aloud. Then he said each name again.

“Decaf,” Omari said when he returned. “Want sweetener or cream substitute?”

Isaiah shook his head. “Adding that stuff is enough to make you stop drinking it.” He tapped the paper. “I think what we’ve got here is that Samuel Senior and Dessa were runaways who made it to Illinois. Then their baby, Samuel Junior, was born; he married Cynthia, who had been a slave too, and they were Edward’s parents.”

“Does that mean we’ve found him?” Omari asked. “The Jacksons said I still have a lot more work to do.”

“I’ve got to think on this awhile. There’s not going to be a birth certificate or any record of a black child being born in 1835. Could be something if he fought in the Civil War. Someone had to tell Edward what his history was, who his people were. But, knowing what we do, yes, I think we have found the right Samuel Thatcher.”

“Yes!”

“Now what we need to know is what happened to Samuel and Dessa when they reached Little Fort. There might be some kind of record somewhere if we knew what happened next.”

“Well, there is something else, but the Jacksons can’t exactly prove any of it.”

“What? Tell me.”

Omari explained about the possible connection to Idbash Smith.

“So,” Isaiah said. “If we can’t find any record of Samuel and Dessa reaching Wisconsin, they might never have made it, but their child survived somehow.”

Omari nodded.

“Better to know,” Isaiah said. “Even if that is what happened.” He felt too weak to push the tray table away. He was so tired. We’re almost there, he thought as he closed his eyes.

“You go back, go back today, boy. You’re too close to stop now. Find out if Samuel and Dessa met up with this Smith, and if they did, what happened to them. We could have other relatives out there, kinfolk we don’t even know about.”

Omari moved the table, adjusted his pillow, pulled the covers up to his chin. “You rest now,” he said. “I’ll leave quick as I can and call as soon as I find out something. And Grandpa, I think we came from Ethiopia, too.”

“You did good, boy,” Isaiah told him. “You did real good, boy. Real good. Your daddy is going to be pleased with you, your Uncle Floyd, too.”

*   *   *

Josiah stood at the window and wondered what was happening at the place where the Indian village had been. They must have found something by now. Idbash’s map showed the circumference of the village and the center, where he had ordered Buckner to dig. Idbash had not been pleased with the Indians who lived there. According to his journal, he could not “abide this insurrection by a people so docile and trusting that they were now being forced from their land. They will return to the lead mines,” he wrote, “every one of them, or they will die.” Another entry said, “They chose now to become stubborn. Their elders complain that too many have the falling sickness. It is true that a goodly number of them can no longer move their limbs and will soon die. This is the cause of much of their unrest, but not one among them is willing to put down those who sicken.” A final entry said, “Not even shooting those nigras convinced them. Now I will require even more nigras. They go to the mines without complaint, but they get the breathing sickness much more quickly. I tell them that once they get sick I will settle up with them for their wages and help them continue north. Instead we just take them to the veined-out places in the mines.”

Josiah felt the back of his head begin to throb. He thought it might be from lack of sleep but it seemed like a peculiar place to get a headache. If it persisted, he might even see a doctor, but he expected that all of his “headaches” would soon be gone. He had spoken with his attorney yesterday. They would sign the papers for the land sale that afternoon.

He had already purchased a home in Boca Raton. He would fly there this Sunday. Cook would follow in a week to look after him and the house. Paul and Franklin could fight over who got the summer place in Michigan and the condos in Colorado and Arizona. It would require that they speak to each other and perhaps behave like civilized men. It was that or attorney fees and perhaps years in court.

It would not have pleased Idbash to know that after all he had done to acquire this land, twenty acres adjacent to the forest preserve, twenty-five acres along the river, this house and ten acres of the land that surrounded it, would be given away.

Josiah had agreed to the land donations because Paul and Franklin were against it. Richard didn’t care one way or the other, even though the trust for maintaining the house could become a considerable drain, which would impact his share the most because he had the most heirs. Kat Malloy had seen the potential for vote-garnering and favor-currying and kickbacks right away. Between her political connections and Eileen’s realty and contractor connections, they would recover a significant portion of the loss they were taking on the sale.

Kat and Eileen. Was that how the land developer got so much inside information about Idbash’s mine and land deals? No, that wasn’t possible. Not only did neither know anything, but they were too greedy to do anything that would reduce their share. Even though Kat wasn’t included in the trust, and Eileen wasn’t named either, both women, as well as Jessica, would receive a cash settlement. A payoff, Franklin said. Josiah suspected that the only reason Eileen hadn’t divorced Franklin was because he had no way to access the trust fund.

No, the developer found out exactly the way he said he did. Competition, curiosity, persistent research, and a brother who happened to be a Harvard law professor. Needless to say, the developer would only tell him enough of what he found out to ensure that the cost of the land was to his advantage. Josiah couldn’t fault the man for that. He would have done the same thing.

*   *   *

Marti and Vik arrived at the coroner’s facility at 7:51 A.M. Dr. Cyprian was waiting for them. The office area was dark, the glare of the overhead lights and white walls sudden as they walked into one of the labs. The skeletal remains were in the autopsy room, arranged on a stainless-steel table.

Dr. Altenberg arrived at eight-ten. Coffee wasn’t ready yet. When Dr. Cyprian offered to share a thermos of coffee with her, Altenberg declined.

“No need. I filled two travel cups before I left home and had a couple of Danish while I listened to Verdi and played stop-and-go in rush-hour traffic.” She began going through the contents of the envelope with Tommy Strongwind’s medical records. Some papers she tossed aside with a glance. She read others and made notes. After she had gone through everything twice, she said, “Let’s take another look at the remains. We’ll need a couple of X rays.”

While that was being done, Altenberg examined the skull. “We don’t have either of the index fingers,” she said. “Too bad. One had been broken. And there are no dental records here. He did have several fillings.”

“We’ll request information from the jails where he was held,” Marti said. “Sometimes they have to see a dentist while they’re locked up.”

“Don’t forget this.” She pointed to the bump on the bone where his ear would have been. “This indicates Gardner’s Syndrome, a hereditary disease. You need to talk with someone in the family. If anyone had thyroid and or colon cancer, that would be a significant indicator. Autopsy reports would be more conclusive, but the medical history should suffice.”

Marti made a note to ask Mr. Nozhagum right away.

When Dr. Cyprian returned with the X rays just taken, the two doctors compared them with the medical notes.

“Contact this hospital,” Altenberg said. “Get copies of their X rays. This looks like a match.”

She consulted with Dr. Cyprian for a few minutes, then said, “Matching the dental work, and the fractures, will be sufficient. But if you can confirm the familial cancer, that would confirm it. A very small percentage of the population has Gardner’s Syndrome.” She handed Marti the paperwork. “And thanks for inviting me back. I don’t get to follow up on these caseso very often.” She looked at the clock. “Driving back to the city will take longer than getting here did. I need to get moving.”

*   *   *

When Marti reached Mr. Nozhagum, he confirmed several cases of cancer, but didn’t know what kind. He did give her the name of a doctor she could talk with. She got the doctor’s answering service and he returned her call about ten minutes later. “Five of the Strongwinds have died of colon cancer so far. Gardner’s Syndrome. Everyone in the family needs to be followed up so we can catch the cancer in time, but it’s difficult to get people to do that. I never saw anyone named Tommy, but from what you’ve told me, he did have it. And genetically it’s passed on by the male.”

*   *   *

By the time Marti had poured a cup of Cowboy’s coffee and snagged a chocolate-covered doughnut, she was talking in lists.

“… and the state’s attorney I talked with about the lead mining and land deeds, he actually sounded excited. Said it’s the most interesting thing he’s come across since law school, except for prosecuting a capital crime.”

Vik helped himself to another jelly-filled. “It takes all kinds. Researching anything sounds about as exciting as working that dig site.”

“Tedious,” Marti agreed. She preferred caffeine fixes and the occasional adrenaline rush.

She checked the handwritten list of jails Tommy Strongwind had been in: Tacoma, Washington; Great Falls, Montana; Willow City, North Dakota; and Minneapolis, Minnesota. She called each in turn.

“Misdemeanors,” she told Vik. “Fighting, public drunkenness, petty theft, nothing major. He got a tooth pulled while he was jailed in Tacoma, and they had to replace two fillings in Willow City. They’re faxing the paperwork directly to Dr. Cyprian, with the X rays to follow by overnight mail.”

She hesitated, picked up the manila envelope with Strongwind’s personal correspondence, hesitated again and then pulled everything out. Marti couldn’t put the obituaries and newspaper clippings in any context. Tommy wasn’t mentioned in any of them and she couldn’t figure out their importance.

He had sent six letters, four postcards and three birthday cards to his cousin Ethan. Marti arranged them by type, with the most recent postmarks last. Then she began reading. Each birthday card had a reference to some childhood event that was illustrated by the picture on the front. “Remember when we tried to tape and glue knives to our shoes so we could ice skate?”

The postcards made similar references. “No lake trout here but the salmon are bigger,” from Washington State. “Beats the hell out of drag racing on the rez”—a snow-covered ski slope in Montana.

She opened the letters last. They were short, none more than a page.

“Sorry, I did it again. Can’t seem to keep my mouth shut or my hands in my pockets.”

“Getting married, huh? Church, I bet. Me, I’d have a drumming ceremony. Maybe someday you’ll go back to the old ways.”

“A kid! You, Ethan, a father? Tell Grandpa.”

The one sent from the jail in Minneapolis said, “When I come home this time it’s back to the rez for good. I finally got far enough away to miss being home.”

She felt as if she had eavesdropped on a very personal conversation as she returned everything to the manila envelope.

*   *   *

Dr. Kirkemo called to say that her phase of the excavation would be completed by the end of the day. They drove out to talk with her before she left. Usually, the workers were relaxed and talkative. Today there was little conversation and everyone seemed intent on what they were doing. Vik was right—too much monotony.

“We’ve found more silver ornaments,” Dr. Kirkemo said. “And a few utensils and tools. Even some toys. The archaeologist doing the dating has narrowed it to the early nineteenth century. The German silver precludes anything earlier than 1800. Their removal was completed in 1836.”

Marti felt her jaws tighten as she thought of the small skulls. “What about lead deposits?” she asked. “Can they still tell if any of them worked in lead mines?”

“What’s that about lead?” Dr. Kirkemo asked.

“Extraordinary,” she exclaimed after Marti explained. “Wait until everyone hears about this!”

“We were not going to remove the bones. They belong to the Potawatomi. But now we’ll have to ask for a representative sampling.”

“How many bodies were buried there?” Vik asked.

“We’re estimating forty.”

“Two children, for sure,” Marti said.

“Two small children. I’m sure there are more, but older. There are defense wounds on the bones of the hands and arms. And, in a few instances, bullet wounds.”

Vik exhaled. “Damn.”

“What happens now?” Marti asked.

“The proper government authorities have been notified. The digging will continue until everything is recovered. We’ve also spoken with a local tribal elder. The Potawatomi will determine what to do with their dead. Maybe a ghost feast and a religion or drum dance and burial. Their rituals are centuries-old and I’m not sure how things like not knowing the victims’ names impact what they do.”

“A ghost feast,” Marti repeated.

“Explaining that can get a little complicated, but basically someone represents the deceased, a Feast of the Dead is prepared, and everybody eats. For some tribes it’s a way of remembering the person who has died. Other tribes have a more formal belief in reincarnation or rebirth. They all believe in some kind of spirit life.”

“There are rumors of a ghost on this property,” Marti said.

Dr. Kirkemo nodded. “Could be.”

“Nobody believes in ghosts,” Vik said.

“Nor have I ever seen one,” Dr. Kirkemo agreed. “However, a person’s belief system is a very powerful thing. And I never question that.”

Before they returned to the precinct they drove over to the site near the river where Linski’s body had been found. Everything had been filled in and the area had been sodded. If Marti didn’t know where the holes had been, she wouldn’t be able to find them now. The barn was next. Two-by-fours secured the door or window from which Harry Buckner had fallen or been pushed. The doors at ground level were open. The backhoe was inside the barn, but the rider mower was gone.

“Look’s like he’s been replaced,” Vik said.

*   *   *

Promptly at one o’clock, Josiah’s attorney and the attorneys for the developers arrived along with the president of the architectural firm and the contractors who would be in charge of building the homes. Thanks to Kat and Eileen, in addition to the sale of the land, the Smith estate would also receive a percentage from the sale of each house. Cook showed everyone into the library, then left. Josiah had made sure that everyone else would be away for the day.

“Here are the contracts, Josiah,” his attorney told him. “We’ll go over each page.”

It seemed to Josiah that there were dozens of legal-sized sheets of paper with typing on both sides. Several times he lost track of what his attorney was saying but he didn’t ask for clarification. He just wanted to get this over with. With the exception of his lawyer, he didn’t think anyone present knew about the accidents. He had kept the news releases to a minimum and the exact locations weren’t mentioned. They didn’t know about the excavating either. But he wanted them away from here as quickly as possible.

“Now,” his lawyer concluded, “since we are all in agreement, let’s begin signing.”

Josiah tried not to seem eager as he took his turn. No matter what the status of the land, he would have legal documents and two checks in hand. The developers could worry if any claims were made by the government or the Indians. He didn’t see any need to concern himself with the colored. Fugitives couldn’t make any claims.

The attorneys passed the documents around. There were multiple places to sign or initial. By the time Josiah signed his name for the last time, he was getting cramps in his hand. He sent for Cook and they celebrated with a round of drinks.

Everyone was smiling as they left. Josiah’s attorney remained behind. He had handled the family’s business since his father retired and postponed his own retirement to take care of this, even though he had had a small stroke last winter.

“This is the end of it,” Josiah said.

“Yes, this is it.”

“Are there any possible obstacles now?”

His lawyer leaned forward, a concerned expression on his face. “Josiah, you have been so anxious to have this deal completed. It isn’t your health, is it?”

“No, no, I’m fine. We’ve just had the land so long and the parcels were added on so randomly.”

“Yes, but within a very short period of time, and also a very long time ago. All of your documents were examined by both sides and found to be in order. Barring some unforeseen impediment—and I can’t think of one that we’ve overlooked—everything is fine. We’re home free.”

Home free, Josiah thought. Nothing had been overlooked, at least nothing the lawyers were aware of; both he and the developer had been selective about that. Now that their discretion had been rewarded, he would board that flight to Florida Sunday afternoon and never look back.

“Josiah?”

“Oh, yes, sorry. I was thinking…”

“I know. And this is quite a sum of money to be thinking about, even though we could have gone with someone else and received considerably more.”

“And given considerably more to the government. And of all of the plans and designs, I did like what this developer wants to do the best.”

“Good. Good. There is one more thing, though. You’re going to have to let me know when you want to schedule a photo session.”

“Photos?”

“Yes, of course. The newspapers. You’re making a very generous gift of land to three county organizations.”

“No, please. Handle that as quietly as possible.” That would be all that he needed, something to draw attention to the family. Better to let Kat Malloy use it to Richard’s advantage. Sometimes Josiah wished that Richard were his son. He was the only one of his generation to make something of himself. “There won’t be anything about selling the land in the newspaper? You said…”

“Yes. It’s your land. Your decision. And with all of the fuss about land development these days, everyone agreed we should be discreet. Of course sooner or later someone will notice the houses going up.” He paused. “Yes, you’re right. We’ll say nothing about the land gifts now. Then when the ‘green people’ begin their hue and cry about losing skunk and opossum habitats and accelerating the extinction of the spotted tree toad, we will announce the land gifts.

“As you saw in the contracts, Josiah, they did make a few changes and the homes will be built on smaller parcels of land. They will be meeting the minimum criteria for lot sizes. This will increase the population impact on community resources. More houses means more money for you, but we did have to sweeten the pot for the additional city services they will require. Even so, when everything nets out, everyone will see a considerable profit.”

Josiah nodded. He felt so tired. It was over. At last it was over. He felt as if he were breaking a promise. Idbash had intended that this land remain in the family forever, but he had buried too many secrets here. Now those secrets had to be obliterated. He had had no other choice than to do what he did.

*   *   *

The office was quiet except for the clang of a chain against the flagpole outside their window. Marti hoped that the wind had picked up because it was going to rain, which meant that it might cool down for a few hours at least. She looked out the window. The only clouds she could see were thin, wispy, and white. The clanging stopped as abruptly as it had begun. She got another cup of coffee and pulled out the Linski and Buckner files. She read through her notes and all of the reports.

“A medal,” she said as she looked at Linski’s property report from the coroner’s office.

Vik looked up.

“She had a medal and some change in her pocket. Don’t you wear a medal around your neck?”

“Maybe the chain got broken.”

She kept reading until she came to “religious affiliation.” “I don’t think Christian Scientists wear medals.”

“They are small,” Vik said.

Marti put in a call to Larissa’s mother.

“Oh, that,” Mrs. Linski said. “Yes. Larissa always kept some little memento from places she visited.”

Marti recalled Mrs. Linski telling her that.

“I don’t know what it is, but it can’t be anything important or Larissa wouldn’t have kept it.”

“Can you describe it to me?”

“Sure, just let me get it.”

When Mrs. Linski returned to the phone, Marti had a pencil and a piece of paper ready.

“This is made of metal and it’s really old. There are numbers and letters stamped on it. Draw a triangle with one-inch sides. Put a hole at the top point. Now, in the center, put the number 83-2962. Above that, print in capital letters JCMO. Below that number in lower-case letters write ‘smi.’”

“That’s it?’ Marti asked.

“That’s it. I hope this doesn’t mean that I have to give it to you. Can I keep it?”

“For now,” Marti said. “I have no idea of what it is. Until I find out, I can’t make any promises.”

“When I got back home, there was a letter from Larissa waiting for me. She did that sometimes, when she had something difficult to tell me. She had decided that she still wanted to be an anthropologist, but that she wanted to do something similar to what she was doing there. Not just identify or record what had happened, but find some way to restore places to the way they had been or, as she put it, the way they once were and should be again. So that site was a very special place to her. And that makes this a very special memento to me.”

“I understand,” Marti said. “If we do need this, I’ll see to it that you get it back.”

Marti showed the drawing to Vik. “Odd, isn’t it?”

They played with the letters for a while without coming up with anything.

“Time to bring in the experts again,” she said. “These cases have sure expanded my definition of evidence.”

Dr. Altenberg and Dr. Kirkemo both suggested that she fax what she had drawn. Neither of them had any idea of what it could be. While she was at it, she called Gordon McIntosh. He had left for the day. Marti sent him a fax, too.

That done, she continued reading through the documents in the folders.

A short time later, Vik said, “If Linski found this thing you drew a picture of where she was digging, I don’t see how anyone could figure out something this small had been there unless there was more than one. But if there was, what did she do with the others, and why didn’t she put them in her reports?”

Marti told him what Linski’s mother had said. “Maybe she didn’t want to find anything.”

“But she did. And that was her job. That’s what they were paying her for.”

“I know, and she was probably responsible and all of that, but she was young. And, based on her decision to restore things to the way they were, she might have seen this as an obstacle to that and decided this was not that important. According to her mother, she seemed to have found her mission in life. Maybe sending this to her was symbolic of that.”

“Mission,” Vik scoffed. “Finding other people’s garbage in piles of dirt is not a mission, MacAlister.”

“Artifacts, Vik, artifacts.”

“Garbage,” Vik repeated. “What do you do with a porcupine quill, a buffalo hoof, and a clam shell? You throw them away.”

“They were mussel shells.”

“MacAlister, they are sifting through a garbage heap.”

“And a graveyard,” she said.

“Only because they found the garbage first.”

“Well, Larissa wasn’t supposed to find anything.”

“And you think she decided that this, whatever it is, should not have been found.”

“Exactly. Why risk something you care about for an old piece of metal that’s probably worthless?”

“Because that’s your job,” Vik said.

“But when we do our job, we have to think, evaluate, make decisions. All Larissa was told to do was look, and if you find, tell. Instead, she made a decision.”

Vik considered that, then said, “If she had followed orders, we wouldn’t have this. Nickel bet it turns out to mean nothing.”

“Nickel bet that twenty years from now, you won’t be lying awake at night wondering what in the hell something relatively small could have been.”

*   *   *

Ben was on duty. Instead of driving home, Marti went by the fire station. The trucks and the ambulance were inside. Ben was watching a baseball game with Allan and a couple of the other guys. He gave her a look that said, “Want to talk?” Marti shook her head and sat beside him. He put his arm around her and said, “Long night.” She nodded. She leaned against his shoulder and didn’t wake up until the alarm went off. It was just an ambulance call, no fire. As she drove home alone, she thought about the drawing she had tucked into her purse. It wasn’t a medal, but what was it?