CHAPTER EIGHT
At the top of the page, all in caps, it said FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE.
Below that, the press release began: “As part of their ongoing research into the world of prehistoric Los Angeles, paleontologists at the George C. Page Museum of Natural History have made a groundbreaking discovery, one which is sure to rewrite for all time the anthropological record of the western United States.”
Carter’s heart already began to sink.
“A team led by Dr. Carter Cox, Visiting Fellow and head of its Paleontology Field Research Department, has uncovered in an active dig site of the La Brea Tar Pits the fossilized remains of a human being…”
Carter put the paper down and looked up at Mr. Gunderson, the museum director. He was leaning back in his high-backed leather chair, with his hands folded across his belly.
“This hasn’t gone out yet, has it?” Carter asked.
“You haven’t even finished reading it. Go on.”
Carter dropped his eyes to the page again; the glare in the room from Gunderson’s bank of windows — washed at his insistence, according to the scuttlebutt, three times a week — made it difficult to read. The text made it even harder.
“Although the museum already contains over two million finds, ranging from mastodons to giant ground sloths, saber-toothed cats to camels, only once before have human remains been unearthed.”
That much at least was true.
“Known as the La Brea Woman, she was approximately eighteen years old, stood a mere 4’8”, and died, based on radiometric dating, 9,000 years ago. Although the cause of her death and how her remains came to be entombed in an asphalt seep (commonly referred to as tar) are questions that still beg an answer, one thing is now clear.”
Carter could guess what was coming.
“La Brea Woman is no longer alone.”
Why was this starting to sound more and more like a “Bride of Frankenstein” scenario? And did that make Carter the God-defying Victor Frankenstein?
“Discovered in what is known as Pit 91, an open dig site with an observation station open to all museum visitors, these early remains have yet to be dated—” Carter stopped and looked up again.
“It says here the remains have yet to be dated.”
“Which is true,” Gunderson replied.
“But only because they haven’t even been excavated yet.” Carter waved the press release in his hand. “This whole thing is premature. Not only haven’t we removed the fossil, we haven’t even gotten a good look at it yet. It’s still buried in the tar.”
“Dr. Cox,” Gunderson said, leaning forward in his chair now, “we’ve made a marvelous discovery here, and I don’t see any point in hiding our light under a bushel.”
It didn’t escape Carter’s notice that Gunderson had included himself in the discovery.
“Do you know,” Gunderson went on, “what museums and research institutions, just like this one, need to survive?”
Before Carter could tell him — it wasn’t exactly a riddle worthy of the Sphinx — Gunderson went on.
“Money. And do you know what keeps the money flowing?”
“Prehistoric human remains?”
“News. And yes, in this case, prehistoric human remains happen to be the news. Big news, I might add.”
Carter could see his point — he hadn’t been raised in a cave — and Lord knows, he’d spent a fair amount of his own time chasing research grants and funds. But what he didn’t want — what he never wanted — was to go off half-cocked.
“I understand what you’re saying. But couldn’t we just hold off a bit? All I need right now is a couple more people on my crew — experienced people — and some extended hours, a second automated pulley to remove the buckets, maybe even night lights. It’s cooler at night, and we could get some more mucking-out done then.”
“You make my point,” Gunderson said. “Everything you’re asking for costs money. And right now, the museum is strapped for funds.”
Maybe he should have his windows washed only
“And we have several grant requests that are currently under review. A discovery of this magnitude, given the proper play, could bring in a lot of additional monies. Not to mention the revenues from increased attendance alone. Can you imagine the number of people who will flock to the observation station to watch this drama unfold?”
Yes, Carter could well imagine that, and it was one of the main reasons he was so distressed at this press release. It was one thing to have a few faces, in a tour group, peering down from the observation platform, but it was another to have a raucous crowd tapping on the Plexiglas windows or trying to shout questions down into the pit. He was used to working in out-of-the-way places — the hills of Sicily, the Utah desert, the rural provinces of northeastern China — accompanied only by his fellow scientists and perhaps a few local workers. He wasn’t yet accustomed to doing his fieldwork in the middle of a city, with an amateur crew, and gawkers wearing iPods and Nikes up above.
“Does this release,” he said, “mention Miranda Adams?”
“No,” Gunderson said, “who’s Miranda Adams?”
“She’s the young UCLA grad who actually first found the fossil.”
“I thought you did.”
“Not without her help.”
Carter could see Gunderson’s gears turning. How did this affect the story? Did it needlessly complicate it? Did it somehow lessen the museum’s role?
“The news media would love that,” Carter threw in. “A young woman, planning a career in paleontology, stumbling upon something so startling.”
Gunderson pursed his lips and nodded. “Is she still working on the site?”
“Yes.”
“She attractive?”
Carter should have seen that one coming. “Yes.”
“Let me run this by the PR people. You could be right.” Gunderson’s phone rang; he glanced at the flashing light. “I’ve been expecting a call; this could be it.”
Carter stood up, the press release still in hand. “Can you at least give me a few days to proof this before sending it out?”
But Gunderson had already picked up the phone and swiveled his chair to face the sparkling windows. He was saying something about a future exhibition; please, Carter thought as he folded up the release and stuck it in his pocket, don’t let him be planning the “La Brea Man” exhibition quite yet.
That afternoon, he’d planned a special treat for Miranda Adams.
As she had been the first to come upon whatever it was still lurking in the muck of Pit 91, Carter thought it would be a good idea to give her a firsthand tutorial on how the process worked. If she was thinking about becoming a physical anthropologist, there’d be no better introduction than this.
He’d arranged to meet her in the interior garden of the museum — an enclosed space where visitors could walk through a lush, verdant landscape, not so different from what it had been in the prehistoric era. Today, the garden was almost untenanted, apart from an elderly couple speaking German, and that Native American man Carter had seen at the observation window of Pit 91 many times before. Once you saw him — laden with silver and turquoise jewelry, a long black braid hanging down the back of his buckskin jacket — you didn’t forget him. On at least one previous occasion, as Carter recalled, he’d become obstreperous with a museum docent and had been escorted off the grounds. Right now, he was just muttering to himself as he stared down into the running stream
