“Is this relevant?”
I gave him several more prints.
“Those are also human bones. They were recovered at a site near Mesa Verde, in southwestern Colorado.”
“Anasazi?” Ryan asked, reaching for a photo.
“Yes.”
“Who are the Anasazi?” McMahon.
“Ancestors of groups like the Hopi and Zuni. This site was occupied by a small group around 1130 to 1150 A.D., during a period of extreme drought. A colleague from Chapel Hill did the digging. These are his photos. At least thirty-five adults and kids were butchered. Notice that the pattern is identical.”
I fed them another photo.
“Those are stone tools found in association with the human bones. Tests confirmed the presence of human blood.”
Another.
“That ceramic cooking pot held the residue of human tissues.”
“How can they be sure these marks aren't caused by abrasion? Or by animals? Or by some sort of burial ritual? Maybe they cut up the dead to prepare them for the afterlife. That could explain the bloody tools and pot.”
“That was exactly the argument until this was discovered.”
I passed them another photo.
“What the hell is that?” McMahon gave it to Ryan.
“After seven people were killed, cooked, and eaten in a small underground room at this site, one of the diners squatted over the cold hearth and defecated.”
“Holy shit.”
“Exactly. Archaeologists call preserved feces coprolites. Biochemical tests showed traces of digested human muscle protein in this particular beauty.”
“Could the protein have gotten there by some other route?”
“Not myoglobin. Tests also showed this guy had eaten almost nothing but meat for eighteen hours prior to his grand gesture.”
“That is great stuff, Tempe, but I've got eight stiffs and a pack of reporters breathing down my neck. Other than perps with a morbid taste in art and literature, how is this relevant? You're showing me people who have been dead for centuries.”
I placed three more photos on his desk.
“Ever heard of Alfred G. Packer?”
He glanced at his watch, then at the pictures.
“No.”
“Alfie Packer is reputed to have killed and eaten five people in Colorado during the winter of 1874. He was tried and convicted of murder. The victims were recently exhumed and analyzed.”
“What the hell for?”
“Historic accuracy.”
Ryan circled behind McMahon. As the two men studied the bones of the Packer victims, I got up and spread my Polaroids across the desk.
“I took these at the morgue this morning.”
Like spectators at a tennis match, their eyes shifted among the Neanderthals, the Anasazi, the Packer victims, and my Polaroids. For a very long time no one spoke.
McMahon broke the silence.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph in a bloody pear tree.”
NO ONE HAD ANYTHING TO ADD TO THAT.
“Who the hell are these lunatics?” Ryan's question broke the silence.
McMahon responded.
“The H&F Investment Group is buried under more layers than Olduvai Gorge. Veckhoff 's dead, so he's not talking. Following up on your suggestion, Tempe, we tracked down Rollins and Birkby through their fathers. Rollins lives in Greenville, teaches English at a community college. Birkby owns a chain of discount furniture stores, has homes in Rock Hill and Hilton Head. Each gentleman tells the same story: inherited his interest in H&F, knows nothing about the property, never visited there.”
I heard a door open, voices in the corridor.
