Icy Clutches (26 page)

They glanced at a densely typed two-page memorandum done on a National Park Service form, its print faded to a barely legible gray from being photocopied so many times.

"Go ahead and read it,” John said, and turned to call over his shoulder: “Hey, Cheri, does bread come with this?"

The first line of the memo was the date: September 24, 1960. Two months after the Tirku expedition. Their eyes were drawn to the lower part of the page, where several paragraphs had been heavily circled with a red felt-tip marker.

Although appellant admits that he “lost his temper” twice in dealings with Professor Tremaine, and that such behavior is inexcusable, he feels that it was the understandable result of Professor Tremaine's “abusive, belligerent, and unreasonable manner,” and his refusal to heed safety advice of the most basic kind, e.g.:

(a) Professor Tremaine's refusal to postpone or cancel his group's final day of activities in the vicinity of Tirku Glacier despite the increasing frequency of earth tremors in the region;

(b) His insistence on taking a route directly across the northern tongue of Tirku, although it was in the path of a large, unstable hanging glacier. (Professor Tremaine's justification for this was that the half-mile walk over the ice would save his party an arduous three-mile trek around the tongue, through an area choked with postglacial vegetation.);

(c) His “contemptuous disregard” of suggestions to carry ropes and/or other safety equipment, despite summer conditions that had left an extremely treacherous film of snow obscuring many crevasses.

Gideon looked up. “You guys have been busy. This is the report Anna Henckel was showing to Pratt and Judd, isn't it?"

John nodded. “Right. Henckel didn't have it, Pratt didn't have it, so I figured the place to look was where she was showing it to him: the bar."

Minor politely demurred. “I do believe that was my suggestion, John."

"Julian, you gotta learn to be less territorial. Anyway, there it was, in one of the stacks of magazines."

"But what does it have to do with Tibbett?” Gideon asked.

"Finish reading it, Doc.” He broke a roll from the basket the waitress had brought, buttered it, and leaned back, chewing reflectively.

Gideon and Julie continued with the memo.

Appellant stated that he believes his warnings to Professor Tremaine were borne out in the disastrous results of the Tirku expedition, an opinion in which this investigator concurs.

However, while it is true that appellant's advice to Professor Tremaine was sound and would, if followed, have resulted in the saving of three lives, it is also true that Park Service personnel must use tact in dealing with members of the public. It is the view of this investigator that the complaint filed by Professor Tremaine on July 25 pertaining to appellant's “obstructive and officious manner” is justified. It is this investigator's further view that a more sensitive and diplomatic attitude on appellant's part would very likely have convinced Professor Tremaine of the need for more vigorous precautions and precluded the needless loss of three lives.

Finding: Appellant's termination is sustained.

"I still don't get it,” Gideon said. “What does this have to do with Arthur?"

"I don't get it either,” Julie said.

John sighed. “Will you people read the
beginning?"

This time Gideon read aloud.

DATE: September 24, 1960

TO: Thomas Llewellyn, Assistant Director for Personnel

FROM: Edgar V. Luna, Appeals Mediator

SUBJECT: Appeal of Cornelius H. Tibbett from Termination

The purpose of this—

"Tibbett?"
Julie said.

Gideon had passed right over it. Not that he was about to admit it to John.

"Bingo,” John said, “Tibbett. Finally. Cornelius H. Tibbett was Arthur Tibbett's father. Tell them what you found out, Julian."

Julian folded his well-groomed hands on the table. “Upon losing his job, Cornelius Tibbett returned to New York with his wife and turned to drink, never holding a meaningful job for the rest of his life, which was unhappily brief. In 1962 he jumped in front of the Lexington Avenue IRT at Eighty-sixth Street."

"You're saying,” said Julie after a pause, “that this gives Arthur a motive for killing Tremaine?"

"Damn right,” John said. “Tremaine gets his father canned, which ruins his career and his life, and two years later the guy kills himself. And the way Arthur probably sees it—hell, the way I see it—is that it was Tremaine that was in the wrong every step of the way."

Julie shook her head. “But, John, Arthur was just a little boy. It was such a long time ago."

"Are you kidding?” John said, laughing. “Compared to the other things we've got to go on, 1962's recent."

"In point of fact,” Minor told Julie, “Arthur Tibbett was twenty at the time his father was dismissed."

He continued explaining while they ate their meals. Arthur himself had just begun working for the Park Service as a seasonal ranger in 1960 and had been shattered by what had happened to his father. Throughout much of his subsequent career he'd been obsessed with the idea of someday returning to Glacier Bay in a position of authority; to restore the Tibbett honor, as it were. Two years ago the position of assistant superintendent became vacant. Arthur applied, did well on the examination, and got the job.

"All of this,” Minor concluded, “is well known to his colleagues and superiors in Washington, D.C."

"But not to me,” John said, “which is what bugs me. Never once did he say anything to me about having a grudge against Tremaine."

"Well, why should he?” Gideon asked. “He achieved his goal, he was satisfied. Why stir it up again? I'd probably have kept it to myself too."

"No, you wouldn't,” John said crisply. “Not once Tremaine got killed, you wouldn't. Once that happened it was damn pertinent. You'd have come forward and told the investigating officers. You wouldn't have sat around waiting for us to dig it up by ourselves."

"No, you're right; I would have told you. Arthur should've told you. Still—"

Still what? Now that Gideon thought about it, Tibbett's virulent dislike for Tremaine had come through dearly enough that first evening at dinner. And after Tremaine had been killed, hadn't his mood perked up noticeably? Well, yes, but still—

"Look,” John said, “I'm not accusing the guy. I just need to have a little heart-to-heart with him, that's all. Get a few things straight."

"I'd like to wait on that until tomorrow, if it's all the same,” Minor said. “I still have some telephone calls in to Washington on him."

Across the room, the members of Tremaine's group had been leaving one by one, darting glances at the FBI agents. Elliott Fisk remained behind and was now approaching the table.

"Sir?” John said to him.

Fisk held out a thick, flat notebook bound with blue imitation leather; the kind with a little fold-around flap that fitted into a slot on the front to keep the cover closed.

"The journal?” John said.

"I found it under a bird feeder near my door this afternoon. There's a bench next to it and I usually sit there for a few minutes before breakfast.” He turned to Gideon. “To plan my day."

Plan his day? At the lodge? What was there to plan?

John took the journal and held it without opening it. “How do you think it got there?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"You tell me."

"Shirley finished with it and decided to return it after all, for reasons of her own."

"She told you this?"

Fisk gave him a look of scathing incredulity. “Oh, certainly."

"Uh-huh,” John said.

"Now, look. I assure you I did
not
accidentally leave it under the bird feeder yesterday morning. I had it with me at breakfast. Dr. Judd can vouch—"

"Okay, I believe you,” John said. “Are any pages missing?"

"None."

"Can I hold on to this for now?"

"By all means, do. You'll find it quite interesting, I'm sure."

When Fisk had left, John pulled out the flap and riffled without interest through the pages. The last third were empty, the rest covered with a sloppy, slanting scrawl in blue ink. “The first entry's January 2, 1960. Last is"—more riffling—"July 25, the day before he got killed."

He closed the notebook and slid it to Minor. “Julian, will you have a look through it and see what you find?"

"My pleasure,” Minor said. Gideon could smell his cedary cologne as the agent reached for the journal. The dark, neat hand hesitated over the notebook. “Perhaps we'd better go over it for fingerprints first."

"Nah,” John said, “don't waste too much time on it. Just read it when you get a chance."

"You don't think there'll be anything important in it?” Julie asked.

John shook his head. “Not if it got returned."

They were on their second cups of coffee when John suddenly snapped his fingers. “Hey, I almost forgot! They found some more bones for you, Doc."

Gideon was caught in the act of putting his coffee cup to his mouth. He managed to avoid spilling any and set the cup back in its saucer. “Bones?"

Julie and John both burst out laughing.

Gideon looked at them, puzzled. “What's funny?"

"You,” Julie said. “The way you say ‘Bones?’ If dogs could talk that's the way they'd say it. I think your ears actually prick."

Gideon shrugged. “I guess I like my work,” he said, laughing too.

"Chacun a son gout,
said Minor, who hadn't joined in the hilarity.

"Owen's people spent the day on Tirku again,” John explained. “They brought back a box of stuff; mostly pretty ratty-looking. They're in the contact station."

"Are they human?"

"You're asking me?"

Gideon was out of his chair, fishing in his pocket for the key to the station. “I'm going to have a look. Anybody want to come along?"

"Sure,” Julie said, standing up too.

"Sure,” John said. “Come on, Julian, you'll learn something."

Minor hesitated. “I think I'd better use the time to go through the journal."

"No pots to stir this time,” Gideon told him. “I promise."

Minor permitted himself a faint, not-unfriendly smile. “Be that as it may,” he said.

[Back to Table of Contents]

"Weasel,” Gideon said tossing a tiny vertebra into the wastepaper basket. “Marten, maybe."

More bones and bone fragments followed. “Goat...bird—seagull, probably...bear...um, elk..."

"There aren't any elk around here,” Julie said.

"Okay, moose, if you're going to be like that. Cervidae, anyway...fox...bear...bear...goat...
ah!"

He held up a flat, twisted piece of bone six or seven inches long and looking something like a dog's rawhide chew.

"Human?” Julie said.

John put one hand to his forehead and pointed at the bone with his other. “Scapula? Wait, wait, I mean, I mean—what the hell do I mean?” He scowled mightily. “Clavicle! Collarbone! Am I right?"

"On the button."

John beamed. “Why, John,” Julie said, “I'm impressed."

He nodded modestly toward Gideon. “Well, you know, I took that class from him in Saint Malo."

"Amazing,” Gideon said. “I guess there must be something to this sleep-learning business after all."

"Hey, come on, I wasn't sleeping. I just like to get relaxed. It helps my concentration."

"He was snoring,” Gideon told Julie. “Nobody could hear what I was saying. I had to ask the guy next to him to give him a nudge."

Unexpectedly, John broke into one of his brief, gleeful peals of joy. “You know what the guy answered?” he asked Julie. “He said, ‘You put him to sleep, you wake him up.’”

"How would you know?” Gideon said. “You were asleep. Okay"—he held the bone out to John—"right or left?"

John spoke with convincing authority. “Right.” Then, after a moment: “Left?"

"That narrows it down, all right. Well, they're easy to confuse. But it's a right. And it's adult male."

"I agree,” John said soberly.

"I'm relieved to hear it.” Gideon had switched on a gooseneck lamp over the counter. He was turning the clavicle over and over directly under the light, tilting it, fingering it, seeing what else it could tell him. Clavicles are not among the most informative of bones, and this one had no visible pathology, no sign of trauma, no unusual genetic variation.

But it did have epiphyses. “I'd put the age at about twenty-five, like everything else we've found. I think we can assume it's another piece of Pratt or Fisk."

He used a sliding caliper to measure the maximum length. “Pretty big,” he murmured. “A shade under 172 millimeters."

"How do you tell a clavicle's male?” Julie wanted to know.

"Hey, ask
him,"
John said. He let himself down into the armchair near the counter and stretched comfortably out.

"Pretty much like any other bone,” Gideon explained, sliding the caliper closed. “Size...robusticity...roughness. The bigger and rougher the clavicle, the bigger and more heavily muscled the person it came from. And the bigger and more muscular the person, the better the chance it's a male."

"But—” Julie chewed momentarily on the side of her lip. “I know we've had this discussion before, but—well, there are a lot of women around who are bigger and stronger than a lot of men, aren't there? There are women athletes, women weight lifters—"

"She's right, Doc,” John said. “And don't forget about steroids. Women take steroids these days, too."

Gideon shook his head. “Steroids make bones thicker but not longer. In fact, they're as likely to stunt them as anything else. They make for premature ossification, so the bones stop growing before they should. Anyway, we're not talking about ‘these days.’ This is from 1960; there weren't too many women taking steroids in 1960."

"Yeah, he's right,” John said to Julie. “Not a hell of a lot of female weight lifters then either."

"I wasn't thinking of weight lifters,” Julie said. “I was thinking of Jocelyn Yount; six feet tall, athletic—and killed in the avalanche. Why not her?"