Razing the Dead (20 page)

“Know what? That there were two bodies on their land?”

“Well, maybe they kept quiet about it. Maybe Edward hid the book—he couldn't bring himself to destroy it because it was the only evidence of those two bodies, vague though it is. How do we figure that out now?” And then another thought hit me. “James,” I said slowly, “have you done a DNA analysis on the bodies?”

“Looking for what?”

“Maybe Edward Garrett did know who the dead men were. And maybe one of them was related to him.”

James sat back in his chair. “I never thought of that. It's not standard operating procedure for an FBI investigation, but I can get a quick-and-dirty DNA test done, for a price. I suppose Wakeman would foot the bill. But who am I comparing it to?”

“Ezra's two sons, William and Eddie, still live in Chester County. I'm sure you could persuade one of them to provide a DNA sample.”

“Wait a minute—you're suggesting that one or both of the dead men are related to the Garrett family? That's a heck of a big jump.”

“I know that. But it might explain why that first Edward never said anything about the bodies.”

James thought for a moment, staring into space. “I'll look into getting the DNA work done. But even in the unlikely case that it was a Garrett who killed the soldier, how do you get from there to killing George Bowen now?”

“Maybe if you keep a secret that long, it becomes a force of its own. Maybe somebody didn't want it to go public.”

“Maybe. I'd still be more comfortable with finding someone with a financial motive, like Jackson, or a personal motive, like Joseph Dilworth and Pat Bowen.”

“Well, it would certainly be easier to make a case.”

We'd finished eating without my even noticing. “So,” James began, “I've got some more listings for us to check out.” He looked at me expectantly.

“I, uh,” I fumbled, then raised my chin, determined to feign enthusiasm if I needed to. “Okay, show me.”

He permitted himself a small smile, and it hurt—I'd made him happy, and it had taken so little. He stood up to fetch a slim stack of printouts, and snagged the bottle of wine on the way back, refilling both our glasses before sitting down. He took the chair next to me, rather than sit across the table. “I kind of like this one,” he said, shuffling the stack and handing me a page.

I barely glanced at it. “Mmm, nice. Where is it?”

As we went through the stack, I made polite noises. But it's hard to fool a trained FBI agent. After a while James backed up his chair and looked at me. “What's wrong, Nell?”

“Nothing. Well, not nothing, but I don't know what it is.”

“You don't want to move in together.”

“I do. Really. But . . .” There was nothing to come after the
but
. Either I did or I didn't, and if I didn't know by now, when would I? I took another sip of wine, stalling. “James, you know I love you. I want to be with you. I hate not knowing from day to day if I'll see you, or where we'll be. But something is holding me back, and I don't even know what it is. And I can't seem to get past it.” He started to speak, and I raised a hand. “It's not that I'm afraid it won't work out. I know the statistics. I know we're both reasonable, intelligent people, and we should be able to talk about this. I know we're not young, and if this is going to happen we don't have the luxury of drifting along for years. We've even had a sort of trial run these last few weeks, under challenging conditions, and we came through it with flying colors. So I don't understand why I can't seem to move forward.” His gaze had never left my face, and I wanted to cry. How could I be doing this to him?

Then his expression changed, just a bit. “Nell, I have an idea. No, don't say anything—I've got a few details to work out. But will you hold tomorrow night for me? Or, no, better make it Thursday, in case something comes up.”

“You mean, like finding another corpse or two?” I pulled together a wavering smile. “Thursday sounds good for me.”

“All right, then. Are you staying, tonight?”

“I've had a few glasses of wine—I shouldn't drive. So, yes.”

He gave me a quizzical look, no doubt questioning my lukewarm response. We really did need to work this out—just as soon as I figured out what my problem was.

The next morning, I woke up early and studied still-sleeping
James. He still looked a bit thinner since he'd been attacked, but he claimed there were no aftereffects from the concussion, no more headaches or dizziness. The long scar on his arm was fading slowly, but it would always be with him. He didn't remember those awful minutes when I was trying to stop the bleeding and wondering if I could—and wondering if he was going to die under my hands.
Cheerful thoughts for an early morning, Nell!
He'd survived, I'd survived, and the whole thing had shoved our relationship to this new level—where it had stalled. Now he was back at work and ready to resume a normal life, and here I was dragging my feet. Clearly I was an idiot, as my friends kept telling me.

I slid carefully out of bed and went to the kitchen—more like a kitchenette—to make coffee. What was on my calendar for today? No board meeting looming yet, and the next major social event at the Society was still a few months away. Shelby had the planning for that well in hand, and it promised to be fun: we were celebrating the life of the great nineteenth-century actor Edwin Forrest, whose larger-than-life personality lent itself to over-the-top festivities. New registrar Ben seemed to be getting a handle on his job, and despite, or maybe because of, the limitations to his mobility, he appeared to be a calm, stable presence—exactly what we needed. I was looking forward to seeing how he interacted with Latoya once he got his bearings.

Lissa, with a little help from me, would be cobbling together a report on the history of the Garrett site in Goshen to present to Wakeman by Friday, a deadline barreling toward us way too fast. I believed that if we made him happy, it could mean good things for the Society, maybe in the form of money, or maybe as some in-kind contributions for the building, like an updated HVAC system, or even a new roof. That would be a trifle to the Wakeman Property Trust, but it would mean a lot to us. If we disappointed him . . . no, I wasn't going to think about that. The Society had one of the best collections of historical material in the country, particularly on Pennsylvania history, and with Janet's help we could fill in whatever gaps there were. And I had enough experience with fine-tuning pitches to present a streamlined and concise story that would appeal to the public and the press alike. All good.

The coffee was ready when James emerged from the bedroom freshly showered. I handed him a cup and, said, “Want an English muffin?”

“Sure.” He sat down at the table and watched me exercise my expert toaster skills.

When I'd set a plate in front of him and brought mine over to the table, I said, “What's next on your plate with the Wakeman—or should I say Bowen?—investigation?”

James sighed and sipped his coffee. “I really don't know. We're waiting for the final forensic details on the old bodies. The local police have interviewed everyone with a connection to George Bowen and they've sent on the reports to us. But in reading through them, it's clear that their prior knowledge of the people and the situation interferes with their objectivity to some extent. And maybe they haven't asked the right questions. But the FBI can't muscle in and redo everything.”

That made sense to me. “Wakeman's not getting in your way?”

“Nope. He's getting the investigation he asked for. You have any suggestions?”

“You're asking me?” I thought for a moment. “James, we've worked together on a few cases now, and I think what I bring to the table is a different perspective. I know more about the people involved, and you deal with the facts. And I can ask questions that you can't, because I'm not official. Does that sound about right?”

“It does,” he said. “And don't think I don't appreciate it.”

“Thank you. To get back to the point, I think it still comes back to those two Revolutionary War bodies. We do agree that that's what they are?” When James nodded, I went on, “George Bowen found them, whether or not he was looking specifically for them. George told somebody about them, although we still aren't sure who. That person had what he—or she—thought was a motive to silence George. Does that sum it up?”

“It does. That's why I'm glad you're on this with me. And as you were saying, it may be that some of us don't appreciate that something that happened over two hundred years ago can matter so much to someone today.”

“But you
can
work your forensic magic on the old bodies,” I pointed out.

“We're working on it.”

“Are you going to talk to anyone in Goshen today?”

“Maybe. I'd like a word with Jackson, and maybe Pat Bowen. What about you?”

“What am I doing? Going to work. Lissa's only got two days to put together that preliminary report for Wakeman, and I need to vet it first.”

“How's she working out?”

“Very well. She's smart and she knows quite a bit about local history. Too bad the Society can't hire her, but it's not in the budget. Maybe I can talk Wakeman into endowing a position for a project historian, assuming he's pleased with what we give him. And then she can keep seeing Ben.”

James smiled. “I'm not taking that bait. You aren't going to interfere, are you?”

“Why would I do that? My only concern is that Ben is now my employee, so I have some responsibility for him. Latoya and I haven't really had time to assess his professional capabilities. I was just wondering, in case I should say something to Lissa.”

“They're both adults—let them work things out.” He stood up and carried his dishes to the sink. “I'd better get going. Don't forget, we've got a date tomorrow night,” he said.

“Oh, right. I might have to make another run out to Chester County, either today or tomorrow, so I'll check in with you later. And I'll have to see how much progress Lissa has made on that report for Wakeman.”

“Tomorrow.” His tone didn't permit any argument. He gave me a serious kiss and headed out the door.

It didn't take me long to dress; the scant closet space didn't allow me to keep much at James's place, so I had few choices for work clothing. Then I drove into Center City and parked across from the Society. The day promised to be a warm one, but as usual the interior of my building was cool and serene. “Hi, Bob,” I greeted our gatekeeper.

“Mornin', Nell. Busy day yesterday, and looks like it might be busy again today.”

“All those summer genealogists, right? But that's what keeps us in business.” I headed for the elevator and my office.

Eric had already arrived. “I'll get your coffee, Nell,” he said as soon as he saw me, and went down the hall to the break room. He returned a minute later. “There you go.”

“Thank you, Eric. I promise I'll start getting in earlier soon, so we can share coffee duty. How're things going? What with all this running back and forth to Goshen, I feel kind of left out of the loop. Any crises? Excitements?”

“Things've been pretty smooth this week. How's it going with your bodies?”

“The new one or the old ones? I think they're connected, but I still don't know how. We haven't heard from Mr. Wakeman yet today, have we?” I knew Wakeman had my cell phone number and wouldn't have hesitated to use it if he'd really wanted to reach me.

“No, ma'am. A couple of calls from his project manager.”

“Scott?”

“That's the one. I don't think it was urgent.”

“As long as Mr. Wakeman can find me, I think we're okay. Have you seen Lissa this morning?”

“Sure have. She came in real early.”

Even as Eric spoke, Lissa appeared in the doorway behind him. “Hey, Nell. I've got some stuff I want to show you. Oh, hi, Eric.”

“Hey, Lissa. You want some coffee?”

“Already helped myself, thanks. You make good coffee, Eric.”

“Thank you! Then I'll let you all get down to business.” Eric retreated gracefully to his desk.

When he was gone, I gestured toward a chair. “Sit down. You look excited—you've found something?”

“Maybe. Hey, don't worry, I'll have a draft of that Wakeman report for you by tomorrow afternoon at the latest, so you can review it. But you asked me to look more closely at the genealogy of the family, right? Edward, the one who owned the land during the Revolution, and the rest of his family?”

“I did. What've you learned?” She must have thought it was significant, because she was almost bubbling with excitement.

“Well, as I'm sure you know, records are a little patchy back then. We've got the 1790 census, after the dust from the war had settled, and there's a 1774 list of taxable inhabitants in Goshen, and Edward's on it. If you're interested, he had two horses, three cattle, and three sheep at the time. Married to Hannah, and they had seven kids, four daughters and three sons, Charles, William, and Thomas. Thomas was the youngest boy. Edward left a will, and Thomas inherited the property when Edward died. So that made me wonder—what must've happened to Charles and William?”

It took me a moment to grasp what Lissa was suggesting,
and then another moment to see the connection she had made. “You're saying that you think that either or both of the two bodies found on the property were Edward's sons? That's a pretty huge leap of logic. Tell me why.”

“Okay.” Lissa picked up the thread dimpled, her enthusiasm undimmed. “It's kind of hard to prove a negative, but hear me out. When I started digging into the sources from after the war, I couldn't find any mention of Charles or William Garrett anywhere, not near Goshen or even in the commonwealth. Not in Edward's will, as I've just said, and no marriage or death records anywhere. They didn't leave wills, at least not in Pennsylvania, although I can't say I've looked beyond the state. No mention of widows or offspring for either of the sons. What is interesting is that William shows up in the Goshen militia company—there are some Sons of the American Revolution applications that refer to him.”

“But wasn't he a Quaker? I thought they were pacifists.”

“Yes and no. Quakers are basically Christians but historically they've been very tolerant of individual beliefs. George Fox, who founded the Religious Society of Friends in England back in the mid 1600s, said that Quakers should refuse to bear arms or use deadly force against other humans or participate in any wars, but there have been Quakers who've fought. They were and are willing to fight for peace and freedom, if that makes sense to you, but mostly they're a very quiet group that avoids violence. The Goshen Meeting was founded in 1702 or 1703—”

“And is close to the Garrett farm. I know. You've looked at their records?”

“Not yet. They're in the Friends Historical Library at Swarthmore College and in the Haverford College Quaker Collection. They're available for research, but I haven't had the time to get there, and only the catalog is online, not the documents themselves.”

I sat back in my chair and thought. “So how do you get from there to two dead men buried secretly on the Garrett farm, one with a British uniform?”

“I'm getting there. You might guess that being pacifists put a lot of Quakers in difficult positions during the Revolution, because they weren't supposed to officially swear loyalty to either side, much less fight. Some remained Loyalists, and others sided with the patriots—and they could be disowned by their meeting for either. In Pennsylvania almost a thousand Quakers were disowned for bearing arms. Anyway, the result was that
nobody
trusted the Quakers around here.”

I was beginning to see her logic. “And you're guessing that the Garrett family, in the confusion after the battle, found the bodies and buried them quickly, to avoid any problems?”

“It's possible, isn't it?” Lissa nodded eagerly. “The local Quakers had very mixed feelings about which side to choose and whether or not to fight, and besides, tempers run high in any war. Maybe Edward just wanted to avoid any difficulties.”

I was intrigued, but she was really going out on a limb with her theory. I played devil's advocate. “If that was the case, why would anyone want to silence George Bowen? If anything, it would be kind of an intriguing archeological find, wouldn't it?”

Lissa's face clouded. “That's where I hit a wall. And that's why the missing heirs are important. What if one of them killed the British soldier? Or was killed by him? And maybe his brother helped cover that up, and then left, so no one would ask him about it?”

“It's possible, maybe. But why wouldn't Edward have resurrected his son, so to speak, when the war was over, and had him buried properly at the meeting?”

“That's why I'd really like to take a look at the original records at Swarthmore. Maybe the brothers are mentioned there, but I haven't had time to check, and we're running out of time if we're going to meet Wakeman's deadline.”

Lissa fell silent while I digested what she'd told me. Finally, I said, “I guess the question is, if it's true—and that's still very much an
if
—then how did the family manage to keep the secret for all this time?”

Lissa shrugged. “You told me that Ezra Garrett made a point of giving the family documents to the historical society before he died. I wonder: do you think he knew?” Lissa said.

Something I couldn't answer. “Well, either he wanted to make sure the documents stayed together and were well cared for, or he knew there was something in there that probably would or should come out sometime. Maybe he didn't trust his own family to preserve them. I think maybe we need to know a bit more about family relations there, and I'll bet Janet can fill in some of the blanks. I wish we had more time to figure this out. How much can we take to Wakeman?”

“You're asking me?” Lissa laughed. “From what I understand, he wants a nice report to help sell his homes and condos. We don't have any proof about these conjectures, no matter how interesting a story it might make for him. I suppose we could say something like ‘The Garrett family had a long and troubled history on their homestead . . .' And the bodies would be quietly reburied somewhere and never identified.”

I shot upright in my chair. “But there is a way we can prove it!” While she looked at me, bewildered, I picked up my office phone and hit James's number.

“Morrison,” he said automatically, then, “Nell? Why are you calling on this line?”

“Because this is official business. I'll be quick. Do you remember that we talked about DNA profiles for the old bodies from the Garrett property? How long would it take to get them done? Remember, this is for Wakeman. Money is no object.” I hoped that was true. If we got the story right, he might have something really interesting to include in his promotional material. It seemed worth trying.

“If our lab does it, you might see results in a couple of weeks. But I know the guys at the Jersey lab that takes our overflow. They can probably have something for you tomorrow—for a price. Why the hurry?”

I smiled to myself. “I'm working on a theory, but I don't want to prejudice you. I'll tell you when we get the results.”

“All right. I'll call if there's any problem with getting the lab work done.”

We hung up at the same time. I looked up to see Lissa grinning at me. “DNA tests, huh? Like, overnight? So we'll know if one of the bodies was related to the Garretts?”

“Only if we get a sample from a living Garrett. So we have to figure out how to get a sample from one of the surviving ones.”

“Can you ask?”

“They might want to know why we're asking.”

“Why can't we just tell them the truth? If you say it's to help with the murder investigation, won't they be willing?”

“Maybe. I don't really know any of them. And, as far as I know, neither William nor Eddie has shown much interest in this investigation. Of course, they don't own the land anymore. I think we need to talk to Janet again. Do you have time today, or should I go alone?”

“If I can take my laptop along, I'd love to go. I can work on the report in the car. Maybe I can even get some pictures while we're out that way.”

“Deal. I'll call Janet and see if she's free this afternoon.”

“Great. I'll check back with you later.”

Lissa left, and I spent a few minutes gathering my thoughts. Two dead men in the woods; two corpses in a copse. The buttons pointed to the Revolutionary War; a major battle in that war had taken place only a short distance away from the farm. The land had been held continuously by the same family since before that battle, up until Ezra Garrett had sold it to Mitch Wakeman. Had Ezra known about the bodies? If so, he must have realized that Wakeman would most likely discover them in the course of construction. If there had been no dark secret, any member of the Garrett family could have reported the bodies at any time over the past two centuries; ergo, there had to be a dark secret. What was it, and who had known?

Or maybe the Garrett family had simply forgotten about the bodies; the story had not been passed down. The fact that the copse had never been disturbed was merely a coincidence. And George had been killed by a crazed stranger in the dark.

Which was more likely? Too many coincidences. My vote was for the first option.

I picked up the phone to call Janet Butler and luckily found her in her office. “Hey, Janet,” I said. “It's Nell. Look, Lissa and I have some more questions about the whole Garrett history, and you know we've got a Friday deadline. Would you mind terribly if we came out and talked to you this afternoon?”

“Uh, sure, I guess. Does two o'clock work for you?”

“Fine. And thank you. I promise we'll stop bothering you soon.”

Janet laughed. “Hey, this is more excitement than we usually get here. I'll see you at two.”

Lissa and I left the city at one, and as I drove she read
out loud pieces of the text she had assembled for the Wakeman report. I was pleased to find that she wrote well, striking a nice balance between accurate historical fact and readable, entertaining style. Since traffic was light at midday, we arrived slightly early.

Janet was waiting for us in the lobby. “Welcome back, you two. Come on up to the office and we can talk.” She led the way to her office, and I made sure the door was shut. As I did that, she gave me a curious look. “What do you need?”

I took a deep breath and started in. “Lissa has been doing some basic genealogy research on Edward Garrett and his family, and she turned up something odd. Edward had three sons, and the youngest one inherited the farm. The other two vanished from any records, just about the time of the Battle of Paoli.”

Janet was quick to arrive at the same conclusion we had. “And you think they're connected to the two bodies that George found in the woods?”

“That's our working theory at the moment, but we need some help to flesh it out, if you'll pardon a bad pun. We know that Edward Garrett knew about the bodies, from his daybook, but he didn't identify them there, or anywhere else, as far as we know.”

“But I still need to look at the Quaker records,” Lissa said, then went quiet again.

I went on, “We been kicking around a theory that one of them was Edward's son. Would Edward have had reason to hide the death?”

“What an interesting idea. I can't say for sure. If I'm not mistaken, the records for the Goshen Meeting can be found in the Friends Library at Swarthmore College.”

“Lissa will follow through on that, of course,” I added. “She did find a record that says that one of the sons was listed as a member of the Goshen militia, which you know would have been relatively unusual. Add to that the buttons that George found, and it suggests that one of Edward's sons may have killed a British soldier on the family property, and then they died together and were buried right there, without ceremony or recognition. And then nobody said anything about them until Wakeman showed up.”

“This is amazing!” Janet said. “Sounds like a soap opera.”

“It does, but it's a strong possibility that George Bowen died because he found the bodies. At least, that's the only explanation that makes sense. Tell me, what was the timing of Ezra Garrett's gift of the family papers in relation to the start of the Wakeman project?”

“As I told you, about the same time. Of course, the announcement of the Wakeman project didn't go public right away, but there were hints coming from the township guys. Obviously Ezra and Wakeman had been talking about it for a while before that. I just figured Ezra handed over the papers because he was settling his affairs. He must have known he didn't have much time left. He was already ninety.”

“What if he was worried that someone else would find the papers? Maybe even destroy them?”

Janet looked bewildered. “His family must have known about them, and they'd probably had access to them all along.”

“What if the family didn't know?” I pressed. “Or what if it didn't matter until it became public that Wakeman was going to develop the site and would probably find those bodies?”

“I'm still not following,” Janet said. “Why would anyone care now? Whatever happened, happened a long time ago. What's it got to do with the present?”

“That's what we don't know. As I'm sure you've seen, family traditions have a way of hanging on long after the people involved are gone. Like ‘We don't talk about Aunt Hattie's first husband,' because he turned out to be a swindler—things like that. It's only when there's an outside eye looking at these things that the family members are kind of jolted out of their rut and take a different view. Say Edward did not want it known that his son was buried there, and swore the son who inherited to secrecy, and that information got passed down from generation to generation. So nobody touched that piece of land. They couldn't have known that the bodies and other bits and pieces would be so well-preserved.”

“All this is kind of built on straw, isn't it? It could have been two strangers fleeing from the battle who happened to cross paths right there and died.”

“Of course it could. That's why I've asked the FBI to do a DNA analysis of the remains.”

“Oh-ho!” Janet replied, nodding. “So you'll know if one of them was a Garrett. But you still need a sample from a living Garrett, don't you?”

“That's where you come in.”