Murder in the Smithsonian (19 page)

“He didn’t say where he’s staying.”

“What gallery opening is he attending?”

“There are several. He didn’t say which, I’m afraid. He usually doesn’t.”

“Please have him call me when he returns.”

Next on Hanrahan’s list was Congressman Jubel Watson. Watson was in committee but returned the call at noon. “Thanks for getting back, congressman. I wonder if I could have some of your time this afternoon. It’s about the Tunney case.”

“The Tunney case? There’s nothing I could possibly tell you about that, Captain. I gave my statement the night of the murder. I was there, along with two hundred other people. That’s the extent of my knowledge.”

“I realize that, sir, but I’d still appreciate a few minutes.”

“Well, let me check my schedule… is four all right?”

“That’ll be just fine. At your office?”

“Make it my suite at the Hay-Adams.”

“I’ll be there.”

Hanrahan had lunch in his office and pored through transcripts of interviews in the Tunney case, making notes as he went. He left MPD at one forty-five for a two o’clock meeting with Borden G. Costain, the Smithsonian’s secretary, at the administrative center in the Castle.

Costain was not what Hanrahan had expected. After spending as much time as he had with the Smithsonian’s hierarchy, Hanrahan had developed a museum archetype for himself. Costain didn’t fit. Tall and broad shouldered, he looked more like a former all-American college football player than the head of the nation’s leading museum empire and tourist attraction. He wore a double-breasted gray blazer and khaki slacks, pale blue button-down shirt and a dark blue tie with tiny gold emblems which, on closer examination, proved to be the Smithsonian’s emblem. Thick, bushy salt-and-pepper hair was short and grew close to the temples, almost a crew cut. His face was deeply tanned and etched. His eyes were deep blue and lively.

“Good of you to see me, Dr. Costain,” Hanrahan said after he’d been ushered into a spartan office.

“Sorry I wasn’t here earlier,” Costain said. “Coffee? A drink?”

“No thanks.”

“I think I will.”

The Russian vodka Costain poured looked good. Hanrahan changed his mind and joined him. “Here’s to finding the bastard who killed Lewis Tunney,” Costain said, raising his glass in a half-hearted toast.

“That’s worth drinking to,” said Hanrahan, surprised at Costain’s choice of words. “I understand you
were away at the time, supervising an archaeological dig?”

Costain nodded and opened blinds on the window. “That’s right. A lot of people don’t realize how involved the Smithsonian is in archaeology and anthropology around the world. There isn’t a day goes by that we don’t have a team in remote places trying to find answers to our origins. But that’s not why you’re here, Captain.”

Hanrahan finished his drink. “No, it isn’t, but it’s sort of interesting. They’ve been kidding me ever since this case broke about my suddenly becoming cultured. At any rate, the reason I wanted to see you was to get whatever ideas you might have about the Tunney murder.”

Costain shook his head, went to a file cabinet and picked up a shrunken head that had been tossed on top of loose files. He held out the head to Hanrahan for closer examination. “See this, Captain? It’s Jivaro Indian from Ecuador.” He handed the head to Hanrahan, who took it and ran his fingers over its leathery surface. The head was small and black. The eyelids were closed but bulged unnaturally. The lips were sealed with three pins of chonta wood that had string hanging from them.

“Headhunters?” Hanrahan said.

“Yes. We know it here as Item Number 397,131. You can read it on the tag… The Jivaros are interesting people, Captain. It takes them about twenty-four hours to prepare a head once they’ve severed it from a victim. They slit it up the back and skin it. They use a special herb from a vine known as chinchipi and boil the head in it until it shrinks. Then they fill it with hot rocks to continue the shrinking process, and then use hot sand. It’s very important to them that it be done right. The head is, after all, a tangible symbol of their
recent success, a source of pride, satisfaction. After it’s shrunk to the right size they smoke it over a smudge to achieve this nice color. They shine it up like you and I buff our shoes, then bring it home with them.”

“That’s sure fascinating, Dr. Costain, but I wonder what—”

“It’s not worth a hell of a lot, Captain. One of our people bought this head, Number 397,131, in 1930 for twenty bucks.”

“The point, Dr. Costain?”

“The
point
is that I can understand a Jivaro Indian cutting off a head and preserving it as a trophy, but I can
not
understand some sick son of a bitch coming into the Museum of American History, ramming a sword belonging to Thomas Jefferson into the back of a leading scholar and walking away scot-free.”

Hanrahan handed the head back to Costain, who returned it to the file cabinet with enough force to send papers scattering. He turned. “Dr. Tunney’s murder has reflected on this entire institution, Captain, and the failure to resolve it reflects further on everybody involved, including, if I may say so, the MPD and yourself.”

“Dr. Costain,
we
don’t exactly enjoy unsolved murders either—”

“What progress has there been?” Costain’s voice was edged with frustration, anger and pain. He sat behind his desk and rubbed his temples. “Ideally this business should have been taken care of internally. I’d hoped for that. Unfortunately it hasn’t worked out that way.”

“I understand how you feel, Dr. Costain. But I also have to tell you that it looks like the answer to Dr. Tunney’s murder might be right here inside the Smithsonian.”

Costain looked as though he’d tasted something sour.
“I hope to hell you’re wrong. Let me explain something to you. The Smithsonian is at a crossroads. We have a vice president who believes in it, which, I might add, represents a distinct departure from the past. There’s a major funding bill in Congress right now that would provide important money for the Smithsonian. It would mean the world being brought into the Smithsonian. If what you suggest turns out to be true, all this could be lost.”

And you’d go down in history as the man at the helm, Hanrahan thought. “Could you spell that out for me?” He thought he knew the answer, but he wanted to keep Costain talking. Who knew what he might drop…

Costain sat back, made a tent with his fingers. “The nature of Congress and its elected officials… The arts have never exactly been at the top of the priority list when it comes to budgets. Usually, especially in hard times, we have to lobby like a cornered badger just to sustain our appropriations, let alone get them increased. But this time around we have a vice president who’s in our corner, and we have a champion in Congress who can use the vice president’s leverage in committee.”

“Congressman Watson?”

“Yes.” Costain seemed surprised that Hanrahan knew.

“I have an appointment with him later on.”

“That right? Why? Does he have something for your investigation?”

“Who knows? In my business you check out everything, everybody. That’s the boring way we sometimes even get results.”

Costain nodded, said he understood. Hanrahan thanked him for his time and for the drink. As he was
about to leave he asked, “You don’t happen to know an Evelyn Killinworth, do you?”

“Yes, why?”

“What can you tell me about him?”

“Eccentric, a maverick in the field, good teacher, some say unconventional in his approach, personally and professionally. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. I met him a little while ago.”

“In connection with the Tunney murder?”

“No, not really… well, again, Dr. Costain, thanks for seeing me.”

***

Hanrahan waited in the lobby of the Hay-Adams until four-fifteen, when Congressman Watson finally arrived.

“Sorry I’m late.” They stepped into an elevator and Watson pushed the button for the top floor. “I’m afraid I don’t have much time, Captain,” he said as he watched the floors light up on a panel. “I’ve got to be at an embassy reception at five.”

“I’ll try to make it brief,” Hanrahan said.

They rode the rest of the way in silence, the diminutive Watson bouncing up and down on black alligator shoes and fiddling with his tie. He led the way into his suite, which was spacious and airy and dominated by works of art on every wall and table surface.

“Excuse me a moment,” Watson said as he disappeared into a bedroom. His housekeeper, an elderly black woman in a starched gray uniform and white apron, came out of the kitchen. “Can I get you something, sir?”

“Oh, no, no thanks,” Hanrahan said. He was standing where Watson had tossed his briefcase and the day’s newspaper on a trumpet-leg lowboy. The paper was open to an inside page, from which a headline stared up at him: “VICE SQUAD RAIDS GEORGETOWN
PARTY.” Hanrahan picked up the paper and read the story. He’d heard about the raid that morning. There was some joking about it around MPD, although no one seemed to have many details. All Hanrahan knew was that the MPD’s vice squad, acting on complaints from Georgetown residents, broke up what was reputed to be a monthly gathering of well-heeled Washington transvestites. Such raids had occurred before, and Hanrahan had been skeptical about the value of them. It was one thing to get the word out to such groups that there had been complaints, another to bust in, list names and expose them to public ridicule. He was glad to see that names had not been included in the newspaper account.

Watson returned from the bedroom. He’d taken off his dress shirt and wore a T-shirt. “I need a shower and shave,” he said. “What can I do for you? Drink?” Before Hanrahan could answer Watson called into the kitchen, “Get my guest a drink.” He excused himself and returned to the bedroom.

The housekeeper asked Hanrahan what he wanted.

“Gin,” he said, “and ice.”

“Plain gin?”

“Yup.”

She brought him a glass filled with ice and a bottle of Beefeater. Hanrahan poured his own drink and took it with him as he toured the living room. Two items side by side on the wall caught his eye. They were hung over a Ming dynasty chest; neatly printed cards inside each frame explained what they were. One contained a painted enamel badge set in a star of pastes that was, according to the card, from the “Noble order of Bucks, an eighteenth-century convivial society that had features in common with freemasonry.” In the other frame was a medal from the “Anti-Gallican Society, formed in 1745 to oppose French imports and
influence.” The medal was fashioned from faceted rock crystals and two painted enamels.

“Like them, Captain?” Watson had reappeared.

Hanrahan turned, “They remind me of the Harsa and Cincinnati medals.”

“Not nearly as important or valuable, but significant.”

“I never realized how many societies there’ve been.”

“Hundreds. Some had an impact, like Cincinnati and Harsa, others were just clubs for some good ole boys, sort of like a poker club or local firehouse. You know, a chance to get away from the wife for a night with the excuse of an important meeting.” He laughed. “So what’s new?” When Hanrahan didn’t join in the hilarity, Watson said, “Well, I’ve got to get dressed. What’s on your mind, Captain?”

“The Tunney murder.”

“What about it?”

“The Legion of Harsa…”

“I don’t understand.”

“I understand you’d like to own it.”

Watson frowned. “That’s a damn peculiar thing to say.”

“Well, sir, I was talking to a—”

“Is there anything wrong in appreciating an historically valuable item, Captain?”

“No, but—”

“I’m fascinated with early secret societies, as many people are.”

“As Lewis Tunney was.”

“He was more than interested, he was a leading expert.”

Hanrahan put down his glass. “Congressman, do you know an art dealer in San Francisco named Detienne?”

Watson thought for a moment. “No, can’t say that I do. Should I?”

“Probably. He told me you’d made it known that if the Legion of Harsa came on the market you’d be interested in buying it.”

“That’s damn nonsense. Now look here—”

“Just asking. Information comes from many sources, congressman, and I follow up. That’s my job.”

“This… Detienne says that
I’m
looking for the Harsa? Which, as I understand it, has been recovered.”

“That was the rumor.”

“And you put credence in ridiculous rumors?”

“Depends.”

“Captain Hanrahan, perhaps you aren’t aware of the fact that I am the Smithsonian’s leading advocate in Congress.”

“I know you’re behind a bill to increase funding for it.”

“Yes, and the murder of Lewis Tunney on its premises has damaged the public’s perception of this nation’s finest and most revered public institution. Nowhere else in the world has such a collection of history been gathered under one…”

As he went on with his speech Hanrahan thought that he sounded as though he were filibustering on the floor of Congress. When he finished lecturing on the virtues of the Smithsonian and his love for it, Hanrahan said quietly, “Thanks for your time, congressman. Enjoy your reception.” Watson made a move to escort him to the door. “No need,” Hanrahan said. “I can find the door.”

He no sooner had reached the lobby when his beeper went off. He called from a booth and was told that the Smithsonian bomber had left another note, this one at the Arts and Industries Museum, next to the Castle.

Just what we needed, Hanrahan thought as he drove
to the scene of the latest threat, “The Jupiter,” an eight-wheel, thirty-six-inch-gauge wood-burning passenger locomotive that dominated one of the display galleries that radiated like spokes from an octagonal rotunda. The locomotive had been built by the Baldwin Locomotive Works of Philadelphia for the Santa Cruz Railroad of California. A maroon gas lamp trimmed in gold sat atop its front; a maroon cow catcher flared out below it. The note was Scotch-taped to the gas lamp.

Hanrahan tore it down, using his handkerchief to avoid smudging prints.