For rendering salt? I wondered. What I had read in Capt. Summerlin’s journal last night, plus new entries I’d deciphered this morning, had created an emotional tie with men who had lived and died during desperate times. These were the bones of many people, not just a few. At least one had been shot, the skulls of the others were crushed. Their remains appeared to have been burned, then covered in a rush under only a few feet of soil. It was unlikely that either prayers or respect had been offered. That’s one reason I wanted a private moment to stand there alone and contemplate. A chance to sneak photos was another. But I minded my manners and said, “Rules are rules,” and followed Dr. Babbs and my friends toward the road.
The archaeologist had rushed us through a tour of two of the three dig sites and we were done for the day. No mention of ultraviolet light. And only a few remarks about the significance of scorched bones or finding Union buttons issued in 1864. He was more interested in setting the record straight on his dealings with Theo Ivanhoff. It was Theo who had alerted state archaeologists that he’d found a Civil War burial site on property that would soon be developed if Tallahassee didn’t act fast. State officials had contacted the feds. The feds had sent a one-person team: Leslie Babbs, a man of slight build and nervous mannerisms who relied on volunteers wherever his job sent him. Theo had volunteered full-time.
“It’s because we’re so damn underfunded,” Babbs said to Birdy. He had opened up to her because she was a deputy sheriff and because she had also witnessed Theo unlocking Dr. Babbs’s camper, pretending it was his own. “I knew what Ivanhoff was right away-a digger, an artifact hound. We see them all the time in my field. But he is charming. And quite smart. He caught on fast when the GPR arrived, once I showed him the basics. That’s something else that concerns me.”
“Ground-penetrating radar,” Birdy translated. She was in cop mode. Not making notes on paper but storing information in her head until on-duty officers arrived.
“Precisely. To a layperson, the unit resembles a lawn mower. You know, a machine on tires that you push. But that’s where the resemblance ends. It uses microwaves to penetrate the subsurface-radar that sees through the ground, in other words. Three-dimensional tomographic images that can be saved on a laptop. Very expensive. He had no right to do what he did.”
“The GPR is missing?” Birdy sounded hopeful.
“No, but he used it while I was away. It’s a calibrated system that requires tuning, so the computer keeps track. I left last Monday-an illness in the family. Since then, he’s put almost twenty hours on the thing.”
Birdy, walking shoulder to shoulder, said, “That’s a misdemeanor at best. And only if someone saw him-unless you gave Theo permission. You didn’t give him permission to use the GPR, did you, Dr. Babbs? Or your RV?”
“No,” he said. But tugged at his collar. “Well… not written permission anyway. That’s not what worries me. Theo was along last week when I made a remarkable”-he paused, aware that Belton, yet another amateur, was listening-“well, a rather interesting discovery. This was two days before I left for Louisville. Of course Theo expected me to say ‘Grab a shovel and let’s start digging,’ but that’s not the way archaeology works.”
“You wanted more images, to do some core samples,” Birdy suggested. Said it in a helpful way, but was, in fact, softening the man up.
“Precisely. No one was to touch that site until I got back. But…” He looked from Birdy to Belton, ignoring me, the quiet tagalong. “I don’t think I should say anything more until the police get here.” Hands in pockets, he shook his head. “My supervisors in D.C. will want answers.”
Birdy said, “He dug up the spot, didn’t he?”
Dr. Babbs grunted and ducked under the rope with signs that warned Federal Antiquities Site. Access Prohibited. “We’re so damn underfunded,” he said again. “Whoever handles this case, I hope you make sure that’s mentioned in the report.”
What had the ground-penetrating radar discovered? That was the obvious question, which Birdy, the smart cop, postponed by asking, “You said Theo is a digger, sort of a treasure hunter. How did you know?”
Spreading his arms to indicate this weedy field and trees, the old house screened by distance, he said, “Ask yourself how he happened to dig here in the first place. He wasn’t looking for Civil War materials. For one thing, there’s no record of a battle. And certainly no mention of a graveyard from that period. He doesn’t own the property. No, he was trespassing. But that never stops people like him.”
Belton, who hadn’t said much, asked, “What do you think he was looking for?” In reply to Babbs’s chilly stare, he attempted to explain, “When you get to be my age, even obvious answers aren’t obvious. Sorry if I missed something.”
Dr. Babbs thawed slightly. “Theo knows next to nothing about methodology, but he has a working knowledge of excavation techniques-sizes of screening mesh, that sort of thing. And he’s well versed in Florida history, I’ll give him that. That told me he’s a digger-a pot hunter, most likely. Right away, I was on my guard.”
Birdy asked, “Are there pre-Columbian archaeologies in the area?” Her articulate question earned a nod of respect.
“I hope you’re assigned to this case. You seem to know something about the discipline. But, no… there are no indigenous sites that I know of… How does that work? Who decides which officer is assigned to this case?”
“I’ll talk to my sergeant, then whoever is in charge would have to request me. But back to Theo’s behavior…”
“I didn’t trust that man from the start. How many people in their late twenties volunteer full-time to do anything? I knew for sure when we were having a drink one night in my RV and out of the blue he brings up some old-time bank robber who buried a sack of money. At first I was relieved. It seemed to explain how he’d stumbled onto a Civil War archaeology. I should have known better.”
Birdy and I considered that, eyes locked, before she asked, “You think he was lying?”
“He played me for a fool.” Babbs had retrieved his briefcase from under a tree and was stowing the waivers we had signed. “That’s off the record, of course.”
“I’m not on duty, Dr. Babbs. Anything official I write I’ll ask you to make deletions or additions before I submit it. That’s not procedure, but I respect the position you’re in. Why are you so sure Theo was lying?”
The man appeared relieved. He asked who his department should contact to request Deputy Liberty Tupplemeyer by name. Then stored her business card away before he answered, “Because his story was so unbelievable-again, in hindsight. He claimed the bank robber-the name will come to me-that he was a direct descendant. That he-Theo, I’m saying-was a direct descendant. The clear implication was that that somehow made him the rightful heir to stolen money that was buried here”-another gesture to the field-“or on the other side of the river. Which is ridiculous, when you think about it.”
“How much?”
“How much money? Wait-it gets stranger. Then Theo came right out and said he’d give me ten percent if I helped him find it. He wanted to use the GPR, in other words. Something like thirty-five thousand dollars in silver when it was stolen back during Prohibition days. Treasure hunters, they always have some bizarre story. I didn’t take him seriously.”
Belton smiled, “Ten percent? He’s certainly a cheap bastard.”