CHAPTER 4: History Painting

The Metro in Washington has a particular smell early in the morning. It's a mixture of mildew and Lysol, I think, and it reminds me of the lab. Since I'd wasted more than a little time on my appearance I didn't really want to smell like the lab, and the familiar scent of morning on the Metro was more annoying than nostalgic. I spent the ride to GW balancing on the high heels that usually gather dust in my closet and shoving my hair, which I never wear down, back behind my shoulders. The dry-clean-only dress I also never wear hung looser near my hips than it did when I was still on the academic path. There's much less sitting down in forensics, that's for sure.

My dissertation supervisor and mentor is one of the more famous names in the ancient civilizations world. I knew that when I came to GW, because I came to work with him. I did not know, at the time I applied, that he was famous for taking on three times as many students as he actually planned to support. I was completely unaware that I had waded into a shark pool until I was in up to my thighs. I was one of the third that survived the six years of school between B.A. and Ph.D. At no point during those six years did I feel certain I'd make it.

So here I was, at eight in the morning, back in Washington after several years' absence. Here I was dressed like a professor even though I'd chosen not to be one. Here I was to tell Dr. Foley I'd chosen the modern world. I straightened my shoulders and commanded myself to relax. Ha.

"Amy Connell, are you going to stand in my doorway until I come to get you?" His voice was just as I remembered: not softened with age but snapping against each syllable like a taut wire.

"Are you up for coffee, Professor?" I decided to ignore the fact that he'd seen my outline through the frosted glass on his office door. If I admitted that to myself I'd have to admit that he'd probably seen me hike my slipping bra strap back onto my shoulder.

"Amy, we're colleagues now, let's dispense with the formalities." He'd remained seated at his desk as I walked in. The light from the window behind him caught on the edges of his lenses and diffused light over his face. Dr. Foley had struck me, at first, as the sort of man I always imagined Melville's narrators were. He wears a full beard, well-trimmed, and has light blue eyes that seem sliver behind his reading glasses. He's tall and lean, and his skin looks like the pages of old books. He started to place a document back into a folio, but looked up at me and hesitated. "Come have a look at this."

I rounded the desk and leaned over to look at the document. It was medieval, likely German. The Latin was clumsily written, and there were at least two signs that the scribe had excised some of the paper to remove a mistake. Dr. Foley stretched a finger—bandaged, I noticed—toward a very small figure sketched into the right margin near the gutter of the page. "A grave?"

"How do you like that?" Dr. Foley turned the pages so I could see the figure more clearly. "It's not just any old grave, Amy. This drawing corresponds to several others I've found recently. I'll tell you all about it, shall I?"

"Please do," I nodded and stepped away to let him get up. I barely suppressed the urge to offer him an arm when he rose slowly and leaned very heavily on the table. "But you promised me breakfast, and I'm going to hold you to it."

"You drive a hard bargain, but I accept." He'd straightened fully and within a few steps down the hall the slowness had left his steps. We followed our old route to the French café one Metro stop away, idly chatting. When we sat down, though, Dr. Foley gave me a look I instantly recognized from my defense meetings. I tried distraction.

"Things have changed a good deal in the department, I hear." He furrowed his brow at me.

"Amy, I'm an old man, not a stupid man." My mouth fell open, and I tried to cover it by taking a drink of my coffee. I burnt my tongue, and worked at suppressing my grimace. "My young assistant taught me how to 'Google' people, you know."

"I'm sorry?"

"You work for the LA County Coroner, and you haven't mentioned it."

"You Googled me?" I blinked at him.

"Actually, my assistant did. I watched." I set my coffee cup down and pressed my thumbs against the edge of the table. "So my first question to you is simple: why didn't you tell me?" I couldn't keep eye contact. "I'll answer myself," he rumbled. "You honestly thought I'd think your work wasn't worth the time you spent on your education. Amy, I'm a bit offended. To think you believed I'd care, after all those years with your acerbic director."

"I didn't want to bother you…"

"Faugh, I'm not bothered at all." He took a moment to unwrap his silverware from his napkin and to place the napkin in his lap. "But you were, weren't you?"

"How do you mean?"

"You walked into my office as though you'd totaled the family car, dear." He put a croissant onto a bread plate and pushed it across the table toward me. "Now eat, and I'll tell you about my dead people. Then you can tell me about yours." I grinned at him and shook my head.

"The drawing first; you promised." He inclined his head to me and put his lecturing look on his face, then started a story that even the returning waitress couldn't interrupt.