Jackdaw

Dr. Jasper Quinn is tall, thin, with a full head of tousled hair. Actually, most of him is tousled. He looks like he just stepped from a prehistoric dig into a classroom, which is fitting. Quinn is a paleontologist, my first. And by first, I mean prehistoric client.

I got a call from the Dalhousie University professor this morning. He asked if we could meet. Tried to make it sound like the issue was nothing substantive. He failed. Over coffee in his office, also tousled, I learn a fossil has gone missing from his lab. “I just don’t understand how this could happen.”

I do. Quinn’s description of the lab’s security spans a spectrum from totally inadequate to nonexistent. During school hours, students have open access to the lab. “They work on projects as their schedule allows,” Quinn explains.

Outside of regular hours, ill-defined by Quinn or the university, any number of people can get into the lab — graduate students, cleaners, faculty. All they need is a code to the keypad. In fact, all they likely need is a screwdriver to dismantle the security box. This would take about 12 seconds.

There is a camera in the hallway. Quinn has the recording from the 48 hours prior to the fossil’s disappearance. That will require about three bags of sour cream and onion chips and four hours of a mind-numbing review of people walking up and down the hallway, in and out of the lab.

Quinn is starting to relax. Doing something, anything — even calling a private investigator — will do that. Gives the illusion of control. I’m about to shatter that illusion.

“I need to see the lab.” All 6 feet 4 inches of Jasper Quinn stands up. “And we’ll need to talk suspects.” All 6 feet 4 inches of Jasper Quinn slumps back down.

The lab looks like its keeper. Bones of all shapes and sizes are scattered across an array of tables. File cabinets are haphazardly positioned throughout, and shiny, obviously expensive equipment sprouts from walls, desks, and even the ceiling. I recognize a microscope.

We have the disarray to ourselves. Quinn has taped a “Lab Closed” sign on the door. He moves to a glass cabinet at the back of the room. It has a keypad. Quinn has the code.

“Who else has the code?”

“Only Cady. Cady Torrence, my post-doc.”

“That would seem to narrow the list of suspects down.”

Quinn hangs his head. I realize this must be difficult for him: failure. “We don’t usually leave the cabinet locked when we’re working. It’s too cumbersome.”

“And by leaving it open, I assume anyone has access until you shut the lab down for the day.” I didn’t think Quinn’s head could hang any lower. I was wrong.

* * *

It takes two hours to suss out the lab and draw what additional info I can out of Quinn. There are two important, and what I think are obvious, questions that need to be answered. Quinn’s raised eyebrows and wide-open eyes lead me to conclude he has not thought of them in the context of theft.

“How much is the fossil worth?”

Quinn’s head jerks back as if the question is an affront. “It’s priceless.”

“Put a price on it.”

It takes Quinn a few reluctant seconds, and some head scratching. “Anywhere from a few thousand dollars to a few hundred thousand. Maybe a million.”

“That’s quite a range.”

“We don’t know what we have yet. We’re still investigating. If this piece is from the transition period for a species, it would be a significant scientific discovery.”

“How would you sell something like this?”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Humor me.” Quinn’s reluctance is back. Clearly a question he doesn’t want to dwell on.

“Private collector. But you’d have to know who they are. It’s a select list.”

“So, we have a potentially high-value fossil and few options to collect on its worth. You know what we don’t have?” Quinn shakes his head no. “Cops.”

* * *

By the time lunch rolls around I have an egg salad and olive sandwich (on white) from As You Like It, the required three bags of chips, and two suspects. By the time I finish reviewing the recording, I have a third.

Suspect number one is the aforementioned post-doc. She’s got access, she knows the importance of the fossil — from the Carboniferous period more than 300 million years ago — and she doesn’t like her boss. Quinn didn’t tell me this. I’m guessing. Most people don’t like their boss, especially when they want to be the boss.

Suspect number two is the cleaner, Kidlat Santos. He also has access to the lab, and access when no one else is usually anywhere in sight. His pay stub also makes it clear he could use the money … although I am not sure how one goes about selling a fossil. Amazon, most likely.

It takes a call to Quinn to identify suspect number three. “Hi. It’s Em Montgomery. I’m reviewing the camera footage. It looks like there is a kid who spent a bit of time in the lab. Any idea who that is?”

Quinn has an idea. It’s Oliver Quinn, his is eight-year-old son. “I will need to talk to him.”

“Surely you don’t think Oliver stole the tetrapod.”

I do not think it is outside the realm of possibility. I do not say this to my client. “He may have seen something. Does he go to the lab often?”

“I’m divorced,” says Quinn. Ahh, so often it is.

* * *

Cady Torrence does not look like what I think a paleontologist should look like. First, she’s young, which means younger than me. Second, she’s fit, trim, with blond hair that cascades down her shoulders. Third, she’s wearing ripped jeans that cost more than my daily rate and a white Lululemon T-shirt. There isn’t a leather elbow patch in sight.

The 28-year-old post-doc knows why we’re having coffee at Frederic’s in the Sexton Campus. She does not seem perturbed. “How can I help?”

“When was the last time you saw the fossil?”

“Body fossil,” Torrence corrects me. She shakes her head by way of apology. “Sorry. It’s an automatic response. I’m teaching Intro to Paleontology this term.” There is a note of pride in her voice. I’m not sure if it’s subtle praise for her great teaching skills or kudos for having caught my misstep.

“I was in the lab last Thursday,” she continues. Spent most of the day and the early part of the evening there. I left on Friday for a weekend get-away. Well-deserved, I must add.” Torrence smiles. It falls flat.

Her timeline resembles Quinn’s. He was in the lab for much of the day on Thursday. His son joined him in the afternoon. Neither was there on Friday. When Quinn returned to the lab on Saturday, the tetrapod skull was gone.

“When did you last see the skull?”

“I confirmed measurements on Thursday afternoon with Jasper. We’re writing a paper for The Journal of Paleontology, and everything has to be triple checked. When I was done, about four o’clock, I put the skull back in the cabinet.”

“Did you lock the cabinet?”

“We never lock the cabinet when one of us is still working in the lab.”

* * *

Eight-year-olds are in school most of the day, so I’ve arranged with his dad to meet Oliver at the lab once school gets out. He’s already there when I arrive. Books are spread out in front of him, giving the illusion that homework is well under way. Hidden, and not well, behind a textbook with the riveting title Discovery Links Science 3 is what appears to be a long-dead snail.

“It’s an invertebrate.” Oliver says this matter-o- factly. He’s not showing off. He’s teaching. The apple doesn’t fall far.

His father tries to hide a grin. I realize it’s the first time I’ve seen Jasper Quinn smile, and I’m about to wipe it off his face. “Would you mind getting us some shakes from McDonald’s or something equally unhealthy?”

Quinn’s mouth purses, his shoulders rise, his right hand comes up. He’s about to resist leaving his son alone with a private investigator. Then he realizes why his son needs to be alone with a private investigator. He also knows this is a better option than leaving his son alone with a cop.

“That was subtle,” Oliver says looking at me. Simply stating a fact. He reads the surprise on my face. “You want to find out who stole the tetrapod.”
“I do.”

“It wasn’t me,” says Oliver. Not simply stating a fact.

* * *

Oliver and I spend the next 40 minutes talking about fossils and theft. More the former than the latter. His dad arrives with two chocolate shakes for us and some green thing for himself. He raises his eyebrows skyward.

“It went well,” says Oliver. It takes him a second to understand his father’s eyebrow lift was not intended for him. “Oh, that wasn’t meant for me.”

“No,” I agree. “It wasn’t, but you’re right. You were very helpful. Thank you.”

The reward for Oliver’s helpfulness is a pile of bones. I’m sure there is a more paleontologist way to say that. I don’t know what it is. While Oliver separates the hip bone from the leg bone from the arm bone, I step outside the lab.

Kidlat Santos is waiting for me. He’s sitting on a bench. A well-wrung cloth is in his hands. His left foot is dancing a jig. I’m familiar with nervousness. I’m also well aware it is a perfectly natural response to being questioned.

Santos was born in Quezon City in 1983. He arrived in Nova Scotia 36 years later, one year before the pandemic. He’s been a janitor at Dal almost since he landed at the Halifax International Airport. He does not strike me as someone well connected to an underground (or above-ground) network of millionaire fossil collectors. But I am making assumptions, and I know where that gets me.

“Something is missing.” Santos doesn’t wait for me to start the conversation. He leans in, he makes eye contact, he doesn’t breathe.

“What makes you say that?”

“It is the only time someone wants to talk to me.”

“Do things go missing a lot?”

“All the time.” Santos waves toward his cleaning cart. There are four containers: compost, recyclables, garbage, and one other. “Look.” Santos thrusts his hands forward propelling me to the fourth container. Inside are two scarves, four textbooks, something that looks like a strange teddy bear, and a headset.

Santos is on his feet now. He moves toward the cart and points at the motley assortment of treasure. “For the lost and found. More lost than found.”

“We’re looking for a bone. A particular bone.”

“Professor Quinn lost a fossil?”

“A fossil is missing.” The distinction is not lost on Santos.

“When?”

“Sometime between last Thursday night and Saturday morning.”

“Are you police?”

No, I admit, I’m not. Santos wants to know why. I explain that the university would like to keep this in-house.

“Smart,” he says, and now it’s my turn to raise an eyebrow. “I worked as a doctor in the Philippines. We liked to keep things in-house, too.”

So, maybe Santos does have access to a network of private collectors after all.

* * *

The CCTV footage makes it clear that anyone who entered the lab over the two days in question could have exited the lab with the fossil easily hidden in a backpack, under a winter coat, inside a messenger bag. It’s winter. We’re bundled, scarved, behatted, and covered up in every way possible. This is also a group that lugs, totes, carries, and transports everything from laptops to iPads to textbooks to water bottles to, apparently, 300-million-year-old skulls.

So, I need motive. I have that for Santos: money. A Google search of the name “Cady Torrence” yields half a dozen journal articles and one motive: ambition. On every article, Torrence is second author. Quinn is first. That has to rankle. When it comes to Oliver, I come up empty. He could be lashing out at his father, but what little I saw of the relationship was affectionate. He could want the fossil for himself, a prized possession. That’s a little much for an eight-year-old, and this eight-year-old has access to a whole room of fossils.

So, I need evidence. Even with my advanced interrogation skills, none of the suspects are likely to break down and confess because I ask if they’re guilty. That only happens in mystery books. What I need is corroboration.

Quinn gets me the access I need. My first appointment is with Paula Whitaker, the university’s HR director. The walls of privacy have come down. They tend to do that when a valuable artifact is stolen by someone likely affiliated with the university.

I expect the conversation to start with an apology. Senior managers usually rush in to justify why they don’t know the employee in question. Not this time.

“Kidlat is fabulous. We’re lucky to have him.”

“What makes him fabulous.”

“He gives a shit.”

I like this woman. “Can you be a bit more specific?” Whitaker can. Seems Santos takes his job seriously. He shows up on time, he rarely calls in sick, and he cleans fastidiously, getting into corners where mere mortals fear to tread. He also appreciates the value, sentimental and financial, of the stuff people leave behind in classrooms, cafeterias, libraries, and every other imaginable venue.

“I’ve seen the lost and found cart,” I say.

“The cart is just the beginning. Kidlat has a whole wall full of stuff he finds. Everything is given a three-month window before it is put up for sale on the university marketplace, given to Goodwill, or trashed.”

“That sounds like a lot of work.”

“It’s well worth it. One faculty member retrieved a thumb drive that contained important data his summer student forgot to back up. Students come here in tears to thank Kidlat for finding their laptop or iPhone or favorite T-shirt.”

“Do you think Santos needs money?”

My abrupt shift of topic doesn’t faze Whitaker. She switches lanes right along with me, then she passes me. “What Kidlat needs is to be practicing medicine. This province won’t allow that. So, he cleans floors and picks up after people too careless to care for their own possessions. He should get a medal.”

I really like this woman.

* * *

Dr. Lionel Belford is leaning back in the mesh chair behind his chrome desk. It’s a practiced move intended to reinforce the presumed power and intellectual differential. It’s a move to my advantage. Belford underestimates others in the room.

I explain why I’m here in vague aphorisms. Something about follow-up on Cady Torrence. Belford, who is part of Torrence’s supervisory committee, doesn’t really care. He wants to talk, to show his expertise and insight.

“Cady is good. Not great.”

“Will that affect her chances of getting a job?”

“The academic market is tight for everyone. Cady could land at a mid-tier university or as site administrator on a dig.”

“Would she be satisfied with either, do you think?”

Belford sits up a little straighter. “Like most post-docs, Cady has to rein in her ambitions. The market gives everyone’s ego a hard landing. Cady will take what she can get and be grateful.”

“I get the sense money isn’t an issue.”

Belford is fully upright now. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

“The $900 jeans.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

I let the put-down pass, water off a duck’s back. But Belford’s creased brow and narrowed eyes let me know he’s rethinking some of what he knows about Cady Torrence.

“She has a lot of second-author publications,” I note.

Belford’s shoulders descend from his ears, and he lets out a small sigh of satisfaction. Back to familiar territory. “Most post-docs are second authors. It takes time to have your name come first. Even I had some second-author credits when I was a post-doc.”

“Do you think that bothers her?”

The shoulders are moving back to the ears. “Why should it?” Belford asks. It sounds more like a demand.

I ignore the tone and the question. “If someone gave you a fossil of some significance, what would you do with it?”

The relaxed, bored pretense is gone. Belford is sitting upright, leaning forward, hands on the edge of his desk. “What the hell is going on?”

“I’m trying to locate a particular fossil. I’m following up on everyone who was in the lab.”

“You’re very thorough.” So, the arrogance does not mask ineptitude.

“What would you do with a fossil?”

“I’d get rid of it as fast as I could.”

* * *

My third and final interview is with Clara Holloway, Oliver’s third-grade teacher. We’re meeting at her condo, in part to shatter the illusion this is school business and that a student’s privacy will not be violated.

We’re drinking some sort of yellow tea. Mine has a flower floating in it. “I’m not comfortable with any of this,” Holloway says. “I will help as best I can because his father has asked me to, but I want you to know I don’t like it. Oliver is a wonderful kid.”

“I’ve met Oliver. I couldn’t agree more. This isn’t about getting him in trouble.”

A small breath escapes Holloway’s lips. “What do you want to know?”

“Is Oliver close to his dad?”
“Yes.”

“Does he spend a lot of time in the lab?”

“Yes.”

I switch gears in an attempt to evade one-syllable responses. “Tell me what

makes Oliver such a great kid.”

“He’s comfortable in his skin.” Holloway thinks she’s done. I wait. One of us will

break the awkward silence. I’m betting it won’t be me. I win.

“Most people think kids in school fall into one of two categories, popular or unpopular. What they don’t realize is that there is a third category, the great unwashed. Everyone in this category is dreading they’ll descend into unpopularity and dreaming they’ll ascend to popularity. Oliver couldn’t care less,” Holloway says.

“That,” she adds, “makes him very special.”

I’m about to ask a question when Holloway raises her hand to stop me. It’s a quintessential teacher’s gesture, and it’s very effective. “Being self-assured does not mean being left out. The other kids like Oliver, and they learn from Oliver in a way that is fun and not the least demeaning.”

I don’t have to say I’m not sure what the grade three teacher means, my face says that for me. “Take Show and Tell. Everyone brings something. Some of the ‘things’ are cute or clever or unusual. Some of the stories that go with the ‘things’ are interesting or heartfelt or funny. It’s rare to have a kid who can interest us in the object and the facts that surround the object. Oliver is that rarity.”

“Is it always a fossil?”

Holloway smiles. “It is usually a fossil, and each fossil is different. We all learn something. Even me.”

There is a slight hesitation in her speech, a downward cast to her eyes. I know this move from a decade of interrogating suspects and witnesses as a police officer. “Except?” I draw the word out.

“Except the last Show and Tell. Oliver brought in a trace fossil, a leaf impression in stone. It was fascinating. I know because he brought this to class before the holiday break, too. I don’t think the other students remembered or they didn’t make the connection. I did. It was not like Oliver.”

“When was this?”

“Last Friday.”

* * *

Quinn is looking for an update. I wish I had something to tell him. I know where I’m leaning — or whom I’m leaning toward, more accurately — but I have nothing definitive. I tell Quinn I have nothing new to report but I’m making progress.

“Can you walk me through last Thursday. The last day you saw the fossil.”

The professor knows I’m looking for something, even if he doesn’t know what. He’s eager to help, to put this behind him. I fear he’d be a lot less cooperative if he knew what I was thinking.

“I taught that morning then went right to the lab. I got there around eleven o’clock. No one else was in the lab, and the tetrapod was locked safely in the cabinet. I ran tests and took measurements on it until about three when I went to meet Oliver after school. Cady had gone for a quick coffee, so I put the skull back in the cabinet.”
Before I can ask, Quinn says, “No, I did not lock the cabinet.”

“Then you came back to the lab with Oliver?”

“Yes. We stopped for sandwiches so he could have a snack later. I have a late afternoon class on Thursday. Oliver stays in the lab while I’m teaching. Cady is usually here as she was last Thursday.”

“You taught; Oliver ate. Then what happened?”

“I came back to the lab. Oliver was working on his homework. Show and Tell. He loves Show and Tell. Cady left early. She was heading out the next morning for a weekend away. Oliver and I stayed for another hour. Then we went home.”

“Who put the tetrapod away?”

“I did, and I locked the cabinet.”

“Then you went home?”

“Yes.”

“Straight home.”

“Yes.” Quinn hesitates. “Well, Oliver forgot his backpack in the lab. He ran back to get it, but that didn’t take more than a minute or two.”

Time enough.

* * *

Here’s my dilemma. Option one: Make a kid cry and find out where the hell the old tetrapod is hidden. I can do this. I won’t feel good about it, but I can do it. Option two: Tell the kid’s father my theory. Listen to his denials. Have him talk to his offspring. Offspring will confess. He’s eight. Option three: Find the fossil.

I opt for option three.

* * *

Clara Holloway answers on the second ring. So, I’m not being screened out. I apologize for calling late. It’s not a problem, I’m told. I believe she means it. “Could you tell me more about Oliver’s last Show and Tell.”

Holloway hesitates. The pause feels less like reluctance and more like contemplation. “It was un-Oliver-like. There was lots of information but little enthusiasm. And as I told you before, it was a repeat presentation.”

“Do you have any idea why Oliver would offer up a redo?”

“Well, for most kids, it means they forgot it was Show and Tell and grabbed the first thing they could to bring in. Oliver doesn’t forget.”

“So why the do-over?”

“My guess, whatever he was planning to bring fell through and he had to scramble at the last minute to find a substitute.”

Of course. The kid lost the fossil.

* * *

It’s after midnight. The HR director is right. Kidlat Santos is not sitting down with his feet up playing a game on his phone. He’s on his hands and knees under the bench outside the lab straining to reach something. The something turns out to be an earring.

“Saw something glinting,” Santos says by way of explanation when he sees me. It takes him a second. “How did you get in?’

“Security here is not really as good as the university thinks it is. You might want to mention that to them.”

“Is everything okay?” I’m not sure if that is the physician coming out in Santos or wariness from a man who has just realized he’s alone in a building with a woman who has broken into that building.

“Can I see the Lost and Found?”

Santos grins. “Follow me.”

The HR director is right again. What Santos has rigged up is impressive — and very kind of him. There are three large industrial steel shelving units. Items are neatly lined up on each shelf of each unit, and the name of a month taped in front. I’m looking for the current month.

There are numerous textbooks and pieces of jewelry, mostly earrings on the bottom shelf. Beside these lost items are three reusable bags with contents hidden and a well-worn briefcase. One laptop backpack with a fuzzy pink keychain holds center spot on the second shelf. Other tech-related items find a home here as well: charging cords, a power bank, two silicone cases, a USB hub, and laptop stand.

It’s the third shelf that holds my interest. This is where the misfit finds are located: two sweatshirts, a baggie with dental floss, a toothbrush, and toothpaste, a lacrosse stick, and pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses I’m tempted to claim as my own. What I’m looking for is set away from the edge, resting against the wall. What I had at first thought was a strange-looking teddy bear is about 18 inches from the tip of its prehistoric tail to its plush upper lip. As I reach for the green-and-rust-colored stegosaurus, I swear it gives me a grin.

I grin back.

* * *

There is no point in going home. Santos finds a cushion and two blankets. He also shares his coffee break sandwich and cookies with me. By 3 a.m., I’m sleeping soundly on the bench outside the lab. At 6:42, I am soundly poked by Jasper Quinn. He raises his hand in the classic “What are you doing?” gesture, but I see the worry in his eyes and the strain in his shoulders.

I sit up, put my legs on the floor, and give the professor the thumbs-up sign. “I have your fossil.”

There is a moment where I think Jasper Quinn will cry. He asks no questions, simply turns away from me and opens the door to the lab. I fold the blankets, put the cushion on top, and text Santos my thanks. By the time I’m in the lab, Quinn has coffee on.

I know what this is: delaying the moment of no return. While Quinn is thrilled the missing tetrapod is back, he understands its return means someone he knows, respects, or loves has done something they shouldn’t. That someone would be his son. Quinn knows this as soon as I hand over the skull and the stuffed stegosaurus with the ripped seam.

“Oliver did this?”

I nod. “Do you know what a jackdaw is?”

Quinn clearly thinks I’ve lost my mind. I don’t wait for an answer. “The jackdaw is a small crow. It likes to steal shiny things, not because it’s mean or nasty. It simply likes shiny things.”

“My son likes fossils.”

“Your son really likes fossils. And your son really likes Show and Tell, which I understand he is very good at.”

“Still, he can’t be removing artifacts from the lab without permission.” I notice the use of the word removing. Law enforcement has a different word for this. “I’m guessing Oliver saw this shiny thing and wanted to share his knowledge and his enthusiasm for paleontology with his classmates,” says Quinn, smiling in the way that parents smile when their unruly kids have done something endearing. But this is not endearing.

“Professor Quinn, I applaud Oliver’s love for artifacts — and his obvious love for you. But this took some doing. He planned a way to get back into the lab when no one would be there. He took the skull. He did not tell anyone — even after it went missing.”

“Why did it go missing?”

“Human error. In his rush to get in and out of the lab, Oliver must not have realized the backpack wasn’t secure. Wrapped in winter clothes, he likely didn’t feel the stuffed animal fall, and it wouldn’t make any noise.”

“How did you find it?”

“I didn’t. Kidlat Santos did. It was sitting on a shelf in the maintenance room.”

“I will go down tonight personally to thank him.” Quinn looks at me and nods. “Right after I have a long talk with my young jackdaw.”