Excavation

One of the two doctors, a petite woman in her late fifties with dark hair that fell in silky strands to the small of her back, glanced back at them. She had been examining the mummy’s head, a tongue depressor in hand. “He was thirty-two when he died,” she stated matter-of-factly. The speaker, Dr. Joan Engel, was head of forensic pathology at Johns Hopkins University and an old friend of Henry’s. Her position there was one of the reasons he had hauled his mummy to Johns Hopkins. She elaborated on her statement, “His third molars are partially impacted, but from the degree of wear on the second molars and the lack of wear on the third, my estimation should be precise to within three years, plus or minus. But the CT scan results should pinpoint the age even more accurately.”

Belying her calm demeanor, the doctor’s jade eyes shone brightly as she spoke, crinkling slightly at the corners. There was no disgust on her face when she viewed the mummy, even when she handled the desiccated remains with her gloved fingers. Henry sensed her excitement, mirroring his own. It was good to know Joan’s enthusiasm for scientific mysteries had not waned from the time he had known her back in her undergraduate years. She returned to the study of the mummy, but not before giving Henry a look of apology for contradicting his previous statement and estimation of age.

Henry’s cheeks grew heated, more from embarrassment than irritation. She was as keen and sharp as ever.

Swallowing hard, he tried to redeem himself. He turned to the reporter. “I hope to prove these remains found at this Incan site are not actually Incan, but another tribe of Peruvian Indians.”

“What do you mean?”

“It has been long known that the Incas were a warrior tribe that often took over neighboring tribes and literally consumed them. They built their own cities atop these others, swallowing them up. From my study of Machu Picchu and other ruins in the remote highlands of the Andes, I’ve theorized that the lowland tribes of the Incas did not build these cloud cities but took them over from a tribe that already existed before them, robbing these ancestors of their rightful place in history as the skilled architects of the mountaintop cities.” Henry nodded toward the mummy. “I hope this fellow will be able to correct this error in history.”

The reporter took another picture, but was then forced back by the pair of doctors who were moving their examination farther down the mummy. “Why do you think this mummy can prove this theory?” she asked.

“The tomb where we discovered it predates the Incan ruins by at least a century, suggesting that here might be one of the true builders of these mountain citadels. Also this mummy stands a good head taller than the average Inca of the region…even its facial features are different. I brought the mummy here to prove this is not an Incan tribesman but one of the true architects of these exceptional cities. With genetic mapping available here, I can substantiate any-”

“Professor Conklin,” Joan again interrupted him. “You might want to come see this.”

The reporter stepped aside to let Henry pass, her Nikon again rising to cover half her face. Henry pushed between the two researchers. They had been fingering the body’s torso and belly. Engel’s assistant, a sandy-haired young man with large eyes, was bent over the mummy. He was carefully tweezing and extracting a length of cord from a fold around the figure’s neck.

Joan pointed. “His throat was slashed,” she said, parting the leathery skin to reveal the bones underneath. “I’d need a microscopic exam to be sure, but I’d say the injury was ante-mortem.” She glanced to Henry and the reporter. “Before death,” she clarified. “And most likely, the cause of death here.”

Henry nodded. “The Incas were fond of blood rituals; many involved decapitation and human sacrifice.”

The doctor’s assistant continued working at the wound, drawing out a length of cord from the wound. He paused and glanced to his mentor. “I think it’s some sort of necklace,” he mumbled, and pulled at the cord. Something under the robe shifted with his motion.

Joan raised her eyes to Henry, silently asking permission to continue.

He nodded.

Slowly the assistant tugged and worked the necklace loose from its hiding place. Whatever hung there was carefully dragged along under the robe’s ragged cloth. Suddenly the ancient material ripped and the object hanging from the cord dropped free for all to see.

A gasp rose from their four throats. The gold shone brilliantly under the halogen spotlights of the laboratory. A flurry of blinding flashes followed as the reporter snapped a rapid series of photos.

“It’s a cross,” Joan said, stating the obvious.

Henry groaned and leaned in closer. “Not just a cross. It’s a Dominican crucifix.”

The reporter spoke with her camera still fixed to her face. “What does that mean?”