The Second Messiah

“Why should I be? I never thought for a minute that the scroll was a fake. I’ve seen my fair share of parchments in my career. I knew it was genuine.”

Mosberg picked his way past a folded camp bed, a dented travel trunk, and more piles of packing crates. One crate was open and contained a collection of small bones next to a large clay pot. A tag on the crate said L.I.E. “Are they animal bones?” he asked.

Savage grabbed a couple of chilled Cokes from a blue plastic cooler at his feet and tossed a can to Mosberg. “Actually, they’re human. An infant, second century A.D. I’ll let you in on a secret, Sergeant. Whenever archaeologists dig here they often come across human bones like the ones you’re looking at. Thousands of years ago it was common practice to bury dead infants in clay jars. Even though they’ve been interred for millennia your Jewish religion still requires that we stop digging and perform a full and proper burial service. If they’re from a more recent period than the one we’re digging and they don’t interest us, we label the bones with a tag that says L.I.E.”

Mosberg arched an eyebrow as he plucked open his can. “What does that mean?”

“It’s short for late intrusive element. We classify them as animal bones so that way we can keep going with the dig and focus on the period we’re dealing with.”

“Isn’t that deceitful?”

“Sure, but the benefits outweigh the cost. And your Antiquities Department turns a blind eye. If they didn’t, things would grind to a halt.”

Mosberg examined what looked like a tiny, weathered rib bone. “To think this infant lived soon after the time of Christ. Remarkable.”

Savage gulped a mouthful of Coke. “Make any progress, Sergeant?”

Mosberg looked up. “I’m afraid not. You know what makes me curious? Why did Cane choose to dig at that particular site where he found the scroll?”

“In field fourteen? Simple. Rodents.”

“Pardon?”

“Creatures like rats and gophers, even wild dogs, burrow deep into the earth for shelter. That can be a blessing to archaeologists because they leave behind a mound of debris after they dig. Sometimes we get lucky and the mound contains coins and pieces of pottery shards, or other stuff of interest. A mound that Jack discovered at field fourteen contained pottery shards, first century A.D., so we decided to dig.”

Mosberg jotted some notes. “Interesting. And may I ask where Mr. Cane is right now?”

Savage slumped into one of the chairs. “Your guess is as good as mine. The last time I saw him was here at the camp, yesterday afternoon.”

“You have no idea?”

“Sometimes he drives into Jerusalem to visit friends.”

“Which friends?”

“You’ve got me there. But I can only guess that’s where he’s gone.”

Mosberg eased himself into the chair opposite. “I hope you’re not withholding information from me, Mr. Savage?”

“Now why would I do that?”

“How long have you known Jack Cane?”

Buddy Savage raised the dented travel trunk, grabbed an old photo album, and tossed it on the table. “Does that answer your question?”

Mosberg flicked through sheaves of photographs in the album: many were of Savage and Jack Cane working on digs. Both men looked much younger in some of the snapshots, which obviously spanned many years. There were others of Savage with a man who resembled Cane, and some of the shots included an attractive, smiling woman, her arms around both men.

“The couple you see were Jack’s parents. They died twenty years ago in an auto accident near Qumran. I guess that’s why he keeps coming back here to dig. For years it’s been like a pilgrimage for Jack.”

“Why?”

“Are you familiar with the work of the Irish writer Oscar Wilde, Sergeant?”

Mosberg sipped more Coke and shook his head. “I can’t say that I am.”

“There’s a line he wrote. ‘The heart always returns to wherever it is most hurt.’ Or words to that effect. I think the same applies to Jack. This place, Qumran, was a watershed in his life. It scarred him. And shaped him, made him the man he is.”

Mosberg slapped the album shut and replaced it on the table. “Interesting. So you know Jack Cane a long time.”

“His father and I were buddies for years. We worked digs together, Jack too, ever since he was a kid. He’s a good man, Mosberg, not a murderer.”

“You sound very sure of that.”

“I am. He’s not the professor’s killer. Finding that scroll meant everything to Jack. It’s like a vindication of his parents’ life work.”

“You’re saying he really wanted to find a scroll?”

“Sure he did. Like everyone else on this site.”

“And he did find a scroll but now it’s missing. Then there’s the small matter of Cane’s own knife buried in the professor’s chest.”

“Listen, Mosberg, Jack wouldn’t jeopardize himself by getting involved in murder. He’s completely innocent. As for the knife, that’s a weapon more familiar to Jews and Arabs, so I’d look elsewhere if I were you.”

“We’ll see, Mr. Savage. Perhaps if I dig deep enough, I can find his motive.”