Free Promise: Caulborn #2 by Nicholas Olivo

it would be easy, Vincent. But in my time as a diplomat, I was able to negotiate treaties with opposing factions that had been previously deemed impossible. I was able to get humans, aliens, skinwalkers, and others to sit around a table and talk like reasonable people. It can be done. I just need to understand how they think, and then I can do it.”
    “Speaking of how people think,” I said, “any ideas on our grave robber?”
    She crossed her arms and sighed. “Nothing. There’s no obvious connection between any of the deceased, nor is there any kind of occult ritual or event that might call for ingredients like these. Herb’s at a loss, too.”
    “Uh, Meg, look, I don’t want to seem rude here, but how much do you really know about Herb?” In response, she handed me an inch thick manila folder with “Wallenby, Herbert Q.” written on its tab.
    “That’s everything I was able to dig up on Herb. His family, his paranormal activities, his income, his address, work history, known associations, and anything else. He’s clean, Vincent.”
    I hefted the file. “Wow, you pulled this together fast,” I said.
    “It’s not complete,” she replied. “What’s there is mostly just the stuff on public record. I haven’t had a chance to cross reference everything properly.”
    I glanced through the file. “Born in Connecticut, mother died when he was five, lived with his father until he was fourteen, then with his grandfather after his father disappeared. First time Herb popped up on the Caulborn’s radar was fifteen years ago, when a young Herb was taken into psychiatric counseling for shooting a corpse with a shotgun.” I looked up from the folder. “That’s kinda morbid, don’t you think?”
    Megan nodded. “The details of the event are sketchy, and some of the material is classified at a level I can’t access. However, since whatever happened that day, Herb has been nothing but exemplary. Not even so much as a parking ticket, let alone anything nefarious.”
    “Well now I know he’s hiding something.” I said. “Nobody’s that clean.”
    “I’ve never gotten a parking ticket,” Megan said dryly.
    “Of course you haven’t.” I needed to change the subject. “So did your date with him last night turn up anything more about him?”
    Megan’s expression cooled. “It was a date, Vincent, not an interrogation. I did my homework on Herb. If he was a nut job, I wouldn’t be spending my free time with him.”
    I was digging myself into holes left and right here. Find something else to focus on, Corinthos. “So,” I said as I stepped up to the whiteboard. “Let’s get back to our investigation. What do we know so far about this grave robber?”
    For the next few hours, Megan and I worked out ideas and theories about the grave robber’s intentions, but my mind kept drifting to the Museum of Science and my business that night. Finally, around four o’clock in the afternoon, I gave up and told Megan I had a previous engagement and that I’d see her in the morning. I was too distracted to even tell if she bought what I was saying, but the next thing I knew, I was stepping off the Green Line at Science Square and walking toward the museum.
    I’ve been coming to the Museum of Science since I was a kid. I must’ve made my mom sit through the presentation on lightning fifty times one summer, and the T-Rex statue and triceratops skeleton had me thinking I’d be a paleontologist someday. I used to imagine myself as a dinosaur-bone-hunting Indiana Jones, complete with fedora and whip of course, where I’d travel to exotic lands, uncover never before seen fossils and rescue them from my villainous rivals who wanted to steal the bones for their own nefarious purposes. I really don’t know what manner of nefarious purposes a paleontologist could get up to, but hey, I was eight.
    I stepped through the museum’s revolving door and entered into a huge, high-ceilinged lobby and stepped out of the way of