He frowned. Ray thought there might be a connection between Cohen and the Moon dustup. But it was hard to see what it could be. Well, what the hell. He’d give it his best shot. He went back to The Cherry Tree and recorded the names of the other members of the Anthropology Department. In addition, two students had received their doctorates that year under Cohen’s supervision. He wrote their names down, too. Then he went into the den, got cold beers for himself and Sheila, and sat down to watch In Harm’s Way. He loved John Wayne movies. He’d seen this one five or six times. It never got old.

—

In bed, and again in the morning, he read everything he could find on Cohen, including a few of his academic papers, which were tough going. The guy had never married. He’d won a couple of minor awards. Had once stepped in to prevent an attack by a gang of thugs on a young woman after hours on the campus. (That had cost him a few stitches.)

He looked up the names of outstanding anthropologists of the last half century. Then he googled the 1975 GWU faculty members and the two then-new Ph.D.s. Forty-four years had passed and, surprisingly, one of Cohen’s contemporary professors was still at American University. One of the Ph.D.s had died. The other was at Georgetown. He was able to reach both, identifying himself as a research assistant for a Dr. Frank Markaisi, who was working on a book about anthropological contributions to our understanding of the development of civilization. He was, he told them, especially interested in the work of Jack Cohen. Both remembered Cohen and said yes, of course they’d be happy to cooperate. He set up appointments.

Inga Wilson had been the Ph.D. candidate. She was in her grandmother phase now. “Hard to believe it’s been so long,” she said. They were seated in her office, with a view of the campus. Traffic moved slowly along O Street. “Professor Cohen was a good guy. Worked hard. Knew what he was doing. His students loved him.”

Weinstein asked a couple of his prepared questions, about Cohen’s interest in the development of language, his work on the evolution of religion. Then, offhandedly, he got to the point: “Inga, did you know anything about his White House connections?”

Inga was a bulky woman. Tall, almost as big as Weinstein. And surprisingly muscular for her age. Her features retained almost nothing of the attractive twenty-four-year-old woman in the yearbook picture. “Oh, yes,” she said, “he was a friend of John Ehrlichman’s. Watching what happened to the administration was very hard on him.”

“He was that close to Ehrlichman?”

“Yes. Apparently. He made no secret of the fact that he thought Nixon and his people had been maligned by an unfair press. It was odd.”

“Why?”

“Well, I don’t know. He wasn’t a Democrat. I mean, he was pretty much apolitical. He had friends in both parties.”

“How did you find out about his friendship with Ehrlichman?”

“He arranged to have John come in a couple of times to talk to classes.” She smiled wistfully. “I was shocked when the Watergate scandal erupted. I wouldn’t have believed they could be capable of that. At least, that Ehrlichman could. He seemed like such a decent man.”

“It must have been hard to take.”

“It hit him hard, Milt. Professor Cohen, that is. It seemed, I don’t know, personal, maybe. Yes. It was personal.”

Weinstein salted the conversation with more prepared questions, not wanting to seem unduly interested in the White House connections. But when Inga began looking at her watch, he asked whether she had a class coming up.

“In ten minutes,” she said.

“Okay, Inga. Let me get out of your way then.” He got up. Collected his briefcase. “One final thing. Were his interests limited primarily to his field?”

“Oh, no,” she said. “He was as much a Renaissance man as anybody I’ve ever known. He was interested in everything. Politics, the sciences, philosophy.”

“Then he must have been caught up in the Moon landings?”

“I didn’t know him then. But I’d be surprised if he wasn’t.”

—

The professor who’d remained at GWU was a stodgy, hypercritical guy with a bushy mustache and a tendency to squint. Weinstein took him to dinner that night at a small restaurant near the campus. His name was Leonard Butcher, and he needed no encouragement to go on and on about the old days. Mostly he dedicated himself to pointing out how inept everybody else on the planet was. Humans, he said, were too stupid to survive the rise of technology. “We almost killed ourselves with the nukes,” he said. “We survived that. But it’ll be something else. Just a matter of time.” At which point he stopped and asked Weinstein to repeat his name before launching into another diatribe.

The problem was that he barely remembered Jack Cohen. He’d once offered to help Cohen with a paper he was working on, a treatise on the development of Greek mythology, but Cohen had persisted in finding his own way and, as a result, the paper had gone unnoticed in the journals. Of course. “He was older than I was, so he tended to think I couldn’t be of any assistance.”

He’d also offered Cohen advice on handling his classes. Don’t alienate the students. Don’t preach. It’s all show business. It surprised Weinstein, because Butcher obviously knew what he was talking about. Whether he practiced it or not, of course, there was no way to know.

Butcher had noticed nothing unusual about Cohen. He’d had no social dealings with him. “Professor Cohen took it upon himself to encourage me. Told me I’d make a mark for myself.” He sat back with a satisfied smile. He had indeed, it suggested, done that.

“Why did he leave the university?”

Butcher shrugged. “Don’t know. I assume he had a better position elsewhere. Why else does one ever leave?” He flagged down a waitress and ordered some dessert.

Weinstein was about to explain that he had to go. That he had a plane to catch. But Butcher broke in: “What’s your connection with Frank Markaisi, Milt? He’s a pretty big name in the field.”

Ah, yes. The admirable and fictitious Professor Markaisi. “I’m an independent contractor. He hires me once in a while for assignments like this one.”

“Well, you tell him I’d be happy to cooperate if he wants any more information.” He pulled out his wallet and held out a business card. Weinstein took it, paid the bill, and said good night.

—

He reported back to Ray Chambers that evening.

“So you got nothing?”

“Other than Cohen was upset when the Nixon administration started coming apart.”

“Why?”

“I guess because he and Ehrlichman were such good friends.”

“And that’s everything?”

“There are a few other people who were his colleagues at GWU. But they’re out of town. You want me to stay with it?”

—

Margaret Haeffner lived with her son and his wife in Downers Grove, outside Chicago. She’d enjoyed a long career in the academic world. Currently in her eighties, she remained active in community life, directing the local arm of Blind Justice, which, naturally enough, provided support for persons with visual problems. She was also a volunteer for the Animal Welfare League. She was waiting on the front porch in a hammock when Weinstein arrived in his rented car. Her hair was snow-white, and she was rocking gently back and forth. Nevertheless, she didn’t look like the high-energy volunteer in the Google accounts. It was a windy afternoon. Branches were swaying and, in an open field across the street, a group of twelve-year-olds were laughing and yelling their way through a volleyball game.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Weinstein,” she said, signaling him to sit down in a rocker. “I hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t get up.”

“Of course, Dr. Haeffner.”

“Did I understand you correctly? You flew out here from D.C.?”

“Yes, ma’am.”