“Just to see me?”

“No. Actually, I’ll be talking to a couple of people.”

“Oh.” She smiled at him. They both glanced across the street in response to a loud whoop from the volleyball game. “So what did you want to know?”

Weinstein asked a few of his usual questions, concentrating on Cohen’s interest in the development of language in the Middle East and in early Greece. Her eyes lit up, and he realized it was a subject she seldom got to talk about anymore. He made notes, nodded occasionally as if Haeffner’s answers confirmed what he’d learned elsewhere. And, finally, when there was a lull, he asked about Cohen himself. “The man,” he said, “what kind of person was he?”

“Very gentle,” she said. “His students really enjoyed his classes. They were always full. He was easy to get along with. Self-effacing.”

“Is it true he was a friend of John Ehrlichman’s?”

“Yes, that’s correct. I met Ehrlichman once when he came to speak at the school.”

“I understand Cohen was something of a Renaissance man.”

“Oh, yes. He was interested in everything. Art, music, politics, you name it.” There was a bad moment when the volleyball got knocked into the street. It bounced out in front of an oncoming car. One of the kids, a girl, charged after it and almost got hit by the vehicle. It jammed on its brakes, and the girl jumped aside at the last moment. The ball rolled onto the lawn next door. The driver yelled something at the kid, then waved her across the street. “Sometimes, I think,” said Haeffner, “they’re safer with their computers.”

“What else can you tell me about him?”

“Well, outside the classroom, he was probably the most disorganized person I’ve ever known. He was always losing things.”

“Like what?”

“The keys to his car. His stapler. He was always losing his stapler. He published a lot, and he’d bring in the stuff he was working on so he could work between classes, and he’d lose his notes or the book he was reviewing.

“A big part of his problem was that he never threw anything out. His desk and his files were full of stuff, which would have been okay if he’d learned to actually file things. But he just dropped everything in a convenient place. He’d be looking for information on Rahrich and wandering around in his office trying to find his data.”

“Who’s Rahrich?”

“A German anthropologist.”

“Were you at George Washington when he left?”

“Yes. I was there. We were sorry to see him go. Well, I was, anyhow.”

“What do you mean?”

She shrugged. “It’s a long story. The important thing about him is that he had a marvelous imagination, he was dedicated to his research, and he was a pleasure to work with.”

“Tell me the long story.”

She frowned. “Okay. He had a drinking problem.”

“I wasn’t aware of that.”

“Occasionally he missed classes. A couple of times he showed up at school events when he, um, should have stayed home. So the rumor was they invited him to leave.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“So were we. We lost a good man. Eventually, it killed him.”

“I wasn’t aware of that either. What happened?”

“Not sure of the details, but you know he took his own life, right?”

“No. I had no idea.”

“What I heard at the time was that he was diagnosed with clinical depression. I’d liked the guy. I flew out to the funeral. People who were there say it all started at GW. That the alcohol, and the mood swings, and the rest of it hadn’t been there before he went to D.C. Hell, Milton, the guy flew a bomber during World War II. If he was going to get depressed, you’d think it would have shown up before the 1970s.”

“Maybe it was the work environment?”

“Not a chance. George Washington was an excellent place to work. Good administration. Good kids. I never should have left.”

—

Marvin Gray was the last person on his list. He owned a home in an assisted-living community near Cincinnati. He’d been retired almost twenty years when Weinstein caught up with him. Gray’s wife let him in, invited him to sit in one of the armchairs, and told him that Marvin would be right there.

“You must be Teri,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Are you a teacher, too?”

“I was. High school math.” She smiled. “It’s been a long time.”

The place looked comfortable, with paneled walls, lush curtains, pictures of kids and other family members scattered around. As well as a few certificates. And a trophy.

“We play in the local bridge league,” Teri said.

He heard movement in one of the side rooms, and a giant, overfed man with a shining scalp and an unkempt black beard came out through the door, straightening the collar of a Xavier University pullover. He was carrying a magazine, which he put down on a side table. “Milton,” he said, extending a wrestler’s hand, “good to meet you. What can I do for you?”

Weinstein did his usual opening lines, made a few generalizations about Cohen’s contributions to the field, and saw a skeptical look begin to distort Gray’s features. He added that of course there had been differing interpretations of his work. “That’s why I’m here.” He expressed his hope that his host could shed some light “on things.” Teri left the room. “How well did you know him, Professor?” he asked.

“Call me Marvin. Please.” Gray shrugged. “I knew him from a distance. He was okay. Apparently, he was pretty good in the classroom. The only time I ever really worked with him, though, I mean closely, was in the doctoral program. He took everything seriously. Never neglected his responsibilities.” He paused, trying to frame what he wanted to say. “I guess the reality is that I’m surprised anybody would be classifying him among the top anthropologists of the century. And I told you that on the phone, so I’m actually surprised you wanted to come all the way out here anyway.

“He did what was expected of him. But he wasn’t—wasn’t brilliant. You understand what I’m saying? He was probably at my level. Wrote some papers and won some nickel-and-dime awards. Nothing major, though. He won the Ditko Award, I think, and one or two others, but he never showed up on the big stuff. I doubt Triple-A even knew he existed.”

“Triple-A?”

“The American Anthropological Association.”

“Well,” Weinstein said, “sometimes people aren’t appreciated until after they’re gone.”

“That’s probably true of all of us.”

Teri came back with coffee and cinnamon buns. Then she explained she had work to do and left them to themselves. Weinstein tried one of the buns. “Good,” he said.

“I’m not supposed to eat them.”

Weinstein grinned. Tried to think of something funny to say, but he decided Gray’s weight was a minefield. “I understand Cohen was a friend of John Ehrlichman.”

“Yes. He visited the White House a couple of times. Apparently, he got to see Nixon.”

“Did he ever do any work for the White House? That you knew of?”

“I don’t think so. But he sure as hell was broken up when they all got kicked out of office.”

“That’s what I heard.”

“Yeah.”

“Is that when his drinking problem started?”

“Well, I don’t really know when it started. I wasn’t paying that much attention.” Gray picked up the magazine, opened it, turned a few pages, and handed it to Weinstein. It contained an essay by Cohen. “The Origins of Monotheism.”

Weinstein glanced at it, and they were suddenly back talking about ancient languages. He took notes and cited a couple of favorable references to Gray’s work, commenting that he’d wanted to talk to him because he had such a favorable reputation among his peers. “Everybody credits you with good judgment,” he said.

“That’s nice to hear, Milton.”

He let Gray enjoy the moment, then went back to Cohen. “I understand he was interested in the NASA spaceflights.”

“I suppose. Pretty much everyone was back in those years.” Gray refilled his cup and offered to pour more for his guest.