Dunwitty's Proof

On May 14th at Valley Forge they found a finger. The severed digit was wrapped in antique, handmade Belgian lace, and closed in a Georgian rosewood sewing box. (Appraisal, $8,500 - $10,000.) 

The police thought it was a deeply depraved prank until June 5th at the Alamo when they found a human ear. It was sealed in a faded airmail envelope with a love note from World War I. The note read, “I miss the sound of your voice.” The envelope and ear were inside an ostrich leather, monogrammed briefcase belonging to J. Edgar Hoover. (Appraisal, $7,500 - $9,000.)

In Baton Rouge, they found a toe tied with ballet ribbon in a Tiffany’s “Butterfly” inkwell. And in Cleveland, it was an eye in an enamel egg cup in a Chinese ginger jar. (Appraisal, $10,000 - $15,000 and $4,500 - $7,000, respectively.)

She looked up from the stack of reports and tried to limit the disgust that was certainly showing on her face. The detective peered at her expectantly.

“Those are very, uh, detailed reports. I’m not sure what you want me to do with them though,” she said calmly.

“Help us solve the case!” He said a bit too loudly and too insistently. 

“I don’t see how. I investigate antiquities not -” she looked back at the stack of reports and grimaced a bit, “serial killers.”

“We don’t know that they’re a serial killer. Or a killer at all, in fact.” A younger sergeant chimed in.

“It’s true. We’ve been able to determine that the parts are all from one, 'previously deceased' person but a body hasn’t been found. And that is ALL we know. ALL they gave us. Not a fingerprint, not a single bit of evidence. We’ve been looking into corpses taken from mortuaries, but there are surprisingly more of those than you would think… and this damn show has been all over the country…” The detective’s jaw clenched so tightly that he could barely add, “Anyway, can you give us some insight?”

“Insight into what? None of this is my - “

“INTO ANYTHING!” He barked. “The roadshow is filming here in Newport this weekend. You are an investigator of ANTIQUES. This is an ANTIQUES roadshow.”

His eyes bulged as he glared at her. 

“I authenticate antiquities, not antiques,” she said quietly.

“WHAT IS THE DIFF - OH MY GOD!” He spun on the sergeant.“You told me she was some kind of expert at this stuff. Dun-something Proof!”

The younger man turned to her calmly, “I apologize for the detective’s outburst. There is a lot riding on this. The show will film its final episode here and if the pattern holds, another piece of the body will be left. Making this potentially our last chance to catch them.”

His gentle, even tone had lowered the temperature in the room and he added, “I read an article about you, Margaret Dunwitty and Her Investigative Skills - Dunwitty’s Proof. And despite this not being your area of expertise, any new insights you might be able to bring would be much appreciated. We have so little to go on, we just want to be sure every base is covered.”

“I - I can take a look at the pieces that were left. Maybe if I can trace their provenance, that will help?”

“Thank you,” the sergeant said softly. 

The detective nodded begrudgingly in agreement, his face a startling shade of red.

She left the station feeling a tad nauseous.

Dunwitty’s Proof. It was a term that Margaret Dunwitty had once relished but now saw as a burden. So much so, in fact, that she had stepped away from authentication work completely. 

It was the word proof that she struggled with.

There was certainly plenty of science that went into authenticating historic finds, and often the process ended there. But for the times when the testing and carbon dating proved inconclusive or was contested, they turned to Margaret and her unique perspective.

She didn’t have a lab or any special equipment, she had a picture. A picture of how all the pieces of history fit together and what would come through from the past. She had an uncanny way of seeing something that didn’t belong, something perhaps added later or meant to deceive. It wasn’t a skill she could teach or even explain very well, it was just a sense she had.

The process didn't produce empirical data, or absolutes, it was circumstantial. A collection of findings that together told a story too compelling to ignore. And it was considered the gold standard in her industry.

But was it proof? Indisputable proof? No. How could it be, when the creator or the artist had been dead for centuries? And therein lied the problem, her proof could never really be proven.

She put the thought out of her mind. It was what had driven her away from the field and it certainly didn’t serve her now. She instead turned to the list of discarded antiques and dug in. 

Research was a second language to her. She read articles and combed through footnotes and official studies the way people leafed through a magazine. She skated through volumes of information, noting what she learned that could be proven versus what was speculation, and filed them away in the corresponding folders in her brain.

As Margaret traversed her usual web of sources and forums, she was struck by how frequently the body parts were being mentioned. It was understandable to a degree, antiques are not the most exciting thing, and rarely do they have such a violent element (at least not in the modern day) but it still seemed strange to her how pervasive the story was. 

She shifted to researching the show. It had begun filming on location at historic sites a couple of years before, the intention being to boost the ratings. A new producer had taken over, she smiled in the article. Margaret thought she looked like someone she’d be friends with. They’d certainly have a lot to talk about.

She found info on how to submit your town to host the show and info on requesting tickets. A few accounts of how well the show was run and how honored a site was to be featured. But mostly she found articles about the body parts. They nearly drowned out everything else. 

Eventually, her eyes grew bleary and she became frustrated with how little she had discovered about the infamous items. Similar pieces had been appraised or auctioned, and the briefcase had been left in a will to someone, but there was no current name to follow. No trail, no proof. 

She dreaded reporting that to the detective, but at least that would put an end to this bizarre event. Her part in it, at least. 

They met again the morning of the show at a spot several blocks from the filming location. There were more officers than Margaret expected and she felt a little relieved to be just a small part of this big operation. 

They were all dressed in plain clothes but still somehow in uniform. Margaret stood out in her white linen pants and emerald silk top amongst the navy, khaki, and gray of the officers’ off-duty wear. 

The sergeant found her. He could tell by her reticence that she had nothing of note to report so instead he asked, “Will you keep your eyes open for us today? Anything that seems off to you, let us know?”

She nodded. A familiar, smiling face approached through the crowd. 

“Hi everyone, thank you so much for all your hard work. My name is Gretchen Kelly, I’m the producer of the show. I have entry passes for all of you and perhaps for the sake of blending in, you could grab one of these ‘left behinds?’”

She made eye contact with Margaret, noting her puzzled look, and added, “‘Left behinds’ are the items that get a low appraisal and our guests uh, abandon them in some hidden corner of the property. We always find them though… unfortunately. Ok, well, thank you again! I’ve given your captain all the timetables and details. We expect a huge crowd!”

With another bright smile, she turned and slipped away as the officers stepped forward and each chose an item. Margaret opted for a vintage cookie tin.

They walked in small, separate groups up to the site of the show. It was a palatial home, referred to as a "summer cottage" by the staggeringly wealthy from a time when the country was young and industrialists could reap fortunes from its growth.

The entry line was long but the production was efficient and the full group had entered in very little time. The grounds were roped off into several different areas: To Be Appraised, To Be Verified, To Be Filmed, and Spectator.

They entered the cue to be appraised with everyone else, thousands of people wondering if they held the golden ticket. This line moved along quickly as well and unsurprisingly, her cookie tin, although very sweet, was deemed virtually worthless. She was ushered into the Spectator area with the rest of the rejected treasures.

She appreciated what a nice vantage point this provided her as it was like a horseshoe, encircling the other areas. She walked and watched, and tried not to be too distracted by the antiques. It was the people that she should focus on but she couldn’t help but appreciate a particularly beautiful desk clock and a stunning piece of early American folk art. They both were sent to the To Be Verified area.

It was all so organized and yet so strange, hordes of people each carrying an item as if it were a pet, waiting for someone to admire it. She appreciated the preciseness and flow of it all, though. Like panning for gold, the astute appraisers carefully picked out the most precious treasures and sent them off for verification as the detritus was sifted off to watch.

Margaret had a thought then that the person responsible for this could be an appraiser. They are present at every show, and they know the antiques, but she couldn’t find a reason why. Maybe just to show off a crime, but surely there were more explosive ways to do that. Why slip into a crowded space and hide something that wouldn't be found until the crowds are gone? Was she trying to find reason in the unreasonable? It didn’t feel unreasonable to her though, it all felt very intentional. 

The day wore on, and the crowds began to thin. Margaret felt a tinge of hopelessness as she looked across the sea of people separated into their proper pens and wished she knew what she was looking for. She could also feel a familiar spark of resolve, though, a part of her brain that was searching, scanning, combing. Someone here must be an outlier. Something here must not belong.

Then, with a jolt, she saw it. 

Between the crowds of spectators, between their cradled items holding nothing more than sentimental value, between their limbs and arms, something different was slipping by. Something of startling rarity. 

Margaret immediately recognized the faded hues of an abalone shell inlay. The softly worn texture of aged lambskin black leather trim. The sweeping delicateness of a brass latch with its soft mossy patina. It was a thing of sheer beauty and it was wrong. No one would have relegated this to the Spectator section. 

She tried to follow it with her eyes as she weaved nimbly through the crowd. She caught a glimpse of it again. The iridescent shells caught the light. She weaved between guests as fast as she could. She craned her neck trying to see who was carrying it. Her shoulder then abruptly collided with another spectator. His porcelain vase crashed to the floor. As did her cookie tin.

She made her apologies as the man made his. She feigned an attempt to help him pick up the pieces while intently searching the crowd. He insisted it was his fault and said it wasn’t worth anything anyway. She apologized once more and returned to her chase.

But it was too late. 

There, on a weathered set of stone steps at the very edge of the crowd sat a black lacquered hat box, embellished with abalone inlay flowers and undoubtedly housing a human body part. 

The sergeant arrived at her side, a little out of breath, “What?! What happened?!”

She didn’t answer. Data was shifting in her mind. She was running through lists of what she knew and what she thought. She was reviewing what she’d seen and what didn’t fit. She was tracing back a feeling, one that had started from the very beginning. Something had been off all along. The reports. The forums. The articles. The skill it would require to pull this off. The attention to detail. The access. It was all so organized, not the actions of a mad person. It was too... too well planned. 

No. Not planned.

Produced.

Margaret scanned the crowd. From across the yard she met the gaze of Gretchen Kelly, the producer of this show, and unquestionably the producer of these vile acts. For a moment, Gretchen watched her nonchalantly as the expression on Margaret’s face changed to a searing look that said, “I know.”

A little smile curled up in the corner of Gretchen’s mouth then, as her expression changed as well. 

Her look said, “Prove it.”