Killing Time
I found it hard to take my eyes off Max's computer screen, which
kept replaying the same snippet of film footage over and over.
"What's the guy's name? The one who's in jail?"
Max crossed the room to a table. "Got that too--hacked into the
correctional banks. Here--Kuperman. Eli Kuperman."
My head snapped around. "Eli Kuperman the anthropologist?'
"The same. Know him?"
I shook my head. "But I know his work. Controversial
stuff--brilliant, though. The origins of primitive cultures."
"That's what they nailed him for. Down in Florida, he was in some
Indian burial ground. Digging up graves, or so the folks who run
the reservation say. Kuperman never contested it. Tribe agreed to
the government's sentence--five years in the local state pen."
Max's face grew even more puzzled, and his voice softened.
"Strange thing is, the day after he went up--just last week--the
Indians laid concrete over the whole burial ground. So much for
sacred..."
"Maybe they didn't want any more desecrations."
"You're sure it's his?"
Max shrugged again. "The universal DNA database doesn't lie. So,
unless he's got an identical twin--"
"That's what I'm talking about."
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