“That is weird, all right,” Gideon agreed. “How do they know that’s what happened to him?”
“Well, there isn’t much here…” She folded the paper back and read aloud:“‘The remains of the American author and activist, who had not been seen since failing to return from his remote bear-research base camp ninety miles east of Anchorage in August 2003, were discovered in a bear den less than a mile from the camp. They were identified as human by Dr. Leslie Roach, consulting police surgeon for the Alaska State Police post at Talkeetna, who determined that the fragments were approximately two to three years old and had been through the digestive system of a bear.’” She shuddered. “Can you really tell that from the bones?”
“Oh, yes,” Gideon said, “if you know what you’re doing.”
She continued reading. “‘There is little doubt that they are the remains of Mr. Villarreal,” said state police sergeant Monte Franks. “There’s no one else it could conceivably be.’”
“Hm,” Gideon said.
“Hm, what?”
“Hm, nothing, just ‘hm.’”
“No, when you say ‘hm,’ it must mean something. What is it?”
“Julie, I’m a professor. I’m supposed to go around saying ‘hm.’ It’s expected of me.”
She looked at him, her dark, pretty, close-cropped head tilted to one side. “Hmmm,” she said doubtfully.
Gideon laughed. “Anything else in the article?”
She went back to reading aloud. “‘Mr. Villarreal, a resident of Willow, Alaska, was often cited as a modern American success story, the son of Cuban migrant citrus workers in Florida. He worked alongside them from the time he was five years old. Contacted today, his agent, Marcus Stein, said: “At seventeen this guy was still picking oranges down in Dade County, barely speaking English. At forty he was one of America’s most respected and best-known environmentalists. He was one hell of a guy.” Mr. Villarreal was, however, also a controversial figure whose vigorous, blunt defense of the wilderness and of wilderness animals had embroiled him in controversy many times over the years. He leaves no immediate relatives.’”