But to give my research story a news hook, I needed to find out about those specific bones the morgue guy wouldn’t tell me about.
Calling the number listed for the address was fruitless, as was ringing the doorbell outside the gated, multi-million-dollar property. But the gate was open, so, well, I went and knocked on the basement door.
A minute later, two men opened it. Their shirts and pants were caked in dust. One held a mallet.
I introduced myself and explained about the bones. They didn’t understand; their English seemed limited. Then one suddenly smiled.
“Yes, come, come,” he said, gesturing. They disappeared into the darkness.