Munch, let's go.
What've we got?
Skeleton found buried in the basement of a house over on Gough Street. A couple's renovating the house, the contractor dug up bones. They're turning the cellar into a playroom.
Nice.
My bet, the skeleton's at least a hundred years old.
Why's that, Big Man?
Every year or so someone digs up bones in a basement in Fell's Point. It usually turns out to be some poor sailor who got a night's leave off some nineteenth century schooner docked in the harbor. The sailor came into town for a drink or some poker, got rolled for his pay, got stuffed in the basement. Meanwhile, up in Maine or England or even China, some young bride walked the shore, peering out into the sea, waiting her whole life for him to return.
Jeez, Stanley, more and more I see the poet in you.
That ain't poetry, Munch. Them's the hard, cold facts.
Life was simpler a hundred years ago.
Death was simpler.
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