Where the bodies are buried

There is a commonly used expression that drifts through conversations with remarkable persistence: “I know where the bodies are buried.” I found myself using that phrase three separate times recently. The first occasion was with a close friend in the legal profession who was struggling through a couple of difficult cases, and I reminded him that every sufficiently complicated legal matter eventually arrives at the same point: find the person who knows where the bodies are buried. Somewhere in every conflict there exists a keeper of inconvenient stories, someone who remembers what actually happened before the official version was circulated. The second occasion emerged during discussions about a project I have undertaken - to write a living history of the Department of Communication, my home for nearly four decades. A senior colleague wisely reminded me that if I wanted the real history, I needed to locate the people who know where the bodies are buried. Then, it came up a third time, during the entirely different context of evening banter with childhood friends, the phrase surfaced again as we collectively realized that among us sat several people who knew exactly where numerous figurative bodies were buried, when they were buried, who helped dig the hole, and who later denied the cemetery existed. The origins of the phrase are themselves somewhat buried, which feels appropriately poetic, but the expression gained popular traction through the movies Citizen Kane, where it was suggested that the butler knew where the figurative bodies were figuratively buried. And that is the real power of stories and the deeply underrated authority of those who carry them. Every person, every family, every institution, every political movement, every department possesses buried narratives—carefully managed stories containing the memories of infidelity, embarrassment, conflict, betrayal, ambition, maneuvering, and strategic cowardice. These are not simple “secrets.” They are sprawling narrative ecosystems involving multiple actors, competing interpretations, carefully edited timelines, and public versions that bear only passing resemblance to the original events. Someone always remembers the unedited script. This gives the keeper of buried narratives a peculiar form of power. Often these individuals occupy no formal authority whatsoever. But they possess contextual power, which is far more dangerous because it depends entirely on memory rather than institutional position. They know where the narrative fractures are located. They know which carefully maintained public images rest on alarmingly unstable foundations. Which is why intelligent systems—families, organizations, political structures, friendship circles—generally understand that the keeper of the buried bodies must be managed carefully. Not threatened. Not antagonized. Managed. Placated. Occasionally reassured. A certain amount of maintenance is required because everyone involved understands the basic arrangement: stability depends on the graves remaining undisturbed. And this is where things become unintentionally hilarious. Because every so often someone grows careless. Someone who mistakes temporary control of the present for ownership of the past. They begin operating under the charming delusion that if the keeper of the buried bodies is ignored long enough, she will somehow disappear. This is a remarkable misreading of how memory works. The logic appears to be that strategic omission equals erasure. If one simply stops acknowledging the existence of the keeper of inconvenient narratives, perhaps the narratives themselves will dissolve from lack of attention. It is the historical equivalent of hiding under a blanket and assuming the approaching army can no longer see you. The primary form of carelessness, then, is not hostility but dismissal. The assumption that the person who remembers no longer matters. That the keeper of stories can simply be edited out of the active narrative while everyone proceeds comfortably into the revised version of reality. One almost admires the optimism. Because buried narratives do not disappear merely because someone posts newer stories over them. Human beings are not software updates. Memory does not uninstall itself simply because the latest version of the narrative has cleaner graphics and better lighting. The truly experienced narrative managers understand this instinctively. They recognize that the keeper of buried stories does not even need to speak for the system to remain anxious. Mere existence is enough. The possibility of excavation is often more powerful than excavation itself. Which is why the wise maintain careful relationships with those who know too much. The foolish ones, however, attempt something much riskier: they pretend the keeper of memory no longer exists and hope the silence remains permanent. History suggests this strategy has a rather poor success rate. Because the bodies remain buried only so long as the person holding the map continues to feel there is no reason to start digging. Until someone comes along and asks the question in the song by Don Henley, “We all know that crap is king/Give us dirty laundry.”