{ 17 }
Dr. Jack Dienphong cast his eye about his laboratory: examining the metal tables, the chemical hoods and glove boxes, microscopes, SEMs, microtomes, and titration setups. It wasn't pretty, but it was organized and functional. Dienphong was chief of the FBI's Forensic Science Division on Congress Street, and he was very curious to meet—at last—this Special Agent Pendergast he had heard so much about.
He glanced down at the scribbled index card in his hand, running through his notes one more time. Most of it was in his head: the index card was more for comfort than anything else. He felt a disquieting sense of apprehension. He didn't like what he was going to have to report, and he just hoped the famous—some said infamous—agent would understand. In Dienphong's opinion, the worst mistake one could make in forensic chemistry was to over interpret results. Do that enough times, and eventually you'd send an innocent man to prison. It was Dienphong's greatest fear. He wouldn't stretch results for anyone, not even someone as formidable as Pendergast.
There was a stir at the door, and Dienphong glanced at his watch. On time almost to the second, already confirming one thing he'd heard Pendergast was famous for. A moment later the door opened, and a slender man in a black suit entered, followed by Special Agent in Charge Carlton, chief of the Southern District Field Office, and a hushed group of junior agents and assistants. There was an almost palpable excitement in the air, the kind of excitement high-profile cases always generated. And only a high-profile case like this would bring somebody like Carlton in on a Sunday. All the pertinent evidence had been forwarded to the FBI by local police for in-depth analysis. And now it was up to Dienphong to piece everything together for them. His feeling of apprehension did not diminish.
Dienphong observed the stranger carefully. Pendergast was just as people had described him, moving with the efficiency and grace of a cat. His hair was so blond it was almost white, his face cool and patrician, his pale eyes restlessly taking in everything. Dienphong had met many FBI agents in his time, but this one was in another category altogether.
Those ice cool eyes alighted on Dienphong, and the agent came striding over. "Dr. Dienphong," the man said in the buttery tones of the Deep South.
"A pleasure." Dienphong took the dry hand.
"I thought your piece in the Journal of Forensics on the maturation rate of blowfly larvae in the human cadaver to be fine reading."
"Thank you." He hadn't quite thought of the article as "fine reading" himself, but then each to his own. Dienphong's idea of fine reading was Johnson’s Rambler essays.
"The presentation is all ready," he said, gesturing toward a double row of metal chairs set up before a projection screen. "We're going to begin with a brief visual presentation."
"Excellent."
The agents seated themselves with murmurs, coughing, and scraping of chairs. Special Agent in Charge Carlton took up position in the front row center, his thick thighs spilling off the edges of the seat.
Dienphong nodded toward his assistant and the lights dimmed. He switched on the computer projector.
"Please feel free to interrupt with questions at any time." He called up the first image. "We'll go from simplest to most complex. This is a 50x sample of the sulfur recovered at the site. Our chemical analysis showed it to be natural, with trace elements that indicate a volcanic origin. It had been rapidly heated and burned by unknown means. When sulfur burns, it combines with oxygen to make sulfur dioxide gas, SO2, which has a very strong odor—the smell of burned matches. If it then comes in contact with water, it creates H2SO4, also known as sulfuric acid.
"These fibers here" —the next image came up—"are from the victim's clothing. Note the pitting and curling: clear effects of sulfuric acid on the victim's clothes."
Three more images in quick succession. "As you can see, there was even microscopic pitting on the victim's plastic glasses, and in the varnish on the walls and floor, from the intense release of sulfur compounds."
"Any idea of the specific volcanic source?" It was Pendergast who spoke.
"That's almost impossible to answer. We'd have to analyze and compare this with thousands of known volcanic sources, an overwhelming job even if we could get the samples. What I can tell you is that the high proportion of silicon indicates a continental, as opposed to an oceanic, source. In other words, this sulfur didn't come from Hawaii or, say, the seafloor."
Pendergast settled back, his expression unreadable in the dark room.
"This next image shows some microsections of the burned wood of the floor from the so-called hoofprint." Several more images flashed across the screen. Dienphong cleared his throat. Here is where the difficulties began.
"You will note the very deep penetration of the burn into the wood. You can see it better at 200x."
Another slide. "This was not caused by a 'branding iron' effect." He paused, swallowed. "That is to say, this mark was not burned into the floor by a red-hot object being impressed into the wood. It was caused by an intense burst of no ionizing radiation, probably in the very short infrared wavelength range, which deeply penetrated the wood."
Carlton spoke up, as Dienphong knew he would. "You mean, the perp didn't heat something up and press it on the wood?"
"Exactly. Nothing actually touched the wood. The burn was made by a short blast of pure radiation."
Carlton shifted, the chair uttering a dangerous groan. "Wait a minute. How can that be?"
"My job is to describe, not interpret," said Dienphong, flicking up the next slide.
But the chief hadn't finished. "Are you saying the mark was made with some kind of ray gun?"
"I can't say what the source of the radiation was."
Carlton settled back with a dubious grunt.
"This brings us to the cross." The next slide came up. "Our art expert has identified this as a rare example of a seventeenth-century Tuscan cross, commonly worn by the noble classes. It is made of gold and silver, layered, fused, and hand-chased to produce a rather interesting effect known as llamellés fines. It was then set in wood, which has largely burned away."
"How much's it worth?" Carlton said, asking an intelligent question for a change.
"Given the precious stones, eighty, perhaps one hundred thousand dollars. Undamaged, that is."
Carlton whistled.
"The cross was found around the neck of the victim, touching his skin. Here is a photograph of it at the scene of the crime, still around the victim's neck."
The next slide came up, prompting noises of disgust and disbelief.
"As you can see, the cross heated to the point of melting, deeply burning the skin where it lay. But observe that the surrounding flesh is not scorched or even reddened. Something—and I really can't say what—selectively heated the cross without heating the surrounding skin. The cross then partially melted and burned itself into the victim's flesh in situ.
"And here"—he brought up the next image—"is an electron micrograph at 3,000x, showing this extraordinary pitting along the silver—but not the gold—surface of the cross. I can't account for this, either. I suspect it might have been caused by an intense and prolonged dose of radiation that seems to have stripped off the top layers of electrons and vaporized part of the metal. It acts much more strongly on silver than on gold. Again, I have no idea why."
Carlton was on his feet. "Can we have this in plain English?"
"Of course," Dienphong said dryly. "Something heated up and melted the cross without heating up anything around it. I guess it must have been some kind of radiation that was taken up by metal more strongly than flesh."
"Like maybe the same radiation that burned the hoofprint?"
Carlton, Dienphong had to admit, was not as stupid as he pretended to be.
"A good possibility."
Pendergast raised a finger.
"Agent Pendergast?"
"Were there any signs of radiation burns or heating in any other surfaces in the room?"
An even better question.
"Yes, in fact, there were. The bedposts, which were varnished pine, showed signs of heat stress, as did the wall behind the bed, which was painted pine. In some areas, the paint had softened and bubbled."
He moused his way through the on-screen menu and pulled up another image. "Here's a cross section of the wall, showing four layers of paint. Now here's yet another small mystery: only the lowest layer of paint seems to have heated up and bubbled. The others were undisturbed and remained chemically unaltered."
"Did you analyze all four layers of paint?" Pendergast asked.
Dienphong nodded.
"Was the bottom layer a lead-based paint?"
Dienphong felt a sudden surprise. He quickly saw where the line of questioning would lead, and it was something that he had not thought of. "Let me check the book." He flipped through the lab reports, organized and categorized in a three-ring binder labeled Brimstone. All FBI investigations get a nickname, and this was the one he had given this case. Melodramatic, perhaps, but appropriate.
He looked up from the binder. "Yes, as a matter of fact it was lead-based."
"And the rest were not?"
"That's correct."
"Further proof that we are dealing with some kind of radiation."
"Very good, Agent Pendergast." It was the first time in his career that an FBI agent had beaten him to a conclusion. This Pendergast was living up to his reputation. Dienphong cleared his throat. "Any other questions or comments?"
Carlton sat down again, raised a weary hand.
"Yes?"
"I'm missing something. How could something affect the bottom layer of paint and not the upper ones?"
Pendergast turned. "It was the lead in the paint that reacted, like the metal in the cross. It absorbed the radiation more strongly. Was there any radioactivity present at the site, Doctor, during follow-up investigation?"
"None whatsoever."
Carlton nodded. "Check into that, Sam, will you?"
"Of course, sir," one of the junior agents replied.
Dienphong went to the next image. "Here's the final image: a close-up of a section of the cross. Note the very localized melting, completely inconsistent with a convective source of heat. Again an indication that radiation played a role."
"What type of radiation would selectively heat metal more than flesh?" Pendergast asked.
"X-rays, gamma rays, microwave, far infrared, certain wavelengths in the radio spectrum, not to mention alpha radiation and a flux of fast neutrons. This is not very unusual. What is unusual is the intensity."
Dienphong waited for the inevitable expostulation from Carlton, but this time the agent in charge said nothing.
"The pitting on the cross," Pendergast said, "might suggest to you something?"
"Not so far."
"Speculations?"
"I never speculate, Mr. Pendergast."
"An intense electron beam could cause it, don't you think?"
"Yes, but an electron beam would have to propagate through a vacuum. Air would disperse it in, say, a millimeter or two. As I said, it might have been in the infrared, microwave, or X-ray spectrum, except that it would take a transmitter of several tons to generate a beam that intense."
"Quite so. What do you think, Doctor, of the theory being pushed by the New York Post?"
Dienphong paused briefly at this sudden change of tack. "I am not in the habit of taking my theories from the pages of the Post."
"They've published speculation that the devil took his soul."
There was a brief silence, and then there was a smattering of nervous chuckles. Pendergast was evidently making a joke. Or was he? He didn't seem to be laughing.
"Mr. Pendergast, that's a theory I don't subscribe to."
"No?"
Dienphong smiled. "I am a Buddhist. The only devil we believe in is the one inside the human heart."
{ 18 }
Not much scanning of the crowd streaming into the Metropolitan Opera House was needed to locate Count Isidor Fosco: his huge presence, striking a dramatic pose beside the Lincoln Center fountain, was unmistakable. Pendergast drifted toward him with the crowd. All around, men in tuxedos and women in pearl necklaces were babbling excitedly. It was opening night at the Metropolitan Opera, and the program was Donizetti's Lucrezia Borgia. The count was wearing white tie and tails, beautifully tailored to his enormously fat figure. The cut was old-fashioned, and in place of the usual white waistcoat, Fosco was sporting one in gorgeous Hong Kong silk brocaded in white and dove gray. A gardenia was stuck in his buttonhole, his handsome face was patted and shaved and powdered to pink perfection, and his thick mane of gray hair was brushed back into leonine curls. His small, plump hands were perfectly fitted in gray kid gloves.
"My dear Pendergast, I was hoping you'd come in white tie!" Fosco said, rejoicing. "I cannot understand why people dress down so barbarously on a night such as this." He waved a dismissive hand at the tuxedoed patrons streaming past them into the hall. "There are only three occasions left to truly dress up in these dark days: at one's nuptials, at one's funeral, and at opening night at the opera. By far the happiest of these three is the last."
"That depends on your point of view," said Pendergast dryly.
"You are happily married, then?"
"I was referring to the other occasion."
"Ah!" Fosco laughed silently. "You are right, Pendergast. I've never seen a more contented smile on some people than at their own wake."
"I was referring to the deceased's heirs."
"You wicked fellow. Shall we go inside? I hope you don't mind sitting in the pit—I avoid the boxes because the acoustics are muddy. We have tickets for row N, center right, which I have found from experimentation to be the acoustical sweet spot in this hall, particularly seats twenty-three through thirty-one. But look, there go the houselights: we had better sit down." And with his giant head held erect, chin raised, Fosco moved swiftly through the milling crowd, which parted instinctively. For his part, Fosco looked neither to the right nor to the left as they moved through the central doors, brushing past several ushers offering programs and sweeping down the central aisle to row N. Fosco waited at the end of the row, gesturing a dozen people out of their seats and into the far aisle so he could make his way undisturbed. The count had purchased three seats for himself, and he seated himself in the center one, stretching his arms on the upturned seats on either side.
"Forgive me if we don't sit jowl-to-jowl, my dear Pendergast. My corpulence demands its space and will not be reined in." He slipped a small pair of bejeweled, pearl-inlaid opera glasses out of his waistcoat and placed them on the empty seat next to him. A more powerful brass spyglass also made an appearance and was arranged on the other seat.
The great house was filling up, and there was an air of excitement. From the orchestra pit came the murmur of instruments tuning, playing snatches of the opera to come.
Fosco leaned toward Pendergast, placing a neat gloved hand on his arm. "No one who loves music can fail to be moved by Lucrezia Borgia. But wait—what is this?" He peered more closely at Pendergast. "You are not wearing earplugs, are you, sir?"
"Not plugs, no. These merely attenuate the sound—my hearing is exceptionally acute, and any volume above a normal conversation is quite painful to me. Fear not, the music will get through all too well, I assure you."
"All too well, you say!"
"Count Fosco, I thank you for this invitation. But as I warned you once, I have yet to meet an opera I liked. Pure music and vulgar spectacle are fundamentally incompatible. Beethoven's string quartets are by far my preference—and even those, to be honest, I enjoy for their intellectual content more than their musical."
Fosco winced. "What, may I ask, is wrong with spectacle?" He spread his hands. "Isn't life itself a spectacle?"
"All the color, noise, flash, the embonpoint diva prowling the stage, shrieking and howling and throwing herself from the ramparts of some castle—it distracts the mind from the music."
"
But that is exactly what opera is! A feast of sight and sound. There is humor! There is tragedy! There are soaring heights of passion and depths of cruelty! There is love and betrayal!"
"You are making my points even better than I could, Count."
"Your mistake, Pendergast, is to think of opera as solely music. It is more than music. It is life! You must abandon yourself to it, throw yourself at its mercy."
Pendergast smiled. "I am afraid, Count, I never abandon myself to anything."
Fosco patted his arm. "You may have a French name, but you have an English heart. The English can never step outside themselves. Wherever they go they feel self-conscious. That is why the English make excellent anthropologists but dreadful composers." Fosco snorted. "Purcell. Britten."
"You're forgetting Handel."
"A transplanted German." Fosco chuckled. "I am glad to have you here, Pendergast, and I shall show you the error of your ways."
"Speaking of that, how did you know where to deliver the invitation?"
The count turned a triumphant smile on Pendergast. "It was quite simple. I went to the Dakota and made inquiries there."
"They are under strict orders not to divulge my other addresses."
"But they were no match for Fosco! I've always been interested in this profession of yours. I read all of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in my youth. Dickens, Poe. And the sublime Wilkie Collins! Have you read The Woman in White?"
"Naturally."
"A tour de force! In my next life, perhaps, I'll choose to be a detective. Being a count from an ancient family is rather boring."
"The two are not mutually exclusive."
"Well put! We have all kinds of detectives these days, everyone from English lords to Navajo policemen. Why not a count from the lineage of Dante and Beatrice? I must confess, this case with Grove fascinates me, and not only because I was a guest at the—dare I say?—last supper. One week ago tonight, alas. I feel for the poor man, naturally, but it is a rather delicious mystery. I am at your assistance in the matter."
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