D'Agosta hugged himself, then took yet another turn around the room.
"Vincent, do sit down. Use your time constructively."
"I hate this place. I hate the smell of it. I hate the look of it."
"I quite sympathize. The intimations of mortality here are — shall we say — hard to ignore? Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears."
The pages rustled as Pendergast read on. A few dreadful minutes passed before the door to the morgue finally opened. One of the pathologists, Beckstein, stood there.Thank God, thought D'Agosta: they had pulled Beckstein for the autopsy. He was one of the best and — surprise — an almost normal human being.
Beckstein peeled off his gloves and mask, dropped them in a bin. "Lieutenant. Agent Pendergast." He nodded his greetings, not offering his hand. Shaking hands just wasn't done in the morgue. "I'm at your disposal."
"Dr. Beckstein," said D'Agosta, taking the lead, "thanks for taking the time to see us."
"My pleasure."
"Give us a rundown, light on the jargon, please."
"Certainly. Would you like to observe the cadaver? The prosector is still working on it. It sometimes helps to see—"
"No thank you," said D'Agosta decisively.
He felt Pendergast's gaze on him.
Screw it, he thought determinedly.
"As you wish. The cadaver showed fourteen full or partial knife wounds, pre — mortem, some to the hands and arms, several in the lower back, and a final one, also with a posterior entry, that passed through the heart. I would be glad to provide you with a diagram—"
"Not necessary. Any postmortem wounds?"
"None. Death was almost immediate after the final, fatal blow to the heart. The knife entered horizontally, between the second and third posterior rib, at a downward angle of eighty degrees from the vertical, penetrating the left atrium, the pulmonary artery, and splitting the conus arteriosus at the top of the right ventricle, causing massive exsanguination."
"I get the picture."
"Right." "Would you say that the killer did what he had to do to kill the victim, and no more?"
"That statement is consistent with the facts, yes."
"The weapon?"
"A blade ten inches long, two inches in width, very stiff, probably a high — quality kitchen knife or a scuba knife."
D'Agosta nodded. "Anything else?"
"Blood toxicology showed a blood alcohol level within legal limits. No drugs or other foreign substances. The contents of the stomach—"
"I don't need to know that."
Beckstein hesitated, and D'Agosta saw something in his eyes. Uncertainty, unease.
"Yeah?" he urged. "Something else?"
"Yes. I haven't written the report yet, but there was one thing, quite strange, that was missed by the forensic team."
"Go on."
The pathologist hesitated again. "I'd like to show it to you. We haven't moved it — yet."
D'Agosta swallowed. "What was it?"
"Please, just let me show it to you. I can't… well, I can't very well describe it."
"Of course," said Pendergast, stepping forward. "Vincent, if you'd prefer to wait here—"
D'Agosta felt his jaw set. "I'm coming."
They followed the technician through the set of double stainless — steel doors into the green light of a large tiled room. They donned masks, gloves, and scrubs from nearby bins, then continued on, passing into one of the autopsy suites.
Immediately D'Agosta saw the prosector hunched over the cadaver, the whine of the Stryker saw in his hands like an angry mosquito. A diener lounged nearby, eating a bagel with lox. A second dissecting table was covered with various tagged organs. D'Agosta swallowed again, harder.
"Hey," the diener said to Beckstein. "You're just in time. We were about to run the gut."
A hard stare from Beckstein silenced the man. "Sorry. Didn't know you had guests." He smirked, rubbery lips crunching down on his breakfast. The room smelled of formalin, fish, and feces.
Beckstein turned to the prosector. "John, I'd like to show Lieutenant D'Agosta and Special Agent Pendergast the, ah, item we found."
"No problem." The saw powered down and the prosector stepped away. With huge reluctance, D'Agosta stepped slowly forward, then looked down at the cadaver.
It was worse than he had ever imagined it could be. Worse even than his worst nightmares. Bill Smithback: naked, dead, opened. His scalp was peeled back, the brown hair all bunched up at the base, bloody skull exposed, fresh saw marks running in a semicircle around the cranium. Body cavity yawning, ribs spread, organs removed.
He bowed his head and closed his eyes.
"John, would you mind fixing a spreader in the mouth?"
"Not at all."
D'Agosta kept his eyes closed.
"There."
He opened his eyes. The mouth had been forced open with a piece of stainless steel. Beckstein adjusted the overhead light to illuminate the interior. Hooked into Smithback's tongue was a fish — hook, tied with feathers, like a dry fly. Against his will, D'Agosta bent forward for a closer examination. The hook had a knotted head of light — colored twine, on which had been painted a tiny, grinning skull. A miniature pouch, like a tiny pill, was attached to the hook's neck.
D'Agosta glanced over at Pendergast. The agent was staring down at the open mouth, his silvery eyes full of rare intensity. And it seemed to D'Agosta there was more than intensity in that look. There was regret, disbelief, sorrow — and uncertainty. Pendergast's shoulders slumped visibly. It was as if the agent had been hoping against hope he'd been wrong about something… only to learn with huge dismay that, in fact, he had been all too right.
The silence lasted minutes. Finally, D'Agosta turned to Beckstein. He suddenly felt very old and tired. "I want this photographed and tested. Remove it with the tongue — leave it embedded. I want forensics to analyze that thing, open up the tiny pouch, and report its contents to me."
The diener peered over D'Agosta's shoulder, chewing his bagel. "Looks like we got a real psychopath running around. Think what thePost would do with this one!" A loud crunch, followed by the sounds of mastication.
D'Agosta turned to him. "If the Post finds out," he growled, "I'll personally see to it you spend the rest of your life toasting bagels instead of eating them."
"Hey, sorry, man. Touchy, touchy." The diener backed away.
Pendergast's eyes flickered up at D'Agosta. He straightened up and stepped away from the corpse. "Vincent, it occurs to me that I haven't paid a visit to my dear aunt Cornelia in ages. Would you care to accompany me?"
Chapter 19
Nora turned the keyin the deadbolt and pushed her apartment door open. It was two in the afternoon, and the low — angle sunlight flooded through the blinds and illuminated — pitilessly — every last fragment of her life with Bill. Books, paintings, objets d'art, even carelessly thrown magazines: each brought back a flood of unwanted, painful memories. Double — locking the front door, she walked, eyes down, through the living room and into the bedroom.
Her work on the PCR machine was complete. The DNA samples supplied by Pendergast had each been multiplied by millions, and she had stashed the test tubes in the rear of the lab refrigerator where nobody would notice them. She had then put in a respectable day in the anthropology lab. No one minded that she'd left early. Tonight, at one, she would return for the second and final stage: the gel electrophoresis test. In the meantime, she desperately needed sleep.
Dropping her bag unceremoniously on the floor, she threw herself on the bed and covered her head with pillows. And yet, though she lay motionless, sleep refused to come. An hour went by, then two, and finally she gave up. She might as well have stayed at the museum. Perhaps she should return there now.
Nora glanced over at her answering machine: twenty — two messages. Additional expressions of sympathy, no doubt. She simply could not bear to hear any more. With a sigh, she pressed the replay button, deleting each message a
s soon as she heard a note of concern sound in the caller's voice.
The seventh message was different. It was from the West Sider reporter.
"Dr. Kelly? It's Caitlyn Kidd. Listen, I was just wondering if you'd found out anything more about those animal stories Bill was working on. I read the ones he published. They're very hard hitting. I was curious if he'd found out anything new that he hadn't had time to publish — or maybe that someone didn'twant him to publish. Call me when you get the chance."
As the next message started, Nora pressed the stop button. She stared thoughtfully at the machine a moment. Then she rose from the bed, walked back into the living room, sat down at the desk, and booted up her laptop. She didn't know Caitlyn Kidd, didn't especially trust Caitlyn Kidd. But she'd work with the devil himself if he could help her track down the people behind Bill's death.
She stared at the screen, took a deep breath. Then — quickly, before she could reconsider — she logged into her husband's private account at theNew York Times. The password was accepted: the account had not yet been deactivated. A minute later, she was staring at an index of articles he'd written over the last year. Sorting them chronologically, she moused back several months, then began scrolling forward through them, examining the titles. It was remarkable how many sounded unfamiliar, and now she bitterly regretted not being more involved in his work.
The first topical story on animal sacrifice had been published about three months back. It was primarily a background piece on how, far from being a thing of the distant past, animal sacrifice was still being actively — if secretly — practiced in the city. She continued moving forward. There were several other articles: an interview with somebody named Alexander Esteban, spokesman for Humans for Other Animals; an investigative piece on cockfighting in Brooklyn. Then Nora came upon the most recent article, published two weeks before, titled "For Manhattanites, Animal Sacrifice Hits Close to Home."
She brought up the text and scanned it quickly, her eye hovering over one paragraph in particular:
The most persistent stories of animal sacrifice come from Inwood, the northernmost neighborhood of Manhattan. A number of complaints have reached police and animal welfare agencies from the Indian Road and West 214th Street neighborhoods, in which residents claim to have heard the sounds of animals in distress. These animal cries, which residents describe as coming from goats, chickens, and sheep, allegedly issue from a deconsecrated church building at the center of a reclusive community in Inwood Hill Park known familiarly as "the Ville." Efforts to speak to residents of the Ville and its community leader, Eugene Bossong, were unsuccessful.
With this discovery, it seemed that Bill had secured the paper's backing for still further investigation, because the article concluded with an italicized note:
This is one of a continuing series of articles on animal sacrifice in New York City.
Nora sat back. Now that she thought about it, she did remember Bill coming home one evening a week or so ago, crowing about some minor coup he'd achieved in his ongoing work on the animal sacrifices story.
Perhaps the coup hadn't been so minor, after all.
Nora frowned at the screen. It had been around then that the strange little artifacts had begun showing up in their mailbox, and the creepy designs inscribed in dust started appearing outside their front door.
Closing the index of articles, she opened up Bill's information management software, scanning for the notes he always kept for upcoming stories. The most recent entries were what she was looking for. Concentrate on the Ville — follow up in next article. ARE THESE REALLY ANIMAL SACRIFICES? Need to PROVE IT — no allegations. Review police files. SEE with own eyes.
Write up Pizzetti interview. Other neighbors who've complained? Schedule second interview with Esteban, animal rights guy? Local PETA chapter, etc.
Where obtaining animals?
What is history of Ville? Who are they? Check Times morgue for Ville backstory/history. Good color: rumors of zombies (zombiis?)/cults/etc. (Check w/copydesk correct spelling zombie/zombiis.)
Possible article title: "Ville d'Evil?" Nah, Times would nix.
First anniversary — don't forget reservation at Café des Artistes & tickets to The Man Who Came to Dinner for the weekend!!!!
This final entry was so unexpected, so out of context with the others, that in a defenseless moment Nora felt hot tears spring to her eyes. She immediately closed the program and stood up from the desk.
She paced the living room once, then glanced at her watch: four fifteen. She could catch the train at 96th and Central Park West and be in Inwood in forty minutes. Firing up a new program on the computer, she typed briefly, examined the screen, then sent a document to the printer. Striding into the bedroom, she plucked her bag from the floor; took a quick look around; then headed for the front door.
A quarter of an hour before, she had felt rudderless, adrift. Now — suddenly — she found herself filled with overwhelming purpose.
Chapter 20
D'Agosta had brought an entire squad along — twelve armed and uniformed officers — and the elevator was filled to capacity. He pressed the button for thirty — seven, then turned his gaze to the illuminated display above the doors. He felt calm and cool. No, that was wrong: he felt cold. Ice cold.
He believed he was basically a fair human being. If somebody treated him with even a modicum of respect, he'd reciprocate. But when somebody acted like a dick, that was a different story. Lucas Kline had been a dick — a Grade A, first — class, USDA Choice dick. And now he was going to learn what a bad idea it was to really piss off a cop.
He turned to the squad. "Remember the briefing," he said. "I want this thorough. Thorough and dirty. Work in teams of two — I don't want any problems with the chain of evidence. And if you encounter any shit, any obstructionism, anything at all, shut it down fast and hard."
A murmur rippled through the group, followed by a chorus of snaps and clicks as Maglites were checked and batteries slotted into cordless screwdrivers.
The elevator doors opened on the expansive lobby of Digital Veracity. It was late in the afternoon — four thirty — but D'Agosta noticed there were still a couple of clients seated on the leather sofas, waiting for appointments.
Good.
He stepped out of the elevator and into the center of the lobby, the team spreading out behind him. "I'm Lieutenant D'Agosta of the NYPD," he said in a loud, clear voice. "I have a search warrant to execute on these premises." He glanced toward the waiting clients. "I would suggest you come back some other time."
They stood quickly, white — faced, scooped up their jackets and briefcases, and scampered gratefully for the elevator bank. D'Agosta turned to the receptionist. "Why don't you go downstairs and get yourself a cup of coffee?"
In fifteen seconds, the lobby was empty except for D'Agosta and his squad. "We'll use this as a staging area," he said. "Leave the evidence boxes here and let's get started." He pointed to the sergeants. "I want you three with me."
It was the work of sixty seconds to reach Kline's outer office. D'Agosta glanced at the frightened — looking secretary. "Nothing more's going to get done here today," he said quietly, smiling at her. "Why don't you knock off early?"
He waited until she had gone. Then he opened the door to the inner office. Kline was once again on the phone, his feet on the broad desk. When he saw D'Agosta and the uniformed officers, he nodded, as if unsurprised. "I'll have to call you back," he said into the phone.
"Take all the computers," D'Agosta told the sergeants. Then he turned to the software developer. "I've got a search warrant here." He pushed it toward Kline's face, then let it drop to the floor. "Oops. There it is, you can read it when you've got time."
"I thought you might be back, D'Agosta," Kline said. "I've had a talk with my lawyers. That search warrant has to specify what it is you're looking for."
"Oh, it does. We're looking for evidence that Bill Smithback's murder was either planned, committed, or perha
ps paid for by you."
"And why, precisely, would I plan, commit, or pay for such an act?"
"Because of a psychotic rage against high — profile journalists — such as the one that got you fired from your first job on a newspaper."
Kline's eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
"The information could be concealed in any of these offices," D'Agosta continued. "We'll have to search the entire suite."
"It could be anywhere," Kline replied. "It could be at my home."
"That's where we'll be going next." D'Agosta sat down. "But you're right — it could be anywhere. That's why I'll have to confiscate all CDs, DVDs, hard disks, PDAs, anything on the premises that can store information. You have a BlackBerry?"
"Yes."
"Now it's evidence. Hand it over, please."
Kline reached his hand into his pocket, pulled out the device, laid it on his desk.
D'Agosta glanced around. One of the sergeants was taking paintings off the cherrywood walls, carefully scrutinizing their backs, then placing them on the floor. Another was plucking books off the shelves, holding them by the spines and shaking them, then dropping them onto growing piles. The third was pulling the expensive rugs from the floor, searching underneath, then leaving them bunched up in a corner. Watching, D'Agosta reflected how convenient it was that no law required you to clean up after a search.
From other offices down the hallway, he could hear drawers slamming, dragging noises, crying, voices raised in protest. The sergeant had finished with the rugs and was starting in on the file cabinets, opening them, removing manila folders, leafing through them, then dumping the papers onto the floor. The sergeant who'd examined the oil paintings was now dismantling the PCs on the desk. "I need those for my business," Kline said.
"They're mine now. Hope you backed everything up." This reminded D'Agosta of something — something Pendergast had recommended. "Would you mind loosening your tie?" he asked.
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