Hatto's eyes involuntarily flickered toward Morgue 2, where they had been working on the famous reporter's cadaver. It was a big deal, with a call from the police commissioner and front — page stories in the newspaper.
The woman broke for the Morgue 2 door, which had been left open by the night cleaning crew. Too late, Hatto realized she should have closed and locked it.
"Wait, you're not allowed in there—"
The woman disappeared through the door. Hatto stood, rooted by panic. There was nothing in the employment manual about what to do in this kind of situation.
With a ding! the elevator doors creaked open. Two portly security guards came huffing out into the annex. "Hey," gasp, "where'd she go—" gasp.
Hatto turned, pointed mutely to Morgue 2.
The two heaving guards stood for a moment, trying to catch their breath. A crash came from the morgue, the slamming of steel, the screech of a metal drawer being flung open. There was a tearing sound and a cry.
"Oh, Jesus," one of the guards said. They lumbered back into motion, across the annex toward the open door of Morgue 2. Hatto followed on unwilling legs, morbid curiosity aroused.
A scene greeted her eyes that she would never forget as long as she lived. The woman stood in the center of the room, her face like a witch's, hair wild, teeth bared, eyes flashing. Behind her, one of the morgue drawers had been pulled out. She was shaking a body bag, bloodied and empty, with one hand; the other hand held up what looked like a small bundle of feathers.
"Where's his body?" she screamed. "Where's my husband's body? And who left this here?"
Chapter 35
D'Agosta parked the squad car under the porte — cochere of 891 Riverside Drive, got out, and pounded on the heavy wooden door. Thirty seconds later it was opened by Proctor, who gazed at him silently for a moment and then stood aside.
"You'll find him in the library," he murmured.
D'Agosta staggered down the length of the refectory, across the reception hall, and into the library, all the while pressing a cloth tight against the cut on his head. He found Pendergast — and the strange old archivist named Wren — sitting in leather wing chairs on either side of a blazing fire, a table between them laden with papers and a bottle of port.
"Vincent!" Pendergast rose with haste and came over. "What happened? Proctor, the man needs a chair."
"I can get my own chair, thanks." D'Agosta sat down, dabbing gingerly at his head. The bleeding had finally stopped. "Had a little accident up at the Ville," he said in a low voice. He didn't know what made him angrier: the thought of those animals being butchered, or the fact that he'd allowed some wino to get the drop on him. At least, he sure as hell hoped it was a wino. He wasn't prepared to think about the alternative.
Pendergast bent over to examine the cut but D'Agosta waved him away. "It's only a scratch. Heads always bleed like a stuck pig."
"May I offer you some refreshment? Port, perhaps?"
"Beer. Bud Light, if you've got it."
Proctor left the room.
Wren was sitting in his wing chair as if nothing untoward were happening. He was sharpening a pencil by hand with a tiny pocketknife: examining the tip, blowing on it, pursing his lips, sharpening a bit more.
The frosty can soon arrived on a silver salver, along with a chilled glass. Ignoring the glass, D'Agosta grabbed the beer and took a long pull. "Needed that, big — time," he said. He took another pull.
Pendergast had returned to his own wing chair. "My dear Vincent, we are all ears."
D'Agosta told the story of his interview with the woman on Indian Road and the events that followed. He didn't mention the fact that he'd almost walked into the Ville single — handedly in his rage — something he'd thought better of upon reviving. Pendergast listened intently. Vicent also decided to bypass the fact that he'd lost his cell phone and pager in the attack. When he had finished, a silence gathered in the library. The fire crackled and burned.
At last, Pendergast stirred. "And this — this man? He moved erratically, you say?" "Yes."
"And he was covered with blood and gore?"
"That's what it looked like in the moonlight, anyway."
Pendergast paused. "Was there a resemblance to the figure we saw in the security video?"
"Yes, there was."
Another pause, longer this time. "Was it Colin Fearing?"
"No. Yes." D'Agosta shook his throbbing head. "I don't know. I didn't see the face all that well."
Pendergast was silent for a long time, his smooth forehead creasing slightly. "And this happened when, precisely?"
"Thirty minutes ago. I was only out for a moment. Since I was uptown already, I came straight here."
"Curious." But the expression on Pendergast's face wasn't curious. It looked more like alarm.
After a moment, Pendergast glanced toward the wizened old man. "Wren was just about to share the fruits of his recent research on the very place you were attacked. Wren, would you care to continue?"
"Delighted," said Wren. Two heavily veined hands reached into the pile of papers and deftly extracted a brown folder. "Shall I read from the articles—"
"You may recapitulate succinctly, if you please."
"Of course." Wren cleared his throat, carefully arranged the papers in his lap, sorted through them. "Hmm. Let us see…" Shuffling and examination of papers; many eyebrow movements, grunts, and tappings. "On the evening of June eleven, 1901…"
"Succinctly is the operative word," murmured Pendergast, his tone not unfriendly.
"Yes, yes! Succinctly." A great clearing of phlegm. "It seems that the Ville has been, shall we say, controversial for some time. I have collected a series of articles from theNew York Sun, dating from around the turn of the century — the turn of the twentieth century, that is — describing complaints of neighbors not dissimilar to the ones being made today. Strange noises and smells, headless animal carcasses found in the woods, carryings — on. There were many unconfirmed reports of a 'wandering shadow' divagating about the woods of Inwood Hill."
The liver — spotted hand removed a yellowed clipping with exquisite care, as if it were the leaf of an illuminated manuscript. He read.
According to sources this paper has spoken with, this apparition — described by eyewitnesses as a shambling, seemingly mindless being — has been preying on Gotham citizenry unlucky or unwise enough to be caught in the environs of Inwood Hill after dark. Its attacks have often been lethal. The corpses that have been left behind have been found draped in dreadful attitudes of repose, mutilated in the most grievous manner imaginable. Others have merely disappeared — never to be seen again.
"How exactly were they mutilated?" D'Agosta asked.
"Disemboweled, with certain digits cut off — most frequently, middle fingers and toes — or so the paper says. TheSun, Lieutenant, was not known for its probity. It was the originator of 'yellow journalism.' You see, it was printed on yellowish paper, as it was the cheapest available at the time. Bleaching and sizing added a good twenty percent to the cost of newsprint in those days—"
"Very interesting," Pendergast interjected smoothly. "Pray continue, Mr. Wren."
More shufflings and tappings. "If you believe these stories, it appears that four people may have been killed by this so — called mindless being."
"Four people? That's the extent of the 'Gotham citizenry'?"
"As I told you, Lieutenant, the Sun was a sensationalist paper. Exaggeration was its stock in trade. The reports must be read with a grain of salt."
"Who were the citizens killed?"
"The first, who had been decapitated, was unidentified. The second was a landscape architect named Phipps Gormly. The third was a member of the parks commission, also a highly respectable citizen, apparently out for an evening's constitutional. One Cornelius Sprague. The murder of two respectable citizens back — to — back raised an uproar. The fourth killing, almost immediately on the heels of the third, was a groundskeeper at a local estate: t
he Straus summer cottage on Inwood Hill. The strange part of this last killing was that the groundskeeper had disappeared a few months before his body was found. But he had been freshly killed."
D'Agosta shifted in his chair. "Disemboweled? And fingers and toes cut off, you say?"
"The others, yes. But the groundskeeper was not disemboweled. He was found covered in blood, a knife in his chest. According to the papers, the wound might have been self — inflicted."
"What was the upshot?" D'Agosta asked.
"It appears the police raided the Ville and arrested several people, who later had to be released for lack of evidence. Searches turned up nothing, and the cases were never solved. Nothing definitely connected the killings with the Ville, beyond the proximity of the village to the crime scenes. Stories of shambling, mindless creatures died away, and reports of animal sacrifices grew relatively spotty — the Ville seems to have lain low. Until now, of course. But here's the most interesting thing of all, something I managed to turn up by cross — checking a variety of other old records. It seems that in 1901, the Straus family wanted to clear — cut a large northern section of Inwood Hill, affording them a better view of the Hudson River. They hired a landscape architect to design the new plantings in the finest of taste. Guess what his name was?"
There was a brief silence. "Not Phipps Gormly?" Pendergast said.
"The same. And would you care to guess the park commissioner involved in clearing the necessary variances?"
"Cornelius Sprague." Pendergast sat in his chair, leaning forward, hands clasped. "If those plans to clear the park had gone through, would the Ville have been affected?"
Wren nodded. "It stood directly in the path. It would have undoubtedly been torn down."
D'Agosta looked from Pendergast to Wren and back again. "Are you saying the Ville murdered those people to discourage the family from going ahead with their landscaping plans?"
"Murdered — or arranged for them to be murdered. The police were never able to establish a connection. However, the message clearly got through. Because the plan to re — landscape the park was obviously abandoned."
"Anything else?"
Wren shuffled through his papers. "The articles talk about a 'devilish cult' at the Ville. The members are celibate, and they keep their numbers steady by recruitment or press — ganging street people and the less fortunate."
"Curioser and curioser," murmured Pendergast. He turned to D'Agosta. " 'Mindless apparition'… Not so very different from what attacked you, eh, Vincent?"
D'Agosta scowled.
The elegant white hands unclasped and reclasped as Pendergast sank into deep thought. Somewhere, in the bowels of the great mansion, came the old — fashioned ringing of a phone.
Pendergast roused himself. "It would be useful to get one's hands on the remains of one of those victims."
D'Agosta grunted. "Gormly and Sprague are probably buried in family plots. You'll never get a warrant."
"Ah. But the fourth victim, the Straus family groundskeeper — the supposed suicide — it's just possible he'll yield up his secrets more easily. And if so, we shall be in luck. Because of all the bodies,his is the one of greatest interest to us."
"Why is that?"
Pendergast smiled faintly. "Why, my dear Vincent, why do you think?"
D'Agosta frowned in exasperation. "Damn it, Pendergast, my head hurts. I'm not in the mood to play Sherlock Holmes!"
A pained look briefly appeared on the agent's face. "Very well," he said after a moment. "Here are the salient points. Unlike the others, the body was not disemboweled. It was covered in blood, the clothes in rags. It was a possible suicide. And it wasthe last to be found. After its discovery, the killings ceased. And I might point out that he had disappeared several months before the murders began — where was he? Living at the Ville, perhaps." He sat back in his chair.
D'Agosta felt gingerly at the bump on his skull. "What are you saying?"
"The groundskeeper wasn't a victim — he was the perpetrator." Despite himself, D'Agosta felt a tingle of excitement. "Go on."
"At great estates such as the one in question, it was common practice for the servants and workers to have their own family plot, where the deceased were interred. If such a plot exists at the old Straus summer house, we might find the groundskeeper's remains there."
"But you're only going on an account in a newspaper. There's no connection. Nobody's going to issue an exhumation order on such flimsy evidence."
"We can always freelance."
"Please don't tell me you intend to dig him up at night."
A faint affirmative incline of the head.
"Don't you ever do anything by the book?"
"Only infrequently, I'm afraid. A very bad habit, but one that I find hard to break."
Proctor appeared in the doorway. "Sir?" he said, his deep voice studiously neutral. "I heard from one of our contacts downtown. There have been developments."
"Share them with us, if you please."
"There was a killing at the Gotham Press Club; a reporter named Caitlyn Kidd. The perpetrator vanished, but many witnesses are swearing the killer was William Smithback."
"Smithback!" said Pendergast, rising suddenly.
Proctor nodded.
"When"
"Ninety minutes ago. In addition, Smithback's body is missing from the morgue. His wife went looking for it there, caused a scene when it was gone. Apparently, some, ah, voodoo ephemera was left in its place." Proctor paused, his large hands folded in front of his suit coat.
D'Agosta was seized with horror and dread. All this had come down — and he was without beeper or cell phone.
"I see," murmured Pendergast, his face suddenly as sallow as a corpse's. "What a dreadful turn of events." He added in almost a whisper, to nobody in particular: "Perhaps the time has come to call in the help of Monsieur Bertin."
Chapter 36
D'Agosta could see a gray dawn creeping through the curtained windows of the Gotham Press Club. He was exhausted, and his head pounded with every beat of his heart. The scene — of — crime unit had finished up their work and gone; the hair and fiber guys had come and gone; the photographer had come and gone; the M.E. had collected the corpse; all the witnesses had been questioned or scheduled for questioning; and now D'Agosta found himself alone at the sealed crime scene.
He could hear the traffic on 53rd Street, the early delivery vans, the crack — of — dawn garbage pickups, the day — shift taxi drivers beginning their rounds with the usual wake — up ritual of horn blaring and cursing.
D'Agosta remained standing quietly in the corner of the room. It was very elegant and old New York; the walls covered with dark oak paneling, a fireplace with carved mantelpieces, a marble floor tiled in black and white, a crystal chandelier above and tall mullioned windows with gold — embroidered drapes. The room smelled of old smoke, stale hors d'oeuvres, and spilled wine. Quite a lot of food and broken glass was strewn about the floor from the panic at the time of the murder. But there was nothing more for D'Agosta to see, no lack of witnesses or evidence. The killer had committed murder in front of more than two hundred people — not one lily — livered journalist had tried to stop him — and then escaped out the back kitchen, through several sets of doors left unlocked by the catering group whose van was parked in a lane behind the building.
Had the killer known that? Yes. All the witnesses reported that the killer had moved surely — not swiftly, but deliberately — straight for one of the room's rear service doors, down a hall, through the kitchen, and out. He knew the layout of the place, knew the doors were unlocked, knew the gates blocking the back lane would be open, knew that it led to 54th Street and the anonymity of the crowd. Or a waiting car. Because this had all the appearance of being a well — planned crime.
D'Agosta rubbed his nose, trying to breathe slowly, to reduce the pounding in his temples. He could hardly think. Those bastards at the Ville were going to realize they had made a serious mistake
in assaulting a police officer. They were involved in this, one way or another, he felt sure. Smithback had written about them and paid dearly for it; now the same fate had befallen Caitlyn Kidd.
Why was he still here? There was nothing new he could extract from the crime scene, nothing that hadn't already been examined, recorded, photographed, picked over, tested, sniffed, eyeballed, and noted for the record. He was utterly exhausted. And yet he couldn't bring himself to leave.
Smithback.
That, he knew, was the reason he couldn't leave.
The witnesses all swore it was Smithback. Even Nora, whom he had interviewed — sedated but lucid enough — at her apartment. Nora had seen the killer from across the room, so she was less reliable — but there were others who had seen the killer up close and swore it was him. The victim herself had shouted out his name as he approached her. And yet a few days earlier, D'Agosta had seen with his very own eyes Smithback's dead body on a gurney, his chest opened, his organs removed and tagged, the top of his skull sawed open.
Smithback's body gone… How could some jackass just walk into the morgue and steal a body? Maybe it wasn't so surprising — Nora had charged right in and nobody stopped her. There was only one night receiver, and people in that position seemed to have a history of sleeping on the job. But Nora had been chased, and ultimately caught, by security. And charging into a morgue was a lot different than leaving with a body.
Unless the body left on its own…
What the hell was he thinking? A dozen theories were swimming in his head. He'd been certain the Ville was involved somehow. But of course he couldn't dismiss that software developer, Kline, who had threatened Smithback so openly. As he'd told Rocker, certain pieces of his African sculpture had been identified by museum specialists as voodoo artifacts with particularly dark significance. Although that brought up the question of why Kline would want to kill Caitlyn Kidd. Had Kidd written about him, too? Or did something about her remind him of the journalist who had once destroyed his budding career? That was worth looking into.
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