And then Stacy whistled softly. “Listen to this.”
THEY WANTED THE SAME GIRL
And They Fought a Duel by Lantern Light on Her Account
BOTH MEN LITERALLY CUT TO RIBBONS
Two Ohio swains meet at midnight and, by the aid of a lantern, proceed to hack each other with swords and pocket knives until both are unconscious. One of the rivals, rousing himself, runs his adversary through with his sword, causing a fatal injury. The lady, Miss Williams, is prostrate with grief over the terrible affray.
“That’s pretty bizarre,” said Corrie, hoping that Stacy wasn’t going to read aloud every silly story she came across. It was only with a degree of soul searching that she’d accepted Stacy’s offer of assistance.
“I like that. Prostrate with grief. I’ll bet she just soaked her bloomers over the affray.”
The crudity of the comment shocked Corrie. But maybe that was the way women talked in the military.
As Corrie paged through the headlines, she realized Ted was right: Roaring Fork, at least in the summer of 1876, was a bloody town. There was practically a murder a week, along with daily stabbings and shootings. There were stagecoach robberies on Independence Pass, mining claim disputes, the frequent murder of prostitutes, stealing of horses, and vigilante hangings. The town was overrun with card sharps, shysters, thieves, and murderers. There was also a huge economic divide. Some few struck it rich and built palatial mansions on Main Street, while most lived in teeming boardinghouses, four or five to a room, and tent encampments overrun with filth, rats, and mosquitoes. A casual and pervasive racism infected everything. One end of town, called “China Camp,” was populated with so-called coolies who were horribly discriminated against. There was also a “Negro Town.” And the newspaper noted a squalid camp in a nearby canyon that was occupied by “assorted drunken, miserable specimens of the Red Race, the sad remnants of the Utes of yore.”
In 1876, law had barely come to Roaring Fork. Most “justice” was administered by shadowy vigilantes. If a drunken shooting or knifing occurred in a saloon the night before, the perpetrator would often be found the next morning hanging from a large cottonwood tree at the far end of town. The corpses were left up for days to greet newcomers. In a busy week there might be two, three, or even four bodies hanging on the tree, with “the maggots dropping out of them,” as one reporter wrote with relish. The papers were full of colorful and outrageous stories: of a feud between two families that ended with the complete extermination of all but one man; of an obese horse thief whose weight was such that his hanging decapitated him; of a man who went berserk from what the newspaper called a “Brain Storm,” thought he was Jesus, barricaded himself in a whorehouse, and proceeded to kill most of the ladies in order to rid the town of sin.
Work in the mines was dreadful, the miners descending before daybreak and coming up after sunset, six days a week, only seeing the light of day on Sundays. Accidents, cave-ins, and explosions were common. But it was even worse in the stamp mills and the smelter. There, in a large industrial operation, the silver ore was pulverized by gigantic metal “stamps” weighing many tons. These literally smashed the ore, pounding day and night, producing a ceaseless din that shook the entire town. The resulting grit was dumped into immense iron tanks with mechanical agitators and grinding plates to further reduce it to a mush-like paste; then mercury, salt, and copper sulfate were added. The resulting witches’ brew was cooked and stirred for days, heated by enormous coal-fired boilers that belched smoke. Because the town was in a valley surrounded by mountains, the coal smoke created a choking, London-style fog that blocked the sun for days on end. Those who worked in the mill and smelter had it worse than the miners, as they were often scalded to death by burst steam pipes and boilers, suffocated by noxious fumes, or horribly maimed by heavy equipment. There were no safety laws, no regulation of hours or pay, and no unions. If a man was crippled by machinery, he was immediately dismissed without even an extra day’s wage, cast off to fend for himself. The worst and most dangerous jobs were given to the Chinese “coolies,” whose frequent deaths were reported in the back of the paper in the same offhand tone one might use to describe the death of a dog.
Corrie found herself becoming increasingly indignant as she read about the injustice, the exploitation, and the casual cruelty in pursuit of profit perpetrated by the mining companies. What surprised her most, however, was to learn that it was the Staffords — one of the most respected philanthropist families in New York City, famous for the Stafford Museum of Art and the wealthy Stafford Fund — who had initially established their fortune during the Colorado silver boom as the financiers behind the mill and smelter in Roaring Fork. The Stafford family, she knew, had done a lot of good with their money over the years — which made the unsavory origin of their fortune all the more surprising.
“What a place,” said Stacy, interrupting Corrie’s train of thought. “I had no idea Roaring Fork was such a hellhole. And now look at it: the richest town in America!”
Corrie shook her head. “Ironic, isn’t it?”
“So much violence and misery.”
“True,” said Corrie, adding in a low voice: “though I’m not finding anything that might point to a gang of cannibalistic serial killers.”
“Me neither.”
“But the clues are there, somewhere. They have to be. We just have to find them.”
Stacy shrugged. “You think it might be those Ute Indians up in the canyon? They had a good motive: their land was stolen by the miners.”
Corrie considered this. Around that time, she’d read, the White River and Uncompahgre Utes had been fighting back against the whites who were pushing them westward through the Rocky Mountains. The conflict culminated in the White River War of 1879, when the Utes were finally expelled from Colorado. It was possible that some Indians in the conflict had worked their way southward and taken revenge on the miners of Roaring Fork.
“I thought of that,” she said at length. “But the miners weren’t scalped — scalping leaves distinctive markings. And I learned that the Utes had a huge taboo against cannibalism.”
“So did whites. And maybe they didn’t scalp them so as to conceal their identity.”
“Possible. But the killings were high-quality. What I mean is,” Corrie hastily added, “they were not sloppy and disorganized. It can’t be easy to ambush a wily, hardened Colorado miner guarding his claim. I don’t think a sad camp of Utes could have perpetrated these killings.”
“What about the Chinese? I can’t believe how terribly they were treated — it was as if they were considered subhuman.”
“I thought about that, too. But if the motive was revenge, why eat them?”
“Maybe they just faked the eating thing, to make it look like a bear.”
Corrie shook her head. “My analysis shows they really did consume the flesh — raw. And another question: why did they suddenly stop? What goal had they accomplished, if any?”
“That’s a really good question. But it’s one o’clock, and I don’t know about you, but I’m so hungry I could eat a couple of miners myself.”
“Let’s get lunch.”
As they got up to leave, Ted came over. “Say, Corrie,” he began. “I meant to ask you. How about dinner tonight? Won’t be any problems getting a reservation.” He ran his fingers through his curly brown hair and looked at her, smiling.
“I’d love to,” she said, gratified that Ted, despite his attention to Stacy, still was interested. “But I’m supposed to have dinner with Pendergast.”
“Oh. Well. Some other time, then.” He smiled, but Corrie noticed he wasn’t quite able to fully conceal a look of hurt. It reminded her of a puppy dog, and she felt a stab of guilt. Nevertheless, he turned gamely toward Stacy and gave her a wink. “Good to meet you.”
As they bundled up in their coats and walked out into the winter air, Corrie wondered where another date with Ted might lead. The fact was, it seemed like a long time since she’d
had a boyfriend, and her bed in the mansion up Ravens Ravine was so very, very cold.
32
It was like a persistent nightmare, which terrifies you one night, then returns the next in an even more malevolent form. At least, so it seemed to Chief Morris as he walked through what was left of the Dutoit house. The smoldering ruins stood on the shoulder of a hill, with sweeping views of the town below and the surrounding ring of snowy mountains. He could hardly bear it: walking along the same corridors of plastic tape; smelling the same stench of burnt wood, plastic, and rubber; seeing the charred walls and melted puddles of glass, the scorched beds and heat-shattered toilets and sinks. And then there were the little things that had weirdly survived: a drinking glass, a bottle of perfume, a sodden teddy bear, and a poster of the movie Marching Band, Dutoit’s most famous film, still pinned to a gutted wall.
It had taken most of the night to extinguish the fire and beat it down to this damp, steaming pile. The forensic specialists and the M.E. had gone in at dawn, and had identified the victims as best they could. They hadn’t been burned quite as badly as the Baker family — which only added to the horror. At least, the chief thought, he didn’t have to deal with Chivers this time, who had already been through the crime scene and was now off preparing his report — a report that Chief Morris was doubtful of. Chivers was clearly in over his head.
He was, however, grateful for Pendergast’s presence. The man was strangely reassuring to the chief, despite his eccentricities — and despite the fact that everyone else was put out by his presence. Pendergast wandered ahead of Morris, dressed in his inappropriate formal black coat and white silk scarf, with that same strange hat on his head, silent as the grave. The sun was obscured by heavy winter clouds, and the temperature outside the ruin was hovering in the low teens. Inside, though, the residual heat and plumes of steam created a humid, stinking microclimate.
They finally reached the first victim, which the M.E. had tentatively identified as Dutoit herself. The remains looked more or less like an oversize, blackened fetus nestled in a pile of springs, metal plates, screws, carpet tacks, and burnt layers of cotton batting, with bits of melted plastic and wire here and there. The skull was whole, the jaws gaping in a frozen scream, the arms burned to the bone, the finger bones clenched, the body curled in upon itself by the heat.
Pendergast halted and spent a long time just looking at the victim. He did not pull out test tubes and tweezers and take samples. All he did was look. Then, slowly, he circled the hideous thing. A hand lens came out, and he used it to peer at traces of melted plastic and other, obscure points of interest. While he was doing this, the wind shifted and the chief got a noseful of roasted meat, causing an instant gagging sensation. God, he wished Pendergast would hurry it up.
Finally the FBI agent rose and they continued their perambulation of the gigantic ruin, heading inexorably toward the second victim — the young girl. This was even worse. The chief had deliberately skipped breakfast in preparation, and there was nothing in his stomach to lose, but nevertheless he could feel the dry heaves coming on.
The victim, Dutoit’s daughter, Sallie, had been ten years old. She went to school with the chief’s own daughter. The two children had not been friends — Sallie had been a withdrawn child, and no wonder, with a mother like that. Now, as they approached the corpse, the chief ventured a glance. The girl’s body was in a sitting position, burned only on one side. She had been handcuffed to the pipes under a sink.
He felt the first dry heave, which came like a hiccup, then another, and quickly looked away.
Again, Pendergast spent what seemed a lifetime examining the remains. The chief didn’t even begin to understand how he could do it. Another heave came, and he tried to think of something else—anything else — to get himself under control.
“It’s so perplexing,” Morris said, more to distract himself than for any other reason. “I just don’t understand.”
“In what way?”
“How…well, how the perp selects his victims. I mean, what do the victims have in common? It all seems so random.”
Pendergast rose. “The crime scene is indeed challenging. You are correct that the victims are random. However, the attacks are not.”
“How so?”
“The killer did not choose victims. He — or she, as the etiology of the attacks does not yet indicate gender — chose houses.”
The chief frowned. “Houses?”
“Yes. Both houses share one trait: they are spectacularly visible from town. The next house will no doubt be equally conspicuous.”
“You mean, they were selected for show? In God’s name, why?”
“To send a message, perhaps.” Pendergast turned away. “Now back to the matter at hand. This crime scene is primarily interesting for the light it sheds on the mind of the killer.” Pendergast spoke slowly as he peered around. “The perpetrator would appear to meet the Millon definition of a sadistic personality of the ‘explosive’ subtype. He seeks extreme measures of control; he takes pleasure — perhaps sexual pleasure — in the intense suffering of others. This disorder presents violently in an individual who would otherwise seem normal. In other words, the person we seek might appear to be an ordinary, productive member of the community.”
“How can you know that?”
“It is based on my reconstruction of the crime.”
“Which is?”
Pendergast looked around the ruins again before letting his eyes settle on the chief. “First, the perpetrator entered through an upstairs window.”
The chief refrained from asking how Pendergast could determine this, especially since there was no second floor left.
“We know this because the house doors were massive and the locks were all engaged. To be expected, given the fear recently generated by the first fire and, perhaps, by the relative isolation of the structure. In addition, the first-floor windows are of massive, multi-light construction, glazed with expensive, high-R-value triple-paned glass with anodized aluminum cladding over oak. The ones I examined were all locked, and we can assume the rest were shut and locked as well, given the low temperatures and, as I said, the fear generated by the first attack. Such a window is extremely hard to break, and any attempt would be noisy and time consuming. It would alarm the house. Someone would have called nine-one-one or hit a panic button, with which this house was equipped. But the two victims were caught unawares — upstairs, probably while sleeping. The upstairs windows were less robust, double-paned, and furthermore not all locked — as is evident from this one, here.” Pendergast pointed at a tracery of ash and metal at his feet. “Thus, I conclude that the killer came and left by an upstairs window. The two victims were subdued, then brought downstairs for the, ah, denouement.”
The chief found it hard to concentrate on what Pendergast was saying. The wind had shifted again, and he was breathing assiduously through his mouth.
“This tells us not only the killer’s state of mind, but also some of his physical characteristics. He or she is certainly an athletic individual, perhaps with some rock climbing or other strenuous field experience.”
“Rock climbing experience?”
“My dear Chief, it follows directly from the fact there is no evidence of a ladder or rope.”
Chief Morris swallowed. “And the, ah, ‘explosive’ sadism?”
“The woman, Dutoit, was duct-taped to the downstairs sofa. The tape was wrapped all the way around the sofa — quite a job — rendering her immobile. She appears to have been doused with gasoline and burned alive. Most significantly, this occurred without the victim being gagged.”
“Which means?”
“The perpetrator wanted to talk to her, to hear her plead for her life, and then, after the fire began…to hear her scream.”
“Oh, dear Lord.” Morris remembered Dutoit’s strident voice at the press conference. He felt another dry heave.
“But the sadism evident here—” Pendergast made a gentle gesture in the di
rection of the remains of the dead girl— “is even more extreme.”
Morris didn’t want to know more, but Pendergast went on. “This girl was not doused with gasoline. That would have been too quick for our perpetrator. Instead, he started a fire to the right of her, there, and let it burn toward her. Now, if you will examine the pipes that the victim was handcuffed to, you will notice that they are bent. She was pulling on them with all her might in an effort to escape.”
“I see.” But the chief didn’t even make a pretense of looking.
“But note the direction in which they are bent.”
“Tell me,” said Chief Morris, covering his face, no longer able to take it.
“They are bent in the direction of the fire.”
A silence fell. “I’m sorry,” the chief said. “I don’t understand.”
“Whatever she was trying to get away from — it was even worse than the fire.”
33
The last time Corrie was in the old Victorian police station, she’d been in handcuffs. The memory was fresh enough that she felt a twinge upon entering. But Iris, the lady at the reception desk, was almost too nice and happily directed her to Pendergast’s temporary office in the basement.
She descended the stuffy staircase, walked past a dim, rumbling furnace, and came to a narrow corridor. The office at the end had no name on it, just a number; she knocked and Pendergast’s voice invited her in.
The special agent stood behind an ancient metal desk covered by racks of test tubes, along with a chemistry setup of unknown function that was bubbling away. The office had no windows, and the air was stifling.
“Is this what they gave you?” Corrie asked. “It’s a dungeon!”
“It is what I requested. I did not wish to be disturbed, and this office is in a location where that is assured. No one comes to bother me here — no one.”
“It’s hot as Hades in here.”
“It’s no worse than a New Orleans spring. As you know, I am averse to cold.”
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