Still Life With Crows

by Douglas Preston

  They took a catwalk around the Blood Roomthe smell of fresh blood was sickeningand went through a partition. All of a sudden, the building opened up around them and Corrie found herself in a cavernous space, a single enormous room with the conveyor belt and its hanging turkeys going this way and that, up and down, disappearing in and out of oversized steel boxes. It resembled some infernal Rube Goldberg contraption. The noise was unbearable, and the humidity was beyond saturation: Corrie felt droplets condensing on her arms, her nose, her chin. The place smelled of wet turkey feathers, shit, and something even less pleasant she couldnt identify. She began to wish she had waited in the car.

  The dead, drained birds emerged from the far end of the Blood Room, disappearing again into a huge stainless steel box from which issued a tremendous hissing noise.

  What happens there? Pendergast asked above the roar, pointing at the steel box.

  Thats the Scalder. The birds get blasted with steam.

  At the far end of the Scalder the endless conveyor belt reemerged, now hung with steaming, dripping birds that were clean and white and partly defeathered.

  And from there? Pendergast asked.

  They go to the Plucker.

  Naturally. The Plucker.

  Bledsoe hesitated, then seemed to come to a decision. Wait here, sir, please. And he was gone.

  But Pendergast did not wait. He hurried on, Corrie following, and they passed through a partition that surrounded the Plucker, which was actually four machines in series, each sporting dozens of bizarrely shaped rubber fingers that whirred maniacally, plucking feathers off their appointed portions of the birds. Naked, pink-yellow corpses emerged dangling at the far end. From there, the conveyor belt rose up and turned a corner, disappearing out of sight. So far, everything had been automated; except for the man in the Blood Room, the only workers appeared to be people monitoring the machines.

  Pendergast walked over to a woman who was watching some dials on the plucking console. May I interrupt you? he asked.

  As she glanced at him, Corrie recognized Doris Wilson, a no-bullshit bleach-blonde in her fifties, heavy, red-scrubbed face, smokers hack, who lived alone in the same trailer park she did, Wyndham Parke Estates.

  Youre the FBI man?

  And you are?

  Doris Wilson.

  May I ask you a few questions, Ms. Wilson?

  Shoot.

  Did you know Willie Stott?

  He was the night cleaning foreman.

  Did he get along well here?

  He was a good enough worker.

  I understood he drank.

  He was a nipper. Never interfered with his job.

  He was from away?

  Alaska.

  What did he do up there?

  Doris paused to adjust some levers. Fish cannery.

  Any idea why he left?

  Woman trouble, I heard.

  And why did he stay in Medicine Creek?

  Doris suddenly grinned, exposing a rack of brown, crooked teeth. The very question we all ask ourselves. In Willies case, he found a friend.

  Who?

  Swede Cahill. Swede is best friends with everyone who drinks in his bar.

  Thank you. And now, can you tell me where I can find James Breen?

  Her lips pointed down the conveyor line of turkeys. Evisceration Area. Its up there, just before the Deboning Station. Fat guy, black hair, glasses. Loudmouth.

  Thanks again.

  No problem. Doris nodded to Corrie.

  Pendergast moved up a metal staircase. Corrie followed. Ascending beside them, the conveyor line of dangling carcasses rumbled toward a high platform that was, finally, manned by people and not machines. Dressed in white, with white caps, they were expertly slicing open the turkeys and sucking out organs with oversized vacuum nozzles. The turkeys then jerked along toward another station, where they were blasted clean with high-pressure hoses. Farther down the line, Corrie could see two men lopping off the heads of the birds and dropping them into a big chute.

  Thanksgiving will never be the same,she thought.

  There was one black-haired fat man on the line, and he was talking loudly, relating a story at high volume. Corrie caught the word Stott, then last to see him alive. She glanced at Pendergast.

  He smiled briefly in return. I believe that is our man.

  As they walked down the platform toward Breen, Corrie saw Bart returning, his hair mussed, practically running. And ahead of him was Art Ridder, the plant manager. He was charging across the concrete floor on stumpy legs.

  Why didnt anyone tell me the FBI was here! he was shouting to no one in particular. His face was even redder than usual, and Corrie could see a wet turkey feather stuck to the crown of his blow-dried helmet of hair. This is an off-limits area!

  Sorry, sir. Bart was all in a panic. He just walked in. Hes investigating

  I know very well what hes investigating. Ridder climbed the ladder and turned to Pendergast, breathing hard, working to bring his trademark smile back onto his face. How are you, Agent Pendergast? He held out his hand. Art Ridder. I remember seeing you at the Sociable.

  Delighted to make your acquaintance, Pendergast replied, taking the proffered hand.

  Ridder turned back to Bart, his face losing its smile. You go back to the dock. Ill deal with you later. Then he turned to Corrie. What are you doing here?

  Im She glanced at Pendergast, waiting for him to say something, but he remained silent.

  Im with him, she said.

  Ridder cast a querying glance at Pendergast, but the agent was now absorbed in examining a variety of strange equipment that hung from the ceiling.

  Im his assistant, said Corrie finally.

  Ridder exhaled loudly. Pendergast turned and strolled over to where Jimmy Breen was workinghe had shut up when the boss arrivedand began to watch him work.

  Ridder spoke, his voice calmer. Mr. Pendergast, may I invite you to my office, where youll find it much more comfortable?

  I have a few questions for Mr. Breen here.

  Ill send Jimmy right over. Bart will show you the way.

  There is no need to interrupt his work.

  Itll be much quieter in the office

  But Pendergast was already talking to Jimmy. The man continued to work, sticking a nozzle into a turkey and sucking out the guts with a greatschloock! while he talked. He glanced at Ridder and then at Pendergast.

  Mr. Breen, I understand you were the last one to see Willie Stott alive.

  I was, I was, Jimmy began. The poor guy. It was that car of his. I hate to say this, but the money he shouldve spent getting that crap-mobile fixed up he spent down at Swedes instead. That hunk of junk was always breaking down

  Corrie glanced at Art Ridder, who was standing behind Jimmy now, the ghastly smile once again fixed on his face.

  Jimmy, Ridder interrupted, the nozzle goesall the way up, not like that. Excuse me, Mr. Pendergast, but its his first day on this job.

  Yes, Mr. Ridder, said Jimmy.

  Up,like that. Up and in, as deep as itll go. He shoved the hose in and out of the carcass a few times to demonstrate, then handed it back to Jimmy. You following me? Then he turned to Pendergast with a smile. I started right here, Mr. Pendergast, in the Evisceration Area. Worked my way to the top. I like to see things done right. There was a note of pride in his voice that Corrie found creepy.

  Sure thing, Mr. Ridder, Jimmy said.

  As you were saying? Pendergast kept his eyes on Breen.

  Right. Only last month Willies car broke down and I had to drive him to and from work. Ill bet it broke down again and he tried to hoof it to Swedes. And got nailed. Jesus. I requested a transfer the very morning he was found, didnt I, Mr. Ridder?

  You did.

  Id rather be sucking gibs out of a turkey than ending up gibs in a field myself. Jimmys lips spread in a wet grin.

  No doubt, said Pendergast. Tell me about your previous job.

  I was the night watchman. I was in the plant from
midnight to sevenA .M., when the pre-shift arrives.

  What does the pre-shift do?

  Makes sure all the equipment is working sos when the first truck arrives the birds can be processed right away. Cant leave birds in a hot truck that aint moving while you fix something, otherwise you got a fine old truckload of dead turkeys.

  Does that happen very often?

  Corrie noticed Jimmy Breen shoot a nervous glance at Ridder.

  Almost never, said Ridder quickly.

  When you were driving to the plant that night, Pendergast asked, did you see anything or anyone on the road?

  Why dyou think I asked for the day shift? At the time, I thought it was a cow loose in the corn. Something big and bent over

  Where exactly was this?

  Midway. About two miles from the plant, two miles from town. On the left-hand side of the road. Waiting, like. It seemed to dart into the corn as my headlights came around the bend. Almost scuttling, like on all fours. I wasnt sure, really. It mightve been a shadow. But if so, it was abig shadow.

  Pendergast nodded. He turned to Corrie. Do you have any questions?

  Corrie was seized with panic. Questions? She found Ridder looking at her, his eyes red and narrow.

  Sure. Yeah. I do.

  There was a pause.

  If that was the killer, what was he doing, waiting there? I mean, he couldnt haveexpected Stotts car to break down, could he? Might he have been interested in the plant, perhaps?

  There was a silence and she realized Pendergast was smiling, ever so faintly.

  Well, hell, I dont know, said Jimmy, pausing. Thats a good one.

  Jimmy, damn it, Ridder suddenly broke in. Youve let that turkey get past you. He shoved forward and grabbed a turkey as it was trundling away. With one great sweep, he reached inside and ripped out the guts by hand, flinging them into the vacuum container, where they were immediately swallowed with a horrible gurgling. Ridder turned back, shaking gore from his fingers with a savage snap of his wrist. He smiled broadly.

  In my day they didnt have vacuum hoses, he said. You cant be afraid to get your hands a little dirty on this job, Jimmy.

  Yes, Mr. Ridder.

  He clapped Jimmy on the back, leaving a heavy brown handprint. Carry on.

  Weve concluded here, I believe, said Pendergast.

  Ridder seemed relieved. He stuck out his hand. Glad to be of assistance.

  Pendergast gave a formal bow, then turned to leave.

  Twenty-Five

  Corrie Swanson stood by the side of the road and watched, hands on her hips, as Pendergast pulled pieces of an odd-looking machine out of the trunk of her car and began screwing them together. When shed picked him up at the old Kraus place, hed been standing there by the road, waiting, the box of metal parts lying at his feet. He hadnt explained what his plan was then, and he seemed disinclined to do so now.

  You really like to keep people in the dark, dont you? she said.

  Pendergast screwed the last piece into place, examined the machine, and turned it on. There was a faint, rising hum. I beg your pardon?

  You know exactly what Im talking about. You never tell anybody anything. Like what youre going to do with that thing.

  Pendergast switched the machine off again. I find nothing more tiresome in life than explanations.

  Corrie had to laugh at this. How true it was; from her mother to the school principal to that dickwad of a sheriff,Youve got some explaining to do, thats what they all said.

  The sun was rising over the corn, already burning the parched ground. Pendergast looked at her. Does this curiosity mean youre warming to the role of my assistant?

  It means Im warming to all the money youre paying me. And when somebody makes me get up at the crack of dawn, I want to know why.

  Very well. Today were going to investigate the so-called Ghost Warrior Massacre up at the Mounds.

  That looks more like a metal detector than some kind of ghost-busting machine to me.

  Pendergast shouldered the machine and began to walk up the dirt track that led through the low scrub toward the creek. He spoke over his shoulder. Speaking of ghosts, do you?

  Do I what?

  Believe in them.

  She snorted. You dont really think theres some scalped, mutilated corpse wandering around up there, looking for his boots or whatever?

  She waited for an answer, but none came.

  Within minutes, they entered the shade of the trees. Here, a faint, cool breath of night still lingered, mingling with the scent of the cottonwoods. Another few minutes brought them to the Mounds themselves, swelling gently out of the surrounding earth, rocky at the base, sparsely covered with grass and brush along the top. Pendergast paused to turn on the machine once again. The whine went up, then down as he fiddled with the dials. At last, it fell silent. Corrie watched as he slipped a wire out of his pocket, a little orange flag attached to one end, and stuck it in the ground at his feet. From another pocket, he took a thing that looked like a cell phone and started fiddling with it.

  Whats that?

  A GPS unit.

  Pendergast jotted something down in his ever-present leather notebook and then, with the circular magnetic coil of the metal detector inches from the ground, began to slowly walk north, sweeping the coil back and forth. Corrie followed him, feeling a rising sense of curiosity.

  The metal detector squawked sharply. Pendergast quickly dropped to his knees. He began scraping the soil with a palette knife, and within moments he had uncovered a copper arrow point.

  Wow, said Corrie. Without even thinking, she knelt by his side. Is that Indian?

  Yes.

  I thought they made their arrowheads out of flint.

  By 1865, the Cheyennes were just beginning to switch to metal. By 1870, they would have guns. This one metal point dates the site quite accurately.

  She reached down to pull it up but Pendergast stayed her hand. It stays in the ground, he said. Then he added, voice low, Note the direction it is pointing in.

  The notebook and GPS reappeared; Pendergast jotted some more notes; they disappeared once again into the jacket of his suit. He placed another little flag at the spot and then continued on.

  They walked for perhaps two hundred yards, Pendergast sweeping as they went, marking every point and every bullet they found. It amazed Corrie how much junk there was under the ground. Then they returned to their point of origin and headed in another cardinal direction. Pendergast swept on. There was yet another squawk. He knelt, scraped, this time uncovering a 1970s-era pop-top.

  Arent you going to flag that historic artifact? Corrie asked.

  We shall leave it for a future archeologist.

  More squawks; more pop-tops, arrow points, a few lead bullets, a rusted knife. Corrie noticed that Pendergast was frowning, as if disturbed by what he was finding. She almost asked the question, and then stopped. Why was she feeling so curious, anyway? This was just as weird as everything else Pendergast had done to date.

  Okay, said Corrie, Im stumped. What does all this have to do with the killings? Unless, of course, you think the killer is the ghost of the Forty-Fiver who cursed the ground for eternity, or whatever.

  An excellent question, Pendergast replied. I cant say at this point if the killings and the massacre are connected. But Sheila Swegg was killed digging in these mounds, and Gasparilla spent a lot of time hunting up at these mounds. And then theres all the gossip in town, to which you allude, that the killer is the ghost of Harry Beaumont come back for revenge. You may recall that they cut off his boots and scalped his feet.

  Youdont believe that, do you?

  That the killer is the ghost of Beaumont? Pendergast smiled. No. But I must admit, the presence of antique arrows and other Indian artifacts does suggest a connection, if only in the mind of the killer.

  So whats your theory?

  It is a capital mistake to develop a premature hypothesis in the absence of hard data. I am trying my bestnot to develop a theory. All I w
ish to do now is collect data. He continued sweeping and marking. They were now on their third leg, which took them directly over one of the mounds. There was a cluster of points at its rocky base. At several scattered places Pendergast nodded to some fresh holes in the dirt, which someone had made a feeble attempt to hide with brush. Sheila Sweggs recent diggings.

  They continued on.

  So you dont haveany ideas about who the killer might be? Corrie pressed.

  Pendergast did not answer for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was very low. It is what the killer isnot that I find most intriguing.

  I dont get it.

  Were dealing with a serial killer, that much is clear. It is also clear he will keep killing until he is stopped. What I find intriguing is that he breaks the pattern. He is unlike any known serial killer.

  How do you know? Corrie asked.

  At the FBI headquarters in Quantico, Virginia, theres a group known as the Behavioral Science Unit, which has made a specialty of profiling the criminal mind. For the past twenty years, theyve been compiling cases of serial killers from all over the world and quantifying them in a large computer database.

  Pendergast moved ahead as he spoke, sweeping back and forth as they advanced down the far side of the mound and into the trees beyond. He glanced over at her. Are you sure you want a lecture in forensic behavioral science?

  Its a lot more interesting than trigonometry.

  Serial killing, like other types of human behavior, falls into definite patterns. The FBI has classified serial killers into two types: organized and disorganized. Organized offenders are intelligent, socially and sexually competent. They carefully plan their killings; the victim is a stranger, selected with care; mood is controlled before, during, and after the crime. The crime scene, too, is neatly controlled. The corpse of the victim is usually taken away and hidden. This type is often difficult to catch.

  The disorganized killer, on the other hand, kills spontaneously. He is often inadequate socially and sexually, does menial labor, and has a low IQ. The crime scene is sloppy, even random. The body is left at the crime scene; no attempt is made to conceal it. Frequently, the killer lives nearby and knows the victim. The attack is frequently what is known as a blitz attack, violent and sudden, with little advance planning.