Betty suddenly leaned forward. There was something familiar about the way the dummy was dressed—that sequined silk dress streaked with blood, the black pumps, the short blonde hair . . .
She grasped the seat in front of her, pulling herself to her feet.
“Willa!” she cried, pointing. “Oh my God! It’s Willa! That’s my sister! Somebody’s murdered her!” She uttered a piercing shriek that cut through the very air of the theater, then fell back in her seat in a dead faint. The image on the screen faltered, then went dark; and with that the audience boiled to its feet and began a screaming, hollering, helter-skelter stampede for the rear exits.
34
IT WAS APPROACHING NOON, AND PATRICK KEMPER WAITED IN THE medical officer’s quarters and tried to steady himself for what was to come. As a cruise ship security officer with thirty years of service, he thought he’d seen everything. Everything, including murder. But this went way beyond murder. Five hundred passengers had witnessed something savagely brutal. There was incipient panic aboard, not just among the passengers, but also among the belowdecks service staff, already spooked by the suicide.
Now he was faced with a hideously obvious fact: there was a homicidal maniac on board the Britannia, and he didn’t even begin to have the resources to deal with it. Back in Boston in his cop days, they had whole teams that dealt with evidence gathering; they had the hair and fiber boys, the toxicologists, the fingerprint guys and ballistics people and the DNA teams. Here, he had no resources. Nada. And the only other ex-cop on his security team had been an MP at an airbase in Germany.
To his left stood Staff Captain Carol Mason, a blessedly steady presence. LeSeur, more obviously rattled, stood on the other side. The ship’s chief medical officer—a capable but retiring internist from Johns Hopkins who relished the low-intensity, light-caseload attributes of shipboard medicine—looked the most rattled of all.
Commodore Cutter stepped briskly into the room, immaculate as usual, his face a mask of granite. Kemper glanced covertly at his watch: noon exactly.
Cutter wasted no time. “Mr. Kemper? Your report.”
Kemper cleared his throat. “The victim is Willa Berkshire of Tempe, Arizona. Recently widowed, traveling with her sister, Betty Jondrow. It appears she was killed with a single blow from a machete, a stage prop kept in some locked cabinets behind the stage.”
Cutter frowned. “A stage prop?”
“Yes. We don’t yet know if the murderer sharpened it or simply found it that way—nobody seems to remember what condition the machete was in to begin with. She was killed just backstage—there was a large amount of blood at the scene. It appears the time of death was about half an hour to twenty minutes before curtain time; at least, that was the last time Mrs. Berkshire was seen alive. After committing the killing, the murderer used some stage pulleys and hooks to raise the body. It appears—and this is moving into speculation—the victim was lured backstage, killed with a single blow, and quickly hoisted. The entire process may have taken as little as a few minutes.”
“Lured backstage?”
“It’s a locked, off-limits area. The killer had a key. And I say ‘lured’ because it is hard to imagine a passenger going back there without some good reason.”
“Any suspects?”
“Not yet. We’ve questioned the sister, who said only that she was to meet her sister at the theater ahead of time, hoping to get an autograph from Braddock Wiley. They knew no one else on board and hadn’t made any acquaintances—their goal, she says, was to be together, not meet men or socialize. She said they have no enemies, haven’t had any incidents or altercations on board. In short, Berkshire seems to have been a random victim.”
“Any sign of rape or a sexual assault?”
“I’m not a doctor, Captain.”
Cutter turned to the chief medical officer. “Dr. Grandine?”
The doctor cleared his throat. “Captain, this is really terrible, a shock to us all—”
“Any sign of rape or sexual assault?” came the crisp repetition.
“You must understand we have no facilities on board to do an autopsy, and in any case I’m not qualified. My training in forensic medicine is minimal and many years out of date. We’ve refrigerated the body for medical examination once we reach port. I haven’t examined the body in detail—and any effort to do so on my part would only create a problem for the M.E. later.”
Cutter stared at the doctor, his eyes glittering with his obvious low opinion of the man. “Show me the body.”
This demand was met with disbelieving silence.
“Very well, but I warn you it isn’t pretty—”
“Doctor, you will confine your comments to factual matters.”
“Yes, of course.” Very unwillingly the doctor unlocked a door at the back of the office and they filed into a cramped room that—among other things—functioned as the ship’s morgue. It smelt strongly of chemicals. Along the far wall were nine stainless steel drawers for holding cadavers. Nine seemed like a lot, but Kemper knew well that plenty of people died aboard ship, especially given the average age of the cruise ship passenger and their propensity, once on board, to overindulge in the food, drink, and sexual departments.
The doctor unlocked one of the middle compartments and slid out a drawer beyond, revealing a semi-transparent plastic body bag. Kemper could see a vague, pink thing inside. A queasy feeling formed in the pit of his stomach.
“Open it.”
Kemper had already examined the body, hardly knowing what to look for. The last thing he wanted was to see it again.
Hesitantly, the doctor unzipped the bag. The commodore reached over and spread the zipper apart, exposing the naked body. A huge, cleaved wound, splitting the chest and penetrating the heart, stared back at them. The smell of formalin rose up.
Kemper swallowed.
A cultivated voice sounded behind them. “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen?”
Kemper turned to see, in utter disbelief, Pendergast standing in the door.
“Who the devil is this?” demanded the commodore.
Kemper rushed over. “Mr. Pendergast, this is a very private meeting, and you must leave here immediately!”
“Must I?” Pendergast drawled.
Kemper’s queasiness was replaced with irritation. This was the last straw. “Pendergast, I’m not going to warn you again—”
He paused in midsentence, mouth open: Pendergast had removed his wallet and flipped it open, revealing a gold FBI shield. Kemper stared at it in disbelief.
“Why aren’t you escorting that man out of here?” the commodore asked.
Kemper couldn’t quite find the words. Any words.
“I had hoped to complete this voyage incognito, as it were,” Pendergast said. “But it seems the time has come to offer you my assistance, Mr. Kemper; my professional assistance this time around. The sad truth is, I specialize in this sort of thing.” He glided past Kemper and strolled up to the body.
“Mr. Kemper, I told you to get this man out!”
“Commodore, I’m sorry, it seems he’s a federal agent . . .” Again words failed Kemper.
Pendergast showed his shield to each person in turn, then went back to examining the body.
“He has no jurisdiction here,” the commodore snapped. “We’re in international waters on a British ship registered in Liberia.”
Pendergast straightened up. “Quite true. I realize I have no authority here, and remain at your sufferance alone. But I should be surprised if you refused my help, seeing as how none of you appear to have the faintest idea what to do about this.” He nodded to the body. “How would things look if it were later revealed that the ship’s officers refused the help of a special agent of the FBI who was highly trained in evidence gathering and forensic work?” He smiled coldly. “At least, if you accept my help, you’ll have someone to blame later—no?”
He cast a pale glance around the room.
Nobody spoke.
Pendergas
t clasped his hands behind his back. “Doctor? You should take vaginal, anal, and oral swabs from the victim and check for the presence of sperm.”
“Swabs,” the doctor repeated in a low murmur.
“I assume you have Q-tips and a microscope handy, yes? I thought as much. And surely you know what a sperm cell looks like? A drop of Eosin Y will bring up the highlights. Second, a careful visual examination of the vaginal and anal areas should reveal any telltale swelling, redness, or injury. It is essential to know as soon as possible if this is a sexual crime or . . . something else. Also, draw blood and do a blood alcohol reading.”
He turned. “Mr. Kemper? I would immediately place plastic bags over the victim’s hands, securing them tightly at the wrist with rubber bands. If the victim fought her attacker, the fingernails might contain traces of skin or hair.”
Kemper nodded. “I’ll do that.”
“You’ve saved the victim’s clothes?”
“Yes. Sealed in plastic bags.”
“Excellent.” Pendergast turned to address the group as a whole. “There are some unpleasant truths that need to be said. Two people have disappeared, and now this. I believe the disappearances are connected to this killing. In point of fact, I am on board this vessel to locate a stolen object whose theft also resulted in murder. I would not be at all surprised if the same person was responsible for all four atrocities. In short, the evidence, so far, points to a serial killer on board.”
“Mr. Pendergast—” Kemper began to object.
Pendergast held up his hand. “Let me finish, if you please. A serial killer on board—who is escalating. He was content to toss the first two overboard. But this one—no. This was much more dramatic—much more in keeping, in fact, with the earlier murder I’m investigating. Why? That remains to be seen.”
More silence.
“As you point out, the killer had a key to the backstage door. But do not be fooled into assuming the killer is a crew member.”
“Who said it was a crew member—?” Kemper began.
Pendergast waved his hand. “Mr. Kemper, relax. If I am correct, the killer is in fact not a member of the crew. However, he may have disguised himself as one, and managed to get a passcard to off-limits areas. As a working hypothesis, I would suggest Willa Berkshire was lured backstage with the promise of meeting Braddock Wiley. Which implies that her killer was dressed as someone in authority.”
He turned to the commodore. “Where are we, if I may be forgiven the question?”
The commodore stared back, then turned to Kemper. “Are you going to let this . . . passenger take over ship’s security?” His voice was hard as steel.
“No, sir. But I would respectfully advise that we accept his help. He’s . . . assisted us before.”
“You’re acquainted with this man and have used his services?”
“Yes, sir.”
“In what capacity?”
“In the casino,” said Kemper. “He assisted us in dealing with the card counters.” He didn’t add that Pendergast had walked off with more than a quarter of a million pounds extra in the process—money that had yet to be recovered.
The commodore waved his hand disgustedly, as if to abruptly distance himself from the subject at hand. “Very well, Mr. Kemper. You know as master of this ship I do not involve myself in non-nautical matters.” He strode to the door, glanced back. “I warn you, Kemper: it’s on your shoulders now. All of it.” Then he turned and disappeared.
Pendergast looked at Mason. “May I ask what the Britannia’s present location is? Vis-à-vis the nearest body of land.”
“We’re about twelve hundred kilometers east of the Flemish Cap, eighteen hundred kilometers northeast of St. John’s, Newfoundland.”
“St. John’s is the closest harbor?”
“It is now,” Mason replied. “A few hours ago it would have been Galway Harbour, Ireland. We’re in midcrossing.”
“A pity,” Pendergast murmured.
“Why is that?” the staff captain asked.
“Because it is my conviction that this killer is going to strike again. Soon.”
35
AS MANAGING DIRECTOR OF ABERDEEN BANK AND TRUST LTD, Gavin Bruce considered—rather grimly—that he’d had a great deal of experience taking control of impossible situations and setting things firmly in order. In the course of his career, he had taken over no fewer than four failing banks, whipped them into shape, and turned their fortunes around. Prior to that he had served as an officer in Her Majesty’s Navy, seeing action in the Falklands, and the experience had served him well. But he had never faced a challenge quite as bizarre, or as frightening, as this one.
Bruce had been traveling with two other representatives of Aberdeen Bank and Trust—Niles Welch and Quentin Sharp—both ex-navy like himself, now impeccably dressed bankers of the City mold. He’d worked with them for years and he knew them both to be good, solid people. They’d been presented with this crossing by a client of his, Emily Dahlberg, as a reward for services rendered. These days, most rich clients seemed to feel that a banker owed them, but Emily understood the importance of fostering an old-fashioned relationship of mutual trust. And Bruce had repaid that trust by helping her navigate through two tricky divorces and a complex inheritance case. A widower himself, he was very appreciative of her attention and her gift.
Too bad it all seemed to be going sour.
After the discovery in the Belgravia Theatre the night before— which he had witnessed—it was immediately clear to him that the ship’s personnel were in over their heads on this matter. Not only had they no idea how to investigate the killing or track down the murderer, but they seemed incapable of responding to the fear and panic that were beginning to spread through the ship, not just among the passengers but—Bruce had noticed with dismay—among the service staff as well. He’d been on enough ships to know that seafaring workers were often possessed of peculiar and superstitious maritime notions. The Britannia had become a fragile shell, and he was convinced that just one more shock would plunge everything into chaos.
So he had sat down after lunch with Welch, Sharp, and Ms. Dahlberg—she had insisted on being involved—and, true to form, they had come up with a plan. And now, as they strode down the plush corridors, Bruce in the lead, he took some measure of comfort in knowing they were putting that plan into action.
The small group made their way up through the decks until they reached a forward passageway leading to the bridge. There they were stopped by a nervous-looking security guard with watery eyes and a whiffle cut.
“We are here to see Commodore Cutter,” said Bruce, producing his card.
The man took the card, glanced at it. “May I ask what it is in reference to, sir?”
“In reference to the recent murder. Tell him we are a group of concerned passengers and that we wish to see him immediately.” After a moment’s hesitation, he added, somewhat embarrassed, “Ex-captain, RN.”
“Yes, sir. Just a moment, sir.”
The security guard hustled away, shutting and locking the door behind him. Bruce waited impatiently, arms folded across his chest. Five minutes passed before the guard returned.
“If you’ll please come this way, sir?”
Bruce and his people followed the guard through the hatch into a much more functional area of the ship, with linoleum floors and gray-painted walls framed in fake wood, illuminated with strips of fluorescent lighting. A moment later they were ushered into a spartan conference room, a single row of windows looking starboard across a stormy, endless ocean.
“Please be seated. Staff Captain Mason will be here shortly.”
“We asked to see the ship’s master,” Bruce replied. “That would be Commodore Cutter.”
The guard ran an anxious hand over his whiffle. “The commodore is not available. I’m sorry. Staff Captain Mason is second in command.”
Bruce cast an inquisitive eye on his little group. “Shall we insist?”
“I’m afraid
that would do no good, sir,” said the guard.
“Well then, the staff captain it is.”
They did not seat themselves. A moment later a woman appeared in the door, in an immaculate uniform, her hair tucked under her hat. As soon as he was over his surprise at seeing a woman, Bruce was immediately impressed by her calm, serious demeanor.
“Please sit down,” she said, taking as a matter of course the seat at the head of the table—another small detail that did not escape Bruce’s approval.
The banker got to the point immediately. “Captain Mason, we are clients of and representatives from one of the largest banks in the United Kingdom—a fact I mention only to impress on you our bona fides. I myself am ex–Royal Navy, former captain, HMM Sussex. We are here because we feel the ship is facing an emergency that may be beyond the ability of the crew to contain.”
Mason listened.
“There is great anxiety among the passengers. As you probably know, some people have begun locking themselves in their rooms. There’s talk of a Jack the Ripper–style killer aboard.”
“I’m well aware of that.”
“The crew, in case you haven’t noticed, is spooked as well,” Emily Dahlberg interjected.
“Again, we’re aware of these problems and are taking steps to handle the situation.”
“Is that so?” asked Bruce. “Well, then, Captain Mason, may I ask where the ship’s security is? So far, they’ve been practically invisible.”
Mason paused, looking at each of them in turn. “I’m going to be straight with you. The reason you see so little security is that there is very little security—at least, relative to the size of the Britannia. We’re doing all we can, but this is a very, very large ship and there are four thousand three hundred people on board. All our security staff are working around the clock.”
“You say you’re doing all you can, but then why hasn’t the ship turned around? We see absolutely no choice but to head back to port as quickly as possible.”
The Wheel of Darkness Page 19