The Obsidian Chamber

52

After spending almost an hour conducting a minute search of the hospital room in which the elderly female patient and a doctor had met their deaths, Pendergast — with Longstreet’s tacit approval — had appropriated one of the doctors’ lounges at Miami Baptist for a series of interviews. Longstreet looked on with detached bemusement. He’d been relieved enough to leave the scene of the crimes — although he was no stranger to blood, the extravagant Jackson Pollock — like sprays and spatterings that covered a remarkable amount of the room’s surface area were a bit much even for him. Now he looked on, curious to see exactly what Pendergast was onto — if anything.

First, Pendergast spoke to the lieutenant in charge of the crime. He grilled the cop at great length about everything they had learned so far. There was, it seemed, no apparent motive. The killer had chosen a victim, apparently at random — a most bizarre choice of victims, too; one who was about to die anyway. The killer had been interrupted by an eminent young cardiologist, Dr. Graben, who paid for his discovery with his life. Both victims had been mutilated with scalpels in the most lavish way imaginable, basically sliced to ribbons.

The police had begun a careful investigation into the killer, about whom there seemed to be little question. He had been identified by security cameras, by witnesses, and by the doctor’s badge he’d used to enter various areas of the hospital. He was a Dr. Walter Leyland of Clewiston, Florida. He was not affiliated with Miami Baptist and, as far as was known, had never previously met or had dealings with either of the victims. While the official inquiry had only just begun, it appeared that this Dr. Leyland spent a great deal of time abroad doing volunteer work with Médecins Sans Frontières and other such organizations, and that his patient list was very small — in fact, they were still trying to gain access to his office; there was no secretary or nurse to answer the phone, and a court order was in the works. In addition, it seemed Dr. Leyland operated, in a very limited capacity, as a state-appointed M.E., but once again the investigation into that was in its infancy. They would know more, the lieutenant said, in the hours and days to come. The doctor’s car had been located and was still being swept and analyzed, along with his cell phone and credit cards. The biggest mystery, however, was why he should snap like he did and kill two people in such a savage way.

Next, Pendergast spoke with a nurse from the ICU, who corroborated the story that Dr. Leyland entered the room of eighty-two-year-old Frederica Montoya, who was just days, even hours, from death due to congestive heart failure. A few minutes later, Dr. Graben had entered the room. Puzzled, the nurse had been about to do the same when Dr. Leyland stuck out his head and told her to please leave matters to the two doctors. Five minutes later, Dr. Leyland had left the room and told the nurse that Dr. Graben was still with the patient and was not to be disturbed. When Dr. Graben did not emerge in another five minutes, the nurse became alarmed and investigated.

Dismissing the nurse, Pendergast called for the head of hospital security. The man said that they had not yet completed their examination of all the security tapes, but that — while they had numerous images of Dr. Leyland passing hospital reception, entering a doctors’ locker room, and other places — they had yet to find any images of him leaving. No, the video tech could not explain the discrepancy.

Pendergast asked for an image of Dr. Leyland and the man complied with a grainy screen capture. Pendergast and Longstreet studied the image for some time: a salt-and-pepper-haired man with puffy cheeks.

“Doesn’t look like your typical serial murderer,” Longstreet said. “All the same, there’s something familiar about him.”

“Isn’t there,” Pendergast murmured.

Finally, he called for the chief crime scene investigator. The man had had two days to write up his findings, and he had a very interesting observation to make. While the old woman had died first, the violent slashings and stabbings had begun with the unlucky doctor who’d blundered into the room.

“How can you be sure?” Pendergast asked.

“Blood spatter analysis,” the CSI said. “There were spatters of arterial blood from Dr. Graben on the lower walls, the bed, the monitoring equipment. But these were overlain by most of Ms. Montoya’s blood.”

“That makes no sense,” Longstreet said. “If Leyland was interrupted in his murder of Montoya, you would expect the blood spatter analysis to show the opposite.”

“Precisely,” said the CSI. “Something else: there is much less of Ms. Montoya’s blood on the walls than there is of Dr. Graben’s.”

Pendergast thought for a moment. “Thank you,” he said at last to the CSI. “You’ve been most helpful.”

As the man left the room, Longstreet turned to Pendergast. “Okay. I admit it’s a conundrum. How did this Dr. Leyland get out of the hospital without being seen? And why did he commit this atrocious double murder, slash these two innocents to pieces? But more to the point: what on earth is your interest in it?”

“All excellent questions. Do you think you could arrange for us to see the bodies?”

“You mean, at the morgue? Of course — if I make some phone calls PDQ. They don’t keep bodies on ice too long down here in Florida.” Longstreet frowned. “Wait… you’re not thinking that—”

Pendergast raised his eyebrows, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop.

But Longstreet shook his head. “No. It makes no sense.”

“I am thinking that, and, yes, it would make no sense. That is, in fact, what interests me: the completely bizarre and inexplicable nature of these murders. That, and the screen capture of Dr. Leyland. I’m hoping an examination of the bodies will help shed further light on things.” And Pendergast indicated the cell phone in Longstreet’s pocket. “And so: if you wouldn’t mind, H? You did imply time is of the essence.”