Verses for the Dead

25

The Elise Baxter exhumation, while not as disastrous as Agatha Flayley’s, presented its own difficulties. It was scheduled for 6:00 AM, so as not to disturb normal visiting hours, and Coldmoon woke to the sound of rain drumming on his hotel window. Bayside Cemetery was soggy beneath a torrential downpour, and despite all precautions — high-tech lifting equipment, waterproof tarp, a temporary tent erected over the worksite — the hole began flooding and Coldmoon ended up sliding around in the mud, ruining his Walmart suit. By the time they had loaded the coffin into the back of the hearse, Pendergast also was a fright: his black suit soaked, shoes and pant cuffs caked with mud, and a streak of mud on his face that made him look like a freshly exhumed corpse himself. What was worse, Pendergast insisted they accompany the coffin to the morgue and begin the autopsy immediately, without allowing time to change. For some reason, he was in a god-awful hurry. Coldmoon, feeling guiltier than he’d expected, wondered if perhaps some sixth sense of Pendergast’s anticipated the betrayal he was walking into.

They arrived in the basement receiving area of the morgue, rain still pounding on the car roof. The morgue assistants worked quickly, sliding the coffin out of the hearse, getting it on an electric rolling rack, moving it to a special receiving bay, washing and cleaning the coffin, then at last opening it and transferring the corpse onto a gurney. The entire process took less than half an hour and Coldmoon watched, fascinated at the efficiency. The corpse, moreover, was the opposite of Flayley’s: aside from being a strange color, it looked as if Baxter might have died a week ago.

They followed the remains into the morgue and into an autopsy room. Once inside, Pendergast turned to Coldmoon. “I’ve called ahead to make sure Dr. Fauchet was assigned to the case, and not her supervisor — Moberly.”

Coldmoon nodded his approval. While he didn’t know much about forensic pathology, he knew a first-rate asshole when he met one.

Two dieners began prepping for the autopsy, laying out instruments, readying the video camera, adjusting the lights, and cutting the clothes off the corpse. A strong smell of formalin, wet earth, and rotting flesh filled the room, and Coldmoon found himself studying the walls and ceiling. This entire business was a wild goose chase — but that didn’t make him any happier about how Pickett had maneuvered him into playing Judas. He reminded himself once more that it was Pendergast who seemed determined to sabotage his own career with flagrant insubordination. What could he do? He’d worked too hard, against very long odds, to commit hara-kiri now.

When the corpse was ready, the door opened and Fauchet stepped in.

“Gentlemen,” she said, with a curt nod. “Do we remember the rules?”

“Indeed, Dr. Fauchet,” said Pendergast, with a courteous bow.

“Then I’ll begin.”

She went into a lengthy and precise description of the body, having the dieners turn it over and back again. This completed, she had barely started the Y-incision when the door opened and Moberly entered, all gowned up, trailed once again by the smell of Old Spice.

“Ah, Charlotte,” he said. “I’m glad to see I’m just in time!” He moved in, then turned to Pendergast and Coldmoon. “There was some sort of communication problem — word of the autopsy only reached my office a few minutes ago. I called ADC Pickett and he says he never authorized it. Who did?”

“I have that honor,” Pendergast said coolly.

“Well, it seems you’re at odds with your superior, Agent Pendergast, but that’s none of my affair. What I’m concerned about is that, in an important case like this, the chief of pathology needs to be involved. In fact, I don’t understand what Charlotte is doing here.”

“I specifically asked her to conduct the autopsy,” said Pendergast.

“And who gave you the authority to make a decision like that? We can’t leave any room for inexperience or mistakes.” He turned toward one of the dieners, simultaneously pointing at the video camera. “I’m taking over. Are we running?”

“Yes, Dr. Moberly.”

“Good. Charlotte, you may remain and watch. It’ll be a valuable learning experience for you.”

A series of expressions, none of them happy, passed across Fauchet’s face as she pulled down her mask. She opened her mouth to speak, evidently thought better of it, then stepped back and replaced the mask.

“The snips, please.”

A diener handed the snips to the chief.

“Excuse me, Dr. Moberly?” Pendergast said in a low voice.

Unexpectedly, Coldmoon felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. There was that same something in Pendergast’s tone he had heard before — only worse.

“Yes, Agent Pendergast?” Moberly spoke over his shoulder.

“Put the instruments down, turn around, and look at me.”

The command was made in a low, honeyed voice, but somehow it did not sound the slightest bit pleasant.

Moberly straightened up and turned, his face uncomprehending. “I beg your pardon?”

“Dr. Fauchet will do the autopsy. You are welcome to stay and watch, and perhaps you will find it a valuable learning experience.”

Moberly stared a moment longer, his face darkening as he took in the affront. “What do you mean by speaking to me that way?”

Pendergast fixed his glittering silver eyes on the chief of pathology. “I asked Dr. Fauchet to conduct this medicolegal autopsy, and conduct it she will.”

“This is outrageous,” Moberly said, his voice rising. “How dare you give orders in my own pathology department?”

A pause. Then Pendergast asked: “Dr. Moberly, are you sure you want me to answer that question?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he said angrily. “Is this some sort of threat? You know, Pickett warned me about you. Who do you think you are?”

“I’m an FBI agent with access to excellent resources.”

“I don’t give a damn about that. Remove yourself from my morgue.”

“I have used those resources to look into your past. It is — what is that term? — checkered.”

He paused. Moberly stared at him, as if frozen.

“For example, your 2008 autopsy of sixteen-year-old Ana Gutierrez, in which you determined she died of a blood infection, was overturned by a court-ordered second autopsy, which showed she had been the victim of rape and strangulation. Or your 2010 autopsy of eight-month-old Gretchen Worley, in which you concluded she died of shaken baby syndrome, when—”

“That’s enough,” said Moberly, red-faced. “Every pathologist makes mistakes.”

“Do they?” Pendergast said, his smooth voice continuing. “I note from your Miami personnel file that, on your application for chief forensic pathologist, you did not disclose that you had been fired in Indianapolis in 1993.”

A silence.

“Fired, I might add, after being arrested and convicted of drunken driving... on your way to work.”

The silence that followed was electric.

“There’s more, of course,” said Pendergast, ever so quietly. “Shall I go on?”

The unbearable silence continued for a moment. Then Moberly simply shook his head. Coldmoon, startled at this sudden turn of events, noticed the man’s face had lost all its color. The doctor’s eyes swiveled toward the upper corner of the room. Coldmoon followed the gaze to see a gleaming lens.

“Ah!” Pendergast cried. “The video camera! Good heavens, was what I just said captured on tape? How awkward. I imagine it will have to be officially investigated. In the meantime, Dr. Moberly, we’ve chatted long enough. I think you might want to leave, after all. Good morning to you.”

With trembling hands, Moberly slowly removed his mask and scrubs, dropped them in the bin, and shuffled out the door. The door hissed shut. The two dieners stood motionless, their mouths open. No one spoke.

Finally, Coldmoon, still stunned by the sudden reversal of Moberly’s fortunes, said: “I can’t believe how you just crushed that guy. I mean, you left him speechless.”

“When one detonates a nuclear bomb,” Pendergast said, “the shadows left behind on the walls are rarely able to protest.” He turned to Dr. Fauchet, who herself looked shell-shocked. “I regret disturbing your procedure with such drama. Please proceed.”

Fauchet took a long, deep breath, then without a word picked up the instruments and began to work.