Bloodless

6

The Escalade eased through a police barricade and checkpoint on Abercorn Street, coming to a stop before a magnificent mansion built of reddish stone with a pillared entryway. Coldmoon exited the SUV, getting hit by a blast of humid air, and took in the surroundings. The house faced another square of mossy oaks, with a statue of a long-forgotten man in a tricorn hat, sword drawn, standing high on a marble pedestal. Coldmoon felt awkward in his old jeans and shirt; everyone else was wearing uniforms or crisp dark suits. Pickett could at least have given him advance warning he’d be assigned another case — if, indeed, that’s what this was. The thought put him in an even sourer mood.

A cop — not in uniform, but nevertheless unmistakable — was standing at the gate to the mansion’s front garden, which was enclosed by a stone balustrade. Next to him was a woman in full police uniform with decorations, whom Coldmoon took to be the chief of police.

“This is homicide detective Benny Sheldrake of the Savannah PD,” Pickett said as they arrived at the gate, “and Commander Alanna Delaplane of the Southwest Precinct—”

“The crime scene is waiting,” Pendergast interrupted smoothly. “Perhaps we can save the introductions for later? Now, if you please, show the way.”

Coldmoon felt a slight thrill at Pendergast’s dismissal. The quicker he made their presence unwelcome, the sooner they might leave — he hoped.

“Of course,” said Commander Delaplane. “If you’ll follow me, please? The body was found in the back courtyard, next to the slave quarters.”

“Slave quarters?” Pendergast asked.

“Correct. The Owens-Thomas House — this is one of Savannah’s historic mansions, if you weren’t aware — retains a remarkably preserved set of slave quarters. The body was found in their old work area. We have to walk through the house and gardens to get there.”

“Who found the body?” Pendergast asked.

“The director of the museum, when he came in to work early. He’s in the house.”

“I should like to see him when we’re done out here.”

“Very well.”

They strode through a spectacular marble entranceway and passed down a main corridor sporting richly furnished rooms on both sides before coming out on a portico at the back of the mansion. It overlooked a severely symmetrical garden with a fountain. Delaplane led them down some stairs and across the garden — Coldmoon struggling to keep up — then through a back gate and into a brick courtyard. Before them lay a plain two-story brick building with small windows, evidently the slave quarters.

The body of a young man lay in the courtyard, on its back with arms thrown out, almost as if it had dropped from the sky.

“The CSI team have finished their work,” said Delaplane. “The crime scene is all yours.”

“Thank you most kindly,” said Pendergast in a more genteel tone. He approached the body, hands clasped behind his back.

Coldmoon wondered if he should follow, then decided not to — let Pendergast do his thing. “Where did Pickett go?” he asked, looking around. “And Constance?”

Pendergast was too absorbed to answer. He made a circuit around the body, peering down as intently as if he were examining a rare Persian rug. The victim looked to be in his thirties. Coldmoon had never seen a face so pale, or hands so white. The contrast was made more striking by the dead man’s curly black hair and bright blue eyes, staring fixedly upward. The corpse made even Pendergast seem almost ruddy in comparison. The face was frozen in a contortion of horror. The right pant leg had been lacerated, as if raked by a knife or garden tool, but there was no blood to be seen in or around the wound. Not a drop.

Pendergast looked up at Commander Delaplane. “What can you tell me so far?” he asked.

“All preliminary,” she said, “but it appears the blood was withdrawn from the femoral artery, in the upper thigh, where the pant leg has been torn.”

“Withdrawn — how?”

“The MO appears the same as the earlier victim: a large-bore needle, or maybe a trocar, was inserted into the inner thigh to access the femoral artery.”

“How curious.” Pendergast swiftly donned a pair of nitrile gloves from a dispenser on a table next to the body, knelt, and gently opened the torn pants, exposing a neat hole on the inside of the upper thigh. A single drop of dried blood clung to the edge, along with a sticky yellow substance. There were thin amber-colored threads of the same substance on the man’s right shoe. They looked to Coldmoon like dried snot.

A test tube and swab appeared in Pendergast’s hand, and he took a sample, then another and another in swift succession, quickly stoppering them in small glass vials that disappeared back into his black suit.

“Time of death?” he asked.

“Around three o’clock in the morning, give or take two hours, based on body temperature,” said Delaplane. “The withdrawal of the blood complicates the calculation.”

“And this mucus-like substance around the wound and on the shoe?”

“We’ve taken samples. No results yet.”

Now Sheldrake spoke. “The FBI’s Evidence Response Team also took extensive samples, sent them down to their lab in Atlanta.”

“Excellent,” said Pendergast.

Silence built as he knelt, examining various parts of the body — eyes, ears, tongue, neck, hair, shoes — occasionally employing a small hand magnifier. He moved toward the head, examining the nape of the neck.

“There was some bruising on the first victim in the thigh, torso, and abdominal region,” said Delaplane, “which is also present here.”

“A rather short struggle, it seems,” Pendergast said, rising. “Have you established ingress and egress?”

“That’s the curious thing,” said Delaplane. “We haven’t been able to. This is a very secure area. We’ve got security cameras at the entry points, of which there are only three. There was nothing on the tapes, and no gaps. Nothing, in fact, except that two of the cameras recorded unusual sounds at around three AM.”

“What sort of noises?”

“Hard to characterize. Like a dog grunting or snuffling and a loud slapping sound. I’ll get you a copy of the tape.”

“Thank you, Commander.” Pendergast turned to Coldmoon. “Come look at this.”

Coldmoon ventured over to the body. Pendergast gently turned the head — rigid with rigor — slightly sideways.

Coldmoon donned a pair of gloves, then knelt as well.

“Feel the back of the head,” he said.

When he followed Pendergast’s instructions, he felt a lump. Pendergast parted the hair to expose what looked like an abrasion.

“Looks like he got smacked on the head around the time of death,” said Coldmoon.

“Exactly. This and the many other curious issues shall have to be addressed in the postmortem.”

Which curious issues Pendergast meant, exactly, Coldmoon didn’t ask.

“Has the victim been ID’d?” Pendergast asked.

“Yes. His wallet was on his person. He was one of those guys who give the bike tours you see everywhere around here.”

“And where is his bicycle?”

“Found on the corner of Abercorn and East Macon.”

“Isn’t that quite some distance from here?”

“Just a dozen blocks or so.”

“Where did he live?”

“On Liberty, not far from where his bicycle was found. Chances are he was on his way home when he was accosted.”

Pendergast rose, stripped off the gloves, and dropped them in a nearby trash container. Coldmoon followed suit.

“Shall we retire into the house?” Pendergast asked.

Delaplane said simply “Of course,” and turned to lead the way.