Brimstone

{ 44 }

D'Agosta had never been in the place before, but everything about it was dismally familiar. At least the sharp tang of alcohol and formaldehyde and God only knew what other chemicals helped chase away a lingering hangover. He and Laura Hayward hadn't left the restaurant until 11:30 the night before. At the sommelier's suggestion, he'd splurged on a demi bottle of dessert wine-Château d'Yquem 1990, it had cost him a week's pay at least-and it had proved to be the most wonderful wine he'd ever tasted. The whole evening had proved wonderful, in fact.

What a tragedy that it had to be followed up by this.

The mingled smell of formalin, bodily fluids, and decomposition; the overly clean stainless-steel surfaces; the bank of refrigerating units; the sinister-looking diener lurking in the background; the attending pathologist-and of course the cadaver, star of the show, lying in the middle of the room on an old marble autopsy table, illuminated by its very own spotlight. It had been autopsied-disassembled was more like it-and a bunch of withered, sliced-and-diced organs lay arrayed around the corpse, each in its own plastic container: brain, heart, lungs, liver, kidneys, and a bunch of other dark lumps D'Agosta did not care to guess at.

Still, this wasn't as bad as some. Maybe it was because the parade of insects had come and gone and the corpse had decayed to the point where it was as much skeleton as flesh. Or perhaps it was because the smell of suppuration had almost been replaced by a smell of earth. Or maybe-D'Agosta hoped-maybe he was finally getting used to it. Or was he? He felt that familiar tightening in his throat. At least he'd been smart enough to skip breakfast.

He watched the doctor standing at the head of the corpse, round black glasses pulled down on his nose, thumbing through a clipboard. He was a laconic type, with salt-and-pepper hair and a slow, economical way of talking. He looked irritated. "Well, well," he said, flipping over papers. "Well, well."

Pendergast was restlessly circling the corpse. "The death certificate listed lung cancer as the cause of death," he said.

"I am aware of that," the doctor replied. "I was the attending physician then , and at your request , I have been hauled back here to be the attending pathologist now ." The man's voice was brittle with grievance.

"I thank you."

The doctor nodded tersely, then went back to the clipboard. "I've performed a complete autopsy on the cadaver, and the lab results have come back. Now, what is it, exactly, that you would like to know?"

"First things first. I'm assuming you confirmed this is indeed the body of Ranier Beckmann?"

"Without question. I checked dental records."

"Excellent. Please proceed."

"I'll summarize my original records and diagnosis." The doctor flipped over some pages. "On March 4, 1995, the patient, Ranier Beckmann, was brought to the E.R. by ambulance. The symptoms indicated advanced stages of cancer. Tests confirmed an extensive-stage small-cell lung carcinoma with distant metastases. Essentially a hopeless case. The cancer had spread throughout the body, and general organ failure was imminent. Mr. Beckmann never left the hospital and died two weeks later."

"You're sure he died in the hospital?"

"Yes. I saw him every day on my rounds until he died."

"And your recollection, going back over a decade, is still clear?"

"Absolutely." The doctor stared at Pendergast over the tops of his glasses.

"Proceed."

"I conducted this autopsy in two stages. The first was to test my original determination of cause of death. There had been no autopsy. Standard procedure. The cause of death was evident, there was no family request, and no suspicion of foul play. The state obviously doesn't pay for an autopsy just for the hell of it."

Pendergast nodded.

"The second stage of my autopsy, as per your request, was to identify any unusual pathologies, conditions, wounds, toxins, or other irregularities associated with the body."

"And the results?"

"I confirmed Beckmann died of general organ failure associated with cancer."

Pendergast quickly fixed his silvery eyes again on the doctor. He said nothing: the skeptical look said it all.

The doctor returned the look steadily. Then he continued, voice calm. "The primary was a tumor in his left lung the size of a grapefruit. There were gross secondary metastatic tumors in the kidneys, liver, and brain. The only surprising thing about this man's death is that he hadn't showed up in the emergency room earlier. He must have been in tremendous pain, barely able to function."

"Go on," Pendergast said in a low voice.

"Aside from the cancer, the patient showed advanced cirrhosis of the liver, heart disease, and a suite of other chronic, but not yet acute, symptoms associated with alcoholism and poor nutrition."

"And?"

"That's all. No toxins or drugs present in the blood or tissues. No unusual wounds or pathologies, at least none detectable after embalming and almost ten years in the ground."

"No sign of heat?"

"Heat? What do you mean?"

"No indication that the body had experienced the perimortem application of heat?"

"Absolutely not. Heat would have caused a host of obvious cell changes. I've looked at forty, maybe fifty sections of tissue from this cadaver, and not one showed changes associated with heat. What an extraordinary question, Mr. Pendergast."

Pendergast spoke again, his voice still low. "Small-cell lung cancer is caused almost exclusively by smoking. Am I correct, Doctor?"

"You are correct."

"That he died of cancer is beyond a reasonable doubt, then, Doctor?" Pendergast allowed a skeptical tone to tinge his voice.

Exasperated, the pathologist reached down, grabbed two halves of a shriveled brown lump, and shoved them in Pendergast's face. "There it is, Mr. Pendergast. If you don't believe me, believe this . Take it. Feel the malignancy of this tumor. As sure as I'm standing here, that’s what killed Beckmann."

It was a long, silent walk back to the car. Pendergast slipped behind the wheel-today he'd driven himself to Yonkers-and they exited the parking lot. As they left the gray huddle of downtown behind, Pendergast spoke at last.

"Beckmann spoke to us quite eloquently, wouldn't you say, Vincent?"

"Yeah. And he stank, too."

"What he said, however, was-I must confess-something of a surprise. I shall have to write the good doctor a letter of thanks." He swung the wheel sharply, and the Rolls turned onto Executive Boulevard, passing the on-ramp for the Saw Mill River Parkway.

D'Agosta looked over in surprise. "Aren't we heading back to New York City?"

Pendergast shook his head. "Jeremy Grove died exactly two weeks ago. Cutforth, one week ago. We came to Yonkers to get some answers. I'm not leaving until we have them."