Cemetery Dance

Chapter 18

D'Agosta entered the waiting room for the morgue annex, careful to breathe through his mouth. Pendergast followed, taking in the room with a quick glance, then slipping cat — like into one of the ugly plastic chairs that lined the wall, flanking a table heaped with dog — eared magazines. The agent picked up the one with the lightest wear, flipped through the pages, then began to read.

D'Agosta made a circuit of the room, then another. The New York City morgue was a place full of horrible memories for him, and he knew he was about to undergo an experience that would lodge another in his head — perhaps the worst one of all. Pendergast's preternatural coolness irritated him. How could he remain so nonchalant? He glanced over and saw the agent was reading Mademoiselle with evident interest.

"What are you reading that for?" D'Agosta asked irritably.

"There is an instructive article on bad first dates. It reminds me of a case I once had: a particularly untoward first date that ended in murder — suicide." Pendergast shook his head at the memory and continued reading.

D'Agosta hugged himself, then took yet another turn around the room.

"Vincent, do sit down. Use your time constructively."

"I hate this place. I hate the smell of it. I hate the look of it."

"I quite sympathize. The intimations of mortality here are — shall we say — hard to ignore? Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears."

The pages rustled as Pendergast read on. A few dreadful minutes passed before the door to the morgue finally opened. One of the pathologists, Beckstein, stood there.Thank God, thought D'Agosta: they had pulled Beckstein for the autopsy. He was one of the best and — surprise — an almost normal human being.

Beckstein peeled off his gloves and mask, dropped them in a bin. "Lieutenant. Agent Pendergast." He nodded his greetings, not offering his hand. Shaking hands just wasn't done in the morgue. "I'm at your disposal."

"Dr. Beckstein," said D'Agosta, taking the lead, "thanks for taking the time to see us."

"My pleasure."

"Give us a rundown, light on the jargon, please."

"Certainly. Would you like to observe the cadaver? The prosector is still working on it. It sometimes helps to see—"

"No thank you," said D'Agosta decisively.

He felt Pendergast's gaze on him.

Screw it, he thought determinedly.

"As you wish. The cadaver showed fourteen full or partial knife wounds, pre — mortem, some to the hands and arms, several in the lower back, and a final one, also with a posterior entry, that passed through the heart. I would be glad to provide you with a diagram—"

"Not necessary. Any postmortem wounds?"

"None. Death was almost immediate after the final, fatal blow to the heart. The knife entered horizontally, between the second and third posterior rib, at a downward angle of eighty degrees from the vertical, penetrating the left atrium, the pulmonary artery, and splitting the conus arteriosus at the top of the right ventricle, causing massive exsanguination."

"I get the picture."

"Right." "Would you say that the killer did what he had to do to kill the victim, and no more?"

"That statement is consistent with the facts, yes."

"The weapon?"

"A blade ten inches long, two inches in width, very stiff, probably a high — quality kitchen knife or a scuba knife."

D'Agosta nodded. "Anything else?"

"Blood toxicology showed a blood alcohol level within legal limits. No drugs or other foreign substances. The contents of the stomach—"

"I don't need to know that."

Beckstein hesitated, and D'Agosta saw something in his eyes. Uncertainty, unease.

"Yeah?" he urged. "Something else?"

"Yes. I haven't written the report yet, but there was one thing, quite strange, that was missed by the forensic team."

"Go on."

The pathologist hesitated again. "I'd like to show it to you. We haven't moved it — yet."

D'Agosta swallowed. "What was it?"

"Please, just let me show it to you. I can't… well, I can't very well describe it."

"Of course," said Pendergast, stepping forward. "Vincent, if you'd prefer to wait here—"

D'Agosta felt his jaw set. "I'm coming."

They followed the technician through the set of double stainless — steel doors into the green light of a large tiled room. They donned masks, gloves, and scrubs from nearby bins, then continued on, passing into one of the autopsy suites.

Immediately D'Agosta saw the prosector hunched over the cadaver, the whine of the Stryker saw in his hands like an angry mosquito. A diener lounged nearby, eating a bagel with lox. A second dissecting table was covered with various tagged organs. D'Agosta swallowed again, harder.

"Hey," the diener said to Beckstein. "You're just in time. We were about to run the gut."

A hard stare from Beckstein silenced the man. "Sorry. Didn't know you had guests." He smirked, rubbery lips crunching down on his breakfast. The room smelled of formalin, fish, and feces.

Beckstein turned to the prosector. "John, I'd like to show Lieutenant D'Agosta and Special Agent Pendergast the, ah, item we found."

"No problem." The saw powered down and the prosector stepped away. With huge reluctance, D'Agosta stepped slowly forward, then looked down at the cadaver.

It was worse than he had ever imagined it could be. Worse even than his worst nightmares. Bill Smithback: naked, dead, opened. His scalp was peeled back, the brown hair all bunched up at the base, bloody skull exposed, fresh saw marks running in a semicircle around the cranium. Body cavity yawning, ribs spread, organs removed.

He bowed his head and closed his eyes.

"John, would you mind fixing a spreader in the mouth?"

"Not at all."

D'Agosta kept his eyes closed.

"There."

He opened his eyes. The mouth had been forced open with a piece of stainless steel. Beckstein adjusted the overhead light to illuminate the interior. Hooked into Smithback's tongue was a fish — hook, tied with feathers, like a dry fly. Against his will, D'Agosta bent forward for a closer examination. The hook had a knotted head of light — colored twine, on which had been painted a tiny, grinning skull. A miniature pouch, like a tiny pill, was attached to the hook's neck.

D'Agosta glanced over at Pendergast. The agent was staring down at the open mouth, his silvery eyes full of rare intensity. And it seemed to D'Agosta there was more than intensity in that look. There was regret, disbelief, sorrow — and uncertainty. Pendergast's shoulders slumped visibly. It was as if the agent had been hoping against hope he'd been wrong about something… only to learn with huge dismay that, in fact, he had been all too right.

The silence lasted minutes. Finally, D'Agosta turned to Beckstein. He suddenly felt very old and tired. "I want this photographed and tested. Remove it with the tongue — leave it embedded. I want forensics to analyze that thing, open up the tiny pouch, and report its contents to me."

The diener peered over D'Agosta's shoulder, chewing his bagel. "Looks like we got a real psychopath running around. Think what thePost would do with this one!" A loud crunch, followed by the sounds of mastication.

D'Agosta turned to him. "If the Post finds out," he growled, "I'll personally see to it you spend the rest of your life toasting bagels instead of eating them."

"Hey, sorry, man. Touchy, touchy." The diener backed away.

Pendergast's eyes flickered up at D'Agosta. He straightened up and stepped away from the corpse. "Vincent, it occurs to me that I haven't paid a visit to my dear aunt Cornelia in ages. Would you care to accompany me?"