Reliquary

= 18 =

MARGO TOOK A seat in the vast Linnaeus Hall, deep within the original massing of the Museum of Natural History, and looked curiously around. It was an elegant space, originally constructed in 1882. Soaring vaults rose above dark oak paneling. Around the long dome of the hall, an intricate frieze had been carved, displaying Evolution in all its grandeur: from beautifully carved animicules at one end to the great figure of Man at the other.

She gazed at the image of Man, dressed in frock coat, top hat, and walking stick. It was a marvelous monument to the early Darwinian view of evolution: the steady upward march from simple to complex, with Man the crowning glory. Margo knew that the modern view was very different. Evolution was proving to be a more random, haphazard affair, full of dead ends and bizarre twists. Dr. Frock—sitting in his wheelchair in the aisle next to her—had made major contributions to this understanding with his theory of fractal evolution. Now, evolutionary biologists no longer considered man the apotheosis of evolution, but merely the dead end of a minor side branch of a generalist, less-evolved subgroup of Mammalia. And, she thought with an inward smile, the word Man itself had gone out of favor—a definite improvement.

She craned her neck to look back toward the narrow projectionist’s booth high up in the rear wall. The grand old facade had become a very modern lecture hall, retrofitted with concealed mechanical blackboards, retractable movie screens, and the latest in computerized multimedia equipment.

For the hundredth time that day, she wondered who had leaked the story of the Museum’s involvement. Whoever it was, they obviously didn’t know everything—they hadn’t mentioned the grotesque deformities on the second skeleton—but they knew enough. Her relief at not having to intervene on Smithback’s behalf was tempered by what she now knew about the nature of the teeth marks on the corpses. She was dreading the arrival of the Bitterman corpse, almost afraid of what corroborative evidence it might hold.

A loud humming sound brought Margo’s eyes forward again. At the front of the hall, the proscenium and wings were retracting as a massive screen descended toward the floor.

There were exactly seven tense people in the two-thousand-seat hall.

Beside her, Frock was humming a tune from a Wagner opera, his thick fingers tapping on the battered arms of his wheelchair. His face was expressionless, but Margo knew that inside he was fuming. Protocol held that Brambell, as Chief Medical Examiner, should do the presentation, but Frock was obviously rankled by the arrangement. Several rows nearer the front, Margo could see Lieutenant D’Agosta, sitting with an overweight police captain in a rumpled uniform and two bored-looking Homicide detectives.

By now the main lights were fully dimmed, and Margo could see only Brambell’s long bony face and bald pate, illuminated from below by the light on the lectern. In one hand he clutched an odd-looking plastic rapier that acted as wireless slide controller and light pointer. He looked positively cadaverous, she thought; Boris Karloff in a lab coat.

“Let’s get right to the evidence, hey?” Brambell said, his high-pitched, cheerful voice booming from numerous speakers along both sides of the hall. Beside her, Margo could feel Frock stiffen with irritation.

The huge image of a magnified bone appeared on the screen, bathing the hall and its occupants in a ghostly gray light.

“Here is a photograph of Pamela Wisher’s third cervical vertebra. Notice the dentition pattern that’s clearly visible.”

The next slide came up.

“Here is one of those tooth marks, magnified two hundred times. And here is a cross section reproduction. As you can see, the tooth is clearly mammalian.”

The next series of slides displayed results of lab tests done on a variety of bones from the two corpses, recording the pressures per square inch needed to make marks of varying depths.

“We identified twenty-one clear marks, punctures, or scratches made by teeth on the bones of the two victims,” Brambell continued. “There are also some marks that seem to come from a dull instrument: too regular for teeth, but too rough for a well-finished knife. Such as you’d see, perhaps, from a primitive ax or stone knife. These are particularly prevalent on the cervical vertebrae, perhaps indicative of the mode of decapitation. In any case, the pressure required to make the teeth marks”—Brambell indicated the results with his electronic pointer—“varied from 500 to about 900 pounds per square inch. This is considerably less than our initial estimate of 1,200 pounds per square inch.”

Less than your initial estimate, Margo thought, glancing toward Frock.

Another photograph came on the screen. “Our detailed study of thin bone sections here, around the marks, shows blood leakage through the interstitial areas of the bone and into the marrow itself. That indicates they were made pre-mortem.” There was a silence.

“In other words, the marks occurred at the time of death.” Brambell cleared his throat. “Due to the highly advanced state of decomposition, it is impossible to determine a definitive cause of death. But I think we can say with fair certainty that these victims died of massive trauma and blood loss inflicted at the time these teeth marks were made.”

He turned toward his audience dramatically. “There is, I know, a question on all of your minds. The question. What made these marks? As we know, there has been speculation in the press that the killer might be another Mbwun.”

He’s enjoying this, Margo thought. She could feel the tension building in the room. D’Agosta, in particular, was on the edge of his seat.

“We did a thorough analysis of these marks vis-à-vis those made by Mbwun eighteen months ago, which of course this Museum of all places has a great deal of data on. And we have come to two firm conclusions.”

He took a deep breath and looked around.

“One, these teeth marks are not consistent with the teeth of Mbwun. They do not match the cross section, the size, or the length.”

Margo saw D’Agosta’s shoulders relax, almost slump, with relief.

“Two, the force used to make these marks never exceeded 900 pounds per square inch, which definitely puts it squarely in the canine, or even more squarely, in the human category. Not in the Mbwun category.”

The slides were flashing by more quickly now, showing various micrographs of teeth marks and bite patterns. “A healthy, habitual gum-cracking male can exert 850 to 900 pounds per square inch of pressure with a hard bite,” Brambell said. “There is nothing inconsistent between these marks and the bite of human eyeteeth. On the other hand, it could have been, say, a pack of feral dogs roaming the tunnels, attacking, killing, and dismembering. In my opinion, however, the patterns we see here are more suggestive of a human than of a dog, or any other hypothesized feral inhabitant of the underground.”

“There are perhaps more types of underground inhabitants, Dr. Brambell, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

The accent was from the deep south, perhaps Alabama or Louisiana; the laconic voice was soft, with the slightest hint of genteel cynicism. Margo turned to find the familiar lean figure of Special Agent Pendergast reclining in a seat near the top of the hall. She had neither seen nor heard him come in. He caught her glance and nodded, his pale eyes flashing in the dark. “Miss Green,” he said. “Pardon me, it’s Dr. Green now, isn’t it?”

Margo smiled and nodded in return. She hadn’t seen the FBI agent since the good-bye party in Frock’s Museum office Then again, that was the last time she had seen a lot of people involved in the Museum Beast murders: Dr. Frock, say, or Greg Kawakita.

Frock turned around in his wheelchair with an effort, nodded his recognition, then turned back toward the screen.

Brambell was looking at the new arrival. “You are—?” he began.

“Special Agent Pendergast of the FBI,” replied D’Agosta “He’ll be assisting us with this case.”

“I see,” Brambell said. “Delighted.” He turned briskly back toward the screen. “Let’s move on to the next question, the identification of the unknown body. I have some rather good news on this front. I’m afraid it may come as a surprise to my colleagues”—he nodded at Frock and Margo—“because it just recently came to my own attention.”

Frock sat forward in his wheelchair, an unreadable expression on his face.

Margo looked back and forth between the two scientists. Was it possible that Brambell had kept them in the dark or something, intending to garner the credit himself?

“Please take a close look at this next slide.” A new image appeared on the screen: the X ray showing the four white triangles that Margo had first noticed.

“Here we have four small triangles of metal embedded in the lumbar vertebrae of the unknown skeleton. We were all perplexed as to their meaning after Dr. Green here first pointed them out. Then, just last night, I had a stroke of inspiration as to their possible origin. I spent much of today in contact with orthopedic surgeons. If I am correct, we will know the identity of the murdered individual by the end of the week, perhaps sooner.”

He grinned and gazed about the hall triumphantly, lingering for an insolent moment on Frock.

“I assume you believe those triangles to be—” Pendergast began.

“For the time being,” Brambell interrupted pointedly, “I can say no more on the subject.” He waved the remote and a new slide flashed up, showing an extensively decomposed head, eyes missing, teeth exposed in a lipless grin. Margo was as repelled by the sight as she had been when the head was first wheeled into the lab.

“As you all know, this head was also brought to us yesterday for analysis. It was discovered by Lieutenant D’Agosta while investigating recent murders among the homeless population. Although we won’t be able to give you a full report for several more days, we know that it belongs to an indigent man who was murdered approximately two months ago. Numerous marks can be seen, some from teeth and some apparently from a crude weapon—again especially noticeable around the remaining cervical vertebrae. We’re planning to have his corpse exhumed from Potter’s Field for a more thorough investigation.”

Oh no, Margo thought.

He flashed several more slides. “We studied the excoriation of the neck and concluded that, again, the force used was most consistent with a human attacker, certainly not Mbwun.”

The screen flashed to white, and Brambell placed the pointing remote on a table next to him. As the lights came up, D’Agosta rose from his seat. “That’s a bigger relief than you’ll ever know,” he said. “But let me get this straight. You’re saying that a person made those bite marks?”

Brambell nodded.

“Not a dog or some other animal that might be living down in the sewers?”

“Given the nature and condition of the marks, it’s hard to rule out a dog completely. But it’s my belief that a human, or perhaps several humans, fit the bill better. If we had even one clear dentition pattern we would know, but, alas…” He spread his hands. “And if certain of those marks turn out to be made by a rough weapon of some sort, then a dog would obviously be out of the question.”

“And you, Dr. Frock? What do you think?” D’Agosta turned.

“I concur with Dr. Brambell,” Frock said curtly, shifting in his chair. “If you will recall,” he rumbled, “I was the one who originally suggested that this was not the work of some creature like Mbwun. I am pleased to be vindicated. However, I must protest the way Dr. Brambell has proceeded on his own with the identification of Cadaver A.”

“Duly noted,” Brambell said, with a thin smile.

“A copycat killer,” said the fat policeman triumphantly.

There was a silence.

The man stood up and looked around the room. “We’ve got a weirdo out there who was inspired by the Museum Beast,” he said loudly. “Some nut running around, killing people, cutting off their heads, and maybe eating them.”

“That,” said Brambell, “is consistent with the data, except—”

The fat policeman cut him off. “A serial killer who is also a homeless man.”

“Look, Captain Waxie,” D’Agosta began, “that doesn’t explain—”

“It explains everything!” the man named Waxie said obstinately.

Suddenly a door banged open at the top end of the hall, and a raised voice echoed angrily down over the group.

“Why the hell wasn’t I told of this meeting?”

Margo turned, instantly recognizing the pitted face, the immaculate uniform, the heavy encrustation of stars and braids. It was Police Chief Horlocker, coming down the aisle at a brisk walk, followed by two aides.

A weary look flitted across D’Agosta’s face before a mask of neutrality descended. “Chief, I sent—”

“What? A memo?” Glowering, Horlocker approached the row of seats where D’Agosta and Waxie were sitting. “Vinnie, the way I hear it, you made the same goddamn mistake at the Museum. You didn’t involve the top brass from the beginning. You and that jackass Coffey kept insisting it was a serial killer, that you had it under control. By the time you realized what it really was, you had a museum full of dead people.”

“If you’ll pardon my saying so, Chief Horlocker, that’s a highly inaccurate rendition of what happened.” Pendergast’s mellifluous voice rang clearly across the hall.

Margo watched Horlocker look toward the voice. “Who is this?” he demanded.

D’Agosta began to speak, but Pendergast raised his hand to stop him. “Allow me, Vincent. Chief Horlocker, I am Special Agent Pendergast of the FBI.”

Horlocker frowned. “I’ve heard of you. You were part of that whole balls-up in the Museum, too.”

“Colorful metaphor,” Pendergast replied.

“So what is it you want, Pendergast?” Horlocker asked impatiently. “This isn’t your jurisdiction.”

“I’m assisting Lieutenant D’Agosta in an advisory capacity.”

Horlocker frowned. “D’Agosta doesn’t need any help.”

“Forgive me for contradicting you,” Pendergast said, “but I think he—and you—need all the help you can get.” His eyes moved from Horlocker to Waxie, and back to Horlocker again. “Don’t worry, Chief, I’m not after the collar. I’m here to help in profiling, not to scoop the case.”

“Very reassuring,” Horlocker snapped. He turned back to D’Agosta. “So?” he demanded. “What have you got?”

“The Medical Examiner believes he can ID the unknown skeleton by Friday,” D’Agosta said. “And he thinks the teeth marks probably belong to a human. Or several.”

“Several?” Horlocker asked.

“Chief, in my opinion the evidence is beginning to point to more than one perp,” D’Agosta said. Brambell nodded his assent.

Horlocker looked pained. “What, you think we’ve got two cannibalistic psychos running around? For Chrissakes, Vinnie, use your head. What we’ve got is a homeless serial killer who’s preying on his own kind. And once in a while a real person wanders into the wrong place at the wrong time—like Pamela Wisher, or that guy Bitterman—and gets their ass killed.”

“A real person?” Pendergast murmured.

“You know what I mean. A productive member of society. Somebody with an address.” Horlocker frowned, turning to D’Agosta. “I gave you a deadline, and I expected a lot more than this.”

Waxie heaved himself up from his chair. “I’m convinced this is the work of a single perpetrator.”

“Exactly,” said Horlocker, looking around the room, waiting for a challenge. “Now, we’ve got a homeless man, out of his gourd, probably living in Central Park somewhere, who thinks he’s the Museum Beast. And with this damn Times article, half the city’s going apeshit.” He turned to D’Agosta. “So how are you planning to handle it?”

“Du calme, du calme, Chief,” Pendergast said soothingly. “I have often found it true that the louder a person speaks, the less they have to say.”

Horlocker looked at him in disbelief. “You can’t talk to me like that.”

“On the contrary, I’m the only one in this room who can talk to you like that,” Pendergast drawled. “So it is left up to me to point out that you have made a string of quite remarkable and unsupported assumptions. First, that the murderer is a homeless man. Second, that he lives in Central Park. Third, that he is psychotic. And fourth, that there is only one of them.” Pendergast gazed at the Chief almost benignly, like a patient parent humoring a fretful child. “You’ve managed to cram a remarkably large number of guesses into just one sentence, Chief Horlocker.”

Horlocker stared at Pendergast, opened his mouth, closed it again. He took a step forward, then stopped. Then, with a single blazing glance at D’Agosta, he turned on his heel and strode out of the hall, his aides scampering to keep up with him.

There was silence in the wake of the slamming door. “What a bloody charade,” Margo heard Frock mutter as he moved restlessly in his wheelchair.

D’Agosta sighed and turned to Brambell. “You’d better send a copy of your report to the Chief. Edit it down, okay, so only the really important stuff is there. And put in a lot of pictures; try to make it readable. Like at a fourth-grade level.”

Brambell burst into delighted, high-pitched laughter. “Yes, indeed, Lieutenant,” he cackled, his bald dome incandescent in the glow of the projector. “I will do my literary best.”

Margo watched as Waxie shot both of them a disapproving look, then started for the door himself. “I don’t find this humor at the expense of the Chief very professional,” he said. “I, for one, have more important things to do than joke around.”

D’Agosta stared at him. “On second thought,” he said slowly, “make it third-grade level, so that Captain Waxie here can read it, too.”

From his aerie in the projectionist’s booth high up on the rear wall, Smithback drew back from the observation slit and switched off his tape recorder with satisfaction. He waited, listening, as the last of the attendees left Linnaeus Hall.

The projectionist came in from the control room, his features narrowing as he saw Smithback. “You said—”

The journalist waved his hand. “I know what I said. I didn’t want to make you any more nervous than you already were. Here.” Smithback pulled a twenty out of his wallet and handed it to him.

“I wouldn’t take it, except the Museum’s salaries are ridiculous; you can’t even begin to live in New York…” the fellow nervously stuffed the bill into his pocket.

“Yeah,” Smithback replied, taking a final glance out of the observation slit. “Listen, you don’t have to explain it to me. You’re contributing to freedom of the press. Go buy yourself a nice dinner, okay? And don’t worry. Even if they put me in jail, I wouldn’t reveal my sources.”

“Jail?” the projectionist whinnied. Smithback soothed him with a pat on the back, then ducked out of the booth into the control room, clutching his notebook and tape recorder and passing into the old, dusty corridors he remembered so well. He was in luck: old Pocahontas—nicknamed for the ferocity with which she slashed rouge across her generous cheeks-was manning the north exit. He passed her in a flurry of smiles and salacious winks, his thumb discreetly covering the expiration date on his aging Museum ID card.