Two Graves

9

THE WING OF THE HOTEL HAD BEEN CORDONED OFF, ALL the guests moved. The hotel manager, a high-strung young man, had actually been carted away, having had some kind of a nervous breakdown. That was something new in Lieutenant D’Agosta’s experience. The press was barricaded on Fiftieth Street outside and, even up on the sixth floor, D’Agosta could hear the faint commotion below and see the lights of the squad cars shining up into the window through gauzy curtains. Or maybe that was just dawn finally breaking after a long, long night.

D’Agosta stood in the bedroom area, booties over his shoes, watching the last of the forensic unit as they wrapped up the crime scene. More than eight hours had passed since the murder. The body had been removed from the hotel room, along with the extra finger they found with it: the first joint of the right index finger. The carpet held a bloodstain three feet in diameter, and the opposite wall was sprayed crimson, as if from a hose. The room carried the characteristic iron smell of violent death, along with an undercurrent of the various chemicals employed by the forensic unit.

Captain Singleton had arrived half an hour before for the wrap-up. On the one hand, D’Agosta was grateful for the support: when the chief of detectives showed an interest, things really got done. On the other hand, he couldn’t help but feel that the man’s sudden presence might be a vote of no-confidence. This second killing had catapulted the case to the top of every late-night news broadcast in the city, pushing the five-victim gun battle in Central Park completely out of the public consciousness. And, let’s face it, he and Singleton hadn’t always been best of chums: some years ago, in a disastrous case D’Agosta had been involved in with Pendergast, Singleton had been a stickler for the rules when D’Agosta came up before a disciplinary hearing. But in Singleton’s defense, the captain had always tried to give him a fair shake. So why—considering how much he respected the man—did D’Agosta feel a prickling of resentment at Singleton’s appearance now? Maybe it was because the captain had refused a police backup when a worried D’Agosta had approached him, off the record, about the boathouse meeting between Pendergast and Helen. “Nazis here, in New York?” he’d told D’Agosta. “That’s ridiculous—even for Agent Pendergast. I can’t deploy an entire squad on a whim.” D’Agosta—whom Pendergast had sworn to silence anyway—hadn’t pushed it. And now Helen Pendergast was dead.

“Happy Birthday,” Singleton murmured, repeating the message they’d found written in blood on the victim’s corpse. “What do you make of that, Lieutenant?”

“We’ve got a real psycho on our hands.” The messages—and the extra body parts—had been kept back from the press.

“We certainly do,” said Singleton. He was tall and slender and well groomed, in his late forties but still with a swimmer’s physique. His carefully clipped salt-and-pepper hair was rapidly turning to white, but he seemed to retain a certain restless, springy manner that made him seem younger. One of the most decorated cops on the force, he was famous for his hard work and apparent lack of need for sleep. Unlike most detectives, he dressed well, favoring expensive, tailored suits. There was something about him that always made one want to go the extra mile. He was the sort of man who did not discipline through fear or a raised voice; rather, he would just seem “disappointed.” D’Agosta would rather be screamed at for half an hour by another captain than suffer a minute of Singleton’s grave and disappointed countenance.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” said Singleton, with the tone D’Agosta knew meant a difficult or controversial piece of advice was coming up. “The psychological aspects of this case are extraordinary. We’re outside the bell curve of the usual deviant pathology here. Don’t you think, Lieutenant?”

“I agree.” D’Agosta remained noncommittal. He wanted to see where Singleton was going with this.

“We know the earlobe was removed several hours before the first killing. Now the M.E. tells us the fingertip was also removed several hours before this killing. We’ve got the first security tapes showing a bandage on his earlobe, and now the new tapes show he’s wearing that peculiar cap and a bandage on his finger. What kind of a killer would cut himself up like that? And what do these messages mean? Whose birthday is it, and who’s supposed to be proud of him? And finally: Why is a so obviously organized and intelligent killer so sloppy about his identity?”

“I’m not sure he is sloppy,” D’Agosta said. “Notice how different he looked in the security feeds this time.”

“And yet he left fingerprints behind. He doesn’t mind us knowing it was him, post facto. In fact, the body parts would seem to imply he wanted us to know.”

“What bothers me is the way he stopped the maid,” D’Agosta said. “In the interview, she insisted that he knew about the pillow and the room number that requested it. How could he know that?”

“He might have an inside contact,” Singleton said. “Someone working the front desk or the switchboard. These are all angles you’ll have to look into.”

D’Agosta nodded glumly. He really wished Pendergast were here. These were exactly the kind of questions he might be able to answer.

“Do you know what this suggests to me, Lieutenant?”

D’Agosta braced himself. Something was coming. “What, sir?”

“I never like having to say this. But right now, we’re out of our depth. We need to bring in the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit.”

D’Agosta was surprised. And then he wasn’t surprised. It was a logical step with a serial killer like this, who presented an extreme and perhaps unique pathology.

He found Singleton gazing at him earnestly, looking for agreement. This was also new to D’Agosta. Since when did Singleton ask for his opinion?

“Chief,” he said, “I think that’s an excellent idea.”

Singleton seemed relieved. “You realize, of course, that the men and women aren’t going to like it. For one thing, there’s no element in these crimes requiring FBI involvement—no evidence of terrorism or interstate links. And you know how obnoxious the FBI can be—will be. But in all my career, I’ve never seen a killer quite like this. The BSU has access to databases and research far beyond what we’ve got. Still, it’s going to be tricky getting our people with the program.”

D’Agosta was well aware of how poorly the NYPD worked with the FBI. “I understand,” he said. “I’ll talk to the squad about it. As you know, I’ve worked with the FBI before. I don’t have any personal issues with them.”

Hearing this, Singleton’s eyes flashed. For a minute, D’Agosta feared he might bring up Pendergast. But no—Singleton was too tactful for that. Instead, he simply nodded.

“As chief, I’ll make the initial contact with Quantico and then pass things along to you. That’s the best way to proceed, especially with the FBI, who are sticklers about rank.”

D’Agosta nodded. Now he really wished Pendergast was here.

For a while, they watched in silence as the fiber guy moved slowly across the floor on his hands and knees, tweezers in one hand, going over square after square of the grid laid down with strings. What a job.

“I almost forgot,” Singleton said. “What were the results of the DNA test on the earlobe?”

“We still haven’t gotten them back.”

Singleton slowly turned toward D’Agosta. “It’s been sixty hours.”

D’Agosta felt the blood rushing to his face. Ever since the forensic DNA unit had been shifted out of the M.E.’s office and made into its own department—with Dr. Wayne Heffler as director—they had been impossible to deal with. A few years ago, he and Pendergast had had a run-in with Heffler. Ever since, D’Agosta suspected that Heffler had made a point of holding up his lab results just long enough to piss off D’Agosta but not so long that he himself got into hot water.

“I’ll get on it,” said D’Agosta evenly. “I’ll get on it immediately.”

“I’d appreciate it,” said Singleton. “One of your responsibilities as squad commander is to kick ass. And in this case, you may have to, ah, put the toe of your boot right up inside, if you get my meaning.”

He gave D’Agosta a friendly pat on the back and turned to leave.