The two men pumped their shotguns.
In the echoing darkness ahead of them, the barking faltered, then stopped. There was a moment of silence. Then a terrible, unearthly shriek, like the screeching of tires, leapt from the inky tunnel. The two police officers looked at each other. The sound ended as suddenly as it began.
“Castor!” Hamm cried. “Oh, my God! He’s been hurt!”
“Get back, Hamm, goddammit!” barked D’Agosta.
[49] At that moment a shape suddenly hurtled at them from the darkness, and there were two stunning blasts from the shotguns, two flashes of light accompanied by deafening roars. The rumble echoed and died in the tunnel, and there was an intense silence.
“You fucking idiot, you just shot my hound,” said Hamm quietly. Pollux lay five feet from them, blood pouring freely from his ruined head.
“He was coming right at me …” began one of the officers.
“Jesus Christ,” said D’Agosta, “Stow that shit. There’s still something out there.”
They found the other dog a hundred yards down the tunnel. He was torn nearly in half, guts strung out in crazy patterns.
“Jesus, will you look at that,” said D’Agosta. Hamm said nothing.
Just beyond the body the tunnel branched. D’Agosta continued to stare at the dog. “Without the dogs, there’s no way of knowing which way it went,” he said at last. “Let’s get the hell out of here and let forensics deal with this mess.”
Hamm said nothing.
= 9 =
Moriarty, suddenly alone with Margo in the cafeteria, seemed even more uncomfortable. “So?” Margo prompted, after a brief silence.
“Actually, I really did want to talk to you about your work.” He paused.
“You did?” Margo was unused to anyone showing interest in her project.
“Well, indirectly. The primitive medicine cases for the exhibition are complete, except one. We’ve got this terrific collection of shamanistic plants and artifacts from the Cameroons we want to display in the last case, but they’re badly documented. If you’d be willing to take a look ...?”
“I’d love to,” Margo said.
“Great! When?”
“Why not now? I’ve got some time.”
They left the staff cafeteria and moved down a long basement hall lined with rumbling steam pipes and [51] padlocked doors. One of the doors bore the label DINOSAUR STOREROOM 4—UPPER JURASSIC. Most of the Museum’s dinosaur bone and other fossil collections were stored here in the basement, since—she had heard—the great weight of petrified bone would cause the upper floors to collapse.
“The collection’s in one of the sixth-floor vaults,” Moriarty said apologetically as they entered a service elevator. “I hope I can find it again. You know what a warren of storage rooms they’ve got up there.”
“Have you heard anything more about Charlie Prine?” Margo asked quietly.
“Not much. Apparently he’s not a suspect. But I don’t think we’ll see him back here for quite a while. Dr. Cuthbert told me before lunch that he was severely traumatized.” Moriarty shook his head. “What an awful thing.”
On the fifth floor, Margo followed Moriarty along a wide passageway and up a flight of metal stairs. The narrow, labyrinthine catwalks that made up this section of the sixth floor had been built directly underneath the Museum’s long pitched roofs. On either side were rows of low metal doors, behind which lay the hermetically sealed vaults of the perishable anthropology collections. In earlier times, a poisonous cyanic compound had periodically been pumped into the vaults to kill vermin and bacteria; now, artifact preservation was handled with subtler methods.
As the two threaded their way along the catwalks, they passed a number of objects stacked against the walls: a carved war canoe, several totems, a row of slitted log drums. Even with one million square feet of storage space, every square inch had been utilized, including stairwells, corridors, and the offices of junior curators. Of fifty million artifacts and specimens, only about 5 percent was on exhibition; the rest was available only to scientists and researchers.
The New York Museum of Natural History consisted [52] not of a single building, but several large buildings, connected over the years to form one sprawling, rambling structure. As Margo and Moriarty passed from one of the buildings into another, the ceiling ascended, and the catwalk became a branching corridor. A dim light filtered down from a row of dirty skylights, illuminating shelves filled with plaster casts of aboriginal faces.
“God, this place is huge,” said Margo, feeling a sudden cold thrust of fear, glad that she was seven stories above the dark spaces where the little boys had met their deaths.
“Largest in the world,” Moriarty said, unlocking a door stenciled CEN. AFRICA, D-2.
He switched on a naked, 25-watt bulb. Peering in, Margo could see a tiny room stuffed with masks, shaman’s rattles, painted and beaded skins, and a group of long sticks topped by grimacing heads. Along one wall was a row of wooden cabinets. Moriarty nodded toward them.
“The plants are in there. This other stuff is the shaman paraphernalia. It’s a great collection, but Eastman, the guy who assembled the Cameroon stuff, wasn’t exactly the most careful anthropologist when it came to documentation.”
“This is incredible,” said Margo. “I had no idea—“
“Listen,” Moriarty interrupted, “when we began researching this exhibition, you wouldn’t believe the things we found. There are close to a hundred anthropology vaults in this section alone, and I swear some of them haven’t been opened in forty years.”
Moriarty was suddenly more confident and animated. Margo decided that if he dumped the tweed jacket, shed a few pounds, and swapped the horn-rims for contacts, he could almost be cute.
But Moriarty was still talking. “Just last week, we found one of only a couple of existing examples of Yukaghir pictograph writing—right next door! As soon as I get time, I’ll be writing a note for the JAA.”
[53] Margo smiled. He was so excited, he could have been talking about discovering an unknown Shakespeare play. She was sure that only a dozen readers of the Journal of American Anthropology would be interested. But Moriarty’s enthusiasm was refreshing.
“Anyway,” Moriarty said, pushing his glasses up his nose, “I just need someone to help me make sense of this Cameroon stuff for the display case write-up.”
“What do you want me to do?” Margo asked, temporarily forgetting the next chapter of her dissertation. His enthusiasm was infectious.
“That’s easy,” said Moriarty. “I’ve got the rough script for the case right here.”
He extracted a document from his briefcase. “See,” he said, running a finger down the covering sheet, “this sets out what, ideally, we want the case to say. We call it the story line. All you have to do is flesh this out, plugging in a few of the artifacts and some of the plants.”
Margo scanned the document. It was starting to sound a little more time-consuming than she’d anticipated. “How long do you think this will take, by the way?”
“Oh, ten to fifteen hours, max. I’ve got the accession listings and some descriptive notes right here. But we’ve got to hurry. The opening is just a few days away.”
Back came the memory of her next chapter. “Now wait a minute,” she said. “This is a big job, and I’ve got a dissertation to write.”
The dismay on Moriarty’s face was almost comical. It hadn’t even occurred to him that she might have other things to do. “You mean you can’t help?”
“Maybe I can squeeze it in,” she murmured.
His face brightened. “Great! Listen, while we’re on the sixth floor, let me show you some of the other stuff up here.”
He led her to another vault and inserted a key. The door rasped open to a dazzling display of painted buffalo [54] skulls, rattles, feather bundles, and even a row of what she recognized as raven skeletons tied up with rawhide.
“Jesus,” Margo breathed.
“Ther
e’s a whole religion in here,” Moriarty said. “Wait till you see what we’re putting on display. This is just the stuff left behind. We’ve got one of the best Sun Dance shirts anywhere. And look at this!” He pulled open a drawer. “Original wax cylinder recordings of the Sun Dance cycle songs, every one. Recorded in 1901. We’ve put them on tape, and we’re going to play them in the Sioux room. What do you think? Great exhibition, huh?”
“It’s certainly caused a fuss in the Museum,” Margo replied cautiously.
“Actually, there isn’t as much controversy as people seem to make out,” Moriarty said. “There’s no reason why science and entertainment can’t meet as friends.”
Margo couldn’t resist. “I’ll bet your boss Cuthbert put you up to that line.”
“He’s always felt that exhibitions should be more accessible to the general public. People may attend this because they expect ghosts and goblins and a spooky show—and they’ll get them. But they’ll go away with more than you might expect. Besides, the show’s going to generate a lot of cash for the Museum. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing,” Margo smiled. She’d leave the baiting to Smithback.
But Moriarty wasn’t finished. “I know the word superstition has a bad connotation in some people’s minds,” he said. “It smacks of exploitation. And it’s true that some of the effects we’re putting together for the show are ... well ... a bit sensational. But an exhibit called Aboriginal Religion just wouldn’t sell, would it?” He looked at her with mute appeal.
“I don’t think anyone objects to the title,” Margo said. “I guess there are a few people who don’t feel your ends are truly scientific.”
He shook his head. “Just the crusty old curators and the crackpots. Like Frock, for example. They chose the Superstition exhibition over his proposal for one on evolution. So of course he doesn’t have a good word to say about it.”
Margo’s smile faded. “Dr. Frock is a pretty brilliant anthropologist,” she said.
“Frock? Dr. Cuthbert says he’s gone off the deep end. ‘The man’s bloody daft,’ he says.” Moriarty imitated Cuthbert’s Scottish accent. The sound echoed unpleasantly down the dim corridors.
“I don’t think Cuthbert is half the genius you feel he is,” Margo said.
“Now please, Margo. He’s top rate.”
“Not compared to Dr. Frock, he isn’t. What about the Callisto Effect?” Margo asked. “That’s some of the most cutting-edge work being done today.”
“Does he have a single speck of proof to back up his speculations? Have you seen evidence of any unknown, monstrous species roaming the earth?” Moriarty shook his head again, sending his glasses plunging dangerously down his nose. “Theoretical hype. I mean, theory has its place, but it has to be backed up with fieldwork. And that sidekick of his, Greg Kawakita, just encourages Frock with that extrapolation program he’s developing. I suppose Kawakita’s got his own reasons. But it’s pretty sad, really, to see a great mind take such a bad detour. I mean, just look at Frock’s new book. Fractal Evolution? Even the title sounds more like a kid’s computer game than science.”
Margo listened with rising indignation. Perhaps Smithback had been right about Moriarty, after all. “Well,” she said, “considering my affiliations to Dr. Frock, I don’t suppose you’d want me messing with your exhibit. I might add too much hype to the script.” She turned and walked briskly out the door and down the corridor.
[56] Moriarty looked shocked. Too late, he remembered that Frock was her major advisor. He danced after her.
“Oh, no, no, I didn’t mean—“ he stammered. “Please, I was just ... You know that Frock and Cuthbert don’t get along. I guess I’ve picked up some of that.”
He looked so horrified that Margo felt her anger fade.
“I didn’t know they had that much of a problem with each other,” she said, allowing Moriarty to stop her.
“Oh, yes. From way back. You know that ever since Frock came forward with this Callisto Effect, his star has been falling in the Museum. Now he’s a department head in name only, and Cuthbert pulls the strings. Of course, I’ve just heard one side of the story. I’m very sorry, really. You will do the case for me, right?”
“On the condition,” Margo countered, “that you get me out of this maze. I’ve got to get back to work.”
“Oh, sure. Sorry,” Moriarty said. The gaffe had brought back all of his shyness, and as they began retracing their way to the fifth floor, he was silent.
“So tell me more about your exhibition.” Margo tried to put him at ease. “I’ve heard a little about some fabulously rare artifacts that will be on display.”
“I guess you must mean the Kothoga tribe material,” Moriarty said. “Only one expedition has ever found any traces of them. The figurine of their mythical beast Mbwun is—well, it’s one of the centerpieces of the show.” He hesitated. “Or I should say, it will be one of the centerpieces. It’s not on display yet.”
“Really?” Margo asked. “Isn’t that waiting till the last minute?”
“The situation is kind of unusual,” Moriarty replied. “But listen, Margo, this isn’t for public consumption.” They had returned to the catwalks, and Moriarty led her down the long corridors, speaking low. “There’s been a lot of high-level interest in the Kothoga artifacts recently. People like Rickman, Dr. Cuthbert ... even Wright, apparently. There’s been controversy over [57] whether the material should be included in the exhibition. Surely you’ve heard the stories of a curse on the figurine, that sort of nonsense?”
“Not much,” Margo said.
“The expedition that found the Kothoga material met with tragedy,” Moriarty continued, “and nobody’s been near the stuff since. It’s still in the original crates. Just last week, all the crates were taken from the basement area where they’d sat all these years and moved to the Secure Area. Nobody’s had access to them since, and I haven’t been able to prepare the final displays.”
“But why were they moved?” Margo pressed.
They entered the elevator. Moriarty waited until the door had closed before answering. “Apparently, the crates had been recently tampered with.”
“What? You mean somebody had broken in?”
Moriarty stared at Margo, his owlish face wearing its look of perpetual surprise. “I didn’t say that,” he replied.
He turned the key, and the elevator lurched downward.
= 10 =
D’Agosta wished with all his heart that the double-chili-cheeseburger in his stomach would disappear. Not that it was bothering him—yet—but it was an unwelcome presence.
The place smelled like they all did. In fact it stank. All the disinfectants in the world couldn’t cover up the smell of death. And the vomit-green walls in the Medical Examiner’s Office didn’t help things any. Nor did the large gurney, currently empty, sitting like an uninvited guest under the bright lights of the autopsy suite.
His thoughts were interrupted as a large woman entered, two men following close behind. D’Agosta noticed stylish glasses, blonde hair escaping from under a surgeon’s cap. The woman strode over and held out her hand, her red lipstick creased in a professional smile.
“Dr. Ziewicz,” she said, with a crushing grip. “You must be D’Agosta. This is my assistant, Dr. Fred Gross.” Ziewicz indicated a short, skinny man. “And [59] this is our photographer, Delbert Smith.” Delbert nodded, clutching a 4x5 Deardorff to his chest.
“So, Dr. Ziewicz, you come here often?” D’Agosta asked, suddenly eager to say something, anything, to stall the inevitable.
“NYME’s my home away from home,” Ziewicz replied with the same smile. “My field is—how shall I put it—special forensics. For just about everybody. We do our thing and ship them back out. Then I read about what it all means in the papers.” She looked at him speculatively. “You’ve, ah, seen this kind of thing before, right?”
“Oh yeah,” said D’Agosta. “All the time.” The burger in his gut felt like a lead ingot
. Why didn’t he think ahead, remember what his afternoon schedule was before chowing down like a damned hog?
“That’s good.” Ziewicz consulted her clipboard. “Let’s see, parental consent? Good. Looks like everything’s in order. Fred, start with 5-B.”
She began slipping on latex gloves, three pairs, a mask, goggles, and a plastic apron. D’Agosta did likewise.
Gross wheeled the gurney over to the morgue bank and slid out 5-B. The indistinct shape under the plastic looked strangely short to D’Agosta, with an odd bulge at one end. Gross slid the cadaver and its tray onto the gurney, wheeled the cart under the lights, checked the toe tag, and locked down the wheels. He placed a stainless-steel bucket under the gurney’s outlet pipe.
Ziewicz was fiddling with the microphone hanging above the body.
“Testing, one two three ... Fred, this mike is totally dead.”
Fred bent over the reel-to-reel. “I can’t understand it, everything’s turned on.”
D’Agosta cleared his throat. “It’s unplugged,” he said.
There was a short silence.
[60] “Well,” said Ziewicz, “I’m glad there’s someone here who’s not a scientist. If you have any questions or comments, Mr. D’Agosta, please state your name and speak clearly toward the microphone. Okay? Everything goes on the tape. I’m just going to describe the state of the body first, and then we’ll start cutting.”
“Got it,” D’Agosta replied tonelessly. Cutting. It was one thing when a dead body was just lying there at the scene. But when they started cutting into it, peeling the layers away—he’d never gotten used to that.
“Are we up and running? Good. This is Dr. Matilda Ziewicz and Dr. Frederick Gross, and the date is Monday, March 27, at two-fifteen in the afternoon. We are joined by Detective Sergeant—?”
“Lieutenant Vincent.”
“Lieutenant Vincent D’Agosta, of the NYPD. We have here—“
Fred read off the tag. “William Howard Bridgeman, number 33-A45.”
“I am now removing the covering.” The thick plastic crackled.
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