He glanced over at Pendergast and felt faintly gratified to see that even the great detective was looking whiter than usual. Pendergast's normal impulses to poke, pry, and sniff seemed to have deserted him. He stood there, dressed in white tie and tails, something almost like shock on his face.
The last of the SOC boys—the fingernail picker—came back around the corpse on his hands and knees, bristling with test tubes and tweezers and swabs. He looked pretty green, too, and those guys were a tough bunch. They were the ones who had to find the fibers and hairs, swab stains, pick up all the bits and pieces. Close-in work, real close.
The M.E. ducked in. "Finished?"
"I sure hope so."
Pendergast held out his shield. "Mind if I ask a few questions, Doctor?"
"Shoot."
"Do you have a cause of death?"
"Not yet. Heating, burning, is clear. But as for the cause… I have no idea."
"Accelerants?"
"Negative, at least prelim," the SOC man answered. "There are other anomalies. Note the lack of the pugilistic effect—there's none of the contraction of the arm muscles one usually sees in such severe burn cases. Note also the heat fracturing in the bones of the extremities. Nearer the center of the body, the bones have actually been calcined. Do you have any idea how hot a fire would have to be to cause this kind of damage? Well over the combustion threshold. And yet there was no room flashover. In fact, from the look of things, the fire never even approached flashover. The heat was localized to the body, and the body only."
"What kind of heat was applied?"
The doctor shook his head. "No idea yet."
"Spontaneous combustion?"
The doctor looked up sharply. "You mean, like Mary Reeser?"
"You know of that case, Doctor?"
"It's kind of a legend in medical school. A joke, really. I seem to recall the FBI handled it."
"Yes. And if the case file can be believed, SHC—spontaneous human combustion, as it's referred to—is far from being a joke."
The doctor gave a low, cynical laugh. "You FBI fellows and your acronyms. I don't believe you'll find 'SHC' in the Merck Manual, Mr. Pendergast."
"There is more in the world than is dreamt of in your philosophy, Doctor—or in the Merck Manual. I will send over the case file for your perusal."
"As you wish." The doctor departed with the SOC man, leaving them alone with the body.
D'Agosta removed his notebook and pen. Nothing was coming into his head, but he needed a way to take his eyes off the scene, and this was it. He roused himself and wrote, October 23, 2:20 A.M., 842 Fifth Avenue, Apt. 17B, Cutforth. The pen faltered as he tried to breathe only through his mouth. From now on, he was going to carry a jar of Vicks VapoRub with him always. On dates. On vacation. Out for bowling. Always.
He heard murmured voices in the living room: detectives from Homicide. They'd been interviewing a maintenance worker outside the hall—away from the stench—and D'Agosta had been thankful to duck past them on entering the apartment. He didn't want any of his old pals seeing him with the Southampton P.D. patch and sergeant stripes on his shoulder.
His gaze focused back on the page of his notebook. His mind wasn't working. He gave up and raised his eyes.
Pendergast seemed to have overcome his revulsion and was now on his hands and knees, examining the corpse. Like the SOC guy, he had a glass test tube and a pair of tweezers in his hands—where did he keep all that stuff in such a narrow-tailored suit?—and was putting something into it, moving around with great care. Then he moved toward a wall, where he stopped to examine a scorched area with a magnifying glass. He spent so much time staring at it that D'Agosta began to stare, too. The paint of the scorched patch was browned and bubbled. There was no hoofprint that he could see, but as he stared a creeping sensation began to tickle its way up his spine and dig into his scalp. It was blurry, indistinct, but—damn—was it just like those inkblot tests, all in his mind?
Pendergast suddenly turned and caught his eye. "You see it, too?"
"I think so."
"What exactly do you see?"
"A face."
"What kind?"
"Ugly as shit, thick lips, big eyes, with a mouth open as if to bite."
"Or swallow?"
"Yeah, more like swallow."
"It's uncannily reminiscent of Vasari's fresco of the devil swallowing sinners. The one inside of the cupola of the Duomo."
"Yeah? I mean, yeah."
Pendergast stepped back thoughtfully. "Are you familiar with the story of Dr. Faustus?"
"Faustus? You mean, Faust? The guy who sold his soul to the devil?"
Pendergast nodded. "There are any number of variants of the story. Most come down to us in manuscript accounts written in the Middle Ages. While each account has its unique characteristics, they all involve a death similar to that of Mrs. Mary Reeser."
"The case you mentioned to the M.E. just now."
"Exactly. Spontaneous human combustion. The medievals called it the fire within."
D'Agosta nodded. His brain felt like lead.
"Here, with Nigel Cutforth, we seem to have a classic example. Even more so than with Grove."
"Are you telling me you think the devil claimed this guy?"
"I offer the observation without attaching any hypothesis."
D'Agosta shook his head. The whole thing was creepy. Seriously creepy. He felt his hand stealing toward his cross again. It couldn’t be the work of the devil… could it?
"Good evening, gentlemen." The voice came from behind: female, a rich contralto, calm, efficient.
D'Agosta turned to see a woman framed in the doorway, dressed in a gray pinstripe suit with captain's bars on the collar of her white shirt. Several detectives were visible behind her. He took in the features: petite, thin, large breasts, glossy black hair framing a pale, almost delicate face. Her eyes were a rich blue. She looked no more than thirty-five: amazingly young for a full captain in the Homicide Division. She looked familiar. He knew her. The sick feeling returned. Maybe he'd been a little premature in congratulating himself that he wouldn't run into any of his old buddies.
"I'm Captain Hayward," she said briskly, looking at D'Agosta a little too intently for comfort—recognizing him too, it seemed. "I know you already presented credentials at the door, but may I see them again?"
"Certainly, Captain." Pendergast had his badge out in one elegant movement.
Hayward took it, examined it, looked up. "Mr. Pendergast."
Pendergast bowed. "It's a pleasure to see you again, Captain Hayward. May I congratulate you on your return to the force, and most particularly on making captain?"
Hayward let that pass without comment and turned back to D'Agosta. He had removed his shield for her, but she wasn't looking at it. She was looking at him.
The name brought it all back: Laura Hayward, who'd been a transit cop back in his former life, going to school at the time, writing some book on the underground homeless in Manhattan, working toward a graduate degree or something. They had worked together briefly on the Pamela Wisher case. That was when she was the sergeant and he a lieutenant. He felt his gut sink.
"And you must be Lieutenant Vincent D'Agosta."
"Sergeant Vincent D'Agosta these days." He felt himself coloring. He really didn't feel like making more explanations. It was a frigging disgrace and there was no way around it.
"Sergeant D'Agosta? No longer NYPD?"
"Southampton P.D. You know, as in Long Island. I'm the FBI liaison on the Grove case."
He looked up to find her hand out. He took it, gave it a desultory shake. The hand was warm, a little damp. It gave D'Agosta a secret satisfaction to note she wasn't quite as cool as she seemed.
"Glad to be working with you again." The voice was crisp, devoid of morbid curiosity. D'Agosta felt relieved. There would be no chitchat, no prying questions. Totally professional.
"I, for one, am happy to see the case in such capable hands," Pendergast s
aid.
"Thank you."
"You always struck me as an officer who could be relied on to conduct a vigorous investigation."
"Thanks again. And if I can be frank, you always struck me as somebody who never worried much about the chain of command or who let the formalities of standard police procedure get in your way."
If Pendergast was surprised by this, he gave no sign. "True."
"Well then, let's get this chain of command clear at the outset—shall we?"
"Excellent idea."
"This is my case. Bench warrants, subpoenas, whatever must be cleared through my office first, unless we're dealing with an emergency. Any communication with the press will be coordinated through my office. Perhaps that's not how you operate, but that's how I operate."
Pendergast nodded. "Understood."
"People talk about how the FBI sometimes has trouble getting along with local law enforcement. That's not going to happen here. For one thing, we're not 'local law enforcement.' We're the New York Police Department, Homicide Division. We will work with the Federal Bureau of Investigation as full equals and in no other way."
"Certainly, Captain."
"We will, naturally, return the courtesy."
"I should expect no less."
"I do things by the book, even when the book is stupid. You know why? That's how we get the conviction. Any funny business at all, and a New York jury will acquit."
"True, very true," Pendergast said.
"Tomorrow morning, 8 A.M. sharp, and every Tuesday thereafter for the duration of the case, we'll be meeting at One Police Plaza, seventeenth-floor situation room, you, me, and Lieutenant—I mean Sergeant—D'Agosta. All cards on the table."
"Eight A.M.," Pendergast repeated.
"Coffee and Danish on us."
A look of distaste settled on Pendergast's features. "I shall have already breakfasted, thank you."
Hayward looked at her watch. "How much more time do you gentlemen need?"
"I believe five more minutes should do it," said Pendergast. "Any information you can share with us now?"
"An elderly woman in the apartment below was the witness, or as close as we have to a witness. The murder occurred shortly after eleven. She seems to have heard the deceased having convulsions and screaming. She assumed he was having a party." A dry smile flickered across her face. "It grew quiet. And then, at 11:22, a substance began leaking through her ceiling: melted adipose tissue from the deceased."
Melted adipose tissue. D'Agosta began to write this down, then stopped. It didn't seem likely he'd forget it.
"About the same time, the smoke alarms and sprinklers went off—that would be at 11:24 and 11:25 respectively. Maintenance went up to check, found the door locked, no answer, and a foul smell emanating from the apartment. They opened the door with a master key at 11:29 and found the deceased as you see him now. The temperature in the apartment was almost one hundred degrees when we arrived, fifteen minutes later."
D'Agosta exchanged a glance with Pendergast. "Tell me about the adjacent neighbors."
"The man above heard nothing until the alarms went off but complained of a bad smell. There are only two apartments on this floor: the other one has been purchased but is still empty. The new owner is an Englishman, a Mr. Aspern." She pulled a pad from her breast pocket, scribbled something on it, and handed it to Pendergast. "Here are their names. Aspern is currently in England. Mr. Roland Beard is in the apartment above, and Letitia Dallbridge is in the apartment below. Do you wish to interview either of them now?"
"Not necessary." Pendergast glanced at her, then looked at the burn mark on the wall.
Hayward's lip curled, whether in amusement or something else D'Agosta wasn't sure. "You noticed it, I see."
"I did. Any thoughts?"
"Wasn't it you, Mr. Pendergast, who once cautioned me against forming premature hypotheses?"
Pendergast returned the smile. "You learned well."
"I learned from a master." She looked at D'Agosta as she spoke.
There was a brief silence.
"I'll leave you to it, gentlemen." She nodded to her men, who followed her out the door.
Pendergast turned to D'Agosta. "It seems our Laura Hayward has grown up, don't you think?"
D'Agosta simply nodded.
{ 22 }
Bryce Harriman stood on the corner of Fifth Avenue and 67th Street, staring up at one of those anonymous white-brick high-rises that infested the Upper East Side. It was a gray Tuesday afternoon, and Harriman had the dull ache of an old hangover pulsing somewhere behind his eyeballs. His editor, Ritts, had chewed him out for not covering the story the night before. Well, he wasn't on call, like a doctor, was he? He sure as hell wasn't being paid enough to go out sniffing up copy at three o'clock in the morning. And besides, he'd been in no condition to cover a murder. It was all he could do to find his way home on the subway.
He thought there might be some stragglers, but what he'd found instead was a crowd, generated by morning television news and the Internet. Here it was, past two in the afternoon, but at least a hundred people had converged on the block—rubberneckers, Goths, white witches, East Village weirdos, even a few Hare Krishnas, which he hadn't seen in New York in at least half a dozen years. Didn't any of these people have jobs? To his right, a bunch of satanists wearing what looked like medieval robes were drawing pentagrams on the sidewalk and chanting. To his left, a group of nuns were praying on their rosaries. A bunch of teenyboppers were holding a vigil, candles burning despite the time of day, singing to the accompaniment of a strummed guitar. It was unbelievable, something out of a Fellini film.
As he looked around, Harriman felt a swelling of excitement. He'd scored a mild success the week before with his piece about the Grove murder. Yet there had been little evidence to go on, and his story had been long on lurid speculation. But now he was here on the heels of a second murder—a murder that, from the whispered rumors that surged through the crowd like electricity, was even worse. Maybe his editor was right. Maybe he should have been here in the wee hours of the morning, despite all the single-malt Scotch he had unwisely imbibed at the Algonquin with his buddies the night before.
Another thought occurred to Harriman. This was his chance to stick it to his old nemesis Bill Smithback, busy dipping his wick on his honeymoon. Angkor Wat, of all places. Smithback, that bastard, who now had his old spot at the Times—not through brilliant journalism, or even just plain old pavement—pounding, but through sheer dumb luck. He'd happened to be at the right place at the right time, not once, but several times: during the subway murders a couple years back, and then again just last fall, with the Surgeon murders. That last was particularly bitter: Harriman owned the story—he'd already beaten Smithback to the punch—but then that stupid police captain, Custer, had stuffed him with false leads…
It wasn't fair. It was Harriman's connections that had gotten him the job at the Times, that and his distinguished last name. Harriman was the one—with his carefully pressed Brooks Brothers suits and his repp ties—who belonged in the rarefied and elevated atmosphere of the Times. Not rumpled, slovenly Smithback, who had been quite at home among the bottom-feeders at the Post…
Water under the bridge. Now this was hot and Smithback was ten thousand miles away. If the killings went on—and Harriman fervently hoped they would—the story would only get bigger. There might be television opportunities, magazine articles, a big book contract. Maybe even a Pulitzer. With any luck, the Times would be only too happy to get him back.
He was jostled by an old man in a wizard costume, gave a hard shove back. There was an almost hysterical frenzy to the crowd Harriman had never seen before, a potentially dangerous mixture if you stopped to think about it: volatile, like a tinderbox.
There was a sudden noise off to one side, and Harriman looked over. Some Elvis impersonator in gold lamé—a halfway-decent-looking one, for a change—was blaring "Burning Love" with the aid of a portable karaoke machine:
/>
"I feel my temperature rising."
The crowd was growing noisier, more restless. Now and then Harriman could hear the distant shriek of a police siren.
"Lord Almighty, I'm burning a hole where I lay."
He had his tape recorder ready; he could pick up some color to add to what he already had on the murder itself. He looked around. There was a guy at his elbow, in leather boots and a Stetson, carrying a crystal wand in one hand and a live hamster in the other. Nah: too weird. Someone more representative. Like that kid with the Mohawk not far away, in black. A pimply middle-class suburban kid trying to be different.
"Excuse me!" He elbowed his way toward the youth. "Excuse me! New York Post. Can I ask a few questions?"
The kid looked toward him, eyes lighting up. They were all so eager for their fifteen nanoseconds of fame.
"Why are you here?"
"Haven't you heard? The devil has come!" The kid's face positively shone. "Some guy up there. He's just like the one out on Long Island. The devil took his soul, fried him to a crisp! Dragged him down to hell, kicking and screaming."
"How'd you hear about this?"
"It's all over the Web."
"By why are you, personally, here?"
The kid looked at him as if the question was idiotic. "Why do you think? To pay my respects to the Man in Red."
Now a group of aging hippies started to sing "Sympathy for the Devil" in cracked falsettos. The smell of pot wafted toward him. Harriman struggled to hear, to think, amidst the hubbub. "Where are you from?"
"Me and my buddies came over from Fort Lee." Some of his "buddies" were now crowding around, all dressed exactly like he was. "Who's this guy?" one asked.
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