The Inquisitor's Key: A Body Farm Novel

by Jefferson Bass

  “Let’s turn on the work lights,” I suggested, as much to distract Miranda as anything else. “Can you find the switches for those?”

  She opened her cell phone again and disappeared behind one of the support pillars; a moment later, my eyelids and pupils clamped down against the glare of the halogen bulbs.

  The lights only underscored the emptiness of the room. Miranda looked at me; wordlessly, we headed for the blue tarp that curtained off the excavation area. I ducked around one end of the tarp, Miranda around the other. Our eyes automatically swiveled to the same spot. The table was empty; the bones were gone.

  “I feel sick,” Miranda said. “Whatever’s going on, it’s not good.”

  “Maybe not,” I conceded, “but let’s try not to panic. Let’s look around a little more, then go outside and try to reach Stefan again.” She nodded, chewing her lip.

  I studied the table where we’d laid out the bones in anatomical order. The white sheet was still in place; a few small smudges and stains confirmed that yes, this was where the bones had lain. I lifted the fabric that overhung the table and stooped to peer beneath it. “The ossuary’s gone, too,” she predicted, and she was right. “Goddamn it,” she said, but there was no heat behind the curse, just weariness. “I should have known.”

  “Known what?”

  “Known better. Known something would go wrong. Known that Stefan was working an angle. Known that he was still the same guy who cheats on his wife, shafts his colleagues, or does some other damn selfish thing that’s gonna blow up in our faces and make us the collateral damage, the civilian casualties, the friendly-fire deaths.” I considered trotting out my exaggeration joke yet again, but it dawned on me that Miranda might not be exaggerating this time. “He’s taken the bones and skipped town,” she said. “I just know it. They’re probably on eBay right now.”

  “They won’t be on eBay,” I said, “but they sure aren’t here, and I don’t see a helpful note explaining why. Let’s lock up and see if we can find out what the hell’s going on.”

  We switched off the work lights, climbed the stairs, and switched off the dim string of bulbs in the stairwell. By the faint light of Miranda’s phone, I wrestled the heavy gate shut, then hit a problem. “I don’t see the lock,” I told Miranda.

  She brought the phone closer, playing its bluish-white glow over the hasp and then the nearby bars. “Hmm.” She widened her search, sweeping the light horizontally across the entire gate at waist height, then in progressively lower tracks at each horizontal crossbar. When she reached the level of the floor, she grunted, then said softly, “Oh, shit.” I bent to look at whatever she’d seen.

  The padlock—the industrial-strength lock with the inch-thick shackle of hardened steel—had been cut in half.

  “NOW WHAT?” ASKED MIRANDA.

  We’d voiced our concerns to the ranking security officer at the palace; he took notes and promised to investigate, but he didn’t seem nearly as worried as Miranda and I were. After that, we’d gone to the police station, but the entrance was locked. A notice taped to the glass door announced FERMÉ—JOUR FÉRIÉ. OUVERT LUNDI. “Damn,” said Miranda. “Closed. Religious holiday. Open Monday.”

  “Swell,” I said. “It’d be a great day to rob a bank, if we weren’t otherwise occupied.” I hesitated. “Do you…happen to have a key to Stefan’s apartment?”

  She punched me in the shoulder. “No, I don’t happen to have a key to his apartment, but thanks for the vote of confidence. I came to work, not to get laid.” She drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Sorry; my issue, not yours. It was a reasonable question. But the answer’s still no. I don’t have a key.”

  “Do you know where it is?”

  “What, the key?”

  “No, Einstein, the apartment,” I said.

  “Ah. Actually, I do know where the apartment is. Stefan invited me for dinner the first night. I think I can find it again. It’s not far from the palace, and it’s got a balcony with a view of the palace and cathedral. If we stand at the front of the cathedral, I bet I can spot his balcony, and then we can figure out how to get to his building.”

  Fueled by fear, we hurried back to the main plaza and scurried up the staircase to the cathedral, positioning ourselves directly in front of an immense crucifix. Shading her eyes against the late-morning sun, Miranda scanned the skyline. “I wish I hadn’t had that third glass of wine that night,” she said. “The view of the palace and the cathedral was great. I remember that much, but not much more than that.” She frowned, shaking her head. “Damn it. Why didn’t I pay more attention?”

  I couldn’t resist the opening. “Hmm, maybe because you were delirious from appendicitis?” Her elbow caught me just beneath the ribs. “Youch! Now it’s my appendix that’s exploding. Come on, you know you deserved that.”

  “Yeah, I know. Sorry—I’m taking out my guilt on you. It’s less painful that way.” She gave me another token jab. “See? I feel better already.”

  “So, the night of the winefest, you went out on the balcony. Were you standing? Perching on stools? Sitting on a stone balustrade?” She shrugged. “Doing handstands on a metal railing?”

  “Yes!” she suddenly shouted, grabbing my arm. “That’s it—a metal railing. A cheap-ass, flimsy metal railing. One of the damn welds broke when I leaned on it. I almost fell off, from five stories up. Dogs would’ve been licking my brains off the sidewalk. Only thing that kept me from falling was a windsock I managed to grab.” She shook her head. “That’s why I didn’t go to bed with Stefan that night, even though I was looped and he was trying to put the moves on me. I thought, You bastard, you let me lean on this cheap-ass, flimsy railing that could’ve killed me. You’re still the same thoughtless, selfish sonofabitch you were last time I saw you. It’s true, Dr. B—plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.”

  “Huh?”

  “Old French saying. ‘The more things change, the more they stay the same.’”

  “I prefer Eckhart’s warning about the price of inaction,” I said. “Come on, let’s look for a fifth-story balcony with a cheap-ass, flimsy metal railing.” Together we studied the buildings that overlooked the plaza, the palace, and the cathedral.

  “It was a block or two away,” she said. “Maybe three. I remember rooftops between Stefan’s place and the palace.” Suddenly she smacked herself in the forehead. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what a dumb-ass. I took a picture from the balcony with my iPhone.” She fished out the phone and whisked her finger across the screen, scrolling through her photos. “Here it is!” She performed a magician-like maneuver with her fingertips, and the view zoomed in, enlarging the details at the center of the photo. The image was small—not even the size of a postcard—but it was crisp enough to show three sets of tiled rooftops, a cluster of chimneys, and a thicket of television aerials between the lens and the spot where we were standing. I studied the photo, looking for distinctive features that would help me lock in on the balcony. “Got it,” she said, squeezing my arm again, then pointing. “The modern building? The one with the ugly TV antennas on top?”

  “I see it.”

  “One floor from the top, slightly left of center. See that red and blue and yellow thing? That’s the wind sock that saved my life.”

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  She didn’t answer. She was already halfway down the stairs.

  WE TOOK TWO WRONG TURNS IN THE MAZE OF STREETS to the west of the palace, but within twenty minutes we were standing before the glass-doored entrance to Stefan’s building. The doors were locked—not surprising—but I’d given no thought to what we’d do once we found the place.

  “Now what?” I said.

  She scanned the sidewalks on either side of the street, then pointed to a shoe store that was two doors down. “Come on. Have you got some money?”

  “This is your idea of a plan? To buy shoes?”

  “Watch and learn.”

  Five minutes and ten euros later, we walked out of th
e shoe store, laden with shopping bags filled with shoe boxes. Empty shoe boxes. The clerk had stared at us as if we were crazy, but buying a dozen boxes was a lot cheaper than buying a dozen pairs of shoes. Our hands conspicuously full, we loitered in front of a women’s clothing boutique next to the apartment entrance, pretending to window-shop. A saleswoman smiled and beckoned to us from inside—our bags marked us as big spenders—but Miranda fended her off with a slight shake of the head. The woman’s smile faded, and her expression shifted to disappointment, then suspicion. Suddenly Miranda hissed, “Now!”

  A middle-aged man had just emerged from the apartments, and the door was swinging shut behind him. “Monsieur, monsieur, s’il vous plaît,” Miranda called. The man looked our way, and—seeing an attractive young woman struggling with an armful of packages and a faceful of smile—he caught the door and held it. Miranda sashayed inside with a “Merci beaucoup,” trailing feminine mystique and me in her wake.

  We tucked our shopping bags behind a potted palm tree in a corner of the lobby and called the elevator. When we got off on Stefan’s floor, Miranda turned right. Walking slowly, she studied the doors on the far side of the hallway—the side facing the palace. She hesitated in front of a door marked 407, then moved on.

  “Don’t you remember which one is his?”

  “Sshh.”

  “Wasn’t his balcony the third from the end?”

  “SSHH!” She sounded scarily like the German woman in Turin Cathedral.

  Three doors from the end, at 405, she stopped and nodded, pointing at a small, half-peeled decal on the door. With the knuckle of her index finger, she rapped three times, then pressed her ear to the wood and listened. Wordlessly she shook her head. She knocked again, louder this time, and once more she listened. Nothing. She reached for the knob and slowly, slowly tried it. To my surprise, the door opened and we stepped inside.

  The apartment was a mess: dirty dishes in the sink and on the kitchen counters, clothes everywhere, mail and stacks of papers strewn on every horizontal surface that wasn’t occupied by dishes. My first thought was that the place had been ransacked, but my second thought—considering that ransackers don’t tend to smear food on plates and silverware—was that Stefan was a terrible slob. “Not exactly a neat freak,” I observed. “Was it like this the night you were here?”

  “No, it was neater than this.” Miranda surveyed the carnage in the kitchen. “I think that plate there—the one with the dried hummus and moldy pita bread?—I think that was mine. And I’m pretty sure that’s my wineglass; it has my lipstick on it.”

  I refrained—barely—from asking, Since when do you wear lipstick?

  It was in the bedroom that my mental pendulum swung back to my first thought. Having lived alone for years now, I knew what bachelor clutter looked like: dirty clothes strewn on the floor; clean clothes piled on the dresser and bed. Mostly I kept a handle on my housekeeping, though occasionally the clutter got out of hand. But Stefan’s bedroom was beyond cluttered; Stefan’s bedroom was a study in chaos. All the drawers of the dresser hung open, empty or nearly so; shoes, sweaters, even spare linens had been pulled from the closet floor and shelf; the overstuffed armchair in one corner of the room lay on its side, the fabric lining on its underside in tatters. “Somebody’s been here looking for something,” I said, feeling a chill run up my spine.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this, boss,” Miranda murmured.

  “Call Stefan’s phone again.”

  “I’ve already called a dozen times. I called just before we went in the shoe store.”

  “I know, but we weren’t in here when you did. I’m sure he’s not going to answer. I want to know if his phone’s in here.”

  “Ah. Good idea.” She hit the redial button, and through her speaker, I heard his phone beginning to ring. Unless the ringer was off or the battery was dead, his phone wasn’t here.

  After five or six rings, I expected to hear a voice mail coming faintly through the speaker. What I heard instead electrified me. There was a click, then silence: The call had been accepted, but whoever took it didn’t speak. Miranda’s eyes, big as saucers, met mine. “Hello?” she said. “Stefan?” No response. “Who is this?” she demanded. “Where is Stefan?” There was a long silence on the other end of the line, and then a click, and the screen flashed the message Call ended.

  “TAKE A RIGHT HERE,” I SAID. “I THINK IT’S IN THIS BLOCK.”

  “Where are we going, and why?” Miranda was edgy, and I didn’t blame her.

  “A few nights ago—it was the night before we went to Turin—I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a walk. It was late, around midnight. I bumped into Stefan. He was coming out of the palace.”

  “At midnight?”

  “Yeah. We walked around for, I don’t know, half an hour or so.” Just ahead, on the left, I spotted the passageway leading from the Rue Saint-Agricol. “He brought me here.” I led her through the corridor and into the courtyard. “This used to be the chapel of the Knights Templar. Stefan had a key—funny, Stefan seems to have keys to everything—and he took me inside. He was kinda dragging his heels when we left.” Suddenly I remembered. “When I left. I walked away, but he didn’t—he hung around here, and I wondered if maybe he was waiting for somebody else to show up. He acted anxious to get rid of me, you know? And he stayed behind after he shooed me away.”

  “Jesus, why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”

  “The truth?”

  “Please.”

  “I wondered if maybe he was meeting you. A moonlight rendezvous in the chapel of the Templars.” She didn’t say anything, but I noticed the muscles of her jaw working. Reluctantly, I reached for the black iron knob, hoping that it would not turn in my hand. But it did. The chapel’s heavy wooden door swung inward, and Miranda and I stepped inside.

  The air was cool in the stone interior—cool, pungent, and coppery. It was a mixture of smells I knew only too well. “Maybe you’d better wait outside,” I told Miranda.

  “Hell, no.” I knew there was no point arguing with her.

  A maroon velvet drape separated the entryway from the soaring, vaulted space of the chapel itself. As I held the curtain aside, Miranda stepped through, and I followed half a step behind.

  She gasped and reached back for me, her fingers digging into my arm. Then she turned and buried her face in my chest.

  Congealing on the stone floor was a pool of blood, already black at its rim, still red at the center. High overhead was the arched metal truss that supported the theater lights. Suspended horizontally from a cable and pulley at the center of the truss was a short wooden beam. And nailed to that beam—like some modern-day minimalist crucifix—was the nude body of Stefan Beauvoir.

  PART II

  The Second Coming

  Turning and turning in the widening gyre

  The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

  Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

  Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

  The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

  The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

  The best lack all conviction, while the worst

  Are full of passionate intensity.

  Surely some revelation is at hand;

  Surely the Second Coming is at hand.

  The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out

  When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi

  Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert

  A shape with lion body and the head of a man,

  A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,

  Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it

  Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.

  The darkness drops again; but now I know

  That twenty centuries of stony sleep

  Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,

  And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,

  Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

  —
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS

  CHAPTER 21

  FOR A LAW-ENFORCEMENT AGENCY THAT HAD LOCKED its doors and taken a holiday, the French Police Nationale now responded with impressive speed and force. Barely five minutes after Miranda had dragged a startled French passerby into the gruesome chapel—a desperate measure, but that’s what it took to persuade him we had a true emergency—I heard the two-note clarinet warble of a French siren. It was soon joined by another, then a third, then a fourth. The cacophonous quartet crescendoed and then died as the caravan of police cars screeched to a halt in the narrow street outside. Eight uniformed officers charged toward us through the passageway and across the courtyard. Miranda and the passerby waved them into the chapel as I held the door. When they saw Stefan’s body hanging in midair, his face a mask of agony, two of the officers crossed themselves; one, a close-cropped young man who couldn’t have been a day over twenty, staggered back to the doorway and vomited, barely missing my shoes.

  A wiry, forty-something man with the crisp bearing of a former soldier took charge, ordering two of his underlings to cordon off the area. It wasn’t hard to do; they simply taped off the ten-foot-wide mouth of the corridor that led to the street. The words stretched across the opening were in French—ZONE IN-TERDITE—POLICE TECHNIQUE ET SCIENTIFIQUE—but the yellow-and-black tape spoke the universal language of crime scenes.

  Talking in rapid-fire French with the man who’d placed the emergency call, the officer in charge—Sergeant Henri Petitjean, according to the ID bar on his chest—divided his attention (that is to say, his piercing glare) between the shell-shocked man, Miranda, and me. The unfortunate Passerby, who had probably been anticipating a leisurely Sunday-morning café au lait and baguette, was doing a lot of exasperated shrugging and indignant pointing—the shrugging at the policeman, the pointing at us; eventually, he gave a dismissive wave of his hand and turned to leave. In a flash, the policeman spun him around, pinned him to the wall, and made it crystal clear that he was not going anywhere except to one of the courtyard café tables, where he ordered the shaken man to sit.