“Nobody ever makes their plans as if they’re going to die the next day.”
Frock shook his head. “Simon was like most of the MEs I’ve known. Exciting, high-profile cases like this are rare, and when one comes along… well, they can’t always resist the drama.” He looked suddenly at his watch. “Oh, dear. You know, I almost forgot that I have an appointment in Osteology. Margo, I wonder if you would be willing to leave that aside and take over here for a while. Maybe it’s this tragic news, or maybe I’ve just been staring at these bones too long. But I think the work could benefit from a fresh eye.”
“Of course,” said Margo. “What exactly are you looking for?”
“I wish I knew. I’m quite sure this person had a congenital disease. I want to quantify the morphological changes to see if there’s been a genetic shift. Unfortunately, that means measuring almost every bone in the body. I thought I’d start with the wrist and finger bones, since as you know they’re the most sensitive to genetic change.”
Margo looked down at the examining table. “That could take days,” she said.
Frock shrugged in exasperation. “I’m only too aware of that, my dear.” He gripped the rails of his wheelchair and gave himself a powerful push toward the door.
Wearily, Margo began measuring each bone with the electronic calipers and entering the measurements on the workstation keyboard. Even the smallest bones required a dozen measurements, and soon a long column of numbers was scrolling up the nearby screen. She tried not to grow impatient with the tedious work and the tomblike silence of the lab. If Frock was right, and the deformation was congenital, this would greatly narrow their search for the identity of the body. And at this point, they could use any lead they could find: The skeletons from the Physical Anthropology lab had provided no clues. As she worked, she found herself wondering what Brambell would have thought. But the memory of Brambell was too awful. To think of the man, set upon and murdered… She shook her head, forcing herself to concentrate on other things.
The sudden ringing of the telephone jarred her from a particularly complicated measurement. It rang again—two short beeps—and she realized it was an outside call. Probably D’Agosta, calling about Dr. Brambell.
She picked it up. “Forensics.”
“Is Dr. Brambell there?” asked a clipped, youthful-sounding voice.
“Dr. Brambell?” Margo’s thoughts raced. What if it was a relative? What should she say?
“Hello?” came the voice.
“Yes, yes,” said Margo. “Dr. Brambell isn’t available. Can I help you?”
“I’m not sure. It’s a confidential matter. May I ask who I’m speaking to?”
“The name is Dr. Green,” said Margo. “I’m assisting him.”
“Ah! That’s fine, then. This is Dr. Cavalieri from St. Luke’s in Baltimore. I’ve identified that patient he’s looking for.”
“Patient?”
“Yes, the one with the spondylolisthesis.” Margo could hear the shuffling of paper on the other end of the line. “This is one bizarre set of X rays you sent me. At first I thought there was some kind of joke. I almost missed it.”
Margo fumbled for a pad of paper and a pencil. “You’d better start from the beginning.”
“Fine,” came the voice. “I’m an orthopedic surgeon down in Baltimore. There are only three of us here who do corrective surgery to reduce a spondylolisthesis. Dr. Brambell knew that, of course.”
“Spondylolisthesis?”
There was a silence. “You’re not a physician?” Cavalieri asked, his tone suddenly disapproving.
Margo took a deep breath. “Dr. Cavalieri, I might as well tell you. Dr. Brambell was… well, he died last night. I’m an evolutionary biologist helping him analyze the remains of several homicide victims. Since Dr. Brambell is no longer here, I’ll need you to tell me everything.”
“Died? Why, I just spoke to him yesterday!”
“It was very sudden,” said Margo. She did not want to go into any more detail.
“But that’s terrible. Dr. Brambell was well known across the country, not to mention the United Kingdom…”
The voice petered out. Margo, holding the silent phone to her ear, thought again about the last time she’d seen the Medical Examiner: at the front of Linnaeus Hall, smiling deviously, eyes flashing behind the horn-rims.
She was roused by a sigh on the other end of the line. “A spondylolisthesis is a fracture and slippage of one of the lumbar vertebrae. We correct it by fixing a metal plate to the spine with pedicle lag screws. As you tighten the screws to the plate, it draws the fractured vertebrae back into place.”
“I’m not sure I see the connection,” Margo said.
“Do you remember those four white triangles on the X rays Dr. Brambell sent me? Those are the lags for the plate screws. This fellow had an operation for spondylolisthesis. Very few surgeons do the procedure, which makes it easy to trace.”
“I see,” said Margo.
“I know that this X ray is from a patient of mine, for one very good reason,” Cavalieri continued. “It’s clear that these particular lag bolts were manufactured by Steel-Med Products of Minneapolis, which went out of business in 1989. I performed about three dozen operations using Steel-Med lag screws. I used a special technique of my own, a particular placement of the screws behind the transverse process of the second lumbar. A rather brilliant technique, actually. You can read about it in the Fall 1987 issue of the Journal of American Orthopedics, if you’re interested. It held the bone better, you see, and required less bone fusion. No one else performed it but myself and two residents I instructed. Of course, it was considered obsolete after the Steinmann procedure was developed. So in the end I was the only doctor who used it.” Margo could hear the pride in the doctor’s voice.
“But here’s the mystery: no surgeon that I ever knew would remove the corrective plate for this kind of spondylolisthesis. It simply isn’t done. Yet these X rays clearly show that my patient had the metal plate and screws removed, God knows why, leaving only the lags behind. You can’t remove the lags, of course; they’re set into the bone. But why this fellow had the plate removed…” his voice trailed off.
Margo scribbled notes furiously. “Go on.”
“As I said, when I saw the X rays, I knew immediately that this was one of my patients. However, I was astonished at the condition of the skeleton. That riot of bone growth. I knew I’d never operated on anyone with a condition like that.”
“So the bone growth occurred afterwards?”
“Absolutely. In any case, I went back to my records and, based on the X-ray evidence, I was able to identify the patient. I operated on him the morning of October 2, 1988.”
“And who was the patient?” Margo asked, pencil at the ready. Out of the corner of her eye she saw that Frock had reentered the lab and was rolling toward her, listening intently.
“It’s right here somewhere.” She could hear another rustling of papers. “I’ll fax all these records to you, of course, but I’m sure you’ll still want… here we are. The patient was named Gregory S. Kawakita.”
Margo felt her blood freeze. “Greg Kawakita?” she croaked.
“Yes, Gregory S. Kawakita, Ph.D. No question about it. Funny, it says here that he was an evolutionary biologist, too. Maybe you knew him?”
Margo hung up the telephone, unable to speak. First Dr. Brambell, and now—She glanced at Frock, alarmed to see that his face had gone ashen. “He was slumped to one side of the wheelchair, a hand pressed hard to his chest, his breathing labored.
“Gregory Kawakita?” Frock breathed. “This is Gregory? Oh, my good lord.”
His breathing eased, and he shut his eyes and slowly hung his head. Margo turned quickly and ran to the window, choking back sobs.
Of its own accord, her mind flashed back to that horrible week eighteen months before, when the murders started at the Museum. Then, the opening of the Superstition exhibition, the mass slaughter, and the final killin
g of the Mbwun. Greg Kawakita had been an assistant curator at the Museum, a colleague of hers, a student of Frock’s. More than anyone else, Greg had helped identify and stop the monster. It had been his genetic extrapolation program that provided the key, that told them what Mbwun was, and how it could be killed. But the horror that followed had affected everyone, especially Greg. He’d left the Museum soon after, abandoning a brilliant career. No one had heard from him since.
No one except her. He’d tried to reach her, leaving a message on her answering machine several months before. At the time, he said he’d needed something, needed her help. She hadn’t even bothered to respond.
And now she could guess why he must have left the Museum: he’d been suffering from some dreadful disease that was deforming his bones, turning him slowly into that twisted skeleton on the gurney. No doubt he was ashamed, probably afraid. Perhaps he had tried to seek treatment. Maybe toward the end he had become homeless. And then, the ultimate insult to a life once so full of promise: murder, decapitation, the frenzied gnawing of bones in the dark.
She stared out the window, shuddering in the warm sun. Whatever end he had suffered, it must have been horrible. Perhaps she could have helped him, had she known. But she’d been too wrapped up in trying to forget it all herself: losing herself in her workouts and her work. And she’d done nothing.
“Dr. Frock?” she called out.
She heard the rumbling of the wheelchair behind her.
“Dr. Frock—” she whispered, unable to continue.
She felt a gentle hand touch her elbow. It was trembling with emotion.
“Let me think for a moment,” Frock said. “Just for a moment, please. How could this be? To think this pathetic collection of bones—that we’ve studied, picked at, disassembled—could be Gregory…” His voice broke. A beam of light shone through the window and highlighted the hand as it slipped from her elbow.
Margo stood motionless, closing her eyes now against the light, feeling the oxygen stream in and out of her lungs. Eventually, she felt able to turn away from the window. But not toward the examining table—she wasn’t sure she would ever be able to face the contents of that table again. Instead, she turned toward Frock. He was there behind her, motionless, his eyes dry and far away.
“We’d better call D’Agosta,” she said.
For a long time, Frock did not speak. Then, silently, nodded his assent.
PART TWO
CUI CI SONO
DEI MOSTRI
For obvious reasons, no reliable census of Manhattan’s underground population exists. However, the Rushing-Bunten study of 1994 indicates that 2,750 persons live in just the small area bordered by Penn Station on the southwest and Grand Central Terminal on the northeast, with the population rising to 4,500 during the winter months. In this writer’s experience, such a number seems conservative.
Similarly, there is no accurate record of the births and deaths that take place in the communities beneath New York. However, given the disproportionate number of drug abusers, criminals, ex-convicts, mentally handicapped, and mentally unstable people who gravitate to the world below the surface, it is clear that the environment can be an extremely difficult and dangerous one. People have given many reasons for retreating from society into the darkness of the railroad tunnels and other subterranean spaces: privacy, security, a deep alienation from society. It has been estimated that, once a person goes underground, the average life expectancy is approximately twenty-two months.
L. Hayward, Caste and Society Beneath Manhattan
(forthcoming)
= 23 =
WEST 63RD STREET stretched toward the Hudson, the procession of magnificent co-ops yielding gradually to manicured brownstones. D’Agosta walked resolutely, keeping his eyes down, feeling acutely self-conscious. The shabby, fragrant form of Pendergast shuffled along just in front of him.
“Hell of a way to spend my afternoon off,” D’Agosta muttered.
Though he found himself itching in many remote places, he decided not to scratch. Scratching meant touching the ancient, greasy London Fog raincoat he wore, or the filthy Kmart plaid polyester shirt, or the shiny, threadbare trousers. He wondered where Pendergast had gotten all this stuff.
On top of all that, the dirt and grease on his face were real, not something out of a makeup tin. Even his shoes were disgusting. But when he’d balked, Pendergast had said simply, “Vincent, your life depends on it.”
He hadn’t even been allowed to carry his gun or shield. “You don’t want to know,” Pendergast had said, “what they’ll do to you if they find a badge.” In fact, D’Agosta thought morosely, this whole expedition was a direct violation of departmental regulations.
Glancing up briefly, he spotted a woman approaching, spotless in a crisp summer dress and high heels, walking a Chihuahua. She stopped abruptly, stepping to the side and averting her eyes with a distasteful look. As Pendergast passed by, the dog suddenly lunged forward, erupting with a shrill volley of squeaky barks. Pendergast shuffled aside, and the dog redoubled its hysterical efforts, tugging against the leash.
Despite his discomfort, or perhaps because of it, D’Agosta found himself growing annoyed at the look of loathing on the woman’s face. Who the hell is she to judge us? he thought. As he was passing, he suddenly stopped and turned to face her. “Have a nice day,” he growled, thrusting his chin forward.
The woman shrank backwards. “You revolting man,” she shrieked at D’Agosta. “Stay away from him, Petit Chou!”
Pendergast grabbed D’Agosta and pulled him around the corner onto Columbus Avenue. “Are you mad?” he said under his breath. As they hurried on, D’Agosta could hear the woman calling, “Help! Those men threatened me!”
Pendergast dashed southward, D’Agosta struggling to keep up. Moving into the shadow of a large driveway halfway down the block, Pendergast knelt quickly above the steel plates set into the sidewalk that marked an emergency subway exit. Using a small hooked tool, he levered up the plates, then ushered D’Agosta down the iron stairs beneath. Closing them behind him, Pendergast followed D’Agosta into the darkness. At the bottom were two sets of train tracks, dimly illuminated. Crossing the tracks, they reached an archway leading to another descending set of stairs, which they took two steps at a time.
On the lowest step, Pendergast stopped. D’Agosta came to a halt beside him in the pitch blackness, fighting for breath. After a few moments, Pendergast switched on a penlight, chuckling. “ ‘Have a nice day’… Vincent, what could you have been thinking?”
“Just trying to be friendly,” D’Agosta said truculently.
“You could have sunk our little expedition before it left the dock. Remember, you’re here simply to complete my disguise. The only way I’m certain to see Mephisto is if I pose as the leader of another community. And I’d never travel without an aide-de-camp.” He gestured with his penlight into a narrow side tunnel. “That way leads east, into his territory.”
D’Agosta nodded.
“Remember my instructions. I’ll do the talking. It’s imperative that you forget you’re a police officer. No matter what happens, don’t try to interfere.” He reached into the pocket of his grimy trenchcoat, bringing out two floppy woolen hats. “Put this on,” he said, handing one to D’Agosta.
“Why?”
“Headgear disguises the true contours of a person’s head. Besides, if we’re forced to make a quick escape, we can ‘break our profiles’ by discarding them. Remember, we’re not used to the darkness. We’ll be the ones at a disadvantage.” He dug into the pocket again and took out a small, dull object which he fitted into his mouth.
“What the hell is that?” D’Agosta asked, pulling the hat onto his head.
“A false rubber palate for changing tongue position, thus modifying the harmonic resonances of the throat. We will be consorting with criminals, remember? I spent a fair amount of time last year at Riker’s Island, profiling murderers for Quantico. It’s possible that I’ll come in con
tact with some of them down here. If so, they must not recognize me, either by appearance or voice.” He waved his hand. “Of course, makeup alone isn’t enough. I must adapt my posture, way of walking, even mannerisms. Your job is easier: keep silent, blend in, follow my lead. We must not in any way stand out. Understood?”
D’Agosta nodded.
“With any luck, this Mephisto will be able to point us in the right direction. Perhaps we’ll return with evidence of the killings he described to the Post. That could provide additional forensics material we desperately need.” He paused. “Any leads on the Brambell murder?” he asked. He took a step forward, shining the penlight ahead.
“No,” said D’Agosta. “Waxie and the top brass think it was just another random killing. But I’m wondering if it didn’t have something to do with his work.”
Pendergast nodded. “An interesting theory.”
“Seems to me that these killings—or at least some of them—aren’t random at all. I mean, Brambell was on the verge of discovering who the second skeleton belonged to. Maybe somebody didn’t want that known.”
Pendergast nodded again. “I have to admit, Lieutenant, I was flabbergasted when I heard the second skeleton belonged to Kawakita. It opens up a vista of”—he paused—“complexity and ugliness. And it suggests that Dr. Frock, Dr. Green, and the others working on the case should be protected.”
D’Agosta scowled. “I went up to Horlocker’s office this morning with that in mind. He dismissed any kind of protection for Green or Frock. Said he suspected Kawakita must’ve been involved with Pamela Wisher somehow, just got caught in the wrong place and the wrong time. A random killing, like Brambell. All he cared was that we didn’t leak anything about it to the press, at least until Kawakita’s family is tracked down and alerted—assuming there’re any left to alert; I think somebody once said he was an orphan. Waxie was there, too, strutting and preening like an overstuffed rooster. He told me to do a better job of keeping this under wraps than I did with Wisher.”
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