The Cabinet of Curiosities

by Douglas Preston

  Reaching for the light switches at the end of the aisle, she brushed them off with a single movement, plunging the surrounding corridors once again into darkness. Quickly, she felt beneath the mammoth’s scratchy belly. There it was: a wooden lever. She tugged, and the trap door fell open.

  Trying to make as little noise as possible, she climbed into the hot, stuffy belly, pulling the trapdoor up behind her.

  Then she waited, inside the mammoth. The air stank of rot, dust, jerked meat, mushrooms.

  She heard a rapid series of clicks. The lights came back on. A stray beam worked through a small hole in the animal’s chest: an eyehole, for the circus worker.

  Nora looked out, trying to control her rapid breathing, to push away the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. The man in the derby hat stood not five feet away, back turned. Slowly, he rotated himself through 360 degrees, looking, listening intently. He was holding a strange instrument in his hands: two polished ivory handles joined by a thin, flexible steel saw with tiny serrations. It looked like some kind of dreadful antique surgical instrument. He flexed it, causing the steel wire to bend and shimmy.

  His gaze came to rest on the mammoth. He took a step toward it, his face in shadow. It was as if he knew this was where she was hiding. Nora tensed, readying herself to fight to the end.

  And then, just as suddenly as he’d approached, he was gone.

  “Mr. Puck?” a voice was calling. “Mr. Puck, I’m here! Mr. Puck?”

  It was Oscar Gibbs.

  Nora waited, too terrified to move. The voice came closer and, finally, Oscar Gibbs appeared around the corner of the aisle.

  “Mr. Puck? Where are you?”

  With a trembling hand, Nora reached down, unlatched the trapdoor, and lowered herself out of the belly of the mammoth. Gibbs turned, jumped back, and stood there, staring at her open-mouthed.

  “Did you see him?” Nora gasped. “Did you see him?”

  “Who? What were you doing in there? Hey, you’re bleeding!”

  Nora looked at her shoulder. There was a spreading stain of blood where the scalpel had nicked her.

  Gibbs came closer. “Look, I don’t know what you’re doing here, or what’s going on, but let’s get you to the nurse’s office. Okay?”

  Nora shook her head. “No. Oscar, you have to call the police, right away. Mr. Puck”—her voice broke for a moment—“Mr. Puck’s been murdered. And the murderer is right here. In the Museum.”

  Many Worm

  ONE

  BILL SMITHBACK HAD managed, with a little name-dropping here and a little intimidation there, to get the best seat in the house.“The house” was the press room of One Police Plaza, a cavernous space painted the institutional color known universally as Vomit Green. It was now filled to overflowing with scurrying television news crews and frantic journalists. Smithback loved the electric atmosphere of a big press conference, called hastily after some dreadful event, packed with city officials and police brass laboring under the misapprehension that they could spin the unruly fourth estate of New York.

  He remained in his seat, calm, legs folded, tape recorder loaded, and shotgun mike poised, while pandemonium raged around him. To his professional nose, it smelled different today. There was an undertone of fear. More than fear, actually: closer to ill-suppressed hysteria. He’d seen it as he’d ridden the subway downtown that morning, walked the streets around City Hall. These three copycat killings, one on top of another, were just too strange. People were talking of nothing else. The whole city was on the verge of panic.

  Off to one side he caught sight of Bryce Harriman, expostulating with a policeman who refused to let him move closer to the front. All that fine vocational training at Columbia journalism school, wasted on the New York Post. He should have taken a nice quiet professorship at his old alma mater, teaching callow youth how to write a flawless inverted pyramid. True, the bastard had scooped him on the second murder, on the copycat angle, but surely that was just luck. Wasn’t it?

  There was a stir in the crowd. The wing doors of the press room belched out a group of blue suits, followed by the mayor of New York City, Edward Montefiori. The man was tall and solid, very much aware that all eyes were upon him. He paused, nodding to acquaintances here and there, his face reflecting the gravity of the moment. The New York City mayoral race was in full swing, being conducted as usual at the level of two-year-olds. It was imperative that he catch this killer, bring the copycat murders to an end; the last thing the mayor wanted was to give his rival yet more fodder for his nasty television advertisements, which had been decrying the city’s recent upsurge in crime.

  More people were coming onto the stage. The mayor’s spokesperson, Mary Hill, a tall, extremely poised African-American woman; the fat police captain Sherwood Custer, in whose precinct this whole mess had started; the police commissioner, Rocker—a tall, weary-looking man—and, finally, Dr. Frederick Collopy, director of the Museum, followed by Roger Brisbane. Smithback felt a surge of anger when he saw Brisbane, looking urbane in a neatly tailored gray suit. Brisbane was the one who had screwed up everything between him and Nora. Even after Nora’s horrible discovery of Puck’s murdered corpse, after being chased and nearly caught herself by the Surgeon, she had refused to see him, to let him comfort her. It was almost as if she blamed him for what happened to Puck and Pendergast.

  The noise level in the room was becoming deafening. The mayor mounted the podium and raised his hand. At the gesture, the room quickly fell silent.

  The mayor read from a prepared statement, his Brooklyn accent filling the room.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the press,” he began. “From time to time our great city, because of its size and diversity, has been stalked by serial killers. Thankfully, it has been many years since the last such plague. Now, however, it appears we are faced with a new serial killer, a true psychopath. Three people have been murdered in the space of a week, and in a particularly violent way. While the city is now enjoying the lowest murder rate of any major metropolitan area in the country—thanks to our vigorous enforcement efforts and zero tolerance for lawbreaking—this is clearly three murders too many. I called this press conference to share with the public the strong and effective steps we are taking to find this killer, and to answer as best we can questions you might have about this case and its somewhat sensational aspects. As you know, openness has always been a top priority of my administration. I therefore have brought with me Karl Rocker, the police commissioner; Sherwood Custer, precinct captain; Director Frederick Collopy and Vice President Roger Brisbane of the New York Museum of Natural History, where the latest homicide was discovered. My spokesperson, Mary Hill, will field the questions. But first, I will ask Commissioner Rocker to give you a briefing on the case.”

  He stepped back and Rocker took the microphone.

  “Thank you, Mr. Mayor.” His low, intelligent voice, dry as parchment, filled the room. “Last Thursday, the body of a young woman, Doreen Hollander, was discovered in Central Park. She had been murdered, and a peculiar kind of dissection or surgical operation performed on her lower back. While the official autopsy was in progress and the results were being evaluated, a second killing took place. Another young woman, Mandy Eklund, was found in Tompkins Square Park. Forensic analysis indicated that her manner of death, and the violence done to her person, matched the killing of Doreen Hollander. And yesterday, the body of a fifty-four-year-old man, Reinhart Puck, was discovered in the Archives of the New York Museum. He was the Museum’s head archivist. The body showed mutilations identical to Ms. Eklund’s and Ms. Hollander’s.”

  There was a flurry of raised hands, shouts, gestures. The commissioner quelled them by holding up both hands. “As you know, a letter was discovered in these same Archives, referring to a nineteenth-century serial killer. This letter described similar mutilations, conducted as a scientific experiment by a doctor named Leng, in lower Manhattan, one hundred and twenty years ago. The remains of thirty-six individuals were dis
covered at a building site on Catherine Street, presumably the spot where Dr. Leng did his depraved work.”

  There was another flurry of shouts.

  Now, the mayor broke in again. “An article about the letter appeared in last week’s New York Times. It described, in detail, the kind of mutilations Leng had performed on his victims more than a century ago, as well as the reason why he had carried them out.”

  The mayor’s eyes roved the crowd and paused momentarily on Smithback. The journalist felt a shiver of pride at the implied recognition. His article.

  “That article appears to have had an unfortunate effect: it appears to have stimulated a copycat killer. A modern psychopath.”

  What was this? Smithback’s smugness vanished before a quickly rising sense of outrage.

  “I am told by police psychiatrists this killer believes, in some twisted way, that by killing these people he will accomplish what Leng tried to accomplish a century ago—that is, extend his life span. The, er, sensationalistic approach of the Times article we believe inflamed the killer and stimulated him to act.”

  This was outrageous. The mayor was blaming him.

  Smithback looked around and saw that many eyes in the room were on him. He stifled his first impulse to stand up and protest. He had been doing his job as a reporter. It was just a story. How dare the mayor make him the scapegoat?

  “I am not blaming anyone in particular,” Montefiori droned on, “but I would ask you, ladies and gentlemen of the press, to please show restraint in your coverage. We already have three brutal killings on our hands. We are determined not to allow any more. All leads are being followed up vigorously. Let us not inflame the situation further. Thank you.”

  Mary Hill stepped forward to take questions. There was a roar, an instant outcry, as everyone stood up, gesturing madly. Smithback remained seated, flushing deeply. He felt violated. He tried to collect his thoughts, but his shock and outrage made him unable to think.

  Mary Hill was taking the first question.

  “You said the murderer performed an operation on his victims,” somebody asked. “Can you elaborate?”

  “Basically, the lower portion of the spinal cord had been removed in all three victims,” the commissioner himself answered.

  “It’s being said that the latest operation was actually performed in the Museum,” shouted another reporter. “Is that so?”

  “It is true that a large pool of blood was discovered in the Archives, not far from the victim. It appears the blood was, in fact, from the victim, but more forensic tests are underway. Whether the, er, operation was actually performed there must await further lab work.”

  “I understand that the FBI have been on the scene,” a young woman shouted. “Could you tell us the nature of their involvement?”

  “That is not entirely correct,” Rocker answered. “An FBI agent has taken an unofficial interest in the nineteenth-century serial killings. But he has no connection to this case.”

  “Is it true that the third body was impaled on the horns of a dinosaur?”

  The commissioner winced slightly. “Yes, the body was found affixed to a triceratops skull. Clearly, we are dealing with a seriously deranged individual.”

  “About the mutilation of the bodies. Is it true that only a surgeon could have done it?”

  “It is one lead we are following up.”

  “I just want to clarify one point,” another reporter said. “Are you saying that the Smithback piece in the Times caused these murders?”

  Smithback turned. It was Bryce Harriman, the shit.

  Commissioner Rocker frowned. “What Mayor Montefiori said was—”

  Once again, the mayor intervened. “I was merely calling for restraint. To be sure, we wish that article had never appeared. Three people might be alive today. And the methods the reporter used to acquire his information bear some ethical scrutiny, to my mind. But no, I’ve not said the article caused the killings.”

  Another reporter: “Isn’t it a bit of a diversion, Your Honor, to blame a reporter who was only doing his job?”

  Smithback craned his neck. Who said that? He was going to buy that man a drink.

  “That is not what I said. I merely said—”

  “But you clearly implied that the article triggered the killings.”

  He was going to buy that man drinks and dinner. As Smithback looked around, he could see many of the returning glances were sympathetic. The mayor, in attacking him, had indirectly attacked the entire press corps. Harriman had shot himself in the foot by bringing up the subject. He felt emboldened: now they would have to call on him. They would have to.

  “May I have the next question, please?” Mary Hill asked.

  “Do you have any suspects?”

  “We’ve been given a very clear description of the suspect’s attire,” Commissioner Rocker said. “A tall slender Caucasian male, between six foot and six foot two, wearing an old-fashioned black coat and a derby hat, was seen in the Archives around the time Mr. Puck’s body was found. A similarly dressed man, with a rolled umbrella or cane, was also seen in the vicinity of the second crime scene. I’m not at liberty to give any details beyond that.”

  Smithback stood up, waved. Mary Hill ignored him.

  “Ms. Perez of New York magazine. Your question, please.”

  “I have a question for Dr. Collopy of the Museum. Sir, do you think the killer known as the Surgeon is a Museum employee? Given that the most recent victim seems to have been killed and dissected in the Museum, I mean.”

  Collopy cleared his throat and stepped forward. “I believe the police are looking into that,” he said in a well-modulated voice. “It seems highly unlikely. All our employees now go through criminal background checks, are psychologically profiled, and are thoroughly drug-tested. And it hasn’t been proven that the killing actually took place in the Museum, I might add.”

  There was another roar as Hill looked for more questions. Smithback shouted and waved his hands along with the rest. Christ, they weren’t really going to ignore him?

  “Mr. Diller of Newsday, your question please.”

  She was avoiding him, the witch.

  “I’d like to address my question to the mayor. Mr. Mayor, how is it that the site on Catherine Street was ‘inadvertently’ destroyed? Wasn’t this a site of major historical importance?”

  The mayor stepped forward. “No. It was not of historical significance—”

  “No historical significance? The largest serial killing in the nation’s history?”

  “Mr. Diller, this press conference is about the present-day homicides. Please, let’s not conflate the two. We had no legal reason to stop construction of a hundred-million-dollar building. The bones and effects were photographed, studied by the medical examiner, and removed for further analysis. Nothing more could be done.”

  “Is it perhaps because Moegen-Fairhaven is a major donor to your campaign—”

  “Next question,” rapped out Hill.

  Smithback stood up and shouted, “Mr. Mayor, since aspersions have been cast—”

  “Ms. Epstein of WNBC,” cried Mary Hill, her powerful voice drowning him out. A slender newswoman stood up, holding a mike, a camera turned on her.

  “Excuse ME!” Smithback quickly took advantage of the temporary lull. “Ms. Epstein, since I have been personally attacked, may I respond?”

  The famous anchorwoman didn’t pause for a second. “Of course,” she said graciously, and turned to her cameraman to make sure he got it on tape.

  “I’d like to address my question to Mr. Brisbane,” Smithback continued, not pausing for a second. “Mr. Brisbane, why has the letter that started all this been put off limits, along with all the items from the Shottum collection? The Museum isn’t trying to hide something, is it?”

  Brisbane rose with an easy smile. “Not at all. Those materials have merely been temporarily removed for conservation. It’s standard Museum procedure. In any case, the letter has already inflame
d one copycat murderer into action—to release it now would be irresponsible. The materials are still available to qualified researchers.”

  “Is it not true that you tried to prevent employees from working on the case?”

  “Not at all. We’ve cooperated all along. The record speaks for itself.”

  Shit. Smithback thought fast. “Mr. Brisbane—”

  “Mr. Smithback, care to give someone else a turn?” Mary Hill’s voice once again sliced through the air.

  “No!” Smithback cried, to scattered laughter. “Mr. Brisbane, isn’t it true that Moegen-Fairhaven, which gave the Museum two million dollars last year—not to mention the fact that Fairhaven himself sits on your board—has put pressure on the Museum to stop this investigation?”

  Brisbane colored and Smithback knew his question had hit home. “That is an irresponsible allegation. As I said, we’ve cooperated all along—”

  “So you deny threatening your employee, Dr. Nora Kelly, forbidding her to work on the case? Keep in mind, Mr. Brisbane, that we have yet to hear from Nora Kelly herself. The one who found the third victim’s body, I might add—and who was chased by the Surgeon and almost killed in turn.”

  The clear implication was that Nora Kelly might have something to say that would not agree with Brisbane’s account. Brisbane’s face darkened as he realized he’d been backed into a corner. “I will not answer these hectoring questions.” Beside him, Collopy looked grim.

  Smithback felt a swell of triumph.

  “Mister Smithback,” said Mary Hill acidly, “are you quite done monopolizing this press conference? Clearly the nineteenth-century homicides have nothing to do with the current serial killings, except as inspiration.”

  “And how do you know that?” Smithback cried out, his triumph now secure.

  The mayor now turned to him. “Are you suggesting, sir,” he said facetiously, “that Dr. Leng is still alive and continuing his business?”

  There was a solid round of laughter in the hall.

  “Not at all—”