The Book of the Dead

by Douglas Preston

  She raised her radio. “M. Johnson calling Central. Do you read?”

  “This is Central. Ten-four, Mary.”

  “We need a cleanup crew down here in the Tomb of Senef. Burial chamber.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Vomit.”

  “Christ. Not the night guards again?”

  “Who knows? Maybe the techies, having themselves a big old time.”

  “We’ll get maintenance on it.”

  Johnson snapped the radio off and did a brisk turn around the perimeter of the burial chamber. In her experience, piles of vomit seldom dropped alone: better to find out the rest of the bad news right away. Despite her size, she was a very fast walker, and she had completed more than half the circuit when her left shoe skidded on the slick floor and her momentum carried her sideways and down, landing her hard on the polished stone.

  “Crap!”

  She sat there, shaken but unhurt. She’d slipped in a puddle of something dark and coppery-smelling, and she’d broken the fall with both hands. When she held her hands up, she immediately recognized the substance as blood.

  “Lord almighty.”

  She rose with care, looked around automatically for something to wipe her hands on, found nothing, and decided to go ahead and wipe them on her pants, since they were already ruined. She unhooked her radio.

  “Johnson calling Central, do you read?”

  “Roger that.”

  “Got a pool of blood here, too.”

  “What’s that you say? Blood? How much?”

  “Enough.”

  A silence. From the large pool of blood she’d slipped in, a dribbling trail of splatters led toward the huge, open granite sarcophagus that stood in the center of the room. The flank of the sarcophagus, engraved in hieroglyphics, had a prominent smear of gore along its side, as if something had been hoisted over and dropped inside.

  Suddenly, the very last thing in the world Johnson wanted to do was look inside that sarcophagus. But something-perhaps her strong sense of duty-made her walk slowly forward. Her radio, held unheeded in one hand, squawked.

  “Enough?” Central squawked again in a high voice. “What’s that supposed to mean, enough?”

  She reached the lip of the sarcophagus and looked inside. A body lay on its back. The body was human-that much she knew-but beyond that, she could tell nothing. The face was gashed and scored beyond recognition. The breastbone was split and the ribs yanked open like a set of double doors. Where the lungs and other organs should be was nothing but a red cavity. But what would really stick with her, and haunt her nightmares for years to come, was the pair of electric-blue Bermuda shorts the victim wore.

  “Mary?” came the squawking radio.

  Johnson swallowed, unable to answer. Now she noticed a smaller trail of blood and gore, dribbling its way into one of the small rooms that branched off from the burial chamber. The mouth of the room was dark and she couldn’t see inside.

  “Mary? Do you read?”

  She slowly lifted the radio to her lips, swallowed again, found her voice. “I read you.”

  “What’s going on?”

  But Mary Johnson was slowly backing away from the sarcophagus, eyes on the little dark doorway in the far corner. No need to go in there. She’d seen enough. She continued backing up, then carefully turned her bulk around. And then, as she approached the exit to the burial chamber, something seemed to go wrong with her legs.

  “Mary! We’re sending security down right away! Mary!”

  Johnson took another step, wobbled, then felt herself sink to the ground, as if borne down by an irresistible force. She rolled into a sitting position, then toppled backward almost in slow motion, coming to rest against the door lintel.

  That was how they found her, eight minutes later, wide awake and staring at the ceiling, tears rolling out of her eyes.

  Chapter 22

  Captain of Homicide Laura Hayward arrived after most of the crime scene investigation work had already been completed. She preferred it that way. She had come up through the homicide ranks and knew the scene-of-crime investigators didn’t need a captain breathing down their necks to do good work.

  At the entrance to the Egyptian gallery, where the crime scene perimeter had been erected, she passed through a knot of police and museum security personnel, talking in hushed, funereal voices. She spotted the museum’s security director, Jack Manetti, and nodded at him to accompany her. She stepped up to the tomb’s threshold, then paused, breathing in the close and dusty air, taking stock.

  “Who was here last night, Mr. Manetti?” she asked.

  “I have a list of all authorized employees and subcontractors. There are quite a few, but it seems all of them checked out of the museum through security except two technicians: the victim, and the one who’s still missing. Jay Lipper.”

  Hayward nodded and began walking through the tomb, making a mental note of the progression of the rooms, stairs, passageways, building a three-dimensional image in her head. In a few minutes, she arrived at a large, pillared room. She quickly took it all in: the tables laden with computer equipment, the pizza boxes, the cables and wires running in all directions. Everything was festooned with evidence tags.

  A sergeant came to greet her, a man older than her by a decade. She thought his name was Eddie Visconti. He looked competent, had a bright, clear eye, dressed neatly, deferential but only to a point. She knew it was tough for some of the rank and file to report to a woman younger than they were and twice as educated. Visconti looked as if he could handle it.

  “You’re the first responding officer, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Me and my partner.”

  “All right. Let’s have a quick summary.”

  “Two computer technicians worked late: Jay Lipper and Theodore DeMeo. They’d been working late every night this week-lot of pressure to open the exhibit by deadline.”

  She turned to Manetti. “And when’s that?”

  “Eight days from today.”

  “Proceed.”

  “DeMeo went out for pizza at around two, leaving Lipper behind. We checked with the pizzeria-”

  “Don’t tell me how you know what you know, Sergeant. Stick to the reconstruction, please.”

  “Yes, Captain. DeMeo returned with pizza and drinks. We don’t know if Lipper had already left or if he was attacked in the interim, but we do know they didn’t have time to consume the food.”

  Hayward nodded.

  “DeMeo put down the pizzas and drinks on that table and went into the burial chamber. It appears the killer was already there, and surprised him.” He walked toward the burial chamber, Hayward following.

  “Weapon?” Hayward asked.

  “Unknown at this point. Whatever it was, it wasn’t sharp. The cuts and lacerations are very ragged.”

  They entered the burial chamber. Hayward took in the extravagant puddle of blood, the smear on the stone coffin, the trail of gore into a side room, the bright yellow tags everywhere like fallen autumn leaves. She glanced around, locating each fleck of blood in turn, noting the shape and size of the droplets.

  “A splatter analysis indicates the killer came at the victim from the left side with weapon raised, and brought it down in a way that partially cut through the victim’s neck and severed the jugular vein. The victim fell but the perp continued to slash and cut, far more than necessary to kill. There were more than a hundred cuts to the victim’s neck, head, shoulders, abdomen, legs, and buttocks.”

  “Any sign of a sexual motive?”

  “No semen or other bodily fluids. Sex organs untouched, anal swab clean.”

  “Keep going.”

  “It appears the perp half chopped, half punched through the victim’s breastbone with the weapon. Then he pulled out some of the internal organs and carried them into the Canopic Room and dumped them into a couple of very large jars.”

  “Did you say pulled out?”

  “The viscera were torn away, not c
ut.”

  Hayward walked over to the small side chamber and looked in. A technician was on his hands and knees, photographing spots on the floor with a macro lens. A row of wet-evidence boxes stood against one wall, waiting to be carried away.

  She looked around, trying to visualize the attack. She already knew that they were dealing with a disorganized killer, a disturbed individual, most likely a sociopath.

  “After cutting out the organs,” Sergeant Visconti continued, “the perp returned to the body, dragged it to the sarcophagus, and heaved it inside. Then he left by the main tomb door.”

  “He must’ve been covered with blood.”

  “Yes. And in fact, using a bloodhound, we’ve followed the trail as far as the fifth floor.”

  Hayward looked up sharply. This was a detail she hadn’t heard before. “Not out of the museum?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “We can’t be sure. But we found something else on the fifth floor. A shoe belonging to the missing technician, Lipper.”

  “Is that so? You think the killer’s holding him hostage?”

  Visconti grimaced. “Possible.”

  “Carrying his dead body?”

  “Lipper was a small guy, five seven, about 135. That’s also possible.”

  Hayward hesitated, wondering briefly what ordeal Lipper was going through now-or perhaps had already gone through. Then she turned toward Manetti.

  “I want this museum sealed,” she said.

  The security director was sweating. “It’s ten minutes to opening. We’re talking two million square feet of exhibition space, two thousand staff-you can’t be serious.”

  Hayward spoke softly. “If that’s a problem, I can call Commissioner Rocker. He’ll call the mayor, and the decision can come down through official channels-along with the usual shitstorm.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Captain. I’ll order the museum sealed. Temporarily.”

  She looked around. “Let’s order up a forensic psychological profile.”

  “Already done,” said the sergeant.

  Hayward gave him an appraising glance. “We haven’t worked together before, have we?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “It’s a pleasure.”

  “Thank you.”

  She turned and walked briskly out of the room and the tomb, the others following. She crossed the length of the Egyptian gallery and approached the knot of people on the far side of the crime scene tape, gestured to Sergeant Visconti. “Are those bloodhounds still on the premises?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want everyone here who’s available, police and guards alike, to participate in searching this museum from attic to basement. Priority one: find Lipper. Assume he’s alive and a hostage. Priority two: I want the killer. I want them both before the end of the day. Clear?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  She paused, as if remembering something. “Who’s in charge of the tomb exhibit?”

  “A curator named Nora Kelly,” Manetti replied.

  “Get her on the horn, please.”

  Hayward’s attention was drawn to a sudden disturbance in the knot of guards and police, a voice raised in anguished pleading. A thin, slope-shouldered man in a bus driver’s uniform wrenched free of two policemen and made a beeline for Hayward, his face distorted by grief.

  “You!” he cried. “Help me! Find my son!”

  “And you are?”

  “Larry Lipper. I’m Larry Lipper. My son is Jay Lipper. He’s missing, and a killer’s on the loose, and I want you to find him!” The man burst into sobs. “Find him!”

  The very intensity of his grief halted the two policemen pursuing him.

  Hayward took his hand. “That’s just what we’re going to do, Mr. Lipper.”

  “Find him! Find him!”

  Hayward looked around, spotted an officer she recognized. “Sergeant Casimirovic?”

  The woman stepped forward.

  Hayward gestured with her chin at Lipper’s father and mouthed, “Help me out here.”

  The officer stepped over and, putting her arm around Larry Lipper, eased him away from Hayward. “You come with me, sir, and we’ll find someplace quiet to sit down and wait.” And Sergeant Casimirovic led him, crying loudly but unresisting, back through the crowd.

  Manetti was at her side again, radio in hand. “I’ve got Kelly.”

  She took the radio, nodding her thanks. “Dr. Kelly? Captain Hayward, NYPD.”

  “How can I help?” came the voice.

  “The Canopic Room in the Tomb of Senef. What’s that for?”

  “That’s where the pharaoh’s mummified organs were stored.”

  “Elaborate, please.”

  “Part of the mummification process is the removal of the pharaoh’s internal organs for separate mummification and storage in canopic jars.”

  “The internal organs, you say?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Thank you.” Hayward slowly passed the radio back to Manetti, a thoughtful look on her face.

  Chapter 23

  Wilson Bulke peered down the corridor that ran beneath the roofline of building 12. Dirty brown light struggled to penetrate the wire-mesh glass skylights, which were coated with at least a century of New York City soot. Air ducts and pipes ran in thick bundles on either side, where the rooflines almost touched the floor. Both sides of the long, low space were crammed with old collections-jars of animals floating in preservative, untidy stacks of yellowing journals, plaster models of animals-leaving a narrow passage down the center. It was a crazy, crooked space, with rooflines, pitches, and floor levels that changed half a dozen times just within eyesight. It was like a fun house at the fair, only there was nothing fun about it.

  “My legs are killing me,” Bulke said. “Let’s take five.” He eased himself down on an old wooden crate, the excess adipose tissue in his thighs stretching the material with an audible creak.

  His partner, Morris, sat down lightly beside him.

  “This is bullshit,” said Bulke. “Day’s almost over, and we’re still at it. There’s nobody up here.”

  Morris, who never saw the point in disagreeing with anybody, nodded.

  “Lemme have another shot of that Jim Beam.”

  Morris slipped the hip flask from his pocket and passed it over. Bulke took a slug, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, passed it back. Morris took a delicate sip himself and slid it back in.

  “We shouldn’t be working at all today,” said Bulke. “This is supposed to be our day off. We’re entitled to a little refreshment.”

  “That’s the way I look at it, too,” said Morris.

  “You were smart to bring that along.”

  “Never go anywhere without it.”

  Bulke glanced at his watch. Four-forty. The light filtering in through the skylights was slowly dying, the shadows deepening in the corners. Night would be coming soon. And with this section of the attics undergoing repairs and currently without electricity, that meant switching to flashlights, making their search all the more annoying.

  Bulke felt the creeping warmth of the whiskey in his gut. He sighed heavily, leaned his elbows on his knees, looked around. “Look at that shit, will you?” He gestured at a series of low metal shelves beneath the eaves, filled with countless glass jars containing jellyfish. “You think they actually study this crap?”

  Morris shrugged.

  Bulke reached out, fished a jar off the shelf, took a closer look. A whitish blob floated in the amber liquid, amidst drifting tentacles. He gave the jar a quick shake; when the turbulence settled, the jellyfish had been reduced to swirling shreds.

  “Broke into a million pieces.” He showed the jar to Morris. “Hope it wasn’t important.” He issued a guffaw and, with a roll of his eyes, shoved the jar back onto the shelf.

  “In China, they eat ’em,” said Morris. He was a third-generation museum guard and considered he knew a great deal more about the museum
than the other guards.

  “Eat what? Jellyfish?”

  Morris nodded sagely.

  “Frigging Chinese’ll eat anything.”

  “They say they’re crunchy.” Morris sniffed, wiped his nose.

  “Gross.” Bulke looked around. “This is bullshit,” he repeated. “There’s nothing up here.”

  “The thing I don’t get,” Morris said, “is why they’re reopening that tomb, anyway. I told you how my granddad used to talk about something that happened in there back in the thirties.”

  “Yeah, you’ve been telling everybody and his brother about that.”

  “Something real bad.”

  “Tell me some other time.” Bulke glanced at his watch again. If they really thought there was something up there, they would have sent cops-not two unarmed guards.

  “You don’t think the killer dragged the body up here?” Morris asked.

  “No way. Why the hell would he do that?”

  “But the dogs-”

  “How could those bloodhounds smell anything up here? The place reeks. They lost the trail down on the fifth floor, anyway-not up here.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “I am right. As far as I’m concerned, we’re done up here.” Bulke rose, slapped the dust off his butt.

  “What about the rest of the attics?”

  “We did ’em all, don’t you remember?” Bulke winked.

  “Right. Oh, right. Yeah.”

  “There’s no exit up ahead, but there’s a stairwell back a ways. We’ll go down there.”

  Bulke turned, began shuffling in the direction from which they’d come. The attic corridor wandered up and down, so tight in places that he had to turn sideways to get through. The museum consisted of dozens of separate buildings joined together, and where they met the floor levels sometimes differed so greatly they had to be linked by metal staircases. They passed through a space filled with leering wooden idols, labeled Nootka Graveposts; another space filled with plaster casts of arms and legs; then yet another filled with casts of faces.