There came a sudden thump on the door.
“Christ.” D’Agosta moved toward it quickly. “At last.”
The door swung wide to reveal Whitney Cadwalader Frock, the famous evolutionary biologist, now a reluctant guest of Lieutenant D’Agosta. His wheelchair creaked as it approached the specimen table. Without looking at the assembled company, he examined the bony corpses, his eyes coming to rest on the second skeleton. After a few moments, he leaned back, a shock of white hair falling away from his wide pink forehead. He nodded at D’Agosta and the Museum Director. Then he saw Margo, and a look of surprise came over his face, changing quickly to a delighted smile.
Margo smiled and nodded in return. Although Frock had been her primary adviser during her graduate work at the Museum, she had not seen him since his retirement party. He had left the Museum to concentrate on his writing, yet there was still no sign of the promised follow-up volume to his influential work, Fractal Evolution.
The Medical Examiner, who had paid Frock’s entrance only the briefest of glances, now continued. “I invite you,” he said pleasantly, “to examine the ridging of the long bones, the bony spicules and osteophytes along the spine and at the joints. Also the twenty-degree outward rotation of the trochanters. Note that the ribs have a trapezoidal, instead of the normal prismatic, cross section. Finally, I would direct your attention to the thickening of the femurs. On the whole, a rather unbecoming fellow. Of course, these are only some of the more outstanding features. You can no doubt see the rest for yourselves.”
D’Agosta breathed out through his nose. “No doubt.”
Frock cleared his throat. “Naturally, I haven’t had a chance for a thorough examination. But I wonder if you’ve considered the possibility of DISH.”
The ME looked at Frock again, more carefully this time. “A very intelligent guess,” he said. “But quite wrong. Dr. Frock is referring to diffuse idiopathic skeletal hyperostosis, a type of severe degenerative arthritis.” He shook his head dismissively. “Nor is it osteomalacia, though if this wasn’t the twentieth century I’d say it was the most nightmarish case of scurvy ever recorded. We’ve searched the medical databases, and can find nothing that would account for this condition.”
Brambell ran his fingers lightly, almost affectionately, along the spinal column. “There is another curious anomaly shared by both skeletons, which we only noticed last night. Dr. Padelsky, would you please bring the stereozoom?”
The overweight man in the lab coat disappeared into the gloom, then returned, rolling before him a large microscope with an open stage. He positioned it over the neck bones of the deformed skeleton, peered through the eyepieces, made a few adjustments, then stepped back.
Brambell gestured with the palm of his hand. “Dr. Frock?”
Frock rolled forward and, with some difficulty, fit his face to the visor. He remained motionless for what seemed several minutes, leaning over the skeletonized cadaver. At last he rolled his wheelchair back, saying nothing.
“Dr. Green?” the ME said, turning to her. Margo stepped up to the microscope and peered in, aware of being the focus of attention.
At first, she could make nothing of the image. Then she realized that the stereozoom was focused on what appeared to be a cervical vertebra. There were several shallow, regular scores along one edge. Some foreign brownish matter clung to the bone, along with bits of cartilage, strings of muscle tissue, and a greasy bulb of adipocere.
Slowly she straightened up, feeling the old familiar fear return, unwilling to consider what those scores along the bone reminded her of.
The ME raised his eyebrows. “Your opinion, Dr. Green?”
Margo drew in her breath. “If I were to guess, I’d say they look like teeth marks.”
She and Frock exchanged glances.
She knew now—they both knew—exactly why Frock had been called to this meeting.
Brambell waited while the others took turns staring through the microscope. Then, wordlessly, he wheeled the stereozoom over to Pamela Wisher’s skeleton, focusing this time on the pelvis. Again, Frock took up a position at the microscope, followed by Margo. No denying it this time; Margo noticed that some of the marks had punctured the bone and penetrated into the marrow spaces.
Frock blinked in the cold white light. “Lieutenant D’Agosta told me these skeletons came out of the West Side Lateral Drain.”
“That’s right,” said D’Agosta.
“Flushed out by the recent storm.”
“That’s the theory.”
“Perhaps feral dogs worried our couple while their dead bodies lay in the drain system.”
“That’s one possibility,” said Brambell. “I would estimate the pressure required to make the deepest of those pressure marks at around 1200 psi. A bit high for a dog, don’t you think?”
“Not for, say, a Rhodesian Ridgeback,” said Frock.
Brambell inclined his head. “Or the Hound of the Baskervilles, Professor?”
Frock frowned at the sarcasm. “I’m not convinced those marks are as powerful as you believe.”
“Alligator,” said D’Agosta.
All heads turned toward him.
“Alligator,” he repeated, almost defensively. “You know. They get flushed down the toilets as babies, then grow big in the sewers.” He looked around. “I read it somewhere.”
Brambell issued a chuckle as dry as dust. “Alligators, like all reptiles, have cone-shaped teeth. These marks were made by small triangular mammalian teeth, probably canines.”
“Canine, but not dog?” Frock said. “Let’s not forget the principle of Occam’s razor. The simplest explanation is usually the correct one.”
Brambell tilted his head in Frock’s direction. “I know that Occam’s razor is held in great esteem in your profession, Dr. Frock. In mine, we find the Holmesian philosophy more apt: ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’ ”
“So what answer remains, Dr. Brambell?” Frock snapped.
“As of this moment, I have no explanation.”
Frock settled back in the wheelchair. “This second skeleton is interesting. Perhaps even worth the trip in from Mendham. But you forget that I am now retired.”
Margo watched him, frowning. Normally, the professor would have been more entranced by a puzzle such as this. She wondered if—perhaps in the same way as herself—Frock was reminded of the events of eighteen months before. If so, perhaps he was resisting. It was not the kind of reminiscence likely to ensure tranquil retirement.
Olivia Merriam spoke up. “Dr. Frock,” she said, “we were hoping that you would be willing to assist in the analysis of the skeleton. Because of the unusual circumstances, the Museum has agreed to put its laboratory at the disposal of the police. We’ll be happy to provide you an office on the fifth floor, with secretary, for as long as necessary.”
Frock raised his eyebrows. “Surely the City Morgue has all the latest equipment. Not to mention the luminous medical talents of Dr. Brambell here.”
“You are correct about the luminous talent, Dr. Frock,” Brambell replied. “But as for having the latest equipment, you are sadly in error. The budget shortfalls of recent years have left us rather behind the times. Besides, the Morgue is a bit public for this sort of thing. Right now, we are infested with reporters and television crews.” He paused. “And, of course, we don’t have your particular expertise at the City Morgue.”
“Thank you,” Frock said. He gestured at the second skeleton. “But how hard could it be to identify someone who in life must have looked like, ahem, the Missing Link?”
“Believe me, we’ve tried,” said D’Agosta. “Over the last twenty-four hours, we’ve checked every missing Tom, Dick, and Harry in the tristate area. Nothing. And as far as we can tell, no freak like this ever existed, let alone one who got himself lost and chewed up in the New York City sewers.”
Frock seemed not to hear the answer to his question. His head sunk s
lowly to his chest and he remained motionless for several minutes. Except for an impatient cluck from Dr. Brambell, the laboratory was still. At last, Frock roused himself, sighed deeply, and nodded with what to Margo seemed like weary resignation. “Very well. I can give you a week. I have other business in the city to attend to. I assume you wish Dr. Green here to assist me?”
Too late, Margo realized she hadn’t given any thought to why she had been invited to this secret gathering. But now it was clear. She knew that Frock trusted her completely. Together, they had solved the mystery of the Museum Beast killings. They must have figured, she thought, that Frock would work with me and nobody else.
“Wait a minute,” she blurted. “I can’t do that.”
All eyes turned toward her, and Margo realized she had spoken more sharply than she’d meant to. “What I mean is, I don’t think I can spare the time right now,” she stammered.
Frock looked at her, comprehension in his eyes. More than anyone else, he understood this assignment was guaranteed to stir up fearsome memories.
Director Merriam’s narrow features creased into a frown. “I’ll speak to Dr. Hawthorne,” she said. “You’ll be given whatever time necessary to assist the police.”
Margo opened her mouth to protest, then decided against it. Too bad, she thought, that her curatorial appointment at the Museum was too recent for her to refuse.
“Very good,” said Brambell, a tight smile briefly cracking his face. “I will be working alongside the two of you, of course. Before we disperse, I might just emphasize that the utmost discretion will be required. It was bad enough having to release the news that Pamela Wisher had been found dead and decapitated. If word ever gets out that our socialite was nibbled on after death … or perhaps before …” His voice trailed off, and he smoothed a hand over his bald pate.
Frock glanced up sharply. “The teeth marks are not postmortem?”
“That, Dr. Frock, is the question of the hour. Or one of them, at least. The Mayor and the Chief of Police are waiting rather impatiently for results.”
Frock made no reply, and it was clear to everybody that the meeting was at an end. The group turned to go, most of them eager to distance themselves from the gaunt brownish things that lay on the specimen tables.
As she walked past, the Museum Director turned briefly toward Margo. “Let me know if I can help in any way,” she said.
Dr. Brambell took in Frock and Margo with one last sweep of his eyes, then followed the Director out the door.
Last to leave was Lieutenant D’Agosta. In the doorway, he paused for a moment. “If you have to talk to anyone, talk to me.” He opened his mouth as if to say more, then stopped, nodded, and turned away abruptly. The door closed behind him and Margo was alone: with Frock, Pamela Wisher, and the bizarrely malformed skeleton.
Frock sat up in his wheelchair. “Lock the door please, Margo,” he said, “and get the rest of the lights up.” He wheeled himself toward the specimen table. “I guess you’d better wash and put on scrubs.”
Margo glanced at the two skeletons. Then she looked toward her old professor.
“Dr. Frock?” she began. “You don’t think this could be the work of a—”
He turned suddenly, an odd expression on his ruddy face. Their eyes locked, and he shook his head.
“Don’t,” he whispered fiercely. “Not until we’re certain.”
Margo held his gaze for a moment. Finally she nodded and turned toward the bank of light switches. What had not been said between them was much more unsettling than the two grisly skeletons.
6
In the smoky recesses of the Cat’s Paw bar, Smithback wedged himself into a narrow telephone booth. Balancing his drink in one hand and squinting at the buttons in the dim light, he dialed the number of his office, wondering how many messages would be waiting for him this time.
Smithback never doubted that he was one of the greatest journalists in New York. Probably the greatest. A year and a half ago, he’d brought the story of the Museum Beast to the world. And not in the usual dickless, detached way: He’d been there with D’Agosta and the others, struggling in the dark on that April night. On the strength of the book which quickly followed, he’d secured this position as Post crime correspondent. Now the Wisher thing had come along, and none too soon, either. Big stories were rarer than he could have guessed, and there were always others—like that stain-on-the-wall Bryce Harriman, crime reporter for the Times—out to scoop him. But if he played it right, this could be as big as the Mbwun story had been. Maybe bigger.
A great journalist, he mused as he listened to the phone ring, adapts himself to the options offered him. Take the Wisher story. He had been totally unprepared for the mother. She’d been impressive. Smithback found himself embarrassed and deeply moved. Fired by those unfamiliar emotions, he’d written a new article for that morning’s edition, labeling Pamela Wisher the Angel of Central Park South and painting her death in tragic colors. But the real stroke of genius had been the $100,000 reward for information leading to the murderer. The idea had come to him in the middle of writing the story; he had carried the half-written piece and his reward idea straight into the office of the Post‘s new editor, Arnold Murray. The man had loved it, authorizing it on the spot without even bothering to check with the publisher.
Ginny, the pool secretary, came on the line excitedly. Twenty phone calls about the reward, all of them bogus.
“That’s it?” Smithback asked, crestfallen.
“Well, there was, like, this really weird visitor for you,” the secretary gushed. She was short and skinny, lived in Ronkonkoma, and had a crush on Smithback.
“Yeah?”
“He was dressed in rags and he smelled. God, I could hardly breathe. And he was, like, high or something.”
Maybe it’s a hot tip, Smithback thought excitedly. “What did he want?”
“He said he had information about the Wisher murder. He asked you to meet him in the Penn Station men’s room—”
Smithback almost dropped his drink. “The men’s room? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“That’s what he said. You think he’s a pervert?” She spoke with undisguised relish.
“Which men’s room?”
He heard papers shuffling. “I’ve got it right here. North end, lower level, just to the left of the track 12 escalator. At eight o’clock tonight.”
“What information, exactly?”
“That was all he said.”
“Thanks.” He hung up and checked his watch: seven forty-five. The men’s room in Penn Station? I’d have to be crazy or desperate, he thought, to follow up a lead like that.
Smithback had never been inside a men’s room at Penn Station before. Nobody he knew would ever go in one, either. As he opened the door into a vast, hot room, suffocating with the stench of urine and old diarrhea, he thought that, in fact, he’d rather piss his pants than use a Penn Station men’s room.
He was five minutes late. Probably the guy’s gone already, Smithback thought gratefully. Assuming he’d ever been here in the first place. He was just about to duck back outside when he heard a gravelly voice.
“William Smithback?”
“What?” Smithback looked around quickly, scanning the deserted men’s room. Then he saw two legs descend in the farthest stall. The door opened. A small, skinny man stepped out and walked up to him unsteadily, his long face grimy, his clothes dark with grease and dirt, his hair matted and knotted into alarming shapes. A beard of indescribable color descended to twin points near his belly button, which was exposed through a long ragged tear in his shirt.
“William Smithback?” the man repeated, peering at him through filmy eyes.
“Who else?”
Without another word, the man turned and moved back toward the rear of the men’s room. He stopped at the open last stall, then turned, waiting.
“You have some information for me?” Smithback asked.
“Come with me.” He gestured b
ack toward the stall.
“No way,” said Smithback. “If you want to talk, we can talk out here, but I’m not going in there with you, pal.”
The man gestured again. “But this is the way to go.”
“Go where?”
“Down.”
Cautiously, Smithback approached the stall. The man had stepped inside and was standing behind the toilet, prying back a large piece of painted sheet metal that, Smithback now saw, covered a ragged hole in the dirty tile wall.
“In there?” Smithback asked.
The man nodded.
“Where does it go?”
“Down,” the man repeated.
“Forget it,” said Smithback. He started to back away.
The man held his gaze. “I’m supposed to bring you to Mephisto,” he said. “He has to talk to you about the murder of that girl. He knows important things.”
“Give me a break.”
The man continued to stare at him. “You can trust me,” he said simply.
Somehow, despite the filth and the drugged eyes, Smithback found himself believing the man. “What things?”
“You have to talk to Mephisto.”
“Who’s this Mephisto?”
“He’s our leader.” The man shrugged as if no other information was necessary.
“Our?”
The man nodded. “The Route 666 community.”
Despite his uncertainty, Smithback felt a tingle of excitement. An organized community underground? That would make good copy all by itself. And if this Mephisto really knew something about the Wisher murder … “Where exactly is this Route 666 community?” he asked.
“Can’t tell you. But I’ll show you the way.”
“And your name?” he asked.
“They call me Tail Gunner,” the man said, a small gleam of pride flaring in his eyes.
“Look,” said Smithback. “I’d follow you, but you can’t expect me to just crawl into a hole like this. I could get ambushed, mugged, anything.”
The man shook his head vehemently. “I’ll protect you. Everyone knows I’m Mephisto’s chief runner. You’ll be safe.”
Smithback stared at the man: rheumy eyes, running nose, dirty wizard’s beard. He had come all the way to the offices of the Post. That was a lot of trouble for a guy who looked both broke and homeless.
Reliquary (Pendergast, Book 2) (Relic) Page 4
