by Brad Meltzer
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 inflamed 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—”
“Then I suggest you sit down, my friend.”
Smithback sat down, amid more laughter, his feelings of triumph squashed. He had scored a hit, but they knew how to hit back.
As the questions droned on, it slowly dawned on him just what he had done, dragging Nora’s name into the press conference. It didn’t take him nearly as long to figure out how she would feel about it.
TWO
DOYERS STREET WAS A SHORT, NARROW DOGLEG OF A lane at the southeastern edge of Chinatown. A cluster of tea shops and grocery stores stood at the far end, festooned with bright neon signs in Chinese. Dark clouds scudded across the sky, whipping scraps of paper and leaves off the sidewalk. There was a distant roll of thunder. A storm was coming.
O’Shaughnessy paused at the entrance of the deserted lane, and Nora stopped beside him. She shivered, with both fear and cold. She could see him peering up and down the sidewalk, eyes alert for any sign of danger, any possibility that they had been followed.
“Number ninety-nine is i
n the middle of the block,” he said in a low voice. “That brownstone, there.”
Nora followed the indicated direction with her eyes. It was a narrow building like all the others: a three-story structure of dirty green brick.
“Sure you don’t want me to go in with you?” O’Shaughnessy asked.
Nora swallowed. “I think it’d be better if you stayed here and watched the street.”
O’Shaughnessy nodded, then slipped into the shadow of a doorway.
Taking a deep breath, Nora started forward. The sealed envelope containing Pendergast’s banknotes felt like a lead weight within her purse. She shivered again, glancing up and down the dark street, fighting her feeling of agitation.
The attack on her, and Puck’s brutal murder, had changed everything. It had proven these were no mere psychotic copycat killings. It had been carefully planned. The murderer had access to the Museum’s private spaces. He had used Puck’s old Royal typewriter to type that note, luring her to the Archives. He had pursued her with terrifying coolness. She’d felt the man’s presence, mere inches away from her, there in the Archives. She’d even felt the sting of his scalpel. This was no lunatic: this was someone who knew exactly what he was doing, and why. Whatever the connection between the old killings and the new, this had to be stopped. If there was anything—anything—she could do to get the killer, she was willing to do it.
There were answers beneath the floor of Number 99 Doyers Street. She was going to find those answers.
Her mind returned to the terrifying chase, in particular to the flash of the Surgeon’s scalpel as it flicked toward her, faster than a striking snake. It was an image that she found herself unable to shake. Then the endless police questioning; and afterward her trip to Pendergast’s bedside, to tell him she had changed her mind about Doyers Street. Pendergast had been alarmed to hear of the attack, reluctant at first, but Nora refused to be swayed. With or without him, she was going down to Doyers. Ultimately, Pendergast had relented: on the condition that Nora keep O’Shaughnessy by her side at all times. And he had arranged for her to receive the fat packet of cash.
She mounted the steps to the front door, steeling herself for the task at hand. She noticed that the apartment names beside the buzzers were written in Chinese. She pressed the buzzer for Apartment 1.
A voice rasped out in Chinese.
“I’m the one interested in renting the basement apartment,” she called out.
The lock snapped free with a buzz, she pushed on the door, and found herself in a hallway lit by fluorescent lights. A narrow staircase ascended to her right. At the end of the hallway she could hear a door being endlessly unbolted. It opened at last and a stooped, depressed-looking man appeared, in shirtsleeves and baggy slacks, peering down the hall at her.
Nora walked up. “Mr. Ling Lee?”
He nodded and held the door open for her. Beyond was a living room with a green sofa, a Formica table, several easy chairs, and an elaborate red- and gold-carved bas-relief on the wall, showing a pagoda and trees. A chandelier, grossly oversized for the space, dominated the room. The wallpaper was lilac, the rug red and black.
“Sit down,” the man said. His voice was faint, tired.
She sat down, sinking alarmingly into the sofa.
“How you hear about this apartment?” Lee asked. Nora could see from his expression he was not pleased to see her.
Nora launched into her story. “A lady who works in the Citibank down the block from here told me about it.”
“What lady?” Lee asked, more sharply. In Chinatown, Pendergast had explained, most landlords preferred to rent to their own.
“I don’t know her name. My uncle told me to talk to her, said that she knew where to find an apartment in this area. She told me to call you.”
“Your uncle?”
“Yes. Uncle Huang. He’s with the DHCR.”
This bit of information was greeted with a dismayed silence. Pendergast figured that having a Chinese relative would make it easier for her to get the apartment. That he worked for the Department of Housing and Community Renewal—the city division that enforced the rent laws—made it all the better.
“Your name?”
“Betsy Winchell.”
Nora noticed a large, dark presence move from the kitchen into the doorway of the living room. It was apparently Lee’s wife, arms folded, three times his size, looking very stern.
“Over the phone, you said the apartment was available. I’m prepared to take it right away. Please show it to me.”
Lee rose from the table and glanced at his wife. Her arms tightened.
“Follow me,” he said.
They went back into the hall, out the front door, and down the steps. Nora glanced around quickly, but O’Shaughnessy was nowhere to be seen. Lee removed a key, opened the basement apartment door, and snapped on the lights. She followed him in. He closed the door and made a show of relocking no fewer than four locks.
It was a dismal apartment, long and dark. The only window was a small, barred square beside the front door. The walls were of painted brick, once white but now gray, and the floor was covered with old brick pavers, cracked and chipped. Nora looked at them with professional interest. They were laid but not cemented. What was beneath? Dirt? Sand? Concrete? The floor looked just uneven and damp enough to have been laid on dirt.
“Kitchen and bedroom in back,” said Lee, not bothering to point.
Nora walked to the rear of the apartment. Here was a cramped kitchen, leading into two dark bedrooms and a bath. There were no closets. A window in the rear wall, below grade, allowed feeble brown light from an air shaft to enter between thick steel bars.
Nora emerged. Lee was examining the lock on the front door. “Have to fix lock,” he said in a portentous tone. “Many robber try to get in.”
“You have a lot of break-ins?”
Lee nodded enthusiastically. “Oh yes. Many robber. Very dangerous.”
“Really?”
“Many robber. Many mugger.” He shook his head sadly.
“The apartment looks safe, at least.” Nora listened. The ceiling seemed fairly soundproof—at least, she could hear nothing from above.
“Neighborhood not safe for girl. Every day, murder, mugging, robber. Rape.”
Nora knew that, despite its shabby appearance, Chinatown was one of the safest neighborhoods in the city. “I’m not worried,” she said.
“Many rule for apartment,” said Lee, trying another tack.
“Is that right?”
“No music. No noise. No man at night.” Lee seemed to be searching his mind for other strictures a young woman would find objectionable. “No smoke. No drink. Keep clean every day.”
Nora listened, nodding her agreement. “Good. That sounds perfect. I like a neat, quiet place. And I have no boyfriend.” With a renewed flash of anger she thought of Smithback and how he had dragged her into this mess by publishing that article. To a certain extent Smithback had been responsible for these copycat killings. Just yesterday, he’d had the nerve to bring up her name at the mayor’s news conference, for the whole city to hear. She felt certain that, after what happened in the Archives, her long-term prospects at the Museum were even more questionable than before.
“Utility not include.”
“Of course.”
“No air-condition.”
Nora nodded.
Lee seemed at a loss, then his face brightened with a fresh idea. “After suicide, no allow gun in apartment.”
“Suicide?”
“Young woman hang herself. Same age as you.”
“A hanging? I thought you mentioned a gun.”
The man looked confused for a moment. Then his face brightened again. “She hang, but it no work. Then shoot herself.”
“I see. She favored the comprehensive approach.”
“Like you, she no have boyfriend. Very sad.”
“How terrible.”
“It happen right in there,” said Lee, point
ing into the kitchen. “Not find body for three day. Bad smell.” He rolled his eyes and added, in a dramatic undertone: “Many worm.”
“How dreadful,” Nora said. Then she smiled. “But the apartment is just perfect. I’ll take it.”
Lee’s look of depression deepened, but he said nothing.
She followed him back up to his apartment. Nora sat back down at the sofa, uninvited. The wife was still there, a formidable presence in the kitchen doorway. Her face was screwed into an expression of suspicion and displeasure. Her crossed arms looked like balsa-colored hams.
The man sat down unhappily.
“So,” said Nora, “let’s get this over with. I want to rent the apartment. I need it immediately. Today. Right now.”
“Have to check reference,” Lee replied feebly.
“There’s no time and I’m prepared to pay cash. I need the apartment tonight, or I won’t have a place to sleep.” As she spoke, she removed Pendergast’s envelope. She reached in and took out a brick of hundred-dollar bills.
The appearance of the money brought a loud expostulation from the wife. Lee did not respond. His eyes were on the cash.
“I have here first month’s rent, last month’s rent, and a month’s deposit.” Nora thumped the roll on the tabletop. “Six thousand six hundred dollars. Cash. Bring out the lease.”
The apartment was dismal and the rent bordered on outrageous, which was probably why it wasn’t gone already. She hoped that hard cash was something Lee could not afford to ignore.
There was another sharp comment from the wife. Lee ignored her. He went into the back, and returned a few minutes later, laying two leases in front of her. They were in Chinese. There was a silence.
“Need reference,” said the wife stolidly, switching to English for Nora’s benefit. “Need credit check.”
Nora ignored her. “Where do I sign?”
“There,” the man pointed.
Nora signed Betsy Winchell with a flourish on both leases, and then hand wrote on each lease a crude receipt: $6,600 received by Mr. Ling Lee. “My Uncle Huang will translate it for me. I hope for your sake there’s nothing illegal in it. Now you sign. Initial the receipt.”
