Douglas Preston - The Cabinet of Curiosities

The nurse rolled over a large microscope. Quickly, Dowson inspected the spinous processes. “It looks as if a rongeur has been used to remove the processes and laminae from the dura.”

He straightened up, running a gowned arm across his forehead. This was not a standard dissection one would do in medical school. It was more like the kind of thing neurosurgeons practiced in advanced neuroanatomy classes. Then he remembered the FBI agent, Pendergast. He glanced at him, to see how he was taking it. He had seen a lot of shocked people at autopsies, but nothing like this: the man looked, not shocked exactly, so much as grim Death himself.

The man spoke. “Doctor, may I interrupt with a few questions?”

Dowson nodded.

“Was this dissection the cause of death?”

This was a new thought to Dowson. He shuddered. “If the subject were alive when this was done, yes, it would have caused death.”

“At what point?”

“As soon as the incision was made in the dura, the cerebrospinal fluid would have drained. That alone would have been enough to cause death.” He examined the wound again. It looked as if the operation had caused a great deal of bleeding from the epidural veins, and some of them had retracted — an indication of live trauma. Yet the dissector had not worked around the veins, as a surgeon on a live patient would have done, but had cut right through them. The operation, while done with great skill, had also apparently been done with haste. “A large number of veins have been cut, and only the largest — whose bleeding would have interfered with the work — have been ligated. The subject might have bled to death before the opening of the dura, depending on how fast the, er, person worked.”

“But was the subject alive when the operation began?”

“It seems she was.” Dowson swallowed weakly. “However, it seems no effort was made to keep the subject alive while the, ah, dissection was progressing.”

“I would suggest some blood and tissue work to see if the subject had been tranquilized.”

The doctor nodded. “It’s standard.”

“In your opinion, Doctor, how professional was this dissection?”

Dowson did not answer. He was trying to order his thoughts. This had the potential of being big and unpleasant. For the time being, no doubt they’d try to keep a low profile on this, try to fly it as long as possible beneath the radar of the New York press. But it would come out — it always did — and then there would be a lot of people second-guessing his actions. He’d better slow down, take it one step at a time. This was not the run-of-the-mill murder the police report indicated. Thank God he hadn’t actually begun the autopsy. He had the FBI agent to thank for that.

He turned to the nurse. “Get Jones up here with the large-format camera and the camera for the stereozoom. And I want a second ME to assist. Who’s on call?”

“Dr. Lofton.”

“I need him within the half-hour. I also want to consult with our neurosurgeon, Dr. Feldman. Get him up here as soon as possible.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

He turned to Pendergast. “I’m not sure I can let you stay without some kind of official sanction.”

To his surprise, the man seemed to accept this. “I understand, Doctor. I believe this autopsy is in good hands. I, personally, have seen enough.”

So have I, thought Dowson. He now felt sure that a surgeon had done this. The thought made him feel sick.

O’Shaughnessy stood in the lounge. He debated whether to buy a cup of coffee from a vending machine, then decided against it. He felt distinctly embarrassed. Here he was, supposed to be a tough, sardonic New York City cop, and he’d wimped out. All but tossed his cookies right there on the examining room floor. The sight of that poor chubby naked girl on the table, blue and dirty, her young face all puffed up, eyes open, leaves and sticks in her hair… he shuddered afresh at the image.

He also felt a burning anger for the person who had done it. He wasn’t a homicide cop, had never wanted to be one, even in the early days. He hated the sight of blood. But his own sister-in-law lived in Oklahoma. About this girl’s age, too. Now, he felt he could stand whatever it took to catch that killer.

Pendergast glided through the stainless steel doors like a wraith. He barely glanced at O’Shaughnessy. The sergeant fell into step behind him, and they left the building and climbed into the waiting car in silence.

Something had definitely put Pendergast into a black mood. The guy was moody, but this was the darkest he had ever seen him. O’Shaughnessy still had no idea why Pendergast was suddenly so interested in this new murder, interrupting his work on the nineteenth-century killings. But somehow, this didn’t seem to be the time to ask.

“We will drop the sergeant off at the precinct house,” said Pendergast to his chauffeur. “And then you may take me home.”

Pendergast settled back in the leather seat. O’Shaughnessy looked over at him.

“What happened?” he managed to ask. “What did you see?”

Pendergast looked out his window. “Evil.” And he spoke no more.

WILLIAM SMITHBACK JR., in his best suit (the Amani, recently dry-cleaned), crispest white shirt, and most business-like tie, stood on the corner of Avenue of the Americas and Fifty-fifth Street. His eyes strayed upward along the vast glass-and-chrome monolith that was the Moegen-Fairhaven Building, rippling blue-green in the sunlight like some vast slab of water. Somewhere in that hundred-million-dollar pile was his prey.

He felt pretty sure he could talk his way into seeing Fairhaven. He was good at that kind of thing. This assignment was a lot more promising than that tourist murder in the Ramble his editor had wanted him to cover today. He conjured up the grizzled face of his editor, red eyes bug-big behind thick glasses, smoke-cured finger pointing, telling him that this dead lady from Oklahoma was going to be big. Big? Tourists were getting smoked all the time in New York City. It was too bad, but there it was. Homicide reporting was hackwork. He had a hunch about Fairhaven, the Museum, and these old killings Pendergast was so interested in. He always trusted his hunches. His editor wouldn’t be disappointed. He was going to cast his fly onto the water, and by God Fairhaven might just bite.

Taking one more deep breath, he crossed the street — giving the finger to a cabbie that shot past inches away, horn blaring — and approached the granite and titanium entry. Another vast acreage of granite greeted him upon entering the interior. There was a large desk, manned by half a dozen security officers, and several banks of elevators beyond.

Smithback strode resolutely toward the security desk. He leaned on it aggressively.

“I’m here to see Mr. Fairhaven.”

The closest guard was shuffling through a computer printout. “Name?” he asked, not bothering to look up.

“William Smithback Jr., of the New York Times. ”

“Moment,” mumbled the guard, picking up a telephone. He dialed, then handed it to Smithback. A crisp voice sounded. “May I help you?”

“This is William Smithback Jr. of the New York Times. I’m here to see Mr. Fairhaven.”

It was Saturday, but Smithback was gambling he’d be in his office. Guys like Fairhaven never took Saturdays off. And on Saturdays, they were usually less fortified with secretaries and guards.

“Do you have an appointment?” the female voice asked, reaching down to him from fifty stories.

“No. I’m the reporter doing the story on Enoch Leng and the bodies found at his jobsite on Catherine Street and I need to speak with him immediately. It’s urgent.”