Douglas Preston - The Cabinet of Curiosities

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 discovered 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.”