Linda Fairstein - Entombed

"I wasn't at home, Detective. I spent the day in my office. I've taken an early retirement, but I've kept an office and I go in to it from time to time."

"Do you have an answering machine here?"

"Indeed. You can check it yourself. The only messages yesterday were from my rare book dealer and one hang-up call. Perhaps it's the latter you're referring to. Perhaps it was a wrong number."

We could check the length of the call from telephone records to determine whether it was true that the call was a hang-up, by its short duration.

"What's the name of the dead man?"

"He was a doctor," Mike said. "Wo-Jin Ichiko."

Zeldin scratched his head, gently enough not to shift the position of the rug. "I don't know that name."

"The news story today-the one about the man who died in the Bronx River?"

"Yes, I heard about that, but I didn't know the fellow. My office, in fact, is in the Bronx."

I hesitated asking what condition confined Zeldin to a wheelchair and wondered whether he was remotely capable of sending someone to his death at a rugged crime scene. But there would be time for Mike and Mercer to come back to that.

"Why don't we start at the beginning. What is the Raven Society?" I asked.

Zeldin wheeled himself to a cabinet and opened the door to reveal a wet bar, constructed at the height of his chair. "A glass of wine, anyone?"

We all declined and waited while he poured himself some Burgundy.

"The society was formed a century ago to honor Edgar Allan Poe on the fiftieth anniversary of his death. It was conceived as a secret society, membership by invitation only-just a scholarly tribute to the great poet. It was limited to five members."

"Five? That's a pretty minuscule society," Mike said.

"Unlike many writers of that period, who never achieved fame until long after their deaths, Poe was recognized for his genius during his lifetime, here and abroad. But he suffered so many tragedies during his short time on this earth-so many personal indignities- that when he died, there were only five men to take him to his grave. Five-including the minister who presided over the burial. It seemed, at the time, a fitting number to honor him."

"And now?" I asked.

"Still by invitation only, Miss Cooper. Now there are twenty-five."

"All in New York?"

"Oh, no. But about two-thirds of them are here."

"What are the criteria for membership?"

"We look for scholars, Detective. Not necessarily academics, but people who have immersed themselves in Poe and know his body of work. The poems, the stories, the literary criticism. Aficionados of the master."

"And do you meet?"

"From time to time, certainly. Dinners for the most part. Lectures and other events marking significant dates or new research."

"Would you be willing to give us a list of your members' names?" I asked.

Zeldin hesitated. "That would not be my decision to make. I'm merely the secretary of the society at the moment. I would have to ask-"

Mike interrupted him. "You're right that it's not your decision to make. We're in the middle of a murder investigation. I think it's gonna be Ms. Cooper who decides. Along with the grand jury."

Zeldin sipped his wine. "I don't mean to be obstreperous, Mr. Chapman. We shy away from publicity. Of course we'd be only too keen to help with your work, but I'd like some assurance that all this won't be material for the headlines."

"It's not likely that any of it will be made public," I said.

"I don't suppose you're going to tell me what you know about the skeleton at Poe House," Zeldin said, smiling as he drew a reaction from each of us, "and whether this man's death-Ichiko, is that his name?-is connected to the finding of those bones?"

"How about you go first?" Mike said. "What do you know about the skeleton?"

"I told you, Detective. Poe is our life's work. The society was part of-how do you say it in the law, Ms. Cooper?-part of the amicus brief to oppose the destruction of the old building by the university. I was naturally very interested to read that someone's remains had been discovered there."

"Why is that site so important to you?" Mercer asked.

Zeldin sighed. "From a historical point of view, and a cultural one, the places any great man lived should be preserved. In January of 1845, 'The Raven' was published. It brought Poe enormous acclaim, of course, and the fame he'd been longing for. It was that very same year he moved into the building on Third Street from uptown-from Brennan's farm in the West Eighties.

"You've seen that place? Can you imagine what works, what brilliant writings were created in those tiny, inhospitable rooms he rented?" Zeldin paused. "But then I suppose you care nothing about that. It's what keeps you in business."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"If the lawsuit had not been lost, if the building had not been demolished, well-you'd never have come upon that skeleton. It would have been interred behind the brick wall forever, as its killer intended."

"And what do you know about the bones? About those intentions?"

"Nothing more than what I've read in the newspaper and discussed with some of the society's members. We're interested, obviously," Zeldin said, gesturing at Mike with his glass.

"Poe only lived there for one year. What's your interest in that particular place?"

"Yes, Mr. Chapman, just a year. But do you know what he wrote in that house on Third Street?"

We each shook our heads.

"The most exquisite meditation on passion and revenge ever created. A tale called 'The Cask of Amontillado.'"

"Of course," I said. It was one of the most famous of Poe's tales, and I had studied it in a literature course at college. "The narrator entombs someone who has betrayed him behind a brick wall. Buries him alive, laughing while the man screams to be freed. Why is it he did that to his victim?"

Now my mind flashed to images of the young Aurora Tait, left to die inside the very same place where that story was created.

Zeldin's Latin was perfect. "The family motto, Miss Cooper. Nemo me impune lacessit. 'No one insults me with impunity.'"

"Maybe we're on the same page," Mike said. "Is there anyone associated with the society whose name or nickname is Monty? Maybe going back twenty or thirty years?"

"Why do you ask?"

"One of the victims involved may have had a boyfriend named Monty."

"I would guess he was pulling her leg, Detective. It would be a wonderful joke for the killer to take that name, for either of two reasons. There's amontillado itself."

"Sherry?" I asked.

"Exactly. A blend of pale, dry sherry from the Montilla region of Spain. It was casks of this wonderful rare drink that the storyteller invited his prey down into the catacombs to sample. He wanted to get his victim intoxicated enough to pass out, but then have him come around in time to see that the last bricks were about to seal him in forever."

I could imagine Aurora Tait, being lured into the basement on Third Street by someone she had betrayed, with the promise of some pure smack or a stash of high-grade cocaine.

"And then there's the name of the killer himself," Zeldin said. "Don't you remember, Ms. Cooper? Montresor. Poe called him Montresor."

"Monty," Mike whispered. "All the time I'm looking for a guy called Monty, like that was really his given name. If he was Emily's boyfriend, and if he did kill Aurora Tait, he was probably just playing with people's heads, counting on the fact that the junkies in his little self-help group wouldn't have a clue about the stories of Edgar Allan Poe."

"I'm just commenting on the irony of finding the poor woman in that particular location," Zeldin said, backing off a bit, "and here you people are trying to connect it with someone named Monty."