Линкольн Чайлд - Verses for the Dead

“I specifically asked her to conduct the autopsy,” said Pendergast.

“And who gave you the authority to make a decision like that? We can’t leave any room for inexperience or mistakes.” He turned toward one of the dieners, simultaneously pointing at the video camera. “I’m taking over. Are we running?”

“Yes, Dr. Moberly.”

“Good. Charlotte, you may remain and watch. It’ll be a valuable learning experience for you.”

A series of expressions, none of them happy, passed across Fauchet’s face as she pulled down her mask. She opened her mouth to speak, evidently thought better of it, then stepped back and replaced the mask.

“The snips, please.”

A diener handed the snips to the chief.

“Excuse me, Dr. Moberly?” Pendergast said in a low voice.

Unexpectedly, Coldmoon felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. There was that same something in Pendergast’s tone he had heard before — only worse.

“Yes, Agent Pendergast?” Moberly spoke over his shoulder.

“Put the instruments down, turn around, and look at me.”

The command was made in a low, honeyed voice, but somehow it did not sound the slightest bit pleasant.

Moberly straightened up and turned, his face uncomprehending. “I beg your pardon?”

“Dr. Fauchet will do the autopsy. You are welcome to stay and watch, and perhaps you will find it a valuable learning experience.”

Moberly stared a moment longer, his face darkening as he took in the affront. “What do you mean by speaking to me that way?”

Pendergast fixed his glittering silver eyes on the chief of pathology. “I asked Dr. Fauchet to conduct this medicolegal autopsy, and conduct it she will.”

“This is outrageous,” Moberly said, his voice rising. “How dare you give orders in my own pathology department?”

A pause. Then Pendergast asked: “Dr. Moberly, are you sure you want me to answer that question?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he said angrily. “Is this some sort of threat? You know, Pickett warned me about you. Who do you think you are?”

“I’m an FBI agent with access to excellent resources.”

“I don’t give a damn about that. Remove yourself from my morgue.”

“I have used those resources to look into your past. It is — what is that term? — checkered .”

He paused. Moberly stared at him, as if frozen.

“For example, your 2008 autopsy of sixteen-year-old Ana Gutierrez, in which you determined she died of a blood infection, was overturned by a court-ordered second autopsy, which showed she had been the victim of rape and strangulation. Or your 2010 autopsy of eight-month-old Gretchen Worley, in which you concluded she died of shaken baby syndrome, when—”

“That’s enough ,” said Moberly, red-faced. “Every pathologist makes mistakes.”

“Do they?” Pendergast said, his smooth voice continuing. “I note from your Miami personnel file that, on your application for chief forensic pathologist, you did not disclose that you had been fired in Indianapolis in 1993.”

A silence.

“Fired, I might add, after being arrested and convicted of drunken driving... on your way to work.”

The silence that followed was electric.

“There’s more, of course,” said Pendergast, ever so quietly. “Shall I go on?”

The unbearable silence continued for a moment. Then Moberly simply shook his head. Coldmoon, startled at this sudden turn of events, noticed the man’s face had lost all its color. The doctor’s eyes swiveled toward the upper corner of the room. Coldmoon followed the gaze to see a gleaming lens.

“Ah!” Pendergast cried. “The video camera! Good heavens, was what I just said captured on tape? How awkward . I imagine it will have to be officially investigated. In the meantime, Dr. Moberly, we’ve chatted long enough. I think you might want to leave, after all. Good morning to you.”

With trembling hands, Moberly slowly removed his mask and scrubs, dropped them in the bin, and shuffled out the door. The door hissed shut. The two dieners stood motionless, their mouths open. No one spoke.

Finally, Coldmoon, still stunned by the sudden reversal of Moberly’s fortunes, said: “I can’t believe how you just crushed that guy. I mean, you left him speechless.”

“When one detonates a nuclear bomb,” Pendergast said, “the shadows left behind on the walls are rarely able to protest.” He turned to Dr. Fauchet, who herself looked shell-shocked. “I regret disturbing your procedure with such drama. Please proceed.”

Fauchet took a long, deep breath, then without a word picked up the instruments and began to work.

Elise Baxter’s body was far better preserved than Agatha Flayley’s, and as such, the autopsy was far more bearable. Coldmoon endured it with his usual stoicism, glad he’d had nothing but camp coffee that morning. Fauchet proceeded with exceptional care, it seemed, with a steady stream of comments addressed to the video camera as she worked. Pendergast, for his part, remained silent. Ten o’clock came and still Fauchet worked on, slowly disassembling the body, removing the organs and putting them in containers. There were no surprises. Baxter gave every indication of being a suicide, like Flayley.

Shortly before eleven, Coldmoon felt the cell phone in his pocket vibrate. He pulled it out so quickly that coins spilled everywhere. Pickett. Fauchet had already warned them to not answer their phones in her presence, so he quickly ducked outside into the anteroom.

“Yeah?”

“I’ve been calling Pendergast’s phone,” said Pickett. “He’s not answering. I heard a while ago from the chief M.E., Moberly, that he’s exhumed the Baxter remains against my orders. I want to talk to both of you, now .”

“Pendergast’s still observing the autopsy.”

“Coldmoon? Did you not hear what I said?”

“I’ll go get him.”

“You do that.”

“Hold on.”

Coldmoon slipped back into the autopsy room. Fauchet was finishing up now, working on the head and shoulders, and Pendergast was watching carefully. Coldmoon signaled and he came over, frowning.

“Agent Pickett’s on the phone. He wants to talk to us.”

Pendergast almost looked like he was going to refuse, but then nodded. They slipped out into the anteroom, and Pendergast handed him the change he’d dropped on the autopsy room floor.

“Your thirty pieces of silver,” he said.

Coldmoon didn’t answer this. He put the phone on speaker.

“Agent Pendergast?” came Pickett’s voice. “Are you there?”

“Yes.”

“Agent Coldmoon?”

“Here, too.”

“Good, because you both need to hear this. SA Pendergast, I understand you authorized the exhumation of Baxter’s remains, obtained a warrant, and are conducting an autopsy.”

“Correct.”

“So instead of pursuing a valuable line of inquiry such as the call-girl murder — which took place right across the street from your hotel, I understand — you’ve gone ahead with this autopsy contrary to my orders. My direct orders.”

“I did.”

A pause. “I just heard from the Baxter family lawyer. You did the exhumation over their objections. They’re going to sue.”

“That is unfortunate.”

“Is that all you can say? ‘Unfortunate’?”

“Since this is a federal law enforcement matter, their permission was not required.”

“I know that. But this is the real world, and a lawsuit like this doesn’t look good. So — has the autopsy revealed any vital new evidence?” There was a heavy dose of sarcasm in the voice.

Nobody answered.

“Agent Coldmoon?”