Линкольн Чайлд - Bloodless

Coldmoon had made sure to position himself upwind from the dead dog. It had been a warm, humid night and he didn’t want to take any chances. Even without the smell it was a pretty horrific sight.

“Curious,” murmured Pendergast. “Most curious.”

Coldmoon wasn’t inclined to ask Pendergast what he found curious, even if the agent would have told him — which he probably would not.

“I believe it is our turn, Agent Coldmoon,” said Pendergast. “Shall we?”

Pendergast ducked under the tape and Coldmoon followed. There was no need to put on a monkey suit, thank God: it was only eight in the morning but already a scorcher. And here was his partner, wearing a damn linen suit with big green rubber Wellingtons on his feet. Somehow, he’d kept the suit immaculate even as they’d pushed through vegetation and waded through muck along the riverbank to reach this spot.

Coldmoon hung back a little. Dead dogs weren’t really his area of expertise, and he was happy to let others take the lead. Pendergast, on the other hand, seemed as eager as ever when a dead body — human or otherwise — was in the vicinity. He made a beeline for the severed head and knelt next to it, slipping on a pair of nitrile gloves. He examined it with a magnifying glass.

“By Jove, Watson,” Coldmoon muttered.

If Pendergast heard, he made no sign. He lifted the dog’s tongue, turned it over, and swabbed something from it; then swabbed the dog’s canines and put both swabs in a tube. Another tube came out and he took more rapid samples. Meanwhile, the M.E. and vet were examining the rest of the dog, twenty feet distant.

Now Pendergast was examining the dog’s badly torn neck. “Agent Coldmoon?”

Coldmoon came over. Pendergast was pointing to vertebrae exposed in the neck. He waved off a few flies as they looked closer at the bloody mess.

Pendergast handed him the glass. “If you please.”

It didn’t please, but Coldmoon took a look anyway. He could see that the tip of one vertebra had broken off and the spinal cord was ragged and torn. “Looks like a lot of force was used.”

“Exactly,” said Pendergast. “One might assume the head was cut off, but when you examine the flesh, here, and here” — he poked at some muscles in the neck with a swab — “and that fractured vertebra, it looks more like it was torn off. Do you see?”

“Right,” said Coldmoon. “Right.”

Pendergast rose. “Let us look at the other section of the body.”

They joined the M.E. and the vet, still crouching over the remains. Pendergast gave the carcass such a thorough examination, once again with his magnifying glass almost pressed against the fast-decaying flesh, spreading open this wound and probing into that cut, that Coldmoon had to avert his eyes. He hoped to God he wouldn’t be asked to examine something.

“Well,” said Pendergast as he rose, examination complete. “Dr. McDuffie, what do you make of it?”

The M.E., high-strung to begin with, seemed particularly nervous. Coldmoon understood why when he saw Commander Delaplane come striding out of the swamp, a look of displeasure on her face.

“I’ll defer to my veterinary colleague, Dr. Suarez.”

The vet, a young fellow with a lean frame, laid-back in comparison to McDuffie’s fretfulness, said: “Well, if we weren’t out in the middle of a bayou, I’d say this dog had been hit by a truck. You can see evidence of trauma, significant internal injuries, and broken bones.” As he spoke, he gestured with a bloody scalpel, which he had been using to take tissue samples.

“Curious,” said Pendergast.

Delaplane was now standing behind them, listening, her arms crossed.

“So, in the absence of being hit by a Peterbilt, I’d say the dog was beaten badly — perhaps with a baseball bat or crowbar — and cut or slashed. Possibly, both the butt and blade of an ax were used. We’ll know more when we get the remains to the lab.”

“Dr. Suarez,” said Pendergast, “I fear your conclusions may require some additional thinking.”

Suarez raised his eyebrows. “And why is that?”

“The abuse of the dog you just described would have taken a certain amount of time. But this dog was killed instantly.”

“Agent Pendergast, even without medical training you can see how extensive these injuries are. It simply isn’t possible for them to happen simultaneously — unless, as I said, the dog was hit by a truck.” He spread his hands and smiled. “But... out here, in the woods?”

“I respect your observations, Dr. Suarez. Nevertheless, according to everyone interviewed, the dog was killed so quickly it made virtually no sound. It was barking hysterically — and then there was sudden silence. The dog had a GPS collar, which was found within minutes of the cessation of barking.”

“That’s pretty damn mystifying, then,” said Suarez. “Look at the forensic evidence: This dog has numerous broken bones, multiple internal injuries, and it’s been ripped apart with some sort of hook or hatchet. See these ragged cuts in the abdomen, here, and the place where the head was severed? None of that’s clean — just a frenzy of ripping and tearing.”

“I do see them,” said Pendergast. “The witnesses, however, are quite clear in stating they reached the clearing only moments after the dog stopped barking. There was no one, or no thing, there. The attacker was gone.”

The vet smiled. “I would like to hear your theory, Agent Pendergast.”

But Pendergast didn’t answer. Something in the direction of the river had attracted his attention. He rose and wandered off, disappearing into the trees.

Suarez shook his head. “He’s an odd duck. Never met an FBI agent like him.”

“And you never will again,” said Coldmoon, irritated. “He’s the very best.”

After a short silence, Commander Delaplane said: “If you’re asking about theories, I’ve got one. We have a person who kills two people and steals their blood. Then he disembowels a dog. There’s only one explanation for this: we’ve got a maniac on our hands, someone big and powerful enough to tear apart a dog. The question is: why?”

Delaplane rounded on Coldmoon. “Is there anything in your criminal databases like this?”

Coldmoon rose and pulled off his gloves. “There was a situation in Russia in the 1990s,” he said, “of a gang who killed homeless people passed out in parks in Moscow, and drained their blood to sell on the black market. But obviously that’s not likely the case here.”

Delaplane frowned. “We need a break in this case, fast. The senior senator from Georgia is on the warpath, or so I’m told.” She looked around, glaring. “All right,” she said. “Load the remains of the dog into evidence bags and bring them back to the lab for further analysis. We’ve done all we can here.”

At this juncture, Coldmoon heard his radio crackle. “Agent Coldmoon?” came Pendergast’s voice. “Please come to the shore. And bring the others.”

Delaplane turned. “Is that your partner?”

“Yes.”

“What does he want?”

“I don’t know.” Coldmoon set off in the direction of the voice, with Delaplane, Sheldrake, the M.E., and the vet following. They left the clearing and headed through the trees, toward the river.

“This way,” came the faint voice.

The trees gave way to an embankment covered with marsh grass, leading to a mudflat along the river. Pendergast stood ten yards out in the mud, knee deep. Amazingly, the Wellies had managed to keep his cream-colored suit still immaculate. He was taking photographs.

“Take care to preserve the marks, there, in front of me,” he said, pointing to a disturbed area in the mud. “I believe they are significant.”