Douglas Preston - Reliquary

She gazed at the image of Man, dressed in frock coat, top hat, and walking stick. It was a marvelous monument to the early Darwinian view of evolution: the steady upward march from simple to complex, with Man the crowning glory. Margo knew that the modern view was very different. Evolution was proving to be a more random, haphazard affair, full of dead ends and bizarre twists. Dr. Frock—sitting in his wheelchair in the aisle next to her—had made major contributions to this understanding with his theory of fractal evolution. Now, evolutionary biologists no longer considered man the apotheosis of evolution, but merely the dead end of a minor side branch of a generalist, less-evolved subgroup of Mammalia. And, she thought with an inward smile, the word Man itself had gone out of favor—a definite improvement.

She craned her neck to look back toward the narrow projectionist’s booth high up in the rear wall. The grand old facade had become a very modern lecture hall, retrofitted with concealed mechanical blackboards, retractable movie screens, and the latest in computerized multimedia equipment.

For the hundredth time that day, she wondered who had leaked the story of the Museum’s involvement. Whoever it was, they obviously didn’t know everything—they hadn’t mentioned the grotesque deformities on the second skeleton—but they knew enough. Her relief at not having to intervene on Smithback’s behalf was tempered by what she now knew about the nature of the teeth marks on the corpses. She was dreading the arrival of the Bitterman corpse, almost afraid of what corroborative evidence it might hold.

A loud humming sound brought Margo’s eyes forward again. At the front of the hall, the proscenium and wings were retracting as a massive screen descended toward the floor.

There were exactly seven tense people in the two-thousand-seat hall.

Beside her, Frock was humming a tune from a Wagner opera, his thick fingers tapping on the battered arms of his wheelchair. His face was expressionless, but Margo knew that inside he was fuming. Protocol held that Brambell, as Chief Medical Examiner, should do the presentation, but Frock was obviously rankled by the arrangement. Several rows nearer the front, Margo could see Lieutenant D’Agosta, sitting with an overweight police captain in a rumpled uniform and two bored-looking Homicide detectives.

By now the main lights were fully dimmed, and Margo could see only Brambell’s long bony face and bald pate, illuminated from below by the light on the lectern. In one hand he clutched an odd-looking plastic rapier that acted as wireless slide controller and light pointer. He looked positively cadaverous, she thought; Boris Karloff in a lab coat.

“Let’s get right to the evidence, hey?” Brambell said, his high-pitched, cheerful voice booming from numerous speakers along both sides of the hall. Beside her, Margo could feel Frock stiffen with irritation.

The huge image of a magnified bone appeared on the screen, bathing the hall and its occupants in a ghostly gray light.

“Here is a photograph of Pamela Wisher’s third cervical vertebra. Notice the dentition pattern that’s clearly visible.”

The next slide came up.

“Here is one of those tooth marks, magnified two hundred times. And here is a cross section reproduction. As you can see, the tooth is clearly mammalian.”

The next series of slides displayed results of lab tests done on a variety of bones from the two corpses, recording the pressures per square inch needed to make marks of varying depths.

“We identified twenty-one clear marks, punctures, or scratches made by teeth on the bones of the two victims,” Brambell continued. “There are also some marks that seem to come from a dull instrument: too regular for teeth, but too rough for a well-finished knife. Such as you’d see, perhaps, from a primitive ax or stone knife. These are particularly prevalent on the cervical vertebrae, perhaps indicative of the mode of decapitation. In any case, the pressure required to make the teeth marks”—Brambell indicated the results with his electronic pointer—“varied from 500 to about 900 pounds per square inch. This is considerably less than our initial estimate of 1,200 pounds per square inch.”

Less than your initial estimate, Margo thought, glancing toward Frock.

Another photograph came on the screen. “Our detailed study of thin bone sections here, around the marks, shows blood leakage through the interstitial areas of the bone and into the marrow itself. That indicates they were made pre-mortem.” There was a silence.

“In other words, the marks occurred at the time of death.” Brambell cleared his throat. “Due to the highly advanced state of decomposition, it is impossible to determine a definitive cause of death. But I think we can say with fair certainty that these victims died of massive trauma and blood loss inflicted at the time these teeth marks were made.”

He turned toward his audience dramatically. “There is, I know, a question on all of your minds. The question. What made these marks? As we know, there has been speculation in the press that the killer might be another Mbwun.”

He’s enjoying this, Margo thought. She could feel the tension building in the room. D’Agosta, in particular, was on the edge of his seat.

“We did a thorough analysis of these marks vis-à-vis those made by Mbwun eighteen months ago, which of course this Museum of all places has a great deal of data on. And we have come to two firm conclusions.”

He took a deep breath and looked around.

“One, these teeth marks are not consistent with the teeth of Mbwun. They do not match the cross section, the size, or the length.”

Margo saw D’Agosta’s shoulders relax, almost slump, with relief.

“Two, the force used to make these marks never exceeded 900 pounds per square inch, which definitely puts it squarely in the canine, or even more squarely, in the human category. Not in the Mbwun category.”

The slides were flashing by more quickly now, showing various micrographs of teeth marks and bite patterns. “A healthy, habitual gum-cracking male can exert 850 to 900 pounds per square inch of pressure with a hard bite,” Brambell said. “There is nothing inconsistent between these marks and the bite of human eyeteeth. On the other hand, it could have been, say, a pack of feral dogs roaming the tunnels, attacking, killing, and dismembering. In my opinion, however, the patterns we see here are more suggestive of a human than of a dog, or any other hypothesized feral inhabitant of the underground.”

“There are perhaps more types of underground inhabitants, Dr. Brambell, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

The accent was from the deep south, perhaps Alabama or Louisiana; the laconic voice was soft, with the slightest hint of genteel cynicism. Margo turned to find the familiar lean figure of Special Agent Pendergast reclining in a seat near the top of the hall. She had neither seen nor heard him come in. He caught her glance and nodded, his pale eyes flashing in the dark. “Miss Green,” he said. “Pardon me, it’s Dr. Green now, isn’t it?”

Margo smiled and nodded in return. She hadn’t seen the FBI agent since the good-bye party in Frock’s Museum office Then again, that was the last time she had seen a lot of people involved in the Museum Beast murders: Dr. Frock, say, or Greg Kawakita.

Frock turned around in his wheelchair with an effort, nodded his recognition, then turned back toward the screen.

Brambell was looking at the new arrival. “You are—?” he began.

“Special Agent Pendergast of the FBI,” replied D’Agosta “He’ll be assisting us with this case.”

“I see,” Brambell said. “Delighted.” He turned briskly back toward the screen. “Let’s move on to the next question, the identification of the unknown body. I have some rather good news on this front. I’m afraid it may come as a surprise to my colleagues”—he nodded at Frock and Margo—“because it just recently came to my own attention.”