Douglas Preston - Reliquary

= 22 =

MARGO UNLOCKED THE door to the Forensic Anthropology laboratory, smugly pleased to find the room dark and empty. This was the first morning she’d managed to beat Dr. Brambell into work. Most mornings, he would be sitting on a lab stool when she arrived, sipping a cup of Museum coffee and arching his narrow eyebrows over the rim at her in greeting. He would then go on to point out that the Museum must percolate its coffee in secondhand formaldehyde borrowed from the Animal Conservation department. Other mornings, she would arrive to find Frock in before her as well, the two scientists bent over a table or a report, carrying on their usual argument in polite undertones.

She slung her carryall into a drawer and shrugged into her scrubs, stepping over to the window as she did so. The sun had broken over the Fifth Avenue buildings, bathing the magisterial frontage in hues of gold and copper. Below the window, the Park was waking up: mothers walking children toward the zoo, joggers trotting the long oval course around the Reservoir. Her eye moved southward, lighting at last on the purple bulk of Belvedere Castle, and she shuddered slightly as she stared into the dark wooded area at its rear where Nicholas Bitterman had met with violent death. His headless corpse, she knew, was due to arrive in their lab later that morning.

The door opened and Dr. Frock wheeled himself inside, a large silhouette against the dimness of the lab. As he came forward into the sunlight, Margo turned to wish him good morning. Seeing the expression on his face, she stopped short.

“Dr. Frock?” she asked. “Are you all right?”

He came toward her slowly, the normally ruddy face drawn and pale.

“There’s tragic news,” he said in a low voice. “I received a call very early this morning. Simon Brambell was murdered last night on his way home from the Museum.”

Margo frowned, drawing in her breath. “Simon Brambell?” she repeated, uncomprehending.

Frock rolled closer and took her hand. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, my dear,” he said. “This is all so horribly sudden.”

“But how?” Margo asked.

“It appears he was attacked on Eighty-first Street,” Frock said. “His throat was cut. Beyond that…” Frock spread his hands, which Margo noticed were shaking with emotion.

It seemed unreal, like some kind of dream; she could not believe the man who had been standing in front of that huge screen the previous afternoon, manipulating the remote pointer like a samurai sword, was now dead.

Frock sighed. “Though you may not have known it, Margo, Simon and I didn’t always see eye to eye. We had our professional differences. But I always had great respect for the man. It’s a huge loss to the Medical Examiner’s office. And to our work, coming at this critical moment.”

“Our work,” echoed Margo automatically. She paused. “But who did it?”

“There were no witnesses.”

They remained motionless for a moment, Frock’s hand on hers, warm and gently reassuring. Then he slowly rolled away. “I don’t know who the ME’s office will give us as a replacement, if anyone,” he said. “But I think Simon would want us to continue in the spirit in which he began.” He rolled over to the far wall and switched on the theater lights, flooding the center of the room. “I’ve always found work the best antidote for grief.” He was silent for a long moment. Then he sighed, as if forcing himself to continue. “Would you mind removing Cadaver A from the refrigerator? I have a theory about a potential genetic anomaly that might have caused this deformity. Unless you would like the day off?” He raised his eyebrows.

“No,” Margo said, shaking her head. Frock was right. Brambell would want them to continue. Standing slowly and walking across the room, she knelt, opened a cabinet door, and pulled out the long metal tray inside. The unidentified body which lay on it had been reduced and rearranged to a mere series of irregular lumps under the blue sheet. She slid it onto a stretcher and rolled it under the lights.

Frock carefully pulled off the sheet and began the painstaking process of measuring the carpal bones of the deformed skeleton with a pair of electronic calipers. Feeling an eerie sense of unreality, Margo went back to examining yet another series of MRI scans. The lab fell into a long silence.

“Do you have any idea what lead Simon was referring to yesterday?” Frock asked at last.

“I’m sorry?” Margo said, looking up. “Oh. No, I don’t. He never discussed it with me. I was as surprised as you were.”

“A shame,” said Frock. “As far as I know, he left no notes about it, either.” He fell silent again for some time. “This is a real setback, Margo,” he said at last in a quiet voice. “We may never learn what it is he discovered.”

“Nobody ever makes their plans as if they’re going to die the next day.”

Frock shook his head. “Simon was like most of the MEs I’ve known. Exciting, high-profile cases like this are rare, and when one comes along… well, they can’t always resist the drama.” He looked suddenly at his watch. “Oh, dear. You know, I almost forgot that I have an appointment in Osteology. Margo, I wonder if you would be willing to leave that aside and take over here for a while. Maybe it’s this tragic news, or maybe I’ve just been staring at these bones too long. But I think the work could benefit from a fresh eye.”

“Of course,” said Margo. “What exactly are you looking for?”

“I wish I knew. I’m quite sure this person had a congenital disease. I want to quantify the morphological changes to see if there’s been a genetic shift. Unfortunately, that means measuring almost every bone in the body. I thought I’d start with the wrist and finger bones, since as you know they’re the most sensitive to genetic change.”

Margo looked down at the examining table. “That could take days,” she said.

Frock shrugged in exasperation. “I’m only too aware of that, my dear.” He gripped the rails of his wheelchair and gave himself a powerful push toward the door.

Wearily, Margo began measuring each bone with the electronic calipers and entering the measurements on the workstation keyboard. Even the smallest bones required a dozen measurements, and soon a long column of numbers was scrolling up the nearby screen. She tried not to grow impatient with the tedious work and the tomblike silence of the lab. If Frock was right, and the deformation was congenital, this would greatly narrow their search for the identity of the body. And at this point, they could use any lead they could find: The skeletons from the Physical Anthropology lab had provided no clues. As she worked, she found herself wondering what Brambell would have thought. But the memory of Brambell was too awful. To think of the man, set upon and murdered… She shook her head, forcing herself to concentrate on other things.

The sudden ringing of the telephone jarred her from a particularly complicated measurement. It rang again—two short beeps—and she realized it was an outside call. Probably D’Agosta, calling about Dr. Brambell.

She picked it up. “Forensics.”

“Is Dr. Brambell there?” asked a clipped, youthful-sounding voice.

“Dr. Brambell?” Margo’s thoughts raced. What if it was a relative? What should she say?

“Hello?” came the voice.

“Yes, yes,” said Margo. “Dr. Brambell isn’t available. Can I help you?”

“I’m not sure. It’s a confidential matter. May I ask who I’m speaking to?”

“The name is Dr. Green,” said Margo. “I’m assisting him.”

“Ah! That’s fine, then. This is Dr. Cavalieri from St. Luke’s in Baltimore. I’ve identified that patient he’s looking for.”