Douglas Preston - Relic

The crime scene was packed but orderly, everyone moving swiftly and speaking in undertones, as if in deference to the dead man. The morgue crew had arrived but was standing out of the way, patiently observing the proceedings. Pendergast stood with D’Agosta and Ippolito, the Museum’s Security Director.

“Indulge me if you will,” Pendergast was saying to the photographer. “I’d like a shot from here, like this.” Pendergast demonstrated briefly. “And I’d like a series from the top of the stairs, and a sequence coming down.

[83] Take your time, get a nice play of line, shadow, and light going.”

The photographer looked carefully at Pendergast, then moved off.

Pendergast turned to Ippolito. “Here’s a question. Why was the guard—what did you say his name was, Mr. Ippolito, Jolley, Fred Jolley?—down here in the first place? This wasn’t part of his rounds. Correct?”

“That’s right,” Ippolito said. He was standing in a dry spot near the entrance to the courtyard, his face a poisonous green.

D’Agosta shrugged. “Who knows?”

“Indeed,” Pendergast said. He looked out into the courtyard beyond the stairwell, which was small and deep, brick walls rising on three sides. “And he locked the door behind himself, you say. We have to assume he went outside here, or was headed in that direction. Hmm. The Taurid meteor shower was peaking at about that time last night. Perhaps Jolley here is an aspiring astronomer. But I doubt it.” He stood still for a minute, looking around. Then he turned back toward them. “I believe I can tell you why.”

Christ, a real Sherlock Holmes , thought D’Agosta. “He came down the stairwell to indulge a habit of his. Marijuana. This courtyard is an isolated and well-ventilated spot. A perfect place to, ah, smoke some weed.”

“Marijuana? That’s just a guess.”

“I believe I see the roach,” said Pendergast, pointing into the courtyard. “Just where the door meets the jamb.”

“I can’t see a thing,” said D’Agosta. “Hey, Ed. Check out the base of the door. Right there. What is it?”

“A joint,” said Ed.

“What’s the matter with you guys, can’t find a fucking joint? I told you to pick up every grain of sand, for Chrissake.”

“We haven’t done that grid yet.”

“Right.” He looked at Pendergast. Lucky bastard. Probably wasn’t the guard’s joint anyway .

“Mr. Ippolito,” Pendergast drawled, “is it common for your staff to use illicit drugs while on duty?”

“Absolutely not, but I’m not convinced it was Fred Jolley that—”

Pendergast shut him up with a wave of the hand. “I assume you can account for all these footprints.”

“Those belong to the guard who found the body,” said D’Agosta.

Pendergast bent down. “These completely cover any local evidence that may remain,” he said, frowning. “Really, Mr. Ippolito,” he said, “you should have your men better trained in how to preserve a crime scene.”

Ippolito opened his mouth, then closed it again. D’Agosta suppressed a smirk.

Pendergast was walking carefully back underneath the stairwell, where a large metal door stood partially open. “Orient me, Mr. Ippolito. This door under the stairwell goes where?”

“A hallway.”

“Leading to—?”

“Well, there’s the Secure Area down to the right. But it’s not possible the killer went that way, because …”

“Excuse me for contradicting you, Mr. Ippolito, but I’m sure the killer did go that way,” Pendergast replied. “Let me guess. Beyond the Secure Area is the Old Basement, am I right?”

“Right,” said Ippolito.

“Where the two children were found.”

“Bingo,” said D’Agosta.

“This Secure Area sounds interesting, Mr. Ippolito. Shall we take a stroll?”

Beyond the rusty metal door, a row of light bulbs stretched down a long basement corridor. The floor was covered in shabby linoleum, and the walls were hung with murals of Southwestern Pueblo Indians grinding corn, weaving, and stalking deer.

[85] “Lovely,” said Pendergast. “A shame they’re down here. They look like early Fremont Ellis.”

“They used to hang in the Hall of the Southwest,” said Ippolito. “It closed in the twenties, I think.”

“Ah!” said Pendergast, scrutinizing one of the murals. “It is Ellis. My heavens, these are lovely. Look at the light on that adobe facade.”

“So,” said Ippolito. “How do you know?”

“Why,” said Pendergast, “anyone who knows Ellis would recognize these.”

“I mean, how do you know the killer came through here?”

“I suppose I was guessing,” said Pendergast, examining the next painting. “You see, when someone says ‘it’s impossible,’ I have this very bad habit, I can’t help myself, I immediately contradict that person in the most positive terms possible. A very bad habit, but one that I find hard to break. But of course, now we do know the killer came through here.”

“How?” Ippolito seemed confused.

“Look at this marvelous rendition of old Santa Fe. Have you ever been to Santa Fe?”

There was a momentary silence. “Er, no,” said Ippolito.

“There is a mountain range behind the town, called the Sierra de Sangre de Cristo. It means the ‘Blood of Christ Mountains’ in Spanish.”

“So?”

“Well the mountains do look quite red in the setting sun, but not, I dare say, that red. That’s real blood, and it’s fresh. A shame, really, it’s ruined the painting.”

“Holy shit,” said D’Agosta. “Look at that.”

A broad streak of blood was smeared waist-high across the painting.

“You know, murder is a messy thing. We should find traces of blood all along this corridor. Lieutenant, we’ll need the crime lab people in here. I think we have your egress, at any rate.” He paused. “Let’s finish our little [86] tour, and then call them in. I’d like to go ahead and look for evidence, if you don’t mind.”

“Be my guest,” said D’Agosta.

“Careful where you walk, Mr. Ippolito, we’ll be asking them to check the floors as well as the walls.” They came to a locked door marked RESTRICTED. “This is the Secure Area,” said Ippolito.

“I see,” said Pendergast. “And what exactly is the point of this Secure Area, Mr. Ippolito? Is the rest of the Museum insecure?”

“Not at all,” the Security Director replied quickly. “The Secure Area is for storing especially rare and valuable objects. This is the best-protected museum in the country. We’ve recently installed a system of sliding metal doors throughout the Museum. They’re all linked to our computer system, and in the event of a burglary we can seal off the Museum in sections, just like the watertight compartments on a—”

“I get the picture, Mr. Ippolito, thank you very much,” Pendergast said. “Interesting. An old copper-sheathed door,” he said, examining it closely.

D’Agosta saw that the copper covering was riddled with shallow dents.

“Fresh dents, by the look of them,” Pendergast said. “Now, what do you make of this?” He pointed downward.

“Jesus H. Christ,” breathed D’Agosta, looking at the lower section of the door. The wooden door frame was scored and gouged into a welter of fresh splinters, as if something with claws had been scrabbling at it.

Pendergast stepped back. “I want the entire door analyzed, if you please, Lieutenant. And now to see what’s inside. Mr. Ippolito, if you would be so kind as to open the door without getting your hands all over it?”

“I’m not supposed to let anyone in there without clearance.”

D’Agosta looked at him in disbelief. “You mean you want us to get a damn warrant?”