Alarms rang in Smithback’s head. “Well,” he replied carefully, “I’d like to help you out, but the ethics of journalism won’t let me.” He shrugged his shoulders. “You know how it is.”
Mrs. Rickman’s smile faded quickly, and she opened her mouth to speak. Just then, to Smithback’s relief, the phone rang. He got up to leave, gathering his manuscript together. As he was closing the door, he heard a sharp intake of breath.
“Not another!”
The door hissed shut.
= 14 =
D’Agosta just couldn’t get used to the Hall of the Great Apes. All those big grinning chimps, stuffed, hanging out of the fake trees, with their hairy arms and hilarious realistic dicks and big human hands with real fingernails. He wondered why it had taken so long for scientists to figure out that man was descended from the apes. Should’ve been obvious the first time they clapped eyes on a chimp. And he’d heard somewhere that chimps were just like humans, violent, excitable, always beating hell out of each other, even murdering and eating each other. Jesus, he thought, there must be some other way to get around the Museum without going through this hall.
“This way,” said the guard, “down this stairway. It’s pretty awful, Lieutenant. I was coming in at—”
“I’ll hear that later,” said D’Agosta. After the kid, D’Agosta was ready for anything. “You say he’s wearing a guard’s uniform. You know him?”
“I don’t know, sir. It’s hard to tell.”
The guard pointed down the dim stairs. The stairway opened onto some kind of courtyard. The body lay at the bottom, in shadow. Everything was streaked and splattered in black—the floor, the walls, the overhead light. D’Agosta knew what the black was.
“You,” he said, turning to one of several policemen following him, “get some lights in here. I want the place dusted and swept for fibers pronto. Is the SOC unit on its way? The man’s obviously dead, so keep the ambulance people out for a while. I don’t want them messing things up.”
D’Agosta looked down the stairs again. “Jesus H. Christ,” he said, “whose footprints are those? Some jackass walked right through that pool of blood, it looks like. Or maybe our murderer decided to leave us a fat clue.
There was a silence.
“Are those yours?” He turned to the guard. “What’s your name?”
“Norris. Eric Norris. As I was saying, I—”
“Yes or no?”
“Yes, but—”
“Shut up. Are those the shoes?”
“Yes. See, I was—”
“Take the shoes off. You’re ruining the carpet.” Fucking doorshaker, D’Agosta thought. “Take them to the forensics lab. Tell them to seal ‘em in a crime bag, they’ll know what to do. Wait for me there. No, don’t wait for me there. I’ll call you later. I’ll have a few questions for you. No, take the fucking shoes off right here.” He didn’t want another Prine on his hands. What was it about this Museum, people liked to go around wading in blood? “You’ll have to walk over there in your socks.”
“Yes, sir.”
One of the cops behind D’Agosta snickered.
D’Agosta looked at him. “You think it’s funny? He tracked blood all over the place. It’s not funny.”
D’Agosta moved halfway down the stairwell. The head was lying in a far corner, face down. He couldn’t see it all that well, but he knew that he’d find the top of the skull punched out, the brains floating around somewhere in all that gore. God, what a mess a body could be if it wanted to.
A step sounded on the stairway behind him. “SOC,” said a short man, followed by a photographer and several other men in lab coats.
“Finally. I want lights there, there, and there, and wherever else the photographer wants ‘em. I want a perimeter set up, I want it set up five minutes ago, I want every speck of lint and grain of sand picked up. I want TraceChem used on everything. I want—well, what else do I want? I want every test known to man, and I want that perimeter observed by everyone, got it? No fuck-ups this time.”
D’Agosta turned. “Is the Crime Lab team on the premises? And the coroner’s investigator? Or are they out for coffee and croissants?” He patted the breast pocket of his jacket, looking for a cigar. “Put cardboard boxes over those footprints. And you guys, when you’re done, squeegee a trail around the body so we can walk without tracking blood everywhere.”
“Excellent.” D’Agosta heard a low, mellifluous voice behind him.
“Who the hell are you?” he said, turning to see a tall, slender man, wearing a crisp black suit, leaning against the top of the stairwell. Hair so blond it was almost white was brushed straight back above pale blue eyes. “The undertaker?”
“Pendergast,” the man said, stepping down and holding out his hand. The photographer, cradling his equipment, pushed past him.
“Well, Pendergast, you better have a good reason to be here, otherwise—”
Pendergast smiled. “Special Agent Pendergast.”