O’Shaughnessy glanced at him. “Pendergast thinks this guy Leng is still alive. He thinks Leng succeeded in prolonging his life.”
This stopped Smithback cold. He felt a shock of disappointment. “Shit, Patrick, that is crazy. That’s absurd.”
“I told you so.”
Smithback felt a wave of desperation. This was worse than nothing. Pendergast had gone off the deep end. Everybody knew a copycat killer was at work here. Leng, still alive after a century and a half? The story he was looking for seemed to recede further into the distance. He put his head in his hands. “How?”
“Pendergast believes that the examination of the bones on Doyers Street, the Catherine Street autopsy report, and the Doreen Hollander autopsy results, all show the same exact pattern of marks.”
Smithback continued to shake his head. “So Leng’s been killing all this time—for, what, the last hundred and thirty years?”
“That’s what he thinks. He thinks the guy is still living up on Riverside Drive somewhere.”
For a moment, Smithback was silent, toying with the matches. Pendergast needed a long vacation.
“He’s got Nora examining old deeds, identifying which houses dating prior to 1900 weren’t broken into apartments. Looking for property deeds that haven’t gone into probate for a very, very long time. That sort of thing. Trying to track Leng down.”
A total waste, Smithback thought. What’s going on with Pendergast? He finished his now tasteless drink.
“Don’t forget your promise. You’ll look into it? Check the obituaries, comb old issues of the Times for any crumbs you can find? See if there’s even a chance Pendergast might be right?”
“Sure, sure.” Jesus, what a joke. Smithback was now sorry he’d agreed to the arrangement. All it meant was more wasted time.
O’Shaughnessy looked relieved. “Thanks.”
Smithback dropped the matches into his pocket, drained his glass. He flagged down the waiter. “What do we owe you?”
“Ninety-two dollars,” the man intoned sadly. As usual, there was no tab: Smithback was sure a goodly portion went into the waiter’s own pockets.
“Ninety-two dollars!” O’Shaughnessy cried. “How many drinks did you have before I arrived?”
“The good things in life, Patrick, are not free,” Smithback said mournfully. “That is especially true of single malt Scotch.”
“Think of the poor starving children.”
“Think of the poor thirsty journalists. Next time, you pay. Especially if you come armed with a story that crazy.”
“I told you so. And I hope you won’t mind drinking Powers. No Irishman would be caught dead paying a tab like that. Only a Scotsman would dare charge that much for a drink.”
Smithback turned onto Columbus Avenue, thinking. Suddenly, he stopped. While Pendergast’s theory was ridiculous, it had given him an idea. With all the excitement about the copycat killings and the Doyers Street find, no one had really followed up on Leng himself. Who was he? Where did he come from? Where did he get his medical degree? What was his connection to the Museum? Where had he lived?
Now this was good.
A story on Dr. Enoch Leng, mass murderer. Yes, yes, this was it. This might just be the thing to save his ass at the Times.
Come to think of it, this was better than good. This guy antedated Jack the Ripper. Enoch Leng: A Portrait of America’s First Serial Killer. This could be a cover story for the Times Sunday Magazine. He’d kill two birds with one stone: do the research he’d promised O’Shaughnessy, while getting background on Leng. And he wouldn’t be betraying any confidences, of course—because once he’d determined when the man died, that would be the end of Pendergast’s crazy theory.
He felt a sudden shiver of fear. What if Harriman was already pursuing the story of Leng? He’d better get to work right away. At least he had one big advantage over Harriman: he was a hell of a researcher. He’d start with the newspaper morgue—look for little notes, mentions of Leng or Shottum or McFadden. And he’d look for more killings with the Leng modus operandi: the signature dissection of the spinal cord. Surely Leng had killed more people than had been found at Catherine and Doyers Streets. Perhaps some of those other killings had come to light and made the papers.
And then there were the Museum’s archives. From his earlier book projects, he’d come to know them backward and forward. Leng had been associated with the Museum. There would be a gold mine of information in there, if only one knew where to find it.
And there would be a side benefit: he might just be able to pass along to Nora the information she wanted about where Leng lived. A little gesture like that might get their relationship back on track. And who knows? It might get Pendergast’s investigation back on track, as well.
His meeting with O’Shaughnessy hadn’t been a total loss, after all.
TWO