The mutilations in both cases appear to have been done with care and precision, possibly with surgical instruments. An anonymous source confirmed the police are investigating the possibility that the killer is a surgeon or other medical specialist.
The dissection mimics a description of a surgical procedure, discovered in an old document in the New York Museum. The document, found hidden in the archives, describes in detail a series of experiments conducted in the late nineteenth century by an Enoch Leng. These experiments were an attempt by Leng to prolong his own life span. On October 1, thirty-six alleged victims of Leng were uncovered during the excavation of a building foundation on Catherine Street. Nothing more is known about Leng, except that he was associated with the New York Museum of Natural History.
“What we have here is a copycat killer,” said Police Commissioner Karl C. Rocker. “A very twisted individual read the article about Leng and is trying to duplicate his work.” He declined to comment further on any details of the investigation, except to say that more than fifty detectives had been assigned to the case, and that it was being given “the highest priority.”
Smithback let out a howl of anguish. The tourist in Central Park was the murder assignment that, like a complete fool, he’d turned down. Instead, he had promised his editor Fairhaven’s head on a platter. Now, not only did he have nothing to show for his day of pounding the pavement, but he’d been scooped on the very story he himself had broken—and by none other than his old nemesis, Bryce Harriman.
It was his own head that would be on a platter.
SIX
NORA TURNED OFF CANAL STREET ONTO MOTT, MOVING SLOWLY THROUGH the throngs of people. It was seven o’clock on a Friday evening, and Chinatown was packed. Sheets of densely printed Chinese newspapers lay strewn in the gutters. The stalls of the fish sellers were set up along the sidewalks, vast arrays of exotic-looking fish laid out on ice. In the windows, pressed duck and cooked squid hung on hooks. The buyers, primarily Chinese, pushed and shouted frantically, under the curious gaze of passing tourists.
Ten Ren’s Tea and Ginseng Company was a few hundred feet down the block. She pushed through the door into a long, bright, orderly space. The air of the tea shop was perfumed with innumerable faint scents. At first she thought the shop was empty. But then, as she looked around once more, she noticed Pendergast at a rear table, nestled between display cases of ginseng and ginger. She could have sworn that the table had been empty just a moment before.
“Are you a tea drinker?” he asked as she approached, motioning her to a seat.
“Sometimes.” Her subway had stalled between stations for twenty minutes, and she’d had plenty of time to rehearse what she would say. She would get it over with quickly and get out.
But Pendergast was clearly in no hurry. They sat in silence while he consulted a sheet filled with Chinese ideographs. Nora wondered if it was a list of tea offerings, but there seemed to be far too many items—surely there weren’t that many kinds of tea in the world.
Pendergast turned to the shopkeeper—a small, vivacious woman—and began speaking rapidly.
“Nin hao, lao bin liang. Li mama hao ma?”
The woman shook her head. “Bu, ta hai shi lao yang zi, shen ti bu hao.”
“Qing li Dai wo xiang ta wen an. Qing gei wo yi bei Wu Long cha hao ma?”
The woman walked away, returning with a ceramic pot from which she poured a minuscule cup of tea. She placed the cup in front of Nora.
“You speak Chinese?” Nora asked Pendergast.
“A little Mandarin. I confess to speaking Cantonese somewhat more fluently.”
Nora fell silent. Somehow, she was not surprised.
“King’s Tea of Osmanthus Oolong,” said Pendergast, nodding toward her cup. “One of the finest in the world. From bushes grown on the sunny sides of the mountains, new shoots gathered only in the spring.”
Nora picked up the cup. A delicate aroma rose to her nostrils. She took a sip, tasting a complex blend of green tea and other exquisitely delicate flavors.
“Very nice,” she said, putting down the cup.
“Indeed.” Pendergast glanced at her for a moment. Then he spoke again in Mandarin, and the woman filled up a bag, weighed it, and sealed it, scribbling a price on the plastic wrapping. She handed it to Nora.
“For me?” Nora asked.
Pendergast nodded.
“I don’t want any gifts from you.”
“Please take it. It’s excellent for the digestion. As well as being a superb antioxidant.”
Nora took it irritably, then saw the price. “Wait a minute, this is two hundred dollars?”
“It will last three or four months,” said Pendergast. “A small price when one considers—”
“Look,” said Nora, setting down the bag. “Mr. Pendergast, I came here to tell you that I can’t work for you anymore. My career at the Museum is at stake. A bag of tea isn’t going to change my mind, even if it is two hundred bucks.”