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Hayward nodded.
“DeMeo put down the pizzas and drinks on that table and went into the burial chamber. It appears the killer was already there, and surprised him.” He walked toward the burial chamber, Hayward following.
“Weapon?” Hayward asked.
“Unknown at this point. Whatever it was, it wasn’t sharp. The cuts and lacerations are very ragged.”
They entered the burial chamber. Hayward took in the extravagant puddle of blood, the smear on the stone coffin, the trail of gore into a side room, the bright yellow tags everywhere like fallen autumn leaves. She glanced around, locating each fleck of blood in turn, noting the shape and size of the droplets.
“A splatter analysis indicates the killer came at the victim from the left side with weapon raised, and brought it down in a way that partially cut through the victim’s neck and severed the jugular vein. The victim fell but the perp continued to slash and cut, far more than necessary to kill. There were more than a hundred cuts to the victim’s neck, head, shoulders, abdomen, legs, and buttocks.”
“Any sign of a sexual motive?”
“No semen or other bodily fluids. Sex organs untouched, anal swab clean.”
“Keep going.”
“It appears the perp half chopped, half punched through the victim’s breastbone with the weapon. Then he pulled out some of the internal organs and carried them into the Canopic Room and dumped them into a couple of very large jars.”
“Did you say pulled out?”
“The viscera were torn away, not cut.”
Hayward walked over to the small side chamber and looked in. A technician was on his hands and knees, photographing spots on the floor with a macro lens. A row of wet-evidence boxes stood against one wall, waiting to be carried away.
She looked around, trying to visualize the attack. She already knew that they were dealing with a disorganized killer, a disturbed individual, most likely a sociopath.
“After cutting out the organs,” Sergeant Visconti continued, “the perp returned to the body, dragged it to the sarcophagus, and heaved it inside. Then he left by the main tomb door.”
“He must’ve been covered with blood.”
“Yes. And in fact, using a bloodhound, we’ve followed the trail as far as the fifth floor.”
Hayward looked up sharply. This was a detail she hadn’t heard before. “Not out of the museum?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“We can’t be sure. But we found something else on the fifth floor. A shoe belonging to the missing technician, Lipper.”
“Is that so? You think the killer’s holding him hostage?”
Visconti grimaced. “Possible.”
“Carrying his dead body?”
“Lipper was a small guy, five seven, about 135. That’s also possible.”
Hayward hesitated, wondering briefly what ordeal Lipper was going through now-or perhaps had already gone through. Then she turned toward Manetti.
“I want this museum sealed,” she said.
The security director was sweating. “It’s ten minutes to opening. We’re talking two million square feet of exhibition space, two thousand staff-you can’t be serious.”
Hayward spoke softly. “If that’s a problem, I can call Commissioner Rocker. He’ll call the mayor, and the decision can come down through official cha
“That won’t be necessary, Captain. I’ll order the museum sealed. Temporarily.”
She looked around. “Let’s order up a forensic psychological profile.”
“Already done,” said the sergeant.
Hayward gave him an appraising glance. “We haven’t worked together before, have we?”
“No, ma’am.”
“It’s a pleasure.”
“Thank you.”
She turned and walked briskly out of the room and the tomb, the others following. She crossed the length of the Egyptian gallery and approached the knot of people on the far side of the crime scene tape, gestured to Sergeant Visconti. “Are those bloodhounds still on the premises?”
“Yes.”
“I want everyone here who’s available, police and guards alike, to participate in searching this museum from attic to basement. Priority one: find Lipper. Assume he’s alive and a hostage. Priority two: I want the killer. I want them both before the end of the day. Clear?”
“Yes, Captain.”
She paused, as if remembering something. “Who’s in charge of the tomb exhibit?”
“A curator named Nora Kelly,” Manetti replied.
“Get her on the horn, please.”
Hayward’s attention was drawn to a sudden disturbance in the knot of guards and police, a voice raised in anguished pleading. A thin, slope-shouldered man in a bus driver’s uniform wrenched free of two policemen and made a beeline for Hayward, his face distorted by grief.
“You!” he cried. “Help me! Find my son!”
“And you are?”
“Larry Lipper. I’m Larry Lipper. My son is Jay Lipper. He’s missing, and a killer’s on the loose, and I want you to find him!” The man burst into sobs. “Find him!”
The very intensity of his grief halted the two policemen pursuing him.
Hayward took his hand. “That’s just what we’re going to do, Mr. Lipper.”
“Find him! Find him!”
Hayward looked around, spotted an officer she recognized. “Sergeant Casimirovic?”
The woman stepped forward.
Hayward gestured with her chin at Lipper’s father and mouthed, “Help me out here.”
The officer stepped over and, putting her arm around Larry Lipper, eased him away from Hayward. “You come with me, sir, and we’ll find someplace quiet to sit down and wait.” And Sergeant Casimirovic led him, crying loudly but unresisting, back through the crowd.
Manetti was at her side again, radio in hand. “I’ve got Kelly.”
She took the radio, nodding her thanks. “Dr. Kelly? Captain Hayward, NYPD.”
“How can I help?” came the voice.
“The Canopic Room in the Tomb of Senef. What’s that for?”
“That’s where the pharaoh’s mummified organs were stored.”
“Elaborate, please.”
“Part of the mummification process is the removal of the pharaoh’s internal organs for separate mummification and storage in canopic jars.”
“The internal organs, you say?”
“That’s right.”
“Thank you.” Hayward slowly passed the radio back to Manetti, a thoughtful look on her face.
Chapter 23
Wilson Bulke peered down the corridor that ran beneath the roofline of building 12. Dirty brown light struggled to penetrate the wire-mesh glass skylights, which were coated with at least a century of New York City soot. Air ducts and pipes ran in thick bundles on either side, where the rooflines almost touched the floor. Both sides of the long, low space were crammed with old collections-jars of animals floating in preservative, untidy stacks of yellowing journals, plaster models of animals-leaving a narrow passage down the center. It was a crazy, crooked space, with rooflines, pitches, and floor levels that changed half a dozen times just within eyesight. It was like a fun house at the fair, only there was nothing fun about it.
“My legs are killing me,” Bulke said. “Let’s take five.” He eased himself down on an old wooden crate, the excess adipose tissue in his thighs stretching the material with an audible creak.
His partner, Morris, sat down lightly beside him.
“This is bullshit,” said Bulke. “Day’s almost over, and we’re still at it. There’s nobody up here.”
Morris, who never saw the point in disagreeing with anybody, nodded.
“Lemme have another shot of that Jim Beam.”
Morris slipped the hip flask from his pocket and passed it over. Bulke took a slug, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, passed it back. Morris took a delicate sip himself and slid it back in.