Cemetery Dance

"I'll apply a brick wall filter. High — pass, to block out that lowend hum." More clicks, more adjustments of the mouse, then Loader played the waveform once more.

"That's an animal sound," said D'Agosta. "The sound of an animal getting its throat cut."

"I'm afraid I don't hear it," said Chislett.

"Oh no?" D'Agosta turned to Loader. "What about you?"

The forensic tech scratched his cheek a little nervously. "Hard to say." He opened another window. "According to this spectrum analyzer, there's a mix of very high frequencies, some higher than the human ear can hear. I'd guess it's the creaking of a rusty door hinge."

"Bullshit!"

"With all due respect—" Loader began.

"With all due respect, that's the scream of an animal. The basement is old, crude. Let me tell you something: this tape came from the Ville. We need to raid the place. Now." He turned and stared aggressively at Chislett. "Right, Chief?"

"Lieutenant," Chislett intoned, his voice the very embodiment of calm and reason, "you're obfuscating the situation rather than clarifying it. There's no evidence — none — on that tape indicating its source. That sound could be any of myriad things."

Obfuscating rather than clarifying. Myriad things. How like the pretentious Chislett to turn a simple meeting into a spelling bee. D'Agosta tried to keep himself under control. "Chief, you're aware there's going to be a demonstration tonight against the Ville."

"They've got a parade permit, it's all quite legit. We'll have plenty of men this time, we'll keep things orderly."

"Yeah? There's no way to be sure of that. If the demonstration gets unruly, it might freak out the Ville — and cause them to kill Nora. We've got to raid them now, today,before the demonstration. Use the element of surprise, go in fast and hard and grab her."

"Lieutenant, haven't you been listening? Where's the evidence? No judge will authorize a raid based on that one sound — even if it is an animal. You know that. Especially," he sniffed, "after your heavy — handed search of Kline's offices."

D'Agosta straightened up. He finally felt the dam breaking, his anger and frustration pouring out. He didn't care. "Look at all of you," he said loudly, "sitting around here, fiddling with your equipment."

Everyone paused in their work to turn and look.

"While you're playing with your toys, a woman's been kidnapped, two journalists and a housing official murdered. What we need is a massive, multiple SWAT team raid on those scumbags up there."

"Lieutenant," said Chislett, "it would behoove you to get your emotions under control. We're well aware of the stakes and we're doing all we can."

"No, I won't, and no, you aren't." D'Agosta turned and stalked out of the room.

Chapter 57

Pendergast sat in an overstuffed leather armchair in the salon of his Dakota apartment, one leg thrown over the other, chin resting on tented fingers. In a matching armchair across an expanse of Turkish rug sat Wren, his bird — like figure almost swallowed up in the burgundy — colored leather. Between them stood a table on which sat a pot of A — Li — Shan Jin Xuan tea, a basket of brioche, a tub of butter, and crocks of marmalade and gooseberry jam.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit, in daylight no less?" Pendergast asked. "It would take something rather momentous to entice you out of your den at such an hour."

Wren gave a sharp nod. "True, I am no fan of the daytime. But I've discovered something I thought you ought to know."

"Fortunately it is rarely daytime in my apartment." Pendergast poured two cups of tea, placed one before his guest, raised the other to his lips.

Wren glanced at his cup but did not touch it. "I keep meaning to ask. How is the fetching Constance?"

"I've been getting regular reports from Tibet. Everything is proceeding on schedule — or as much as such things can run on schedule. I hope to travel there in the not — too — distant future." Pendergast took another sip. "You said you've discovered something. By all means, proceed."

"In my research into the history of the Ville and its occupants — and its predecessors — I naturally have made use of a large number of period accounts, newspaper reports, surveys, manuscripts, incunabula, and other documents. And the more that I have done so, the more I've noticed a curious pattern."

"And what might that be?"

Wren sat forward. "That I am not the first person to have made this particular journey."

Pendergast put down his cup. "Indeed?"

"Everybody who examines rare or historic documents is issued an identification number by the library. I began to notice that the same ID number was appearing in the accessions database for the documents I was withdrawing for examination. At first I thought it was just a coincidence. But after this happened a number of times, I went to the database and looked up that ID. Sure enough: every document of the Ville, its inhabitants, its history, the history of its prior occupants — with particular emphasis, it seems, on the founders — had also been examined by this other researcher. He was quite diligent — in fact, he had thought to examine a few papers it had not occurred to me to search." Wren chuckled, shook his head ruefully.

"And who is this mysterious researcher?"

"That's just the thing — his or her file has been wiped clean from the library's records. It was as if he didn't want anybody to know he'd been there. All that was left were the traces, so to speak, of his passing. I know he was a professional researcher — that's indicated by the prefix of his identification number. And I'm convinced this was a job for hire, not something of particular interest to him. It was done too quickly and in too orderly a fashion, over too short a period of time, to have been a hobby or a personal study."

"I see." Pendergast took a sip. "And when did this take place?"

"He began examining library materials about eight months ago. The withdrawals continued, on a more or less weekly basis. And then the trail ended rather abruptly about two months ago."

Pendergast looked at him. "He completed his research?" "Yes." Wren hesitated. "There is, of course, one other possibility."

"Indeed. And what is that?"

"He was searching for something — something very particular. And the abrupt halt to his work meant that he'd found it."

After his guest had left, Pendergast rose from the chair, exited the salon, and walked down the apartment's central corridor until he came to a small and rather old — fashioned laboratory. He removed his black suit coat and hung it on a hook behind the door. The room was dominated by a soapstone lab table on which stood chemical apparatuses and a Bunsen burner. Old oaken cabinets lined the walls, glass bottles competing for space with tattered journals and well — worn reference books.

He slipped a key out of his pocket and unlocked one of the cabinets. From it, he removed various supplies: a pair of latex gloves, a polished walnut instrument case, a rack of glass test tubes with labels and stoppers, and a brass magnifying glass. He arranged everything on the soapstone table. Striding across the room, he snapped on the gloves and unlocked a second cabinet. A moment later a skull came to light, cradled in his hands — the skull that he and D'Agosta had recovered from the riverbank burial. Dirt still clung to the jaws and eye sockets. He gently placed the skull on the table and opened the case to reveal a set of nineteenth — century dental tools with ivory handles. With great care he cleaned the skull, removing bits of dirt, some of which he placed in various test tubes, affixing numbered labels. Samples of whitish powder clinging to the inside of the jaws and teeth also went into test tubes, along with fragments of skin, hair, and adipocere.