Wilson smiled. “Sure. He probably called up and told Underwood he’d better leave us alone if he knew what was good for him. Underwood might not like it since he closed the DiFalco case himself but he’s afraid of Evans, so the result is we end up in a vacuum. Damned if we do and et cetera.”
“Here’s the Goddamn museum.”
They went up the wide stone steps past the statue of Teddy Roosevelt and into the immense dim hall that formed the lobby.
“We’re here to see a Doctor Ferguson,” Wilson said to the woman sitting behind the information counter. She picked up a telephone and spoke into it for a moment, then smiled up at them.
The workrooms of the museum were a shock. There were stacks of bones, boxes of feathers, beaks, skulls, animals and birds in various states of reconstruction on tables and in cases. The chaos was total, a welter of glue and paint and equipment and bones. A tall young man in a dirty gray smock appeared from behind a box of stuffed owls. “I’m Carl Ferguson,” he said in a powerful, cheery voice. “We’re preparing the Birds of North America, but that’s obviously not why I called you.” For an instant Becky saw something chill cross his face, then it was replaced again by the smile. “Let’s go into my office, such as it is. I’ve got something to show you.”
It sat on the desk in the office on a piece of plastic. “Ever seen anything like it?”
“What the hell is it?”
“A composite I constructed from the pawprint casts Tom Rilker gave me. Whatever made those prints has paws very much like this one.”
“My God. It looks so—”
“Lethal. And that’s exactly what it is. An efficient weapon. One of the best I’ve ever seen in nature, as a matter of fact.” He picked it up. “These long, jointed toes can grasp, I think, quite well. And the claw retracts. Very beautifully and very strange.” He shook his head. “Only one thing wrong with it.”
“Which is?”
“It can’t exist. Too perfect a mutation. No defects at all. Plus it’s at least three steps ahead of its canine ancestors. Maybe if it was a single mutation it would be acceptable, but there are the prints of five or six different animals in here. There must be a pack of these things.” He turned the plaster model in his hand. “The odds against this are billions—trillions— to one.”
“But not impossible?”
He held the model out to Wilson, who stared but didn’t touch. “We have the evidence right here. And I want to know more about the creatures that made these prints. Rilker couldn’t give me a damn bit of information. That’s why I called you. I didn’t want to get involved, but frankly I’m curious.”
Wilson put on a sickly smile. “You’re curious,” he said. “That’s very nice. We’re all curious. But we can’t help you. You’ve just told us a lot more than we knew. You’re the one who can answer questions.”
The scientist looked puzzled and a little sad. He took his glasses off, then dropped into his chair and put the plaster model back on the desk. “I’m sorry to hear that. I had hoped you’d have more information for me. But I don’t think you realize how little I know. Where did the prints come from—can you tell me that?”
“The scene of a crime.”
“Oh come on, George, don’t be so close-mouthed. They came from the scene of the DiFalco-Houlihan murders out in Brooklyn.”
“The two policemen?”
“Right. They were found all around the bodies.”
“What’s being done about this?”
“Exactly nothing,” Wilson snapped. “At the moment the case is officially closed.”
“But what about these prints? I mean, here’s clear evidence that something out of the ordinary is at work. This is no dog or wolf paw, you realize that? Surely somebody must be doing something about it.”
Wilson shot Becky a glance and kept staring as if surprised. The feeling that she experienced confused and pleased her—not because of what the look communicated but because of the way his eyes lingered. “Nobody’s doing anything about it, Doctor,” she said. “That’s why we’re here. We are the only two police officers in New York on this case and we’re about to be reassigned.”
“You understand that this claw belongs to a fearsome killer.” He said it like it was a revelation.
“We know,” Becky replied patiently. In her mind’s eye she once again saw the faces of the dead.
Doctor Ferguson seemed to withdraw into himself. His hands hung down at his sides, his head bowed. Becky had seen this kind of reaction to stress before, usually in those who have been unexpectedly close to murderers. “How many have died?” he asked.
“Five so far that we know about,” Wilson replied.
“There’ve probably been more,” Ferguson said faintly, “maybe many more, if what I suspect is right.”
“Which is?”
He frowned. “I can’t say right now. I’m not sure about it. If I’m wrong it could harm my career. We could be dealing with some kind of murderers hoax. I don’t want to get taken in by a hoax.”
Wilson sighed. “You got any cigarettes?” he asked. Ferguson produced a pack. Wilson took one, tore off the filter and lit up. He did this all very quickly so that Becky wouldn’t have a chance to stop him. “You know, you shouldn’t clam up on us. If you don’t tell us what you think we aren’t going to be able to help you.”
The scientist stared at them. “Look, if I get tripped up by a hoax—if I go out on a limb about this thing and it turns out to be a fake—I would lose my reputation. I don’t know what would become of me. Or I guess I do. Teaching at some backwoods college and never quite reaching tenure.” He shook his head. “It’s not much of a career.”
