“Special Agent Pendergast,” the M.E. said, with a new edge to his voice, “would you mind identifying yourself for the tape recorder? And throw on some scrubs and a mask, if you don’t mind. You can find them over there.”
“Of course.”
Hazen wondered how the hell Pendergast had managed it, without a car and all. But he wasn’t sorry to see him. It occurred to Sheriff Hazen, not for the first time, that having Pendergast on the case could be useful. As long as the man kept with the program.
Pendergast returned a moment later, having expertly slid into the scrubs. The doctor was now working on the victim’s face, peeling it away in thick rubbery flaps and clamping them back. It had been bad enough before, when just the nose, lips, and ears had been missing. Hazen stared at the bands of muscle, the white of the ligaments, the slender yellow lines of fat. God, it was gruesome.
“May I?” Pendergast asked.
The doctor stepped back and Pendergast leaned over, not three inches from the stinking, swollen, featureless face. He stared at the places, torn and bloody, where the nose and lips had once been. The scalp had been peeled back but Hazen could still see the bleached-blonde hair with its black roots. Then Pendergast stepped back. “The amputations appear to have been performed with a crude implement.”
The doctor raised his eyebrows. “A crude implement?”
“I would suggest a superficial microscopic examination with a comprehensive series of photos. And part of the scalp has been ripped off, as you no doubt have noted.”
“Right. Good.” The doctor sounded irritated at the advice.
Hazen had to smile. The Agent was showing up the Doc. But if Pendergast were right about this . . . He stopped himself from asking just what kind of “crude implement” Pendergast had in mind. He felt his gorge rising and immediately turned his mind back to Jayne Mansfield.
“Any sign of the lips, ears, and nose?” Pendergast asked.
“The police couldn’t find them,” said the M.E.
Hazen felt a surge of annoyance at this implied criticism. The M.E. had been at it all afternoon, making one snide comment after another about the shortcomings of Hazen’s report and, by extension, his police work. Fact was, by the time he stepped in, the state police had already royally fucked it up.
The doctor resumed cutting away at the earthly remains of Sheila Swegg. Pendergast began to circle the table, looking first at one organ and then at another, hands behind his back, like he was viewing sculpture in a museum. He got to the toe tag.
“I see you have an ID.”
“Yeah,” said Hazen with a cough. “Some cracker from the Oklahoma panhandle. We found her car, one of those Korean rice-burners, hidden in the corn five miles the other side of Medicine Creek.”
“Any idea what she was doing there?”
“We found a bunch of shovels and picks in the trunk. A relic hunter—they’re always sneaking around the Mounds, digging for old Indian artifacts.”
“This is a common occurrence, then?”
“Not around here so much, but yeah, some people make a living at it, driving from state to state looting old sites for stuff to sell at flea markets. Every mound, battleground, and boot hill from Dodge City to California’s been hit by them. They got no shame.”
“Does she have a record?”
“Petty shit. Credit card fraud, selling phony crap on eBay, nickel-and-dime insurance scams.”
“You’ve made excellent progress, Sheriff.”
Hazen nodded curtly.
“Well,” said the doctor. “We’re just about done here. Do either of you have any questions or special requests?”
“Yes,” said Pendergast. “The birds and the arrows.”
“In the fridge. You want to see them?”
“If you please.”
The doctor disappeared and came back a moment later wheeling another gurney, on which the crows had been neatly laid out in rows, each with its own toe tag.
Pendergast bent over them, reached out, paused. “May I?”
“Be my guest.”
He picked up an arrow in a latex-gloved hand, turning it around slowly.
“You can pick those replicas up at almost any gas station between here and Denver,” said McHyde.
Pendergast continued turning it in the light. Then he said, “This is no replica, Doctor. This is a genuine Southern Cheyenne cane arrow, feathered with a bald eagle primary and tipped with a type II Plains Cimarron point in Alibates chert. I’d date it between 1850 and 1870.”
Hazen stared at Pendergast as he placed the arrow back down. “All of them?” he said.
“All of them. It was evidently a matched set. A collection of original arrows like this, in this superb condition, would fetch at least ten thousand dollars at Sotheby’s.”
