Still Life With Crows

In the ensuing silence, Pendergast picked up a bird and turned it gently around, palpating it. “Completely crushed, it seems.”

“That right?” The doctor’s voice had grown wary, irritated.

“Yes. Every bone broken. It’s a sack of mush.” He glanced up. “Youare planning to autopsy the birds, are you not, Doctor?”

The doctor gave a snort. “All two dozen of them? We’ll do one or two.”

“I would strongly recommend doing them all.”

The doctor stepped back from the gurney. “Agent Pendergast, I fail to see what purpose that would serve, except to waste my time and the taxpayers’ money. As I said, we will do one or two.”

Pendergast laid the bird back on the tray and picked up another, palpated it, and then another, before finally selecting one. Then, before the doctor could object, Pendergast plucked a scalpel from the surgical tray and made a long, deliberate stroke across the bird’s underside.

The doctor found his voice. “Just a minute! You’re not authorized—”

Hazen watched as Pendergast exposed the crow’s stomach. The agent paused briefly, scalpel poised.

“Put that bird down this instant,” said the doctor angrily.

With one swift stroke, Pendergast opened the bird’s stomach. There, pushing out from among rotting kernels of corn, was a misshapen, pinkish thing that Hazen abruptly realized was a human nose. His stomach lurched again.

Pendergast laid the crow back down on the tray. “I will leave the finding of the lips and ears in your capable hands, Doctor,” he said, pulling off the gloves, mask, and scrubs. “Please send a copy of your final report to me, care of Sheriff Hazen.”

And he walked out of the room without a backward glance.

Eight

 

Smit Ludwig sat at the counter of Maisie’s Diner, plate of cold meatloaf sitting barely touched in front of him, stirring his cup of coffee. It was six o’clock and he had a story due and he wasn’t getting anywhere with it. Maybe, he thought, the story was too big. Maybe he wasn’t up to it. Maybe, in all the years of writing about 4-H fairs and the occasional car accident, he’d lost the edge. Maybe he never had the edge to begin with.

He stirred and stirred.

Through the plate glass front of Maisie’s, Ludwig could see the closed door of the sheriff’s office across the street. God, how that pugnacious, butt-ignorant sheriff got under his skin. Ludwig hadn’t been able to pry any information from him. And the state police had told him nothing either. He couldn’t even get the M.E. on the phone. How the hell did they do it at theNew York Times ? No doubt because they were big and powerful, and not to talk to them was worse than talking to them.

He looked back down at his coffee. Problem was, nobody was scared of theCry County Courier. It was more like a local joke. How could they respect him as a reporter when he came by the next day selling ad space, and came by again the day after at the wheel of the delivery truck because his driver, Pol Ketchum, had to take his wife to Dodge City for chemotherapy?

Here was the biggest story of his career and he had nothing for tomorrow’s paper. Nothing. Course, he could always recycle what he had reported yesterday, work a new angle, hint about leads, play up the “no comments,” and produce passable copy. But the savagery and strangeness of the crime had aroused sleepy Medicine Creek, and people wanted more. And a part of him wanted to rise to the occasion, to do well by the story. A part of him wanted—now that he finally had the chance—to be a real journalist.

He smiled at himself and shook his head. Here he was, wife passed away, daughter long gone to greener pastures on the West Coast, paper losing money, and him nearing sixty-five.A real journalist. It was a little late for that. What was he thinking?

Ludwig noticed that the low susurrus of conversation in the diner had suddenly faltered. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a black form hovering outside Maisie’s. It was that FBI agent, examining the menu taped to the glass. Then the figure moved to the door and pushed it open. The little bell tinkled.

Smit Ludwig rotated slightly on his stool. Maybe all was not lost. Maybe he could get something out of the agent. It seemed unlikely, but it was worth a try. Even the tiniest crumb would do. Smit Ludwig could do wonders with a crumb.

The FBI man—what was his name?—slid into one of the banquettes and Maisie shoved off to get his order. There was no problem hearing Maisie—her booming voice carried into every corner of the diner—but he had to strain to hear the agent’s soft replies.

“The blue plate special today,” Maisie boomed out, “is meatloaf.”

“Of course,” the FBI man said. “Meatloaf.”

“Yup. Meatloaf and white gravy, mashed garlic potatoes—homemade, not out of the box—and green beans on the side. Green beans have iron, and you could certainly use some iron.” Ludwig had to suppress a smile. Maisie was already starting in on the poor stranger. If he didn’t gain ten pounds by the time he left, it wouldn’t be for lack of browbeating.

“I see you have pork and beans,” the man said. “What type of legumes, precisely, do you employ?”

“Legumes? No legumes inour pork and beans! Only fresh ingredients. I start with the best red beans, toss in some fatback, molasses, spices, then I cook ’em overnight, with the heat on low as a whisper. The beans just melt in your mouth. One of our most popular dishes. Pork and beans, then?”

This was starting to become entertaining. Ludwig swiveled a bit farther to get a better view of the action.