Still Life With Crows

“Go on.”

“The organized killer also follows a modus operandi, which forensic behavioral scientists call ‘ritual.’ The killings are done ritualistically. The killer will often wear the same clothes for each killing, use the same gun or knife, and perform the killing in exactly the same way. Afterwards, the killer will often arrange the body in a ritualistic fashion. The ritual may not be obvious, but it is always there. It is part of the killing.”

“That seems to fit our serial killer.”

“On the contrary, it does not. Yes, our killer performs a ritual. But here’s the catch:it’s a totally different ritual each time. And this killer doesn’t just kill people: he kills animals. The killing of the dog is completely mystifying. There was no ritual at all involved there. It has all the earmarks of the ‘disorganized’ type. He simply killed the dog and ripped off its tail. Why? And the opportunistic attack on John Gasparilla was similar—no ritual, not even an effort to kill. He just, ah, seems to have taken what he needed—the man’s hair and his thumb— and gone away. In other words, these killings share elements of both organizedand disorganized serial killers. This has never been seen before.”

He was interrupted by an explosive squawk from the metal detector. They had almost reached the end of the test line; ahead of them, the grassy slope descended through a fold of land to the great sea of corn below. Pendergast knelt and began to scrape away the dirt. This time he did not uncover anything. He placed the metal detector directly on the spot and adjusted some dials while the machine continued shrieking in protest.

“It’s at least two feet down,” he said. A trowel appeared in his hand and he began to dig.

In a few minutes, a sizable hole had been excavated. More carefully now, Pendergast trimmed the edges of the hole, going down scant millimeters at a time, until his trowel touched something solid.

A very small brush appeared in his hand and he began to sweep dirt from the object. Corrie watched over his shoulder. Something began emerging into view: old, twisted, curled up. A few more sweeps revealed it: a single cowboy boot with a hobnail sole. Pendergast lifted it out of the hole and turned it around in his hand. It had been neatly sliced down the back as if with a knife. He looked at Corrie and said:

“It appears Harry Beaumont wore a size eleven, does it not?”

There was a shout from behind. A figure was huffing his way out of the Mounds toward them, waving his hands. It was Tad, the deputy sheriff.

“Mr. Pendergast!” he was calling. “Mr. Pendergast!”

Pendergast rose as the red-faced, lanky figure came up to them, sweating and blowing.

“Gasparilla . . . in the hospital. He’s regained consciousness, and—” Tad paused, heaving. “And he’s asking for you.”

Twenty-Six

 

Hazen sat in one of two plastic portable chairs set up outside Gasparilla’s intensive- care room. He was thinking hard: about the first cool nights of fall; buttered corn on the cob; reruns ofThe Honeymooners; Pamela Anderson naked. What he tried very hard not to think about was the incessant moaning and the terrible smell that came from the room beyond, penetrating even the closed door. He wished he could go. He wished to hell he could at least head off to the waiting room. But no: he had to wait here, for Pendergast.

Jesus Christ.

And there was the man himself, in full undertaker’s getup as usual, striding down the hall on those long black- clad legs. Hazen rose and reluctantly took the proffered hand. It seemed as if where Pendergast came from they shook hands five times a day. Great way to spread the plague.

“Thank you, Sheriff, for waiting,” said Pendergast.

Hazen grunted.

Another long gibbering moan, almost like the cry of a loon, came from behind the door.

Pendergast knocked, and the door opened to reveal the attending physician and two nurses. Gasparilla lay in the bed, swathed like a mummy, only his black eyes and a slit for a mouth relieving the massive white swaddle of bandages. He had wires and tubes out the wazoo. All around, banks of machines ticked and blinked and chirped and buzzed like a high-tech orchestra. The smell was much stronger here; it hung in the air like a tangible presence. Hazen stayed near the door, wishing he could light up a Camel, watching as Pendergast strode across the room and bent over the prostrate form.

“He’s very agitated, Mr. Pendergast,” the doctor said. “Asking for you continuously. We hoped your visit might calm him.”

For several moments, Gasparilla went on moaning. Then, suddenly, he seemed to spy Pendergast. “You!” he cried, his body suddenly struggling under the bandages.

The doctor laid a hand on Pendergast’s arm. “I just want to caution you that if this is going to overly excite him, you’ll have to leave—”

“No!” cried Gasparilla, his voice full of panic. “Let me speak!” A bony hand, swathed in gauze, shot out from underneath the covers and clutched at Pendergast’s jacket, clawing and grabbing so frantically that a button popped off and rattled to the floor.

“I’m having second thoughts about this—” the doctor began again.

“No! No! Imust speak! ” The voice rose like the shriek of a banshee. One of the nurses quickly shut the door behind Hazen. Even the machines responded, with eager low beepings and a blinking red light.

“That’s it,” said the doctor firmly. “I’m sorry. This was a mistake; he’s in no condition to speak. I must ask you to leave—”

“Noooo!”A second hand grasped Pendergast’s arm, pulling him down.