A silence. From the large pool of blood she’d slipped in, a dribbling trail of splatters led toward the huge, open granite sarcophagus that stood in the center of the room. The flank of the sarcophagus, engraved in hieroglyphics, had a prominent smear of gore along its side, as if something had been hoisted over and dropped inside.
Suddenly, the very last thing in the world Johnson wanted to do was look inside that sarcophagus. But something-perhaps her strong sense of duty-made her walk slowly forward. Her radio, held unheeded in one hand, squawked.
“Enough?” Central squawked again in a high voice. “What’s that supposed to mean, enough?”
She reached the lip of the sarcophagus and looked inside. A body lay on its back. The body was human-that much she knew-but beyond that, she could tell nothing. The face was gashed and scored beyond recognition. The breastbone was split and the ribs yanked open like a set of double doors. Where the lungs and other organs should be was nothing but a red cavity. But what would really stick with her, and haunt her nightmares for years to come, was the pair of electric-blue Bermuda shorts the victim wore.
“Mary?” came the squawking radio.
Johnson swallowed, unable to answer. Now she noticed a smaller trail of blood and gore, dribbling its way into one of the small rooms that branched off from the burial chamber. The mouth of the room was dark and she couldn’t see inside.
“Mary? Do you read?”
She slowly lifted the radio to her lips, swallowed again, found her voice. “I read you.”
“What’s going on?”
But Mary Johnson was slowly backing away from the sarcophagus, eyes on the little dark doorway in the far corner. No need to go in there. She’d seen enough. She continued backing up, then carefully turned her bulk around. And then, as she approached the exit to the burial chamber, something seemed to go wrong with her legs.
“Mary! We’re sending security down right away! Mary!”
Johnson took another step, wobbled, then felt herself sink to the ground, as if borne down by an irresistible force. She rolled into a sitting position, then toppled backward almost in slow motion, coming to rest against the door lintel.
That was how they found her, eight minutes later, wide awake and staring at the ceiling, tears rolling out of her eyes.
Chapter 22
Captain of Homicide Laura Hayward arrived after most of the crime scene investigation work had already been completed. She preferred it that way. She had come up through the homicide ranks and knew the scene-of-crime investigators didn’t need a captain breathing down their necks to do good work.
At the entrance to the Egyptian gallery, where the crime scene perimeter had been erected, she passed through a knot of police and museum security personnel, talking in hushed, funereal voices. She spotted the museum’s security director, Jack Manetti, and nodded at him to accompany her. She stepped up to the tomb’s threshold, then paused, breathing in the close and dusty air, taking stock.
“Who was here last night, Mr. Manetti?” she asked.
“I have a list of all authorized employees and subcontractors. There are quite a few, but it seems all of them checked out of the museum through security except two technicians: the victim, and the one who’s still missing. Jay Lipper.”
Hayward nodded and began walking through the tomb, making a mental note of the progression of the rooms, stairs, passageways, building a three-dimensional image in her head. In a few minutes, she arrived at a large, pillared room. She quickly took it all in: the tables laden with computer equipment, the pizza boxes, the cables and wires running in all directions. Everything was festooned with evidence tags.
A sergeant came to greet her, a man older than her by a decade. She thought his name was Eddie Visconti. He looked competent, had a bright, clear eye, dressed neatly, deferential but only to a point. She knew it was tough for some of the rank and file to report to a woman younger than they were and twice as educated. Visconti looked as if he could handle it.
“You’re the first responding officer, Sergeant?”
“Yes, ma’am. Me and my partner.”
“All right. Let’s have a quick summary.”
“Two computer technicians worked late: Jay Lipper and Theodore DeMeo. They’d been working late every night this week-lot of pressure to open the exhibit by deadline.”
She turned to Manetti. “And when’s that?”
“Eight days from today.”
“Proceed.”
“DeMeo went out for pizza at around two, leaving Lipper behind. We checked with the pizzeria-”
“Don’t tell me how you know what you know, Sergeant. Stick to the reconstruction, please.”
“Yes, Captain. DeMeo returned with pizza and drinks. We don’t know if Lipper had already left or if he was attacked in the interim, but we do know they didn’t have time to consume the food.”
Hayward nodded.
“DeMeo put down the pizzas and drinks on that table and went into the burial chamber. It appears the killer was already there, and surprised him.” He walked toward the burial chamber, Hayward following.
“Weapon?” Hayward asked.
“Unknown at this point. Whatever it was, it wasn’t sharp. The cuts and lacerations are very ragged.”
They entered the burial chamber. Hayward took in the extravagant puddle of blood, the smear on the stone coffin, the trail of gore into a side room, the bright yellow tags everywhere like fallen autumn leaves. She glanced around, locating each fleck of blood in turn, noting the shape and size of the droplets.
“A splatter analysis indicates the killer came at the victim from the left side with weapon raised, and brought it down in a way that partially cut through the victim’s neck and severed the jugular vein. The victim fell but the perp continued to slash and cut, far more than necessary to kill. There were more than a hundred cuts to the victim’s neck, head, shoulders, abdomen, legs, and buttocks.”
“Any sign of a sexual motive?”
“No semen or other bodily fluids. Sex organs untouched, anal swab clean.”
“Keep going.”
“It appears the perp half chopped, half punched through the victim’s breastbone with the weapon. Then he pulled out some of the internal organs and carried them into the Canopic Room and dumped them into a couple of very large jars.”
“Did you say pulled out?”
“The viscera were torn away, not cut.”
Hayward walked over to the small side chamber and looked in. A technician was on his hands and knees, photographing spots on the floor with a macro lens. A row of wet-evidence boxes stood against one wall, waiting to be carried away.
She looked around, trying to visualize the attack. She already knew that they were dealing with a disorganized killer, a disturbed individual, most likely a sociopath.
“After cutting out the organs,” Sergeant Visconti continued, “the perp returned to the body, dragged it to the sarcophagus, and heaved it inside. Then he left by the main tomb door.”
“He must’ve been covered with blood.”
“Yes. And in fact, using a bloodhound, we’ve followed the trail as far as the fifth floor.”
Hayward looked up sharply. This was a detail she hadn’t heard before. “Not out of the museum?”
