Reliquary

Frock, say, or Greg Kawakita.

Frock turned around in his wheelchair with an effort, nodded his recognition, then turned back toward the screen.

Brambell was looking at the new arrival. “You are—?” he began.

“Special Agent Pendergast of the FBI,” replied D’Agosta “He’ll be assisting us with this case.”

“I see,” Brambell said. “Delighted.” He turned briskly back toward the screen. “Let’s move on to the next question, the identification of the unknown body. I have some rather good news on this front. I’m afraid it may come as a surprise to my colleagues”—he nodded at Frock and Margo—“because it just recently came to my own attention.”

Frock sat forward in his wheelchair, an unreadable expression on his face.

Margo looked back and forth between the two scientists. Was it possible that Brambell had kept them in the dark or something, intending to garner the credit himself?

“Please take a close look at this next slide.” A new image appeared on the screen: the X ray showing the four white triangles that Margo had first noticed.

“Here we have four small triangles of metal embedded in the lumbar vertebrae of the unknown skeleton. We were all perplexed as to their meaning after Dr. Green here first pointed them out. Then, just last night, I had a stroke of inspiration as to their possible origin. I spent much of today in contact with orthopedic surgeons. If I am correct, we will know the identity of the murdered individual by the end of the week, perhaps sooner.”

He grinned and gazed about the hall triumphantly, lingering for an insolent moment on Frock.

“I assume you believe those triangles to be—” Pendergast began.

“For the time being,” Brambell interrupted pointedly, “I can say no more on the subject.” He waved the remote and a new slide flashed up, showing an extensively decomposed head, eyes missing, teeth exposed in a lipless grin. Margo was as repelled by the sight as she had been when the head was first wheeled into the lab.

“As you all know, this head was also brought to us yesterday for analysis. It was discovered by Lieutenant D’Agosta while investigating recent murders among the homeless population. Although we won’t be able to give you a full report for several more days, we know that it belongs to an indigent man who was murdered approximately two months ago. Numerous marks can be seen, some from teeth and some apparently from a crude weapon—again especially noticeable around the remaining cervical vertebrae. We’re planning to have his corpse exhumed from Potter’s Field for a more thorough investigation.”

Oh no, Margo thought.

He flashed several more slides. “We studied the excoriation of the neck and concluded that, again, the force used was most consistent with a human attacker, certainly not Mbwun.”

The screen flashed to white, and Brambell placed the pointing remote on a table next to him. As the lights came up, D’Agosta rose from his seat. “That’s a bigger relief than you’ll ever know,” he said. “But let me get this straight. You’re saying that a person made those bite marks?”

Brambell nodded.

“Not a dog or some other animal that might be living down in the sewers?”

“Given the nature and condition of the marks, it’s hard to rule out a dog completely. But it’s my belief that a human, or perhaps several humans, fit the bill better. If we had even one clear dentition pattern we would know, but, alas…” He spread his hands. “And if certain of those marks turn out to be made by a rough weapon of some sort, then a dog would obviously be out of the question.”

“And you, Dr. Frock? What do you think?” D’Agosta turned.

“I concur with Dr. Brambell,” Frock said curtly, shifting in his chair. “If you will recall,” he rumbled, “I was the one who originally suggested that this was not the work of some creature like Mbwun. I am pleased to be vindicated. However, I must protest the way Dr. Brambell has proceeded on his own with the identification of Cadaver A.”

“Duly noted,” Brambell said, with a thin smile.

“A copycat killer,” said the fat policeman triumphantly.

There was a silence.

The man stood up and looked around the room. “We’ve got a weirdo out there who was inspired by the Museum Beast,” he said loudly. “Some nut running around, killing people, cutting off their heads, and maybe eating them.”

“That,” said Brambell, “is consistent with the data, except—”

The fat policeman cut him off. “A serial killer who is also a homeless man.”

“Look, Captain Waxie,” D’Agosta began, “that doesn’t explain—”

“It explains everything!” the man named Waxie said obstinately.

Suddenly a door banged open at the top end of the hall, and a raised voice echoed angrily down over the group.

“Why the hell wasn’t I told of this meeting?”

Margo turned, instantly recognizing the pitted face, the immaculate uniform, the heavy encrustation of stars and braids. It was Police Chief Horlocker, coming down the aisle at a brisk walk, followed by two aides.

A weary look flitted across D’Agosta’s face before a mask of neutrality descended. “Chief, I sent—”

“What? A memo?” Glowering, Horlocker approached the row of seats where D’Agosta and Waxie were sitting. “Vinnie, the way I hear it, you made the same goddamn mistake at the Museum. You didn’t involve the top brass from the beginning. You and that jackass Coffey kept insisting it was a serial killer, that you had it under control. By the time you realized what it really was, you had a museum full of dead people.”