evening, through the Hall of Africa. He found the dioramas in that particular hall to be true works of art. And they looked especially good at such an advanced hour, the hall lights turned off, each diorama glowing with internal light like a window into another world.
He walked down the long corridor and, being averse to elevators, skipped down three flights of stairs. Passing beneath a metal archway, he found himself in the Hall of Ocean Life. Only the nocturnal lighting was on, and the hall looked dark and mysterious, quiet except for the ever-present clicks, groans, and creakings of the ancient fabric of the Museum.
Midnight. He passed slowly through the hall, the herd of elephants at its center barely emerging from the darkness, the habitat groups arranged in a double tier around the walls on both sides of him. The gorilla group was his favorite, and he paused in front of it, pursing his lips, letting himself merge with the scene. It was so very real, and he wanted to enjoy it. Things would be wrapping up here very soon; his work was almost done. If he was right, this poor Bitterman fellow and the remains of Shasheen Walker would fall right into the pattern.
At last, he turned with a sigh under a low doorway, then down a stone corridor toward the Tower. He knew the story of the famous Tower: how in 1870 Endurance S. Flyte, railroad baron and third director of the NYMNH, had commissioned a monstrous, fortresslike addition to the original Museum building. It was to be modeled after the Welsh castle of Caernarvon, which Flyte had tried—unsuccessfully—to purchase for himself. Saner heads eventually prevailed, and Flyte was removed from office with only the central tower of his fortress completed. Now the cornerstone of the institution’s southwest facade, the six-sided Tower was used primarily to store the Museum’s endless collections. It was also, Brambell had heard, a favorite trysting place for the more ghoulish-minded of the Museum’s staff.
The dim, cathedral-like hall at the base of the Tower was empty, and Brambell’s footsteps echoed hollowly as he crossed the marble floor toward the staff exit. Nodding at the guard, he passed into the humid night air of Museum Drive. It was midnight, but the avenue beyond was still bustling with people and taxis.
He took a few steps, then looked back in admiration. No matter how many times he saw it, he’d never get tired of staring at that Tower. Rearing several hundred feet into the air, topped by fanglike crenelations, it threw a dark shadow as far south as 59th Street on cloudless days. Tonight, pale under the light of a waxing moon, it looked troubled, full of ghosts.
At last, with a sigh, he started forward again, turned the corner onto 81st, then walked west toward the Hudson and his modest apartment, once again humming under his breath. As he went, the street gradually took on a seedier character, and the number of pedestrians began to dwindle. But Brambell took no notice, walking briskly, inhaling the night air. There was a lovely breeze blowing in, crisp and sharp, ideal for a midsummer’s night. A bite of dinner, a quick washing-up, a toothful of Green Spot, and he’d be between the covers in an hour. As usual, he’d be up at 5:00 A.M., being one of those fortunate people who needed hardly any sleep. It was a great advantage to a medical examiner not to need sleep, especially one who wanted to get to the top of his profession. Brambell couldn’t begin to count the number of times he’d been the first on the scene of an important crime, simply by virtue of being awake when everybody else was fast asleep.
The neighborhood looked even seedier now, but it was only a block to Broadway and its bustling bagel shops, bookstores, and delis. Brambell walked along the row of shabby brownstones, now subdivided into Single Room Occupancies and tiny apartments. A few harmless drunks lingered at the far corner.
As he reached the center of the block, he detected movement out of the corner of his eye: something in the dark well of the basement entrance of an abandoned walk-up. He hastened his step. There was an unusually foul odor wafting from the dark entrance, pungent even for New York. Hearing something moving swiftly along the sidewalk behind him now, he instinctually reached into his portfolio for the scalpel he always carried. His mouth tightened as his fingers closed on its cold ergonomic handle. He felt no real alarm; he’d been mugged once at gunpoint and twice at knifepoint, and he now knew exactly how to handle things. He drew the scalpel from the portfolio as he spun around, but there was nothing there: he looked around for a moment in surprise before an arm slid around his neck and dragged him into the darkness. He assumed, in a surprisingly detached sort of way, that it was an arm; it had to be an arm, yet it felt slippery and so very strong. Then, almost immediately, he felt a curious digging sensation just below his Adam’s apple. Yes, it was a most curious sensation, indeed.
MARGO UNLOCKED THE door to the Forensic Anthropology laboratory, smugly pleased to find the room dark and empty. This was the first morning she’d managed to beat Dr. Brambell into work. Most mornings, he would be sitting on a lab stool when she arrived, sipping a cup of Museum coffee and arching his narrow eyebrows over the rim at her in greeting. He would then go on to point out that the Museum must percolate its coffee in secondhand formaldehyde borrowed from the Animal Conservation department. Other mornings, she would arrive to find Frock in before her as well, the two scientists bent over a table or a report, carrying on their usual argument in polite undertones.
She slung her carryall into a drawer and shrugged into her scrubs, stepping over to the window as she did so. The sun had broken over the Fifth Avenue buildings, bathing the magisterial frontage in hues of gold and copper. Below the window, the Park was waking up: mothers walking children toward the zoo, joggers trotting the long oval course around the Reservoir. Her eye moved southward, lighting at last on the purple bulk of Belvedere Castle, and she shuddered slightly as she stared into the dark wooded area at its rear where Nicholas Bitterman had met with violent death. His headless corpse, she knew, was due to arrive in their lab later that morning.
The door opened and Dr. Frock wheeled himself inside, a large silhouette against the dimness of the lab. As he came forward into the sunlight, Margo turned to wish him good morning. Seeing the expression on his face, she stopped short.
“Dr. Frock?” she asked. “Are you all right?”
He came toward her slowly, the normally ruddy face drawn and pale.
“There’s tragic news,” he said in a low voice. “I received a call very early this morning. Simon Brambell was murdered last night on his way home from the Museum.”
Margo frowned, drawing in her breath. “Simon Brambell?” she repeated, uncomprehending.
Frock rolled closer and took her hand. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, my dear,” he said. “This is all so horribly sudden.”
“But how?” Margo asked.
“It appears he was attacked on Eighty-first Street,” Frock said. “His throat was cut. Beyond that…” Frock spread his hands, which Margo noticed were shaking with emotion.
