The Book of the Dead Page 16

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Is the other guard around, what’s-his-name-Morris? I’d like to talk to him.”

  Visconti spoke into his radio, and a moment later a cop appeared at the far edge of the scene, leading the other guard. The man’s comb-over was in disarray, hanging like a flap down the side of his head, and his clothes were disheveled. He stank of alcohol preservative.

  “You okay?” she asked. “Able to talk?”

  “I think so.” His voice was high and breathy.

  “Did you see the attack?”

  “No. I was… too far away, and my back was turned.”

  “But you must have seen or heard something in the moments before it occurred.”

  Morris struggled to concentrate. “Well, there was this… screaming. Like an animal. And breaking glass. Then something came rushing out from the darkness…” His voice trailed off.

  “Something? It wasn’t a person?”

  Morris’s eyes slid from side to side. “It was just, like, a screaming, rushing shape.”

  Hayward turned to another of the officers. “Take Mr. Morris downstairs and have Detective Sergeant Whittier question him further.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Two EMTs came into view from behind a mountain of stacked boxes, pushing a stretcher with an enormous, groaning mound on top.

  “What’s his state?” she asked.

  “Lacerated with what looks like a crude knife, or maybe a claw.”

  “Claw?”

  The technician shrugged. “Some of the cuts are pretty ragged. Luckily, none of them reached vital organs-one advantage to being fat. Some blood loss, shock… He’ll recover.”

  “Can he talk?”

  “You’re welcome to give it a shot,” said an EMT. “He’s been sedated.”

  Hayward leaned over. The guard’s damp, bulging face stared at the ceiling. The smell of liquor, formaldehyde, and dead fish assaulted her nostrils.

  She spoke gently. “Wilson Bulke?”

  His eyes flickered toward her, away again.

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  No clear response.

  “Mr. Bulke, did you see your attacker?”

  The eyes gyrated in their sockets, and his wet mouth opened. “The… face.”

  “What face? What did it look like?”

  “Twisted… Oh, God…”

  He groaned, mumbled something unintelligible.

  “Can you be more specific, sir? Male or female?”

  A whimper, a brief shake of the head.

  “One, or more than one?”

  “One,” came the croaked reply.

  Hayward looked at the EMT. He shrugged.

  She turned, gestured to a detective waiting nearby. “Stay with him on the way to the hospital. If he becomes more coherent, get a complete description of his attacker. I want to know what we’re up against.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  She straightened up, looked around at the small group of police. “Whoever or whatever this is, we’ve got it cornered. I want us to go in. Now.”

  “Shouldn’t we call for a SWAT team?” said Visconti.

  “It would take hours before a SWAT team could gear up and get over here. And their rules of engagement are so ponderous they’d slow everything down. There was fresh blood on that wallet-there’s a chance Lipper might still be alive and a hostage.” She looked around. “I want you three to come with me: Sergeant Visconti, Officer Martin, and Detective Sergeant O’Connor.”

  There was a silence. The three officers exchanged glances.

  “Is there a problem? It’s four against one.”

  More hesitant looks.

  She sighed. “Don’t tell me you boys have bought into the rumors the museum guards are spreading? What, you think we’re going to get jammed up by a mummy?”

  Visconti colored, and by way of answer removed his weapon and gave it a quick check. The others followed suit.

  “Turn off your radios, cell phones, pagers, everything. I don’t want to be creeping up on the perp and suddenly hear Beethoven’s Fifth coming from your BlackBerry.”

  They nodded.

  Hayward took out a photocopy she’d requested of the attic layout of the museum and pressed it flat on a box. “Okay. This section of the attic is divided into sixteen narrow rooms-here-divided into two long lines under parallel roofs, with a connecting passage at the far end. Think of it as a U. Besides the stairway down, there’s only one possible escape route: a rooftop accessible through this row of windows, here. I’ve already had it covered. The skylights are supposed to be barred. Which means the only way for the killer to escape is through us… He’s cornered.”

  She paused, looked at them each in turn. “We advance in pairs: quick observation of each room and retreat, then move and cover. I’ll partner with O’Connor. Martin, you and Visconti stay a half-room behind. Don’t overcommit. And remember: we’ve got to proceed under the assumption-the hope-that Lipper’s still alive and being held hostage. We can’t risk killing him. Only if you have verification that Lipper’s already wasted can you use deadly force-and then only if absolutely necessary. Are we clear on this?”

  They all nodded.

  “I’ll lead.”

  When none of the three protested or made the usual faux-gallant comments about its being a job for a man, Hayward took it as a sign that women were finally being accepted in the force. Or maybe the three were just scared silent.

  They stepped carefully through the crime scene, Hayward leading, O’Connor at her heels. The floor was smeared with blood, and a shelf of specimen jars lay where it had fallen, shards of glass and the broken, putrid remains of eels scattered in puddles of foul-smelling preservative. They moved past the guard at the far end of the crime scene and into the next room of the attic. The temporary lights set up around the crime scene were fainter here, cloaking the room in near-darkness.

  Hayward and O’Connor moved to either side of the doorway. She gave a quick peek inside, ducked back, nodded to O’Connor, then proceeded.

  Empty. More shelves had been thrown over, the glass littering the floor, filling the room with the choking stench of preservative. These jars seemed to have been filled with small rodents. A pile of papers had been dashed about and numerous stored objects flung helter-skelter. It reminded her, in a way, of the preliminary autopsy report on DeMeo: the killer had rooted about haphazardly among his internal organs, ripping and pulling stuff out with a kind of crazy, disorganized violence. A sick kind of vandalism.

  She crept up to the next door, waited until the others were in position, ducked around for a visual. Another room, like the previous, completely trashed. One of the dingy skylights had been broken, but the bars above it were still intact. No escape that way.

  She froze, suddenly listening. A faint sound was echoing back from the dark attics beyond.

  “Hush!” she whispered. “Hear that?”

  It was a strange kind of stumbling, limping gait: a dragging sound, followed by an unsettling thump: Draaag-thump. Draaag-thump.

  Hayward moved into the next room, almost pitch-dark now. Pulling out her flashlight, she used it to illuminate the dark corners. The room contained thousands of plaster faces-death masks-staring at them from every square foot of wall surface. Some of the masks showed signs of recent damage: someone, apparently the killer, had slashed at the masks, gouging out their eyes, leaving smears of blood everywhere.

  The lights were off in the next room. Crouching beside the door frame of the next room, Hayward gestured for the men behind to stay put.

  She leaned forward, listening intently. The strange sound had ceased: the killer was waiting, listening. She sensed, rather than knew, that he was near: very near.

  She could feel the level of tension within their little group rising. Better to keep going: the less thinking the better.

  Hayward ducked forward, swept the room with her flashlight, then ducked back again as quickly as she could. Somet
hing was crouching in the middle of the next room-naked, bestial, bloody… but definitely human, and surprisingly small and thin.

  She gestured to the others, held one finger upward, then rotated it slowly toward the doorway: one perp, in the room beyond.

  There was a tense moment as they gathered themselves. And then Hayward spoke in a firm, clear voice: “Police officers. Do not move. We’re armed and we’ve got you covered. Walk to the doorway with your hands up.”

  She heard a scrambling noise, a thumping and banging like a beast shambling on all fours.

  “He’s running!”

  Gun drawn, Hayward ducked around the corner just in time to see a dark figure scuttle into the darkness of the room beyond. This was followed by a tremendous crash.

  “Let’s go!”

  She ran across the room to the far doorway, paused, gave a quick look into the next with the flashlight. There was no sign of the figure, but there were plenty of nooks and crannies where the killer could hide.

  “Again!” They charged into the next room, immediately spreading out and taking cover.

  This was the largest attic room yet, filled with gray metal shelves tightly packed with jars. In each jar resided a single staring eye, the size of a cantaloupe, roots dangling like tentacles. One shelf of jars had been thrown to the ground, and the eyeballs lay ruptured, oozing jelly amid the glass and preservative.

  A quick search disclosed the room was empty. Hayward gathered the team.

  “Slowly but surely,” she said, “we’re driving him into a corner. Remember that people, like animals, get progressively more dangerous as they become cornered.”

  Nods all around.

  She glanced around. “The whale eyeball collection, it seems.”

  A few nervous, steadying laughs.

  “Okay. We’ll take it one room at a time. No hurry.”

  Hayward moved to the edge of the next door, listened, then ducked her head around, flashed the light. Nothing.

  As they moved into the room, Hayward heard a sudden, rending scream from beyond the far doorway, followed by the tremendous crash of glass and the sound of running liquid. The men jumped as if they’d been shot. A strong odor of ethyl alcohol drifted back.

  “That stuff is flammable,” Hayward said. “If he’s got a match, get ready to run.”

  She moved forward, raking the next room beyond with her flashlight.

  “I see it!” O’Connor cried.

  Draaag-thump! A shriek like a banshee, and then a dark figure, scuttling sideways but with horrifying single-mindedness, came rushing at them, gray flint knife raised in a fisted hand; Hayward jumped back as it crossed the threshold, knife slashing the air.

  “Police!” she called out. “Drop your weapon!”

  But the figure paid no heed, shambling crablike at them, knife still slashing the air.

  “Don’t shoot!” Hayward cried. “Mace him!”

  She dodged the figure, drawing it around, while the other three cops flanked it on both sides, holstering their guns and pulling out their riot sticks and Mace. Visconti jumped forward and Maced the attacker and he howled like a demon, spinning and whipping the stone knife around blindly; Hayward deftly stepped in and gave a sharp, plunging kick to the inside of one leg, sending him sprawling. A second kick sent the knife skittering across the floor.

  “Cuff him!”

  But Visconti had already sprung into action, slapping the cuffs on one wrist and then, with the help of O’Connor, wrestling the other flailing arm down and cuffing it as well.

  He screamed and bucked maniacally.

  “Do his ankles!” Hayward ordered.

  A minute later, the perp lay on his stomach, still pinned, writhing and shrieking in a voice so high it cut the air like a scalpel.

  “Get the EMTs in here,” Hayward said. “We need a sedative.”

  Most suspects, when cuffed hand and foot and pinned to the floor, settled down. Not this one. He continued to writhe and scream, twisting, rolling, thrashing about, and, small as he was, it was all that Hayward and the cops could do to hold him down.

  “Must be on angel dust,” said one of the cops.

  “I’ve never seen angel dust do this.”

  A minute later, an EMT arrived and plunged a needle into the shrieking man’s buttock. A few moments later, he began to quiet down. Hayward got up and dusted herself off.

  “Jesus,” said O’Connor. “Looks like he’s taken a shower in gore.”

  “Yeah, and it’s gone off in this heat. He stinks.”

  “Fucker’s naked, too.”

  Hayward stepped back. The perp was still lying on his stomach, face pressed to the floor by Visconti, whimpering and quivering in an unsuccessful attempt to fight off the sedative.

  She bent down. “Where’s Lipper?” she asked him. “What did you do to him?”

  More whimpering.

  “Turn him over, I want to see his face.”

  Visconti complied. The man’s face and hair were caked with dried blood and offal. He was grimacing strangely, his face seized by tics.

  “Clean him up.”

  The EMT broke out a pack of sterile gauze wipes and cleaned up his face.

  “Oh, Christ,” Visconti said involuntarily.

  Hayward merely stared. She could barely believe her eyes.

  The killer was Jay Lipper.

  Chapter 27

  Spencer Coffey settled himself in a chair in Warden Imhof’s office, impatiently flicking his trouser crease. Imhof sat behind his desk, looking much as he had during the first meeting: cool and neat, with the same blow-dried helmet of light brown hair on his head. Nevertheless, Coffey could see the uneasy, perhaps even defensive look in his eye. Special Agent Rabiner remained standing, arms crossed, leaning against the wall.

  Coffey let a strained silence build in the office before speaking.

  “Mr. Imhof,” he began, “you promised you would take care of this personally.”

  “As I have,” said Imhof in a coldly neutral voice.

  Coffey leaned back. “S.A. Rabiner and I have just come from an interview with the prisoner. I’m sorry to say there’s been no progress-none-in teaching him the value of respect. Now, I told you earlier I wasn’t really interested in how you accomplished the task we set for you, that I was only interested in results. Whatever you’re doing, it isn’t working. The prisoner’s the same cocky, arrogant bastard who first walked in here. Refused to answer questions. Insolent as well. When I asked him how he was enjoying solitary confinement, he said, ‘I rather prefer it.’”

  “Prefer it to what?”

  “Being mixed in with ‘former clients’ is how he put it, the sarcastic bastard. Really emphasizing the point that he didn’t want to be mixed with the general prison population. He’s as unrepentant and combative as ever.”

  “Agent Coffey, sometimes these things take time.”

  “Which is exactly what we don’t have, Mr. Imhof. We’ve got a second bail hearing coming up, and Pendergast’s going to have a day in court. We can keep him from his lawyer only so long. I need him broken by then; I need a confession.” What he didn’t add were the growing problems they were having nailing down some of the evidence. That would make the bail hearing very tricky-whereas a confession would make it all so nice and clean.

  “As I said, it takes time.”

  Coffey took a breath, remembering Imhof’s particular buttons. A little carrot, a little stick.

  “Meanwhile, our man is down there bad-mouthing you and Herkmoor to all who will listen: guards, staff, everyone. And he’s an eloquent bastard, Imhof.”

  The warden remained silent, but Coffey noticed-with satisfaction-a slight twitching at one corner of his mouth. And yet the man made no move to suggest stronger measures. Maybe there weren’t any stronger measures…

  And that’s when the idea came to him-the masterstroke. It was the “former clients” phrase that did it. So Pendergast was afraid of being mixed up with “former clients”?

>   “Mr. Imhof,” he said-but quietly, as if to disguise the freshness of his brainstorm-“is that computer on your desk linked to the Department of Justice database?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Well, then. Let’s check up on some of these ‘former clients.’”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Access Pendergast’s arrest records. Run them against your current prison population, see if you can find any matches.”

  “You mean, see if any of the perps Pendergast arrested are currently in Herkmoor?”

  “That’s the idea, yes.”

  Coffey glanced over his shoulder at Rabiner. The agent had a wolfish smirk on his face.

  “Boss, I like the way you think,” he said.

  Imhof pulled the keyboard toward him and began typing. Then he stared at the screen for a long moment while Coffey waited in growing impatience.

  “Strange,” Imhof said. “Pendergast’s collars seem to have suffered a rather high mortality rate. Most never made it to trial.”

  “Surely, there have to be some live ones who made it through the legal system and ended up in prison.”

  More typing. Then Imhof leaned back from the monitor. “There are two currently residing in Herkmoor.”

  Coffey looked at him sharply. “Tell me about them.”

  “One is named Albert Chichester.”

  “Go on.”

  “He’s a serial killer.”

  Coffey rubbed his hands together, glanced again at Rabiner.

  “Poisoned twelve people in the nursing home where he was employed,” Imhof went on. “Male nurse. Seventy-three years old.”

  As quickly as it had come, Coffey’s exhilaration fell away. “Oh,” he said.

  There was a brief silence.

  “What about the other one?” S.A. Rabiner asked.

  “A serious felon named Carlos Lacarra. They call him El Pocho.”

  “Lacarra,” Coffey repeated.

  Imhof nodded. “Former drug kingpin. Real hard case. Worked his way up through East L.A. street gangs and then came east. Took over much of the Hudson County and Newark enforcement action.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Tortured a whole family to death, including three kids. Revenge for a deal gone bad. Says here Pendergast was the S.A. in charge on that one-funny, I didn’t remember that.”