“So who else knew about this before daybreak?”

“Besides Lenny, the two of us, the mopes in the shipyard? Guess it’s Hal and the guys and ghouls who work downstairs on the graveyard shift. It was pretty quiet here when we brought the body in.”

“Mike, the truth. Did you tell anyone about this?”

“Like who? Whaddaya mean?”

“Anyone you shouldn’t have. At one of the papers?”

“Are you crazy? I’m not the one who likes the limelight. The less frigging coverage I have, the better I work, the sounder I sleep. Today it’s news. Tomorrow, it’s a stack of garbage tied up in piles and left out on the sidewalk with the trash, dogs lifting their legs to piss all over yesterday’s headliners and legends.”

“Battaglia’s ripped. The story’s out, and he’s blaming me for telling Jake. He assumes Jake is the leak.”

“And?”

“I don’t know. I can’t believe he’d do something stupid like that, but he was with me when I heard the news, and he was waiting for me when I got home early this morning.”

“In bed? As bad as you looked when you left me in Newark?”

I smiled. “I’d better forget my own problems and focus on the more important things. Like Incorruptibles.”

“Guess you’d have to be a good Catholic like me to know all about the saints, kid, and how to preserve a body without any decay.”

Kestenbaum entered his office and motioned to Mike to stay at the desk. “It’s actually a tradition that started with the Jews. Check out the Old Testament. It’s the way Joseph had his father buried by our forefathers, Alex.”

“Gospel According to Saint John, doc. Jesus was wound in linen clothes and anointed with spices.”

“What are you two talking about?” I had been raised in the Jewish faith, my mother having converted before her marriage to my father.

“Last night I figured it was going to take weeks to make an identification of our victim. That there would be natural decay, speeded up by her being enclosed in the sarcophagus. Maybe there’d be nothing left for DNA, or Dr. K. would have to do mitochondrial DNA on the hair, which takes so much longer. But she’s perfectly preserved.”

“You mean, someone took steps to do that?”

“Not intentionally. Not by cutting her up, the way they did to the Pharaohs. This one is natural, just like with the saints. You explain it, doc.”

“Even as physicians, we learn that for millennia, early Jews and Christians tried to preserve human bodies against decomposition by wrapping them in linens, then saturating them with herbs and plant residues like aloe and myrrh. The Egyptians perfected the method, copied later by Europeans, of eviscerating the corpse and removing the internal organs, to prevent natural gases from causing decay.”

“Forget taking out the viscera.” Chapman took over the lead in the conversation. “There’s not an external mark on Cleo’s body, is there, doc?”

“Not one. This was not a medical preservation. The killer couldn’t have dreamed his prey would show up in this condition.”

“You gotta think miracles. For centuries the corporal remains of saints were thought to be responsible for miracles in our Church. The Holy Ghost once took up residence inside them, making them sacred. That’s how come they healed the sick, made blind men see, and let cripples walk again. In the Middle Ages, Church officials began to dig up the bodies of saints and martyrs and nuns, hundreds of years after their deaths. Like Saint Zita, she’s always been one of my favorites.”

“I’ve never heard of her.”

“I’ll take you to see her myself. Tuscany, in Lucca. All laid out in a little glass case, looking like she’s taking a nap. She’s the patron saint of domestic servants-that’s why my old lady likes her so much. Lived in the thirteenth century. When the medieval wise men decided to exhume Zita because of all the miracles associated with her, they were amazed to find that her body was completely intact, without a trace of decay.”

I had never heard of this phenomenon and looked at Kestenbaum to see whether he knew of it, or whether Chapman was bluffing. The pathologist nodded.

“Saint Bernadette, too, in France. She died in 1879, and they dug her up thirty years later.”

“Yeah, but the churchmen who did the digging were all religious people who must have been looking for miracles.”

Kestenbaum corrected me. “They had surgeons present to witness the exhumations, along with the mayor of the little village and people unrelated to the Church.”

Chapman continued, “They unscrewed the lid of the wooden coffin and there was the sister’s body, perfectly preserved.”

“It must have smelled like-”

“No odor of putrefaction at all. The only change noticed by the nuns who had prepared her for burial was the pallor of her complexion. She was wizened, but all the skin and hair was right in place, her nails were shining, and her hands still clutched a rosary, which had rusted.”

“But surely, beneath the skin-”

“I’m telling you, they did this to her two or three times. They reburied her and brought her up again. There are lots of witnesses. Muscles and ligaments were all in good condition.”

“Why did they do it?”

“Incorruptibility used to be one of the requisites for canonization, until some of our boys began to cheat and do it the surgical way. Like Saint Margaret of Cortona. Turns out she wasn’t preserved naturally. Had a little medical intervention. Did it by the Egyptian method, then put her back in the coffin and pretended it had happened naturally.

“But Bernadette was a real phenomenon. The third time they brought her up was when they began to take relics. Pieces of her bones that doctors and priests removed from her corpse. Part of the body of the saint to help perform more miracles.”

“They cut out the poor woman’s bones?”

“Ribs, muscles. If they found gallstones they took them, too. Looking for proof of divine grace, trying to memorialize the person who was responsible for attracting this powerful good.”

“So, you’re telling me that Bernadette was mummified? Naturally, not like the Egyptians did with the removal of all the body organs?”

“It really was miraculous, at least in the Church if not to science. I mean, the way she was buried, nobody expected it. She’d been very ill at the time she died, and the chapel in which she’d been interred was so humid that everybody expected the flesh had decayed. After all, the rosary was rusty, the crucifix inside the coffin had turned green, and even her habit was damp.”

I shuddered at Mike’s description. “This must have been very rare. Zita, Bernadette-”

“Saint Ubald of Gubbio, Blessed Margaret of Savoy. You want me to go on? I know my saints and virgins better than I know Yankee statistics. Had my knuckles rapped enough times back in parochial school for catechisms I couldn’t follow, but when they got to this kind of stuff, it grabbed me.”

“I’m missing something here. You two have figured out who our victim is? You’re not trying to tell me she’s some kind of saint, are you?”

“She’s Saint Cleo to me, working her only little miracle for us. I never thought we’d find anything under those linen wraps. I figured that body would be partially if not fully decomposed. You gotta think the person who put her in that box and stuck a shipping label on it to sit on the blacktop in Newark during the summer heat, or in the hold of a freighter headed for Cairo, wouldn’t have expected there’d be anything left to make a visual ID of his victim.”

“You’ve done the autopsy?” I asked Kestenbaum.

“Later today. But we’ve unwrapped the linen and taken the photos. Mike’s right. The body is completely intact, in remarkable condition.”

“Maybe she just died recently, within the week.”

“Unlikely. I’d say she’s been dead for months, maybe the better part of a year. I’ll have a better idea after I get to work, but the skin has some discoloration and it’s shriveled a bit, the muscles have atrophied, and the lashes on her left eyelid have come out and are stuck to the brow.”