While Pendergast had been speaking, an expression quite unlike any D’Agosta had ever seen before crept slowly over Frisby’s face. He said nothing, merely swayed a little, first backward, then forward, like a branch caressed by a breeze. Then he gave what might have been the smallest of nods and disappeared around the corner.

“Ever so obliged!” Pendergast said, leaning over in his seat and calling after the curator.

D’Agosta had watched this exchange without a word. “You just put your boot so far up his ass, he’ll have to eat his dinner with a shoehorn.”

“I can always count on you for a suitable bon mot.”

“I’m afraid you made an enemy.”

“I’ve had long experience with this Museum. There is a certain subset of curators who behave in their little fiefdoms like a liege lord. I tend to be severe with such people. An annoying habit, but very hard to break.” He rose from his chair. “And now, I’d very much like to have a word with that Osteological technician you mentioned. Mark Sandoval.”

D’Agosta heaved himself to his feet. “Follow me.”

They found Sandoval down the hall in one of the storage rooms. He was puttering about, opening drawers full of bones, examining them, and taking notes. His nose was still red and his eyes were puffy — the summer cold was proving tenacious.

“This is Special Agent Pendergast of the FBI,” D’Agosta said. “He’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Sandoval looked around nervously, as if worried someone might see them — probably Frisby. “Here?”

“Yes, here,” said Pendergast as he took in the surroundings. “What a charming place. How many sets of human remains are in this room?”

“About two thousand, give or take.”

“And where do they hail from?”

“Oceania, Australia, and New Zealand.”

“And how many in the full collection?”

“About fifteen thousand, if you combine the Osteology and Anthropology collections.”

“Mr. Sandoval, I understand that one element of your job is to assist visiting scientists.”

“It’s our primary responsibility, actually. We get a steady stream of them.”

“But not Victor Marsala’s job — even though he was a technician.”

“Vic didn’t have the right temperament. Sometimes, distinguished visiting specialists can be, well, difficult — or worse.”

“What does your assistance involve?”

“Usually, scientists come to the Museum wishing to research a particular specimen or collection. We’re like the bone librarians: we retrieve the specimens, wait until they’ve been examined, then put them back.”

“Bone librarian — a most apt description. How many visiting scientists do you help in, say, any given month?”

“It varies. Six to ten, perhaps.”

“It varies on what?”

“On how complicated or extensive the person’s requirements are. If you have one visiting scientist with a very detailed list of objectives, you may have to work with him exclusively for weeks. Or you may get a string who just want to look at a femur here, a skull there.”

“What qualifications do you require of these visiting scientists?”

Sandoval shrugged. “They have to have some sort of institutional affiliation and a cogent plan of research.”

“No particular credentials?”

“Nothing specific. A letter of introduction, a formal request on university letterhead, proof of university or medical school affiliation.”

Pendergast idly adjusted his shirt cuffs. “It’s my understanding that, though he did it infrequently, Marsala did in fact work with a visiting scientist on a project some two months ago.”

Sandoval nodded.

“And he mentioned to you that the project was of particular interest to him?”

“Er, yes.”

“And what did he say about it?”

“He sort of hinted the scientist might be able to help him out in some way.”

“And Marsala worked with this scientist exclusively?”

“Yes.”

“In what possible way could the work of an external scientist benefit Mr. Marsala, who was admittedly very skilled at bone articulation but whose main duties were to oversee the maceration vats and the dermestid beetles?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he was planning to give Vic a junior authorship line in the paper he would publish.”

“Why?”

“For his help. Being a bone librarian isn’t all cut and dried. Sometimes you get unusual requests that aren’t all that specific, and you have to use your own specialized knowledge.”

D’Agosta listened to this exchange with increasing mystification. He’d expected Pendergast to immerse himself in the forensic aspects of the case. But as usual, the FBI agent seemed to have gone off on a tangent with no apparent relation to the case at hand.

“Mr. Sandoval, do you know which specimens this particular scientist asked to examine before he departed?”

“No.”

“Can you find out for us?”

“Of course.”

“Excellent.” Pendergast gestured toward the door. “In that case: after you, Mr. Sandoval.”

They moved out of the storage room, through a maze of passageways, to a computer terminal in what looked like the main laboratory: a space full of tables and workstations, with several half-articulated skeletons laid out on trays of green baize.

D’Agosta and Pendergast leaned over Sandoval as the technician, seated at a terminal, accessed the Museum’s Osteological and Anthropological databases. The lab fell silent save for Sandoval’s tapping of keys. Then there was the whisper of a printer and Sandoval grabbed a piece of paper from it. “It seems Marsala only checked out one specimen for the scientist,” he said. “Here’s the summary.”

D’Agosta leaned in closer, reading the accession record aloud. “Date of most recent access: April twenty. Hottentot, male, approximately thirty-five years of age. Cape Colony, formerly Griqualand East. Condition: excellent. No disfiguring marks. Cause of death: dysentery, during the Seventh Frontier War. Date: 1889. Procured by N. Hutchins. AR: C-31234-rn.”

“That is the original record, of course,” Sandoval said. “Hottentot is now considered derogatory. The correct term is Khoikhoi.”

“This record says the body was sent to the Museum in 1889,” said Pendergast. “If memory serves, however, the Seventh Frontier War ended in the late 1840s.”

Sandoval hemmed and hawed for a moment. “The body was probably disinterred before being sent to the Museum.”

There was another silence in the lab.

“It was common enough practice in the early days,” Sandoval added. “They dug up graves to get a desired specimen. Not anymore, of course.”

Pendergast pointed to the accession number. “May we see the specimen, please?”

Sandoval frowned. “Why?”

“Humor me.”

Yet another silence.

Pendergast inclined his head. “I would simply like to familiarize myself with the processes involved in locating and retrieving a specimen.”

“Very well. Follow me.”

Scribbling the accession number on a slip of paper, Sandoval led them back out into the central hallway, and then even farther down its length, penetrating deep into the seemingly endless labyrinth of collections. It took a while, searching through old wooden cabinets with brass fixtures and rippled glass doors, to locate the specimen. At last Sandoval stopped before one cabinet in particular. The desired accession number, handwritten in faded copperplate, was affixed to a large tray on one of the upper shelves of the cabinet, tucked into a corner. Sandoval cross-checked the number and slid the tray off the shelf. He carried it back to the examination lab and laid it on a fresh section of green baize. He handed D’Agosta and Pendergast pairs of thin latex gloves. And then, donning a pair of gloves himself, he removed the top from the tray.

Inside lay a jumble: ribs, vertebrae, countless other bones. An unusual odor wafted up: to D’Agosta it smelled of musk, old roots, and mothballs, with the faintest overlay of decay.