If the remains are indeed from murdered individuals, it would be the largest serial killing in the history of New York City and perhaps the largest in U.S. history. Jack the Ripper, England’s most famous serial killer, murdered seven women in the Whitechapel district of London in 1888. Jeffrey Dahmer, America’s notorious serial killer, is known to have killed at least 17 people.

The human remains were removed to the Medical Examiner’s office and have been unavailable for examination. The basement tunnel was subsequently destroyed by Moegen-Fairhaven, Inc., the developer of the tower, during normal construction activities. According to Mary Hill, a spokesperson for Mayor Edward Montefiori, the site did not fall under the New York Archaeological and Historic Preservation Act. “This is an old crime scene of little archaeological interest,” Ms. Hill said. “It simply did not meet the criteria spelled out in the Act. We had no basis to stop construction.” Representatives of the Landmarks Preservation Commission, however, have taken a different view, and are reportedly asking a state senator and the New York Investigator’s office to assemble a task force to look into the matter.

One article of clothing was preserved from the site, a dress, which was brought to the Museum for examination by Dr. Kelly. Sewn into the dress, Dr. Kelly found a piece of paper, possibly a note of self-identification, written by a young woman who apparently believed she had only a short time to live: “I am Mary Greene, agt [sic] 19 years, No. 16 Watter [sic] Street.” Tests indicated the note had been written in human blood.

The Federal Bureau of Investigation has taken an interest in the case. Special Agent Pendergast, from the New Orleans office, has been observed on the scene. Neither the New York nor the New Orleans FBI offices would comment. The exact nature of his involvement has not been made public, but Pendergast is known as one of the highest ranking special agents in the Southern Region. He has worked on several high-profile cases in New York before. The New York City Police Department, meanwhile, has shown little interest in a crime that occurred more than a century ago. Captain Sherwood Custer, in whose precinct the remains were found, says the case is primarily of historical interest. “The murderer is dead. Any accomplices must be dead. We’ll leave this one to the historians and continue to devote our resources to crime prevention in the twenty-first century.”

Following the discovery of the letter, the New York Museum removed the Shottum Cabinet collection from the museum archives. Roger Brisbane, First Vice President of the Museum, called the move “part of a long-scheduled, ongoing conservation process, a coincidence that has nothing to do with these reports.” He referred all further questions to Harry Medoker in the Museum’s Public Relations Department. Mr. Medoker did not return several telephone calls from the Times.

The story continued on an inside page, where the reporter described the details of the old murders with considerable relish. Fairhaven read the article to the end, then turned back and read the first page once again. The dry leaves of the Times made a faint rustling sound in his hands, echoed by the trembling of the dead leaves clinging to the potted trees on the balcony outside the atrium.

Fairhaven slowly laid down the paper and looked out once again over the city. He could see the New York Museum across the park, its granite towers and copper roofs catching the newly minted light. He flicked his finger and another cup of tea arrived. He stared at the cup without pleasure, tossed it down. Another flick of his finger brought him a phone.

Fairhaven knew a great deal about real estate development, public relations, and New York City politics. He knew this article was a potential disaster. It called for firm, prompt action.

He paused, thinking who should receive the first telephone call. A moment later he dialed the mayor’s private number, which he knew by heart.

NINE

DOREEN HOLLANDER, OF 21 Indian Feather Lane, Pine Creek, Oklahoma, had left her husband twenty-six stories overhead, mumbling and snoring in their hotel room. Gazing across the broad expanse of Central Park West, she decided now was the perfect time to view Monet’s water lilies at the Metropolitan Museum. She’d wanted to get a glimpse of the famous paintings ever since seeing a poster at her sister-in-law’s house. Her husband, service technician for Oklahoma Cable, hadn’t the faintest interest in art. Chances were, he’d still be asleep when she returned.

Consulting the visitor’s map the hotel had so generously volunteered, she was pleased to discover the museum lay just across Central Park. A short walk, no need to call for an expensive taxi. Doreen Hollander liked walking, and this would be the perfect way to burn off those two croissants with butter and marmalade she had unwisely eaten for breakfast.

She started off, crossing into the park at the Alexander Humbolt gate, walking briskly. It was a beautiful fall day, and the big buildings on Fifth Avenue shone above the treetops. New York City. A wonderful place, as long as you didn’t have to live here.

The path dropped down and soon she came to the side of a lovely pond. She gazed across. Would it be better to go around it to the right, or to the left? She consulted her map and decided the left-hand way would be shorter.

She set off again on her strong farmgirl legs, inhaling the air. Surprisingly fresh, she thought. Bicyclists and Rollerbladers whizzed past as the road curved alongside the pond. Soon, she found herself at another fork. The main path swerved northward, but there was a footpath that continued straight, in the direction she was going, through a wood. She consulted her map. It didn’t show the footpath, but she knew a better route when she saw it. She continued on.

Quickly, the path branched, then branched again, wandering aimlessly up and down through hillocks and little rocky outcrops. Here and there through the trees, she could still make out the row of skyscrapers along Fifth Avenue, beckoning her on, showing her the way. The woods grew more dense. And then she began to see the people. It was odd. Here and there, young men stood idly, hands in pockets, in the woods, waiting. But waiting for what? They were nice-looking young men, well dressed, with good haircuts. Out beyond the trees a bright fall morning was in progress, and she didn’t feel the slightest bit afraid.

She hurried on as the woods grew thicker. She stopped to consult her map, a little puzzled, and discovered that she was in a place called the Ramble. It was a well-chosen name, she decided. Twice she had found herself turned completely around. It was as if the person who had designed this little maze of paths wanted people to get lost.

Well, Doreen Hollander was not one to get lost. Not in a tiny patch of woods in a city park, when after all she had grown up in the country, roaming the fields and woods of eastern Oklahoma. This walk was turning into a little adventure, and Doreen Hollander liked little adventures. That was why she had dragged her husband to New York City to begin with: to have a little adventure. Doreen forced herself to smile.

If this didn’t beat all—now she was turned around yet again. With a rueful laugh she consulted her map. But on the map, the Ramble was marked simply as a large mass of leafy green. She looked around. Perhaps one of the nice-looking men could help her with directions.

But here, the woods were darker, thicker. Nevertheless, through a screen of leaves, she saw two figures. She approached. What were they doing in there? She took another step forward, pulled a branch aside, and peered through. The peer turned into a stare, and the stare turned into a mask of frozen horror.