“Capital” said Pendergast.

Capital? thought D’Agosta. The guy sounded deep South. He’d met types like this before, and they were hopeless in New York City.

Pendergast leaned forward and said quietly, “The blood splattered on the wall is rather interesting.”

D’Agosta looked over. “You don’t say.”

“I’d be interested in the ballistics on that blood.”

D’Agosta looked straight into Pendergast’s pale eyes. “Good idea,” he said finally. “Hey, photographer, get a close-up series of the blood on the wall. And you, you—”

“McHenry, sir.”

“I want a ballistic analysis done on that blood. Looks like it was moving fast at a sharp angle. I want the source pinpointed, speed, force, a full report.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want it on my desk in thirty minutes.”

McHenry looked a little unhappy.

“Okay, Pendergast, any more ideas?”

“No, that was my only one.”

“Let’s go.”

In the temporary command post, everything was in place. D’Agosta always saw to that. Not one piece of paper was loose, not one file was out, not one tape recorder sitting on a desk. It looked good, and now he was glad that it did. Everyone was busy, the phones were lit up, but things were under control.

Pendergast slipped his lean form into a chair. For a formal-looking guy, he moved like a cat. Briefly, D’Agosta gave him an overview of the investigation. [81] “Okay, Pendergast,” he concluded. “What’s your jurisdiction here? Did we fuck up? Are we out?”

Pendergast smiled. “No, not at all. As far as I can tell, I would not have done anything differently myself. You see, Lieutenant, we’ve been in the case from the very beginning, only we didn’t realize it.”

“How so?”

“I’m from the New Orleans field office. We were working on a series of killings down there, some very odd killings. Not to get into specifics, but the victims had the backs of their skulls removed, and the brains extracted. Same modus operandi.”

“No shit. When was this?”

“Several years ago.”

“Several years ago? That—”

“Yes. They went unsolved. First it was ATF, because they thought drugs might have been involved, then it was FBI when ATF couldn’t make any progress. But we couldn’t do anything with it, the trail was cold. And then yesterday, I read a wire service report about the double murder here in New York. The MO is too, ah, too peculiar not to make an immediate connection, don’t you think? So I flew up last night. I’m not even officially here. Although I will be tomorrow.”

D’Agosta relaxed. “So you’re from Louisiana. I thought you might be some new boy in the New York office.”

“They’ll be here,” said Pendergast. “When I make my report tonight, they’ll be in on it. But I will be in charge of the case.”

“You? No way, not in New York City.”

Pendergast smiled. “I will be in charge, Lieutenant. I’ve been pursuing this case for years and I am, frankly, interested in it.” The way Pendergast said interested sent a strange sensation down D’Agosta’s back. “But don’t worry, Lieutenant, I am ready and willing to work with you, side by side, in perhaps a different way than the New York office might. If you’ll meet me halfway, that [82] is. This isn’t my turf and I’m going to need your help. How about it?”

He stood up and held out his hand. Christ, D’Agosta thought, the boys in the New York office will take him apart in two and a half hours and ship the pieces back to New Orleans.

“Deal,” said D’Agosta, grasping his hand. “I’ll introduce you around, starting with the security director, Ippolito. Provided you answer one question. You said the MO of the New Orleans killings was the same. What about the bite marks we found in the brain of the older boy? The claw fragment?”

“From what you told me about the autopsy, Lieutenant, the ME was only speculating about the bite marks,” Pendergast replied. “I’ll be interested to hear the salivase results. Is the claw being tested?”

Later, D’Agosta would remember that his question had been only half answered. Now, he simply replied, “It’s being done today.”

Pendergast leaned back in his chair and made a tent of his fingers, his eyes looking off into space. “I’ll have to pay a visit to Dr. Ziewicz when she examines today’s unpleasantness.”

“Say, Pendergast? You aren’t by any chance related to Andy Warhol, are you?”

“I don’t care much for modern art, Lieutenant.”

The crime scene was packed but orderly, everyone moving swiftly and speaking in undertones, as if in deference to the dead man. The morgue crew had arrived but was standing out of the way, patiently observing the proceedings. Pendergast stood with D’Agosta and Ippolito, the Museum’s Security Director.

“Indulge me if you will,” Pendergast was saying to the photographer. “I’d like a shot from here, like this.” Pendergast demonstrated briefly. “And I’d like a series from the top of the stairs, and a sequence coming down.

[83] Take your time, get a nice play of line, shadow, and light going.”

The photographer looked carefully at Pendergast, then moved off.

Pendergast turned to Ippolito. “Here’s a question. Why was the guard—what did you say his name was, Mr. Ippolito, Jolley, Fred Jolley?—down here in the first place? This wasn’t part of his rounds. Correct?”

“That’s right,” Ippolito said. He was standing in a dry spot near the entrance to the courtyard, his face a poisonous green.

D’Agosta shrugged. “Who knows?”

“Indeed,” Pendergast said. He looked out into the courtyard beyond the stairwell, which was small and deep, brick walls rising on three sides. “And he locked the door behind himself, you say. We have to assume he went outside here, or was headed in that direction. Hmm. The Taurid meteor shower was peaking at about that time last night. Perhaps Jolley here is an aspiring astronomer. But I doubt it.” He stood still for a minute, looking around. Then he turned back toward them. “I believe I can tell you why.”

Christ, a real Sherlock Holmes, thought D’Agosta. “He came down the stairwell to indulge a habit of his. Marijuana. This courtyard is an isolated and well-ventilated spot. A perfect place to, ah, smoke some weed.”

“Marijuana? That’s just a guess.”

“I believe I see the roach,” said Pendergast, pointing into the courtyard. “Just where the door meets the jamb.”

“I can’t see a thing,” said D’Agosta. “Hey, Ed. Check out the base of the door. Right there. What is it?”

“A joint,” said Ed.

“What’s the matter with you guys, can’t find a fucking joint? I told you to pick up every grain of sand, for Chrissake.”

“We haven’t done that grid yet.”

“Right.” He looked at Pendergast. Lucky bastard. Probably wasn’t the guard’s joint anyway.

“Mr. Ippolito,” Pendergast drawled, “is it common for your staff to use illicit drugs while on duty?”

“Absolutely not, but I’m not convinced it was Fred Jolley that—”

Pendergast shut him up with a wave of the hand. “I assume you can account for all these footprints.”

“Those belong to the guard who found the body,” said D’Agosta.

Pendergast bent down. “These completely cover any local evidence that may remain,” he said, frowning. “Really, Mr. Ippolito,” he said, “you should have your men better trained in how to preserve a crime scene.”

Ippolito opened his mouth, then closed it again. D’Agosta suppressed a smirk.

Pendergast was walking carefully back underneath the stairwell, where a large metal door stood partially open. “Orient me, Mr. Ippolito. This door under the stairwell goes where?”

“A hallway.”

“Leading to—?”

“Well, there’s the Secure Area down to the right. But it’s not possible the killer went that way, because …”

“Excuse me for contradicting you, Mr. Ippolito, but I’m sure the killer did go that way,” Pendergast replied. “Let me guess. Beyond the Secure Area is the Old Basement, am I right?”