“Withdrawn — how?”
“The MO appears the same as the earlier victim: a large-bore needle, or maybe a trocar, was inserted into the inner thigh to access the femoral artery.”
“How curious.” Pendergast swiftly donned a pair of nitrile gloves from a dispenser on a table next to the body, knelt, and gently opened the torn pants, exposing a neat hole on the inside of the upper thigh. A single drop of dried blood clung to the edge, along with a sticky yellow substance. There were thin amber-colored threads of the same substance on the man’s right shoe. They looked to Coldmoon like dried snot.
A test tube and swab appeared in Pendergast’s hand, and he took a sample, then another and another in swift succession, quickly stoppering them in small glass vials that disappeared back into his black suit.
“Time of death?” he asked.
“Around three o’clock in the morning, give or take two hours, based on body temperature,” said Delaplane. “The withdrawal of the blood complicates the calculation.”
“And this mucus-like substance around the wound and on the shoe?”
“We’ve taken samples. No results yet.”
Now Sheldrake spoke. “The FBI’s Evidence Response Team also took extensive samples, sent them down to their lab in Atlanta.”
“Excellent,” said Pendergast.
Silence built as he knelt, examining various parts of the body — eyes, ears, tongue, neck, hair, shoes — occasionally employing a small hand magnifier. He moved toward the head, examining the nape of the neck.
“There was some bruising on the first victim in the thigh, torso, and abdominal region,” said Delaplane, “which is also present here.”
“A rather short struggle, it seems,” Pendergast said, rising. “Have you established ingress and egress?”
“That’s the curious thing,” said Delaplane. “We haven’t been able to. This is a very secure area. We’ve got security cameras at the entry points, of which there are only three. There was nothing on the tapes, and no gaps. Nothing, in fact, except that two of the cameras recorded unusual sounds at around three AM.”
“What sort of noises?”
“Hard to characterize. Like a dog grunting or snuffling and a loud slapping sound. I’ll get you a copy of the tape.”
“Thank you, Commander.” Pendergast turned to Coldmoon. “Come look at this.”
Coldmoon ventured over to the body. Pendergast gently turned the head — rigid with rigor — slightly sideways.
Coldmoon donned a pair of gloves, then knelt as well.
“Feel the back of the head,” he said.
When he followed Pendergast’s instructions, he felt a lump. Pendergast parted the hair to expose what looked like an abrasion.
“Looks like he got smacked on the head around the time of death,” said Coldmoon.
“Exactly. This and the many other curious issues shall have to be addressed in the postmortem.”
Which curious issues Pendergast meant, exactly, Coldmoon didn’t ask.
“Has the victim been ID’d?” Pendergast asked.
“Yes. His wallet was on his person. He was one of those guys who give the bike tours you see everywhere around here.”
“And where is his bicycle?”
“Found on the corner of Abercorn and East Macon.”
“Isn’t that quite some distance from here?”
“Just a dozen blocks or so.”
“Where did he live?”
“On Liberty, not far from where his bicycle was found. Chances are he was on his way home when he was accosted.”
Pendergast rose, stripped off the gloves, and dropped them in a nearby trash container. Coldmoon followed suit.
“Shall we retire into the house?” Pendergast asked.
Delaplane said simply “Of course,” and turned to lead the way.
7
Commander Delaplane brought them all back into the cool confines of the mansion, where Pendergast went directly into the elegant living room and took a seat in a grandly stuffed and gilded chair as easily if he were in his own home. “My partner and I have been traveling since daybreak. Would it be possible to have tea?” He threw one leg over the other and looked about inquiringly.
“Well, I don’t know,” said Delaplane. “This is a museum.”
But a thin, unsmiling man who had been hovering in the background stepped forward. “I think that can be arranged.”
“Splendid!”
“I’m Armand Cobb, director of the Owens-Thomas House museum,” the man said. “Which, if you didn’t know already, is this house.”
Pendergast nodded languidly. “Forgive me if I don’t rise. I find myself terribly fatigued from the case we just completed down in Florida.”
The museum director stepped back, and Pendergast turned his eyes to the commander. “Lovely to make your acquaintance, Commander Delaplane. Thank you for your cooperation.”
“Of course,” said Delaplane. “And this is homicide detective Sergeant Benny Sheldrake, in charge of the case.”
The detective came forward, and Pendergast took his hand. “How do you do?”
Another man, newly arrived, appeared out of the shadows. “Gordon Carracci, FBI liaison supervisor,” he said. “Just seeing the evidence samples off to Atlanta.”
“Very pleased to meet you,” said Pendergast.
Coldmoon was amazed to see how this had developed: Pendergast sitting like some pasha on his throne, receiving obeisance as various people came forward, one after the other.
“Now, Mr. Cobb,” Pendergast said. “Excuse me — or is it Doctor?”
“It’s Doctor,” the man said stiffly.
“Dr. Cobb, I understand you found the body.”
“Yes.”
“The body isn’t on the way to your office, is it?” Pendergast asked. “How did you happen to come upon it?”
“I like to come in early from time to time to do work before the museum opens. I always do a quick walk-through.”
“Why?”
“It’s a habit. The house is beautiful. It refreshes me. Besides, this being a museum... well, it’s always good to check on things.”
“Naturally. So you saw the body: what then?”
“I immediately checked to see if he was still alive. He was cold to the touch. I backed away so as not to disturb anything and called the police. I then waited for them in my office.”
“I see.” Pendergast turned to Delaplane. “A general question, if I may, Commander: have you had any recent reports of animals being killed or mutilated, unusual signs or symbols painted on the street, or anything else that might suggest cult activity — or the presence of Satanists?”
“God, yes,” said Delaplane. “Savannah draws those people like magnets. We look into them, of course, if we have good reason to think a crime has been committed. We have to be careful, though: those activities can be considered to fall under the religious freedom laws.” She paused. “You think this might be something like that?”
“I refrain from thinking at the beginning of an investigation, Commander.”
“What do you do in place of thinking?” Delaplane asked drily.
“I become a receptacle for information.”
Delaplane gave Coldmoon a pointed glance, raising her eyebrows. Coldmoon shrugged. It was just Pendergast being Pendergast.
Pendergast stared at the floor for a long moment, and then he turned abruptly to Cobb. “Can you kindly tell us a bit about the history of this house?”
“I’d be glad to. But I’m not sure it’s relevant.”
“Right now, nothing is irrelevant.”
Cobb launched into what was obviously a well-rehearsed lecture. “The Owens-Thomas House was built in 1819 by the English architect William Jay, in the Regency style, for Richard Richardson and his wife, Frances. Richardson had made his fortune in the slave trade. He found a profitable niche in shipping enslaved children who’d been forcibly separated from their parents or orphaned from Savannah to New Orleans, where they would be sold.”