I sat down at the opposite end. "He says he studies butterflies because they are masters of deception, but I think there's more to it than that."
She nodded, and I wished I'd owned a camera so I could have captured the look of enchantment on her face. We spent the next few hours telling each other our childhood memories. She'd grown up in a town in Zacatecas, an old colonial town in the highlands, where her father had labored in the silver mines. Her mother's family was Huesteca, originally from northern Veracruz, and they spoke a form of ancient Mayan as well as Spanish. We recalled relatives and games, mole poblano and chilaquiles, and I told her about the men in the Plaza Santa Domingo who composed love letters and wills for those who could not write. The tide of memories increased the longer we talked.
When finally it was time to leave the Bugatorium, I asked her again what she thought of it.
"Una cбrcelita muy preciosa," she said.
I was disappointed that she didn't love it, but at the same time her words planted a seed in my thoughts, and I wondered if I would ever see that room again in the way I did before she'd spoken them.
TRUTH IS BEAUTY
By the time Schell was finished with the makeup kit, we each looked ten years older. He now sported a trim goatee and fuller eyebrows. My complexion was nearly white, and I sported a bushy black mustache and round-frame glasses. He told me that government agents don't usually have facial hair, but that we needed to take the chance in order to thoroughly confuse the coroner's memory.
His belief was that the most important aspect of any costume was the shoes, and he had pairs and pairs of them he'd picked up on the cheap at the Salvation Army to add the right touch to his false incarnations. "A G-man's a cop with greater jurisdiction," he said, "but still a cop." With this in mind, he chose two pairs of simple black shoes that appeared slightly scuffed, with well-worn heels. We dressed in three-piece suits, each outfit topped off with a fedora and a trench coat.
Schell was agent Barlow, as stated on the false ID he and Antony had lifted in Penn Station, and I was agent Smith. The county coroner, a Dr. James Cardiff, lived in a nice, old, two-story place off Middle Neck Road in the town of Great Neck. We arrived at his house precisely in the middle of the dinner hour, as Schell had planned it. The sun had already set, and the night felt more like winter than autumn. There were lights on in most of the houses on the block and the air was laced with the smell of frying onions. As we walked up the path to the front porch, Schell advised me, "No pleasantries. Just stare at him as if you believe he's guilty of something."
I nodded.
We climbed the steps, and Schell rapped rather long and hard on the front door. A plump woman in late middle age, with graying hair, impressive jowls, and wearing an apron, answered. She was a little startled to see us standing there, but she composed herself and asked, "Can I help you?"
Schell flashed the badge and ID quickly and then pocketed them. "Federal Bureau of Investigation," he said. "I'm agent Barlow and this is agent Smith." I quickly touched the brim of my hat as a greeting to the woman but did not alter my blank expression. "We're here to speak to Dr. Cardiff."
"Please come in," she said and pulled the door back for us to enter.
We stepped into the living room of the house. Off to our left was a dining room, and sitting at the table was a boy, about fourteen, and a man I figured was Cardiff. The gentleman stood, placing his napkin on the table, and came toward us. He was a heavyset fellow, balding on top, and had a kind of nervous spring in his step. Schell introduced us again and showed the ID, this time more slowly, so that Cardiff could get a good look at it.
"What can I do for you?" he said, shaking Schell's hand. "Always happy to be of service to the law." He reached toward me for a handshake as well, but I didn't offer my hand, only my look.
"Is there a place we can speak in private?" asked Schell.
His wife went back to the dinner table as Cardiff led us through the house to a small book-lined study. Once inside, he shut the door behind him and offered us seats. Schell and Cardiff sat in leather chairs. I remained standing, off to the side a little, but in a place where he could see me watching him.
That nervous energy I'd noted earlier in the coroner's step had now manifested itself in his hands as he clasped them together, then rubbed them, then flexed his fingers, only to begin again with this unconscious ritual.
Schell tipped his hat back with one finger. "We're conducting a secret investigation concerning the Barnes case," he said. "You know the situation I'm referring to? The murder of Charlotte Barnes?"
Cardiff nodded.
"You're to tell no one of our visit," said Schell.
"Certainly not, gentlemen," he said. "Mum's the word."
"You worked on this case, am I right?" asked Schell.
"Not officially," said Cardiff.
"You didn't sign the death certificate?"
"No, I signed off on it, yes, but someone else did the autopsy."
"That seems rather unusual," said Schell, lifting one bushy eyebrow.
"I'm the coroner," said Cardiff. "I sign the legal paperwork in that capacity. That's it."
"Who looked at the girl?" asked Schell.
"Well, usually I examine bodies if there's any question as to cause of death, as I'm also a licensed medical examiner."
"But you didn't handle this case?"
"No. Someone from higher up ordered a special Forensic Pathologist to come in to oversee things."
"Do you know who it was?" asked Schell.
"Never met them," said Cardiff. "I was told to take the day off when the procedure was done. At first I'd assumed Barnes had applied his significant influence, but as it turned out, I rather think his influence was blocked by someone even more powerful."
"It's stated that the girl died of strangulation," said Schell.
"That's what it says," said Cardiff. "But, to tell you the truth…that's fishy."
"What do you mean, fishy?" I asked.
Cardiff glanced quickly up at me. He was now obviously sweating and wiped his brow with the heel of his palm. "I looked the girl over when she first came in," he said. "There were no marks on her throat. There was no traumatic damage done to the windpipe. None of the telltale signs of strangulation. Nothing indicated to me to look in that direction at all. Instead, she was pale, her complexion slightly yellow, as if she were both anemic and jaundiced at the same time."
"No violence?" asked Schell.
"The only mark I saw on her was a puncture wound in the crook of the left arm." Here he laid two fingers of his right hand on the inside of his left elbow.
"What kind of puncture mark?" asked Schell.
"Some kind of needle, large gauge. I took blood for a test, but by then the word came down to leave her be. That's when I had an inkling it might not be Barnes who was calling the shots. Still I had the blood. I waited until the pathologist issued his report. When I read that he'd determined the cause of death to be strangulation, I couldn't believe it. I mentioned to my superior that this couldn't be, and he said to me, 'Do you like your job?' Well, these days…you know the way things are. I couldn't jeopardize my job."
"So you let it slide," said Schell.
"Not entirely," said Cardiff. "Even if no one else seemed to care, I wanted to know what was going on. I sent the blood to the lab to be tested under another name."
"And what did you learn?"
"The strangest thing," said the coroner. "I can't be sure, because I'd have to check the internal organs, and that's impossible now, but it seemed to me that the girl was transfused. I think she died of a bad transfusion."
"Bad in what way?"
"I know this sounds crazy, because the girl seemed to have been otherwise healthy, but I think someone pumped blood into her that was the wrong type. All the signs are there, clotting, jaundice caused by kidney malfunction, the paleness from the lack of oxygen getting to the cells."