“Does it matter?”
“It’s a bit curious, don’t you think? The first Crispin on record was Cornelius, who surfaced in Boston in 1850. He claimed to be a titled Englishman.”
“You’re implying it wasn’t true.”
“There’s no record of him in England. Or anywhere else, for that matter. He simply materialized on the scene one day, and was said to be a handsome man of great charm. He married well and proceeded to build his wealth. He and his descendants were collectors and tireless travelers, and they brought home curiosities from every continent. There were the usual items-carvings and burial goods and animal specimens. But what Cornelius and his family seemed especially interested in were weapons. Every variety of weapon used by armies around the world. It was an appropriate interest of theirs, considering how their fortune was made.”
“How?”
“Wars, Maura. Ever since Cornelius, they’ve been profiteers. He became wealthy during the Civil War, running weapons to the South. His descendants continued the tradition, profiting from conflicts all over the world, from Africa to Asia to the Middle East. They made a secret pact with Hitler to provide weapons for his troops, and simultaneously armed the Allied forces. In China, they supplied both the Nationalist and the Communist armies. Their merchandise ended up in Algiers and Lebanon and the Belgian Congo. It didn’t matter who was fighting whom. They didn’t take sides; they just took the money. As long as blood was being shed somewhere, they stood to make a profit.”
“How is this relevant to the investigation?”
“I just want you to understand the background of this institution, and what kind of legacy it carries. The Crispin Museum was paid for with blood. When you walk through that building, every gold coin you see, every piece of pottery, was paid for by a war somewhere. It’s a foul place, Maura, built by a family that hid its past. A family whose roots we’ll never know.”
“I know where you’re going with this. You’re going to tell me the Crispins have a demonic bloodline. That they’re descended from the biblical Nephilim.” She shook her head and laughed.
“Please. Not the Dead Sea Scrolls again.”
“Why do you think Madam X ended up in that museum?”
“I’m sure you have an answer.”
“I have a theory. I think she was a form of tribute. So was the shrunken head. They were donated by an admirer who understands exactly what the Crispin family represents.”
“The third victim wasn’t found in the museum. The body was placed in Dr. Pulcillo’s car.”
“She works for the museum.”
“And she’s now terrified. Her keys were stolen and someone sent her one hell of a gruesome gift.”
“Because she was an obvious go-between for the intended recipient, Simon Crispin.”
“No, I think Dr. Pulcillo is the intended recipient. She’s a strikingly pretty woman and she’s caught a killer’s eye. That’s what Jane believes as well.” She paused. “Why aren’t you talking to her about this? She’s the investigator. Why come to me?”
“Detective Rizzoli’s mind is closed to alternative theories.”
“Meaning she’s firmly grounded in reality.” Maura rose to her feet. “So am I.”
“Before you dismiss this out of hand, maybe you should know one more thing about the Crispin collection. The part of the collection that no one ever saw. It was kept hidden away.”
“Why?”
“Because it was so grotesque, so upsetting, that the family couldn’t afford to let the public know about it.”
“How do you know about this?”
“For years, there were rumors about it in the antiquities market. About six years ago, Simon Crispin put it up for private auction. It seems he’s been quite the spendthrift and he’s managed to go through what was left of his family’s fortune. He needed to raise cash. He also needed to dispose of embarrassing and possibly illegal items. The truly disturbing part is, he actually found a buyer, whose name remains anonymous.”
“What did Crispin sell?”
“War trophies. I don’t mean army medals and rusty bayonets. I’m talking about rattles made with human teeth from Africa and severed ears from Japanese soldiers. A necklace strung with fingers and a jar with women’s…” He stopped. “It was a horrifying collection. The point is, I’m not the only one who knew about the Crispin family’s interest in grotesque souvenirs. Maybe this archaeology killer did, too. And he thought he’d contribute to their collection.”
“You believe they were gifts.”
“Tokens of admiration from some collector who donated a few of his own keepsakes to the museum. Where they’ve been sitting, forgotten.”
“Until now.”
Sansone nodded. “I think this mysterious donor has decided to resurface. He’s letting the world know that he’s still alive.” He added, quietly: “There may be more such gifts coming, Maura.”
Her kitchen telephone rang, shattering the silence. Startled, she felt her pulse give a kick as she rose from the chair. How easily Sansone was able to rattle her belief in a logical world. How quickly he could cast a shadow over a bright summer day. His paranoia was contagious, and she heard an ominous note to that ringing telephone, a warning that this call would bring unwelcome news.
But the voice that greeted her on the line was both familiar and pleasant. “Dr. Isles, this is Carter from the lab. I have some interesting GC-MS results.”
“On what?”
“Those tissue samples you sent us on Thursday.”
“From the body in the trunk? You’ve already done the gas chromatography?”
“I got a call to come into the lab for a weekend expedite. I thought you ordered it.”
“No, I didn’t.” She glanced over her shoulder at Sansone, who was watching her so closely that she felt compelled to turn away.
“Go on,” she said into the phone.
“I did a flash pyrolysis on the tissue sample, and I found ample presence of both collagenous and noncollagenous proteins when we examined it with gas chromatography and mass spectrometry. Whatever its age, this tissue is really well preserved.”
“I also requested a screen for tanning agents. Did you find any?”
“There aren’t any benzenediols present. That eliminates most known tanning agents. But it did detect a chemical called four-isopropenylphenol.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
“I had to do some research myself. That chemical turns out to be a characteristic pyrolysis product of sphagnum moss.”
“Moss?”
“Yeah. Does that help you at all?”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “I think it does.” It tells me exactly what I need to know. She hung up and stood staring at the phone, stunned by the lab results. This was now beyond her sphere of knowledge, beyond anything she’d ever dealt with in the autopsy room, and she did not want to proceed without technical guidance.
“Maura?”
She turned to Sansone. “Can we continue this discussion another time? I need to make some phone calls.”
“May I make a suggestion before I leave? I know a gentleman you might want to contact. A Dr. Pieter Vandenbrink. I can put you in touch with him.”
“Why are you telling me about him?”
“You’ll find his name well represented on the Internet. Look up his curriculum vitae, and you’ll understand why.”
FIFTEEN
The TV news vans were back, and this time, there were more of them. Once a killer earns a nickname, he becomes public property, and every news station wanted a piece of the Archaeology Killer investigation.
Jane felt the all-seeing eyes of the cameras following her as she and Frost walked from the parking lot to the ME’s building. When she’d first made detective, she’d gotten a thrill seeing herself for the first time on the evening news. That thrill had long since faded, and these days she viewed reporters with irritation. Instead of mugging for the cameras, she walked with her head down and her shoulders rolled forward; on the six o’clock news tonight, she’d probably look like a hunchbacked troll in a blue blazer.