“Interesting.” Pendergast picked up one of the bones and turned it over in his hands, giving it a perfunctory examination. “Two murderers working together is uncommon, but not unheard of. Three or more, however, acting in concert, is a rara avisindeed.” He put the bone back on the table. “Technically, three separate killings are necessary to establish a serial killer.”
“Eleven miners died. Isn’t that enough to qualify?”
“Almost assuredly. I shall look forward to receiving your detailed reports on the other two miners, as well.”
Corrie nodded.
Hands in his pockets, Pendergast looked around the equipment shed before finally returning his pale gaze to her. “When was the last time you read The Hound of the Baskervilles?”
This question was so unexpected, Corrie was certain she’d misheard. “What?”
“ The Hound of the Baskervilles. When did you last read it?”
“The Sherlock Holmes story? Ninth grade. Maybe eighth. Why?”
“Do you recall the initial letter you sent me regarding your thesis? In a postscript, you made reference to a meeting between Arthur Conan Doyle and Oscar Wilde. During that meeting, Wilde told Conan Doyle a rather dreadful story he’d heard on his American lecture tour.”
“Right.” Corrie stole a glance at the table. She was eager to get back to work.
“Would you find it interesting to know that one of the stops Oscar Wilde made on his lecture tour was right here in Roaring Fork?”
“I know all about that. It was in Doyle’s diary. One of the Roaring Fork miners told Wilde the story of the man-eating grizzly, and Wilde passed on the story to Doyle. That’s what gave me the idea for my thesis in the first place.”
“Excellent. My question to you is this: Do you believe Wilde’s story might have inspired Doyle to write The Hound of the Baskervilles?”
Corrie hopped from one cold foot to the other. “It’s possible. Likely, even. But I’m not sure I see the relevance.”
“Just this: if you were to take a look through The Hound, there’s a chance you might come across some clues as to what actually happened.”
“What actually happened? But…I’m sure Wilde heard the false story and told it to Doyle. Neither one could possibly have known the truth — that these miners weren’t killed by a bear.”
“Are you sure?”
“Doyle wrote about the ‘grizzled bear’ in his diary. He didn’t mention a cannibalistic gang.”
“Consider for a moment: what if Wilde heard the realstory and told it to Doyle? And what if Doyle found it too disturbing to put in his diary? What if Doyle instead concealed some of that information in The Hound?”
Corrie had to stop herself from scoffing. Was it possible Pendergast was serious? “I’m sorry, but that’s pretty far-fetched. Are you really suggesting that a Sherlock Holmes story could possibly shed light on my project?”
Pendergast did not reply. He simply stood there in his black overcoat, returning her gaze.
She shivered. “Look, I hope you don’t mind, but I’d really like to get back to my examination, if it’s okay with you.”
Still Pendergast said nothing; he merely regarded her with those pale eyes of his. For some reason, Corrie got the distinct feeling that she had just failed some kind of test. But she couldn’t help that; the answer lay not in fictional stories but right here, in the bones themselves.
After a long moment, Pendergast gave the slightest of bows. “Of course, Miss Swanson,” he said coolly. Then he turned and left the equipment shed as silently as he had come.
Corrie watched until she heard the faint clunk of the door shutting. Then — with a mixture of eagerness and relief — she returned to the earthly remains of Asa Cobb.
25
Chief Stanley Morris had shut his office door and given his secretary orders not to disturb him for any reason whatsoever while he updated his corkboard case-line. It was how the chief managed complex cases: reducing everything to color-coded three-by-five cards, each with a single fact, a piece of evidence, a photograph, or a witness. These he would organize chronologically, pin to a corkboard, and then — with string — connect the cards, looking for patterns, clues, and relationships.
It was a standard approach and it had worked well for him before. But as he surveyed the chaos on his desk, the corkboard overflowing with a rainbow of cards, the strings going in every direction, he began to wonder if he needed a different system. He felt himself growing more frustrated by the minute.
The phone buzzed and he picked it up. “For heaven’s sake, Shirley, I asked not to be disturbed!”
“Sorry, Chief,” said the voice, “but there’s someone here you really must see—”
“I don’t care if it’s the pope. I’m busy!”
“It’s Captain Stacy Bowdree.”
It took a minute for the ramifications of this to sink in. Then he felt himself go cold. This is all I need.“Oh. Jesus…All right, send her in.”
Before he could even prepare himself, the door opened and a striking woman strode in. Captain Bowdree had short auburn hair, a handsome face, and a pair of intense, dark brown eyes. She was all of six feet tall and somewhere in her midthirties.
He rose and held out his hand. “Chief Stanley Morris. This is quite a surprise.”
“Stacy Bowdree.” She gave his hand a firm shake. Even though she was dressed in casual clothes — jeans, a white shirt, and a leather vest — her bearing was unmistakably military. He offered her a seat, and she took it.
“First,” said the chief, “I want to apologize for the problems with the exhumation of your, ah, ancestor. I know how upsetting it must be. We here at the Roaring Fork PD believed the developers had done a thorough search, and I was dismayed, trulydismayed, when your letter was brought to my attention—”
Bowdree flashed the chief a warm smile and waved her hand. “Don’t worry about it. I’m not upset. Truly.”
“Well, thank you for your understanding. I…We’ll make it right, I promise you.” The chief realized he was almost babbling.
“It’s not a problem,” she said. “Here’s the thing. I’ve decided to take the remains back for reburial in our old family plot in Kentucky once the research is complete. That’s why I’m here. So you see, given the circumstances there’s no longer any reason to rebury Emmett in the original location, as I originally requested.”
“Well, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t relieved. It makes things simpler.”
“Say…is that coffee I smell?”
“Would you like a cup?”
“Thank you. Black, no sugar.”
The chief buzzed Shirley and put in the order, with a second for himself. There was a brief, awkward silence. “So…” he said. “How long have you been in town?”
“Not long, a few days. I wanted to get the lay of the land, so to speak, before making my presence known. I realize my letter made quite a stir, and I didn’t want to freak everyone out by storming into town like the Lone Ranger. You’re the first person, in fact, that I’ve introduced myself to.”
“Let me then welcome you most warmly to Roaring Fork.” The chief felt hugely relieved by all she was saying — and also by her friendly, easygoing manner. “We’re glad to have you. Where are you staying?”
“I was in Woody Creek, but I’m looking for a place in town. Having a little trouble finding something I can afford.”
“I’m afraid we’re in the high season. I wish I could give you some advice, but I think the town is pretty much full up.” He recalled the tumultuous, acrimonious press conference and wondered if things would stay that way.
The coffee arrived and Bowdree accepted it eagerly, took a sip. “Not your usual police station coffee, I must say.”
“I’m a bit of a coffee aficionado. We’ve got a coffee roaster in town who does a mean French roast.”