The Book of the Dead (21 page)

She looked around, trying to visualize the attack. She already knew that they were dealing with a disorganized killer, a disturbed individual, most likely a sociopath.

“After cutting out the organs,” Sergeant Visconti continued, “the perp returned to the body, dragged it to the sarcophagus, and heaved it inside. Then he left by the main tomb door.”

“He must’ve been covered with blood.”

“Yes. And in fact, using a bloodhound, we’ve followed the trail as far as the fifth floor.”

Hayward looked up sharply. This was a detail she hadn’t heard before. “Not out of the museum?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“We can’t be sure. But we found something else on the fifth floor. A shoe belonging to the missing technician, Lipper.”

“Is that so? You think the killer’s holding him hostage?”

Visconti grimaced. “Possible.”

“Carrying his dead body?”

“Lipper was a small guy, five seven, about 135. That’s also possible.”

Hayward hesitated, wondering briefly what ordeal Lipper was going through now—or perhaps had already gone through. Then she turned toward Manetti.

“I want this museum sealed,” she said.

The security director was sweating. “It’s ten minutes to opening. We’re talking two million square feet of exhibition space, two thousand staff—you can’t be serious.”

Hayward spoke softly. “If that’s a problem, I can call Commissioner Rocker. He’ll call the mayor, and the decision can come down through official channels—along with the usual shitstorm.”

“That won’t be necessary, Captain. I’ll order the museum sealed. Temporarily.”

She looked around. “Let’s order up a forensic psychological profile.”

“Already done,” said the sergeant.

Hayward gave him an appraising glance. “We haven’t worked together before, have we?”

“No, ma’am.”

“It’s a pleasure.”

“Thank you.”

She turned and walked briskly out of the room and the tomb, the others following. She crossed the length of the Egyptian gallery and approached the knot of people on the far side of the crime scene tape, gestured to Sergeant Visconti. “Are those bloodhounds still on the premises?”

“Yes.”

“I want everyone here who’s available, police and guards alike, to participate in searching this museum from attic to basement. Priority one: find Lipper. Assume he’s alive and a hostage. Priority two: I want the killer. I want them both before the end of the day. Clear?”

“Yes, Captain.”

She paused, as if remembering something. “Who’s in charge of the tomb exhibit?”

“A curator named Nora Kelly,” Manetti replied.

“Get her on the horn, please.”

Hayward’s attention was drawn to a sudden disturbance in the knot of guards and police, a voice raised in anguished pleading. A thin, slope-shouldered man in a bus driver’s uniform wrenched free of two policemen and made a beeline for Hayward, his face distorted by grief.

“You!” he cried. “Help me! Find my son!”

“And you are?”

“Larry Lipper. I’m Larry Lipper. My son is Jay Lipper. He’s missing, and a killer’s on the loose, and I want you to find him!” The man burst into sobs. “
Find him!
”

The very intensity of his grief halted the two policemen pursuing him.

Hayward took his hand. “That’s just what we’re going to do, Mr. Lipper.”

“Find him! Find him!”

Hayward looked around, spotted an officer she recognized. “Sergeant Casimirovic?”

The woman stepped forward.

Hayward gestured with her chin at Lipper’s father and mouthed, “Help me out here.”

The officer stepped over and, putting her arm around Larry Lipper, eased him away from Hayward. “You come with me, sir, and we’ll find someplace quiet to sit down and wait.” And Sergeant Casimirovic led him, crying loudly but unresisting, back through the crowd.

Manetti was at her side again, radio in hand. “I’ve got Kelly.”

She took the radio, nodding her thanks. “Dr. Kelly? Captain Hayward, NYPD.”

“How can I help?” came the voice.

“The Canopic Room in the Tomb of Senef. What’s that for?”

“That’s where the pharaoh’s mummified organs were stored.”

“Elaborate, please.”

“Part of the mummification process is the removal of the pharaoh’s internal organs for separate mummification and storage in canopic jars.”

“The internal organs, you say?”

“That’s right.”

“Thank you.” Hayward slowly passed the radio back to Manetti, a thoughtful look on her face.

W
ilson Bulke peered down the corridor that ran beneath the roofline of building 12. Dirty brown light struggled to penetrate the wire-mesh glass skylights, which were coated with at least a century of New York City soot. Air ducts and pipes ran in thick bundles on either side, where the rooflines almost touched the floor. Both sides of the long, low space were crammed with old collections—jars of animals floating in preservative, untidy stacks of yellowing journals, plaster models of animals—leaving a narrow passage down the center. It was a crazy, crooked space, with rooflines, pitches, and floor levels that changed half a dozen times just within eyesight. It was like a fun house at the fair, only there was nothing fun about it.

“My legs are killing me,” Bulke said. “Let’s take five.” He eased himself down on an old wooden crate, the excess adipose tissue in his thighs stretching the material with an audible creak.

His partner, Morris, sat down lightly beside him.

“This is bullshit,” said Bulke. “Day’s almost over, and we’re still at it. There’s nobody up here.”

Morris, who never saw the point in disagreeing with anybody, nodded.

“Lemme have another shot of that Jim Beam.”

Morris slipped the hip flask from his pocket and passed it over. Bulke took a slug, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, passed it back. Morris took a delicate sip himself and slid it back in.

“We shouldn’t be working at all today,” said Bulke. “This is supposed to be our day off. We’re entitled to a little refreshment.”

“That’s the way I look at it, too,” said Morris.

“You were smart to bring that along.”

“Never go anywhere without it.”

Bulke glanced at his watch. Four-forty. The light filtering in through the skylights was slowly dying, the shadows deepening in the corners. Night would be coming soon. And with this section of the attics undergoing repairs and currently without electricity, that meant switching to flashlights, making their search all the more annoying.

Bulke felt the creeping warmth of the whiskey in his gut. He sighed heavily, leaned his elbows on his knees, looked around. “Look at that shit, will you?” He gestured at a series of low metal shelves beneath the eaves, filled with countless glass jars containing jellyfish. “You think they actually
study
this crap?”

Morris shrugged.

Bulke reached out, fished a jar off the shelf, took a closer look. A whitish blob floated in the amber liquid, amidst drifting tentacles. He gave the jar a quick shake; when the turbulence settled, the jellyfish had been reduced to swirling shreds.

“Broke into a million pieces.” He showed the jar to Morris. “Hope it wasn’t
important
.” He issued a guffaw and, with a roll of his eyes, shoved the jar back onto the shelf.

“In China, they eat ’em,” said Morris. He was a third-generation museum guard and considered he knew a great deal more about the museum than the other guards.

“Eat what? Jellyfish?”

Morris nodded sagely.

“Frigging Chinese’ll eat anything.”

“They say they’re crunchy.” Morris sniffed, wiped his nose.

“Gross.” Bulke looked around. “This is bullshit,” he repeated. “There’s nothing up here.”

“The thing I don’t get,” Morris said, “is why they’re reopening that tomb, anyway. I told you how my granddad used to talk about something that happened in there back in the thirties.”

“Yeah, you’ve been telling everybody and his brother about that.”

“Something real bad.”

“Tell me some other time.” Bulke glanced at his watch again. If they
really
thought there was something up there, they would have sent cops—not two unarmed guards.

“You don’t think the killer dragged the body up here?” Morris asked.

“No way. Why the hell would he do that?”

“But the dogs—”

“How could those bloodhounds smell anything up here? The place reeks. They lost the trail down on the fifth floor, anyway—not up here.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“I
am
right. As far as I’m concerned, we’re done up here.” Bulke rose, slapped the dust off his butt.

“What about the rest of the attics?”

“We did ’em all, don’t you remember?” Bulke winked.

“Right. Oh, right. Yeah.”

“There’s no exit up ahead, but there’s a stairwell back a ways. We’ll go down there.”

Bulke turned, began shuffling in the direction from which they’d come. The attic corridor wandered up and down, so tight in places that he had to turn sideways to get through. The museum consisted of dozens of separate buildings joined together, and where they met the floor levels sometimes differed so greatly they had to be linked by metal staircases. They passed through a space filled with leering wooden idols, labeled Nootka Graveposts; another space filled with plaster casts of arms and legs; then yet another filled with casts of faces.

Bulke paused to catch his breath. A twilight gloom had descended. The face casts hung everywhere on the walls, white faces with their eyes closed, each one with a name attached. They all seemed to be Indians:
Antelope Killer, Little Finger Nail, Two Clouds, Frost on Grass
…

“Think all these are death masks?” asked Morris.

“Death masks? What do you mean, death masks?”

“You know. When you’re dead, they take a cast of your face.”

“I wouldn’t know. Say, how about another shot of Mr. Beam?”

Morris obligingly removed the flask. Bulke took a swig, passed it back.

“What’s that?” Morris asked, gesturing with the flask.

Bulke peered in the indicated direction. A wallet lay tossed in the corner, spread open, credit cards spilling out. He went over, picked it up.

“Shit, there must be two hundred bucks in here. What do we do?”

“Check out who it belongs to.”

“What does that matter? Probably one of the curators.” Bulke searched through, pulled out the driver’s license.

“Jay Mark Lipper,” he read, then looked at Morris. “Oh, shit. That’s the missing guy.”

Feeling a strange stickiness, he looked down at his hand. It was smeared with blood.

Bulke dropped the wallet with a jerk, then kicked it back into the corner with his foot. He felt abruptly nauseous. “Man,” he said in a high, strained voice. “Oh, man…”

“You think the killer dropped it?” Morris asked.

Bulke felt his heart thumping in his chest. He looked around at all the shadowy spaces, the shelves covered with the leering faces of the dead.

“We gotta call Manetti,” said Morris.

“Gimme a moment… Just gimme a moment here.” Bulke tried to think through a fog of surprise and rising fear. “Why didn’t we see this on the way in?”