Pendergast halted and spent a long time just looking at the victim. He did not pull out test tubes and tweezers and take samples. All he did was look. Then, slowly, he circled the hideous thing. A hand lens came out, and he used it to peer at traces of melted plastic and other, obscure points of interest. While he was doing this, the wind shifted and the chief got a noseful of roasted meat, causing an instant gagging sensation. God, he wished Pendergast would hurry it up.
Finally the FBI agent rose and they continued their perambulation of the gigantic ruin, heading inexorably toward the second victim—the young girl. This was even worse. The chief had deliberately skipped breakfast in preparation, and there was nothing in his stomach to lose, but nevertheless he could feel the dry heaves coming on.
The victim, Dutoit’s daughter, Sallie, had been ten years old. She went to school with the chief’s own daughter. The two children had not been friends—Sallie had been a withdrawn child, and no wonder, with a mother like that. Now, as they approached the corpse, the chief ventured a glance. The girl’s body was in a sitting position, burned only on one side. She had been handcuffed to the pipes under a sink.
He felt the first dry heave, which came like a hiccup, then another, and quickly looked away.
Again, Pendergast spent what seemed a lifetime examining the remains. The chief didn’t even begin to understand how he could do it. Another heave came, and he tried to think of something else—
anything
else—to get himself under control.
“It’s so perplexing,” Morris said, more to distract himself than for any other reason. “I just don’t understand.”
“In what way?”
“How…well, how the perp selects his victims. I mean, what do the victims have in common? It all seems so random.”
Pendergast rose. “The crime scene is indeed challenging. You are correct that the victims are random. However, the
attacks
are not.”
“How so?”
“The killer did not choose victims. He—or she, as the etiology of the attacks does not yet indicate gender—chose houses.”
The chief frowned. “Houses?”
“Yes. Both houses share one trait: they are spectacularly visible from town. The next house will no doubt be equally conspicuous.”
“You mean, they were selected for show? In God’s name, why?”
“To send a message, perhaps.” Pendergast turned away. “Now back to the matter at hand. This crime scene is primarily interesting for the light it sheds on the mind of the killer.” Pendergast spoke slowly as he peered around. “The perpetrator would appear to meet the Millon definition of a sadistic personality of the ‘explosive’ subtype. He seeks extreme measures of control; he takes pleasure—perhaps sexual pleasure—in the intense suffering of others. This disorder presents violently in an individual who would otherwise seem normal. In other words, the person we seek might appear to be an ordinary, productive member of the community.”
“How can you know that?”
“It is based on my reconstruction of the crime.”
“Which is?”
Pendergast looked around the ruins again before letting his eyes settle on the chief. “First, the perpetrator entered through an upstairs window.”
The chief refrained from asking how Pendergast could determine this, especially since there was no second floor left.
“We know this because the house doors were massive and the locks were all engaged. To be expected, given the fear recently generated by the first fire and, perhaps, by the relative isolation of the structure. In addition, the first-floor windows are of massive, multi-light construction, glazed with expensive, high-R-value triple-paned glass with anodized aluminum cladding over oak. The ones I examined were all locked, and we can assume the rest were shut and locked as well, given the low temperatures and, as I said, the fear generated by the first attack. Such a window is extremely hard to break, and any attempt would be noisy and time consuming. It would alarm the house. Someone would have called nine-one-one or hit a panic button, with which this house was equipped. But the two victims were caught unawares—upstairs, probably while sleeping. The upstairs windows were less robust, double-paned, and furthermore not all locked—as is evident from this one, here.” Pendergast pointed at a tracery of ash and metal at his feet. “Thus, I conclude that the killer came and left by an upstairs window. The two victims were subdued, then brought downstairs for the, ah,
denouement
.”
The chief found it hard to concentrate on what Pendergast was saying. The wind had shifted again, and he was breathing assiduously through his mouth.
“This tells us not only the killer’s state of mind, but also some of his physical characteristics. He or she is certainly an athletic individual, perhaps with some rock climbing or other strenuous field experience.”
“Rock climbing experience?”
“My dear Chief, it follows directly from the fact there is no evidence of a ladder or rope.”
Chief Morris swallowed. “And the, ah, ‘explosive’ sadism?”
“The woman, Dutoit, was duct-taped to the downstairs sofa. The tape was wrapped all the way around the sofa—quite a job—rendering her immobile. She appears to have been doused with gasoline and burned alive. Most significantly, this occurred without the victim being gagged.”
“Which means?”
“The perpetrator wanted to talk to her, to hear her plead for her life, and then, after the fire began…to hear her scream.”
“Oh, dear Lord.” Morris remembered Dutoit’s strident voice at the press conference. He felt another dry heave.
“But the sadism evident here—” Pendergast made a gentle gesture in the direction of the remains of the dead girl— “is even more extreme.”
Morris didn’t want to know more, but Pendergast went on. “This girl was not doused with gasoline. That would have been too quick for our perpetrator. Instead, he started a fire to the right of her, there, and let it burn toward her. Now, if you will examine the pipes that the victim was handcuffed to, you will notice that they are bent. She was pulling on them with all her might in an effort to escape.”
“I see.” But the chief didn’t even make a pretense of looking.
“But note the
direction
in which they are bent.”
“Tell me,” said Chief Morris, covering his face, no longer able to take it.
“They are bent in the direction of the fire.”
A silence fell. “I’m sorry,” the chief said. “I don’t understand.”
“Whatever she was trying to get away from—it was even worse than the fire.”
T
he last time Corrie was in the old Victorian police station, she’d been in handcuffs. The memory was fresh enough that she felt a twinge upon entering. But Iris, the lady at the reception desk, was almost too nice and happily directed her to Pendergast’s temporary office in the basement.
She descended the stuffy staircase, walked past a dim, rumbling furnace, and came to a narrow corridor. The office at the end had no name on it, just a number; she knocked and Pendergast’s voice invited her in.
The special agent stood behind an ancient metal desk covered by racks of test tubes, along with a chemistry setup of unknown function that was bubbling away. The office had no windows, and the air was stifling.
“Is this what they gave you?” Corrie asked. “It’s a dungeon!”
“It is what I requested. I did not wish to be disturbed, and this office is in a location where that is assured. No one comes to bother me here—no one.”
“It’s hot as Hades in here.”
“It’s no worse than a New Orleans spring. As you know, I am averse to cold.”
“Shall we go to dinner?”
“So as not to blight our meal with talk of corpses and cannibalism, perhaps we could spend a few moments catching up with your research first. Please sit down.”
“Sure thing, but can we please keep it short?
I’m
averse to heatstroke.” She took a seat and Pendergast did likewise.
“How are you progressing?”
“Great. I’ve finished examining four sets of remains, and they tell the same story: all victims of a gang of cannibalistic serial killers.”
Pendergast inclined his head.
“It’s unbelievable, really. But there’s no question. I did find something interesting in the last skeleton I looked at. The guy with the weird name, Isham Tyng. He was one of the first to be killed, and his bones do show extensive signs of perimortem damage from a large, powerful animal, no doubt a grizzly bear—along with the usual signs of beating, dismemberment, and cannibalism performed by human beings. I looked up the newspaper accounts of the killing, and in this case a bear was scared off the remains by the arrival of Tyng’s partners. No doubt the bear was scavenging the victim
after
he’d been killed by the cannibal gang. But this sighting is clearly what cemented the idea in everyone’s mind that the killer was a grizzly. A reasonable assumption—but also, sheer coincidence.”
“Excellent. The story is now complete. I assume you don’t need to examine any more remains?”
“No, four is plenty. I’ve got all the data I need.”
“Very good,” murmured Pendergast. “And when will you be returning to New York?”
Corrie took a deep breath. “I’m not going back yet.”
“And why is that?”
“I’ve…decided to expand the scope of my thesis.”
She waited, but Pendergast did not react.
“Because, I’m sorry, but the fact is the story
isn’t
complete. Now that we know these miners were murdered…” She hesitated. “Well, I’m going to do my damnedest to
solve
the murders.”
Another dead silence. Pendergast’s silver eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
“Look, it’s a fascinating case. Why not pursue it to its end? Why were these miners killed? Who did it? And why did the killings stop so abruptly? There are tons of questions, and I want to find the answers. This is my chance to turn a good thesis into a really great one.”
“If you survive,” said Pendergast.
“I don’t think I’m in any danger. In fact, since the fires I’ve been ignored. And nobody knows about my most important discovery—everyone still believes a grizzly did it.”
“Nevertheless, I am uneasy.”
“Why? I mean, if you’re worried about where I’m house-sitting, it’s miles away from the houses that were burned. And I’ve got a new roommate—Captain Bowdree, as it happens. You couldn’t ask for better protection than that. Let me tell you something: she’s got a .45 and, believe me, she knows how to use it.” She didn’t mention the footsteps she’d found circling the mansion.
“I have no doubt. But the fact is, I must leave Roaring Fork for several days, perhaps longer, and as a result I’ll be unable to give you the benefit of my protection. I fear that your looking into this case may awaken the proverbial sleeping dog. And there is an ugly dog sleeping in this rich little town, of that I am sure.”
“Surely you don’t believe the arson attacks are somehow linked to the miner killings? They were a hundred and fifty years ago.”
“I don’t
believe
anything—yet. But I sense deep, strong water. I’m not in favor of your remaining in Roaring Fork any longer than necessary. I advise you to leave on the first plane out.”
Corrie stared at him “I’m twenty, and this is
my
life. Not yours. I’m really thankful for all your help, but…you’re not my father. I’m staying.”
“I will discourage it by withdrawing my financial support.”
“Fine!” Corrie’s pent-up anger came bursting out. “You’ve been interfering with my thesis from the beginning. You can’t help interfering—it’s the way you are—but I don’t appreciate it. Can’t you see how important this is to me? I’m getting tired of you telling me what to do.”
Something flashed across Pendergast’s face—something that, had she not been so angry, she would have recognized as dangerous. “My only concern in the matter is your safety. And I must add that the risks you face are greatly augmented by your unfortunate tendency toward impetuousness and imprudence.”
“If you say so. But I’m done talking. And I’m staying in Roaring Fork whether you like it or not.”
As Pendergast began to speak again, she got up so abruptly she knocked over her chair and left the room without waiting to hear him out.
I
t was one of the most prominent Victorian mansions on the main drag. Ted, who was a fountain of information on Roaring Fork, had told Corrie its story. The house had been built by Harold Griswell, known as the Silver King of Roaring Fork, who made a fortune and was then bankrupted by the Panic of 1893. He committed suicide by leaping into the main shaft of the Matchless Mine, leaving behind a young widow—a former saloon dancer named Rosie Ann. Rosie Ann spent the next three decades hiring and firing lawyers and bringing countless lawsuits, trying tirelessly to recover the repossessed mines and properties; eventually, when all her legal options ran out, she boarded over the windows of the Griswell Mansion and became a recluse, refusing even to shop for basic provisions and subsisting on the kindness of neighbors, who took it upon themselves to leave food at her door. In 1955, the neighbors complained of a bad smell coming from the house. When the police entered, they found an incredible scene: the entire house was packed floor-to-ceiling with tottering stacks of documents and other bric-a-brac, much of it amassed during the woman’s endless lawsuits. There were bundles of newspapers, canvas bags full of ore samples, theater bills, broadsheets, ledgers, assay reports, mining certificates, depositions, trial transcripts, payroll records, bank statements, maps, mine surveys, and the like. They had found Rosie Ann’s wizened body buried under a ton of paper; an entire wall of documents, undermined by gnawing mice, had toppled over and pinned her to the floor. Rosie Ann Griswell had starved to death.
She died intestate with no heirs, and the town acquired the building. The hoarded documents proved a historical treasure trove of unruly proportions. Over half a century later, the sorting and cataloging process was still going on, fitfully, whenever the impecunious Roaring Fork Historical Society could scrape together a grant.