Cemetery Dance by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child Page B

a case I once had: a particularly untoward first date that ended in murder–suicide." Pendergast shook his head at the memory and continued reading.
    D'Agosta hugged himself, then took yet another turn around the room.
    "Vincent, do sit down. Use your time constructively."
    "I hate this place. I hate the smell of it. I hate the look of it."
    "I quite sympathize. The intimations of mortality here are — shall we say — hard to ignore? Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears."
    The pages rustled as Pendergast read on. A few dreadful minutes passed before the door to the morgue finally opened. One of the pathologists, Beckstein, stood there. Thank God, thought D'Agosta: they had pulled Beckstein for the autopsy. He was one of the best and — surprise — an almost normal human being.
    Beckstein peeled off his gloves and mask, dropped them in a bin. "Lieutenant. Agent Pendergast." He nodded his greetings, not offering his hand. Shaking hands just wasn't done in the morgue. "I'm at your disposal."
    "Dr. Beckstein," said D'Agosta, taking the lead, "thanks for taking the time to see us."
    "My pleasure."
    "Give us a rundown, light on the jargon, please."
    "Certainly. Would you like to observe the cadaver? The prosector is still working on it. It sometimes helps to see —"
    "No thank you," said D'Agosta decisively.
    He felt Pendergast's gaze on him. Screw it, he thought determinedly.
    "As you wish. The cadaver showed fourteen full or partial knife wounds, pre–mortem, some to the hands and arms, several in the lower back, and a final one, also with a posterior entry, that passed through the heart. I would be glad to provide you with a diagram —"
    "Not necessary. Any postmortem wounds?"
    "None. Death was almost immediate after the final, fatal blow to the heart. The knife entered horizontally, between the second and third posterior rib, at a downward angle of eighty degrees from the vertical, penetrating the left atrium, the pulmonary artery, and splitting the conus arteriosus at the top of the right ventricle, causing massive exsanguination."
    "I get the picture."
    "Right."
    "Would you say that the killer did what he had to do to kill the victim, and no more?"
    "That statement is consistent with the facts, yes."
    "The weapon?"
    "A blade ten inches long, two inches in width, very stiff, probably a high–quality kitchen knife or a scuba knife."
    D'Agosta nodded. "Anything else?"
    "Blood toxicology showed a blood alcohol level within legal limits. No drugs or other foreign substances. The contents of the stomach —"
    "I don't need to know that."
    Beckstein hesitated, and D'Agosta saw something in his eyes. Uncertainty, unease.
    "Yeah?" he urged. "Something else?"
    "Yes. I haven't written the report yet, but there was one thing, quite strange, that was missed by the forensic team."
    "Go on."
    The pathologist hesitated again. "I'd like to show it to you. We haven't moved it — yet."
    D'Agosta swallowed. "What was it?"
    "Please, just let me show it to you. I can't … well, I can't very well describe it."
    "Of course," said Pendergast, stepping forward. "Vincent, if you'd prefer to wait here —"
    D'Agosta felt his jaw set. "I'm coming."
    They followed the technician through the set of double stainless–steel doors into the green light of a large tiled room. They donned masks, gloves, and scrubs from nearby bins, then continued on, passing into one of the autopsy suites.
    Immediately D'Agosta saw the prosector hunched over the cadaver, the whine of the Stryker saw in his hands like an angry mosquito. A diener lounged nearby, eating a bagel with lox. A second dissecting table was covered with various tagged organs. D'Agosta swallowed again, harder.
    "Hey," the diener said to Beckstein. "You're just in time. We were about to run the gut."
    A hard stare from Beckstein silenced the man. "Sorry. Didn't know you had guests." He smirked, rubbery lips crunching down on his breakfast. The room smelled of formalin, fish, and