Crimson Shore (Agent Pendergast, #15)(60)
Kornhill continued rubbing. “That’s correct.”
“With McCool, the carvings were perimortem. In the case of Dunwoody, the carvings were postmortem. Interesting, don’t you think?”
“The transition from perimortem to postmortem is not a bright line, but I would not disagree with your conclusion. Really, Mr. Pendergast, it’s not my place to speculate on why these murders were committed.”
“Ah, but it is mine, Doctor.” Pendergast paused. “You have autopsy photographs of the markings inflicted on both McCool and Dunwoody?”
Kornhill nodded.
“May I trouble you to lay them on the desk for comparison?”
The M.E. rose, opened a filing cabinet set against the rear wall of the office, pulled out some additional files, and then laid a series of photos on the desk, facing Pendergast.
The special agent examined them with interest. “From an, ah, artistic standpoint, it would appear these symbols were carved by the same person—don’t you agree?”
Kornhill shuddered. “I suppose so.”
“And would you also agree that the same weapon was used?”
“That’s a strong possibility. It was an unusual weapon in both cases, a blade wide, jagged, irregular, but very sharp.”
“So far, we once again have commonality. But I would ask you to indulge me, Doctor—please take a close look at the precise nature of the cuts.”
The M.E. glanced at Pendergast a moment. Then he turned the photographs around, one after the other, and examined each one closely in turn. At last he raised his eyes in mute inquiry.
“Do they appear to be similar?” Pendergast asked.
“No.”
“Could you describe the difference, please?”
“It’s a question of contour. In the case of McCool, the cuts are irregular, even dog-eared in places. But the markings, ah, carved into Dunwoody have a much more regular contour. They are also of a shallower nature.”
“One last question, Doctor, and I’ll leave you to your work. If you had to speculate—once again, I ask informally—what would account for the difference between the way McCool’s body was carved, and the way Dunwoody’s was?”
Once again, the M.E. paused to consider. “The cuts on McCool were deeper, more violent. Those on Dunwoody, on the other hand, seem almost…hesitant.”
“I believed you used the terms ‘feeble,’ ‘tentative.’”
“I did.”
“Excellent. Thank you. You’ve confirmed my own suspicions.” Pendergast stood up, extending his hand.
Kornhill rose as well, shook the hand. “I’m confused. All the similarities, all the differences… What are you implying? That these two were killed by different murderers?”
“Quite the opposite: same murderer, different motives. And what is most significant—a different relationship between victim and killer. Good day.” And with this, Pendergast turned and left the office.
36
The Chart Room restaurant was dimly lit as always, but Gavin quickly spied Agent Pendergast at the far end of the bar. The guy’s funereal style of dress and the paleness of his face made him easy to spot.
Pendergast noticed him, nodded slightly, and Gavin approached the bar.
He felt more exhausted than he ever had in his life. Yet it was not a physical kind of exhaustion—it was more emotional than anything else. He’d spent half the previous night, and much of the current day, out at the site of the mass grave. It wasn’t like he had that much to do there—a different kind of expertise than his was required for the job—yet it was his duty to attend. He’d had to watch as, one by one, the bones, some large, many small, were teased out of the sand, cleaned, tagged, photographed, and tucked away in large plastic evidence lockers.
Despite the exhaustion, however, he was curious. Pendergast had left a message at police headquarters, asking Gavin to meet at the Chart Room bar at seven. He had no idea what Pendergast wanted, but he suspected it would be unusual, since everything Pendergast did seemed out of the ordinary.
“Sergeant,” Pendergast said. “Have a seat.” And he waved at the stool beside his own.
Gavin settled onto it.
The bartender, Joe Dunwoody, who was washing glasses nearby, glanced over. “What’ll you have, Brad?”
“Dewar’s on the rocks.” He watched as Dunwoody prepared the drink. The bartender, who’d been at work here when his brother Dana was killed, had—as far as Gavin knew—taken only one day off work as a result of the tragedy. But the brothers had never been close. Joe did look glum; but then he always looked a little glum.
Glum, in fact, was a good word to describe the Chart Room as a whole. Only half of the tables were filled, and the people sitting around them appeared shell-shocked, speaking in hushed tones if at all. News of the mass grave and the intentional sinking of the steamship, apparently by locals—coming as it did on the heels of the two recent murders—had hit Exmouth hard.
The only exception, it seemed, was Pendergast himself. If not exactly cheerful, he radiated a kind of restless energy, even excitement. Gavin watched as the man prepared some kind of ridiculously complex drink: he’d balanced a spoon atop a glass, a sugar cube nestled in the spoon, and he was meticulously dribbling a stream of water over it. As the sugared water hit the pale liquid in the glass, it blossomed into a milky cloud.