Bloodless (Aloysius Pendergast #20)(8)

Pendergast looked up at Commander Delaplane. “What can you tell me so far?” he asked.

“All preliminary,” she said, “but it appears the blood was withdrawn from the femoral artery, in the upper thigh, where the pant leg has been torn.”

“Withdrawn—how?”

“The MO appears the same as the earlier victim: a large-bore needle, or maybe a trocar, was inserted into the inner thigh to access the femoral artery.”

“How curious.” Pendergast swiftly donned a pair of nitrile gloves from a dispenser on a table next to the body, knelt, and gently opened the torn pants, exposing a neat hole on the inside of the upper thigh. A single drop of dried blood clung to the edge, along with a sticky yellow substance. There were thin amber-colored threads of the same substance on the man’s right shoe. They looked to Coldmoon like dried snot.

A test tube and swab appeared in Pendergast’s hand, and he took a sample, then another and another in swift succession, quickly stoppering them in small glass vials that disappeared back into his black suit.

“Time of death?” he asked.

“Around three o’clock in the morning, give or take two hours, based on body temperature,” said Delaplane. “The withdrawal of the blood complicates the calculation.”

“And this mucus-like substance around the wound and on the shoe?”

“We’ve taken samples. No results yet.”

Now Sheldrake spoke. “The FBI’s Evidence Response Team also took extensive samples, sent them down to their lab in Atlanta.”

“Excellent,” said Pendergast.

Silence built as he knelt, examining various parts of the body—eyes, ears, tongue, neck, hair, shoes—occasionally employing a small hand magnifier. He moved toward the head, examining the nape of the neck.

“There was some bruising on the first victim in the thigh, torso, and abdominal region,” said Delaplane, “which is also present here.”

“A rather short struggle, it seems,” Pendergast said, rising. “Have you established ingress and egress?”

“That’s the curious thing,” said Delaplane. “We haven’t been able to. This is a very secure area. We’ve got security cameras at the entry points, of which there are only three. There was nothing on the tapes, and no gaps. Nothing, in fact, except that two of the cameras recorded unusual sounds at around three AM.”

“What sort of noises?”

“Hard to characterize. Like a dog grunting or snuffling and a loud slapping sound. I’ll get you a copy of the tape.”

“Thank you, Commander.” Pendergast turned to Coldmoon. “Come look at this.”

Coldmoon ventured over to the body. Pendergast gently turned the head—rigid with rigor—slightly sideways.

Coldmoon donned a pair of gloves, then knelt as well.

“Feel the back of the head,” he said.

When he followed Pendergast’s instructions, he felt a lump. Pendergast parted the hair to expose what looked like an abrasion.

“Looks like he got smacked on the head around the time of death,” said Coldmoon.

“Exactly. This and the many other curious issues shall have to be addressed in the postmortem.”

Which curious issues Pendergast meant, exactly, Coldmoon didn’t ask.

“Has the victim been ID’d?” Pendergast asked.

“Yes. His wallet was on his person. He was one of those guys who give the bike tours you see everywhere around here.”

“And where is his bicycle?”

“Found on the corner of Abercorn and East Macon.”

“Isn’t that quite some distance from here?”

“Just a dozen blocks or so.”

“Where did he live?”

“On Liberty, not far from where his bicycle was found. Chances are he was on his way home when he was accosted.”

Pendergast rose, stripped off the gloves, and dropped them in a nearby trash container. Coldmoon followed suit.

“Shall we retire into the house?” Pendergast asked.

Delaplane said simply “Of course,” and turned to lead the way.





7



C?OMMANDER DELAPLANE BROUGHT THEM all back into the cool confines of the mansion, where Pendergast went directly into the elegant living room and took a seat in a grandly stuffed and gilded chair as easily if he were in his own home. “My partner and I have been traveling since daybreak. Would it be possible to have tea?” He threw one leg over the other and looked about inquiringly.

“Well, I don’t know,” said Delaplane. “This is a museum.”

But a thin, unsmiling man who had been hovering in the background stepped forward. “I think that can be arranged.”

“Splendid!”

“I’m Armand Cobb, director of the Owens-Thomas House museum,” the man said. “Which, if you didn’t know already, is this house.”

Pendergast nodded languidly. “Forgive me if I don’t rise. I find myself terribly fatigued from the case we just completed down in Florida.”

The museum director stepped back, and Pendergast turned his eyes to the commander. “Lovely to make your acquaintance, Commander Delaplane. Thank you for your cooperation.”

“Of course,” said Delaplane. “And this is homicide detective Sergeant Benny Sheldrake, in charge of the case.”