Chapter 11
WHILE CHAMBERS DROVE, PENDERGAST radioed ahead to local Diamondhead law enforcement, informing them the two were inbound to find out more about the murder. The body was in the sheriff’s morgue at Diamondhead, and Pendergast arranged to examine the body with the officer of record present.
As they crossed from Louisiana into Mississippi, the land grew increasingly lonesome and swampy.
This, Chambers knew, was an area that flooded after any decent downpour.
He’d seen water moccasins and even saltwater crocodiles crossing vacant swaths of land like this—if you could call a place that seemed in fragile balance between solid and liquid “land.” What always surprised him was the number of abandoned buildings that littered old, rarely traveled roads like this—ancient gas stations with glass bulbs atop their pumps; small warehouses, their signage too old and faded to see, collapsing in on themselves; and most commonly, ancient tiny houses or cabins.
These were often set back from the road and barely visible.
Others, however, were right up near the shoulder: stinking of goofer dust and other hoodoo wards that kept off the evil eye, their entire facades covered in green masks of tree-of-heaven, Chinese wisteria, or other invasive vines.
Locally, they were known as “shantybellum” houses.
People had lived here, albeit sparsely, at one time—but that time was long past, and with the Gulf fast encroaching, they never would again.
Chambers knew a little about Diamondhead—it was an unincorporated town overlooking Rotten Bayou, the highest point on Mississippi’s Gulf Coast. They passed a NASA test facility and drove through an attractive downtown before pulling into the sprawling lot of the sheriff’s department of southern Hancock County.
A deputy named Willis—a tall, rangy African American with an infectious smile—met them in the waiting area and escorted them into a conference room.
They all took seats. Willis looked at them in turn. “How can I help you gentlemen, exactly?” he asked: polite police code for Why the hell is the FBI interested in this?
Chambers glanced at Pendergast. In the car, they’d agreed on proceeding in the traditional FBI mentor-ghosting relationship. Pendergast would take the lead; Chambers would, for the most part, only intervene if something was overlooked or he saw Pendergast going off the rails.
“It’s in the manner of a routine inquiry,” Pendergast said, laying his New Orleans accent on thick. “Our SAC told us to look into this case—”
At this, Chambers had to smile inwardly.
“—and here we are.”
Willis laughed and shook his head. “Yeah. I get it. So let me know how I can fill you in before I show you the body.”
Pendergast got out a small pad of paper and a gold pen. “The newspaper mentioned the deceased was taken hostage in Louisiana and brought here. How do you know that?”
At the mention of newspapers, Willis made a face.
“The body was discovered at the storage place around three AM the night before last. Nude. Recovered at the scene was some torn and bloody clothing and a hospital gown. Basically, we got lucky: three nights earlier, two girls had been driving along Chef Menteur Highway, near where it crosses the Old Pearl River. They were in a late-model Civic, 1992. It was a dark night. The only thing within miles of there is an airboat rental or two. Anyway, around eleven PM on the night of August 5 they see a white van pulled over on the shoulder, angled sharply, as if it had stopped in a hurry. Rear doors ajar. They were slowing down to pass when, out of nowhere, this guy runs out of the swamp and crosses the road. He was wearing a green hospital gown, and their description matches the one found by the body. A moment later, another guy comes out of the dark, chasing the first guy down. He was wearing black pants with a black sweatshirt, hood pulled up. He caught the guy at the far shoulder, then manhandled him up and into the back of the van. Then he turned toward the Civic and started pulling something from the pocket of his hoodie. At that point, the girls put the hammer down and hauled ass out of there.”
“And then they reported this to the police?”
“Let me go pull the file.” Willis was gone only a few minutes. “Not until they got home to Pearlington. Hardly any pay phones, gas stations, or anything along that stretch. First thing the next morning, I went down and interviewed them at the Pearlington station.”
“Did they provide a description of the men or the vehicle?”
“Even after they’d had time to calm down, they remained too freaked out to remember much. It was a white panel van, dinged up. The kind you see everywhere. No rear windows. Like I said, it was dark, and the license plate was obscured by mud, but one of the girls thought it was a Louisiana plate.”
“And the men?”
“The pursuer was big and fast. That’s all they could say.
From the description of how he tackled and dragged the gowned guy into the van, we think he was probably pretty young and in decent shape.
They got a better glimpse of the victim who’d escaped the van—cropped hair, seven-day beard, dirty, ass shining in their headlights as he was manhandled across the road, hospital gown flapping.
” Willis paused. “You can listen to the 911 call, and I’ve got a tape of the next morning’s interview here. ” He patted a VHS cassette.
“I assume you have an APB on any white van matching the description?”
“We’ve already stopped a dozen since then. No joy.”
“Have you identified the person renting that storage unit?”
“We’re working on it. It appears to have been rented under a false name and address, paid in cash.”
“Which way was the man running?” Chambers asked.
“North. Toward Bayou Malheur.”
When there were no more questions, Willis played the 911 call and showed them the taped interview. It was pretty much as the deputy had described: two pale-looking girls with trembling voices repeating, “I dunno,” “It was dark,” “Out the rear of the van,” and “Can’t remember.”
Willis passed the folder across the table: the case file of the murder. It was thin—not surprising for a case only a few days old. That would change, Chambers thought. He’d seen cases that had metastasized from thin folders like this to stacks requiring a bookcase to accommodate them.
The photos of the scene were typical CSI shots, well framed and lit.
The storage unit was small and relatively bare, save for a metal table in its center.
The nude body of a man was sprawled across it, eyes and mouth wide.
The right arm had been severed and was lying on the ground next to the table, badly slashed.
There was surprisingly little blood… until, looking closer, Chambers noticed a tourniquet tied off just above the amputation.
“Killed by asphyxiation,” Willis said. “The cord is buried in the flesh of his neck; you can get a better view in the coroner’s photos.”
“Got an ID?” Chambers asked.
“Kenneth Drakos, thirty-two, hotel manager from Bogalusa. Reported missing by his wife just over a week ago.” Willis paused. “I can save you a little time here: no enemies, no debts, no drugs, no record. Two young kids.”
A brief silence settled over the conference room. Then Chambers pushed his chair back. “I guess it’s time to meet him. Thank you, Deputy, for such a professional and thorough backgrounder.”
All morgues stank in more or less the same way; the one in Diamondhead was no exception. The coroner was waiting for them, and he opened the locker containing Drakos, pulled it out to full extension, then unwrapped the body with fussy precision.
“With the autopsy complete and death certificate expedited, the family is picking up the remains tomorrow morning,” the coroner said. “If you want to gawk, now’s the time.”
Chambers gave the corpse a thorough look, running through the mental punch list he’d assembled over years of examining stiffs, both fresh and otherwise.
The head, with its bulging eyeballs and black tongue—the latter protruding, like an unsmoked Montecristo, straight up from the throat—was typical of strangled victims. The coroner had placed the severed arm next to the body, and for whatever reason the killer seemed to have paid it the most attention—it was sliced, stabbed, and chopped like a fencing dummy.
The coroner believed it had been amputated perimortem.
Aside from innumerable scratches—from the chase, probably—the rest of the body was in good condition, considering it had probably been ripening in the heat of the storage facility for about four days.
This was enough for Chambers. Not, it seemed, for Pendergast. To the senior agent’s surprise, the man asked for a pair of nitrile gloves.
Then he whipped a magnifying glass from a pocket of his black suit and spent a quarter of an hour examining the body, paying minute attention to the severed portion of the amputated arm, particularly the site of the incision itself.
This went on so long that Deputy Willis grew visibly restless.
Chambers himself began to grow irritated at what increasingly felt more like a Sherlockian performative stunt than an actual examination.
He cleared his throat. “Thank you, gentlemen, for your assistance and patience. Deputy, if you’d be so kind as to get us copies of the photographs and the CSI reports, we’ll get out of your hair.”
Pendergast halted his examination. “Forgive me,” he said smoothly, “for detaining you inconveniently.”
By the time they were out of Diamondhead and headed back toward NOLA, it was quarter to four.
The relief Chambers had felt from the series of distractions began to give way to dread over the night ahead.
Trying to shake this away, he turned toward Pendergast, who had said little since seeing the body.
“Nice work back there questioning Willis, covering the bases,” Chambers said, trying to assume the mentor role. “Feels like you’ve done that before.”
“I have.”
“I was under the impression you’d never worked in law enforcement.”
“I haven’t.” A pause. “It was field experience.”
“What kind of field experience?” Chambers couldn’t help asking.
For a moment, Pendergast—seemingly lost in thought—did not respond. Then he looked over, the ice-blue quality of his eyes startling no matter how many times Chambers saw them. “In a past life,” he said simply.
“Right,” said Chambers. “Anyway, now that we’ve heard about the crime and examined the body, I’d like to hear your conclusions—if any.”
“I’m still a child in these matters,” came the reply. “So if my conclusions are rather humble, I hope you’ll understand.”
“I won’t laugh—scout’s honor.”
“Very well. This person has killed before, probably many times. He has some money. He may have been in the armed forces, where he worked as a medic and had surgical experience. He has a safe house or similar refuge for his work. He is certainly psychotic, yet he derives little pleasure from the act of killing itself—the usual motives, such as the need to dominate or control, or impulsivity, are absent here.”
Chambers was astonished at the conviction with which this litany was delivered. “Mind explaining to me how you arrived at all those conclusions?”
“Not at all. The main point, however, is they all lead back to a fundamental mystery.”
“Which is?”
There was a bump as they joined the causeway that rose in a graceful curve over the Mississippi.
“What would motivate a person to amputate a limb with great skill and care—and then use the same surgical tools to slash that limb to shreds? That is something—to invoke Shakespeare—not dreamt of in my philosophy.”
Chambers pondered this. “And your other conclusions?”
“He killed by garroting and tied off the arm—in both cases, presumably to prevent exsanguination. That implies he had a reason to keep the victim alive until the last moment. Considerable microsurgical expertise was displayed in the amputation, especially in the way the major arteries and nerves were dissected out and tied off. Our killer has performed this operation a number of times before; hence my conclusion he has killed many times before. He is therefore psychotic res ipsa loquitor. This killer has money enough to conduct his business, which is expensive and time consuming. Again, a safe house or other refuge would be a necessary adjunct. My guess that he was in the military is based on his high fitness level, self-confidence, and size. The killing was quick, efficient, and humane—if you will forgive that word—and there were no signs of torture. Hence my conclusion that the killer derived little or no pleasure from the act of murder. The killing was, rather, a means to end; a furtherance of his business.”
“You talk about the killer’s ‘business.’ What business is this?”
A cold smile gathered on the pale man’s face. “That, Agent Chambers, is the fundamental mystery.”