Chapter 17
ROCKELTON STOPPED AT THE VERY LAST row of containers. He got out of his vehicle, and Pendergast and Chambers followed suit. Walking over to the first container, the old man knelt to unlock the padlock, removed it, and stepped back.
“We’ll take it from here,” Chambers said, opening the door, evidence folder in one hand. “Leave the padlock with us. We’ll lock up when we’re done and meet you back at the office.”
Without a word, Rockelton got back into his car and left.
Pendergast, Chambers noticed, had already plucked a flashlight from somewhere in his suit and was standing on the concrete lip of the storage unit, playing the light around the interior.
A foul smell emanated from the unit. Inside, Chambers could see it had been fully processed by the police.
There were no remaining signs of CSI activity, save for scatterings of fingerprint dust. The stainless-steel table that had held the body, and the concrete floor around it, were still stained with dried blood.
There was no light switch, but after looking around for a minute Chambers located a pull string, and the small space became bathed in fluorescent light.
“Last row of storage units,” Chambers said as he looked around. “First bay, so he could keep a lookout. Tell me that’s a coincidence.”
“Only one way in, but no security cameras,” Pendergast murmured. “Back here, he could work with minimum interference. It seems odd, however, he would be so careless as to not completely secure the unit when he left.”
“Okay, Pendergast,” said Chambers. “I’m gonna step back into my mentor role and let you go to town.”
“Thank you.”
Chambers watched as Pendergast looked around critically.
The hospital gown the victim wore was not visible, nor were the surgical tools that—in the photographs—he’d seen on the small wheeled equipment cart and the nearby floor.
They had obviously been taken away as evidence.
However, although the storage unit was for the most part bare, he could see other hospital gowns hanging on hooks, as well as a metal rack against the far wall holding sheets, towels, gauze, and a box of what appeared to be scalpel blades—all new and in the original packaging.
Pendergast remained in place for so long, just looking around, that Chambers wondered if he was at a loss.
He decided to give a helpful nudge. “So: You’re an FBI agent.
You’re looking at a crime scene already worked over by CSI, which means the most important evidence has been removed. How do you proceed?”
The question hung in the air for a moment. Then Pendergast turned toward the senior agent. “May I suggest an alternative? It strikes me this is an ideal opportunity to observe a veteran agent ‘work the scene,’ to use the vernacular.”
If Pendergast wanted to observe instead of taking the lead, that was all right, too. “Okay,” he said. “I go first, you second. Fair enough?”
“Excellent.”
Chambers began stepping thoughtfully around the small enclosure, careful to breathe through his mouth.
He’d seen so many similar crime scenes it was easy to picture in his mind what had happened here.
There were signs an experienced eye could read: the initial discovery; the first cops on the scene; the arrival of detectives; and, lastly, the CSI team, who had combed through everything and handled the most items, yet left the fewest signs of their intrusion.
“The site was thoroughly processed by CSI,” he said with a trace of finality.
“Quite a lot of evidence was removed—especially items stained with blood. The hospital gown, surgical tools, tapes and bandages, all gone. You can see that the bloodstains on the table and floor were swabbed for testing. The place was carefully dusted, but no fingerprints were lifted. Very unusual. The guy was using this place for a while—some of those bloodstains on the floor look old. As you’d pointed out, this whole place gives me the impression of someone who’s been trained in surgery—maybe a surgical nurse.
He’s a careful, methodical killer—look how neat everything is.
But there’s a recent overlay of disorder, indicating a hasty retreat.
And look at the amount of unused surgical supplies, gowns, tape, stockpiled in the rear—this guy’s in it for the long haul.
My conclusion: this case ain’t the garbage case I thought it was. ”
“I’m sorry—‘garbage case’?”
“A low-profile murder that isn’t likely to be solved. We’re almost certainly dealing with a serial killer.”
The storage space fell silent. Chambers looked at his partner. “Those are my thoughts. Now—what are yours?”
“From my inexperienced perspective, all of your observations—as far as they go—appear correct.”
“As far as they go?” Chambers felt a little annoyed.
“Forgive me. The last thing I meant was to cause offense.”
“I’m not offended. But what stands out to you that I didn’t mention?”
Pendergast hesitated, then said: “I wonder if you could give me some time to make my observations. As a beginner, you know.”
“Of course. Take all the time you need.”
Once again, as in the Diamondhead morgue, Chambers was treated to a remarkable display of observational fanaticism, as Pendergast drew a magnifying glass out of a pocket and proceeded to examine every square inch of the storage unit—front-to-back, top-to-bottom, lifting one item off a shelf and minutely examining it, then replacing it and peering at the next one in turn.
After fifteen minutes, Chambers began to get impatient. After half an hour, he was ready to call a halt to the proceedings. But at the very moment he was about to say something, Pendergast turned to him.
“Just one last thing,” he said, motioning to the table. “Would you mind climbing onto this table and assuming the position of the victim, as best you can re-create it?” He pulled one of the photos out of his black suit jacket and examined it at arm’s length. “The head goes here, feet there.”
He held the photo out to Chambers. Instead of taking it, Chambers merely looked at it for a moment, then turned toward the table, with its splatters and runnels of blood leading into a sticky pool, the entire thing encased in fingerprint dust.
“Hell, no,” Chambers said. “Are you kidding me?”
“I withdraw the request,” Pendergast said quickly. “Forgive the thoughtlessness; I will do it myself.”
And to Chambers’s astonishment, Pendergast immediately climbed onto the table, still holding the photograph, and arranged himself accordingly, making fussy adjustments here and there to position himself at the precise attitude in which the corpse had been found.
“Pendergast, what the hell are you doing?” Chambers asked.
“It’s an exercise that helps me concentrate and visualize a mass of complex information. It won’t take long.”
“How long?”
“Thirty to forty-five minutes. I appreciate how strange it must seem, and I beg your indulgence.”
“Jesus Christ. Really? I’ll wait for you in the vehicle.”
Chambers stomped off to his car, got in, and slammed the door. It was damn hot, so he turned on the engine, then flipped through the radio dial, at last settling back to listen to Nirvana and cool himself off.