Chapter 33
CHAMBERS—EXHAUSTED, ACHING, THROAT RAW—STOOD and watched mutely as the firemen finished hosing down the smoking ruins from multiple sides.
Pendergast stood silently beside him. The great mansion had collapsed, leaving only four tall chimney stacks, which now stood like blackened sentinels amid the charred timbers and cracked bricks that were all that was left of the mansion.
The ambulances had come and picked up the victim they’d found in the subcellar, the man named Proctor.
Another ambulance was taking the two bodies and their severed arms, fished out of the swamp, to the morgue adjacent to the field office.
The fire departments of every town in the vicinity had turned their hoses on the conflagration, sucking the water up from the swamp itself, but too late: the great house had burned to the ground, taking with it—Chambers thought—many secrets.
And now, after the long night, dawn was breaking through the bald cypresses, casting an orange glow over the ghastly scene.
The firemen were almost finished. Chambers knew that Estevez was on his way with a large Evidence Response Team.
But it was a long drive from the New Orleans FO, and Estevez and his people were still perhaps thirty minutes away.
Chambers didn’t know what was going to happen when he arrived.
The ATF were also on their way, and it was never easy when the FBI and ATF had to cooperate at a major crime scene.
Glancing at the unruffled face of his partner, he wondered if he was ignorant of the shitshow that was coming, or if he was just maintaining his cool.
The firemen were now rolling their hoses and starting to pack up. He felt Pendergast stir next to him.
“Shall we?” Pendergast asked.
Chambers stared at him. “Shall we what?”
The man gestured with an open palm. “Investigate.”
“Hold on,” said Chambers. “You don’t get it.
The cavalry is on its way. You’ve got a massive FBI ERT coming, you’ve got an ATF Certified Fire Investigator team, you’ve got photographers and forensic technicians up the wazoo, you’ve got the local sheriff and his deputies—and you’ve got Estevez, which is the cherry on top. A lot of them are already arriving.”
“Which is why we must hurry,” said Pendergast, “before they ruin the crime scene.”
Chambers couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Ruin it? These guys are the experts. We’re the ones who’re going to ruin it. And if they see us poking around in there, they’re going to be pissed.”
“I can’t help that.” Pendergast started walking toward the inner perimeter that was already being set up by the county sheriff and his deputies.
Chambers followed. “You know this is against protocol, right? We’re supposed to wait.”
“I’ve waited long enough.” He turned to Chambers. “I do hope you’ll accompany me.”
“I will, but—”
Pendergast ducked under the perimeter.
“Hey!” said a deputy. “You can’t go in there!”
Pendergast took out his shield and held it in the man’s direction. “FBI,” he said in that honeyed voice of his.
“Oh. Sorry.”
Chambers likewise ducked under the tape and followed Pendergast toward the brick steps leading up to where the porch and front door had been the night before.
In for a penny, in for a pound, he rationalized.
Beyond was a wilderness of broken and charred timbers, heat-shattered bricks, melted metal and glass and misshapen, skeletonized objects transformed by fire.
Pendergast entered the ruin and then, with a delicacy that surprised Chambers, began picking his way through the sodden mess, casting his silvery eyes every which way.
Chambers had taken courses in evidence gathering back at the Academy, but looking over the scorched wasteland, he wondered how any evidence could possibly have survived.
And even if it had, he was clueless as what to look for.
“Pendergast,” he said, hesitating at the edge, “I’m telling you this is not a good idea.”
Ignoring him, Pendergast continued moving slowly.
Suddenly, he gave a little exclamation, bent down, examined his find, and then—to Chambers’s great surprise—pulled a tiny test tube and tweezers out of his black jacket, picked up something, placed it in the tube, and sealed it.
The tube disappeared back into his jacket.
He worked his way along, more test tubes and small evidence envelopes appearing, each in turn filled with crumbly pieces of ash and odd things tweezed out of the wasteland.
Chambers following, having no idea what he was picking up or why.
The rising sun finally broke through the trees, striping the ruins with golden light and illuminating the coils of rising smoke and steam.
“Hey, you two!”
Chambers turned and his heart sank. There was Estevez, gesturing.
Behind him, two big evidence teams were gowning up.
One was the FBI Evidence Recovery Team, getting dressed in monkey suits.
The other must be the ATF Certified Fire Investigation team.
Behind Estevez, Chambers could see FBI and ATF agents already arguing.
“What the hell?” Estevez yelled. “Get out of there!”
“Pretend you don’t hear him,” Pendergast murmured.
“Jesus Christ, Pendergast,” Chambers said through gritted teeth.
Now Pendergast dropped to his knees in the gummy mess and began pulling aside some broken slate shingles to reveal a metal filing cabinet, lying on its side, partially melted.
“Ah, look at this,” he said, pulling away the sides, exposing a mess of scorched and carbonized files.
Peering and poking at them intently, he eased several out with exquisite care.
They were burned around the edges, but the interiors were only partially carbonized.
These files he slipped into a thin Mylar sleeve, which disappeared as quickly and mysteriously as it had appeared.
Now he stood up, looked over at Estevez, and waved. “Hello, Director Estevez! Glad you could come!”
“Get your asses out of there!” Estevez yelled back. “Now!”
They waded through the mess and were soon standing in front of a sweating, red-faced director.
Before Chambers could begin apologizing and explaining, Pendergast said, speaking rapidly: “Sir, Agent Chambers and I have put our little sabbatical to good use. And I hope we’ve been a credit to the New Orleans FO and your excellent leadership.
A pity that Mississippi’s FO seems to have so sadly fallen short.
I imagine the press will be quite interested to know how efficiently your office operated in cracking this case.
Ah, and speaking of the press, here they come now. ”
Estevez turned and groaned. Several vans were arriving, emblazoned with television call signs.
They were pulling up haphazardly on the overgrown lawn, beyond the outer ring of tape.
The doors were flung open and reporters and technicians spilled like termites out of a kicked nest, carrying cameras, mics, and booms.
Estevez turned back to Pendergast and Chambers. “Okay, I see where you’re going with this. Congratulations are in order.” He spoke with an edge of sarcasm. “And I’ve no doubt commendations will be forthcoming. Now: thank you, Agents Pendergast and Chambers. I’ll take it from here.”
“That’s your prerogative,” Pendergast said.
“Meanwhile, we shall continue our sabbatical working out of our, ah, temporary offices, glad to assist in every way, until we are reinstated. Because, sir, to be frank, I wouldn’t feel right returning to the office—before I’ve served my just punishment and period of exile, that is. ”
“You’ll do no such thing,” said Estevez, lowering his voice.
“You’re coming back into the office now, and nothing more need be said about this so-called sabbatical.
Understood? I’m putting Agents Mears and DuBois on the case.
They’re two of our best, and it’ll be in good hands.
You’ll be debriefed in full later today. ”
Chambers felt a rising sense of injustice. A couple of mutts like Mears and DuBois? This was wrong. “Sir, I protest.”
“Yes?” said Estevez, turning on him, frowning.
“Sir, we took up a case everyone had missed. For years. And it wasn’t just any case, but a big one involving multiple homicides.
We developed the case and we cracked it wide open.
We not only ended a serial-killing spree, but we saved the life of one of his victims—and exposed a new killer in the process. It’s only fair to let us finish this.”
“Excuse me, Chambers, but I’ve said what I’ve said.”
“Don’t worry, partner,” said Pendergast breezily, clapping Chambers on the back.
“If we can’t work the case, we can at least use the rest of our banishment to deal with what will undoubtably be a monstrous level of national press.
Look at them over there, ravenous as wild boars.
And what a story it is: two FBI agents sent into the wilderness as punishment—only to crack the case of the Pinprick Killer!
” He turned to Chambers. “Did you bring a comb for the cameras? Your hair is mussed up. If not, I have one.”
“You will not talk to the press,” said Estevez.
Pendergast turned and locked a pair of ice-chip eyes on Estevez. “Oh, sir, but we will. We most assuredly will—if the case is expropriated from us.”