Chapter 35
MIX AND MATCH,” SAID the medical examiner, drolly holding up an arm. “Mix and match—am I right, Molly?”
“Yes, Dr. Bloom,” said the assistant.
It was midafternoon, and both cadavers lay on gurneys in New Orleans’s FBI morgue. The ME and his assistant were now fussing with the two arms, shifting them back and forth, examining the incisions and matching them up with the bodies they came from.
Chambers, gowned up with Pendergast at his side, stood back in the viewing area behind a glass window. “Somebody fucked up,” he murmured, shaking his head. “They should have kept the arms with the bodies from the beginning.”
“Indeed,” Pendergast agreed. “The churning mass of investigators at the crime scene did not inspire confidence.” He leaned forward and pressed the intercom button. “Dr. Bloom?”
The doctor looked up, irritation creasing his face. “What?”
“I wish to direct your attention specifically to the small punctures or prickings on the right shoulder of one of the victims. Make a careful note of those. And also, if you please, examine the surgical incisions with great care and copious macrophotography.”
“Certainly, certainly,” said the ME, annoyed at the advice.
Now that they had finally matched up the arms, the doctor began describing the first cadaver for the video camera, walking around it and murmuring into a headset, his comments broadcast into their viewing room on an intercom.
“I must say,” said Pendergast, “this is a rather inconvenient arrangement. I’d much prefer to be in close contact with the cadaver, visually, tangibly, and olfactorily.”
Chambers did not agree at all, but he said nothing.
The preliminary examination complete, the doctor began his Y incision on the first corpse.
“It’s the god-damnedest thing,” murmured Chambers, “how Wickman, the serial killer, is killed by someone else—using his very same MO.”
“Not exactly the same. You will note that one of the severed arms—undoubtedly Wickman’s—did not present those telltale pinpricks.”
“But… why? Who did it?”
“Who did it is a mystery. Why Wickman’s arm was dismembered is less of a mystery.”
“It’s a message. Like I said, revenge.”
“Message? I would rather say it was a morbid joke. And perhaps an effort to confound the investigators, as well.”
Chambers grunted. A morbid joke? It made no sense, but then, Pendergast seemed to relish things that were nonsensical. “Tell me, Pendergast: what in the world did you discover in the ruins this morning? I couldn’t make rhyme or reason out of what you were doing.”
“I was trying to reconstruct the events and individuals on the scene immediately preceding the fire.”
“Did you?”
“Not nearly to my satisfaction.”
“So what did you find out, if anything?”
“The fire was not set for our benefit.”
“How do you know?”
“Because of the timing. It was set before they could have known we were coming.”
“Makes sense. And then?”
“It was set with an accelerant—ethanol.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Smell. Pure ethanol, my dear Chambers, is usually only obtainable with a license, and it is used liberally in surgery.”
“Right.”
“The person who set the fire was an MD. A surgeon, in fact.”
“Good Christ, how could you know that?”
“A charred surgical mask and the intact finger of a melted nitrile glove were both associated with the placing of the accelerant. One might conclude the fire was set by the very man who surgically removed Wickman’s arm and that of the other victim—or the surgeon assisting him.”
“And how could you know that?”
“Fresh blood on the nitrile glove tip.”
“You’re a regular Sherlock Holmes.”
“Further evidence, which I hope our good Dr. Bloom will note, is that both arms were removed by a true surgeon, not a first-year medical student or other dabbler in the surgical arts. There was nothing amateur about the incisions—they were done with self-assurance and reflexive skill. The unidentified victim was alive when his arm was removed; Wickman, however, was dead. In the latter case there was no need for precision—and yet the habits of a fine surgeon die hard. He couldn’t help making incisions that were instinctually expert. ”
“And what did he look like?” Chambers asked sarcastically.
“He’s short, possibly pusillanimous, and over fifty years of age.”
Chambers had to laugh. “Okay, so you found a hair, I suppose?”
“Indeed I did. Gray.”
“How do you know he’s short?”
“That I noted in the OR before the fire—the operating table height was set for a diminutive man.”
“And that other thing?”
“Pusillanimous. One man, submissive, did most of the surgical work. Another man, arrogant, observed and possibly gave instructions.”
“I suppose you’re going to tell me how you could possibly know that.”
“I noted another pair of discarded nitrile gloves on the far side of the operating room, flecked with blood. Next to them, on the floor, was a fine, dense fragment of a cigar ash, which, when picked up, gave off the faintest scent of Montecristo. This gentleman’s assistance in the procedure seemed to take place only at the start.
Then he stood back, smoking a cigar—in an operating room!
—and as I said, perhaps gave instructions.
Any man who lights up a cigar in an operating room while a surgery is in progress is surely arrogant. Not only arrogant—but whimsical.”
“What are you talking about?”
“And I would hazard to guess it was that same sense of whimsy that prompted him to have both arms removed. This is what I mean by it being a morbid joke.”
“Anything else? You seem awfully sure.”
“The arms of both victims were amputated by the same surgeon. Wickman normally performed the operations himself, but he certainly did not remove his own arm. Instead, he brought his victim to the house alive and had the surgeon remove his arm—while the man was still living, but likely under anesthesia.”
“Strange.”
“Strange indeed. Clearly, this operation was planned ahead of time. Wickman must have been in contact with the surgeon before he himself arrived with the victim. We know this because the operating room was set up and ready to go at the time of his arrival, when he delivered the victim to them.”
“And then?”
“Then they removed the unknown victim’s arm while he was alive…
and killed him. At around the same time, Wickman was killed on the operating table, his arm removed postmortem.
In other words, both were conveniently murdered on the operating table.
And then they threw the bodies into the swamp, where they would surely be discovered. ”
While he’d been answering Chambers’s questions, Pendergast had been watching Bloom proceed, apparently now with little interest. Suddenly, he turned to Chambers.
“Why make no effort to get rid of the bodies—why not leave them to burn in the mansion, fully destroying the evidence? Because those responsible did not care if they were found. It might even have suited their purposes. Why did Wickman call for a surgeon and then, apparently, submit to anesthesia himself? Because he wanted them to perform a surgical procedure he could not perform on his own. And what might that procedure have been?” Pendergast paused, then finished with great relish: “To amputate his right arm and surgically replace it with the arm of his victim!”
“That’s some crazy shit. So why the hell did he cut off so many arms before doing this?”
“He was searching for the perfect replacement, of course.”
“Jesus. And… who the hell are his accomplices?”
“Agent Chambers, that answer lies in his past, a journey we must now undertake.”