The Monarch (6 page)

 

6

NYC Office of the Chief Medical Examiner

10:15
P.M.
Local Time

S
AC
J
OSEPH
W
AGNER
pushed through the cold metal doors into the OCME's morgue. Cummings's body lay on a metal table against the far wall. The room was chilled but not terribly uncomfortable. It was actually a little warmer than the frosty April night outside the First Street building. Wagner noticed Dr. Spangler hadn't started the autopsy yet; the familiar Y incision so Cummings's torso could be peeled open like an orange was absent. Several X-­rays hung on light boards on the wall above the corpse.

“Cecil! You back there?” Wagner called, easing by the corpse and staring at the X-­rays. He couldn't tell a rib from a finger, but the sight of that tube within the corpse's chest cavity was bizarre.

“I'm right here, Joseph. No need to shout,” Dr. Spangler said, coming out from his office in the back. He was dressed in a rubberized smock, his hands encased in rubber gloves of the same green latex. A visor was on his balding head, the see-­through face plate raised up.

“Sorry,” Wagner said, putting away his reflex to shake hands when he saw what Spangler was wearing. “Haven't started yet?”

“I started an hour ago. I just finished moving cadavers around and making apologetic phone calls to the NYPD, CIA, and several insurance companies. Do you have any idea how many cases were in front of this one? I don't like being pressured. You might mention that to Director Matthews the next time you see him.”

“I'll be sure to—­” Wagner started to say before a voice came from behind him.

“Duly noted, Doctor.”

Director Matthews was in the doorway. Among the ­people behind him was NYPD chief of police Marvin Powers. The only one in the crowd who looked halfway happy was Evans. Wagner knew the more the shit flew the happier Evans got.
He must be delirious with this one
.

The crowd moved into the room, revealing another crowd behind them of lower echelon cops and agents. With the press swarming the lobby, Wagner wondered if they were breaking some New York by-­law ordinance.

“Whoa, whoa,” Spangler said, holding up his hands to stop the audience trying to form a U around the corpse for a good vantage point of the coming dissection. “About half of you need to leave.”

Standing by the corpse, Wagner noticed he wasn't included in the challenge. He thought that made sense, since it was only
his
career riding on this case.

Matthews sent Evans back out, but refused to reduce the numbers any further. Wagner knew Matthews would love to send Chief Powers out as well, but he'd probably had enough shit storms for one day. Even so, he was pretty sure clear weather was still a long way off.

Matthews and Powers joined Wagner beside the corpse, Powers staring first at the X-­rays and then at the tube protruding from the corpse's mouth.

“Anytime you're ready, Doc,” Matthews said.

Spangler looked at Wagner and then shrugged. He picked up his pneumatic saw and revved the motor a few times before pulling his visor down over his face.

“You might want to back up a bit, gentlemen,” Spangler said. He powered the saw and sliced into Bob Cummings's dead flesh.

Several minutes later, secrets even Cummings himself hadn't known were on display for all to see. Matthews looked bored, but Powers looked like he'd just been on a long sea journey. He was an administrator, not a street cop. Wagner thought he belonged in here about as much as the press.

“To preserve the corpse, I'm not going to fully expose the object,” Spangler said, putting down his saw. “We can continue what the killer couldn't finish and just slide it out. Carefully.” Spangler slipped his hands under the tube like it was a giant stick of unstable dynamite.

“Very carefully, Doctor,” Matthews said, stepping forward. “It must come out intact.”

“And so it shall,” Spangler said without looking up. Matthews obviously didn't intimidate him at all. Wagner wondered what a world like that was like. “Joseph, could you help me?”

Wagner didn't move. He was fine with watching an autopsy, but he had no desire to touch the bastard.

“Oh come now. A big strong man like you afraid of little old dead body? I find that hard to believe,” Spangler teased. Wagner would have let him tease on and not have moved, but then he saw Matthews's stare. Worse, he saw Powers regaining his composure and attempting a grin.

“What do you need me to do?” Wagner asked, stepping forward.

“Pry open his mouth and feed the last bit of the object down his throat. Make sure it doesn't catch on anything.”

“Okay.”

“As soon as we're done, we're taking it over there, to the basin to rinse off the bodily fluids before they do any more damage.”

“Right,” Wagner said, reaching for Cummings's jaw with his bare hands.

“Wait!” Spangler shouted. Wagner almost jumped. The only thing that made it worth it was the yip that came from Powers.

“What?”

“Put on the gloves behind you first. In the box.”

Wagner did. He found it a lot harder than he thought it would be. When he was finally ready, he gripped the corpse's jaw in his hands, trying to ignore how cold the flesh was even through the gloves.

“And . . . now,” Spangler said softly as he pulled the object. Wagner widened the corpse's bite and carefully fed the end down into his ruined throat. It was the strangest last meal he'd ever seen.

With little trouble, the object came free of the corpse. Spangler carried it over to the basin, sprayed it with cool water, and immediately patted it dry with a few soft towels. He leaned in and raised his visor to get a better look at the object.

“My word,” Spangler said. The other men came around and stood over the table. “Hold down the edges, Joseph, while I unroll it.”

“Gently, right,” Wagner said.

“Even more so than before,” Spangler answered. Wagner held the edges down and Spangler unrolled the object until it was completely flat. Everyone bobbed their heads back as if they were too close to see it properly.

“Jesus,” Wagner said.

“Son of a bitch,” Powers said.

“Magnificent,” Spangler said.

“What the fuck are we looking at?” Evans, who had snuck back in the room, said from behind them. No one chastised him.

After a moment they all turned slowly in unison and looked at the opened corpse. Then at the same time, they turned and looked back at the object. When their silence stretched on into minutes, Wagner finally shook himself back to reality.

“Get that curator down here, Mike. And I mean now,” Wagner said.

“Check,” Evans said, heading out and almost running into a guy in T-­shirt and jeans, wearing an NYPD gold detective's badge clipped to his belt.

“Sir?” Everyone turned to the door. and Wagner realized the detective was talking to Powers.

“What is it?” Powers asked.

“Uh, there's a problem with
the package
, Chief,” the detective said, eyeballing everyone in the room as if he were asking for privacy.

“Out with it. We're all on the same side here,” Powers said. Wagner knew of at least two ­people in the room who wanted to disagree with that.

“Well, Detective Minelli just called. He's had a little problem.”

“Damn it, man. What kind of problem?” Powers's anger was palpable and seemed to be pushing the detective farther into the hallway. Wagner knew he just didn't want to look foolish in front of them. He also knew it was too late for that.

“He . . . he lost her, sir.”

Powers winced and exhaled. When he opened his eyes, Matthews and Wagner were staring at him.

“Don't worry. I'll take care of this personally,” Powers said, heading out of the room.

“See that you do, Chief,” Matthews said. And the way he said it kept Powers from replying with anything but a nod.

“Goddamn amateurs,” Wagner said.

“We've got a bigger problem than him,” Matthews said.

“Such as?”

“The press. If they find Miss Burrows before we do, they'll run with this harder than Obama's birth certificate. We'll never be able to control the release of the story.”

Wagner knew of a ­couple tabloid reporters who were running with the story based on the envelope contents alone already. The only reason it hadn't hit the airwaves in full force yet was that the bigger broadcast news outfits were running the contents of the file folder past their legal departments. But time was running out.

In a matter of hours the killer would have a nickname.

And a following.

D
ESPITE THE DAMAGE
Cummings's bodily fluids had done to the edges of the painting, Wagner found it beautiful and sad at the same time. The group of medieval judges on horseback in the foreground seemed to be milling around in a confined space, waiting for something; the cliff and castles in the background overlooked and judged the judges. But what was most peculiar was the way they all looked off the canvas at something. Wagner wished he knew what they were looking at, but at the same time he was somehow glad he didn't.

After he and Matthews brought the painting down to the Crime Scene Reconstruction Room where it could hang to dry away from prying eyes while they waited for the Cloisters curator, Benoit, to show up, they'd stepped back, sat down, and had been staring at it in reverent silence ever since.

“Joan and I saw this on our trip to Belgium a few years ago,” Matthews said. It was weird, because just then Wagner had been thinking about
his
wife, Patti. He couldn't wait to get away from this thing.

“Yeah?” Wagner said. He was a little tired of hearing about their globetrotting. He and Patti went to Florida every few years. They stayed at the same motel and ate at the same restaurants. He liked it that way. And he didn't bore anyone with the details.

“Somehow it seemed . . .” Matthews leaned forward. “Smaller.”

“That's spatial reference,” a voice behind them said. They turned around and saw Evans with Benoit. The curator wasn't looking at them, but was transfixed by the painting. Even so, he waved his hands and stepped closer to it as he spoke. “You no doubt saw it in its proper context.
The Just Judges
is actually part of a polyptych known as the Ghent Altarpiece. Officially, the title of the piece is
The Adoration of the Mystic Lamb
, in reference to the central painting. It was probably closed when you saw it, Director. In its full glory, when opened, the polyptych consists of twelve separate paintings.

“But this panel is the most infamous. And it would seem its lore is not quite over yet.”

“A polyptych?” Wagner said.

“A work made up of several paintings on a set of hinged panels that can open and close,” Matthews said.

“Very good, Director,” Benoit said. Wagner thought the compliment pissed Matthews off more than it fluffed his ego.

“Okay,” Wagner said. “Then how did
part
of a painting from Belgium get inside our friend upstairs?”

“The real
Just Judges
was stolen in 1934,” the curator said, moving closer to the painting. “A replica was painted to take its place in the polyptych for display.”

“Makes sense. Easier to explain a fake than it is to explain a big friggin' hole,” Evans said.

Wagner said, “That still doesn't—­”

“The replica is on loan to The Cloisters,” Benoit said, finally turning around to face the trio of FBI agents. “I can't tell you what was involved in even getting the replica here. I'm sorry for what happened to Mr. Cummings, of course, but this is a tragedy of grander proportions. I can just imagine what Belgium is going to say when I call them and tell them we didn't even notice it was missing.”

“I'm sure Cummings would feel for you. If he could feel,” Evans said.

“The killer must have knowledge of the art world, then,” Matthews said, “if he grabbed the one painting that was worthless to use as the murder weapon.” Wagner knew what Matthews was really saying was that the museum staff was back on the suspect list.

“Oh my, Director, it may be a replica, but it's by no means worthless. It's certainly not worth the millions the original would be if it ever turned up, but private collectors would pay tens of thousands for the replica if it ever went up for auction. Which now, I'm afraid, is a moot consideration,” Benoit said.

“
Tens
of thousands?” Evans said.

“Maybe more,” Benoit said. He kept looking at them, but Wagner could tell he wanted to turn back to the painting. Wagner exchanged a glance with Matthews and knew they were both thinking the same thing, but it was Evans who voiced it for them.

“Somebody really wanted to make a loud noise we couldn't ignore with this one. A television personality vic and an expensive painting as the murder weapon.”

Mozart's Requiem broke the room's mood as it played from Benoit's pocket. The curator took his cell phone out and looked at Matthews. The director nodded and Benoit answered it, turning away from them for privacy.

“Director?” an agent said from the door. Matthews excused himself.

“Any sign of the Burrows woman?” Wagner asked Evans when they were alone.

“Nada. NYPD is setting the town on fire looking for her, though. Have to give them points for that.” Wagner expected Evans to try to save face for the cops. “So, you okay on this?” Evans asked, nodding toward Matthews.

“Not even a little,” Wagner said. Matthews returned, his face saying good news wasn't on the agenda. “What?”

“MBC-­News got the go ahead from their lawyers. FBI counsel got most of the package declined for now, but they're hitting the air in an hour with a piece on the murders. Time's up.”