Cold Vengeance (22 page)

Newly-Discovered Letter Sheds Light on 19th-Century Killings

By WILLIAM SMITHBACK JR.

N
EW
Y
ORK
—October 8. A letter has been found in the archives of the New York Museum of Natural History that may help explain the grisly charnel discovered in lower Manhattan early last week.

In that discovery, workmen constructing a residential tower at the corner of Henry and Catherine Streets unearthed a basement tunnel containing the remains of thirty-six young men and women. Preliminary forensic analysis showed that the victims had been dissected, or perhaps autopsied, and subsequently dismembered. Preliminary dating of the site by an archaeologist, Nora Kelly, of the New York Museum of Natural History, indicated that the killings had occurred between 1872 and 1881, when the corner was occupied by a three-story building housing a private museum known as “J. C. Shottum’s Cabinet of Natural Productions and Curiosities.” The cabinet burned in 1881, and Shottum died in the fire.

In subsequent research, Dr. Kelly discovered the letter, which was written by J. C. Shottum himself. Written shortly before Shottum’s death, it describes his uncovering of the medical experiments of his lodger, a taxonomist and chemist by the name of Enoch Leng. In the letter, Shottum alleged that Leng was conducting surgical experiments on human subjects, in an attempt to prolong his own life.

The human remains were removed to the Medical Examiner’s office and have been unavailable for examination. The basement tunnel was subsequently destroyed by Moegen-Fairhaven, Inc., the developer of the tower, during normal construction activities.

One article of clothing was preserved from the site, a dress, which was brought to the Museum for examination by Dr. Kelly. Sewn into the dress, Dr. Kelly found a piece of paper, possibly a note of self-identification, written by a young woman who apparently believed she had only a short time to live: “I am Mary Greene, agt [sic] 19 years, No. 16 Watter [sic] Street.” Tests indicated the note had been written in human blood.

The Federal Bureau of Investigation has taken an interest in the case. Special Agent Pendergast, from the New Orleans office, has been observed on the scene. Neither the New York nor the New Orleans FBI offices would comment.

No. 16 Watter Street
. Mary Greene had misspelled the street name—that was why he’d missed it before.

Felder read it once, then again, and then a third time. Then he sat back very slowly, gripping the arms of the chair so tightly that his knuckles hurt.

C
HAPTER 46

N
INE STORIES, AND EXACTLY ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY FEET
, below Dr. Felder’s table in the Main Reading Room, Special Agent Aloysius Pendergast was listening intently to the ancient bibliophile researcher known as Wren. If Wren had a first name, nobody—including Pendergast—knew what it was. Wren’s entire history—where he lived, where he’d come from, what exactly he did every night and most days in the deepest sublevels of the library—was a mystery. Years without sunlight had faded his skin to the color of parchment, and he smelled faintly of dust and binding paste. His hair stuck out from his head in a halo of white, and his eyes were as black and bright as a bird’s. But for all his eccentric appearance, he had two assets Pendergast prized above all others: a unique gift for research, and a profound knowledge of the New York Public Library’s seemingly inexhaustible holdings.

Now, perched upon a huge stack of papers like a scrawny Buddha, he spoke quickly and animatedly, punctuating his speech with sudden, sharp gestures. “I’ve traced her lineage,” he was saying. “Traced it very carefully,
hypocrite lecteur
. And it was quite a job, too—the family seems to have been at pains to keep details of their bloodline private. Thank God for the Heiligenstadt Aggregation.”

“The Heiligenstadt Aggregation?” Pendergast repeated.

Wren gave a short nod. “It’s a world genealogy collection, given to the library in the early 1980s by a rather eccentric genealogist based in Heiligenstadt, Germany. The library didn’t really want it, but when the collector also donated millions to, ah, ‘endow’ the collection, they accepted it. Needless to say it was immediately stuffed away in a deep, dark corner to languish. But you know me and deep, dark corners.” He cackled and gave an affectionate pat to a four-foot stack of lined computer printouts sitting next to him. “It’s especially comprehensive when it comes to German, Austrian, and Estonian families—which helped tremendously.”

“Very interesting,” Pendergast said with ill-concealed impatience. “Perhaps you will enlighten me as to your discoveries?”

“Of course. But—” and here the little man paused—“I’m afraid you’re not going to like what I have to tell you.”

Pendergast’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “My preferences are irrelevant. Details, please.”

“Certainly, certainly!” Wren, clearly having a marvelous time, rubbed his hands together. “One lives for details!” He gave the tower of computer printouts another fatherly pat. “Wolfgang Faust’s mother was Helen’s great-grandmother. The lineage goes like this. Helen’s mother, Leni, married András Esterházy, who as it happens was also a doctor. Both Helen’s parents have been dead for some time.” He hesitated. “Did you know, by the way, that Esterhazy is a very ancient and noble Hungarian name? During the reign of the Hapsburgs—”

“Shall we leave the Hapsburgs for another time?”

“Very well.” Wren began ticking off details on his long, yellow fingernails. “Helen’s grandmother was Mareike Schmid née von Fuchs. Wolfgang Faust was Mareike’s sister. The relative they shared was Helen’s great-grandmother, Klara von Fuchs. Note the matrilineal succession.”

“Go on,” Pendergast said.

Wren spread his hands. “In other words, Dr. Wolfgang Faust, war criminal, SS doctor at Dachau, Nazi fugitive in South America… was your wife’s great-uncle.”

Pendergast did not appear to react.

“I’ve drawn up a little family tree.”

Pendergast took the piece of paper, covered with scribbles, and folded it into his suit jacket without glancing at it.

“You know, Aloysius…” Wren’s voice petered off.

“Yes?”

“Just this once, I almost wish that my research had been a failure.”

C
HAPTER 47

Coral Creek, Mississippi

N
ED
B
ETTERTON PULLED INTO THE PARKING LOT
of YouSave Rent-A-Car and sprang out of the driver’s seat. He walked briskly toward the building, a broad smile on his face. For the last couple of days, fresh revelations had been practically tumbling into his lap. And one of those revelations was this: Ned Betterton was a damn good reporter. His years of covering Rotary luncheons, church socials, PTA meetings, funerals, and Memorial Day parades had been better training than two years at Columbia J School. Amazing. Kranston had started to scream bloody murder about the time he was spending on the story, but he’d temporarily shut the old man up by taking a vacation. There was nothing Kranston could do about it. The old bastard should have hired a second reporter years ago. It was his own fault if he was left covering everything himself.

He grasped the handle of the glass door, pulled it open. Now it was time to play another hunch—and see if his luck was still holding.

Inside, at one of the two red counters, Hugh Fourier was just finishing up with a late-afternoon customer. Betterton had shared a dorm room with Fourier during their sophomore year at Jackson State, and now Fourier ran the only rent-a-car place within seventy miles of Malfourche—another nice coincidence that convinced Betterton he was still on a roll.

He waited as Fourier handed a set of keys and a folded sheaf of papers to the customer, then stepped up to the desk.

“Hiya, Ned!” Fourier said, the professional smile morphing into a far more genuine one as he recognized his old roommate. “How’s tricks?”

“Getting on,” Betterton said, shaking the proffered hand.

“Any breaking stories you’d care to share? A scoop on the spelling bee at the middle school, maybe?” Fourier chuckled at his own witticism.

Betterton laughed gamely. “How are things in the rental car game?”

“Busy. Really busy. And with Carol out sick today, I’ve been running around like a one-legged man at an ass-kicking contest.”

Betterton forced himself to laugh at that one, too, remembering Hugh considered himself the class cut-up. He wasn’t surprised to hear YouSave had been busy—with Gulfport-Biloxi International undergoing some major renovations, business at the local airport had picked up considerably.

“See any of the old crowd from Jackson?” Fourier asked as he stacked and squared a pile of paperwork.

They chatted about old times for a few minutes before Betterton got around to business. “Hey, Hugh,” he said, bending forward over the counter. “I wonder if you could do me a favor.”

“Sure. What do you want? I can get you a great weekly rate on a convertible.” Fourier chuckled again.

“I was curious whether a certain individual might have rented a car from you.”

Fourier’s smile faded. “A certain individual? Why do you want to know?”

“I’m a reporter.”

“Jesus, this isn’t for a story, is it? Since when did you start doing hard news?”

Betterton shrugged as nonchalantly as he could. “It’s just something I’m following up.”

“You know I can’t give you information about our clients.”

“I’m not looking for a lot of information.” Betterton leaned still closer. “Listen. I’ll describe the guy. Tell you what he was driving. All I want to know is his name and where he flew in from.”

Fourier frowned.

“I don’t know about this…”

“I swear I’ll keep you and YouSave out of the story completely.”

“Man, this is asking a lot. Confidentiality is really big in our business—”

“The guy was foreign. Speaks with some kind of European accent. Tall, thin. He had a mole below one eye. Wore an expensive raincoat or trench coat. He’d have rented a dark blue Ford Fusion—probably on October twenty-eighth.”

A look crossed Fourier’s face, and Betterton immediately knew he’d struck gold. “You remember him. Right?”

“Ned—”

“Come on, Hugh.”

“I can’t.”

“Look, you can see how much I know about the guy already. I just need this little bit more from you. Please.”

Fourier hesitated. Then he sighed. “Yeah. I remember him. Just as you describe. A heavy accent, German.”

“And this was the twenty-eighth?”

“Guess so. It was a week or two back.”

“Can you check?” Betterton hoped that, if he could get Fourier to enter the information into his terminal, he might sneak a glance at the results.

But Fourier didn’t bite. “No, I can’t.”

Oh, well.
“And a name?”

Fourier hesitated again. “It was… Falkoner. Conrad Falkoner, I think. No—Klaus Falkoner.”

“And where was he coming from?”

“Miami. Dixie Airlines.”

“How do you know? Did you see the ticket?”

“We ask the customers to give us their arrival flight, so in the case of a delay we can hold the reservation.”

Fourier’s face had closed down and Betterton knew he’d get nothing more. “Okay, thanks, Hugh. I owe you one.”

“Yes, you do.” As another customer came in, Fourier turned away with evident relief.

Sitting in his Nissan in the YouSave parking lot, Betterton fired up his laptop, ensured his wireless connection was good, and then made a quick canvass of the Dixie Airlines website. He noticed they had only two flights into the local airport each day, one from Miami and another from New York. They arrived within an hour of each other.

He was wearing a fancy raincoat, like you see in those spy movies
. That’s what Billy B. had said.

Another quick check of the web informed him that October 28 had been a hot and sunny day in Miami. In New York, however, it had been cold with heavy rain.

So the man—Betterton was almost convinced he was the killer—had lied about where he’d come from. Not surprising. Of course, it was possible he’d lied about the airline as well, maybe given a phony name. But that seemed to be carrying paranoia too far.

Thoughtfully, he shut down his laptop. Falkoner had come from New York and Pendergast was living in New York. Were they in league? Pendergast sure as hell wasn’t in Malfourche on official business, not with blowing up a bar and sinking a bunch of boats on his agenda. And this NYPD captain… New York City cops had a reputation for corruption and for being involved in the drug trade. He started to see the big picture: the Mississippi River, the burned-out lab in the swamp, the New York connection, the brutal and execution-style killing of the Brodies, corrupt law enforcement…

Damn if this wasn’t about a major drug operation.

That did it: he was going to New York. He plucked his cell phone from his pocket, dialed.

“
Ezerville Bee
,” came a shrill voice. “Janine speaking.”

“Janine, it’s Ned.”

“Ned! How’s the vacation going?”

“Educational, thanks.”

“Are you going to be back at work tomorrow? Mr. Kranston needs somebody to cover the rib-eating contest over at the—”

“Sorry, Janine, I’m going to extend my vacation by a couple of days.”

A pause. “Well, when are you coming back?”

“Not sure. Maybe three days, maybe four. I’ll let you know. I still have a week coming to me.”

“Yeah, but I’m not sure Mr. Kranston sees it that way…” Her voice trailed off.

“See you.” Betterton snapped the phone shut before she could say anything more.