“I see a very unusual cadaver,” Marion Gilbert replied. “I-”
“Are those chopsticks?” Pinker interrupted.
She nodded.
“Are they the cause of death?” Simmons asked.
“I don’t see any other.” She pointed to broken skin on the left temple. “I doubt that blow would have done more than knock her out briefly. Assuming the chopsticks penetrated the brain, they would certainly have caused major trauma. I think they’re ivory, which is strong enough to do the job. I suspect they were sharpened to ease penetration.”
Pinker groaned. “Thanks for that, Doc.” He looked at his partner. “Two murder weapons like the others…but not skewers.”
Clem Simmons nodded. “And no paper with drawings on it. We need to turn her over.”
Marion Gilbert nodded to her assistants and they slowly turned the victim onto her front, keeping her face off the chair.
“No diagram there, either,” Pinker said, exhaling rapidly. “With the change in murder weapons, that gives us a chance of keeping the case.”
The M.E. looked at him and then shook her head. “I rather doubt that, Detective.” She pointed to the table at the far end of the room.
The two men went over. There was a pile of cards at one corner. They were larger than the ordinary playing kind. In the center were three more, arranged in a row, and next to them, in a clear plastic sheath, was a piece of paper. An array of squares and rectangles had been drawn on it in black ink.
“Shit,” said Pinker. “More squares and rectangles.”
“I’m guessing the killer didn’t waste time attaching this to the vic after she screamed,” Simmons said. He bent closer and took in the tarot cards. “Death, the Devil and the Seven of Swords.”
Gerard Pinker squinted at the garishly colored and grotesque illustrations. “You know what they mean, Clem?”
“Not really,” his partner said. “The Devil and Death are obvious enough.”
“Actually, they aren’t.”
The men turned to find that Dr. Gilbert had joined them.
“Tarot is a hobby of mine,” she said, smiling briefly. “The Devil may appear to fit the pattern of the occult murders, but the card actually has more to do with the subject being bound by fear and temptation, by material things or addictive behavior. Negative thinking is in there, too.”
“There’s nothing more negative than being murdered,” Pinker interposed.
The M.E. shook her head. “No, that isn’t it. I think this shows that the killer is rather ignorant of the tarot.” She paused. “Assuming it was the killer who arranged the cards, of course. The victim might have laid them out before her death.”
Simmons was watching the M.E. curiously. “What about the other cards?”
Marion Gilbert pointed at the skeletal horseman. “Death has to do with change, with new beginnings as much as with endings. As for the Seven of Swords, that suggests…could suggest greater knowledge on the part of the killer. The hooded man running off with the swords represents deception and subterfuge.”
“Plenty of that around here lately,” Pinker said. He looked at his partner. “So what are we saying happened here? The murderer hit the vic on the head and, while she was unconscious, arranged the cards?”
Simmons raised his shoulders. “Could be. Then Ms. Vileda came round and screamed before he could stop her. He left the diagram here and went to kill her, then ran out.” He looked back at the dead woman. The M.E.’s people had put her on her back again, and the chopsticks protruded from her face like a pair of ill-fitting teeth.
Just then, Peter Sebastian walked into the apartment wearing a white protective suit, its hood over his head. Dana Maltravers was behind him in a matching outfit.
“Aw, hell,” Pinker said, only partially muffling his voice. “Dickhead and Princess on parade.”
Thirty-Five
I went to the Woodbridge Holdings office, but I only walked past, making sure I didn’t attract attention. I wanted to take a look at the enemy’s lair-not that I knew who the enemy was exactly. I was planning to do some research into that. Then my cell vibrated against my thigh.
There was a text from Joe: “New occult murder reported. Watch yourself!”
That took the wind from my sails. Presumably Clem Simmons or some contact in the FBI had let him know. I wondered if there would be any evidence linking me to the murder this time. I had to move things along. That took me back to Karen. The case notes she’d brought from London were either with the FBI or had been returned to her office, so there was no accessing them. That left me with one option-the Internet.
I headed for Union Station and found a cafe. I bought a large coffee then I sat with my head in my hands, trying to concentrate. There was information in the depths of my memory-I was sure of that-but it wasn’t obliging right now.
I went back over the events since I’d escaped from the camp in Maine. What hadn’t I followed up? I remembered the underground building, the violence, the armed men and women in gray…and there it was-they had worn badges bearing the letters NANR. I had asked one of my pursuers what they stood for. What was the reply? It came back to me after some thought. North American National Revival. I typed the words into a search engine.
Thanks to the glorious lack of censorship on the Web, I found the organization in seconds. The problem was, the North American National Revival seemed to have nothing to do with anything in Maine. Its headquarters were in Butte, Montana, and its manifesto, riddled with spelling and grammatical mistakes, didn’t seem particularly offensive-it called for reductions in federal taxes, a halt to immigration, especially from Mexico, and more teaching of traditional Christian beliefs in schools and colleges. There was nothing overtly anti-government, and certainly no references to an armed wing or camps ringed with barbed wire. Then again, they would hardly have mentioned those in public. I went back to the site’s home page and clicked on “Local Centers.” Glory be-there was an address in Washington, D.C. I wrote it down and then logged on to a city map. I found that the location on Q Street was close to Dupont Circle Metro station. It was well into the evening and the office would probably be closed, but I decided to check it out all the same.
I got there in under half an hour. The building was a low-rise office block. Most of the lights were either dimmed or off, but it was brighter up on the second floor. A security guard was standing outside the glass doors.
“NANR?” I asked.
The elderly black man gave me an impenetrable look and then pointed to the elevators. “Second floor,” he said, with a brief shake of his head that attracted my attention.
I stepped closer. “What are they like? I’m a journalist.”
The guard eyed me for a few moments. “Wonderful people,” he said, the irony almost imperceptible. “Wouldn’t say a thing against them.”
“How about anything for them?”
“That neither,” he said, his lips almost forming into a smile. “Are you really a reporter?”
“I write a weekly column.” That wasn’t a lie, though he wouldn’t have heard of my London paper. Then again, I’d forgotten its name until recently. “On crime,” I added.
That got him interested. “Is that right, son? Well, the NANR is always saying it isn’t a criminal organization.” He looked around-we were still alone. “Some might not agree.”
“Why’s that?”
The security guard leaned closer. “I’ll tell you why. Because it’s run by the worst kind of racist pig-the kind who’s learned how to cover up what he thinks about people like me.”
That was interesting, but I needed more. “You got any examples of racist behavior?”
He shook his head. “No, they’re far too smart for that. I’m just going by my gut. The top man here, a guy called Larry Thomson, is the worst. He looks at me like I’m his best friend, but I know for sure he wants to hang me from the nearest tree.”