The Keepsake (11 page)

“How is this relevant to the investigation?”

“I just want you to understand the background of this institution, and what kind of legacy it carries. The Crispin Museum was paid for with blood. When you walk through that building, every gold coin you see, every piece of pottery, was paid for by a war somewhere. It’s a foul place, Maura, built by a family that hid its past. A family whose roots we’ll never know.”

“I know where you’re going with this. You’re going to tell me the Crispins have a demonic bloodline. That they’re descended from the biblical Nephilim.” She shook her head and laughed.

“Please. Not the Dead Sea Scrolls again.”

“Why do you think Madam X ended up in that museum?”

“I’m sure you have an answer.”

“I have a theory. I think she was a form of tribute. So was the shrunken head. They were donated by an admirer who understands exactly what the Crispin family represents.”

“The third victim wasn’t found in the museum. The body was placed in Dr. Pulcillo’s car.”

“She works for the museum.”

“And she’s now terrified. Her keys were stolen and someone sent her one hell of a gruesome gift.”

“Because she was an obvious go-between for the intended recipient, Simon Crispin.”

“No, I think Dr. Pulcillo
is
the intended recipient. She’s a strikingly pretty woman and she’s caught a killer’s eye. That’s what Jane believes as well.” She paused. “Why aren’t you talking to her about this? She’s the investigator. Why come to me?”

“Detective Rizzoli’s mind is closed to alternative theories.”

“Meaning she’s firmly grounded in reality.” Maura rose to her feet. “So am I.”

“Before you dismiss this out of hand, maybe you should know one more thing about the Crispin collection. The part of the collection that no one ever saw. It was kept hidden away.”

“Why?”

“Because it was so grotesque, so upsetting, that the family couldn’t afford to let the public know about it.”

“How do you know about this?”

“For years, there were rumors about it in the antiquities market. About six years ago, Simon Crispin put it up for private auction. It seems he’s been quite the spendthrift and he’s managed to go through what was left of his family’s fortune. He needed to raise cash. He also needed to dispose of embarrassing and possibly illegal items. The truly disturbing part is, he actually found a buyer, whose name remains anonymous.”

“What did Crispin sell?”

“War trophies. I don’t mean army medals and rusty bayonets. I’m talking about rattles made with human teeth from Africa and severed ears from Japanese soldiers. A necklace strung with fingers and a jar with women’s…” He stopped. “It was a horrifying collection. The point is, I’m not the only one who knew about the Crispin family’s interest in grotesque souvenirs. Maybe this archaeology killer did, too. And he thought he’d contribute to their collection.”

“You believe they were gifts.”

“Tokens of admiration from some collector who donated a few of his own keepsakes to the museum. Where they’ve been sitting, forgotten.”

“Until now.”

Sansone nodded. “I think this mysterious donor has decided to resurface. He’s letting the world know that he’s still alive.” He added, quietly: “There may be more such gifts coming, Maura.”

Her kitchen telephone rang, shattering the silence. Startled, she felt her pulse give a kick as she rose from the chair. How easily Sansone was able to rattle her belief in a logical world. How quickly he could cast a shadow over a bright summer day. His paranoia was contagious, and she heard an ominous note to that ringing telephone, a warning that this call would bring unwelcome news.

But the voice that greeted her on the line was both familiar and pleasant. “Dr. Isles, this is Carter from the lab. I have some interesting GC-MS results.”

“On what?”

“Those tissue samples you sent us on Thursday.”

“From the body in the trunk? You’ve already done the gas chromatography?”

“I got a call to come into the lab for a weekend expedite. I thought you ordered it.”

“No, I didn’t.” She glanced over her shoulder at Sansone, who was watching her so closely that she felt compelled to turn away.

“Go on,” she said into the phone.

“I did a flash pyrolysis on the tissue sample, and I found ample presence of both collagenous and noncollagenous proteins when we examined it with gas chromatography and mass spectrometry. Whatever its age, this tissue is really well preserved.”

“I also requested a screen for tanning agents. Did you find any?”

“There aren’t any benzenediols present. That eliminates most known tanning agents. But it did detect a chemical called four-isopropenylphenol.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“I had to do some research myself. That chemical turns out to be a characteristic pyrolysis product of sphagnum moss.”

“Moss?”

“Yeah. Does that help you at all?”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “I think it does.”
It tells me exactly what I need to know.
She hung up and stood staring at the phone, stunned by the lab results. This was now beyond her sphere of knowledge, beyond anything she’d ever dealt with in the autopsy room, and she did not want to proceed without technical guidance.

“Maura?”

She turned to Sansone. “Can we continue this discussion another time? I need to make some phone calls.”

“May I make a suggestion before I leave? I know a gentleman you might want to contact. A Dr. Pieter Vandenbrink. I can put you in touch with him.”

“Why are you telling me about him?”

“You’ll find his name well represented on the Internet. Look up his curriculum vitae, and you’ll understand why.”

FIFTEEN

The TV news vans were back, and this time, there were more of them. Once a killer earns a nickname, he becomes public property, and every news station wanted a piece of the Archaeology Killer investigation.

Jane felt the all-seeing eyes of the cameras following her as she and Frost walked from the parking lot to the ME’s building. When she’d first made detective, she’d gotten a thrill seeing herself for the first time on the evening news. That thrill had long since faded, and these days she viewed reporters with irritation. Instead of mugging for the cameras, she walked with her head down and her shoulders rolled forward; on the six o’clock news tonight, she’d probably look like a hunchbacked troll in a blue blazer.

It was a relief to step inside the building and escape the invasive zoom lenses, but the worst ordeal lay ahead. As she and Frost made their way to the autopsy lab, she felt her muscles tensing, her stomach churning in anticipation of what they’d have to confront on the table today.

In the anteroom, Frost was unusually silent as they both donned gowns and shoe covers. Braving a glimpse through the window, she was relieved to see that the body was still covered by a drape, a brief reprieve before the horror. With a grim sense of duty, she pushed into the autopsy room.

Maura had just clipped X-rays onto the morgue viewing box, and the dental films of Jane Doe Number Three glowed against the backlight. She looked at the two detectives. “So what do you think of these?” she quizzed them.

“Those look like pretty good teeth,” said Jane.

Maura nodded. “There are two amalgam fillings here, plus one gold crown on the lower left molar. I see no caries, and there’s no alveolar bone loss to indicate any periodontal disease. Finally, there’s this detail.” Maura tapped a finger on the X-ray. “She’s missing both pre-molars.”

“You think they were pulled?”

“But there are no gaps between the teeth. And the roots of these incisors have been shortened and blunted.”

“And that means?”

“She’s had orthodontic work. She’s worn braces.”

“So we’re talking a well-to-do victim.”

“Certainly middle class, at the very least.”

“Hey, I never got braces.” Jane bared her teeth, revealing an irregular bottom row. “These, Doc, are middle-class teeth.” She pointed to the X-ray. “My dad couldn’t afford to pay for something like that.”

“Madam X had good teeth, too,” said Frost.

Maura nodded. “Both women had what I’d guess were privileged childhoods. Privileged enough to pay for good dental care and orthodontics.” She pulled down the dental film and reached for a new set, which twanged as she shoved them under the clips. The bones of the lower extremities now glowed on the light box.

“And here’s what else the two victims had in common.”

Jane and Frost simultaneously sucked in startled breaths. They needed no radiologist to interpret the damage they saw on those X-rays.

“It was done to both of her tibias,” said Maura. “With a blunt instrument of some kind. A hammer maybe, or a tire iron. We’re not talking about mere glancing blows on her shins. These were brutal and purposeful, meant to shatter bone. Both tibias have transverse diaphyseal fractures, with scattered fragments embedded in the soft tissue. The pain would have been excruciating. She certainly couldn’t have walked. I can’t imagine how she must have suffered over the days that followed. Infection probably set in, spreading from open wounds into soft tissues. Bacteria would have infiltrated bone, and eventually blood.”

Jane looked at her. “Did you say
days
?”

“These fractures wouldn’t have been fatal. Not immediately.”

“Maybe she was killed first. These could be postmortem mutilations.”
Please make them postmortem, and not what I’m imagining.

“I’m sorry to say that she lived,” said Maura. “For at least several weeks.” She pointed to a ragged outline, like a puff of white smoke surrounding the fractured bone. “This is callus formation. It’s the bone healing itself, and this doesn’t happen overnight, or even over a few days. It takes weeks.”

Weeks during which this woman had suffered. Weeks when it must have seemed far better to die. Jane thought of an earlier set of X-rays she’d seen hanging on this same light box. Another woman’s shattered leg, the fracture lines blurred by a fog of healing bone.

“Just like Madam X,” she said.

Maura nodded. “Neither of these victims was killed immediately. Both suffered crippling injuries to their lower extremities. Both lived for a while. Which means someone brought them food and water. Someone was keeping them alive, long enough for the first signs of healing to show up on these films.”

“It’s the same killer.”

“The patterns are too similar. This is part of his signature. First he maims them, maybe to ensure they can’t escape. Then as the days go by, he keeps them fed. And alive.”

“What the hell is he doing during that time? Enjoying their company?”

“I don’t know.”

Jane stared at shattered bone and felt a twinge in her own legs, just a shadow of the agony this victim must have endured. “You know,” she said softly, “when you first called me that night about Madam X, I thought it would be an old murder. A cold case, with a perp who was long dead. But if he’s the one who put this body in Ms. Pulcillo’s car…”

“He’s still alive, Jane. And he’s right here in Boston.”

The door to the anteroom swung open, and a silver-haired gentleman stepped in, tying on a surgical gown.

“Dr. Vandenbrink?” said Maura. “I’m Dr. Isles. I’m glad you could make it.”

“I hope you haven’t started yet.”

“We were waiting for you.”

The man came forward to shake her hand. He was in his sixties, cadaverously thin, but his deeply tanned face and eager stride revealed not sickness but lean good health. As Maura made the introductions, the man gave scarcely a glance at Jane and Frost—his attention was riveted instead on the table where the victim lay, her twisted form mercifully concealed by a drape. Clearly it was the dead, not the living, that most interested him.

“Dr. Vandenbrink is from the Drents Museum in Assen,” said Maura. “He flew in last night from the Netherlands, just for this autopsy.”

“And this is her?” he said, his gaze still on the draped body.

“Let’s take a look at her, then.”

Maura handed him a pair of gloves, and they both snapped on latex. Maura reached for the drape, and Jane steeled herself against the view as the sheet was peeled back.

Naked on stainless steel, exposed by bright lights, the contorted body looked like a charred and twisted branch. But it was the face that would forever haunt Jane, the features glossy as black carbon, frozen in a mortal scream.

Far from horrified, Dr. Vandenbrink instead leaned closer with a look of fascination. “She’s beautiful,” he murmured. “Oh yes, I’m glad you called me. This was certainly worth the trip.”

“You call that beautiful?” said Jane.

“I refer to her state of preservation,” he said. “For the moment, it’s almost perfect. But I’m afraid the flesh may start to decay now that it’s exposed to air. This is the most impressive modern example I’ve encountered. It’s rare to find a recent human subject that’s undergone this process.”

“Then you know how she got this way?”

“Oh yes. She’s very much like the others.”

“Others?”

He looked at Jane, his eyes so deep-set that she had the disturbing impression a skull was gazing back at her. “Have you ever heard of the Yde Girl, Detective?”

“No. Who is she?”

“Yde is a place. A village in the northern Netherlands. In 1897, two men from Yde were cutting peat, something that was traditionally dried and burned as fuel. And in the bog, they found something that terrified them. It was a female with long blond hair who had clearly been strangled. A long band of fabric was still wrapped three times around her neck. At first, the people of Yde didn’t understand what they were dealing with. She was so small and shrunken, they thought she was an old woman. Or perhaps a demon. But over time, as scientists came to look at her, they were able to learn more about the corpse. And they discovered that she was not an old woman when she died, but a girl of only about sixteen. A girl who had suffered from a crooked spine. A girl who was murdered. She was stabbed beneath the collarbone, and a band was tightened around her neck until she strangled. Then she was placed facedown in the bog, where she lay for centuries. Until those two peat cutters found her and revealed her to the world.”

“Centuries?”

Vandenbrink nodded. “Carbon fourteen dating tells us she’s two thousand years old. When Jesus walked the earth, that poor girl may already have been lying in her grave.”

“Even after two centuries, they could tell how she died?” said Frost.

“She was that well preserved, from her hair to the cloth around her neck. Oh, there was damage done to her body, but it had been inflicted far more recently, when she was dredged up with the peat. Enough of her was left intact to form a portrait of who she was. And how she must have suffered. That’s the miracle of bogs, Detective. They give us a window back in time. Hundreds of these bodies have been found in Holland and Denmark, Ireland and England. Each one is a time traveler, an unfortunate ambassador of sorts, sent to us from people who left no written records. Except for the cruelties they carved into their victims.”

“But this woman”—Jane nodded at the body on the table—

“she’s obviously not two thousand years old.”

“Yet her state of preservation is every bit as exquisite. Look, you can even see the ridges on her soles and her finger pads. And see how her skin is dark, like leather? Yet her features clearly tell us she’s Caucasian.” He looked at Maura. “I completely concur with your opinion, Dr. Isles.”

Frost said, “So you’re telling us this body was preserved in the same way as that girl in the Netherlands?”

Vandenbrink nodded. “What you have here is a modern bog body.”

“That’s why I called Dr. Vandenbrink,” said Maura. “He’s been studying bog bodies for decades.”

“Unlike Egyptian mummification techniques,” said Vandenbrink, “there’s no written record of how to make a bog body. This is a completely natural and accidental process that we don’t entirely understand.”

“Then how would the killer know how to do it?” Jane asked.

“Within the bog body community, there’s been quite a bit of discussion about just this topic.”

Jane gave a surprised laugh. “You have a community?”

“Of course. We have our own meetings, our own cocktail parties. A great deal of what we discuss is purely speculative. But we do have some hard science to back up the theories. We know, for instance, that there are several characteristics about bogs that contribute to corpse preservation. They’re highly acidic, they’re oxygen-poor, and they contain layers of sphagnum moss. These factors help arrest decomposition and preserve soft tissues. They darken the skin to the color you see in this body here. If allowed to steep for centuries, eventually this corpse’s bones will dissolve, leaving only the preserved flesh, leathery and completely flexible.”

“Is it the moss that does it?” asked Frost.

“It’s a vital part of the process. There’s a chemical reaction between bacteria and the polysaccharides found in sphagnum moss. Sphagnum binds bacterial cells so they can’t degrade organic materials. If you bind the bacteria, you can arrest decomposition. The whole process happens in an acidic soup that contains dead moss and tannins and holocellulose. In other words, bog water.”

“And that’s it? Just stick the body in bog water, and you’re done?”

“It’s a little more exacting than that. There’ve been several experiments using piglet cadavers in Ireland and the UK. These were buried in various peat bogs, then exhumed months later for study. Since pigs are biochemically similar to us, we can assume the results would be the same for humans.”

“And they turned into bog pigs?”

“If the conditions were just right. First, the pigs had to be completely submerged or they would decompose. Second, they had to be placed into the bog immediately after death. If you let the corpse sit exposed for just a few hours before you submerged it, it would go on to decompose anyway.”

Frost and Jane looked at each other. “So our perp couldn’t waste any time once he killed her,” said Jane.

Vandenbrink nodded. “She had to be submerged soon after death. In the case of European bog bodies, the victims must have been walked into the bog while still alive. And only then, at the water’s edge, were they murdered.”

Jane turned and looked at the brutally shattered tibias on the X-ray light box. “This victim couldn’t have walked anywhere with two broken legs. She’d have to be carried in. If you were the killer, you wouldn’t want to do that in the dark. Not if you’re walking through a bog.”

“So he does it in broad daylight?” said Frost. “Drags her from his car and hauls her to the water? He’d have to have the location picked out ahead of time. A place he knew he wouldn’t be seen, and close enough to a road so he wouldn’t have to carry her far.”

“There are other conditions required,” said Vandenbrink.

“What conditions?” asked Jane.

“The water must be deep enough and cold enough. Temperature matters. And it would have to be remote enough so the body wouldn’t be found until he was ready to claim her.”

“That’s a long list of conditions,” said Jane. “Wouldn’t it be easier just to fill a bathtub with water and peat moss?”

“How can you be certain you’d properly replicate the conditions? A bog is a complex ecosystem that we don’t fully understand, a chemical soup of organic matter that has to steep over centuries. Even if you manage to make that soup in a bathtub, you’d need to initially chill it to four degrees Celsius and hold it there for at least several weeks. Then the body would need to soak for months, perhaps years. How would you keep it concealed that long? Would there be odors? Suspicious neighbors?” He shook his head. “The ideal place is still a bog. A
real
bog.”

But those broken legs remained a problem. Whether the victim was alive or dead, she would need to be carried or dragged to the water’s edge, over terrain that might be muddy. “How big was she, do you think?” Jane asked.