{"id":4355,"date":"2026-01-04T00:21:00","date_gmt":"2026-01-04T00:21:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/keeping-the-dead-gerritsen-tess\/"},"modified":"2026-01-04T00:21:00","modified_gmt":"2026-01-04T00:21:00","slug":"keeping-the-dead-gerritsen-tess","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/keeping-the-dead-gerritsen-tess\/","title":{"rendered":"Keeping the Dead – Gerritsen, Tess"},"content":{"rendered":"
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Book Preview<\/h3>\n
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\nThe Keepsake<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

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\n Tess Gerritsen<\/span>
\n<\/span>\n<\/p>\n

say thanks to Please for this<\/p>\n

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\n

ONE<\/p>\n

He is coming for me.<\/p>\n

I feel it in my bones. I sniff it in the air, as recognizable as the scent of hot sand and savory spices and the sweat of a hundred men toiling in the sun. These are the smells of Egypt\u2019s western desert, and they are still vivid to me, although that country is nearly half a globe away from the dark bedroom where I now lie. Fifteen years have passed since I walked that desert, but when I close my eyes, in an instant I am there again, standing at the edge of the tent camp, looking toward the Libyan border, and the sunset. The wind moaned like a woman when it swept down the wadi. I still hear the thuds of pickaxes and the scrape of shovels, can picture the army of Egyptian diggers, busy as ants as they swarmed the excavation site, hauling their gufa baskets filled with soil. It seemed to me then, when I stood in that desert fifteen years ago, as if I were an actress in a film about someone else\u2019s adventure. Not mine. Certainly it was not an adventure that a quiet girl from Indio, California, ever expected to live.<\/p>\n

The lights of a passing car glimmer through my closed eyelids. When I open my eyes, Egypt vanishes. No longer am I standing in the desert gazing at a sky smeared by sunset the color of bruises. Instead I am once again half a world away, lying in my dark San Diego bedroom.<\/p>\n

I climb out of bed and walk barefoot to the window to look out at the street. It is a tired neighborhood of stucco tract homes built in the 1950s, before the American dream meant mini mansions and three-car garages. There is honesty in the modest but sturdy houses, built not to impress but to shelter, and I feel safely anonymous here. Just another single mother struggling to raise a recalcitrant teenage daughter.<\/p>\n

Peeking through the curtains at the street, I see a dark-colored sedan slow down half a block away. It pulls over to the curb, and the headlights turn off. I watch, waiting for the driver to step out, but no one does. For a long time the driver sits there. Perhaps he\u2019s listening to the radio, or maybe he\u2019s had a fight with his wife and is afraid to face her. Perhaps there are lovers in that car with nowhere else to go. I can formulate so many explanations, none of them alarming, yet my skin is prickling with hot dread.<\/p>\n

A moment later the sedan\u2019s taillights come back on, and the car pulls away and continues down the street.<\/p>\n

Even after it vanishes around the corner, I am still jittery, clutching the curtains in my damp hand. I return to bed and lie sweating on top of the covers, but I cannot sleep. Although it\u2019s a warm July night, I keep my bedroom window latched, and insist that my daughter, Tari, keeps hers latched as well. But Tari does not always listen to me.<\/p>\n

Every day, she listens to me less.<\/p>\n

I close my eyes and, as always, the visions of Egypt come back. It\u2019s always to Egypt that my thoughts return. Even before I stood on its soil, I\u2019d dreamed about it. At six years old, I spotted a photograph of the Valley of the Kings on the cover of National Geographic, feeling instant recognition, as though I were looking at a familiar, much-beloved face that I had almost forgotten. That was what the land meant to me, a beloved face I longed to see again.<\/p>\n

And as the years progressed, I laid the foundations for my return. I worked and studied. A full scholarship brought me to Stanford, and to the attention of a professor who enthusiastically recommended me for a summer job at an excavation in Egypt\u2019s western desert.<\/p>\n

In June, at the end of my junior year, I boarded a flight to Cairo.<\/p>\n

Even now, in the darkness of my California bedroom, I remember how my eyes ached from the sunlight glaring on white-hot sand. I smell the sunscreen on my skin and feel the sting of the wind peppering my face with desert grit. These memories make me happy. With a trowel in my hand and the sun on my shoulders, this was the culmination of a young girl\u2019s dreams.<\/p>\n

How quickly dreams become nightmares. I\u2019d boarded the plane to Cairo as a happy college student. Three months later, I returned home a changed woman.<\/p>\n

I did not come back from the desert alone. A monster followed me.<\/p>\n

In the dark, my eyelids spring open. Was that a footfall? A door creaking open? I lie on damp sheets, heart battering itself against my chest. I am afraid to get out of bed, and afraid not to.<\/p>\n

Something is not right in this house.<\/p>\n

After years of hiding, I know better than to ignore the warning whispers in my head. Those urgent whispers are the only reason I am still alive. I\u2019ve learned to pay heed to every anomaly, every tremor of disquiet. I notice unfamiliar cars driving up my street. I snap to attention if a co-worker mentions that someone was asking about me. I make elaborate escape plans long before I ever need them. My next move is already planned out. In two hours, my daughter and I can be over the border and in Mexico with new identities. Our passports, with new names, are already tucked away in my suitcase.<\/p>\n

We should have left by now. We should not have waited this long.<\/p>\n

But how do you convince a fourteen-year-old girl to move away from her friends? Tari is the problem; she does not understand the danger we\u2019re in.<\/p>\n

I pull open the nightstand drawer and take out the gun. It is not legally registered, and it makes me nervous, keeping a firearm under the same roof with my daughter. But after six weekends at the shooting range, I know how to use it.<\/p>\n

My bare feet are silent as I step out of my room and move down the hall, past my daughter\u2019s closed door. I conduct the same inspection that I have made a thousand times before, always in the dark. Like any prey, I feel safest in the dark.<\/p>\n

In the kitchen, I check the windows and the door. In the living room, I do the same. Everything is secure. I come back up the hall and pause outside my daughter\u2019s bedroom. Tari has become fanatical about her privacy, but there is no lock on her door, and I will never allow there to be one. I need to be able to look in, to confirm that she is safe.<\/p>\n

The door gives a loud squeak as I open it, but it won\u2019t wake her. As with most teenagers, her sleep is akin to a coma. The first thing I notice is the breeze, and I give a sigh. Once again, Tari has ignored my wishes and left her window wide open, as she has so many times before.<\/p>\n

It feels like sacrilege, bringing the gun into my daughter\u2019s bedroom, but I need to close that window. I step inside and pause beside the bed, watching her sleep, listening to the steady rhythm of her breathing. I remember the first time I laid eyes on her, red-faced and crying in the obstetrician\u2019s hands. I had been in labor eighteen hours, and was so exhausted I could barely lift my head from the pillow. But after one glimpse of my baby, I would have risen from bed and fought a legion of attackers to protect her. That was the moment I knew what her name would be. I thought of the words carved into the great temple at Abu Simbel, words chosen by Ramses the Great to proclaim his love for his wife.<\/p>\n

NEFERTARI, FOR WHOM THE SUN DOTH SHINE<\/p>\n

My daughter, Nefertari, is the one and only treasure that I brought back with me from Egypt. And I am terrified of losing her.<\/p>\n

Tari is so much like me. It\u2019s as if I am watching myself sleeping. When she was ten years old, she could already read hieroglyphs. At twelve, she could recite all the dynasties down to the Ptolemys. She spends her weekends haunting the Museum of Man. She is a clone of me in every way, and as the years pass there is no obvious trace of her father in her face or her voice or, most important of all, her soul. She is my daughter, mine alone, untainted by the evil that fathered her.<\/p>\n

But she is also a normal fourteen-year-old girl, and this has been a source of frustration these past weeks as I\u2019ve felt darkness closing in around us, as I lie awake every night, listening for a monster\u2019s footsteps. My daughter is oblivious to the danger because I have hidden the truth from her. I want her to grow up strong and fearless, a warrior woman who is unafraid of shadows. She does not understand why I pace the house late at night, why I latch the windows and double-check the doors. She thinks I am a worrywart, and it\u2019s true: I do all the worrying for both of us, to preserve the illusion that all is right with the world.<\/p>\n

That is what Tari believes. She likes San Diego and she looks forward to her first year in high school. She\u2019s managed to make friends here, and heaven help the parent who tries to come between a teenager and her friends. She is as strong-willed as I am, and were it not for her resistance, we would have left town weeks ago.<\/p>\n

A breeze blows in the window, chilling the sweat on my skin.<\/p>\n

I set the gun down on the nightstand and cross to the window to close it. For a moment I linger, breathing in cool air. Outside, the night has fallen silent, except for a mosquito\u2019s whine. A prick stings my cheek. The significance of that mosquito bite does not strike me until I reach up to slide the window shut. I feel the icy breath of panic rush up my spine.<\/p>\n

There is no screen over the window. Where is the screen?<\/p>\n

Only then do I sense the malevolent presence. While I stood lovingly watching my daughter, it was watching me. It has always been watching, biding its time, waiting for its chance to spring. Now it has found us.<\/p>\n

I turn and face the evil.<\/p>\n

\n

TWO<\/p>\n

Dr. Maura Isles could not decide whether to stay or to flee.<\/p>\n

She lingered in the shadows of the Pilgrim Hospital parking lot, well beyond the glare of the klieg lights, beyond the circle of TV cameras. She had no wish to be spotted, and most local reporters would recognize the striking woman whose pale face and bluntly cut black hair had earned her the nickname Queen of the Dead. As yet no one had noticed Maura\u2019s arrival, and not a single camera was turned in her direction. Instead, the dozen reporters were fully focused on a white van that had just pulled up at the hospital\u2019s lobby entrance to unload its famous passenger. The van\u2019s rear doors swung open and a lightning storm of camera flashes lit up the night as the celebrity patient was gently lifted out of the van and placed onto a hospital gurney. This patient was a media star whose newfound fame far outshone any mere medical examiner\u2019s. Tonight Maura was merely part of the awestruck audience, drawn here for the same reason the reporters had converged like frenzied groupies outside the hospital on a warm Sunday night.<\/p>\n

All were eager to catch a glimpse of Madam X.<\/p>\n

Maura had faced reporters many times before, but the rabid hunger of this mob alarmed her. She knew that if some new prey wandered into their field of vision, their attention could shift in an instant, and tonight she was already feeling emotionally bruised and vulnerable. She considered escaping the scrum by turning around and climbing back into her car. But all that awaited her at home was a silent house and perhaps a few too many glasses of wine to keep her company on a night when Daniel Brophy could not. Lately there were far too many such nights, but that was the bargain she had struck by falling in love with him. The heart makes its choices without weighing the consequences. It doesn\u2019t look ahead to the lonely nights that follow.<\/p>\n

The gurney carrying Madam X rolled into the hospital, and the wolf pack of reporters chased after it. Through the glass lobby doors, Maura saw bright lights and excited faces, while outside in the parking lot she stood alone.<\/p>\n

She followed the entourage into the building.<\/p>\n

The gurney rolled through the lobby, past hospital visitors who stared in astonishment, past excited hospital staff waiting with their camera phones to snap photos. The parade moved on, turning down the hallway and toward Diagnostic Imaging. But at an inner doorway, only the gurney was allowed through. A hospital official in suit and tie stepped forward and blocked the reporters from going any farther.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m afraid we\u2019ll have to stop you right here,\u201d he said. \u201cI know you all want to watch this, but the room\u2019s very small.\u201d He raised his hands to silence the disappointed grumbles. \u201cMy name is Phil Lord. I\u2019m the public relations officer for Pilgrim Hospital, and we\u2019re thrilled to be part of this study, since a patient like Madam X comes along only every, well, two thousand years.\u201d He smiled at the expected laughter. \u201cThe CT scan won\u2019t take long, so if you\u2019re willing to wait, one of the archaeologists will come out immediately afterward to announce the results.\u201d He turned to a pale man of about forty who\u2019d retreated into a corner, as though hoping he would not be noticed. \u201cDr. Robinson, before we start, would you like to say a few words?\u201d<\/p>\n

Addressing this crowd was clearly the last thing the bespectacled man wanted to do, but he gamely took a breath and stepped forward, nudging his drooping glasses back up the bridge of his beakish nose. This archaeologist bore no resemblance at all to Indiana Jones. With his receding hairline and studious squint, he looked more like an accountant caught in the unwelcome glare of the cameras. \u201cI\u2019m Dr. Nicholas Robinson,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019m curator at\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCould you speak up, Doctor?\u201d one of the reporters called out.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, sorry.\u201d Dr. Robinson cleared his throat. \u201cI\u2019m curator at the Crispin Museum here in Boston. We are immensely grateful that Pilgrim Hospital has so generously offered to perform this CT scan of Madam X. It\u2019s an extraordinary opportunity to catch an intimate glimpse into the past, and judging by the size of this crowd, you\u2019re all as excited as we are. My colleague Dr. Josephine Pulcillo, who is an Egyptologist, will come out to speak to you after the scan is completed. She\u2019ll announce the results and answer any questions then.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhen will Madam X go on display for the public?\u201d a reporter called out.<\/p>\n

\u201cWithin the week, I expect,\u201d said Robinson. \u201cThe new exhibit\u2019s already been built and\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAny clues to her identity?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy hasn\u2019t she been on display before?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCould she be royal?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d said Robinson, blinking rapidly under the assault of so many questions. \u201cWe still need to confirm it\u2019s a female.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou found it six months ago, and you still don\u2019t know the sex?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThese analyses take time.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOne glance oughta do it,\u201d a reporter said, and the crowd laughed.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s not as simple as you think,\u201d said Robinson, his glasses slipping down his nose again. \u201cAt two thousand years old, she\u2019s extremely fragile and she must be handled with great care. I found it nerve-racking enough just transporting her here tonight, in that van. Our first priority as a museum is preservation. I consider myself her guardian, and it\u2019s my duty to protect her. That\u2019s why we\u2019ve taken our time coordinating this scan with the hospital. We move slowly, and we move with care.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat do you hope to learn from this CT scan tonight, Dr. Robinson?\u201d<\/p>\n

Robinson\u2019s face suddenly lit up with enthusiasm. \u201cLearn? Why, everything! Her age, her health. The method of her preservation. If we\u2019re fortunate, we may even discover the cause of her death.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIs that why the medical examiner\u2019s here?\u201d<\/p>\n

The whole group turned like a multieyed creature and stared at Maura, who had been standing at the back of the room. She felt the familiar urge to back away as the TV cameras swung her way.<\/p>\n

\u201cDr. Isles,\u201d a reporter called out, \u201care you here to make a diagnosis?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy is the ME\u2019s office involved?\u201d another asked.<\/p>\n

That last question needed an immediate answer, before the issue got twisted by the press.<\/p>\n

Maura said, firmly: \u201cThe medical examiner\u2019s office is not involved. It\u2019s certainly not paying me to be here tonight.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut you are here,\u201d said Channel 5\u2019s blond hunk, whom Maura had never liked.<\/p>\n

\u201cAt the invitation of the Crispin Museum. Dr. Robinson thought it might be helpful to have a medical examiner\u2019s perspective on this case. So he called me last week to ask if I wanted to observe the scan. Believe me, any pathologist would jump at this chance. I\u2019m as fascinated by Madam X as you are, and I can\u2019t wait to meet her.\u201d She looked pointedly at the curator. \u201cIsn\u2019t it about time to begin, Dr. Robinson?\u201d<\/p>\n

She\u2019d just tossed him an escape line, and he grabbed it. \u201cYes. Yes, it\u2019s time. If you\u2019ll come with me, Dr. Isles.\u201d<\/p>\n

She cut through the crowd and followed him into the Imaging Department. As the door closed behind them, shutting them off from the press, Robinson blew out a long sigh.<\/p>\n

\u201cGod, I\u2019m terrible at public speaking,\u201d he said. \u201cThank you for ending that ordeal.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve had practice. Way too much of it.\u201d<\/p>\n

They shook hands, and he said: \u201cIt\u2019s a pleasure to finally meet you, Dr. Isles. Mr. Crispin wanted to meet you as well, but he had hip surgery a few months ago and he still can\u2019t stand for long periods of time. He asked me to say hello.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhen you invited me, you didn\u2019t warn me I\u2019d have to walk through that mob.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe press?\u201d Robinson gave a pained look. \u201cThey\u2019re a necessary evil.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNecessary for whom?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOur survival as a museum. Since the article about Madam X, our ticket sales have gone through the roof. And we haven\u2019t even put her on display yet.\u201d<\/p>\n

Robinson led her into a warren of hallways. On this Sunday night, the Diagnostic Imaging Department was quiet and the rooms they passed were dark and empty.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s going to get a little crowded in there,\u201d said Robinson.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere\u2019s hardly space for even a small group.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWho else is watching?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMy colleague Josephine Pulcillo; the radiologist, Dr. Brier; and a CT tech. Oh, and there\u2019ll be a camera crew.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSomeone you hired?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo. They\u2019re from the Discovery Channel.\u201d<\/p>\n

She gave a startled laugh. \u201cNow I\u2019m really impressed.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt does mean, though, that we have to watch our language.\u201d He stopped outside the door labeledCT and said softly: \u201cI think they may be already filming.\u201d<\/p>\n

They quietly slipped into the CT viewing room, where the camera crew was, indeed, recording as Dr. Brier explained the technology they were about to use.<\/p>\n

\u201c CTis short for \u2018computed tomography.\u2019 Our machine shoots X-rays at the subject from thousands of different angles. The computer then processes that information and generates a three-dimensional image of the internal anatomy. You\u2019ll see it on this monitor. It\u2019ll look like a series of cross sections, as if we\u2019re actually cutting the body into slices.\u201d<\/p>\n

As the taping continued, Maura edged her way to the viewing window. There, peering through the glass, she saw Madam X for the first time.<\/p>\n

In the rarefied world of museums, Egyptian mummies were the undisputed rock stars. Their display cases were where you\u2019d usually find the schoolchildren gathered, faces up to the glass, every one of them fascinated by a rare glimpse of death. Seldom did modern eyes encounter a human corpse on display, unless it wore the acceptable countenance of a mummy. The public loved mummies, and Maura was no exception. She stared, transfixed, even though what she actually saw was nothing more than a human-shaped bundle resting in an open crate, its flesh concealed beneath ancient strips of linen. Mounted over the face was a cartonnage mask\u2014the painted face of a woman with haunting dark eyes.<\/p>\n

But then another woman in the CT room caught Maura\u2019s attention. Wearing cotton gloves, the young woman leaned into the crate, removing layers of Ethafoam packing from around the mummy. Ringlets of black hair fell around her face. She straightened and shoved her hair back, revealing eyes as dark and striking as those painted on the mask. Her Mediterranean features could well have appeared on any Egyptian temple painting, but her clothes were thoroughly modern: skinny blue jeans and a Live Aid T-shirt.<\/p>\n

\u201cBeautiful, isn\u2019t she?\u201d murmured Dr. Robinson. He\u2019d moved beside Maura, and for a moment she wondered if he was referring to Madam X or to the young woman. \u201cShe appears to be in excellent condition. I just hope the body inside is as well preserved as those wrappings.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow old do you think she is? Do you have an estimate?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe sent off a swatch of the outer wrapping for carbon fourteen analysis. It just about killed our budget to do it, but Josephine insisted. The results came back as second centuryBC .\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s the Ptolemaic period, isn\u2019t it?\u201d<\/p>\n

He responded with a pleased smile. \u201cYou know your Egyptian dynasties.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI was an anthropology major in college, but I\u2019m afraid I don\u2019t remember much beyond that and the Yanomamo tribe.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cStill, I\u2019m impressed.\u201d<\/p>\n

She stared at the wrapped body, marveling that what lay in that crate was more than two thousand years old. What a journey it had taken, across an ocean, across millennia, all to end up lying on a CT table in a Boston hospital, gawked at by the curious. \u201cAre you going to leave her in the crate for the scan?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe want to handle her as little as possible. The crate won\u2019t get in the way. We\u2019ll still get a good look at what lies under that linen.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo you haven\u2019t taken even a little peek?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou mean have I unwrapped part of her?\u201d His mild eyes widened in horror. \u201cGod, no. Archaeologists would have done that a hundred years ago, maybe, and that\u2019s exactly how they ended up damaging so many specimens. There are probably layers of resin under those outer wrappings, so you can\u2019t just peel it all away. You might have to chip through it. It\u2019s not only destructive, it\u2019s disrespectful. I\u2019d never do that.\u201d He looked through the window at the dark-haired young woman. \u201cAnd Josephine would kill me if I did.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s your colleague?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes. Dr. Pulcillo.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShe looks like she\u2019s about sixteen.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDoesn\u2019t she? But she\u2019s smart as a whip. She\u2019s the one who arranged this scan. And when the hospital attorneys tried to put a stop to it, Josephine managed to push it through anyway.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy would the attorneys object?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSeriously? Because this patient couldn\u2019t give the hospital her informed consent.\u201d<\/p>\n

Maura laughed in disbelief. \u201cThey wanted informed consent from a mummy ?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhen you\u2019re a lawyer, every i must be dotted. Even when the patient\u2019s been dead for a few thousand years.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dr. Pulcillo had removed all the packing materials, and she joined them in the viewing room and shut the connecting door. The mummy now lay exposed in its crate, awaiting the first barrage of X-rays.<\/p>\n

\u201cDr. Robinson?\u201d said the CT tech, fingers poised over the computer keyboard. \u201cWe need to provide the required patient information before we can start the scan. What shall I use as the birth date?\u201d<\/p>\n

The curator frowned. \u201cOh, gosh. Do you really need a birth date?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI can\u2019t start the scan until I fill in these blanks. I tried the year zero, and the computer wouldn\u2019t take it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy don\u2019t we use yesterday\u2019s date? Make it one day old.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay. Now the program insists on knowing the sex. Male, female, or other?\u201d<\/p>\n

Robinson blinked. \u201cThere\u2019s a category for other ?\u201d<\/p>\n

The tech grinned. \u201cI\u2019ve never had the chance to check that particular box.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell then, let\u2019s use it tonight. There\u2019s a woman\u2019s face on the mask, but you never know. We can\u2019t be sure of the gender until we scan it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay,\u201d said Dr. Brier, the radiologist. \u201cWe\u2019re ready to go.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dr. Robinson nodded. \u201cLet\u2019s do it.\u201d<\/p>\n

They gathered around the computer monitor, waiting for the first images to appear. Through the window, they could see the table feed Madam X\u2019s head into the doughnut-shaped opening, where she was bombarded by X-rays from multiple angles. Computerized tomography was not new medical technology, but its use as an archaeological tool was relatively recent. No one in that room had ever before watched a live CT scan of a mummy, and as they all crowded in, Maura was aware of the TV camera trained on their faces, ready to capture their reactions. Standing beside her, Nicholas Robinson rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, radiating enough nervous energy to infect everyone in the room. Maura felt her own pulse quicken as she craned for a better view of the monitor. The first image that appeared drew only impatient sighs.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s just the shell of the crate,\u201d said Dr. Brier.<\/p>\n

Maura glanced at Robinson and saw that his lips were pressed together in thin lines. Would Madam X turn out to be nothing more than an empty bundle of rags? Dr. Pulcillo stood beside him, looking just as tense, gripping the back of the radiologist\u2019s chair as she stared over his shoulder, awaiting a glimpse of anything recognizably human, anything to confirm that inside those bandages was a cadaver.<\/p>\n

The next image changed everything. It was a startlingly bright disk, and the instant it appeared, the observers all took in a sharply simultaneous breath.<\/p>\n

Bone.<\/p>\n

Dr. Brier said, \u201cThat\u2019s the top of the cranium. Congratulations, you\u2019ve definitely got an occupant in there.\u201d<\/p>\n

Robinson and Pulcillo gave each other happy claps on the back. \u201cThis is what we were waiting for!\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

Pulcillo grinned. \u201cNow we can finish building that exhibit.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMummies!\u201d Robinson threw his head back and laughed. \u201cEveryone loves mummies!\u201d<\/p>\n

New slices appeared on the screen, and their attention snapped back to the monitor as more of the cranium appeared, its cavity filled not with brain matter but with ropy strands that looked like a knot of worms.<\/p>\n

\u201cThose are linen strips,\u201d Dr. Pulcillo murmured in wonder, as though this was the most beautiful sight she\u2019d ever seen.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere\u2019s no brain matter,\u201d said the CT tech.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, the brain was usually evacuated.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIs it true they\u2019d stick a hook up through the nose and yank the brain out that way?\u201d the tech asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cAlmost true. You can\u2019t really yank out the brain, because it\u2019s too soft. They probably used an instrument to whisk it around until it was liquefied. Then they\u2019d tilt the body so the brain would drip out the nose.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh man, that\u2019s gross,\u201d said the tech. But he was hanging on Pulcillo\u2019s every word.<\/p>\n

\u201cThey might leave the cranium empty or they might pack it with linen strips, as you see here. And frankincense.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat is frankincense, anyway? I\u2019ve always wondered about that.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cA fragrant resin. It comes from a very special tree in Africa. Valued quite highly in the ancient world.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo that\u2019s why one of the three wise men brought it to Bethlehem.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dr. Pulcillo nodded. \u201cIt would have been a treasured gift.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay,\u201d Dr. Brier said. \u201cWe\u2019ve moved below the level of the orbits. There you can see the upper jaw, and\u2026\u201d He paused, frowning at an unexpected density.<\/p>\n

Robinson murmured, \u201cOh my goodness.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s something metallic,\u201d said Dr. Brier. \u201cIt\u2019s in the oral cavity.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt could be gold leaf,\u201d said Pulcillo. \u201cIn the Greco-Roman era, they\u2019d sometimes place gold-leaf tongues inside the mouth.\u201d<\/p>\n

Robinson turned to the TV camera, which was recording every remark. \u201cThere appears to be metal inside the mouth. That would correlate with our presumptive date during the Greco-Roman era\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNow what is this ?\u201d exclaimed Dr. Brier.<\/p>\n

Maura\u2019s gaze shot back to the computer screen. A bright starburst had appeared within the mummy\u2019s lower jaw, an image that stunned Maura because it should not have been present in a corpse that was two thousand years old. She leaned closer, staring at a detail that would scarcely cause comment were this a body that had arrived fresh on the autopsy table. \u201cI know this is impossible,\u201d Maura said softly. \u201cBut you know what that looks like?\u201d<\/p>\n

The radiologist nodded. \u201cIt appears to be a dental filling.\u201d<\/p>\n

Maura turned to Dr. Robinson, who appeared just as startled as everyone else in the room. \u201cHas anything like this ever been described in an Egyptian mummy before?\u201d she asked. \u201cAncient dental repairs that could be mistaken for modern fillings?\u201d<\/p>\n

Wide-eyed, he shook his head. \u201cBut it doesn\u2019t mean the Egyptians were incapable of it. Their medical care was the most advanced in the ancient world.\u201d He looked at his colleague. \u201cJosephine, what can you tell us about this? It\u2019s your field.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dr. Pulcillo struggled for an answer. \u201cThere\u2014there are medical papyri from the Old Kingdom,\u201d she said. \u201cThey describe how to fix loose teeth and make dental bridges. And there was a healer who was famous as a maker of teeth. So we know they were ingenious when it came to dental care. Far ahead of their time.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut did they ever make repairs like that ?\u201d said Maura, pointing to the screen.<\/p>\n

Dr. Pulcillo\u2019s troubled gaze returned to the image. \u201cIf they did,\u201d she said softly, \u201cI\u2019m not aware of it.\u201d<\/p>\n

On the monitor, new images appeared in shades of gray, the body viewed in cross section as though sliced through by a bread knife. She could be bombarded by X-rays from every angle, subjected to massive doses of radiation, but this patient was beyond fears of cancer, beyond worries about side effects. As X-rays continued to assault her body, no patient could have been more submissive.<\/p>\n

Shaken by the earlier images, Robinson was now arched forward like a tightly strung bow, alert for the next surprise. The first slices of the thorax appeared, the cavity black and vacant.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt appears that the lungs were removed,\u201d the radiologist said.<\/p>\n

\u201cAll I see is a shriveled bit of mediastinum in the chest.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s the heart,\u201d said Pulcillo, her voice steadier now. This, at least, was what she\u2019d expected to see. \u201cThey always tried to leave it in situ.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cJust the heart?\u201d<\/p>\n

She nodded. \u201cIt was considered the seat of intelligence, so you never separated it from the body. There are three separate spells contained in the Book of the Dead to ensure that the heart remains in place.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd the other organs?\u201d asked the CT tech. \u201cI heard those were put in special jars.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat was before the Twenty-first Dynasty. After around a thousandBC , the organs were wrapped into four bundles and stuffed back into the body.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo we should be able to see that?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIn a mummy from the Ptolemaic era, yes.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI think I can make an educated guess about her age when she died,\u201d said the radiologist. \u201cThe wisdom teeth were fully erupted, and the cranial sutures are closed. But I don\u2019t see any degenerative changes in the spine.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cA young adult,\u201d said Maura.<\/p>\n

\u201cProbably under thirty-five.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIn the era she lived in, thirty-five was well into middle age,\u201d said Robinson.<\/p>\n

The scan had moved below the thorax, X-rays slicing through layers of wrappings, through the shell of dried skin and bones, to reveal the abdominal cavity. What Maura saw within was eerily unfamiliar, as strange to her as an alien autopsy. Where she expected to see liver and spleen, stomach and pancreas, instead she saw snake-like coils of linen, an interior landscape that was missing all that should have been recognizable. Only the bright knobs of vertebral bone told her this was indeed a human body, a body that had been hollowed out to a mere shell and stuffed like a rag doll.<\/p>\n

Mummy anatomy might be alien to her, but for both Robinson and Pulcillo this was familiar territory. As new images appeared, they both leaned in, pointing out details they recognized.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere,\u201d said Robinson. \u201cThose are the four linen packets containing the organs.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay, we\u2019re now in the pelvis,\u201d Dr. Brier said. He pointed to two pale arcs. They were the top edges of the iliac crests.<\/p>\n

Slice by slice, the pelvis slowly took shape, as the computer compiled and rendered countless X-ray beams. It was a digital striptease as each image revealed a tantalizing new peek.<\/p>\n

\u201cLook at the shape of the pelvic inlet,\u201d said Dr. Brier.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s a female,\u201d said Maura.<\/p>\n

The radiologist nodded. \u201cI\u2019d say it\u2019s pretty conclusive.\u201d He turned and grinned at the two archaeologists. \u201cYou can now officially call her Madam X. And not Mister X.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd look at the pubic symphysis,\u201d said Maura, still focused on the monitor. \u201cThere\u2019s no separation.\u201d<\/p>\n

Brier nodded. \u201cI agree.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat does that mean?\u201d asked Robinson.<\/p>\n

Maura explained. \u201cDuring childbirth, the infant\u2019s passage through the pelvic inlet can actually force apart the pubic bones, where they join at the symphysis. It appears this female never had children.\u201d<\/p>\n

The CT tech laughed. \u201cYour mummy\u2019s never been a mommy.\u201d<\/p>\n

The scan had moved beyond the pelvis, and they could now see cross sections of the two femurs encased in the withered flesh of the upper thighs.<\/p>\n

\u201cNick, we need to call Simon,\u201d said Pulcillo. \u201cHe\u2019s probably waiting by the phone.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh gosh, I completely forgot.\u201d Robinson pulled out his cell phone and dialed his boss. \u201cSimon, guess what I\u2019m looking at right now? Yes, she\u2019s gorgeous. Plus, we\u2019ve discovered a few surprises, so the press conference is going to be quite the\u2014\u201d In an instant he fell silent, his gaze frozen on the screen.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat the hell?\u201d blurted the CT tech.<\/p>\n

The image now glowing on the monitor was so unexpected that the room had fallen completely still. Were a living patient lying on the CT table, Maura would have had no difficulty identifying the small metallic object embedded in the calf, an object that had shattered the slender shaft of the fibula. But that bit of metal did not belong in Madam X\u2019s leg.<\/p>\n

A bullet did not belong in Madam X\u2019s millennium.<\/p>\n

\u201cIs that what I think it is?\u201d said the CT tech.<\/p>\n

Robinson shook his head. \u201cIt has to be postmortem damage. What else could it be?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTwo thousand years postmortem?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll\u2014I\u2019ll call you back, Simon.\u201d Robinson disconnected his cell phone. Turning to the cameraman, he ordered: \u201cShut it off. Please shut it off now. \u201d He took a deep breath. \u201cAll right. All right, let\u2019s\u2014let\u2019s approach this logically.\u201d He straightened, gaining confidence as an obvious explanation occurred to him. \u201cMummies have often been abused or damaged by souvenir hunters. Obviously, someone fired a bullet into the mummy. And a conservator later tried to repair that damage by rewrapping her. That\u2019s why we saw no entry hole in the bandages.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat isn\u2019t what happened,\u201d said Maura.<\/p>\n

Robinson blinked. \u201cWhat do you mean? That has to be the explanation.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe damage to that leg wasn\u2019t postmortem. It happened while this woman was still alive.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s impossible.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m afraid Dr. Isles is right,\u201d said the radiologist. He looked at Maura. \u201cYou\u2019re referring to the early callus formation around the fracture site?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat does that mean?\u201d asked Robinson. \u201cCallus formation?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt means the broken bone had already started the process of healing when this woman died. She lived at least a few weeks after the injury.\u201d<\/p>\n

Maura turned to the curator. \u201cWhere did this mummy come from?\u201d<\/p>\n

Robinson\u2019s glasses had slipped down his nose yet again, and he stared over the lenses as though hypnotized by what he saw glowing in the mummy\u2019s leg.<\/p>\n

It was Dr. Pulcillo who answered the question, her voice barely a whisper. \u201cIt was in the museum basement. Nick\u2014Dr. Robinson found it back in January.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd how did the museum obtain it?\u201d<\/p>\n

Pulcillo shook her head. \u201cWe don\u2019t know.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThere must be records. Something in your files to indicate where she came from.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThere are none for her,\u201d said Robinson, at last finding his voice. \u201cThe Crispin Museum is a hundred thirty years old, and many records are missing. We have no idea how long she was stored in the basement.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow did you happen to find her?\u201d<\/p>\n

Even in that air-conditioned room, sweat had broken out on Dr. Robinson\u2019s pale face. \u201cAfter I was hired three years ago, I began an inventory of the collection. That\u2019s how I came across her. She was in an unlabeled crate.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd that didn\u2019t surprise you? To find something as rare as an Egyptian mummy in an unlabeled crate?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut mummies aren\u2019t all that rare. In the 1800s, you could buy one in Egypt for only five dollars, so American tourists brought them home by the hundreds. They turn up in attics and antiques stores. A freak show in Niagara Falls even claims they had King Ramses the First in their collection. So it\u2019s not all that surprising that we\u2019d find a mummy in our museum.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDr. Isles?\u201d said the radiologist. \u201cWe\u2019ve got the scout film. You might want to take a look at it.\u201d<\/p>\n

Maura turned to the monitor. Displayed on the screen was a conventional X-ray like the films she hung on her own viewing box in the morgue. She did not need a radiologist to interpret what she saw there.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere\u2019s not much doubt about it now,\u201d said Dr. Brier.<\/p>\n

No. There\u2019s no doubt whatsoever. That\u2019s a bullet in the leg.<\/p>\n

Maura pulled out her cell phone.<\/p>\n

\u201cDr. Isles?\u201d said Robinson. \u201cWhom are you calling?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m arranging for transport to the morgue,\u201d she said. \u201cMadam X is now a medical examiner\u2019s case.\u201d<\/p>\n

\n

THREE<\/p>\n

\u201cIs it just my imagination,\u201d said Detective Barry Frost, \u201cor do you and I catch all the weird ones?\u201d<\/p>\n

Madam X was definitely one of the weird ones, thought Detective Jane Rizzoli as she drove past TV news vans and turned into the parking lot of the medical examiner\u2019s building. It was only eightAM , and already the hyenas were yapping, ravenous for details of the ultimate cold case\u2014a case that Jane had greeted with skeptical laughter when Maura had phoned last night. The sight of the news vans made Jane realize that maybe it was time to get serious, time to consider the possibility that this was not, after all, some elaborate practical joke being played on her by the singularly humorless medical examiner.<\/p>\n

She pulled into a parking space and sat eyeing the vans, wondering how many more cameras would be waiting out here when she and Frost came back out of the building.<\/p>\n

\u201cAt least this one shouldn\u2019t smell bad,\u201d Jane said.<\/p>\n

\u201cBut mummies can give you diseases, you know.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jane turned to her partner, whose pale and boyish face looked genuinely worried. \u201cWhat diseases?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cSince Alice has been away, I\u2019ve been watching a lot of TV. Last night I saw this show on the Discovery Channel, about mummies that carry these spores.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOoh. Scary spores.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s no joke,\u201d he insisted. \u201cThey can make you sick.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGeez, I hope Alice gets home soon. You\u2019re getting overdosed on the Discovery Channel.\u201d<\/p>\n

They stepped out of the car into cloying humidity that made Jane\u2019s already unruly dark hair spring into frizzy waves. During her four years as a homicide detective, she had made this walk into the medical examiner\u2019s building many times, slip-sliding across ice in January, dashing through rain in March, and slogging across pavement as hot as ash in August. These few dozen paces were familiar to her, as was the grim destination. She\u2019d believed this walk would become easier over time, that one day she\u2019d feel immune to any horrors the stainless-steel table might serve up. But since her daughter Regina\u2019s birth a year ago, death held more terror for her than it ever had before. Motherhood didn\u2019t make you stronger; it made you vulnerable and afraid of what death could steal from you.<\/p>\n

Today, though, the subject waiting in the morgue inspired fascination, not horror. When Jane stepped into the autopsy suite anteroom, she crossed straight to the window, eager for her first glimpse of the subject on the table.<\/p>\n

Madam Xwas what The Boston Globe had called the mummy, a catchy moniker that conjured up a vision of sultry beauty, a Cleopatra with dark eyes. Jane saw a dried-out husk wrapped in rags.<\/p>\n

\u201cShe looks like a human tamale,\u201d said Jane.<\/p>\n

\u201cWho\u2019s the girl?\u201d asked Frost, staring through the window.<\/p>\n

There were two people in the room whom Jane did not recognize. The man was tall and gangly, professorial glasses perched on his nose. The young woman was a petite brunette wearing blue jeans beneath an autopsy gown. \u201cThose must be the museum archaeologists. They were both going to be here.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201c She\u2019san archaeologist? Wow.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jane gave him an annoyed jab with her elbow. \u201cAlice leaves town for a few weeks, and you forget you\u2019re a married man.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI just never pictured an archaeologist looking as hot as her.\u201d<\/p>\n

They pulled on shoe covers and autopsy gowns and pushed into the lab.<\/p>\n

\u201cHey, Doc,\u201d said Jane. \u201cIs this really one for us?\u201d<\/p>\n

Maura turned from the light box, and her gaze, as usual, was dead serious. While the other pathologists might crack jokes or toss out ironic comments over the autopsy table, it was rare to hear Maura so much as laugh in the presence of the dead. \u201cWe\u2019re about to find out.\u201d She introduced the pair Jane had seen through the window. \u201cThis is the curator, Dr. Nicholas Robinson. And his colleague, Dr. Josephine Pulcillo.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re both with the Crispin Museum?\u201d asked Jane.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd they\u2019re very unhappy about what I\u2019m planning to do here,\u201d said Maura.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s destructive,\u201d said Robinson. \u201cThere has to be some other way to get this information besides cutting her open.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s why I wanted you to be here, Dr. Robinson,\u201d said Maura. \u201cTo help me minimize the damage. The last thing I want to do is destroy an antiquity.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI thought the CT scan last night clearly showed a bullet,\u201d said Jane.<\/p>\n

\u201cThose are the X-rays we shot this morning,\u201d said Maura, pointing to the light box. \u201cWhat do you think?\u201d<\/p>\n

Jane approached the display and studied the films clipped there. Glowing within the right calf was what certainly looked to her like a bullet. \u201cYeah, I can see why this might\u2019ve freaked you out last night.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI did not freak out. \u201d<\/p>\n

Jane laughed. \u201cYou were as close to it as I\u2019ve ever heard you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI admit, I was damn shocked when I saw it. We all were.\u201d Maura pointed to the bones of the right lower leg. \u201cNotice how the fibula\u2019s been fractured, presumably by this projectile.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou said it happened while she was still alive?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou can see early callus formation. This bone was in the process of healing when she died.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut her wrappings are two thousand years old,\u201d said Dr. Robinson. \u201cWe\u2019ve confirmed it.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jane stared hard at the X-ray, struggling to come up with a logical explanation for what they were looking at. \u201cMaybe this isn\u2019t a bullet. Maybe it\u2019s some sort of ancient metal thingie. A spear tip or something.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat is not a spear tip, Jane,\u201d said Maura. \u201cIt\u2019s a bullet.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThen dig it out. Prove it to me.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd if I do?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThen we have a hell of a mind bender, don\u2019t we? I mean, what are the possible explanations here?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou know what Alice said when I called her about it last night?\u201d Frost said. \u201c\u2018Time travel.\u2019 That was the first thing she thought.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jane laughed. \u201cSince when did Alice go woo-woo on you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s theoretically possible, you know, to travel back in time,\u201d he said. \u201cBring a gun back to ancient Egypt.\u201d<\/p>\n

Maura cut in impatiently: \u201cCan we stick to real possibilities here?\u201d<\/p>\n

Jane frowned at the bright chunk of metal that looked like so many she had seen before glowing in countless X-rays of lifeless limbs and shattered skulls. \u201cI\u2019m having trouble coming up with any of those,\u201d she said. \u201cSo why don\u2019t you just cut her open and see what that metal thing is? Maybe these archaeologists are right. Maybe you\u2019re jumping to conclusions, Doc.\u201d<\/p>\n

Robinson said, \u201cAs curator, it\u2019s my duty to protect her and not let her be mindlessly ripped apart. Can you at least limit the damage to the relevant area?\u201d<\/p>\n

Maura nodded. \u201cThat\u2019s a reasonable approach.\u201d She moved to the table. \u201cLet\u2019s turn her over. If there\u2019s an entrance wound, it will be in the right calf.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s best if we work together,\u201d said Robinson. He went to the head, and Pulcillo moved to the feet. \u201cWe need to support the whole body and not put strain on any part of her. So if four of us could pitch in?\u201d<\/p>\n

Maura slipped gloved hands beneath the shoulders and said, \u201cDetective Frost, could you support the hips?\u201d<\/p>\n

Frost hesitated, eyeing the stained linen wrappings. \u201cShouldn\u2019t we put on masks or something?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019re just turning her over,\u201d said Maura.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve heard they carry diseases. You breathe in these spores and you get pneumonia.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, for God\u2019s sake,\u201d said Jane. She snapped on gloves and stepped up to the table. Sliding her hands beneath the mummy\u2019s hips, she said: \u201cI\u2019m ready.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay, lift,\u201d said Robinson. \u201cNow rotate her. That\u2019s it\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWow, she hardly weighs anything,\u201d said Jane.<\/p>\n

\u201cA living human body\u2019s mostly water. Remove the organs, dry out the carcass, and you end up with just a fraction of its former weight. She probably weighs only around fifty pounds, wrappings and all.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cKind of like beef jerky, huh?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s exactly what she is. Human jerky. Now let\u2019s ease her down. Gently.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou know, I wasn\u2019t kidding about the spores,\u201d said Frost. \u201cI saw this show.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you talking about the King Tut curse?\u201d said Maura.<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah,\u201d said Frost. \u201c That\u2019swhat I\u2019m talking about! All those people who died after they went into his tomb. They breathed in some kind of spores and got sick.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAspergillus,\u201d said Robinson. \u201cWhen Howard Carter\u2019s team disturbed the tomb, they probably breathed in spores that had collected inside over the centuries. Some of them came down with fatal cases of aspergillus pneumonia.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo Frost isn\u2019t just bullshitting?\u201d said Jane. \u201cThere really was a mummy\u2019s curse?\u201d<\/p>\n

Annoyance flashed in Robinson\u2019s eyes. \u201cOf course there was no curse. Yes, a few people died, but after what Carter and his team did to poor Tutankhamen, maybe there should have been a curse.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat did they do to him?\u201d asked Jane.<\/p>\n

\u201cThey brutalized him. They sliced him open, broke his bones, and essentially tore him apart in the search for jewels and amulets. They cut him up in pieces to get him out of the coffin, pulling off his arms and legs. They severed his head. It wasn\u2019t science. It was desecration.\u201d He looked down at Madam X, and Jane saw admiration, even affection in his gaze. \u201cWe don\u2019t want the same thing to happen to her.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe last thing I want to do is mangle her,\u201d said Maura. \u201cSo let\u2019s unwrap her just enough to find out what we\u2019re dealing with here.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou probably won\u2019t be able to just unwrap her,\u201d said Robinson. \u201cIf the inner strips were soaked in resin, as per tradition, they\u2019ll be stuck together as solid as glue.\u201d<\/p>\n

Maura turned to the X-ray for one more look, then reached for a scalpel and tweezers. Jane had watched Maura slice other bodies, but never before had she seen her hesitate so long, her blade hovering over the calf as though afraid to make the first cut. What they were about to do would forever damage Madam X, and Drs. Robinson and Pulcillo both were watching with outright disapproval in their eyes.<\/p>\n

Maura made the first cut. This was not the usual confident slice into flesh. Instead, she used the tweezers to delicately lift the band of linen so that her blade slit through successive layers of fabric, strip by strip. \u201cIt\u2019s peeling away quite easily,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

Dr. Pulcillo frowned. \u201cThis isn\u2019t traditional. Normally the bandages would be doused in molten resin. In the 1830s, when they unwrapped mummies, they sometimes had to pry the bandages off.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat was the point of the resin, anyway?\u201d asked Frost.<\/p>\n

\u201cTo make the wrappings stick together. It gave them rigidity, like making a papier-m\u00e2ch\u00e9 container to protect the contents.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m already through the final layer,\u201d Maura said. \u201cThere\u2019s no resin adhering to any of this.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jane craned forward to catch a glimpse of what lay under the wrapping. \u201cThat\u2019s her skin? It looks like old leather.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDried skin is precisely what leather is, Detective Rizzoli,\u201d said Robinson. \u201cIn a way.\u201d<\/p>\n

Maura reached for the scissors and gingerly snipped away the strips, exposing a larger patch of skin. It looked like brown parchment wrapped around bones. She glanced, once again, at the X-ray, and swung a magnifier over the calf. \u201cI can\u2019t find any entry hole in the skin.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo the wound\u2019s not postmortem,\u201d said Jane.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt goes along with what we see on that X-ray. That foreign body was probably introduced while she was still alive. She lived long enough for the fractured bone to start mending. For the wound to close over.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow long would that take?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cA few weeks. Perhaps a month.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSomeone would have to care for her during that time, right? She\u2019d have to be fed and sheltered.\u201d<\/p>\n

Maura nodded. \u201cThis makes the manner of death all the more difficult to determine.\u201d<\/p>\n

Robinson asked, \u201cManner of death? What do you mean?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIn other words,\u201d said Jane, \u201cwe\u2019re wondering if she was murdered.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLet\u2019s settle the most pressing issue first.\u201d Maura reached for the knife. Mummification had toughened the tissues to the consistency of leather, and the blade did not cut easily into the withered flesh.<\/p>\n

Glancing across the table, Jane saw Dr. Pulcillo\u2019s lips tighten, as though to stifle a protest. But as much as she might object to the procedure, the woman could not look away. They all leaned in, even spore-phobic Frost, their attention glued to that exposed patch of leg as Maura picked up forceps and plunged the tips into the incision. It took only seconds of digging around in the shriveled flesh before the teeth of the forceps clamped down on the prize. Maura dropped it onto a steel tray, and it gave a metallic clang.<\/p>\n

Dr. Pulcillo sucked in a sharp breath. This was no spear tip, no broken bit of knife blade.<\/p>\n

Maura finally stated the obvious. \u201cI think we can now safely say that Madam X is not two thousand years old.\u201d<\/p>\n

\n

FOUR<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t understand,\u201d Dr. Pulcillo murmured. \u201cThe linen was analyzed. The carbon dating confirmed the age.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut that\u2019s a bullet,\u201d said Jane, pointing to the tray. \u201cA twenty-two. Your analysis was all screwed up.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s a well-respected lab! They were certain about the date.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou could both be right,\u201d said Robinson quietly.<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah?\u201d Jane looked at him. \u201cI\u2019d like to know how.\u201d<\/p>\n

He took a deep breath and stepped back from the table, as though needing the space to think. \u201cI see it come up for sale from time to time. I don\u2019t know how much of it is genuine, but I\u2019m sure there are caches of the real thing out there on the antiquities market.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMummy wrappings. They\u2019re easier to find than the bodies themselves. I\u2019ve seen them on eBay.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jane gave a startled laugh. \u201cYou can go online and buy mummy wrappings?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThere was once a thriving international trade in mummies. They were ground up and used as medicines. Carted off to England for fertilizer. Wealthy tourists brought them home and held unwrapping parties. You\u2019d invite your friends over to watch while you peeled away the linen. Since amulets and jewels were often among the wrappings, it was sort of like a treasure hunt, uncovering little trinkets for your guests.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat was entertainment?\u201d said Frost. \u201cUnwrapping a corpse?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt was done in some of the finest Victorian homes,\u201d Robinson said. \u201cIt goes to show you how little regard they had for the dead of Egypt. And when they\u2019d finish unwrapping the corpse, it would be disposed of or burned. But the wrappings were often kept as souvenirs. That\u2019s why you still find stashes of them for sale.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo these wrappings could be ancient,\u201d said Frost, \u201ceven if the body isn\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt would explain the carbon fourteen dating. But as for Madam X herself\u2026\u201d Robinson shook his head in bewilderment.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe still can\u2019t prove this was homicide,\u201d said Frost. \u201cYou can\u2019t convict someone based on a gunshot wound that was already healing.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI kind of doubt she volunteered for mummification,\u201d said Jane.<\/p>\n

\u201cActually,\u201d said Robinson, \u201cit\u2019s possible that she did.\u201d<\/p>\n

Everyone turned to stare at the curator, who looked perfectly serious.<\/p>\n

\u201cVolunteer to have her brains and organs ripped out?\u201d said Jane. \u201cNo, thanks.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSome people have bequeathed their bodies for precisely that purpose.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHey, I saw that show, too,\u201d said Frost. \u201cAnother one on Discovery Channel. Some archaeologist actually mummified a guy.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jane stared down at the wrapped cadaver. She imagined being encased in layer after layer of smothering bandages. Being bound in a linen straitjacket for a thousand, two thousand years, until a day when some curious archaeologist would decide to strip away the cloth and reveal her shriveled remains. Not dust to dust, but flesh to leather. She swallowed. \u201cWhy would anyone volunteer for that?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s a type of immortality, don\u2019t you think?\u201d said Robinson.<\/p>\n

\u201cAn alternative to rotting away. Your body preserved. Those who love you never have to surrender you to decay.\u201d<\/p>\n

Those who love you.Jane glanced up. \u201cYou\u2019re saying this could have been an act of affection?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt would be a way to hold on to someone you love. To keep them safe from the worms. From rotting.\u201d<\/p>\n

The way of all flesh, thought Jane, and the temperature in the room suddenly seemed to plummet. \u201cMaybe it\u2019s not about love at all. Maybe it\u2019s about ownership.\u201d<\/p>\n

Robinson met her gaze, clearly unsettled by that possibility. He said softly: \u201cI hadn\u2019t thought of it that way.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jane turned to Maura. \u201cLet\u2019s get on with the autopsy, Doc. We need more information to work with.\u201d<\/p>\n

Maura crossed to the light box, removed the leg X-rays, and replaced them with the CT scan films. \u201cLet\u2019s turn her onto her back again.\u201d<\/p>\n

This time, as Maura cut through the linen strips covering the torso, she wasted no effort on preservation. They now knew this was no ancient cadaver she was cutting into; this was a death investigation, and the answers lay not in the linen strips but in the flesh and bone itself. The cloth parted, revealing the torso\u2019s brown and shrunken skin through which the outlines of ribs were visible, arching up in a bony vault beneath its parchment tent. Moving toward the head, Maura pried off the painted cartonnage mask and began to snip at the strips covering the face.<\/p>\n

Jane looked at the CT films hanging on the light box, then frowned at the exposed torso. \u201cThe organs are all taken out during mummification, right?\u201d<\/p>\n

Robinson nodded. \u201cRemoval of the viscera slows down the process of putrefaction. It\u2019s one of the reasons the bodies don\u2019t decay.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut there\u2019s only one little wound on the belly.\u201d Jane pointed to a small incision on the left, sewn closed by ungainly stitches.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow do you get everything out through that opening?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s exactly how the Egyptians would have removed the viscera. Through a small wound on the left side. Whoever preserved this body was familiar with the ancient methods. And clearly adhered to them.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat are these ancient methods? How, exactly, do you make a mummy?\u201d asked Jane.<\/p>\n

Dr. Robinson looked at his associate. \u201cJosephine knows more about it than I do. Maybe she\u2019ll explain it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDr. Pulcillo?\u201d said Jane.<\/p>\n

The young woman still looked shaken by the discovery of the bullet. She cleared her throat and straightened. \u201cA large part of what we know comes down to us from Herodotus,\u201d she said. \u201cI guess you could call him a Greek travel writer. Twenty-five hundred years ago, he roamed the ancient world and recorded what he learned. The problem is, he was known to get details wrong. Or get snookered by the local tour guides.\u201d She managed a smile. \u201cIt makes him seem human, doesn\u2019t it? He was like any tourist in Egypt today. Probably hounded by trinket sellers. Duped by crooked tour guides. Just another innocent abroad.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat did he say about making mummies?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe was told that it all starts with a ritual washing of the corpse in dissolved natron.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNatron?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s essentially a mixture of salts. You can reproduce it by blending plain old table salt and baking soda.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBaking soda?\u201d Jane gave an uneasy laugh. \u201cI\u2019ll never look at a box of Arm and Hammer the same way again.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe washed body is then laid out on wooden blocks,\u201d Pulcillo continued. \u201cThey use a razor-sharp blade of Ethiopian stone\u2014probably obsidian\u2014to slice a small incision like the one you see here. Then, with some sort of hooked instrument, they pull out the organs, dragging them out through the hole. The empty cavity is rinsed, and they pack dry natron inside. Natron is poured over the body as well, to dehydrate it for forty days. Sort of like salting a fish.\u201d She paused, staring as Maura\u2019s scissors cut through the last strips covering the face.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd then?\u201d prodded Jane.<\/p>\n

Pulcillo swallowed. \u201cBy then it\u2019s lost about seventy-five percent of its weight. The cavity is stuffed with linen and resin. The mummified internal organs might be returned as well. And\u2026\u201d She stopped, her eyes widening as the final wrappings fell away from the head.<\/p>\n

For the first time, they saw the face of Madam X.<\/p>\n

Long black hair was still affixed to the scalp. The skin was stretched taut over prominent cheekbones. But it was the lips that made Jane recoil. They had been sewn together with crude stitches, as though joined by the tailor of Frankenstein\u2019s monster.<\/p>\n

Pulcillo shook her head. \u201cThat\u2014that\u2019s all wrong!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe mouth isn\u2019t usually sewn shut?\u201d asked Maura.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo! How would you eat in the afterlife? How would you speak? This is like condemning her to eternal hunger. And eternal silence.\u201d<\/p>\n

Eternal silence.Jane looked down at the ugly stitches and wondered: Did you say something to offend your killer? Did you speak back to him? Insult him? Testify against him? Is this your punishment, to have your lips bound together for eternity?<\/p>\n

The corpse now lay fully revealed, her body stripped of all wrappings, her flesh little more than shriveled skin clinging to bones. Maura sliced into the torso.<\/p>\n

Jane had witnessed Y-incisions before, and always before, she\u2019d found herself recoiling from the odors as the blade first cut into the chest cavity. Even the freshest of corpses released a stench of decay, however faint, like the sulfurish scent of bad breath. Except that the subjects weren\u2019t breathing. Dead breath was what Jane called it, and just a whiff of it could nauseate her.<\/p>\n

But Madam X emitted no such sickening odors as the knife cut into her thorax, as Maura methodically snapped apart ribs, as the chest wall was lifted like an ancient breastplate to reveal the chest cavity. What wafted up was a not-unpleasant scent that reminded her of incense. Instead of backing away, Jane leaned closer and took a deeper whiff. Sandalwood, she thought. Camphor. And something else, something that reminded her of licorice and cloves.<\/p>\n

\u201cNow, this is not what I expected,\u201d said Maura. She lifted a dried nugget of spice from the cavity.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt looks like star anise,\u201d said Jane.<\/p>\n

\u201cNot traditional, I take it?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMyrrh would be traditional,\u201d said Pulcillo. \u201cMelted resin. It was used to mask the stench and help stiffen the corpse.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMyrrh\u2019s not exactly easy to obtain in large quantities,\u201d said Robinson. \u201cIt might explain why substitute spices were used.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSubstitute or not, this body looks very well preserved.\u201d Maura pulled wads of linen from the abdomen and placed them in a basin for later inspection. Staring into the hollowed-out torso, she said, \u201cIt\u2019s as dry as leather in here. And there\u2019s no odor of decay.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo how will you figure out the cause of death?\u201d asked Frost.<\/p>\n

\u201cWith no organs?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI can\u2019t. Not yet.\u201d<\/p>\n

He looked at the CT scan on the light box. \u201cWhat about the head? There\u2019s no brain, either.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe cranium\u2019s intact. I didn\u2019t see any fractures.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jane stared at the corpse\u2019s mouth, at the crude stitches sewing the lips together, and she winced at the thought of a needle piercing tender flesh. I hope it was done after death and not before. Not when she could feel it. Shuddering, she turned to look at the CT scan.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s this bright thing?\u201d she said. \u201cIt looks like it\u2019s in the mouth.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThere are two metallic densities in her mouth,\u201d said Maura.<\/p>\n

\u201cOne appears to be a dental filling. But there\u2019s also something in the oral cavity, something much larger. It may explain why her mouth was sewn shut\u2014to secure that object in place.\u201d She picked up scissors.<\/p>\n

The suture material was not mere thread, but dried leather, the strips rock-hard. Even after she\u2019d cut through them, the lips adhered together as though permanently frozen in place, the mouth a tight slit that would have to be pried open.<\/p>\n

Maura introduced the tip of a hemostat between the lips, metal grating against teeth as she gently widened the opening. The jaw joint suddenly gave a shocking snap and Jane flinched as the mandible broke off. The lower jaw sagged open, revealing straight teeth that were so cosmetically perfect, any modern orthodontist would be proud to claim the alignment as his work.<\/p>\n

\u201cLet\u2019s see what this thing is in her mouth,\u201d said Maura. Reaching in with the hemostat, she pulled out an oblong-shaped gold coin, which she set on the steel tray, where it landed with a soft clang. They all stared in astonishment.<\/p>\n

Jane suddenly burst out laughing. \u201cSomeone,\u201d she said, \u201chas a sick sense of humor.\u201d<\/p>\n

Stamped on the gold were words in English:<\/p>\n

IVISITED THE PYRAMIDS<\/p>\n

CAIRO,EGYPT<\/p>\n

Maura turned over the object. On the reverse side were three engraved symbols: an owl, a hand, and a bent arm.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s a cartouche,\u201d said Robinson. \u201cA personal seal. They sell these souvenirs all over Egypt. Tell a jeweler your name, and he\u2019ll translate it into hieroglyphs and engrave it right on the spot for you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat do these symbols mean?\u201d asked Frost. \u201cI see an owl. Is that like a sign of wisdom or something?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, these glyphs aren\u2019t meant to be read as ideograms,\u201d said Robinson.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s an ideogram?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s a symbol that represents exactly what\u2019s illustrated. For instance, a picture of a running man would mean the word run. Or two fighting men would mean the word war. \u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd that\u2019s not what these are?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, these symbols are phonograms. They represent sounds, like our own alphabet.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo what does it say?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThis isn\u2019t my area of expertise. Josephine can read it.\u201d He turned to his colleague and suddenly frowned. \u201cAre you feeling all right?\u201d<\/p>\n

The young woman had gone as pale as any corpse that had ever been stretched out on the morgue table. She stared at the cartouche as though she saw some undreamed-of horror in those symbols.<\/p>\n

\u201cDr. Pulcillo?\u201d said Frost.<\/p>\n

She glanced up sharply, as though startled to hear her name.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m fine,\u201d she murmured.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat about these hieroglyphs?\u201d Jane asked. \u201cCan you read them?\u201d<\/p>\n

Pulcillo\u2019s gaze dropped back to the cartouche. \u201cThe owl\u2014the owl is the equivalent of our M sound. And the little hand beneath it, that would sound like a D. \u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd the arm?\u201d<\/p>\n

Pulcillo swallowed. \u201cIt\u2019s pronounced like a broad A. As in car. \u201d<\/p>\n

\u201c M-D-Ah?What kind of name is that?\u201d<\/p>\n

Robinson said, \u201cSomething like Medea, maybe? That would be my guess.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMedea?\u201d said Frost. \u201cIsn\u2019t there some Greek tragedy written about her?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s a tale of vengeance,\u201d said Robinson. \u201cAccording to the myth, Medea falls in love with Jason of the Argonauts, and they have two sons. When Jason leaves her for another woman, Medea retaliates by slaughtering her own sons and murdering her female rival. All to get back at Jason.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat happens to Medea?\u201d asked Jane.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere are various versions of the tale, but in them all, she escapes.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAfter killing her own kids?\u201d Jane shook her head. \u201cThat\u2019s a lousy ending, having her go free.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cPerhaps that\u2019s the point of the story: that some who commit evil never face justice.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jane looked down at the cartouche. \u201cSo Medea\u2019s a murderer.\u201d<\/p>\n

Robinson nodded. \u201cShe\u2019s also a survivor.\u201d<\/p>\n

\n

FIVE<\/p>\n

Josephine Pulcillo stepped off the city bus and walked in a daze along busy Washington Street, oblivious to the traffic and the relentless thump of car stereos. At the corner she crossed the road, and even the sharp squeal of tires skidding to a stop a few feet away did not shake her as deeply as what she had seen that morning, in that autopsy suite.<\/p>\n

Medea.<\/p>\n

Surely it was a coincidence. A startling one, but what else could it be? Most likely the cartouche wasn\u2019t even an accurate translation. Trinket sellers in Cairo would tell you any tale in hopes of taking your dollars. Dangle enough money in front of them and they\u2019d brazenly swear that Cleopatra herself had worn some worthless piece of junk. Perhaps the engraver had been asked to write Maddie or Melody or Mabel. It was far less likely that the hieroglyphs were meant to spell out Medea, since it was a name rarely heard except in the context of Greek tragedy.<\/p>\n

She flinched as a horn blared and turned to see a black pickup truck crawling along the street beside her. The window rolled down, and a young man called out: \u201cHey gorgeous, want a ride? There\u2019s plenty of room on my lap!\u201d<\/p>\n

One rude gesture involving her middle finger was all it took to let him know what she thought of his offer. He gave a laugh and the truck roared off, spewing exhaust. Her eyes were still watering from the fumes as she climbed the stairs and stepped into her apartment building. Pausing by the lobby mailboxes, she dug through her purse for her mailbox key and suddenly gave a sigh.<\/p>\n

She crossed to Apartment 1A and knocked.<\/p>\n

The door swung open and a bug-eyed alien peered out. \u201cYou found your keys yet?\u201d the alien asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cMr. Goodwin? That is you, isn\u2019t it?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat? Oh, sorry. These old eyes aren\u2019t what they used to be. Need Robocop glasses just to see the darn screw heads.\u201d The building superintendent pulled off his pair of magnifying goggles, and the bug-eyed alien transformed to an utterly ordinary man in his sixties, unruly tufts of gray hair standing up on his head like miniature horns. \u201cSo did that key ring ever turn up?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sure I just misplaced it at work. I\u2019ve managed to make copies of my car keys and apartment keys, but\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI know. You want the new mailbox key, right?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou said you\u2019d have to change the lock.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI did it this morning. Come on in and I\u2019ll give you the new key.\u201d<\/p>\n

Reluctantly, she followed him into his apartment. Once you stepped into Mr. Goodwin\u2019s lair, it could be a good half hour before you escaped. Mr. Goodwrench was what the tenants called him, for reasons that were apparent as she walked into his living room\u2014or what ought to be a living room. Instead it was a tinkerer\u2019s palace, every horizontal surface covered with old hair dryers and radios and electronic gizmos in various stages of being dismantled or reassembled. Just a hobby of mine, he\u2019d once told her. No need to throw anything away ever again. I can fix it for you!<\/p>\n

You just had to be willing to wait a decade or more for him to get around to it.<\/p>\n

\u201cI hope you find that key ring of yours,\u201d he said as he led her past dozens of repair projects gathering dust. \u201cMakes me nervous, having loose apartment keys floating around out there. The world is full of creeps, you know. And did you hear what Mr. Lubin\u2019s been saying?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo.\u201d She didn\u2019t want to hear what grumpy Mr. Lubin across the hall had to say.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe\u2019s seen a black car casing our building. It drives by real slow every afternoon, and there\u2019s a man at the wheel.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe he\u2019s just looking for a parking place. That\u2019s the reason I hardly drive my car anywhere. Besides the price of gas, I hate giving up my parking spot.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMr. Lubin\u2019s got a keen eye for these things. Did you know he used to work as a spy?\u201d<\/p>\n

She gave a laugh. \u201cDo you really think that\u2019s true?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy wouldn\u2019t it be? I mean, he wouldn\u2019t lie about something like that.\u201d<\/p>\n

You have no idea what some people lie about.<\/p>\n

Mr. Goodwin opened a drawer, setting off a noisy rattle, and pulled out a key. \u201cHere you go. I\u2019ll have to charge you forty-five bucks for changing the lock.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCan I just add it to my rent check?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSure thing.\u201d He grinned. \u201cI trust you.\u201d<\/p>\n

I\u2019m the last person you should be trusting.She turned to leave.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, wait. I got your mail here again.\u201d He crossed to the cluttered dining room table and gathered up a stack of mail and a package, all bundled together with a rubber band. \u201cThe mailman couldn\u2019t fit this into your box, so I told him I\u2019d give it to you.\u201d He nodded at the package. \u201cI see you ordered something else from L.L. Bean, eh? You must like that company.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, I do. Thank you for holding my mail.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo do you buy clothes or camping gear from them?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cClothes, mostly.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd they fit you okay? Even through the mail?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThey fit me fine.\u201d With a tight smile, she turned to leave before he could start asking her where she bought her lingerie. \u201cSee you later.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMe, I\u2019d just as soon try on clothes before I buy \u2019em,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\u201cNever could get a decent fit through mail order.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll give you the rent check tomorrow.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd you keep looking for those keys, okay? You\u2019ve got to be careful these days, especially a pretty girl like you, living all alone. Not a good thing if your keys end up in the wrong hands.\u201d<\/p>\n

She bolted out of his apartment and started up the stairs.<\/p>\n

\u201cHold on!\u201d he called out. \u201cThere\u2019s one more thing. I almost forgot to ask you. Do you know anyone named Josephine Sommer?\u201d<\/p>\n

She froze on the steps, her arms clamped around the bundle of mail, her back rigid as a board. Slowly she turned to look at him. \u201cWhat did you say?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe mailman asked me if that might be you, but I told him no, your name was Pulcillo.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy\u2014why did he ask that question?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBecause there\u2019s a letter in there with your apartment number and the last name says Sommer, not Pulcillo. He figured it might be your maiden name or something. I told him you were single, as far as I knew. Still, it is your apartment number, and there aren\u2019t too many Josephines around, so I figured it must be meant for you. That\u2019s why I kept it in with the rest of your mail.\u201d<\/p>\n

She swallowed. \u201cThank you,\u201d she murmured.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo is it you?\u201d<\/p>\n

She didn\u2019t respond. She just kept climbing the stairs, even though she knew he was watching her and waiting for an answer. Before he had the chance to lob another question, she ducked into her apartment and shut the door.<\/p>\n

She was hugging the bundle of mail so tightly she could feel her heart slamming against it. She yanked off the rubber band and dumped the mail onto her coffee table. Envelopes and glossy catalogs spilled across the surface. Shoving aside the box from L.L. Bean, she sifted through the swirl of mail until she spotted an envelope with the nameJOSEPHINE SOMMER written in an unfamiliar hand. It had a Boston postmark, but there was no return address.<\/p>\n

Somebody in Boston knows this name. What else do they know about me?<\/p>\n

For a long time she sat without opening the envelope, afraid to read its contents. Afraid that, once she opened it, her life would change. For this one last moment, she could still be Josephine Pulcillo, the quiet young woman who never spoke of her past. The underpaid archaeologist who was content to hide away in the Crispin Museum\u2019s back room, fussing over bits of papyrus and scraps of linen.<\/p>\n

I\u2019ve been careful, she thought. So careful to keep my head down and my eyes on my work, yet somehow the past has caught up with me.<\/p>\n

Taking a deep breath, she finally tore open the envelope. Tucked inside was a note with only six words written in block letters. Words that told her what she already knew.<\/p>\n

THE POLICE ARE NOT YOUR FRIENDS.<\/p>\n

\n

SIX<\/p>\n

The docent at the Crispin Museum appeared ancient enough to be exhibited in a display case herself. The gray-haired little gnome was barely tall enough to peer over the counter of the reception desk as she announced: \u201cI\u2019m sorry, but we don\u2019t open until exactly tenAM . If you\u2019d like to come back in seven minutes, I\u2019ll sell you the tickets then.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019re not here to tour the museum,\u201d said Jane. \u201cWe\u2019re with Boston PD. I\u2019m Detective Rizzoli and this is Detective Frost. Mr. Crispin is expecting us.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI wasn\u2019t informed.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIs he here?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes. He and Miss Duke are in a meeting upstairs,\u201d the woman said, clearly enunciating the title Miss and not Ms., as though to emphasize that in this building, old-fashioned rules of etiquette still applied. She came around from behind the counter, revealing a plaid kilt-skirt and enormous orthopedic shoes. Pinned to her white cotton blouse was a name tag:MRS. WILLEBRANDT, DOCENT. \u201cI\u2019ll take you to his office. But first I need to lock up the cash box. We\u2019re expecting a large crowd again today, and I don\u2019t want to leave it unattended.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, we can find the way to his office,\u201d said Frost. \u201cIf you\u2019ll tell us where it is.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t want you to get lost.\u201d<\/p>\n

Frost gave her his best charm-the-old-ladies smile. \u201cI was a Boy Scout, ma\u2019am. I promise, I won\u2019t get lost.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mrs. Willebrandt refused to be charmed. She eyed him dubiously through steel-rimmed spectacles. \u201cIt\u2019s on the third floor,\u201d she finally said. \u201cYou can take the elevator, but it\u2019s very slow.\u201d She pointed to a black grille cage that looked more like an ancient death trap than an elevator.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019ll take the stairs,\u201d said Jane.<\/p>\n

\u201cThey\u2019re straight ahead, through the main gallery.\u201d<\/p>\n

Straight ahead,however, was not a direction that one could navigate in this building. When Jane and Frost stepped into the first-floor gallery, they confronted a maze of display cases. The first case that greeted them contained a life-sized wax figure of a nineteenth-century gentleman garbed in a fine woolen suit and waistcoat. In one hand he held a compass; in the other, he clutched a yellowed map. Though he faced them through the glass, his eyes looked elsewhere, focused on some lofty and distant destination that only he could see.<\/p>\n

Frost leaned forward and read the plaque at the gentleman\u2019s feet. \u201c\u2018Dr. Cornelius M. Crispin, Explorer and Scientist, 1830 through 1912. The treasures he brought home from around the world were the beginnings of the Crispin Museum Collection.\u2019\u201d He straightened. \u201cWow. Imagine listing that as your occupation. Explorer. \u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI think rich guy would be more accurate.\u201d Jane moved on to the next case, where gold coins glittered under display lights. \u201cHey, look. This says these are from the kingdom of Croesus.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNow there was a rich guy.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou mean Croesus was for real? I thought he was just some fairy tale.\u201d<\/p>\n

They continued to the next case, which was filled with pottery and clay figurines. \u201cCool,\u201d said Frost. \u201cThese are Sumerian. You know, this is really old stuff. When Alice gets home, I\u2019m going to bring her here. She\u2019d love this museum. Funny how I never even heard of it before.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cEveryone\u2019s heard of it now. Nothing like a murder to put your place on the map.\u201d<\/p>\n

They wandered deeper into the maze of cases, past marble busts of Greeks and Romans, past rusted swords and glinting jewelry, their footsteps creaking on old wood floors. So many cases were crammed into the gallery that the passages between them were narrow alleys, and every turn brought a fresh surprise, another treasure that demanded their attention.<\/p>\n

They emerged at last into an open area near the stairwell. Frost started up the steps to the second floor, but Jane did not follow him. Instead, she was drawn toward a narrow doorway, framed in faux stone.<\/p>\n

\u201cRizzoli?\u201d said Frost, glancing back.<\/p>\n

\u201cHold on a minute,\u201d she said, gazing up at the seductive invitation that beckoned from the doorway lintel:COME. STEP INTO THE LAND OF THE PHARAOHS.<\/p>\n

She could not resist.<\/p>\n

Moving through the doorway, she found the space beyond so dimly lit that she had to pause as her eyes adjusted to the shadows. Slowly a room filled with wonders revealed itself.<\/p>\n

\u201cWow,\u201d whispered Frost, who had followed.<\/p>\n

They stood in an Egyptian burial chamber, its walls covered with hieroglyphs and funerary paintings. Displayed in the room were tomb artifacts, illuminated softly by discreetly placed spotlights. She saw a sarcophagus, gaping open as though awaiting its eternal occupant. A carved jackal head leered from atop a stone canopic jar. On the wall hung funerary masks, dark eyes staring eerily from painted faces. Beneath glass, a papyrus scroll lay open to a passage from the Book of the Dead.<\/p>\n

Against the far wall was a vacant glass case. It was the size of a coffin.<\/p>\n

Peering into it, she saw a photograph of a mummy resting inside a crate, and an index card with the handwritten notice:FUTURE RESTING PLACE OF MADAM X. WATCH FOR HER ARRIVAL!<\/p>\n

Madam X would never make an appearance here, yet already she\u2019d served her purpose, and crowds were now turning up at the museum. She\u2019d drawn in the curious, the hordes seeking morbid thrills eager for a glimpse of death. But one thrill seeker had taken it a step further. He had been twisted enough to actually make a mummy, to gut a woman, to salt and pack her cavities with spices. To wrap her in linen, binding her naked limbs and torso strip by strip, like a spider spinning silken threads around its helpless prey. Jane stared at that empty case and considered the prospect of eternity inside that glass coffin. Suddenly the room seemed close and airless, and her chest felt as constricted as if she were the one bound head-to-toe, strips of linen strangling her, suffocating her. She fumbled at the top button of her blouse to loosen her collar.<\/p>\n

\u201cHello, Detectives?\u201d<\/p>\n

Startled, Jane turned to see a woman silhouetted in the narrow doorway. She was dressed in a formfitting pantsuit that flattered her slender frame, and her short blond hair gleamed in a backlit halo.<\/p>\n

\u201cMrs. Willebrandt told us you\u2019d arrived. We\u2019ve been waiting upstairs for you. I thought you might have gotten lost.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThis museum is really interesting,\u201d said Frost. \u201cWe couldn\u2019t help taking a look around.\u201d<\/p>\n

As Jane and Frost stepped out of the tomb exhibit, the woman offered a brisk and businesslike handshake. In the brighter light of the main gallery, Jane saw that she was a handsome blonde in her forties\u2014about a century younger than the docent they\u2019d encountered at the front desk. \u201cI\u2019m Debbie Duke, one of the volunteers here.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDetective Rizzoli,\u201d said Jane. \u201cAnd Detective Frost.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSimon\u2019s waiting in his office, if you\u2019d like to follow me.\u201d Debbie turned and led the way up the stairs, her stylish pumps clicking against the well-worn wooden steps. On the second-floor landing, Jane was once again distracted by an eye-catching exhibit: A stuffed and mounted grizzly bear had its claws bared as though about to slash anyone coming up the stairs.<\/p>\n

\u201cDid one of Mr. Crispin\u2019s ancestors shoot this thing?\u201d asked Jane.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh.\u201d Debbie glanced back with a look of distaste. \u201cThat\u2019s Big Ben. I\u2019ll have to check, but I think Simon\u2019s father brought that thing home from Alaska. I\u2019m just learning about the collection myself.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re new here?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSince April. We\u2019re trying to recruit new volunteers, if you know anyone who\u2019d like to join us. We\u2019re especially looking for younger volunteers, to work with the children.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jane still couldn\u2019t take her eyes off those lethal-looking bear claws. \u201cI thought this was an archaeology museum,\u201d she said. \u201cHow does this bear fit in?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cActually, it\u2019s an everything museum, and that\u2019s what makes it so hard to market ourselves. Most of this was collected by five generations of Crispins, but we also have a number of donated items. On the second floor, we display a lot of animals with fangs and claws. It\u2019s strange, but that\u2019s where the kids always seem to end up. They like to stare at carnivores. Bunnies bore them.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBunnies can\u2019t kill you,\u201d said Jane.<\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe that\u2019s what it is. We all like to be scared, don\u2019t we?\u201d Debbie turned and continued up the stairs.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s up on the third floor?\u201d Frost asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cMore display space. I\u2019ll show you. We use it for our rotating exhibits.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo you bring in new stuff?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, we don\u2019t have to bring in anything. There\u2019s so much stored down in the basement that we could probably change that exhibit every month for the next twenty years and never repeat ourselves.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo what have you got up there now?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBones.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou mean human?\u201d<\/p>\n

Debbie gave him a quietly amused look. \u201cOf course. How else do we catch the attention of a hopelessly jaded public? We could show them the most exquisite Ming vase, or a carved ivory screen from Persia, and they\u2019d turn their backs and go straight for the human remains.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd where do these bones come from?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTrust me. These are well documented. They were brought back from Turkey a century ago by one of the Crispins. I can\u2019t remember which one, probably Cornelius. Dr. Robinson thought it was time to get them out of storage and back in the public eye. This exhibit\u2019s all about ancient burial practices.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou sound like an archaeologist yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMe?\u201d Debbie laughed. \u201cI\u2019ve just got a lot of time on my hands, and I love beautiful things. So I think museums are worth supporting. Did you see the exhibit downstairs? Aside from the mounted carnivores, we have treasures that deserve to be seen. That\u2019s what the museum should focus on, not stuffed bears, but you have to give the public what it wants. That\u2019s why we had such high hopes for Madam X. She would have brought in enough cash to keep our heat turned on, at least.\u201d<\/p>\n

They reached the third floor and walked into the Ancient Cemeteries exhibit. Jane saw glass cases containing human bones arranged on sand, as though just uncovered by the archaeologist\u2019s trowel. While Debbie walked briskly past them, Jane found herself falling behind, staring at skeletons curled into fetal positions, at a dead mother\u2019s bony limbs lovingly embracing the fragmented remains of a child. The child could not have been much older than her own daughter, Regina. A whole village of the dead lies here, thought Jane. What sort of man would so brutally rip these people from their resting places and ship them to be ogled in a foreign land? Did Simon Crispin\u2019s ancestor feel any inkling of guilt as he\u2019d wrenched these bones from their graves? Old coins or marble statues or human bones\u2014all were treated the same by the Crispin family. They were items to be collected and displayed like trophies.<\/p>\n

\u201cDetective?\u201d said Debbie.<\/p>\n

Leaving behind the silent dead, Jane and Frost followed Debbie into Simon Crispin\u2019s office.<\/p>\n

The man who sat waiting for them looked far frailer than she\u2019d expected. His hair had thinned to white wisps, and brown age spots blotted his hands and scalp. But his piercing blue eyes were agleam with keen interest as he shook hands with his two visitors.<\/p>\n

\u201cThank you for seeing us, Mr. Crispin,\u201d said Jane.<\/p>\n

\u201cI wish I could have attended the autopsy myself,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\u201cBut my hip hasn\u2019t quite healed from surgery, and I\u2019m still hobbling around with a cane. Please, sit down.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jane glanced around at the room, which was furnished with a massive oak desk and armchairs upholstered in frayed green velvet. With its dark wood paneling and Palladian windows, the room looked like it belonged in a genteel club from an earlier century, a place where gentlemen sipped sherry. But like the rest of the building, the room showed its age. The Persian carpet was worn almost threadbare, and the yellowing volumes in the barrister\u2019s bookcase appeared to be at least a hundred years old.<\/p>\n

Jane sat in one of the velvet chairs, feeling dwarfed by the throne-sized furniture, like a child playing queen for a day. Frost, too, settled into one of the massive chairs, but instead of looking kingly, he looked vaguely constipated on his velvet throne.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019ll do all we can to help you with this investigation,\u201d said Simon. \u201cDr. Robinson\u2019s the one in charge of daily operations. I\u2019m afraid I\u2019m rather useless since I broke my hip.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow did it happen?\u201d asked Jane.<\/p>\n

\u201cI fell into an excavation pit in Turkey.\u201d He saw Jane\u2019s raised eyebrow and smiled. \u201cYes, even at the ripe old age of eighty-two, I was working in the field. I\u2019ve never been merely an armchair archaeologist. I believe one has to get one\u2019s hands dirty or you\u2019re nothing but a hobbyist. \u201d The note of contempt he used for that last word left no doubt what he thought of such dabblers.<\/p>\n

Debbie said, \u201cYou\u2019ll be back in the field before you know it, Simon. At your age, it just takes time to heal.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t have time. I left Turkey seven months ago, and I\u2019m worried the excavation\u2019s turned into a mess.\u201d He gave a sigh. \u201cBut it couldn\u2019t be as big a mess as we\u2019re dealing with here.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI assume Dr. Robinson told you what we found in the autopsy yesterday,\u201d said Jane.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes. And to say that we\u2019re shocked is an understatement. This is not the kind of attention any museum wants.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI doubt it\u2019s the kind of attention Madam X wanted, either.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI wasn\u2019t even aware we had a mummy in our collection until Nicholas discovered her during his inventory.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe said that was back in January.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes. Soon after I had my hip operation.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow does a museum lose track of something as valuable as a mummy?\u201d<\/p>\n

He gave a sheepish smile. \u201cVisit any museum with a large collection, and chances are you\u2019ll find basements as disorganized as ours. We\u2019re a hundred and thirty years old. In that time, over a dozen curators and hundreds of interns, docents, and other volunteers have worked under this roof. Field notes get lost, records go missing, and items get misplaced. So it\u2019s not surprising we\u2019ve lost track of what we own.\u201d He sighed. \u201cI\u2019m afraid I must assume the largest burden of blame.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFor too long, I left the operational details entirely in the hands of Dr. William Scott-Kerr, our former curator. I was abroad so much, I didn\u2019t know what was happening here at home. But Mrs. Willebrandt saw his deterioration. How he began to misplace papers or affix the wrong labels to displays. Eventually he became so forgetful, he couldn\u2019t identify even common implements. The tragedy is, this man was once brilliant, a former field archaeologist who\u2019d worked all over the world. Mrs. Willebrandt wrote me about her concerns, and when I got home, I could see we had a serious problem. I didn\u2019t have the heart to immediately dismiss him, and as it turned out, I didn\u2019t have to. He was struck by a car and killed, right outside this building. Only seventy-four years old, but it was probably a blessing, considering the grim prognosis had he lived.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWas it Alzheimer\u2019s?\u201d asked Jane.<\/p>\n

Simon nodded. \u201cThe signs were probably there for a decade, but William managed to cover it up well. The collection was left in complete disarray. We didn\u2019t realize how bad things were until I hired Dr. Robinson three years ago, and he discovered that accession ledgers were missing. He couldn\u2019t find documentation for a number of crates in the basement. In January, when he opened up the crate containing Madam X, he had no idea what was inside it. Believe me, we were all stunned. We had no inkling there was ever a mummy in the collection.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMiss Duke told us that most of the collection comes down from your family,\u201d said Frost.<\/p>\n

\u201cFive generations of Crispins have personally wielded trowels and shovels. Collecting is our family passion. Unfortunately, it\u2019s also a costly obsession, and this museum has sucked up what was left of my inheritance.\u201d He sighed again. \u201cWhich leaves it where it is today\u2014short of funds and dependent on volunteers. And donors.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCould that be how Madam X ended up here?\u201d asked Frost.<\/p>\n

\u201cFrom a donor?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDonated artifacts do come our way,\u201d Simon said. \u201cPeople want a safe home for some prized antiquity that they can\u2019t properly care for. Or they want a nice little plaque with their name on a permanent display for everyone to see. We\u2019re willing to take almost anything.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut you have no record of a donated mummy?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNicholas found no mention of one. And believe me, he searched. He made it his mission. In March we hired Josephine to help us with the Madam X analysis, and she couldn\u2019t track down the mummy\u2019s origins, either.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s possible Madam X was added to the collection when Dr. Scott-Kerr was curator,\u201d said Debbie.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe guy with Alzheimer\u2019s,\u201d said Jane.<\/p>\n

\u201cRight. And he could have misplaced the paperwork. It would explain things.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt sounds like a reasonable theory,\u201d said Jane. \u201cBut we have to pursue other theories as well. Who has access to your basement?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe keys are kept at the reception desk, so pretty much everyone on staff does.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThen anyone on your staff could have placed Madam X in the basement?\u201d<\/p>\n

There was a moment\u2019s silence. Debbie and Simon looked at each other, and his face darkened. \u201cI don\u2019t like what you\u2019re implying, Detective.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s a reasonable question.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe are a venerable institution, staffed by excellent people, most of them volunteers,\u201d said Simon. \u201cOur docents, our student interns\u2014they\u2019re here because they\u2019re dedicated to preservation.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI wasn\u2019t questioning anybody\u2019s dedication. I just wondered who had access.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat you\u2019re really asking is, Who could have stashed a dead body down there?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s a possibility we have to consider.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTrust me, we\u2019ve had no murderers employed here.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCan you be absolutely certain of that, Mr. Crispin?\u201d Jane asked quietly, but her gaze left him no easy escape. She could see that her question had disturbed him. She had forced him to confront the awful possibility that someone he knew, now or in the past, could have brought death into this proud bastion of learning.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry, Mr. Crispin,\u201d she finally said. \u201cBut things may be a little disrupted here for a while.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSomehow a dead body ended up in your museum. Maybe she was donated to you a decade ago. Maybe she was placed here recently. The problem is, you have no documentation. You don\u2019t even know what else is in your collection. We\u2019re going to need to take a look at your basement.\u201d<\/p>\n

Simon shook his head in bewilderment. \u201cAnd just what are you expecting to find?\u201d<\/p>\n

She didn\u2019t answer the question; she didn\u2019t need to.<\/p>\n

\n

SEVEN<\/p>\n

\u201cIs this absolutely necessary?\u201d said Nicholas Robinson. \u201cDo you have to do it this way?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m afraid we do,\u201d said Jane, and handed him the search warrant. As he read it, Jane stood by with her team of three male detectives. Today she and Frost had brought in Detectives Tripp and Crowe for the search, and they all waited as Robinson took a painfully long time examining the warrant. The ever-impatient Darren Crowe give a loud huff of frustration, and Jane shot him an annoyed look of Cool it, a pointed reminder that she was in charge of this team, and he\u2019d better toe the line.<\/p>\n

Robinson frowned at the paperwork. \u201cYou\u2019re searching for human remains?\u201d He looked up at Jane. \u201cWell, of course you\u2019ll find them here. This is a museum. And I assure you, those bones on the third floor are ancient. If you\u2019d like me to point out the relevant dental evidence\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s what you have stored in the basement that interests us. If you\u2019ll unlock the door down there, we can get started.\u201d<\/p>\n

Robinson glanced at the other detectives who stood nearby and spotted the crowbar in Detective Tripp\u2019s hands. \u201cYou can\u2019t just go breaking open crates! You could damage priceless artifacts.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re welcome to observe and advise. But please don\u2019t move anything or touch anything.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy are you turning this museum into a crime scene?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019re concerned that Madam X may not be the only surprise in your collection. Now, please come down with us to the basement.\u201d<\/p>\n

Robinson swallowed hard and looked at the senior docent, who\u2019d been watching the confrontation. \u201cMrs. Willebrandt, would you call Josephine and tell her to come in right away? I need her.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s five minutes to ten, Dr. Robinson. Visitors will be arriving.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe museum will have to stay closed today,\u201d said Jane. \u201cWe\u2019d prefer that the media not catch wind of what\u2019s going on. So please lock the front doors.\u201d<\/p>\n

Her order was pointedly ignored by Mrs. Willebrandt, who kept her gaze on the curator. \u201cDr. Robinson?\u201d<\/p>\n

He gave a resigned sigh. \u201cIt appears we have no choice in the matter. Please do as the police say.\u201d Opening a drawer behind the reception desk, he took out a set of keys, then led the way past the wax statue of Dr. Cornelius Crispin, past the Greek and Roman marble busts, to the stairwell. A dozen creaking steps took them down to the basement level.<\/p>\n

There he paused. Turning to Jane, he said: \u201cDo I need an attorney? Am I a suspect?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThen who is? Tell me that much at least.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThis may date back to before your employment here.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow far back?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTo the previous curator.\u201d<\/p>\n

Robinson gave a startled laugh. \u201cThat poor man had Alzheimer\u2019s. You don\u2019t really think old William was storing dead bodies down here, do you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe door, Dr. Robinson.\u201d<\/p>\n

Shaking his head, he unlocked the door. Cool, dry air spilled out. They stepped into the room, and Jane heard startled murmurs from the other detectives as they glimpsed the vast storage area, filled with row upon row of crates stacked almost to the ceiling.<\/p>\n

\u201cPlease keep the door closed, if you could,\u201d said Robinson.<\/p>\n

\u201cThis is a climate-controlled area.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMan,\u201d said Detective Crowe. \u201cThis is going to take us forever to look through all of these. What\u2019s in these crates, anyway?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019re more than halfway through our inventory,\u201d said Robinson. \u201cIf you\u2019d only give us another few months to complete it, we\u2019d be able to tell you what every crate contains.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cA few months is a long time to wait.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s taken me a year just to inspect those rows there, all the way to the back shelves. I can personally vouch for their contents. But I haven\u2019t yet opened the crates at this end. It\u2019s a slow process because one needs to be careful and document everything. Some of the items are centuries old and may already be crumbling.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cEven in a climate-controlled room?\u201d asked Tripp.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe air-conditioning wasn\u2019t installed until the 1960s.\u201d<\/p>\n

Frost pointed to a crate on the bottom of a stack. \u201cLook at the date stamped on that one. \u20181873. Siam.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou see?\u201d Robinson looked at Jane. \u201cThere may be treasures here that haven\u2019t been unpacked in a hundred years. My plan was to go through these crates systematically and document everything.\u201d He paused. \u201cBut then I discovered Madam X and the inventory came to a halt. Otherwise, we\u2019d be further along by now.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhere did you find her crate?\u201d asked Jane. \u201cWhich section?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDown this row, back against the wall.\u201d He pointed to the far end of the storage area. \u201cShe was at the bottom of the stack.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou looked in the crates that were on top of hers?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes. They contained items acquired during the 1910s. Artifacts from the Ottoman Empire, plus a few Chinese scrolls and pottery.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe 1910s?\u201d Jane thought of the mummy\u2019s perfect dentition, the amalgam filling in her tooth. \u201cMadam X was almost certainly more recent than that.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThen how did she end up underneath older crates?\u201d asked Detective Crowe.<\/p>\n

\u201cObviously someone rearranged things in here,\u201d said Jane. \u201cIt would have made her less accessible.\u201d<\/p>\n

As Jane gazed around the cavernous space, she thought of the mausoleum in which her grandmother had been interred, a marble palace where every wall was etched with the names of those who rested within the crypts. Is this what I\u2019m looking at now? A mausoleum packed with nameless victims? She walked toward the far end of the basement, where Madam X had been found. Two lightbulbs overhead had burned out in this area, throwing the corner into shadow.<\/p>\n

\u201cLet\u2019s start our search here,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

Together Frost and Crowe pulled the top crate off the stack and lowered it to the floor. On the lid was scrawled:MISCELLANEOUS. CONGO. Frost used a crowbar to pry up the lid, and at his first glimpse of what lay inside, he flinched back, bumping against Jane.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat is it?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n

Darren Crowe suddenly laughed. Reaching into the crate, he pulled out a wooden mask and held it over his face. \u201cBoo!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBe careful with that!\u201d said Robinson. \u201cIt\u2019s valuable.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s also creepy as hell,\u201d murmured Frost, staring at the mask\u2019s grotesque features carved into wood.<\/p>\n

Crowe set the mask aside and pulled out one of the crumpled newspapers used to cushion the crate\u2019s contents. \u201cLondon Times, 1930. I\u2019d say this crate predates our perp.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI really must protest,\u201d said Robinson. \u201cYou\u2019re touching things\u2014contaminating things. You should all be wearing gloves.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe you should wait outside, Dr. Robinson,\u201d said Jane.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, I won\u2019t. The safety of this collection is my responsibility.\u201d<\/p>\n

She turned to confront him. Mild-mannered though he appeared, he stubbornly stood his ground as she advanced, his eyes blinking furiously behind his glasses. Outside this museum, if confronted by a police officer, Nicholas Robinson would probably respond deferentially. But here on his own territory, in defense of his precious collection, he appeared fully prepared to engage in hand-to-hand combat.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re rampaging through here like wild cattle,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat makes you think there are more bodies down here? What kind of people do you think work in museums?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know, Dr. Robinson. That\u2019s what I\u2019m trying to find out.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThen ask me. Talk to me, instead of tearing apart crates. I know this museum. I know the people who\u2019ve worked here.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019ve been curator here for only three years,\u201d said Jane.<\/p>\n

\u201cI also worked here as a summer intern when I was in college. I knew Dr. Scott-Kerr, and he was utterly harmless.\u201d He glared at Crowe, who had just fished a vase out of the open crate. \u201cHey! That\u2019s at least four hundred years old! Treat it with respect!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe it\u2019s time for you and me to step outside,\u201d said Jane.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe need to talk.\u201d<\/p>\n

He shot a worried glance at the three detectives, who had started opening another crate. He reluctantly followed her out of the basement and up the stairs to the first-floor gallery. They stood by the Egyptian exhibit, its faux tomb entrance looming above them.<\/p>\n

\u201cExactly when were you an intern here, Dr. Robinson?\u201d Jane asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cTwenty years ago, during my junior and senior years in college. When William was curator, he tried to bring in one or two college students every summer.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy are there no interns now?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe no longer have money in our budget to pay their expenses. So we find it almost impossible to attract any students. Besides, when you\u2019re young, you\u2019d rather be working out in the field anyway, with other kids your age. Not confined to this dusty old building.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat do you remember about Dr. Scott-Kerr?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI liked him quite a bit,\u201d he said. And a smile flickered on his lips at the memory. \u201cHe was a little absentminded even then, but he was always pleasant, always generous with his time. He gave me a great deal of responsibility right off the bat, and that made it the best experience I could have had. Even if it did set me up for disappointment.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt raised my expectations. I thought I\u2019d be able to land a job just like it when I finished my doctorate.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou didn\u2019t?\u201d<\/p>\n

He shook his head. \u201cI ended up working as a shovel bum.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat does that mean?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cA contract archaeologist. These days, that\u2019s pretty much the only kind of job one can get with a fresh archaeology degree. They call it cultural resource management. I worked at construction sites and military bases. I dug test pits, looking for any evidence of historic value before the bulldozers moved in. It\u2019s a job only for young people. There are no benefits, you\u2019re always living out of a suitcase, and it\u2019s damn hard on the knees and back. So when Simon called me three years ago to offer me this job, I was glad to hang up my shovel, even if I\u2019m earning less than I did in the field. Which explains why this position went vacant for so long after Dr. Scott-Kerr died.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow can a museum operate without a curator?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBy letting someone like Mrs. Willebrandt run the show, if you can believe it. She left the same displays in the same dusty cases for years.\u201d He glanced toward the reception desk, and his voice dropped to a whisper. \u201cAnd you know what? She hasn\u2019t changed a whit since I was an intern. That woman was born ancient.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jane heard footsteps thump on the stairwell and turned to see Frost trudging up the basement steps. \u201cRizzoli, you\u2019d better come down and see this.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat did you find?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019re not sure.\u201d<\/p>\n

She and Robinson followed Frost back down to the basement storeroom. Spilled wood shavings littered the floor where the detectives had searched through several more crates.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe were trying to pull that crate down, and I braced myself against the wall,\u201d said Detective Tripp. \u201cIt kind of gave way behind me. And then I noticed that. \u201d He pointed toward the bricks.<\/p>\n

\u201cCrowe, shine your flashlight this way, so she can see it.\u201d<\/p>\n

Crowe aimed his beam and Jane frowned at the wall, which was now bowed outward. One of the bricks had fallen away, leaving a gap through which Jane could see only blackness beyond.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere\u2019s a space back there,\u201d said Crowe. \u201cWhen I shine my light through, I can\u2019t even see a back wall.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jane turned to Robinson. \u201cWhat\u2019s behind these bricks?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI have no idea,\u201d he murmured, staring in bewilderment at the bowed wall. \u201cI always assumed these walls were solid. But it\u2019s such an old building.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow old?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAt least a hundred and fifty years. That\u2019s what the plumber told us when he came to update the restroom. This was once their family residence, you know.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe Crispins?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThey lived here in the mid-1800s, then the family moved into a new home out in Brookline. That\u2019s when this building was turned into the museum.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhich direction does this wall face?\u201d asked Frost.<\/p>\n

Robinson thought about it. \u201cThat would be facing the street, I think.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo there\u2019s no building on the other side of this.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, just the road.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLet\u2019s pull some of these bricks out,\u201d said Jane, \u201cand see what\u2019s on the other side.\u201d<\/p>\n

Robinson looked alarmed. \u201cIf you start removing bricks, it could all collapse.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut this obviously isn\u2019t a weight-bearing wall,\u201d said Tripp.<\/p>\n

\u201cOr it would already have fallen.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI want you all to stop right now,\u201d said Robinson. \u201cBefore you go any further, I need to speak to Simon.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThen why don\u2019t you go ahead and call him?\u201d said Jane.<\/p>\n

As the curator walked out, the four detectives remained in place, a silent tableau poised for his departure. The instant the door shut behind him, Jane\u2019s attention shot back to the wall.<\/p>\n

\u201cThese lower bricks aren\u2019t even mortared together. They\u2019re just stacked up, loose.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo what\u2019s holding up the top of that wall?\u201d asked Frost.<\/p>\n

Gingerly, Jane eased out one of the loose bricks, half expecting the rest of them to come tumbling down. But the wall held. She glanced at Tripp. \u201cWhat do you think?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThere\u2019s got to be a brace on top supporting the upper third.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThen it should be safe to pull out these lower ones, right?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt should be. I guess.\u201d<\/p>\n

She gave a nervous laugh. \u201cYou fill me with such confidence, Tripp.\u201d As the three men stood by and watched, she gently eased out another loose brick, and another. She couldn\u2019t help noticing that the other detectives had backed away, leaving her alone at the base of the wall. Despite the gap she\u2019d now opened, the structure continued to hold. Peering through, she confronted only pitch blackness.<\/p>\n

\u201cGive me your flashlight, Crowe.\u201d<\/p>\n

He handed it to her.<\/p>\n

Dropping to her knees, she shone the beam through the gap. She could make out the rough surface of a facing wall a few yards away. Slowly she panned across it, and her beam came to a sudden halt on a niche carved into the stone. On a face that stared back at her from the darkness.<\/p>\n

She stumbled backward, gasping.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d said Frost. \u201cWhat did you see in there?\u201d<\/p>\n

For a moment, Jane could not speak. Heart thudding, she stared at the gap in the bricks, a dark window into a chamber she had no wish to explore. Not after what she\u2019d just glimpsed in those shadows.<\/p>\n

\u201cRizzoli?\u201d<\/p>\n

She swallowed. \u201cI think it\u2019s time to call the ME.\u201d<\/p>\n

\n

EIGHT<\/p>\n

This was not Maura\u2019s first visit to the Crispin Museum.<\/p>\n

A few years ago, soon after her move to Boston, she had found the museum listed in a guidebook to area attractions. On one cold Sunday in January, she had stepped through the museum\u2019s front door, expecting to compete with the usual weekend sightseers, the usual harried parents tugging along bored children. Instead she\u2019d entered a silent building staffed by a lone docent at the reception desk, an elderly woman who had taken Maura\u2019s entrance fee and then ignored her. Maura had walked alone through gallery after gloomy gallery, past dusty glass cases filled with curiosities from around the world, past yellowed tags that looked as if they had not been replaced in a century. The struggling furnace could not drive the chill from the building, and Maura had kept on her coat and scarf during the entire tour.<\/p>\n

Two hours later, she had walked out, depressed by the experience. Depressed, also, because that solitary visit seemed to symbolize her life at the time. Recently divorced and without friends in a new city, she was a solitary wanderer in a cold and gloomy landscape where no one greeted her or even seemed aware of her existence.<\/p>\n

She had not returned to the Crispin Museum. Until today.<\/p>\n

She felt a twinge of that same depression as she stepped into the building, as she once again breathed in its scent of age. Though years had passed since she\u2019d last set foot here, the gloom she\u2019d felt on that January day instantly resettled upon her shoulders, a reminder that her life, after all, had not really changed. Although she was now in love, she still wandered alone on Sundays\u2014particularly on Sundays.<\/p>\n

But today\u2019s official duties demanded her attention as she followed Jane down the stairs to the basement storage area. By now, the detectives had made the hole in the wall large enough for her to squeeze through. She paused at the chamber entrance and frowned at the pile of bricks that had been pulled loose.<\/p>\n

\u201cIs it safe to go in there? Are you sure it won\u2019t collapse?\u201d Maura asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s supported by a cross brace at the top,\u201d said Jane. \u201cThis was meant to look like a solid wall, but I think there may have been a door here at one time, leading to a hidden chamber.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHidden? For what purpose?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTo stash valuables? To hide booze during Prohibition? Who knows? Even Simon Crispin has no idea what this space was intended for.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDid he know it existed?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe said he\u2019d heard stories when he was a kid about a tunnel connecting this building with one across the street. But this chamber\u2019s just a dead end.\u201d Jane handed her a flashlight. \u201cYou first,\u201d she said. \u201cI\u2019ll be right behind you.\u201d<\/p>\n

Maura crouched at the hole. She felt the gazes of the detectives silently watching her, waiting for her reaction. Whatever waited inside that chamber had disturbed them, and their silence made her reluctant to proceed. She could not see into the space, but she knew that something foul waited in the darkness\u2014something that had been shut away so long, the air within seemed rank and chill. She dropped to her knees and squeezed through the opening.<\/p>\n

Beyond, she found a space just high enough for her to stand. Reaching out straight in front of her, she felt nothing. She turned on her flashlight.<\/p>\n

A disembodied face squinted back at her.<\/p>\n

She sucked in a shocked breath and jerked back, colliding with Jane, who had just squeezed into the space behind her.<\/p>\n

\u201cI guess you saw them,\u201d said Jane.<\/p>\n

\u201cThem?\u201d<\/p>\n

Jane turned on her flashlight. \u201cThere\u2019s one right here.\u201d The beam landed on the face that had just startled Maura. \u201cAnd a second one\u2019s here.\u201d The beam shifted, landing on a second niche, which held another face, grotesquely shriveled. \u201cAnd finally there\u2019s a third one right here.\u201d Jane aimed her flashlight at a stone ledge just above Maura. The wizened face was framed by a waterfall of lustrous black hair. Brutal stitches bound the lips together, as though condemning them to eternal silence.<\/p>\n

\u201cTell me these aren\u2019t real heads,\u201d said Jane softly. \u201cPlease.\u201d<\/p>\n

Maura reached in her pocket for gloves. Her hands felt chilled and clumsy, and she fumbled in the darkness to pull latex over clammy fingers. As Jane aimed her beam up at the ledge, Maura gently pulled the head from its stone shelf. It felt startlingly weightless and was compact enough to rest in her palm. The curtain of hair was unbound, and she flinched as silky strands brushed across her bare arm. Not mere nylon, she thought, but real hair. Human hair.<\/p>\n

Maura swallowed. \u201cI think this is a tsantsa. \u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cA what?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cA shrunken head.\u201d Maura looked at Jane. \u201cIt seems to be real.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt could also be old, right? Just some antique the museum collected from Africa?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSouth America.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhatever. Couldn\u2019t these be part of their old collection?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThey could be.\u201d Maura looked at her in the darkness. \u201cOr they could be recent.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u00a0 <\/p>\n

The museum staff stared at the three tsantsas resting on the museum\u2019s lab table. Mercilessly lit by the glare of exam lights, every detail of the heads was illuminated, from their feathery eyelashes and eyebrows to the elaborate braiding of the cotton strings that bound their lips closed. Crowning two of the heads was long, jet-black hair. The hair of the third had been cut in a blunt bob that looked like a woman\u2019s wig perched atop a far-too-small doll\u2019s head. The heads were so diminutive, in fact, that they could easily be mistaken for mere rubber souvenirs, were it not for the clearly human texture of the brows and lashes.<\/p>\n

\u201cI have no idea why these were behind that wall,\u201d Simon murmured. \u201cOr how they got there.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThis building is full of mysteries, Dr. Isles,\u201d said Debbie Duke. \u201cWhenever we update the wiring or fix the plumbing, our contractors find some new surprise. A bricked-up space or a passage that serves absolutely no purpose.\u201d She looked across the table at Dr. Robinson. \u201cYou remember that fiasco with the lighting last month, don\u2019t you? The electrician had to break down half the third-floor wall just to figure out where the wires tracked. Nicholas? Nicholas?\u201d<\/p>\n

The curator was staring so intently at the tsantsas that only when he heard his name called again did he glance up. \u201cYes, this building\u2019s something of a puzzle,\u201d he said. And he added, softly: \u201cIt makes me wonder what else we haven\u2019t found behind these walls.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo these things are real?\u201d asked Jane. \u201cThey\u2019re actually shrunken human heads?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThey\u2019re definitely real,\u201d said Nicholas. \u201cThe problem is\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cJosephine and I scanned all the inventory records we could locate. According to the accession ledgers, this museum does indeed have tsantsas in the collection. They were added in 1898, when they were brought back from the upper Amazon basin by Dr. Stanley Crispin.\u201d He looked at Simon. \u201cYour grandfather, I believe.\u201d<\/p>\n

Simon nodded. \u201cI\u2019d heard we had them in our collection. I never knew what became of them.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAccording to the curator who worked here in the 1890s, the items are described as follows.\u201d Robinson flipped to the page in the ledger. \u201c\u2018Ceremonial Jivaro trophy heads, both in excellent condition.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n

Registering the significance of that description, Maura glanced up at him. \u201cDid you say both ?\u201d<\/p>\n

Robinson nodded. \u201cAccording to these records, there are only two in the collection.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCould a third have been added later, but never recorded?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCertainly. That\u2019s one of the issues we\u2019ve been struggling with, our incomplete records. That\u2019s why I began the inventory, so I could finally get a handle on what we have.\u201d<\/p>\n

Maura frowned at the three shrunken heads. \u201cSo now the question is, which one is the new addition? And how recent is it?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m betting on her being the new one.\u201d Jane pointed to the tsantsa with the bobbed hair. \u201cI swear I saw a haircut just like that on my barista this morning.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFirst of all,\u201d said Robinson, \u201cit\u2019s almost impossible to tell, just by appearance, if a tsantsa is male or female. Shrinking the head distorts the features and makes the sexes look alike. Second, the hair of some traditional tsantsas may be cut short like that one. They\u2019re unusual, but the haircut doesn\u2019t really tell us anything.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo how do you tell a traditional shrunken head from a modern copy?\u201d asked Maura.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou will permit me to handle them?\u201d Robinson asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, of course.\u201d<\/p>\n

He crossed to the cabinet to get gloves and pulled them on as deliberately as a doctor about to perform delicate surgery. This man would be meticulous no matter what his profession, Maura thought. She could not remember any medical school classmate more exacting than Nicholas Robinson.<\/p>\n

\u201cFirst,\u201d he said, \u201cI should explain what constitutes a genuine Jivaro tsantsa. It was one of my particular interests, so I know a bit about them. The Jivaro people live along the border between Ecuador and Peru, and they regularly raid each other\u2019s tribes. Warriors will take anyone\u2019s head\u2014men, women, children.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy take the heads?\u201d asked Jane.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt has to do with their concept of the soul. They believe that people can have up to three different types of souls. There\u2019s an ordinary soul, which is what everyone possesses at birth. Then there\u2019s an ancient vision soul, and it\u2019s something you have to earn through ceremonial efforts. It gives you special powers. If someone earns an ancient vision soul, and then he\u2019s murdered, he transforms into the third kind\u2014an avenging soul, who will pursue his killer. The only way to stop an avenging soul from exacting retribution is to cut off the head and turn it into a tsantsa. \u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow do you make a tsantsa ?\u201d Jane looked down at the three doll-sized heads. \u201cI just don\u2019t see how you can shrink a human head down to something that small.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAccounts of the process are contradictory, but most reports agree on a few key steps. Because of the tropical environment, the process had to be started immediately after death. You take the severed head and slice open the scalp in a straight line, from the crown all the way to the base of the neck. Then you peel the skin away from the bone. It actually comes off quite easily.\u201d<\/p>\n

Maura looked at Jane. \u201cYou\u2019ve seen me do almost the same thing at autopsy. I peel the scalp away from the skull. But my incision goes across the crown, ear to ear.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, and that\u2019s the part that always grosses me out,\u201d said Jane. \u201cEspecially when you peel it over the face.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh yes. The face,\u201d said Robinson. \u201cThe Jivaro peel that off, too. It takes skill, but the face comes off, along with the scalp, all in one piece. What you have, then, is a mask of human skin. They turn it inside out and scrape it clean. Then the eyelids are sewn shut.\u201d He lifted one of the tsantsas and pointed to the almost invisible stitches. \u201cSee how delicately it\u2019s been done, leaving the eyelashes looking completely natural? This is really skillful work.\u201d<\/p>\n

Was that a note of admiration in his voice? Maura wondered. Robinson did not seem to notice the uneasy looks that Maura and Jane exchanged; he was focused entirely on the craftsmanship that had turned human skin into an archaeological oddity.<\/p>\n

He turned the tsantsa over to look at the neck, which was merely a leathery tube. Coarse stitches ran up the back of the neck and the scalp, where they were almost hidden by the thick hair. \u201cAfter the skin is removed from the skull,\u201d he continued, \u201cit\u2019s simmered in water and plant juices, to melt away the last of the fat. When every last bit of flesh and fat is scraped away, it all gets turned right-side out again, and the incision in the back of the head is sewn up, as you can see here. The lips are fastened together using three sharpened wooden skewers. The nostrils and ears are plugged with cotton. At this point, it\u2019s just a floppy sack of skin, so they stuff hot stones and sand into the cavity to sear the skin. Then it\u2019s rubbed with charcoal and hung over smoke, until the skin shrinks down to the consistency of leather. This whole process doesn\u2019t take long. Probably not more than a week.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd what do they do with it?\u201d asked Jane.<\/p>\n

\u201cThey come home to their tribe with their preserved trophies and celebrate with a feast and ritual dances. They wear their tsantsas like necklaces, hung by a cord around the warrior\u2019s neck. A year later, there\u2019s a second feast, to transfer the power from the victim\u2019s spirit. Finally, a month after that, there\u2019s a third celebration. That\u2019s when the last touches are performed. They take the three wooden skewers out of the lips and thread cotton string through the holes and braid it. And they add the ear ornaments. From then on, the heads are seen as bragging rights. Whenever the warrior wants to display his manhood, he wears his tsantsa around his neck.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jane gave a disbelieving laugh. \u201cJust like guys today, with their gold chains. What is it with macho men and necklaces?\u201d<\/p>\n

Maura surveyed the three tsantsas on the table. All were of similar size. All had braided lip strings and delicately sutured eyelids. \u201cI\u2019m afraid I can\u2019t see any difference among these three heads. They all appear skillfully crafted.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThey are,\u201d said Robinson. \u201cBut there\u2019s one important difference. And I\u2019m not talking about the haircut.\u201d He turned and looked at Josephine, who had been standing silently at the foot of the table. \u201cCan you see what I\u2019m talking about?\u201d<\/p>\n

The young woman hesitated, loath to step any closer. Then she pulled on gloves and moved to the table. She picked up the heads one by one and studied each under the light. At last she picked up a head with long hair and beetle-wing ornaments. \u201cThis one isn\u2019t Jivaro,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

Robinson nodded. \u201cI agree.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBecause of the earrings?\u201d asked Maura.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo. Earrings like those are traditional,\u201d said Robinson.<\/p>\n

\u201cThen what made you choose that particular one, Dr. Pulcillo?\u201d said Maura. \u201cIt looks pretty much like the other two.\u201d<\/p>\n

Josephine stared down at the head in question, and her black hair spilled over her shoulders, the strands as dark and glossy as the tsantsa \u2019s, the colors so eerily similar they could have blended one into the other. Just for an instant, Maura had the unsettling impression that she was staring at the same head, before and after. Josephine alive, Josephine dead. Was that why the young woman was so reluctant to touch it? Did she see herself in those shriveled features?<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s the lips,\u201d said Josephine.<\/p>\n

Maura shook her head. \u201cI don\u2019t see any difference. All three have their lips sewn shut with cotton thread.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt has to do with Jivaro ritual. What Nicholas just said.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhich part?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat the wooden pegs are eventually removed from the lips and cotton string is threaded through the holes.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAll three of these have cotton thread.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, but it doesn\u2019t happen until the third feast. Over a year after the kill.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShe\u2019s absolutely right,\u201d said Robinson, looking pleased that his young colleague had picked up on precisely the detail he\u2019d wanted her to notice. \u201cThe lip pegs, Dr. Isles! When they\u2019re left in for a whole year, they leave gaping holes behind.\u201d<\/p>\n

Maura studied the heads on the table. Two of the tsantsas had large holes punched through the lips. The third did not.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo pegs were used in this one,\u201d said Robinson. \u201cThe lips were simply stitched together, right after the head was removed. This one isn\u2019t Jivaro. Whoever made it took a few shortcuts. Maybe he didn\u2019t know exactly how it should be done. Or this was merely meant to be sold to tourists, or bartered as trade goods. But it\u2019s not a ceremonial specimen.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThen what are its origins?\u201d asked Maura.<\/p>\n

Robinson paused. \u201cI really can\u2019t tell you. I can only say that it is not authentic Jivaro.\u201d<\/p>\n

With gloved hands, Maura lifted the tsantsa from the table. She had held severed human heads in her palms before, and this one, minus its skull, was startlingly light, a mere husk of dried skin and hair.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe can\u2019t even be certain of its sex,\u201d said Robinson. \u201cAlthough its features, distorted though they are, seem feminine to me. Too delicate to be a man\u2019s.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI agree,\u201d said Maura.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat about the skin color?\u201d asked Jane. \u201cDoes that tell us its race?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d said Robinson. \u201cThe process of shrinking darkens the skin. This could even be a Caucasian. And without a skull, without any teeth to x-ray, I can\u2019t tell you how old this specimen is.\u201d<\/p>\n

Maura turned the tsantsa upside down and stared into the neck opening. It was startling to see merely a hollow space rather than cartilage and muscle, trachea and esophagus. The neck was half collapsed, the dark cavity hidden from view. Suddenly she flashed back to the autopsy she\u2019d performed on Madam X. She remembered the dry cave of a mouth, the glint of metal in the throat. And she remembered the shock she\u2019d felt at her first glimpse of the souvenir cartouche. Had the killer left a similar clue tucked into this victim\u2019s remains?<\/p>\n

\u201cCould I have more light?\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

Josephine swung a magnifying lamp toward her, and Maura aimed the beam into the neck cavity. Through the narrow opening, she could just make out a pale mass balled up within. \u201cIt looks like paper,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat wouldn\u2019t be unusual,\u201d said Robinson. \u201cSometimes you find crumpled newspapers stuffed inside, to help maintain the shape of the head for shipping. If it\u2019s a South American newspaper, then at least we\u2019ll know something about its origins.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you have forceps?\u201d<\/p>\n

Josephine retrieved a pair from the workroom drawer and handed them to her. Maura introduced the forceps into the neck opening and grasped what was inside. Gingerly she tugged, and crumpled newspaper emerged. Smoothing out the page, she saw it was printed in neither Spanish nor Portuguese, but English.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe Indio Daily News ?\u201d Jane gave a startled laugh. \u201cIt\u2019s from California.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd look at the date.\u201d Maura pointed to the top of the page.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s only twenty-six years old.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cStill, the head could be much older,\u201d said Robinson. \u201cThat newspaper could have been stuffed in there later, just for shipping.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut it does confirm one thing.\u201d Maura looked up. \u201cThis head wasn\u2019t part of the museum\u2019s original collection. She could be another victim, added as recently as\u2026\u201d She paused, her gaze suddenly focused on Josephine.<\/p>\n

The young woman had gone pale. Maura had seen that sickly color before, on the faces of young cops observing their first autopsies, and she knew that it usually heralded a nauseated dash to the sink or a stagger toward the nearest chair. Josephine did neither; she simply turned and walked out.<\/p>\n

\u201cI should check on her.\u201d Dr. Robinson stripped off his gloves.<\/p>\n

\u201cShe didn\u2019t look well.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll see how she\u2019s doing,\u201d Frost volunteered, and he followed Josephine out of the room. Even after the door swung shut, Dr. Robinson stood staring after him, as though debating whether he should follow.<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you have the records from twenty-six years ago?\u201d asked Maura. \u201cDr. Robinson?\u201d<\/p>\n

Suddenly aware that she\u2019d said his name, he turned to her. \u201cExcuse me?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTwenty-six years ago. The date of this newspaper. Do you have documents from that period?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh. Yes, we have found a ledger from the 1970s and 1980s. But I don\u2019t recall any tsantsa mentioned in it. If it came in during that time, it wasn\u2019t recorded.\u201d He looked at Simon. \u201cDo you remember?\u201d<\/p>\n

Wearily, Simon shook his head. He appeared drained, as if he\u2019d aged ten years in the last half hour. \u201cI don\u2019t know where that head came from,\u201d he said. \u201cI don\u2019t know who put it behind that wall or why.\u201d<\/p>\n

Maura stared at the shrunken head, its eyes and lips sewn shut for eternity. And she said softly: \u201cIt looks like someone has been compiling a collection all his own.\u201d<\/p>\n

\n

NINE<\/p>\n

Josephine was desperate to be left alone, but she could think of no graceful way to brush off Detective Frost. He\u2019d followed her upstairs to her office and was now standing in her doorway, watching her with a look of concern. He had mild eyes and a kind face, and his shaggy blond hair made her think of the towheaded twin boys she often saw whooshing down the slide in the neighborhood playground. Nevertheless, he was a policeman, and policemen frightened her. She shouldn\u2019t have left the room so abruptly. She shouldn\u2019t have called attention to herself. But a glimpse of that newspaper had hit her like a fist, stealing her breath, rocking her off her feet.<\/p>\n

Indio, California. Twenty-six years ago.<\/p>\n

The town where I was born. The year that I was born.<\/p>\n

It was yet another eerie connection to her past, and she didn\u2019t understand how it could be possible. She needed time to think about this, to figure out why so many old and secret ties to her own life should be hidden in the basement of the obscure museum where she had taken a job. It\u2019s as if my own life, my own past, has been preserved in this collection. Even as she mentally struggled for an explanation, she was forced to smile and keep up the small talk with Detective Frost, who refused to leave her doorway.<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you feeling better?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cI got a little light-headed in there. Probably low blood sugar.\u201d She sank into her chair. \u201cI shouldn\u2019t have skipped breakfast this morning.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you need a cup of coffee or something? Can I get one for you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, thank you.\u201d She managed a smile, hoping it would be enough to send him on his way. Instead, he stepped into her office.<\/p>\n

\u201cDid that newspaper have some special significance to you?\u201d Frost asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s just that I noticed you looked really startled when Dr. Isles opened it up and we saw it was from California.\u201d<\/p>\n

He was watching me. He\u2019s still watching me.<\/p>\n

Now was not the time to let him see how close she was to panic. As long as she kept her head down, as long as she stayed on the periphery and played the role of the quiet museum employee, the police would have no reason to glance her way.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s not just the newspaper,\u201d she said. \u201cIt\u2019s this whole creepy situation. Finding bodies\u2014and body parts\u2014in this building. I think of museums as sanctuaries. Places of study and contemplation. Now I feel like I\u2019m working in a house of horrors and I\u2019m just wondering when the next body part\u2019s going to pop up.\u201d<\/p>\n

He gave a sympathetic smile, and his boyishness made him look like anything but a policeman. She judged him to be in his midthirties, yet there was something about him that made him seem much younger, and even callow. She saw his wedding ring and thought: There\u2019s yet another reason to keep this man at arm\u2019s length.<\/p>\n

\u201cTo be honest, I think this place is already pretty creepy,\u201d said Frost. \u201cYou\u2019ve got all those bones displayed on the third floor.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThose bones are two thousand years old.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDoes that make them less disturbing?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt makes them historically significant. I know it doesn\u2019t seem like much of a difference. But something about the passage of time gives death a sense of distance, doesn\u2019t it? As opposed to Madam X, who could be someone we might actually have known.\u201d She paused, feeling a chill. And said, softly: \u201cAncient remains are easier to deal with.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThey\u2019re more like pottery and statues, I guess.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIn a way.\u201d She smiled. \u201cThe dustier the better.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd that appeals to you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou sound like you can\u2019t understand it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m just wondering what kind of person chooses to spend a lifetime studying old bones and pottery.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201c What\u2019s a girl like you doing in a job like this?Is that the question?\u201d<\/p>\n

He laughed. \u201cYou\u2019re the youngest thing in this whole building.\u201d<\/p>\n

Now she, too, smiled, because it was true. \u201cIt\u2019s the connection with the past. I love to pick up a pottery shard and imagine the man who spun the clay on his wheel. And the woman who used that pot to carry water. And the child who one day dropped it and broke it. History\u2019s never been dead for me. I\u2019ve always felt it was alive and pulsing in those objects you see in the museum cases. It\u2019s in my blood, something I was born with, because\u2026\u201d Her voice trailed off as she realized she\u2019d strayed into hazardous territory. Don\u2019t talk about the past.<\/p>\n

Don\u2019t talk about Mom.<\/p>\n

To her relief, Detective Frost did not pick up on her sudden wariness. His next question wasn\u2019t about her at all. \u201cI know you haven\u2019t been here too long,\u201d he said, \u201cbut did you ever get the feeling things weren\u2019t quite right here?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow do you mean?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou said that you feel as if you\u2019ve been working in a house of horrors.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat was a figure of speech. You can understand it, can\u2019t you, after what you just found behind the basement wall? After what Madam X turned out to be?\u201d The temperature in her air-conditioned office seemed to keep dropping. Josephine reached back to pull on the sweater she\u2019d hung on her chair. \u201cAt least my job isn\u2019t nearly as horrifying as yours must be. You wonder why I choose to work with pottery and old bones. And I wonder why someone like you would choose to work with\u2014well, fresh horrors.\u201d She looked up and saw a glimmer of discomfort in his eyes because this time, the question was directed at him. For a man accustomed to interrogating others, he did not seem eager to reciprocate with personal details of his own.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d she said. \u201cI guess I\u2019m not allowed to ask questions. Only answer them.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, I\u2019m just wondering what you meant.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMeant?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhen you said someone like you. \u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh.\u201d She gave a sheepish laugh. \u201cIt\u2019s just that you strike me as such a nice person. A kind person.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd most policemen aren\u2019t?\u201d<\/p>\n

She flushed. \u201cI keep digging the hole deeper, don\u2019t I? Really, I meant it as a compliment. Because I\u2019ll admit, most policemen scare me a little.\u201d She looked down at her desk. \u201cI don\u2019t think I\u2019m the only one who feels that way.\u201d<\/p>\n

He sighed. \u201cI\u2019m afraid you may be right. Even though I think I\u2019m the least scary person in the world.\u201d<\/p>\n

But I\u2019m afraid of you anyway, she thought. Because I know what you could do to me if you learned my secret.<\/p>\n

\u201cDetective Frost?\u201d Nicholas Robinson had appeared in her doorway. \u201cYour colleague needs you back downstairs.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh. Right.\u201d Frost shot a smile at Josephine. \u201cWe\u2019ll talk more later, Dr. Pulcillo. And get something to eat, why don\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n

Nicholas waited until Frost had left the room, then he said to her: \u201cWhat was that all about?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe were just chatting, Nick.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe\u2019s a detective. I don\u2019t think they just chat. \u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s not as if he was interrogating me or anything.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIs something bothering you, Josie? Something that I should know about?\u201d<\/p>\n

Though his question put her on guard, she managed to say calmly: \u201cWhy would you think that?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re not yourself. And it\u2019s not just because of what happened today. Yesterday, when I came up behind you in the hallway, you almost jumped out of your skin.\u201d<\/p>\n

She sat with her hands on her lap, grateful that he could not see them tighten into two knots. In the short time they\u2019d worked together, he had become eerily astute at reading her moods, at knowing when she needed a good laugh and when she needed to be left alone. Surely he could see that this was one of the times she wanted to be alone, yet he did not retreat. It was unlike the Nicholas she knew, a man who was unfailingly respectful of her privacy.<\/p>\n

\u201cJosie?\u201d he said. \u201cDo you want to talk about anything?\u201d<\/p>\n

She gave a rueful laugh. \u201cI guess I\u2019m mortified that I blew it so badly with Madam X. That I didn\u2019t realize we were dealing with a fake.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat carbon fourteen analysis threw us both off. I was just as wrong as you were.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut your background isn\u2019t Egyptology. That\u2019s why you hired me, and I screwed up.\u201d She leaned forward, massaging her temples. \u201cIf you\u2019d hired someone more experienced, this wouldn\u2019t have happened.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou didn\u2019t screw up. You\u2019re the one who insisted on the CT scan, remember? Because you didn\u2019t feel completely confident about her. You were the one who led us to the truth. So stop beating yourself up about this.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI made the museum look bad. I made you look bad, for hiring me.\u201d<\/p>\n

He didn\u2019t respond for a moment. Instead he pulled off his glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief. Always carrying linen handkerchiefs was one of those anachronistic little habits of his that she found so endearing. Sometimes Nicholas reminded her of a gentleman bachelor from an earlier, more innocent time. A time when men would stand up if a woman walked into the room.<\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe we should look at the bright side of all this,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n

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Book Preview The Keepsake Tess Gerritsen say thanks to Please for this ONE He is coming for me. I feel it in my bones. I sniff it in the air, as recognizable as the scent of hot sand and savory spices and the sweat of a hundred men toiling in the sun. These are the … Read more<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":4354,"comment_status":"","ping_status":"","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[270],"class_list":["post-4355","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-uncategorized","tag-tess-gerritsen"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4355","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=4355"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4355\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/4354"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=4355"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=4355"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=4355"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}