The Book of the Dead (6 page)

“Oh, no.” Nora slumped on her stool. “Are you sure special effects will be necessary? I hate computerized window dressing. It distracts from the objects.”

“That is what being a museum means these days, unfortunately. Look at the new Abraham Lincoln library. Yes, on a certain level, it’s a bit vulgar perhaps—but this is the twenty-first century and we’re competing with television and video games. Please, Nora: I need ideas now. The director will be bombarded with questions and he wants to be able to talk about the exhibit.”

Nora swallowed. On the one hand, it made her sick to think of putting off her research yet again, working seventy-hour weeks, never seeing her husband of only a few months. On the other hand, if she was going to do this—and it seemed she had no choice—she wanted to do it well.

“We don’t want anything cheesy,” she said. “No mummies popping up from their sarcophagi. And it’s got to be educational.”

“My feelings exactly.”

Nora thought a moment. “The tomb was robbed, am I right?”

“It was robbed in antiquity, like most Egyptian tombs, probably by the very priests who buried Senef—who, by the way, was not a pharaoh, but vizier and regent to Thutmosis IV.”

Nora digested this. It was, she supposed, a huge honor to be asked to coordinate a major new exhibition—and this one would have exceptionally high visibility. It was intriguing. She found herself being drawn into it, despite herself.

“If you’re looking for something dramatic,” she said, “why not re-create the moment of the robbery itself? We could dramatize the robbers at work—show their fear of being caught, what would happen to them if they
were
caught—with a voice-over explaining what was happening, who Senef was, that sort of thing.”

Menzies nodded. “Excellent, Nora.”

Nora felt a mounting excitement. “If done right, with computerized lighting and so forth, it would give visitors an experience they’d never forget. Make history come alive inside the tomb itself.”

“Nora, someday you’ll be director of this museum.”

She blushed. The idea did not displease her.

“I’d been thinking of some sort of sound-and-light show myself. It’s perfect.” With uncharacteristic exuberance, Menzies seized Nora’s hand. “This is going to save the museum. And it will make your career here. As I said, you’ll have all the money and support you’ll need. As for the computer effects, let me manage that side of things—you focus on the objects and displays. Six weeks will be just enough time to get the buzz going, get out the invitations, and work the press. They won’t be able to trash the museum if they’re angling to be invited.”

He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to prepare Dr. Collopy for the press conference. Thank you so much, Nora.”

He bustled out, leaving Nora alone in the silent laboratory. She turned her eye regretfully to the table she had so carefully arranged with potsherds, and then she started picking them up, one at a time, and returning them to their storage bags.

S
pecial agent Spencer Coffey rounded the corner and approached the warden’s office, his steel-capped heels making a satisfying tattoo against the polished cement floor. Short, bottle-mustached Agent Rabiner followed, deferentially riding his wake. Coffey paused before the institutional oak door, gave a tap, then opened it without waiting for an invitation.

The warden’s secretary, a thin bleach-blonde with old acne scars on her face and a no-bullshit attitude, gave him the once-over. “Yes?”

“Agent Coffey, Federal Bureau of Investigation.” He waved his badge. “We’ve got an appointment, and we’re in a hurry.”

“I’ll tell the warden you’re here,” she said, her upstate hick accent grating on his nerves.

Coffey glanced at Rabiner and rolled his eyes. He’d already had a run-in with the woman over a dropped connection when he called earlier that day, and now, meeting her in person, he confirmed she was everything he despised, a low-class hayseed who’d clawed her way into a position of semirespectability.

“Agent Coffey and—?” She glanced at Rabiner.

“
Special
Agent Coffey and
Special
Agent Rabiner.”

The woman picked up the intercom phone with insolent slowness. “Agents Coffey and Rabiner to see you, sir. They say they have an appointment.”

She listened for a moment, and then hung up. She waited just long enough to let Coffey know she wasn’t in nearly the hurry he was. “Mr. Imhof,” she finally said, “will see you.”

Coffey started to walk past her desk. Then he paused. “So. How are things down on the farm?”

“Seems to be ruttin’ season for hogs,” she responded without a pause, not even looking at him.

Coffey continued into the inner office, wondering just what the bitch meant and whether he’d been insulted or not.

As Coffey shut the door behind them, Warden Gordon Imhof rose from behind a large Formica desk. Coffey hadn’t seen him in person before, and found the man far younger than he expected, small and neat, with a goatee and cool blue eyes. He was impeccably dressed and sported a helmet of blow-dried hair. Coffey couldn’t quite pigeonhole him. In the old days, wardens came through the ranks; but this fellow looked like he’d gotten some Ph.D. somewhere in correctional facility management and had never felt the satisfying
thok!
of a nightstick striking human flesh. Still, there was a thinness to the lips that boded well.

Imhof extended his hand to Coffey and Rabiner. “Have a seat.”

“Thank you.”

“How did the interrogation go?”

“Our case is developing,” Coffey said. “If this doesn’t fit the federal death penalty statute to a T, I don’t know what does. But it’s no slam dunk. There are certain complications.” He didn’t mention that the interrogation had, in fact, gone badly—very badly.

Imhof’s face was inscrutable.

“I want to make something clear,” Coffey continued. “One of this killer’s victims was a colleague and friend of mine, the third most decorated agent in the history of the FBI.”

He let that sink in. What he didn’t mention was that this victim, Special Agent in Charge Mike Decker, was responsible for a humiliating demotion Coffey had been hit with seven years before, in the wake of the museum killings, and that nothing in his life had satisfied Coffey more than hearing about his death—except the news of who’d done it.

That had been a special moment.

“So you’ve got a very special prisoner, Mr. Imhof. He’s a sociopathic serial killer of the most dangerous kind—murdered at least three people, although our interest in him is restricted to the murder of the federal agent. We’re letting the State of New York worry about the others, but we hope by the time they convict we’ll already have the prisoner strapped to a gurney with a needle in his arm.”

Imhof, listening, inclined his head.

“The prisoner is also an arrogant bastard. I worked with him on a case years ago. He thinks he’s better than everyone else, thinks he’s above the rules. He’s got no respect for authority.”

At the mention of respect, Imhof finally seemed to respond. “If there’s one thing I demand as warden of this institution, it’s respect. Good discipline begins and ends with respect.”

“Exactly,” said Coffey. He decided to follow up this line, see if he could get Imhof to bite. “Speaking of respect, during the interrogation the prisoner had some choice things to say about you.”

Now he could see Imhof getting interested.

“But they don’t bear repeating,” Coffey went on. “Naturally, you and I have learned to rise above such pettiness.”

Imhof leaned forward. “If a prisoner has shown a lack of respect—and I’m not talking about anything personal here, but a lack of respect for the institution in any way—I need to know about it.”

“It was the usual bullshit and I’d hate to repeat it.”

“Nevertheless, I’d like to know.”

Of course, the prisoner had, in fact, said nothing. That had been the problem.

“He referred to you as a beer-swilling Nazi bastard, a Boche, a Kraut, that sort of thing.”

Imhof’s face tightened slightly, and Coffey knew immediately he’d scored a hit.

“Anything else?” the warden asked quietly.

“Very crude stuff, something about the size of your—ah, well, I don’t even recall the details.”

There was a frosty silence. Imhof’s goatee quivered slightly.

“As I said, it was all bullshit. But it points out an important fact: the prisoner hasn’t seen the wisdom of cooperating. And you know why? Everything stays the same for him whether he answers our questions or not, whether he shows respect for you or the institution or not. That’s got to change. He has to learn that his wrong choices have consequences. And another thing: he’s got to be kept in total, utter isolation. He can’t be allowed to pass any messages to the outside. There have been allegations that he might be in league with a brother, still on the lam. So no phone calls, no more meetings with his lawyer, total blackout of communication with the outside world. We wouldn’t want any further, ah, collateral damage to occur due to lack of vigilance. Do you understand what I mean, Warden?”

“I certainly do.”

“Good. He’s got to be made to see the advantages of cooperation. I’d love to work him over with a rubber hose and a cattle prod—he deserves nothing less—but unfortunately that’s not possible, and we sure as hell don’t want to do anything that could come back to haunt us at the trial. He may be crazy, but he’s not dumb. You can’t give a guy like that an opening. He’s got enough money to dig up Johnnie Cochran and hire him for the defense.”

Coffey stopped talking. Because for the first time, Imhof had smiled. And something about the look in the man’s blue eyes chilled Coffey.

“I understand your problem, Agent Coffey. The prisoner must be shown the value of respect. I’ll see to it personally.”