Maura studied the heads on the table. Two of the tsantsas had large holes punched through the lips. The third did not.

“No pegs were used in this one,” said Robinson. “The lips were simply stitched together, right after the head was removed. This one isn’t Jivaro. Whoever made it took a few shortcuts. Maybe he didn’t know exactly how it should be done. Or this was merely meant to be sold to tourists, or bartered as trade goods. But it’s not a ceremonial specimen.”

“Then what are its origins?” asked Maura.

Robinson paused. “I really can’t tell you. I can only say that it is not authentic Jivaro.”

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.

“We can’t even be certain of its sex,” said Robinson. “Although its features, distorted though they are, seem feminine to me. Too delicate to be a man’s.”

“I agree,” said Maura.

“What about the skin color?” asked Jane. “Does that tell us its race?”

“No,” said Robinson. “The process of shrinking darkens the skin. This could even be a Caucasian. And without a skull, without any teeth to x-ray, I can’t tell you how old this specimen is.”

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’d 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’d felt at her first glimpse of the souvenir cartouche. Had the killer left a similar clue tucked into this victim’s remains?

“Could I have more light?” she said.

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. “It looks like paper,” she said.

“That wouldn’t be unusual,” said Robinson. “Sometimes you find crumpled newspapers stuffed inside, to help maintain the shape of the head for shipping. If it’s a South American newspaper, then at least we’ll know something about its origins.”

“Do you have forceps?”

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.

“The Indio Daily News?” Jane gave a startled laugh. “It’s from California.”

“And look at the date.” Maura pointed to the top of the page.

“It’s only twenty-six years old.”

“Still, the head could be much older,” said Robinson. “That newspaper could have been stuffed in there later, just for shipping.”

“But it does confirm one thing.” Maura looked up. “This head wasn’t part of the museum’s original collection. She could be another victim, added as recently as…” She paused, her gaze suddenly focused on Josephine.

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.

“I should check on her.” Dr. Robinson stripped off his gloves.

“She didn’t look well.”

“I’ll see how she’s doing,” 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.

“Do you have the records from twenty-six years ago?” asked Maura. “Dr. Robinson?”

Suddenly aware that she’d said his name, he turned to her. “Excuse me?”

“Twenty-six years ago. The date of this newspaper. Do you have documents from that period?”

“Oh. Yes, we have found a ledger from the 1970s and 1980s. But I don’t recall any tsantsa mentioned in it. If it came in during that time, it wasn’t recorded.” He looked at Simon. “Do you remember?”

Wearily, Simon shook his head. He appeared drained, as if he’d aged ten years in the last half hour. “I don’t know where that head came from,” he said. “I don’t know who put it behind that wall or why.”

Maura stared at the shrunken head, its eyes and lips sewn shut for eternity. And she said softly: “It looks like someone has been compiling a collection all his own.”

NINE

Josephine was desperate to be left alone, but she could think of no graceful way to brush off Detective Frost. He’d 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’t have left the room so abruptly. She shouldn’t 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.

Indio, California. Twenty-six years ago.

The town where I was born. The year that I was born.

It was yet another eerie connection to her past, and she didn’t 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’s 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.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked.

“I got a little light-headed in there. Probably low blood sugar.” She sank into her chair. “I shouldn’t have skipped breakfast this morning.”

“Do you need a cup of coffee or something? Can I get one for you?”

“No, thank you.” She managed a smile, hoping it would be enough to send him on his way. Instead, he stepped into her office.

“Did that newspaper have some special significance to you?” Frost asked.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just that I noticed you looked really startled when Dr. Isles opened it up and we saw it was from California.”

He was watching me. He’s still watching me.

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.

“It’s not just the newspaper,” she said. “It’s this whole creepy situation. Finding bodies-and body parts-in this building. I think of museums as sanctuaries. Places of study and contemplation. Now I feel like I’m working in a house of horrors and I’m just wondering when the next body part’s going to pop up.”

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’s yet another reason to keep this man at arm’s length.

“To be honest, I think this place is already pretty creepy,” said Frost. “You’ve got all those bones displayed on the third floor.”

“Those bones are two thousand years old.”

“Does that make them less disturbing?”

“It makes them historically significant. I know it doesn’t seem like much of a difference. But something about the passage of time gives death a sense of distance, doesn’t it? As opposed to Madam X, who could be someone we might actually have known.” She paused, feeling a chill. And said, softly: “Ancient remains are easier to deal with.”