The CT tech laughed. “Your mummy’s never been a mommy.”
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.
“Nick, we need to call Simon,” said Pulcillo. “He’s probably waiting by the phone.”
“Oh gosh, I completely forgot.” Robinson pulled out his cell phone and dialed his boss. “Simon, guess what I’m looking at right now? Yes, she’s gorgeous. Plus, we’ve discovered a few surprises, so the press conference is going to be quite the-” In an instant he fell silent, his gaze frozen on the screen.
“What the hell?” blurted the CT tech.
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’s leg.
A bullet did not belong in Madam X’s millennium.
“Is that what I think it is?” said the CT tech.
Robinson shook his head. “It has to be postmortem damage. What else could it be?”
“Two thousand years postmortem?”
“I’ll-I’ll call you back, Simon.” Robinson disconnected his cell phone. Turning to the cameraman, he ordered: “Shut it off. Please shut it off now. ” He took a deep breath. “All right. All right, let’s-let’s approach this logically.” He straightened, gaining confidence as an obvious explanation occurred to him. “Mummies 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’s why we saw no entry hole in the bandages.”
“That isn’t what happened,” said Maura.
Robinson blinked. “What do you mean? That has to be the explanation.”
“The damage to that leg wasn’t postmortem. It happened while this woman was still alive.”
“That’s impossible.”
“I’m afraid Dr. Isles is right,” said the radiologist. He looked at Maura. “You’re referring to the early callus formation around the fracture site?”
“What does that mean?” asked Robinson. “Callus formation?”
“It 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.”
Maura turned to the curator. “Where did this mummy come from?”
Robinson’s 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’s leg.
It was Dr. Pulcillo who answered the question, her voice barely a whisper. “It was in the museum basement. Nick-Dr. Robinson found it back in January.”
“And how did the museum obtain it?”
Pulcillo shook her head. “We don’t know.”
“There must be records. Something in your files to indicate where she came from.”
“There are none for her,” said Robinson, at last finding his voice. “The 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.”
“How did you happen to find her?”
Even in that air-conditioned room, sweat had broken out on Dr. Robinson’s pale face. “After I was hired three years ago, I began an inventory of the collection. That’s how I came across her. She was in an unlabeled crate.”
“And that didn’t surprise you? To find something as rare as an Egyptian mummy in an unlabeled crate?”
“But mummies aren’t 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’s not all that surprising that we’d find a mummy in our museum.”
“Dr. Isles?” said the radiologist. “We’ve got the scout film. You might want to take a look at it.”
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.
“There’s not much doubt about it now,” said Dr. Brier.
No. There’s no doubt whatsoever. That’s a bullet in the leg.
Maura pulled out her cell phone.
“Dr. Isles?” said Robinson. “Whom are you calling?”
“I’m arranging for transport to the morgue,” she said. “Madam X is now a medical examiner’s case.”
THREE
“Is it just my imagination,” said Detective Barry Frost, “or do you and I catch all the weird ones?”
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’s building. It was only eightAM, and already the hyenas were yapping, ravenous for details of the ultimate cold case-a 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.
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.
“At least this one shouldn’t smell bad,” Jane said.
“But mummies can give you diseases, you know.”
Jane turned to her partner, whose pale and boyish face looked genuinely worried. “What diseases?” she asked.
“Since Alice has been away, I’ve been watching a lot of TV. Last night I saw this show on the Discovery Channel, about mummies that carry these spores.”
“Ooh. Scary spores.”
“It’s no joke,” he insisted. “They can make you sick.”
“Geez, I hope Alice gets home soon. You’re getting overdosed on the Discovery Channel.”
They stepped out of the car into cloying humidity that made Jane’s 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’s 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’d believed this walk would become easier over time, that one day she’d feel immune to any horrors the stainless-steel table might serve up. But since her daughter Regina’s birth a year ago, death held more terror for her than it ever had before. Motherhood didn’t make you stronger; it made you vulnerable and afraid of what death could steal from you.
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.
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.
“She looks like a human tamale,” said Jane.
“Who’s the girl?” asked Frost, staring through the window.
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. “Those must be the museum archaeologists. They were both going to be here.”
“ She’san archaeologist? Wow.”
Jane gave him an annoyed jab with her elbow. “Alice leaves town for a few weeks, and you forget you’re a married man.”
“I just never pictured an archaeologist looking as hot as her.”