He moved the cursor down to the “search parameters” field, then paused, consulting his notes. When my parents and sister died, I was orphaned and homeless. Mr. Pendergast’s house at Eight Ninety-one Riverside Drive was then owned by a man named Leng. Eventually it became vacant. I lived there.
He would search for three items: Greene, Water Street, and Leng. But he knew from past experience he’d better keep the terms of the search vague — scanned newspapers were notorious for typos. So he’d create a regular expression, using a logical AND query.
Typing once again, he entered the SQL-like search conditions:
SELECT WHERE (match) = = ‘Green*’ && ‘Wat* St*’ && ‘Leng*’
Almost immediately, he got a response. There was a single hit: a three-year-old article in The New York Times of all places. Another quick tapping of keys brought it to the screen. He began reading — then caught his breath in disbelief.
Newly-Discovered Letter Sheds Light on 19th-Century Killings
By WILLIAM SMITHBACK JR.
NEW YORK — October 8. A letter has been found in the archives of the New York Museum of Natural History that may help explain the grisly charnel discovered in lower Manhattan early last week.
In that discovery, workmen constructing a residential tower at the corner of Henry and Catherine Streets unearthed a basement tunnel containing the remains of thirty-six young men and women. Preliminary forensic analysis showed that the victims had been dissected, or perhaps autopsied, and subsequently dismembered. Preliminary dating of the site by an archaeologist, Nora Kelly, of the New York Museum of Natural History, indicated that the killings had occurred between 1872 and 1881, when the corner was occupied by a three-story building housing a private museum known as “J. C. Shottum’s Cabinet of Natural Productions and Curiosities.” The cabinet burned in 1881, and Shottum died in the fire.
In subsequent research, Dr. Kelly discovered the letter, which was written by J. C. Shottum himself. Written shortly before Shottum’s death, it describes his uncovering of the medical experiments of his lodger, a taxonomist and chemist by the name of Enoch Leng. In the letter, Shottum alleged that Leng was conducting surgical experiments on human subjects, in an attempt to prolong his own life.
The human remains were removed to the Medical Examiner’s office and have been unavailable for examination. The basement tunnel was subsequently destroyed by Moegen-Fairhaven, Inc., the developer of the tower, during normal construction activities.
One article of clothing was preserved from the site, a dress, which was brought to the Museum for examination by Dr. Kelly. Sewn into the dress, Dr. Kelly found a piece of paper, possibly a note of self-identification, written by a young woman who apparently believed she had only a short time to live: “I am Mary Greene, agt [sic] 19 years, No. 16 Watter [sic] Street.” Tests indicated the note had been written in human blood.
The Federal Bureau of Investigation has taken an interest in the case. Special Agent Pendergast, from the New Orleans office, has been observed on the scene. Neither the New York nor the New Orleans FBI offices would comment.
No. 16 Watter Street. Mary Greene had misspelled the street name — that was why he’d missed it before.
Felder read it once, then again, and then a third time. Then he sat back very slowly, gripping the arms of the chair so tightly that his knuckles hurt.
CHAPTER 46
NINE STORIES, AND EXACTLY ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY FEET, below Dr. Felder’s table in the Main Reading Room, Special Agent Aloysius Pendergast was listening intently to the ancient bibliophile researcher known as Wren. If Wren had a first name, nobody — including Pendergast — knew what it was. Wren’s entire history — where he lived, where he’d come from, what exactly he did every night and most days in the deepest sublevels of the library — was a mystery. Years without sunlight had faded his skin to the color of parchment, and he smelled faintly of dust and binding paste. His hair stuck out from his head in a halo of white, and his eyes were as black and bright as a bird’s. But for all his eccentric appearance, he had two assets Pendergast prized above all others: a unique gift for research, and a profound knowledge of the New York Public Library’s seemingly inexhaustible holdings.
Now, perched upon a huge stack of papers like a scrawny Buddha, he spoke quickly and animatedly, punctuating his speech with sudden, sharp gestures. “I’ve traced her lineage,” he was saying. “Traced it very carefully, hypocrite lecteur. And it was quite a job, too — the family seems to have been at pains to keep details of their bloodline private. Thank God for the Heiligenstadt Aggregation.”
“The Heiligenstadt Aggregation?” Pendergast repeated.
Wren gave a short nod. “It’s a world genealogy collection, given to the library in the early 1980s by a rather eccentric genealogist based in Heiligenstadt, Germany. The library didn’t really want it, but when the collector also donated millions to, ah, ‘endow’ the collection, they accepted it. Needless to say it was immediately stuffed away in a deep, dark corner to languish. But you know me and deep, dark corners.” He cackled and gave an affectionate pat to a four-foot stack of lined computer printouts sitting next to him. “It’s especially comprehensive when it comes to German, Austrian, and Estonian families — which helped tremendously.”
“Very interesting,” Pendergast said with ill-concealed impatience. “Perhaps you will enlighten me as to your discoveries?”
“Of course. But—” and here the little man paused—“I’m afraid you’re not going to like what I have to tell you.”
Pendergast’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “My preferences are irrelevant. Details, please.”
“Certainly, certainly!” Wren, clearly having a marvelous time, rubbed his hands together. “One lives for details!” He gave the tower of computer printouts another fatherly pat. “Wolfgang Faust’s mother was Helen’s great-grandmother. The lineage goes like this. Helen’s mother, Leni, married András Esterházy, who as it happens was also a doctor. Both Helen’s parents have been dead for some time.” He hesitated. “Did you know, by the way, that Esterhazy is a very ancient and noble Hungarian name? During the reign of the Hapsburgs—”
“Shall we leave the Hapsburgs for another time?”
“Very well.” Wren began ticking off details on his long, yellow fingernails. “Helen’s grandmother was Mareike Schmid née von Fuchs. Wolfgang Faust was Mareike’s sister. The relative they shared was Helen’s great-grandmother, Klara von Fuchs. Note the matrilineal succession.”
“Go on,” Pendergast said.
Wren spread his hands. “In other words, Dr. Wolfgang Faust, war criminal, SS doctor at Dachau, Nazi fugitive in South America… was your wife’s great-uncle.”
Pendergast did not appear to react.
“I’ve drawn up a little family tree.”
Pendergast took the piece of paper, covered with scribbles, and folded it into his suit jacket without glancing at it.
“You know, Aloysius…” Wren’s voice petered off.
“Yes?”
“Just this once, I almost wish that my research had been a failure.”
CHAPTER 47
Coral Creek, Mississippi
NED BETTERTON PULLED INTO THE PARKING LOT of YouSave Rent-A-Car and sprang out of the driver’s seat. He walked briskly toward the building, a broad smile on his face. For the last couple of days, fresh revelations had been practically tumbling into his lap. And one of those revelations was this: Ned Betterton was a damn good reporter. His years of covering Rotary luncheons, church socials, PTA meetings, funerals, and Memorial Day parades had been better training than two years at Columbia J School. Amazing. Kranston had started to scream bloody murder about the time he was spending on the story, but he’d temporarily shut the old man up by taking a vacation. There was nothing Kranston could do about it. The old bastard should have hired a second reporter years ago. It was his own fault if he was left covering everything himself.