Krewe of Hunters 7 The Unspoken (11 page)

“Things haven’t gotten that far yet, Mr. Manning,” Will was saying. “We’re trying to find out if anyone else was going for the treasure.”

“What makes you think that?”

Some of Manning’s statements, like his insistence that Brady was practically one of them, contradicted what Landry had said, but Kat decided not to deflect the old man from his train of thought. Besides, Landry might well have his own agenda.

“We think someone might have helped Brady drown,” Kat said.

Manning shuddered visibly. “Oh, dear God! That’s horrible.”

“Yes, but we’d like to eliminate the possibility if we can—make sure no one out there is killing for the treasure…or the history,” Will said. “That’s why we need your assistance.”

“Well, we tried to get everyone interested in the shipwreck,” Manning told them. “Hmm. I was doing a lot of interviews with the press that night. If you want to know who really talked to our guests, it’s my dear friend Austin Miller.”

“We’d love to talk to him,” Kat said.

“I’ll give him a call.”

To her astonishment, the Santa-looking man whipped out the newest smartphone on the market and hit speed dial. A moment later he frowned.

“What’s wrong?” Will asked.

“I’ve been trying to reach Austin for the past few days. He hasn’t returned my calls.”

“Maybe we should just drop by,” Kat suggested.

Manning nodded distractedly. “I’ll go with you.”

“Sir, we didn’t mean—”

“If he doesn’t open the door, I can let you in,” Manning said. “I have a key. I feed his cat when he’s off on a jaunt.” He smiled, then grew somber again. “I guess I’m a little worried. He’s an old codger like me. At any rate, the house isn’t far.”

Manning was, for whatever his age might be, surprisingly agile and quick. He ushered them out, setting the alarm and locking the door, then marched purposefully down the street. Austin Miller’s house, a few blocks from the society’s headquarters, was similar—historic, beautiful, well-preserved. Situated on a corner lot, it was surrounded by a stone wall. Lovingly tended gardens and patios were visible through the wrought-iron gate.

“Austin, Austin, you old coot! It’s me, Dirk!” Manning said, talking into the speaker at the gate.

There was no reply.

“Humph!” Manning pulled out his key chain, sorted through several keys until he found the one he was looking for and opened the gate. They followed him up a long walk to a porch and then a massive front door. There, Dirk Manning rang the bell and pounded on the door. His expression became more and more concerned.

“I heard something,” Kat said.

They were still for a minute. She heard the noise again and realized it was a cat’s meow.

“Bastet,” Manning murmured. “His cat. She sounds…hungry!”

He opened the front door, and they stood in the entry, gazing around them. The house was exceptionally handsome, designed when molding was an art. There were numerous pieces of Egyptology as decoration, but the house also stood as homage to the Victorian era, rich with dark woods, a grand chandelier, an elegant staircase. They saw no sign of the cat.

The air conditioner was running, and Kat thought she detected a faint odor. She immediately felt a sense of dread.

“Austin! Hey, old man!”

No answer.

“Where’s his bedroom?” Will asked.

“Upstairs. But his gentleman’s den is just through that door to our left,” Manning said.

Kat and Will strode to the door. Will opened it.

The odor Kat knew all too well became intense.

At first, nothing seemed to be in disarray. Then she saw that the desk chair had fallen backward, and although she knew they were too late, she rushed around the desk.

They’d found Austin Miller.

6

D
irk Manning hadn’t just led them to Austin Miller’s house, he’d insisted on coming. That could have made him an instant suspect.

But Will had to hold Manning back when they found the corpse of Austin Miller. To all appearances, he’d had a heart attack while sitting at his desk. The massive explosion of pain had, it seemed, sent Miller falling backward in his chair. A pill vial lay on the floor near his right hand with tiny white capsules of what was probably digitalis scattered around it.

Kat glanced at Will and left him to deal with Manning as she carefully made her way to the body. She went down on her knees by Austin Miller’s side. Looking at her and then the corpse, Will saw that Miller’s eyes remained wide open.

“Dial 9-1-1,” she said quietly.

“He can be helped!” Manning cried.

“No, Mr. Manning, I’m so sorry,” Kat said. “He’s…gone. I’d say he’s been dead a few days, but I don’t have any equipment with me to figure out a more precise time. And, of course, the authorities must be alerted.”

“Austin!” Manning wailed.

There were tears not just in his bright blue eyes but streaming down his face. Will placed an arm around his shoulders, trying to turn him so he could lead him from the room. “Mr. Manning, you don’t need to be in here right now.”

“Wait!”

“What is it?” Will asked him gently.

“Horus!”

“Pardon?”

“Horus—there was a statue of Horus that always sat on Austin’s desk. It’s not there!”

“I’ll look for it,” Will said.

“You don’t understand. That old codger and I knew each other since we were kids. He was like my big brother. The statue was his father’s and his grandfather’s before that—he said that it would sit there for all of eternity. He wouldn’t have moved it,” Manning insisted. “He wouldn’t have moved it. He wouldn’t have moved it.”

Will exchanged a glance with Kat. Then he urged Manning out of the room, steering him to a large upholstered chair tucked against the wall beneath the stairway. “Mr. Manning, sit tight. I’ll look for the statue. First thing, though, we’ve got to get the authorities out here.” He’d pulled his phone from his pocket and, while he kept an eye on Manning, started to dial 9-1-1 but then stopped. Instead, he called the police station they’d visited and asked to speak to Sergeant Riley.

When Riley came on, he explained where they were and what they’d found.

“I’ve seen the old guy written up in newspaper articles and on local broadcasts now and then,” Riley said. “I’m sorry to hear about his death—but why are you calling me about an elderly man dying of a heart attack?”

“I want you to come out and investigate it.”

“I’ll come, but we don’t really investigate heart attacks when they happen to a man his age,” Riley said.

“What if it was caused?”

“A drowning was
caused
and a heart attack is
caused?
” Riley asked skeptically.

“What better way to commit murder?” Will asked in return. “Sergeant, please. I’m afraid these deaths may be the start of something even more sinister. I’d like it if you could pull some rank on this. We’re here on behalf of a friend, but I’ll get my superiors to see that the governor asks us in. Until then…help us out, will you?”

Riley agreed, promising that he’d send a medical examiner’s van and ensure that the scene wasn’t trashed. Patting the still-crying Manning on the knee, Will stood and moved away, calling his own boss, Jackson Crow. Jack would talk to Adam Harrison, who’d get them the authority to take over the investigation, which would include
any
mysterious deaths surrounding the discovery of the
Jerry McGuen.
“You want to stay on this?” Jackson asked. “Logan and part of his crew should be arriving soon.”

“I started with it, so yeah, I’d like to see it through.”

“Fine. How is working with a new agent?”

Will hesitated, slightly amused. “Okay. At first I felt like I was working with Tinker Bell. Now…she’s all right.”

By the time he hung up, he could hear a siren. The sound seemed to make Manning, if anything, more miserable.

“They’ll be coming for me soon,” he muttered. “My oldest, dearest friend is gone. I guess I’m going to be next.”

“Mr. Manning, you’re in great shape and you have a lot of wit and knowledge to continue offering the world. Plan on many more years with old friends—and not-so-old friends,” Will said.

They’d left the gate unlocked. Will was gratified to see that Riley had sent two officers to secure the scene. They didn’t go into the den but one stood by the door and the other came over and asked Manning if he needed any assistance.

Will was free to return to the den. He paused in the doorway, trying to absorb everything in the room.

The French doors that led out to the patio were open; a breeze was rustling the curtains. Someone could have come in through the patio. Will had noticed a security system control pad near the front entrance, but it hadn’t been set. Maybe Austin Miller typically set it just before he went to bed.

The cat, a slender animal with spotted fur, suddenly jumped over Will’s foot and stalked into the center of the room, meowing loudly.

If only she could talk!
Will thought.

“Was it a heart attack?” he asked.

Kat looked up at him. “It appears so, but…this is Chicago jurisdiction,” she said.

“I have Jackson Crow getting Adam to arrange an official invitation for us,” he told her. “That’ll give you leave to do the autopsy.”

Kat stood with a shrug. “We don’t have authority yet. When an M.E. gets here, it’s going to be his or her responsibility.”

“But you can be at the autopsy?”

She nodded. “The thing is, I suspect we’ll find out that it
was
a heart attack. Another ‘accidental’ death.”

“So you don’t think it was accidental?”

“No. It looks to me as if something terrified him. He knew his heart would give out and reached for his pills, but…I think they were knocked out of his hand. And then whoever, or whatever, watched him die.”

The cat meowed again.

“She—Bastet—must be hungry,” Kat said.

“And she must be something of a guardian cat, too,” Will noted. “She could’ve left anytime, because the French doors over there are open. But she stayed inside screaming, wanting someone to come and take care of her master.”

“I know.” Kat’s eyes were sad.

“Have you seen any other disturbance in the room?” Will asked.

She shook her head, and Will moved across the room, exiting onto the stone patio with its wrought-iron chairs and a table with a colorful umbrella. Beyond it was lawn and then the walls and the walkway, all bordered by trees and bushes. The wall wasn’t particularly high, maybe five feet or so. It would’ve been easy for anyone to slip over. But to have come straight to the open doors of Austin Miller’s den, the intruder would’ve needed to know not only the garden but the house. Whoever it was had escaped without being seen. Will walked through the yard, looking for any kind of evidence that anyone had been there—impressions in the soil, broken twigs, fibers caught on the stones. He heard himself hailed as he walked along the wall.

Sergeant Riley had arrived, and a medical examiner’s van and a hearse had driven up outside the gate. Will hurried over to greet Riley.

“I’ll make an initial report,” Riley said, “but we’ve got a man from the Chicago morgue to see to the body.”

“Is it McFarland?” Will asked, hoping not.

“No, one of our most senior men, and he knows you want your pathologist on it. So if the call comes in from the governor that the feds can have the case, Dr. Randall won’t care. You really think it was more than a heart attack?”

“I think it was a heart attack—I just think something led up to it,” Will said. “Can we tape off the house?”

“The whole house?”

“I believe someone was in there with him.”

“Sure. Tape is cheap.” Riley shrugged. “I’ll go in and get things started. You’re lucky I happen to be the one on this,” he said wryly. “Since it looks like a natural death.”

“I am lucky. Thanks,” Will told him. Because of Kat, he was trying to be courteous, to show his appreciation. He knew very well that courtesy was the way to deal with other authority figures, witnesses or anyone else they might need, and he usually treated them politely. McFarland had just gotten to him, wanting to close the case so quickly.

He resumed his inspection of the wall, confident that Kat could handle whatever was happening inside.

The yard was large, at least an acre, and the wall encompassed the whole area. He finished walking around it once. He’d noticed nothing unusual and was frustrated, thinking he must have missed something.

He started again.

And then he found it.

He was about five feet from the corner, to the side of the main entry and the walkway to the front door. A car parked on the side street, he noted, would not be seen from the front, and the street would be dark at night. There were also a number of large oaks along the pathway, and they would have provided shelter and shadows.

What he’d found told him he was right.

There was a bit of musty old gauze wrapping on the outside of the wall, caught on a snag. It resembled the mummy wrappings of many an old horror flick.

It was the same as the one he’d discovered in the corridor at the hotel.

And near it, something lay shattered by the wall. The statue of Horus.

Looked like the mummy had done it.

* * *

Kat wanted to be alone with the body.

But they were still in Chicago, they were guests here, and she was fortunate that Dr. Randall was inviting her to perform the autopsy with him.

She was at the morgue in a white jacket, her hair pinned into a cap, mask covering her nose and mouth. Austin Miller’s body temperature and lack of rigor led her to the conclusion that he’d died two days earlier, sometime between 8:00 p.m. and 5:00 a.m.—just hours before Brady Laurie had met his end.
The stomach contents of the deceased might tell them more if they considered the time of his last meal, along with his known eating habits.

She had expected more resistance from those working with her; after all, Austin Miller had been elderly and he’d been on heart medications. But it seemed that buzz about the “curse” was circulating and everyone, especially Dr. Cranston Randall, seemed ready to help her. It wasn’t that anyone
believed
in the curse, but it was titillating to think about.

To her relief, she hadn’t seen McFarland since she’d come back. Dr. Randall was attending with her, and assistants came and went. Other corpses were due for autopsy as well, despite the late hour.

So far Austin Miller had been disrobed, bathed and photographed. The call had gone to all the proper authorities, allowing her and Will to take over the investigation. No one seemed disturbed by that—but then no one was convinced that any crimes had been committed.

“To see for oneself,” Dr. Randall murmured.

“Autopsy? The word’s from the Greek
autopsia
and means ‘the act of seeing with one’s own eyes,’” she said. “Is that what you’re referring to?” She was never sure if it was because she was a woman, or because she was small and blonde and fair that people always seemed to doubt her credentials.

“I wasn’t testing you,” Randall said. “I was just wondering
what
we might see for ourselves, what truth lies below the surface.”

They’d just finished the external examination of the body. She paused before going any further. “There’s a bruise rising on his right arm.”

“So there is,” Randall agreed. He picked up the camera again, taking several shots of the area. “Almost like a defensive wound, as if he lifted that arm to ward someone off.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“But there are no other external marks on the body. Poor fellow, his feet weren’t in great shape, but he wasn’t overweight.”

Kat had his medical records on her chart so she knew he hadn’t suffered from diabetes. Other than his heart medications, not surprising for a man his age, he’d been in excellent health.

“He was fit—until he was dead,” Dr. Randall said drily.

“Shall we open him up now?” Kat asked.

“Be my guest.”

She took her own scalpel and began the classic Y incision, beginning at the upper left chest and bringing the angle down to the tip of the sternum, then repeating the action from the right, intersecting at the xiphoid process. Her incision extended downward to the symphysis pubis, just above the genital region, curving around the navel. She was always careful; a cut that went too deep could compromise the organs. Just as carefully, she lifted the flaps of skin and subcutaneous fat.

“Beautiful incisions,” Randall said.

Soon, the musculoskeletal structure was visible.

“No past fractures apparent in any of the ribs,” she noted.

She went on to make notations regarding the organs. Randall came forward with the rib cutters and freed the sternum and ribs and removed them.

It was usual procedure for the heart to be the first organ examined, which answered their questions immediately. Kat inspected and cut the pericardium. The damage there was acute.

“Heart failure,” Randall said.

She looked across at him and nodded.

The removal of the heart showed further sudden and massive damage, but not the kind of fluid accumulation that would indicate he’d been shoved in the chest or struck with a blunt object. Kat hadn’t expected anything else, nor did she expect to find injury—other than the wear and tear of age—to any of the other organs. The stomach interested her the most. She and Randall studied the contents together. “Looks like fish and greens, probably consumed about five hours prior to death,” he said.

“According to his good friend Dirk Manning, he was punctual with his evening meal. He ate at precisely seven every evening, so that puts his death right around midnight,” Kat told him.

“I agree with you, Dr. Sokolov.” Randall turned to her. “We found what you were expecting. I can finish up for you if you wish, and I promise I’ll be thorough and take every possible sample for analysis.” He smiled. “You look as if you’re going to drop.”