Pendergast [07] The Book of the Dead(13)

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.”





8





On the morning appointed for opening the sealed Tomb of Senef, Nora arrived in Menzies’s capacious office to find him sitting in his usual wing chair, in conversation with a young man. They both rose as she came in.

“Nora,” he said. “This is Dr. Adrian Wicherly, the Egyptologist I mentioned to you. Adrian, this is Dr. Nora Kelly.”

Wicherly turned to her with a smile, a thatch of untidy brown hair the only eccentricity in his otherwise perfectly dressed and groomed person. At a glance, Nora took in the understated Savile Row suit, the fine wing tips, the club tie. Her sweep came to rest on an extraordinarily handsome face: dimpled cheeks, flashing blue eyes, and perfect white teeth. He was, she thought, no more than thirty.

“Delighted to meet you, Dr. Kelly,” he said in an elegant Oxbridge accent. He clasped her hand gently, blessing her with another dazzling smile.

“A pleasure. And please call me Nora.”

“Of course. Nora. Forgive my formality—my stuffy upbringing has left me rather hamstrung this side of the pond. I just want to say how smashing it is to be here, working on this project.”