"Eats slime from the lake," Brennon word-painted, "Licks the hearts of corpses. Breaks into the morgue uninvited. Drag for a dog the size of a one-year-old ram. Sir, are you sure his attic is okay?"
"What attic?" Broyd asked tiredly.
"The head, sir. Brain. The place where normal people have a mind, sir."
"Lord, Nathan, leave him alone! He consults on intervention cases! Why should he be normal?"
"It is logical," the Commissar admitted, "Sir, it is unlikely that the mayor will like it all."
"I don't care if he likes it or not," the chief of police replied menacingly, "even if he throws up on the bishop's dress robe. Nevertheless, frozen lungs and heart are already an argument. This is what I need. At least I can put them on the table and convince these idiots that the lake is dangerous. An ordinary person will not do this. Nathan, wheedle this consultant..."
"What?!"
"Yes. I want you to shake out of him who is capable of doing this and how to nail this bastard. Even if Longsdale wants to lick hearts, gnaws ice or drinks blood - immediately provide it. We need him."
"What for?"
"Some creature scatters icy corpses on the lake, and I want to turn its neck. Is this clear?"
"Clear, sir," Brennon said sullenly and left. A flask of whiskey was hidden in his desk, and he strove for it with all his heart. Kennedy, having learned that an outsider would roam in his morgue, expressed his indignation in phrase, that could come to mind only for a comprehensively educated, erudite scientist. The commissar, a dependent man, was forced to endure. Therefore, it is very difficult to describe the feelings he experienced when he found Longsdale in his office: he was sitting in the commissar's chair and reading the autopsy report, scratching the dog's scruff with the toe of his boot.
"What the hell are you doing here ?!" Brennon growled. The consultant and the hound looked at him with such an identical expression that for a moment Nathan felt uneasy.
"I'm reading," Longsdale said meekly.
"Well. You know how to read. Happy for you. Get out of my chair!"
"Sorry," the consultant muttered a little audibly. Brennon took a familiar place and remembered that the intruder was ordered to be courted.
"Well, how interesting?" He inquired, "Exciting reading, huh? Surely in the end it turns out that the killer is a butler."
"What kind of butler? The butler has nothing to do with it. And it is unlikely," - having thought, Longsdale added, "the one who did this considers himself a murderer."
"And who did it?"
"I don't know yet."
"And I don't know," Brennon said grimly. "Therefore, you would go home and not interfere with my work."
"The report says that the first victim suffered from alcohol addiction. Drunkards, especially bitter ones, often see what others do not."
"Yeh, rather! Green owls, yellow dwarfs, red elephants. My uncle saw devils with a pitchfork, ran around the yard and fired at everything that moves."
The dog snorted, and Brennon suddenly felt sympathy for the dumb animal. With such a owner...
"Nice dog. Thoroughbred. The name of?"
"Whom?"
"The dog."
"Which one?"
Nathan thought longingly of the whiskey.
"Good," he said, resigned to the presence of the consultant in his office, "Here is the map. The bodies were found here, here, here and today - there. The second, fourth, eighth and eleventh of November. These are the dates of body detection. Death occurred six to ten hours before. At the first..."
"It doesn't matter where they were found," the consultant said thoughtfully, "It is matter how they got there."
"Do you think our asshole freezes people's lungs and then pulls bodies into the lake?"
"I don't think... And where are the other reports? Where are the bodies?"
"Thaw out."
There was such a look of bewilderment on the consulting coxcomb's face that Brennan couldn't deny himself the pleasure. He threw on his coat and beckoned the valuable specialist to follow him:
"Come on." I'll show you."
***
Somewhat to the Commissar's disappointment, Longsdale did not bite or lick the ice. He went around all three of the cut blocks (two old victims plus a new one), he thought about it and offered to unfreeze them.
"Kennedy is against," the Commissar said, "He says that if the ice is melted, it will damage the bodies. We have the first victim without a face..."
"But you have a skull."
"So what?"
"You can reconstruct the face from the skull."
"What?!"
"Anthropological reconstruction," Longsdale explained patiently, "Schreiber in Lindenne is already doing it, Leroy and Steinberg, Gossel at your university in the capital..."
"Okay, okay!" Brannon cut in hastily. At first, he thought the consultant was talking nonsense again, but at least the string of names proved that it wasn't his personal idea. "I'll talk to Kennedy. Without his knowledge..."
"The skull needs to be cleaned..."
"Yes, yes."
"Take measurements..."
"Of course!"
"Apply the marks..."
"GOOD!"
The consultant finally fell silent.
"And the ice," he muttered under his breath, "the ice to melt…"
To Brennon's surprise, the pathologist did not veto the Longsdale venture. The old man thought deeply, but reluctantly admitted that he had heard of this method.
"But the results are not always satisfactory. However, as this gentleman is lying in an unmarked grave without identification, I don't think it would be a bad thing if Mister Longsdale tried."
"Really?" The commissar perked up. Surely this is a long case, the consultant will stop flitting before his eyes for three days at least...
"But under my strict control!"
"Of course..."
Bringing Longsdale to the morgue, Brennon whistled a police artist and led him to the ice blocks in the backyard.
"What a hanging faces!" the student remarked, looking sceptically at all three of them.
"So don't stare at them," Brennon advised. He walked over to today's victim and peered intently. The deceased pressed one hand to his chest, clenching his fist. Above the fingers the crossbeams of the cross were visible around which there was a spherical cavity. The commissar buried his nose in the ice. The cross was large, heavy, made of gold, decorated with gems. Brennon noticed a piece of a gold chain on the dead man's black sleeve. He saw the same on deadman's shoulder.
Near the Commissar's office, the policemen who had interviewed the residents of the lake village were already waiting. As always, no one saw, did not hear, and generally not been there, not done that. However, Brennon did not count on this. So that his subordinates did not relax, he ordered them to wait for the artist, get portraits of the untimely dead and go around the houses of all those who reported the loss of friends and relatives. The Commissar brushed his coat, frock coat, hat and directed his steps toward the stronghold of spirituality.
The Cathedral of the Virgin Mary raised its domes over Rebellion Square, a few steps from the police department. The beggars on the porch, having barely seen Brennon, rushed scattering with scolding. The paralytic ran the fastest. The commissar snorted. it will still come to questioning these creams of society. Now he wanted to see the bishop.
The Cathedral life went on as usual, Brennon did not notice much panic or anxiety. He caught a couple of youths from the choir in the nave and demanded that he be taken to Bishop Whitby. The young men were dismayed, but at last the commissar faced in front of a heavy oak door. He just raised his fist to knock as the hostile "Gkhm!" sounded in the area of his shoulder blade. Brennon turned around.
Simon Whitby was a good deal shorter than the Commissioner and clearly didn't enjoy the meeting. The bishop was sixty years old, and one of those pillars of society who still regarded the police as something like flusher or swabber. So when he found one of these scum outside his office, His Eminence puffed up angrily and coldly inquired:
"What are you doing here?" Alms are distributed on Fridays."
His very tone implied that the scum would be ashamed and crawl away into its cesspool. But Brennon in all his life no one compared with a delicate flower, and someone else's hostility touched him as little as the rice crop in Marandzan.
"I am conducting an investigation into the murder, of which one of the ministers of the church fell victim. I suspect he was from this church," the commissar drew a finger around the little corridor.
"Your vile hints..."
"Hints have nothing to do with it. This morning we found on the lake the corpse of one of the priests. In his hand was a large golden cross decorated with green and red stones. This is unlikely to be found it in an ordinary parish church. As soon as the artist finishes the portrait, we will put this person on the wanted list ... Isn't it better to share your thoughts with me privately than to notify the whole city that priests steal crosses and die a bad death?"
The bishop wiped his sloping forehead with a handkerchief. Brennon had a low opinion of the mind of this hollyrolly, but still the bishop understood his arguments. Whitby unlocked the door and with a sharp gesture invited Nathan to enter.
"Father Joseph Tyne," the bishop said abruptly. "One of my vicars. He is responsible for the preservation of church utensils. Several stones fell out of the cross, and Father Tyne had to take it to a jeweller. As I understand it, he agreed with van Shpeer that he would call in the evening, after the closure of his workshop. The temptation for the laity, you understand."
At the same time, the bishop was sorting through the papers in the desk drawer. He pulled out a folder and handed it to the commissar.
"Please. There are so many valuable items in the cathedral that I carefully check everyone who has access to them. Father Tyne worked for the good of faith in my cathedral for more than eight years. Not the slightest suspicion, not a single misconduct..."
"Therefore, when today he did not come to you to report on the safety of the cross, you did not bother the police?"
Whitby grumblingly scowled.
"The police now climb without soap to the places where they didn't let her go beyond the threshold before! But, so you know, Father Tyne is the purest, crystal-honest man! I didn't even think that he had gone astray, had appropriated a cross and started on a spree... Where is it, by the way?"
"At the morgue," Brennon answered, studying the file. The bishop impatiently waved:
"I mean the cross! This is the most valuable relic, which..."
"So I answer," The commissar glanced at the hollyrolly from under his brows. "The cross is in the morgue. Frozen, you know. But as soon as we can separate it from the deceased, we will immediately return it."
"F… f… frozen? Where is it frozen? How?.."
"Into the body," Brennon slammed the folder shut, "We will keep you posted."
"But listen!.."
"By the way, where were you yesterday and when was the last time you saw venerable Tyne?"
The bishop gasped in indignation. However, since Brennon listened to his angry speech without any interest, then by will or not, His Grace had to return to an ugly reality.
"Yesterday I left the cathedral at about five in the evening. Father Tyne had come to see me shortly before, informed me of his visit to the jeweller, and left. As far as I know, he was going to spend time at the cathedral before six, and then go to van Speer. They made an appointment at half-past six."
"Did you notice anything strange? Unusual? Father Tyne was scared, maybe excited?"
"No," the bishop answered dryly, "No more than always. He reports to me every Tuesday."
"Thank you, Your Grace," Brennan patted on his palm the folder, "We will keep you informed..."
"But the cross!.."
"Especially about the course of defrosting. Good day, sir."
As promised to the bishop, the commissioner did not sit idly by. Forty minutes after his return to the warm, cozy office, Brannon had received the report on the assault on the student, dealt with several reports of robbery and murder on the Midrain Road, and learned that Father Tyne had not reached van Speer and had not returned home either.
***
Sometimes the Commissar wondered who wrote the detective novels and stories, and why did all these people think that the victims or relatives of the killed people would cheerfully report during the interrogation, where they were and what they did to the minute. Father Tyne's sister said nothing at all, only cried silently in her handkerchief. She was a thin, fragile lady of about fifty, meek and quiet. Sobbing gratefully, when Brennon handed her a cup of tea, she silently listened to everything he told her and froze in her chair. The Commissar sat next to him and gently asked:
"Miss, were you expecting your brother yesterday?"
The woman shook her head.
"Why?"
She sighed several times frantically, and Brennon pushed a cup toward her.
"He spoke before leaving..." Miss Tyne whispered and took a few sips, "that will carry the cross to repair... I... I thought... He sometimes slept on the couch in his office, if he was late until late... I decided..." she burst out a short sob, "He just did not send today for buns! I always baked buns for him, and he sent for them, but today did not send!"
What a swine, Brennon thought of Bishop Whitby. Miss Tyne fell bitterly weeping. Ordained hog had not thought or seek out father Tyne, nor to send to his sister's acolyte.
"And I'm waiting, waiting ..." the woman whispered, "I'm waiting and waiting..."
"What way your brother did usually go home from the cathedral?"
"He took a cab," she said with difficulty, "I don't know..."
"Did he stop by somewhere on the way, buy anything?"
"Newspapers, sir, and he liked the cookies at the Bright's bakery..."
Brennon escorted Miss Tyne to the exit and put her on a cab. He handed her his business card, but the woman hardly understood what he were giving her. The commissar stared at the cab for a long moment, reflecting on senior officials; but since these thoughts were never joyful, he discarded them. It was necessary to establish the identities of the other victims as soon as possible in order to find out at what point they could all intersect.
The consultant was found in the backyard. Brennan shivered: even he didn't go out without a coat, coat, and scarf in winter, and Longsdale was without them all and didn't wince. He studied bodies with a magnifying glass; the dog sniffed the blocks of ice.
"I can melt them."
"The dead?" the commissar was delighted, "But Kennedy fears that it will damage the corpses."
"I know," Longsdale tapped his finger on the block, "I took ice samples. As soon as a laboratory is equipped in my house, I will conduct experiments and determine the safest way..."
"Ah! Have you chosen house eighty-six?"
The consultant flinched and stared at Brennon:
"How did you know?!"
"I saw your butler with carts."
Lonsdale's face fell in disappointment, like that of a child who was not shown the trick.
"But I thought..."
"What did you think?" Nathan became interested. For the first time, he found a human reaction in the consultant.
"I thought that since you were red-haired and were born on a Sunday that fell on the first of May..."
"I have no evil eye, and I also do not pierce anything with my third eye!" the commissar barked, who from childhood was bothered by all the neighbouring gadabout. Longsdale sighed in disappointment and lost interest in Brennon. The dog snorted softly.
"What about the skull?" The commissar muttered.
"Mister Kennedy is marking it. This scientific discipline is still developing, we will have to calculate the volume of tissues ourselves..."
"In short!"
"It will take three or four days."
"Where will you do this?"
"At my home, of course," Longsdale answered, "Your laboratory is too scarce and primitively equipped. Raiden's just about to finish the transport."
The Commissar snuffled resentfully. Fortunately, he was distracted by the duty officer - the chief wanted to see him.
Raiden, Brannon mused as he went up to his superiors. The Commissar had an exceptional memory for faces, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't remember the butler's face. Even the colour of his hair and eyes was erased from memory. And that feeling was extremely unpleasant. Almost as unpleasant as the memory of the superstitious old women who had assured his father that if the child was not only born on a May Sunday, but also red, then he was definitely a changeling!
"Brennon!" the chief shouted, as soon as the commissar had closed the door, "You went to the cathedral again!"
"Yes, sir."
"Each time, each, how you burst there, the bishop writes to the mayor a complaint about the arbitrariness of secular authorities! What did you do to him again?"
"I was looking for our victim, sir."
"Found it?"
"Oh yeah. Father Joseph Tyne," - Nathan fluently described the tragic fate of the priest, "Therefore, sir, I intend to interrogate all the priests who dealt with Tyne, and all who could see him on the last night. It is unlikely that our victims went to the same club and hardly met in the same houses. The only thing that connects them is the place of death and the road that they got there. We need to find out where they were on the night of the murder. If we find a match – we'll pick up the first trace."
Broyd thoughtfully stroked his lush mustache.
"What if they died on the lake?"
"But somehow they got there? Father Tyne would be heading in the opposite direction from Weir, toward van Shpeer's jewellery store. But did not head."
"Hm... Hmm..."
"What the hell carried him to the lake for the night looking? The first victim, over whose skull Kennedy is now mocking, was dressed in semi-home clothes. Weir froze a yard in depth, and this guy wandered there in one vest and slippers."
"Do you think he jumped out of the house because something called him?"
"Hell knows, sir," Brannon said grimly. "A drunkard can be called anywhere by his delirium tremens. But, who knows, suddenly the consultant will be useful."
"I thought you were skeptical..."
"Yes, sir. But the cross surprises me."
"What about it?"
"Tyne was taking it to the jeweler to get it fixed. And he died with the cross in his fist, pressed to his chest. Why did he get it? Wanted to drive away the murderer church bauble?"
"Brennon! You still think... hmm..."
"An ordinary murderer would have stolen the gold without a second thought."
"So you think this murderer is unordinary? Maybe someone scared him."
"Did our dead bury themselves in the ice?"
Ayrton Broyd frowned silently. Brennon scratched his beard thoughtfully. There was a gap in the ice around the cross. Why?