Chapter Twenty-Three
Drawing Threads
Sorting through thephotographs on the table, Oliver pulled out the ones they hadn’t presented to the head inspector and separated them further by whether he or Felipe took them. The photographs from inside the incinerator were what he expected: piles of ash and bone scattered across the grate and in heaps below it. He could probably match up some of what was brought back to those pictures, but with things constantly shoved into the machine, there would be no way to tell which bones belonged together or the relative descriptions of the victims, unless he tried to bonemance them. He didn’t know if that was even possible with cremated remains.
Flipping through the next few pictures of the boiler room and the morgue, Oliver paused on the contraption Felipe couldn’t identify. It had a motor, tubes, and a spot for a vial. Oliver grabbed the magnifying glass off his desk and squinted at the plate attached to the bottom of the machine.Sorensen Embalming Machine. He had seen them before when dropping off bodies to undertakers. A particularly chatty embalmer had made Oliver stay to show off his shiny, new machine, but Dr. Yates’s looked different, like the configuration of tubes and glasses were wrong. It could have been a different model or something custom made, like the machines they found on the top floor, but he couldn’t read the serial number or the smaller notations on the plate. Oliver sat back with a frown. Why would Dr. Yates need an embalming machine in his practice?
If he was hiding deaths, it didn’t make sense that he would preserve the bodies. Grabbing Herman Judd’s file, Oliver flipped to his autopsy notes. No, there were no signs of embalming, though his body hadn’t been as decomposed as he expected, and there were the cuts on his neck. What if the machine had been used to push blood out instead of pushing chemicals in? Usually, those machines would shoot the blood down the drain and add embalming fluid in its place. But why remove the blood and organs? It might have helped the bodies burn faster if they were less moist, but it seemed like a lot of work for a body being disposed of to hide negligence. He could have been selling wet specimens or studying what he removed, Oliver supposed. The thought nudged at the back of Oliver’s mind that there was no reason for a man as wealthy as Dr. Yates to sell bodies like a resurrection man.
Oliver set his questions aside to study the next pile of photographs, which were all close-up shots of the magical family tree or whatever it was. Oliver laid them out as best he could in the last open corner of the bench, but staring at the litany of names and symbols for too long made him dizzy. While he thought he understood the use of moon phases to denote strength, there were many more symbols than he had first realized, and without the color coding, he might not be able to grasp the full picture of what everything meant. He hoped Dr. Yates hadn’t destroyed it in the hours after they left, so he could eventually add the color himself.
Beneath the pictures of the magical lineages were the photographs Oliver had taken of what was inside Yates’s desk drawer. Of all the pictures he took, these were the most difficult to read due to the angle and poor lighting. If the papers hadn’t made it into the incinerator, they were probably in a box in the archives. Oliver internally groaned at the thought of having to dig through everything to find them. Picking up the magnifying glass again, Oliver squinted at the handwritten and typed missives littering the floor. Some were letters from a club for bibliophiles in the city. He had heard the name mentioned when Gwen discussed book collectors. Most of the members were rich men, some of which had, purposely or accidentally, bought stolen magical books.
There were also letters from a man named Dr. Hough about which booksellers had connections to find rare medical books and which tanneries would process small quantities of leather, so he could rebind his own collection. Oliver blanched at the price Dr. Hough had paid for a Medieval medical text, but the rest of that letter was cut off. He hadn’t thought the flip the papers over to photograph the backs too. There were some barely legible letters, equipment receipts, random notes from what looked like meetings that made little sense out of context, accounting slips, a notice for an estate sale in California for a Dr. Lincroft, and a few brochures and programs from events the Institute for the Betterment of the Soul hosted.
Oliver was about to set aside the photograph when his eyes snagged on a program with a list of featured presenters from an event held in late October of the previous year.Father Gareth. Oliver’s hands shook. Dr. Yates knew Father Gareth. Only a few feet away in the photograph was the estate sale catalogue. Had Dr. Yates told the priest about the estate sale and the jarred heart that would befit his purpose? Oliver ran for the stairs before he could finish the thought. He had to check. Digging in his pocket for the key to their workroom in the archives, Oliver ignored the stares of the other paranormal society members as he raced down the hall. An archivist yelled for him to stop running, but Oliver was already shoving the key in the lock and stumbling back into the cramped room.
His eyes roamed over the words written in chalk on the side of each box. When he found the pile markedOffice- Yates, Oliver tore off the lids and dug for anything that looked familiar. Everything from that drawer should have been together. In the third box, he found the stack of programs. Grabbing two with Father Gareth’s name, he set them aside and searched for the estate sale catalogue. Oliver pulled it from the box with trembling hands and thumbed through it. In the section with books, a handful of listings had been circled and annotated with numbers. Taking a deep breath, Oliver tried to slow his brain and pulse enough to focus on reading. Midway through the listings of esoteric specimens, he found the waxwork of the werewolf mid-transformation. It had to be the same estate sale that Felipe brought things back from in January. That anatomical model was too rare for it to be a coincidence. On the next page was a list of wet specimens up for sale.
A preserved human heart in a lead-sealed glass jar, preservative unknown, exact provenance unknown, rumored to have been removed from renown monster hunter Salvio Galvan’s body upon his death.
Oliver swallowed against the sickening pressure in his throat. No wonder the heart had worked so well with Felipe’s magic; it belonged to his family. Felipe had been horrified by what he had done to save Oliver’s life, but he needed to know, even if Oliver didn’t want to tell him. It was wrong; everything was wrong. Father Gareth and Dr. Yates knew each other. One had tried to elevate his powers while the other tried to snuff out other’s, so how did they meet? Oliver’s heart skipped. Father Gareth had wanted to institutionalize Sister Mary Agnes to get her relic and stop her from talking. He must have come to Dr. Yates to discuss sending her to the institute for treatment and discovered— What? Kinship? It didn’t make sense.
He needed to talk to Felipe. Oliver resisted the urge to ring the tether like a bell as he got to his feet and stumbled toward the library with the papers in his hand. Focusing on the weight beneath his heart, Oliver tried to reel in his anxiety enough that Felipe wouldn’t think he was being murdered. By the time he reached the bottom of the spiral staircase, Felipe was already coming down from the hatch with Teresa on his heels. Felipe’s hand went to his chest, but when he spotted Oliver, relief washed across his features and the tether. Teresa looked between the two men with a raised brow, but at least she didn’t look annoyed at seeing him.
“Teresa, would you mind if I borrowed your father for a moment? It’s about the case.”
“By all means. I’ll just wait here.”
“What’s wrong?”
Motioning for Felipe to follow him as he caught his breath, Oliver led him deeper into the stacks. In a darkened corner far from the prying ears of other patrons, Oliver stopped. Felipe’s gaze trailed over his form as if looking for wounds or what had sent his heart racing. Where should he even start? Oliver wanted to shake out his hands and pace, but the papers were getting sweaty in his grip. They would do.
“These were from Yates’s desk. He and Father Gareth knew each other.”
Felipe’s eyes widened as he stared down at the crinkled page and found the other man’s name. “It could be a coincidence.”
“With all the priests in Manhattan, he brought in one from the West Bronx to speak? No, I think they met when he came to discuss having Sister Mary Agnes committed. Remember when he tried to compulse us, he said that she was hysterical and should have been institutionalized? I think he came to the Institute for the Betterment of the Soul to do that, and he and Dr. Yates struck up a friendship of some kind. Over what, I don’t know.”
“Being self-righteous assholes would be a good possibility. Catholic, protestant, the aim is still the same,” Felipe replied. “And books. He arranged for that stolen Vatican book to come to Agatha’s gallery, and the doctor has a bunch of rare books, doesn’t he?”
