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“These vaults—how are they accessed, exactly?”
“Via a key code, which each curator is given. Inside each vault is a CCTV camera that records the visit. All footage has been preserved and can be retrieved by date and time. Now—any questions?”
“Much obliged,” said Coldmoon, shaking his head.
“Would you like me to stay, in case you need assistance?”
“Not necessary,” said D’Agosta, staring at the rows of files.
The head of security left.
After a moment, D’Agosta sighed, crossed his arms over his chest, and said: “Shit on a stick. Maybe we should’ve sent in some lackeys to do this.”
“You mean, so that it takes a week and then has to be redone anyway because someone screwed up?”
D’Agosta gave a knowing chuckle. “This is what I hate about police work—endless piles of paper.”
“True,” said Coldmoon. “But here’s the thing: I’ll bet you another pitcher of Harp the killer’s name is in one of these files. Think about it: he’s probably one of Mancow’s professional colleagues or associates. Two people were murdered, in pretty ingenious ways, so that a sophisticated collector could get his hands on Sitting Bull’s peace pipe. He’s got to be someone who’s a collector, maybe even a curator.”
D’Agosta sat up. “Let’s get to work.”
Coldmoon pulled the visitors’ log toward him, opened it, and began scanning the pages. The book was organized like a ledger, with the date, name of visitor, signature, institutional affiliation, and the time in and out. On the far right was a space for the initials of the sponsoring curator. Coldmoon quickly figured out which were Mancow’s initials—an ECM, ending with a loop—and turned back to page 1. The log started with January 1 of that year and went on from there. He laid his tablet on the table and began copying the entries next to every ECM. After a minute, he stopped.
“Why don’t I read off the names and institutions as I write them down,” he said, “while you look up their credentials in the files?”
“Good idea,” said D’Agosta, without enthusiasm.
The work went more quickly. The files were well organized, and there were not that many ECM entries. In less than an hour, they had compiled a list from January 1 to the date Mancow was murdered. Coldmoon counted up the entries—twenty-six.
“Now we verify their institutional affiliations,” he said. “We can start by googling each institution and then searching the website for the name—to make sure they’re employed there. If there’s no hit, we follow up with a call. That should help us identify anyone who put down a fake name or institution.”
“What if they borrowed a real name and institution?” D’Agosta asked.
“If this doesn’t work, that’s the next step.”
D’Agosta nodded. “Good thinking. I’ll start at the bottom of the list, you at the top. We’ll each take thirteen.”
Coldmoon went to work. The first name on the list—which would have been the last person Mancow admitted to the collections before he was murdered—was a Grigory Popescu, professor of anthropology at Babes-Bolyai University in Romania.
He went to the university website, searched, and the name popped up. Check.
The next visitor’s name was Prof. Hans Nachtnebel, professor of anthropology at Heidelberg University. Again it checked out.
The third was a Professor George Smith, University of Central Florida, Sociology Department. Coldmoon searched and it, too, checked out: George Smith, PhD, Adjunct Professor, Department of Social Studies.
Coldmoon was about to go on, but then he hesitated.George Smith.The name was just a little too common. A real George Smith would at least use a middle initial—wouldn’t he? To distinguish himself from all the others.
He looked over the website of Central Florida University. It billed itself as one of the largest universities in the country, with over sixty thousand students and twelve thousand faculty. An ungoogleable name buried inside a giant university: Coldmoon didn’t like it.
In the file, there was a number for George Smith. He called it.
A clipped voice answered. “Social Studies.”
“May I speak with Professor Smith?”
“We have several.”Of course, thought Coldmoon, suspicions further aroused.
“George Smith.”