Free Blue Labyrinth by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child Page B

disappeared around the corner.
    “Ever so obliged!” Pendergast said, leaning over in his seat and calling after the curator.
    D’Agosta had watched this exchange without a word. “You just put your boot so far up his ass, he’ll have to eat his dinner with a shoehorn.”
    “I can always count on you for a suitable bon mot.”
    “I’m afraid you made an enemy.”
    “I’ve had long experience with this Museum. There is a certain subset of curators who behave in their little fiefdoms like a liege lord. I tend to be severe with such people. An annoying habit, but very hard to break.” He rose from his chair. “And now, I’d very much like to have a word with that Osteological technician you mentioned. Mark Sandoval.”
    D’Agosta heaved himself to his feet. “Follow me.”

T hey found Sandoval down the hall in one of the storage rooms. He was puttering about, opening drawers full of bones, examining them, and taking notes. His nose was still red and his eyes were puffy—the summer cold was proving tenacious.
    “This is Special Agent Pendergast of the FBI,” D’Agosta said. “He’d like to ask you a few questions.”
    Sandoval looked around nervously, as if worried someone might see them—probably Frisby. “Here?”
    “Yes, here,” said Pendergast as he took in the surroundings. “What a charming place. How many sets of human remains are in this room?”
    “About two thousand, give or take.”
    “And where do they hail from?”
    “Oceania, Australia, and New Zealand.”
    “And how many in the full collection?”
    “About fifteen thousand, if you combine the Osteology and Anthropology collections.”
    “Mr. Sandoval, I understand that one element of your job is to assist visiting scientists.”
    “It’s our primary responsibility, actually. We get a steady stream of them.”
    “But not Victor Marsala’s job—even though he was a technician.”
    “Vic didn’t have the right temperament. Sometimes, distinguished visiting specialists can be, well, difficult—or worse.”
    “What does your assistance involve?”
    “Usually, scientists come to the Museum wishing to research a particular specimen or collection. We’re like the bone librarians: we retrieve the specimens, wait until they’ve been examined, then put them back.”
    “Bone librarian—a most apt description. How many visiting scientists do you help in, say, any given month?”
    “It varies. Six to ten, perhaps.”
    “It varies on what?”
    “On how complicated or extensive the person’s requirements are. If you have one visiting scientist with a very detailed list of objectives, you may have to work with him exclusively for weeks. Or you may get a string who just want to look at a femur here, a skull there.”
    “What qualifications do you require of these visiting scientists?”
    Sandoval shrugged. “They have to have some sort of institutional affiliation and a cogent plan of research.”
    “No particular credentials?”
    “Nothing specific. A letter of introduction, a formal request on university letterhead, proof of university or medical school affiliation.”
    Pendergast idly adjusted his shirt cuffs. “It’s my understanding that, though he did it infrequently, Marsala did in fact work with a visiting scientist on a project some two months ago.”
    Sandoval nodded.
    “And he mentioned to you that the project was of particular interest to him?”
    “Er, yes.”
    “And what did he say about it?”
    “He sort of hinted the scientist might be able to help him out in some way.”
    “And Marsala worked with this scientist exclusively?”
    “Yes.”
    “In what possible way could the work of an external scientistbenefit Mr. Marsala, who was admittedly very skilled at bone articulation but whose main duties were to oversee the maceration vats and the dermestid beetles?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe he was planning to give Vic a junior authorship line in the paper he would publish.”
    “Why?”
    “For his help.