“Now that we’ve established which murders,” Betts said, his voice raised, “what can you tell me about them?”
“Which one?”
“Let’s start with the first murder,” Betts said, after a pause to compose himself.
“The first murder?” the FBI agent repeated, in a remarkable parroting of Betts’s own deep, nasal voice. “Oh, I’m afraid I can’t really be of much help there. I’m so sorry.”
“Why not?” Betts asked tersely.
“Because I haven’t seen the first body. That’s why I’m here. I don’t mean in Savannah, you understand. I mean this building.”
A slightly strangled noise escaped Betts’s lips. “Okay. What can you tell me about the second murder?”
“It was a man.”
“So we’ve been told.”
“He’s dead. I can verify that much for you, having examined that body. As I believe I implied already.”
“Can you be more specific? How was the blood sucked out?”
“From the man?”
“Yes, yes. From the man!” Gannon could see Betts was losing his legendary temper.
“Well, the body was not covered. Going back to your earlier inquiry, that is.”
Betts waited impatiently for more.
“I confess, Mr.—Butts, was it?”
“Betts.”
“Ah. Forgive me. I confess, Mr. Butts, but I’m not sure precisely what additional information will satisfy you. The victim is a male. His body was found yesterday. The cause of death has yet to be determined. Surely that should be enough to satisfy a member of your…profession?” And here Pendergast glanced—not, Gannon noticed, in a friendly way—over the entourage.
“It’s not satisfactory,” Betts said. “Why is the FBI involved?”
Pendergast’s wandering eye returned to the director and he waved a hand at the cameras, mics, and other equipment. “The FBI often investigates homicides. Are you representing some local, or more likely hyperlocal, news channel?”
Betts’s exasperated sigh was loud enough to spike the needles on the sound equipment. “I’m making—directing—a documentary. ‘Demon-Haunted Savannah.’ Now, Mr. Pendergast, some are saying this is the work of the Savannah Vampire. Do you have any comment on that?”
“Why do you ask?”
“As an FBI agent—if in fact you are an agent—you should know that what we need are details. People are frightened; they need answers. They have the right to know the truth.”
Gannon felt this sanctimonious retort would anger the agent, and she braced herself. But if anything, it did just the opposite. The man’s face assumed a thoughtful, almost philosophical expression. And when he spoke again it was once more in the most cooperative of tones.
“Mr. Butts,” he said in his honeyed voice, “whether or not you realize it, you’ve just hit on the crux of the matter. ‘“What is truth?” said jesting Pilate, and would not stay for an answer.’ If I knew exactly which truth you were searching for, I would do my best to help. But it seems that—forgive my bluntness—no answer I provide you with is satisfactory. In fact, every statement I make, every truth I impart, is simply met with another question. I appeal to my fellow agent, and the members of your own gathering, in this. Despite my best intentions in speaking with you, I find myself auribus teneo lupum, as Terence wrote in his imperishable and inimitable Phormio. Have you read Phormio? No? Well, I fear that is all too frequently the case today. Nevertheless, despite your lack of culture—particularly sad in a man who calls himself a journalist—as a servant of the public I’m still willing to stand on these steps, hic manebimus optime, until I’ve made it clear to you that I—”
At this point, Gannon saw the lights in the office behind the two agents go on, and a woman in a uniform come forward and unlock the front door. She glanced at her watch: nine o’clock.
Instantly, the man named Pendergast turned and—with a bound as quick as a fox—leapt up to the now-unlocked door and slipped inside. The other FBI agent followed.
Betts wheeled toward the cameras. “Cut! Cut!” he yelled. “I don’t want any of that shit on tape!” He looked at Gannon. “Move, damn it, we need to get in there and talk to that medical examiner. Now!”
He jogged forward, climbing the stairs Pendergast had stood on just moments before, grasped the door, and tried to yank it open. But Agent Pendergast had turned and now held the door shut as if with a rod of iron.