Verses for the Dead

14

Special agent Coldmoon nodded to the two cops manning the gate as he passed into the City of Miami Cemetery. More cop cars were arriving, and activity was ramping up. He paused to cast a cold eye over the scene even as Pendergast skipped lightly ahead. An asphalt lane bisected the cemetery: a large grassy area surrounded by a green-painted fence and shaded by gnarled oaks. Lining the central lane were tombstones and mausoleums of various styles and shapes, some decrepit, others well kept. The cemetery looked venerable, and — judging by the vaults — was home to some pretty wealthy corpses. Strange place for a burial ground, though: almost in the shadow of downtown Miami.

When he had taken in the spirit of the place, he strode toward the mausoleum where the heart had apparently been found, a grim temple of granite roped off with crime scene tape, surrounded by a growing crowd of police and forensic teams. Pendergast was nowhere to be seen. He spoke to one of the local cops and learned the interior would be cleared and ready for their entry in about thirty minutes.

Coldmoon took a leisurely stroll beyond the crime scene tape, committing to memory all he could of the scene. This particular mausoleum was built from massive blocks, with two stone urns flanking the entrance and a heavy copper door covered with verdigris. The name carved above the lintel was FLAYLEY. As he passed the open front doors, he could see the shabby interior, brilliantly lit, where two CSU investigators in white suits moved about. They reminded Coldmoon of ancestral spirits, confused and wandering, seeking release from their earthly shackles.

On the far side, a distant figure caught his eye: a mourner in black, kneeling, head bowed in sorrow. Then he realized it was Pendergast. He ambled over to find his partner examining the grass, nose practically buried in the ground. A pair of tweezers was in his hand.

“Find anything?”

“Not yet.” Still, he slipped a test tube out of somewhere, put something invisible into it with the tweezers, and stood up. He continued to work his way in a circle around the mausoleum, as if, Coldmoon thought, “cutting for sign” — a tracking trick he had learned during his childhood.

“I would appreciate a second pair of eyes on the ground,” Pendergast said. “I’m looking for ingress and egress.”

“Since last night was a full moon, with a cloudless sky, you’re assuming he didn’t walk in by the service road.”

“Precisely.”

They made an excruciatingly slow loop, picking up every trace they could. Finally, when they got back to where they had started — with no success, it seemed — Pendergast squinted toward the mausoleum. “Ah. The chamber of the dead is now ready.”

Members of the Crime Scene Unit — under the watchful gaze of Lieutenant Sandoval — were packing up their gear and taking off their suits. Following Pendergast, Coldmoon ducked under the tape and entered the mausoleum.

Both right and left walls were lined with niches, three rows of five, making thirty crypts total, all sealed over save for one at the far left. A plaque of marble covered each crypt, carved with a name and dates, but some of the coverings had cracked and fallen to the floor, revealing the rotten coffins within. The floor was thick with dust and evidence of rat activity, while the walls were massively stained from roof leaks.

While Pendergast prowled around silently, Coldmoon focused his gaze on the niche in question. It was one of the newest.

Its marble plaque had been removed and set aside. Hanging before the coffin on a string, like a Christmas ornament, was a human heart, swinging ever so slightly, cradled in a crude net made of roasting twine. A single drop of clotted blood hung from the bottom like an icicle. A sticky pool had formed on the floor below it.

Fastened to the heart with a large diaper pin was a note. Coldmoon approached it with caution, photographed it with his cell phone, and then stepped back to read it.

“Brokenhearts fancies himself a man of literary parts,” said Pendergast, coming up behind him.

“You mean the quote from Romeo and Juliet?”

To Coldmoon’s gratification, Pendergast’s brows rose slightly in surprise. “Indeed. We can add that to the line from T. S. Eliot in the previous note.”

“‘Let us go then, you and I, when the evening is spread out against the sky,’” Coldmoon intoned. “I took a bunch of English lit classes my freshman year,” he said by way of explanation.

“Indeed. Although I can’t imagine what J. Alfred Prufrock has to do with this—” Pendergast gestured at the oversize diaper pin, its lime-green plastic head molded in the shape of a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle — “except to indicate our killer might have a droll sense of humor.”

While Coldmoon took photographs, Pendergast went down again on his hands and knees to examine the floor, plucking more invisible items here and there with the tweezers. As he worked, Coldmoon heard an excited voice in a thick Florida drawl outside, along with the more measured tones of Lieutenant Sandoval.

“Ah, the man who found the heart,” said Pendergast as he rose. “Shall we have a word?”

The man was retelling the story of his discovery to Sandoval. Coldmoon turned on his recorder and slipped it into his front pocket.

“My good man,” said Pendergast, “we haven’t heard your story yet. May we listen in?”

“You bet. I was just telling the policeman here—”

“Your name?” Coldmoon interrupted.

“Joe Marty. I’m the day caretaker. So anyway, after I arrive, I’m doing my rounds and I see them copper doors open. I think to myself, it wasn’t like that yesterday. Nossir. I keep a close eye, gentlemen, on these tombs. A lot of famous people are interred here, and we don’t want anyone messing with them, or taking souvenirs. So I see them doors open and I poke my head in. Don’t see nothing. So I push the door open a little more and go inside. Still nothing.”

His voice was rising in pitch, building to a climax.

“But there’s this funny smell. Off, you know. So I turn around and bump this thing with my head, setting it swinging back and forth, you know? And I says to myself, there shouldn’t be anything hanging in here like that. So I reach out to grab it and it’s all wet and sticky, and there’s this piece of paper pinned to it, and I let go real fast. And I see my hand is all covered with something, so I hold it out into the daylight and it looks like blood and that’s when I start yelling. Yessir, I yelled like you wouldn’t believe. Then I call the manager and he calls the police, and here we are! Let me tell you—”

Pendergast adroitly inserted a question into this torrent of words. “What time did you arrive at work?”

“Seven. That’s when I start. Nothing like this ever happened here—”

“When you touched the heart,” Pendergast asked, “did you notice if it was still warm?”

“Why, shoot, I never thought of that. But now that you mention it, it was a bit on the warmish side.” He shuddered.

“Any ideas how the killer might have entered and left the cemetery?”

“Hell, that fence ain’t tall enough to keep anybody out. We get kids coming in here, drinking beer, urinating — very disrespectful.”

“Often?”

“Damned often enough.”

“Thank you. Agent Coldmoon, any questions?”

Coldmoon saw Marty turn his small, wet eyes to him. “Do people ever come to visit this tomb? Lay flowers?”

“No, this is one of them that don’t seem to have nobody.”

“Who’s responsible for upkeep?”

“We do the grounds. But the plots themselves belong to each family, and they’re supposed to do it. Lot of them don’t, and it’s a goddamned shame—”

“Are you familiar with the Flayley family?”

“Never heard of them. Not famous like some in here. Maybe they’ve died off, or live far away. It happens. I don’t mind telling you, when I saw that heart swinging back and forth, it just about froze my blood.”

“I’m sure it did,” said Coldmoon. “Thank you.”

Joe Marty walked off, casting about, looking for someone else to tell his story to. Coldmoon could see that at the cemetery entrance the press was starting to arrive in force, kept back by the police.

A homicide detective approached, wearing a seersucker suit and brandishing a pair of files. He handed them to Sandoval, who flipped through one quickly, then passed it to Pendergast. “Here’s the initial backgrounder on Agatha Flayley. Another suicide. Found hanging from a bridge in Ithaca, New York.”

“Thank you.” As Pendergast took the file, Coldmoon caught a quick movement out of the corner of his eye: a tall, lanky man in a Hawaiian shirt and skinny jeans, a hipster porkpie on his head, was approaching swiftly. When he saw them turn toward him, he called out: “Could I have just a brief word with you gentlemen—?”

A reporter. Sandoval’s face blossomed with annoyance. “Jesus, look who’s here. Don’t you know this is off limits?”

The lanky man waved some sort of card. “Come on, Lieutenant, think of all the favors I’ve done you guys! Please: one question, two, that’s all.”

“Get back behind the perimeter.”

“Wait, just a—” The reporter suddenly froze, staring at Pendergast. “You!”

Coldmoon looked at his partner. The agent’s face, usually expressionless, showed a rare surprise.

“What are you doing here?” the reporter asked.

Sandoval sighed in exasperation. “Smithback, get behind the perimeter before I have my men escort you out. You know this is a restricted area.”

“Hold on, please.” The reporter took a step toward Pendergast and stuck out his hand. “Agent Pendergast. How are you?”

Pendergast was still for a moment. “Fine. Thank you.” He reluctantly took the hand, and Smithback gave his a vigorous shake.

“You know this guy?” Sandoval asked Pendergast.

But Smithback swung around and answered the question. “Of course he knows me.”

“All right, you’ve said hello. Now back behind the perimeter.” Sandoval beckoned to some uniforms. “Sergeant Morrell,” he called out. “Will you and Gomez show this guy out?”

“Pendergast, please!”

Pendergast seemed to recover himself. “Mr. Smithback, I’m surprised to see you. I hope you are well?”

“Great, thanks.” The reporter glanced toward the swiftly approaching officers and lowered his voice. “Um, why is the FBI involved?”

“Two reasons. The case presents unusual psychological aspects that have interested our Behavioral Analysis Unit. And the targeted graves are out-of-state suicides, triggering federal involvement.”

“Targeted how?”

“I regret we can’t get into details.”

“Okay, but—” By now the two cops had hooked the man by the arms and were leading him away. “Is this a serial killer?”

Instead of replying, Pendergast turned to Coldmoon, who was looking at him questioningly. Sandoval was doing the same.

“In case you are wondering,” Pendergast said, “I knew his brother well. A tragic story. Someday I shall tell you about it.”

Coldmoon nodded. He doubted he would ever hear the story, but then again, he wasn’t sure he particularly wanted to.