Verses for the Dead

39

In her windowless office next to the morgue, feeling a little guilty for what she was about to do, Charlotte Fauchet once again opened the accordion file marked LAURIE WINTERS. She had already thoroughly reviewed the file, along with Jasmine Oriol’s: but then, of course, she’d had her medical examiner hat on. For a second time, she’d had trouble sleeping the night before. Certain items in the nonmedical part of the files had gotten her thinking. Maybe it was those sessions with Pendergast and Coldmoon in the “safe house,” which had given her firsthand insight into the investigative aspects of catching a killer. Maybe detective work was rubbing off on her. In any case, now that she was on vacation — and with no real plans to speak of — she’d decided to drop by the office in the morning to examine the files more thoroughly.

Fauchet began laying out photos of the autopsy. Winters had been found hanging from a rod in a closet at a roadside motel outside of Bethesda. The autopsy had been performed by the local medical examiner, who was also — for a change — an experienced forensic pathologist. As she looked over the photos one by one, she was impressed by the level of technique and clean workmanship.

The problem was, despite the M.E.’s credentials, he seemed to have approached the autopsy without the slightest doubt regarding the police conclusion — that it was an open-and-shut suicide. That lack of skepticism prevented him from asking a question: how did an incomplete hanging like this fracture a wing of the hyoid bone, but not the body of the bone? Funny how all the surgical precision in the world didn’t matter if the mind was already made up. It reminded her of the earlier cases, where the certitude of the police and the subtlety of the evidence had, it seemed, sometimes helped lead M.E.’s to predetermined conclusions.

Interesting.

She turned to the police report of the “suicide.” Winters, twenty-four, had been driving up I-95 on a freelance photography assignment — to photograph her cousin’s wedding in Massachusetts. She had reached the Wildwood Manor Motel off the 495 bypass and checked in around eight o’clock. A cleaning lady found the body the following day, hours after checkout time.

The investigating officer, Sergeant Sweetser, was a professional who’d been quite thorough in his investigation. He’d copied from the motel’s register the names, car makes, and license plate numbers of the previous night’s fellow guests, along with brief descriptions of each occupant given to him by the manager.

Fauchet flipped through the interviews. There was nothing of interest. Nobody had seen or heard anything out of the ordinary, and all had accounted for themselves in normal, unsuspicious ways. Winters had had no visitors that anyone had noticed. And the night manager insisted he would have noticed, because anyone arriving or leaving by car would have to pass by his office.

Using Google street view, Fauchet looked at the façade of the motel, which still existed. It was along the highway, outside of town and not easily accessible on foot. That meant the killers were probably staying at the motel themselves.

Good old Sergeant Sweetser had interviewed six guests, but the rest had already checked out by the time the police arrived. It seemed likely to Fauchet the killers would have left early that morning; why hang around and get caught up in an investigation? So the killers would not have been among those interviewed. That was another important clue.

As she skimmed the list of license plates, she saw there was another Florida plate, on a 1997 Mercury Tracer wagon with the number JW24-99X. If the killer was from Florida, as Pendergast had implied in yesterday afternoon’s meeting, this could be another clue. And it made sense: if the killers were traveling up I-95 hunting for victims from Florida, it would be easy enough to cruise through a motel parking lot, looking for Florida plates.

According to Sweetser’s report, the motel register said the Tracer belonged to a man by the name of George Lehigh. The second occupant of the room was listed as his son, Travis.

Father and son. Master — and apprentice?

She felt a creeping chill. They were not among those guests who’d been interviewed. But Sweetser had obtained a description from the manager. She turned to it and was disappointed to find it perfunctory — both with brown hair, average height, average build, no distinguishing characteristics — except both father and son were wearing Marlins baseball caps. The son, Travis, “looked to be in his midteens.”

Fauchet put down the report and thought for a moment. Was Lehigh their real name? Almost certainly they would be traveling under false identities. It didn’t look like Sweetser had run any license plates — not surprising, given the supposed suicide. But surely there would be a record in some database, somewhere, of who was registered to that plate eleven years ago.

She took out Pendergast’s business card and started dialing the cell number. Then she stopped and laid down her phone. She shouldn’t go off half-cocked. After all, these potential clues were intriguing, but they were just that: potential clues. If she was freelancing, the least she should do was follow through the way Pendergast would: examine both files, dot her i’s and cross her t’s. After all, the Miami PD, whose job it was to examine such things, would know what to look for.

But wouldn’t it be wonderful, she thought, if she could deliver to Pendergast the identity of Brokenhearts on a silver platter... just like that?

She put away the Winters folder and turned to the accordion file labeled JASMINE ORIOL.