Verses for the Dead

30

Smithback drained his third espresso and grabbed a couple of granola bars for snacks on the drive along with a Zyrtec for the damn allergies, then went down to the garage. Starting up the Subaru and cranking the A/C, he took out his phone, typed in Bronner’s address, and stuck the device in its dashboard holder. He eased into the street and set off, Siri giving him directions.

He had decided not to call Bronner ahead of time. It would be easy for the man to put him off on the phone, and then Smithback would have little recourse. Better to show up, slather on the charm, and talk his way in. He tried to imagine how Bill would have handled it. There were only a few vital questions he wanted answered — it should take ten minutes, tops. He hoped to hell Bronner wasn’t getting feebleminded. He must have had a lot of patients in his day and it would be hard enough to remember Flayley and Baxter after eleven years, even with a sharp memory. He wondered if the old guy had seen their names in the papers.

He sensed his courage flagging and reminded himself he was following a lead nobody else had yet stumbled upon.

The morning rush-hour traffic around Miami was brutal as usual, but once he hit 826 it cleared up and became smooth sailing. He knew from experience to avoid Route 1 and its tourists as long as possible, instead paying the toll on the Reagan Turnpike. He finally picked up Route 1 in Florida City, and another half hour brought him past the Southern Glades and onto the beautiful causeway to Key Largo. His destination had sounded like a typical fancy address for that area: Buttonwood Lane, where no doubt every manicured house had its own gleaming boat slip. But when he finally arrived, he found it was anything but upscale: a shabby, midcentury-modern neighborhood of sad-looking dwellings, RVs, and crappy center-console boats decorated with FOR SALE signs.

Strange place for a psychiatrist to live, especially one who must still be getting a cut from the operation of his former clinic.

The house was at the end of Buttonwood Lane, right on the channel, and it was yet another surprise — a big, run-down dwelling with white stucco falling off in plates, terra-cotta roof tiles still askew from the last hurricane. It was buried in a riot of tropical vegetation that looked like it hadn’t seen a pair of clippers in years. The house of a serial killer? Or just a creepy eccentric?

There was a wrought-iron gate across the driveway, white with streaks of orange rust. Smithback parked his car next to the gate, got out, and looked for an intercom or something, but there was nothing. The gate was locked.

What the hell kind of a gated house had no intercom or buzzer? Peering through the bars, he could just barely see a turquoise-colored truck in the driveway, hidden behind a cluster of bamboo. Someone must be home.

The street was quiet. He looked the fence up and down — no big deal. He grasped the bars, shimmied up, and swung over, landing lightly on the far side. He strode with as much confidence as he could muster up the driveway, past the truck, and to the front door. He would get only one shot at this, so it better be good.

He rang the doorbell. A long silence ensued — and then he heard the shuffle of slippers on a stone floor as someone made their way slowly to the door. A moment later it opened up.

Smithback had assumed Bronner would be some stooped, frail, white-haired guy in horn-rimmed glasses. He couldn’t have been more wrong. The retired psychiatrist was massive, powerful, and not all that old — maybe sixty-five. His jaw was as big as a boar’s and his hands were veined and hairy. As Bronner stared down at him, Smithback had the shivery sense that something wasn’t quite right with him.

“Dr. Bronner?” he asked.

“How did you get in here?”

“I, ah, climbed over your fence.”

At this Bronner’s heavy-boned face darkened, but he said nothing.

“I’m the brother of a patient you treated years ago, who unfortunately committed suicide. Through no fault of your own, of course,” he added hastily.

“Who?”

“A woman named Agatha Flayley.”

A long silence. Smithback began to feel uneasy. He could see through the open door into a barren, unkempt house.

“Look, if this isn’t a good time,” he said, edging backward. “I mean, maybe you’re busy—”

“Come in,” Bronner said, stepping aside and opening the door further.

Smithback warily entered the house. It was as cheerless as a prison, but at least it had a view of the ocean beyond a buttonwood border.

“Right on the beach,” said Smithback. “Nice.”

“Sit down.”

Smithback sat on a ratty sofa.

“I remember Agatha,” said Dr. Bronner slowly, taking a seat across from him, eyes on Smithback. “She came to see me — when was that? Thirteen, fourteen years ago.”

“Do you remember the exact dates, by any chance?”

A faraway look. “Yes. Not precisely, but she was my patient for two years. In 2005 and 2006, I think. I don’t have the medical records here, of course; they’re back in the clinic. They’re private, unless you have a signed HIPAA release.”

“I don’t. I’m not looking for that kind of information — just hoping to understand why she did it. I mean, the suicide surprised our whole family.”

A steady look. “Funny, she never talked of any family.”

God, this geezer had a mind like a steel trap. “Well, there was just me and my half brother. That’s what I meant by family.” Smithback swallowed, trying to project a serious but hopeful disposition.

“The suicide surprised me, too. She was certainly not the type, but then you can never be certain.”

“One thing my brother and I were curious about was she had a good friend who saw you, too. Elise Baxter.”

A slow nod. “Another suicide.”

“You have a good memory.”

“A psychiatrist never forgets his suicides.” A long, serious, creepy look.

Smithback cleared his throat. “When did you see Baxter as a patient?”

“Just a few times. Late 2004, early 2005, maybe.”

“Can I ask why she saw you? I mean, I’m curious what she and my sister might have had in common.”

“She had a difficult mother. One of those parents who criticize constantly. But she didn’t really need a psychiatrist for that. She needed a talk therapist, so I referred her out. Don’t believe she ever followed through, though.”

“They shared another joint friend. A person named Mary Adler. Did you ever see her, by any chance?”

A long silence. And then Bronner said, “No.”

“Are you sure? Mary S. Adler of Hialeah?”

At this point Bronner stared at him long and hard. “What did you say your name was?”

“Smithback. Roger Smithback.”

“Smithback. Not Flayley. Agatha was never married when she saw me.”

Smithback swallowed. Shit.

“Okay, Smithback, what’s your game?”

“No game, no game at all. Just a bereaved brother—”

“Cut that shit. I can read the papers. Mary Adler, Agatha Flayley, Elise Baxter. The Brokenhearts graves.”

Smithback swallowed again, with more difficulty.

“You’re no bereaved brother. You’re a reporter — aren’t you?”

Busted. Now what?

“That’s right. You’re a reporter and you’re here on false pretenses!” Bronner suddenly roared, his knotted hands gripping the sides of his chair as he stood up, towering over Smithback.

“Um, yes. That’s true.” Smithback couldn’t lie now. “I’m a reporter for the Herald, and I want to know why Flayley and Baxter were both your patients — and then, eleven years after their deaths, were chosen by Brokenhearts. Coincidence?”

Bronner advanced, clenching his fists, and Smithback abruptly lost his nerve and had to step back.

“What do you mean by this insinuation? You think I’ve got something to do with that business?”

“I’m not insinuating. I came in here in search of the truth.”

“You’re out to destroy my practice, you son of a bitch!”

“It has nothing to do with your practice. I’m going to publish this information — that the two victims were your patients — because it’s in the public interest.” Smithback tried hard to muster both courage and dignity, the effect spoiled by the fear squeaking in his voice. “I seek your comment on that fact, Doctor. Is it coincidence... or something else?”

“Here’s my comment, you little shit!” Bronner balled up a massive fist and stepped forward. Even though Bronner had thirty years on the journalist, he was formidable, and Smithback, being a natural coward who’d always managed to talk his way out of dicey situations, skipped backward. “Just a moment, think about what you’re doing, about how this is going to look—”

Bronner rushed toward him with a grunt. Smithback ducked a heavy swing and turned, scampering out the front door, the doctor in pursuit. He raced for the fence, Bronner behind. He leapt up just as the doctor seized his foot. Smithback gave a heave, losing one slip-on, and tumbled down the other side. He sprinted to his car — one foot shoeless — clambered in, gunned the engine, and tore off with a spray of sand. The last he saw was Bronner shaking the gate, face black with rage.

You bastard, he thought, you can’t threaten the press like that and get away with it. He’d lost one of his shoes — a Vans Classic, sixty dollars a pair — and it didn’t seem likely Bronner would give it back.

He glanced at the time on the dashboard display. Ten thirty — still plenty of time to get in a story. “Hey, Siri,” he said as he drove, “look up Dr. Peterson Bronner.” And then, as an afterthought, he added: “criminal record.”

“Here’s what I found on the web,” the irritatingly pleasant voice replied. The first image that appeared on his phone’s screen was a mug shot of the doctor, holding a sign up to his chest and standing against a cinder-block wall.