Verses for the Dead

32

Smithback had just gotten into the newsroom and was settling into his cubicle for the morning when the pool secretary, Maurice, came up to him with a crate of mail.

“A bunch of letters for you,” he said.

“Can’t someone open them up and see what they are? I’ve got research to do.”

“We did open them up. Six are supposedly from Mister Brokenhearts himself. Mr. Kraski has those in his office and wants to see you tout de suite.”

Smithback groaned as he stood up and threaded his way through the cubicles to the editor’s office. Kraski was a big guy in a sweaty shirt and tie — no jacket — with a flat-top crew cut that had gone out of style in 1955. He looked like he’d studied the textbook on being a tough, foulmouthed newspaper editor. The only thing he lacked was the cigarette hanging off the lip. Underneath, of course, he was the sweetest guy in the world — a cliché right out of The Front Page.

“Where the hell have you been?” Kraski said by way of greeting.

“Hey, boss, it’s nine thirty. And that was quite a scoop I got yesterday, with the shrink story. I mean, two of the dead women had been seeing him! And the bastard tried to attack me when I asked him about it. I ran a background check and found the guy assaulted his wife during a divorce five years ago — he had to take anger management classes. That’s why they eased him out of his practice. I tell you, the man looks like a serial killer.”

“Maybe.” Kraski waved his hand. “Then how do you explain what’s right here on my desk: six letters to you from Mister Brokenhearts?”

“They’re bullshit, of course.”

“You think so? Take a look.” He pushed them over. Five of them were on cheap paper, with strange handwriting, one in crayon. The sixth letter was in an expensive, creamy envelope.

He pulled a letter out at random.

It went on in that vein, replete with misspellings and grammatical abominations. He pulled out another.

He pushed that one aside as well and took up the creamy envelope. He slid out the letter and unfolded it. It was written in an elegant cursive hand, each letter carefully formed. Smithback began to read, a chill forming along his spine.

“Jesus.” He looked up at Kraski. “This letter... it might be the real deal.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“We’ve got to bring this to the police — right?”

“Sure, sure. Thing is, we don’t really know it’s Brokenhearts. I mean, there’s five other letters here — and that’s just today’s mail. On top of this psycho shrink of yours.” He stabbed at the envelope with his finger. “This is your story. Get to work. As soon as your piece goes live — say, two hours from now? — we’ll turn all six over to the police.”

Smithback took the letter and envelope. “Okay.”

“Get a sample of that shrink’s handwriting. Maybe we can figure out whether it’s the same guy. But we need to fact-check the shit out of your piece, so be careful. Only sourced, on-the-record stuff. You have a tendency to opinionate. Don’t.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now get your ass going.”

Smithback carried the letters back to his desk, shoved the crate with the others away with his foot, and got to work. The first thing he did was read the letter again, and he was struck by a phrase that stood out from the rest. She was my reason for life, and why I must survive. He googled it and found it was an altered quotation from the novel Atonement by British novelist Ian McEwan. Juicy. Very juicy. He’d have to put that in.

A letter from Brokenhearts, addressed to him personally. And a troubled shrink with not one but two links to the case. Game theorists speculated that evolution was a direct result of successful outcomes. If that was true, he was quickly evolving into a star homicide reporter.

He began to write, fingers flying over the keyboard.