Verses for the Dead

33

Coldmoon looked around the room, hands on his hips, lips pursed. It felt like he’d stepped back in time, or perhaps fallen into the set of the movie Key Largo, with the ceiling fans, the potted palm in the corner, the big wicker chairs with the round backs, the beadboard walls, the jute rugs... and the stifling heat. In the middle of the huge room was an ornate Victorian table surrounded by chairs and littered with documents, files, and photographs — nary a computer. Behind it, the busy, faded wallpaper pattern on the rear wall was disturbed by two corkboards and a series of large maps. It was hard to believe an old, decaying place like this could still exist on the edge of Little Havana. The distant noise of rush-hour traffic on the Dolphin Expressway filtered through the windows. The fans turned slowly, stirring the dead air, and the late-afternoon sun came in through the louvered windows, striping one wall with bars of light.

Pendergast was seated in one of the wicker chairs in his white linen suit, his fingers tented, an evidence box on the table beside him. In another corner Coldmoon saw the cabdriver Axel lounging on a couch, cleaning his nails with a switchblade.

“Come in, Agent Coldmoon, and make yourself at home.”

Coldmoon entered.

“I was fortunate to find this place,” Pendergast said, “midway between the Miami FBI Miramar building and Miami PD. A most convenient location, which should cut travel time considerably — should the need arise. Centrally located to all the relevant places in our investigation — and away from the tourist traffic that has been the bane of our existence.”

Coldmoon walked to the window and opened the jalousie blinds, trying to get a breath of fresh air, instead getting a smoky noseful of pollo de la plancha.

He turned. “Say, think we can fire up the A/C?”

“There is no air-conditioning,” said Pendergast. “I am sorry, it gives me the catarrh. I was fortunate that an old and dear friend was able to loan me this historic space, even if it lacks some amenities.”

Coldmoon began rolling up the sleeves of his denim work shirt. “Historic?”

“It is where John Huston wrote the screenplay for The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. At this very table, in fact.”

“Right.”

A buzzer high up on one wall rang once, then twice, its bell muffled by dust. Pendergast looked over. “Axel, would you mind letting them in?”

Sullenly, Axel folded his knife, got to his feet, and shuffled toward the door leading to the stairwell. Coldmoon thought him an odd choice for a chauffeur — he came and went as he pleased and, though clearly a skilled wheelman, was seemingly indifferent to the safety of himself and his passengers, and with an unpleasant personality to boot. Still, he thought he understood why Pendergast had engaged him: the man was streetwise, and he had that kind of trustworthiness that could only be won from somebody who prized cash above all else. He clearly distrusted law enforcement: there was no chance Pickett or anyone else would hear about their movements through Axel.

Coldmoon heard a brief murmur of conversation, ascending steps, and then Dr. Fauchet appeared in the doorway, Commander Grove behind her. They glanced around in obvious surprise. Axel was not with them — apparently, he’d taken the opportunity to leave on one of his mysterious private duties.

“Dr. Fauchet. Commander Grove. Welcome. Please have a seat.” Pendergast indicated the table. “May I get you anything to drink? Evian? Pellegrino?”

“What is this place?” Grove asked.

“My own little refuge,” said Pendergast. “Call it a meditative retreat.”

The two shook their heads as they sat down at the table. Fauchet dumped a large armload of files on the antique tabletop as casually as if it had been purchased at Ikea, while Grove cleared an area and set down his briefcase.

“Commander Grove,” Pendergast said, turning toward the man. “I believe you have news for us.”

Grove pulled out his ever-present notebook. It amazed Coldmoon that the man could carry so much information in something so small. Half of it, he figured, must remain in his head.

“I had to push my people pretty hard the last twenty-four hours. The research and analysis teams cross-correlated ViCAP searches with records from departments of public health, as well as both state and local police agencies, up and down the East Coast. And naturally the local databases had proprietary methods of searching and indexing, not to mention the usual misfilings and false positives that slow everything down.” He waved a dismissive hand at these annoyances. “In any case, out of several thousand suicides we ultimately found eighteen that matched the pattern: the right age, date, location, manner of asphyxiation, probable cause of death. I forwarded the autopsy files and police reports to Dr. Fauchet, who will fill you in on her findings.”

Following this admirably brief introduction, Dr. Fauchet took the ball. “I should start by telling you that, based on the autopsy photographs Miami PD finally pried out of the Rocky Mount coroner’s department, I was able to confirm Mary Adler was killed in a manner similar to Elise Baxter and Agatha Flayley: via a push-choke that, in her case, fractured the right wing of the hyoid, leaving the left wing intact. Clearly murder, well concealed but indisputable. In addition, the body of the hyoid itself was partially fractured, most likely in a staged hanging that took place after death.

“Of the eighteen suicides, I was able to eliminate fifteen for various reasons. They were obvious suicides, and the kind of trauma evident from the autopsy photographs and coroners’ notes did not match our three victims. The sixteenth I eliminated because, although one wing of her hyoid bone had been broken, when I looked deeper into the case I found this was because the banister from which she hanged herself collapsed, causing significant injury to the maxillary bones as well as the neck itself.” She paused. “On the other hand, the remaining two women displayed precisely the MO we’re looking for: fracturing of at least one wing of the hyoid, with the right wing more severely depressed than the left, followed by postmortem hanging with a knotted bedsheet.”

“You’re convinced they were homicides, staged by our killer to look like suicides?” Pendergast asked.

“I’m convinced they were homicides staged as suicides,” Fauchet said. “As to who did it, that’s your responsibility, Agent Pendergast.” This riposte was accompanied by a smile as she opened her briefcase and took out two thin manila folders, which she passed across the table to Pendergast and Coldmoon.

“Laurie Winters and Jasmine Oriol,” she continued. “The former found dead in Bethesda, Maryland, and the latter in Savannah, Georgia, within four months of each other. Both single, both younger than forty, both from the Miami area, neither leaving a suicide note. One away on a business trip, the other a freelance photographer on assignment. And both, as you’ll see, with the same fracture of the greater horns of the hyoid. Note that in the case of Winters, only the right horn was fractured; both of Oriol’s horns were fractured. I’ve noted this on the X-rays. In the defense of the original medical examiners, however, I should point out that, externally, the necks of both victims were badly abraded — although not to the extent of Flayley — and in the case of Oriol, the cartilaginous material of the larynx was crushed, as well.”

As Fauchet explained, Coldmoon paged through the photos. There were a few color shots of the suicide scenes; some close-ups of the victims’ necks before and after dissection; and the X-rays Fauchet had mentioned. The fractures had been marked with circles, but he nevertheless had to look closely to see the hairline breaks. It was as Fauchet said: under the circumstances, you’d have to be a fairly paranoid M.E. to, quite literally, see the skull beneath the skin.

“So these two newly discovered victims appear to have been killed by a right-handed man,” Pendergast said. “Along with Elise Baxter and Mary Adler.”

“Yes. In all four cases, one or both wings of the hyoid were fractured, with the right wing invariably suffering more trauma than the left.”

“Not with Agatha Flayley, however. You told us that, in your second examination of her corpse, you noticed the left wing of the hyoid had a greenstick fracture — but not the right.”

“That’s true,” Fauchet said.

“And then there was my friend Ianetti, the document examiner,” Grove piped up. “He said the two notes he examined were the work of a left-handed individual — which corresponds to the way the throats of the recent victims are believed to have been cut: from behind, right to left.”

There was a moment of silence. Then Pendergast shifted in his chair. “Well, what’s a serial killing without riddles? In any case, excellent work, Dr. Fauchet. Thanks to you and Commander Grove, we now have five long-dead victims on which to base our investigation.” He paused. “One additional question. You’ve made it clear how difficult it is to classify these as murder instead of suicide, requiring a surgical or radiological examination. What about from a tactile perspective?”

Dr. Fauchet frowned. She seemed a little deflated by Pendergast’s observation about the apparent left-handedness of the Flayley killer. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“These women were strangled by a strong set of hands. The ligature marks, the supposed self-asphyxiation, happened later. If you were to touch, palpate, these necks directly with your fingers — ignoring the visual evidence of the abrasions and contusions — would the damage to the horns of the hyoid wings feel different from, say, the damage that a suicide by hanging would normally cause?”

“That’s never occurred to me before. I... well, I suppose it would. You might even feel the fracturing of the bone with your hands around the neck — a sort of click, I would think. Why do you ask?”

“I just wondered if the killer was unaware — or well aware — that he was leaving us this clue.”

Now Grove spoke. “I’ve already liaised with Lieutenant Sandoval about obtaining backgrounds on Winters and Oriol. Dr. Fauchet, if you could please assemble all relevant data on the five autopsies — the two you performed, and the three whose results you’ve analyzed — that would be very helpful.”

“Already in process,” Fauchet said.

“There’s something else,” Pendergast said. “Commander, I think Miami PD should put the Winters and Oriol graves under surveillance.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Grove cleared his throat. “Yes. I see the logic in that. God forbid, but if he kills again, we may just catch him in the act of, ah, decorating one of those graves. I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Hold on,” said Coldmoon. “Wouldn’t it be better to get word out that we’ve identified two more homicide/suicides, Winters and Oriol? It might just stop this guy from sacrificing another woman, knowing we’re watching their graves!”

“The sad truth is,” said Pendergast, “with such a large data set to work from, it’s possible that other murder/suicides slipped through Commander Grove’s net. What I mean is, even if these two graves don’t receive presents, there may be others that will.”

He let this grim idea hang in the air for a moment. “Nevertheless, in the hope of forestalling that, I think the time has come to communicate directly with Mister Brokenhearts.”

“What?” Coldmoon asked. “How, exactly?”

“He now has a pen pal.”

“You don’t mean that reporter, Smithback?” Grove said. “You can’t trust him. We’re already checking out this psychiatrist he wrote about. Why throw free publicity his way? God knows, he’s got half the city in a panic already.”

“That persiflage is merely clouding the central issue,” Pendergast said. “Which is this: Brokenhearts reached out to Smithback.” And with this he removed the top from an evidence box; reached in and removed some latex gloves, which he pulled on; and then withdrew five letters of varying sizes, their envelopes ripped open, and arranged them on the table. Lastly, he withdrew another letter, without an envelope, its single page sandwiched between layers of glass.

“These are six letters Smithback received this morning,” he said. “Five of them are from cranks. The sixth one — the one he quotes in his most recent article — is the genuine item. Our friend Mr. Ianetti, the forensic document examiner, has verified that the paper, ink, and handwriting are the same — not to mention the tone and style of the letter, which includes a literary allusion. This is Mister Brokenhearts speaking to Roger Smithback. Is it just the letter of a sick individual, seeking attention? I don’t think so. After all, he’s written letters before — and they were private letters, left on tombs, not delivered to newspapers. I think that Smithback’s article may have inadvertently touched a chord in Brokenhearts. He didn’t foam at the mouth about what a psychopath Brokenhearts was, like the rest of the news media. And this is Mister Brokenhearts’s response.” He leaned over the sandwich of glass. “I must atone. If you cannot help me do so, I will have to continue on my own.” He sat back and looked around. “You will note that, if he’d stayed true to his pattern, Brokenhearts would have killed again last night. Smithback just might have given him a moment of pause — and bought time. But make no mistake: he’s not only asking for help — he’s making a promise. If we don’t find him — or find some way to help him — he will kill again. And soon.”

The table fell into silence. After a moment, Pendergast looked at Grove and Fauchet in turn. “Thank you so much for your help. It’s late, and I know you must both be very busy, so I won’t keep you any longer.”

Coldmoon waited while the two left. Then he turned to Pendergast. “You’re not really going to use Smithback to communicate with Brokenhearts?” he asked. “I didn’t want to say this in front of the others, but I think it’s a terrible idea.”

Pendergast smiled. “It’s true I said Mr. Smithback has a pen pal, but I said nothing about speaking to Brokenhearts through him. Perhaps, growing up, you heard the aphorism ‘It takes a thousand voices to tell one story.’ No — this story will be told a different way, with different voices.” He pulled out his phone, dialed a number. “Hello. Is this WSUN 6, South Florida’s news channel? Excellent. I’d like the office of Ms. Fleming, please. That’s right, Carey Fleming. Thank you.”