Линкольн Чайлд - Verses for the Dead

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?”