Линкольн Чайлд - Verses for the Dead

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.”

The studios of WSUN-TV were not in downtown Miami, as Coldmoon expected. Instead, they were located out in the sticks, in the distant southwestern suburb of Kendale Lakes, sandwiched between a thirty-six-hole golf course and the Miami Executive Airport. Even with Axel at the wheel, it had taken over forty minutes to get there.

Coldmoon got out of the taxi and into a parking lot surrounding a long, low building that bristled with satellite dishes and radio towers. A line of news vans, their roofs covered with smaller versions of the same electronic toys, stood nearby, parked for the night. He yawned, stretched, and massaged the small of his back. In the distance, beyond a rank of single-level houses with pool cages and identical tiled roofs, he could see an unending line of greenish-brown wetlands. In the short time he’d been in southern Florida, he’d learned that it seemed to have four distinct habitats: coastal boulevards for the über-rich; gated subdivisions for affluent retirees; bleak neighborhoods out of Grand Theft Auto — and swamp.

Commander Grove was sitting in the visitors’ waiting area just inside the entrance, and he rose from his chair as they pushed their way through the glass doors into the artificial chill.

“You’re just in time,” he said, shaking their hands in turn. “I was afraid you might have gotten lost.” He turned to Pendergast. “Your segment is next. I’ll get the assistant producer.” And he hurried off down a hallway.

“He seems familiar with the place,” Coldmoon said as they signed in at the reception desk.

“Given that his duties include community relations, it may well be his home away from home,” Pendergast replied.

Grove immediately returned, followed by a brisk young woman with a clipboard. “My name’s Natalie,” she told them as she shook their hands. “Thanks for reaching out to us last night. Which one of you is Agent Pendergast?”

Pendergast gave a slight bow.

“Great. Have you been on live television before, in a studio setting?”

“I have not.” Pendergast’s expression — as it had been during the entire drive out — remained neutral. Coldmoon knew he’d spoken to Pickett earlier in the day, but the substance of the conversation had not been shared with him.