“Any developments on Misty Carpenter and her unusual business?” Coldmoon asked.
“We’ve decrypted her client list,” said Sandoval, “and started interviews. Once again, it looks like she was simply a target of opportunity.”
“Mmmm,” Pendergast murmured. He looked away a moment, his eyes narrowing. Then he glanced again at Sandoval. “Thank you very much, Lieutenant. This has been extremely helpful.”
“Sure,” Sandoval said, gathering his stuff together.
No questions, no second-guessing, no nothing—just pure cooperation. Coldmoon had to admit: Pickett’s word seemed good.
“Commander Grove,” Pendergast said, “now that we have a clearer sense of what we’re looking for, I was hoping the research and external relations departments of the Miami PD—which I understand are your jurisdiction—could cast a net for us. Specifically, a search for deaths, declared as suicides, that match the MO of Baxter, Flayley, and Adler. It’s true we haven’t yet gotten confirmation on Adler, but I think it’s worth searching for additional suicides possibly tricked out to look like murder—don’t you?”
“I do—very good idea.” Grove began jotting notes in a small, leather-bound notebook.
“It will be a rather wide net, and I’m afraid your people will have a lot of work on their hands. You’ll need to search for suicides matching the following characteristics: female, aged twenty to forty, who resided in Greater Miami but died out of state, hung with a knotted bedsheet, and leaving no suicide note. If any autopsies resulted in a conclusion of murder, or even suspicion of it, include those as well. For the time being, to make the search more manageable, you might limit things to states east of the Mississippi.”
“Got it,” Grove said, still writing. “And the time interval?”
“January 2006 to January 2008.”
Coldmoon glanced at Pendergast. With such broad parameters, he figured they’d probably get a list as long as the phone book. Thank God they had Grove and his ability to marshal the data-gathering resources of the Miami PD.
Grove stood up. “If there’s nothing else, gentlemen, I’ll get right on it.”
“We’re greatly indebted to you for this assistance, Commander,” Pendergast said.
“Think nothing of it. Maybe you can give me a tour of Twenty-Six Federal Plaza next time I’m in New York.”
“It would be my pleasure.” And Pendergast turned away as Grove followed Lieutenant Sandoval out of the war room and down the corridor.
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.
Hey Smithback, I’m Mister Brokenharts and I’m going to rip your fucken balls off and…
It went on in that vein, replete with misspellings and grammatical abominations. He pulled out another.
Dear Roger Smitback, I am Mister Brokenhearts I got two women hostate they are at 333 Ocean Way Drive Allmeda you better come now or I gong kill them…
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.
Dear Roger,
You, perhaps, understand. Their deaths cry out for justice. Hers most of all. Until she is at rest, I cannot rest. She was my reason for life, and why I must survive. Do you understand? I must atone. If you cannot help me do so, I will have to continue on my own—and this will not end well.
Yours truly,
Mister Brokenhearts
“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.
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 cabdrive
r 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.”
Verses for the Dead Page 19