Verses for the Dead

by Douglas Preston

  “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.”

  34

  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.

  “That’s just fine,” the young woman said, leading them away from reception and down a long, unfurnished corridor. “Ms. Fleming will take the lead in asking the questions. She’s a great host, really nice, and with her experience in Philadelphia and Hartford we were lucky to get her. Your segment starts in ten minutes.” They passed a window; glancing in, Coldmoon saw two ghostly faces and a dark room full of monitors, mixers, and other video and sound equipment.

  They paused in an intersection while Natalie took a second to inspect Pendergast more closely. “Hmmm. Well, we can’t do anything about the black suit, but otherwise I don’t see many issues. Let’s just run you past makeup, then we’ll get you wired up and do a sound check.”

  Natalie ushered Coldmoon and Grove into what Coldmoon assumed must be the green room, then she took Pendergast farther down the hall, still speaking to him as reassuringly as if he were about to undergo an operation.

  Coldmoon looked around the green room. There were couches, overstuffed chairs, a table with fruit and cheese platters, and a small glass-fronted refrigerator filled with bottles of water and diet soda. The only studio he’d ever been in was a radio station outside of Rapid City, and it had consisted of two rooms and a toilet. This place—with its whispered ventilation, high-tech equipment, and free food—was a revelation. He helped himself to a bottle of water and took a seat.

  Grove sat down beside him. The normally phlegmatic commander had an eager air about him; Coldmoon almost expected the man to rub his hands together with glee. “This is perfect,” he said. “I was actually quite relieved when Pendergast called this morning to say he’d agreed to an interview with WSUN. Not only agreed, but suggested it. Its market penetration is the best in Miami-Dade, and the viewing demographics are ideal.”

  “Nice that it could be arranged so quickly,” Coldmoon replied, cracking the top of the water bottle. “I understand you helped with that.”

  “Carey and I are old friends.” Grove reached over and grabbed a slice of gouda from the table. “And this is the perfect opportunity to reassure the public. But I’m a little bit unclear as to what he’s planning to say. He implied it had something to do with what that reporter, Smithback, has been writing about.”

  “Sorry,” Coldmoon said. “I just don’t know.”

  “I’m sure your partner means well, but these newspaper reporters—they’ll twist anything to sell more copies.” Grove snagged another piece of cheese. “At least we can count on Carey to give things the right spin. She’s a class act, a real pro. And calming the waters a little will help folks sleep easier until we lock this guy up.”

  There were footfalls in the hallway, and then Natalie reappeared with Pendergast still in tow. The agent did not look pleased. They had put some kind of orange foundation on his face—probably to keep his pallor from appearing truly
corpse-like under the bright studio lights—but here, in normal lighting, he looked like a wax doll.

  “Okay.” Natalie checked her watch. “Three minutes. Let’s go to Studio B and get you wired up.”

  They started down another neutral hallway, Grove and Coldmoon bringing up the rear. Pendergast was still silent.

  “A little case of nerves?” Grove asked him. “No, I guess not—working in New York, you must have conducted more than your share of press conferences. Anyway, Carey’s not going to throw you any hardballs. Everyone wants the same thing here—reassurance.”

  Grove continued his sporadic coaching as they went through one set of double doors, down a short corridor, through another set of doors—and suddenly they were in Studio B: a large, warehouse-like space with cables snaking all over the concrete floor, people standing around the periphery, and a semicircle of three cameras facing a small set dressed to look like a living room, with a backdrop of the Miami Beach shoreline behind it. Coldmoon looked around in surprise. It was so fake—just partial walls and no ceiling, nothing but black drapes and cinder-block walls surrounding it, and a flooring of engineered wood that ended mere feet away from the set dressing—that he found it hard to believe any viewer would buy the illusion. There was a desk with silk flowers, some potted palms, and two plush director’s chairs placed on either side of a glass table. A woman sat in one of them, and Coldmoon recognized her as the person who’d buttonholed him on the way into Miami Police headquarters. A tiny army of cosmeticians and sound engineers surrounded her. A man holding a two-way radio stood back between the hooded cameras, gazing with a watchful air; Coldmoon figured he must be the producer, or director, or whatever. The woman in the chair appeared to be in a fussy mood, muttering at the people swarming around her and even slapping away the hand of one woman holding a touch-up brush. Meanwhile, Pendergast had been shown to his seat and was having a microphone threaded up beneath the back of his jacket and pinned to his lapel.

  “One minute,” called a voice from the darkness behind the cameras. The lighting around the set, already bright, went up a notch. Several cameras on dollies adjusted their positions.

  “You gentlemen please stand there,” Natalie said in a low voice to Coldmoon and Grove. “We go live in a minute.” She pointed her clipboard toward a sheltered spot that allowed views of both the set itself and monitors displaying live feeds.

  “Thirty seconds!” came the disembodied voice. Now the sycophants vanished from the stage and the newswoman—her face suddenly lighting up with a brilliant, welcoming smile—turned to Pendergast. They engaged in some back-and-forth Coldmoon couldn’t make out. Then the producer pointed at them with an exaggerated gesture; the monitors stopped displaying advertisements and test patterns and focused on the set; and out of nowhere came a bit of calypso-based theme music.

  “Welcome back to News 6 at Seven,” the woman chirped, “Miami’s number one source for everything you need to know. I’m Carey Fleming. As I mentioned at the top of the show, we’re lucky enough to have as our next guest a highly decorated member of the FBI, Special Agent Aloy—” to Coldmoon’s amusement, she stumbled over Pendergast’s first name— “Pendergast. He’s the lead agent in the FBI’s investigation of the Mister Brokenhearts murders, and he’s here today to bring us the exclusive, latest developments in the case—as well as what we, the public, should know about this monster.”

  Fleming turned her attention from the cue light to her guest, putting on a serious face. Two of the cameras swiveled obligingly in Pendergast’s direction. “Agent Pendergast, thank you and welcome.”

  Pendergast nodded in return.

  “I understand you’re based in New York. I hope you’re enjoying our beautiful city, despite your unfortunate reason for coming.”

  “Miami is indeed a most delightful place.”

  A gratified smile. “But perhaps it’s not your first visit. After all, I can tell from your accent that you’re not from, as we say, up north.”

  “That is correct. I grew up in New Orleans.”

  “How nice.” Fleming glanced at a small teleprompter set low into the wooden floor that, Coldmoon assumed, displayed notes for the interview. “What can you tell us about progress in the case? Especially since this third brutal killing.”

  “Nothing,” Pendergast replied.

  Coldmoon felt Grove stir restlessly in the darkness beside him.

  If Fleming was surprised by this reply, she concealed it well. “Do you mean nothing new has been discovered since the killer’s letter appeared in the newspaper?”

  “I beg your pardon, Ms. Fleming, but your question was whether there was anything I could tell you.”

  “Ah.” The woman nodded knowingly, with a wink at the camera. “You mean, there are a number of aspects—developments—you’re not at liberty to share with the public.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Can you tell us, then, if you’re satisfied with progress in the case?”

  “I am rarely satisfied. We have, however, identified certain avenues of investigation.”

  Fleming was game—Coldmoon had to give her that—and seemed skilled in handling recalcitrant guests. “I’m sure that will ease the minds of our viewers. While I realize there is probably a lot you can’t tell us—” Fleming leaned in a little conspiratorially— “could you at least let us know if you’re close to catching this monster?”

  “Alas, that is something I can’t predict. However, there is one favor I’d like to ask you.”

  “Of course.”

  “Please stop referring to him as a monster.”

  Coldmoon heard Grove draw in his breath sharply.

  The woman’s smile froze on her face. “I’m sorry if you disagree with the characterization. Isn’t it true this person has brutally murdered three innocent women?”

  “That is true, yes.”

  “And if that isn’t enough, hasn’t he cut out their hearts and used them to decorate the graves of suicide victims—bringing even more grief to their families than they’ve suffered already?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then, Agent Pendergast, in what way is this, this creature not a monster?”

  “Monster has connotations of evil. Of taking pleasure in cruelty. Of a psychopathic lack of guilt or remorse.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And I don’t think that’s a correct characterization of Mister Brokenhearts at all. He has killed, without doubt—but not for the sake of killing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He took no pleasure in it. In fact, evidence indicates the reason he cut his victims’ throats was to ensure their deaths were as quick and painless as possible. Remorse, and not the lack of it, is precisely what these murders are about.”

  “I’m not sure our viewers are going to understand. Could you explain?”

  Pendergast rotated his gaze from the news anchor to the nearest camera. Still speaking, he rose from his chair.

  “In fact,” he said, “the very reason I’m here is to speak to Mister Brokenhearts. Face-to-face.”

  “Agent Pendergast—” Carey Fleming began, but Pendergast paid no heed. His attention was now focused intently on the camera.

  “Mister Brokenhearts, I know you’re there, watching and listening,” Pendergast said as he slowly walked toward the camera, its operator dollying back slightly as he approached. “I know you’re not far away—not far away at all.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Coldmoon heard Grove mutter under his breath. “What the heck is he doing?”

  Pendergast went on, a gentle, honeyed voice filling the studio. “You’re not a monster. You’re a person who has been harmed, perhaps even brutalized.”

  On a monitor, Coldmoon could see Pendergast approaching the camera until his head and shoulders filled the frame. “I know you’ve had a terrible life; that you’ve been hurt; that you haven’t had the guidance we all need to tell right from wrong.”

  Coldmoon, fixated, saw Fleming motioning
frantically to the producer while the camera was locked on Pendergast’s close-up. This is live, she was mouthing with an exaggerated chopping motion; this is live. But the producer gestured for the cameras to keep rolling. Coldmoon realized that this was great footage, and the producer obviously knew it.

  “I can’t believe they’re airing this,” Grove whispered in dismay. “And live, no less!”

  Pendergast focused intently on the lens as the camera operator tightened the shot. “It’s because you never had that kind of guidance that I’m reaching out to you now. While it’s my job to stop you, I want you to know one thing: I’m not your enemy. I want to help you. You’re intelligent; when I tell you that what you are doing is profoundly wrong, I believe you will listen. I understand your need to atone. But you have to find another way. Trust me, listen to me: you must find another way.”

  Pendergast paused. The producer spoke into his radio, gesturing sharply to keep the cameras on Pendergast and not cut away to Fleming, who had stopped her gesturing and was now staring at Pendergast, realizing the agent had taken over her set. It amazed Coldmoon how utterly mesmerizing his partner had suddenly become. The man surely had Miami in thrall.

  “You have the power, to act or not act. Use that power. Ponder what I’ve said. Write to me, talk to me, if I can help. But above all, remember: you have to find another way.”

  Pendergast gave the camera a lingering glance. Then he stepped back and turned away. As he did so, the cameras panned back and the producer pointed at Fleming.

  She recovered instantly, putting on a serious face, as if the entire episode had been scripted. “And that, ladies and gentlemen, was Special Agent Pendergast, speaking directly to the serial killer calling himself Mister Brokenhearts. Let us hope and pray he is watching.”

  The producer cut to a commercial and could hardly contain his expression of glee, while Coldmoon saw Carey Fleming give Pendergast a baleful glare as he continued to walk off the set. As she did so, Coldmoon felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw, without surprise, that it was ADC Pickett.