When the corpse was ready, the door opened and Fauchet stepped in.
“Gentlemen,” she said, with a curt nod. “Do we remember the rules?”
“Indeed, Dr. Fauchet,” said Pendergast, with a courteous bow.
“Then I’ll begin.”
She went into a lengthy and precise description of the body, having the dieners turn it over and back again. This completed, she had barely started the Y-incision when the door opened and Moberly entered, all gowned up, trailed once again by the smell of Old Spice.
“Ah, Charlotte,” he said. “I’m glad to see I’m just in time!” He moved in, then turned to Pendergast and Coldmoon. “There was some sort of communication problem—word of the autopsy only reached my office a few minutes ago. I called ADC Pickett and he says he never authorized it. Who did?”
“I have that honor,” Pendergast said coolly.
“Well, it seems you’re at odds with your superior, Agent Pendergast, but that’s none of my affair. What I’m concerned about is that, in an important case like this, the chief of pathology needs to be involved. In fact, I don’t understand what Charlotte is doing here.”
“I specifically asked her to conduct the autopsy,” said Pendergast.
“And who gave you the authority to make a decision like that? We can’t leave any room for inexperience or mistakes.” He turned toward one of the dieners, simultaneously pointing at the video camera. “I’m taking over. Are we running?”
“Yes, Dr. Moberly.”
“Good. Charlotte, you may remain and watch. It’ll be a valuable learning experience for you.”
A series of expressions, none of them happy, passed across Fauchet’s face as she pulled down her mask. She opened her mouth to speak, evidently thought better of it, then stepped back and replaced the mask.
“The snips, please.”
A diener handed the snips to the chief.
“Excuse me, Dr. Moberly?” Pendergast said in a low voice.
Unexpectedly, Coldmoon felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. There was that same something in Pendergast’s tone he had heard before—only worse.
“Yes, Agent Pendergast?” Moberly spoke over his shoulder.
“Put the instruments down, turn around, and look at me.”
The command was made in a low, honeyed voice, but somehow it did not sound the slightest bit pleasant.
Moberly straightened up and turned, his face uncomprehending. “I beg your pardon?”
“Dr. Fauchet will do the autopsy. You are welcome to stay and watch, and perhaps you will find it a valuable learning experience.”
Moberly stared a moment longer, his face darkening as he took in the affront. “What do you mean by speaking to me that way?”
Pendergast fixed his glittering silver eyes on the chief of pathology. “I asked Dr. Fauchet to conduct this medicolegal autopsy, and conduct it she will.”
“This is outrageous,” Moberly said, his voice rising. “How dare you give orders in my own pathology department?”
A pause. Then Pendergast asked: “Dr. Moberly, are you sure you want me to answer that question?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he said angrily. “Is this some sort of threat? You know, Pickett warned me about you. Who do you think you are?”
“I’m an FBI agent with access to excellent resources.”
“I don’t give a damn about that. Remove yourself from my morgue.”
“I have used those resources to look into your past. It is—what is that term?—checkered.”
He paused. Moberly stared at him, as if frozen.
“For example, your 2008 autopsy of sixteen-year-old Ana Gutierrez, in which you determined she died of a blood infection, was overturned by a court-ordered second autopsy, which showed she had been the victim of rape and strangulation. Or your 2010 autopsy of eight-month-old Gretchen Worley, in which you concluded she died of shaken baby syndrome, when—”
“That’s enough,” said Moberly, red-faced. “Every pathologist makes mistakes.”
“Do they?” Pendergast said, his smooth voice continuing. “I note from your Miami personnel file that, on your application for chief forensic pathologist, you did not disclose that you had been fired in Indianapolis in 1993.”
A silence.
“Fired, I might add, after being arrested and convicted of drunken driving…on your way to work.”
The silence that followed was electric.
“There’s more, of course,” said Pendergast, ever so quietly. “Shall I go on?”
The unbearable silence continued for a moment. Then Moberly simply shook his head. Coldmoon, startled at this sudden turn of events, noticed the man’s face had lost all its color. The doctor’s eyes swiveled toward the upper corner of the room. Coldmoon followed the gaze to see a gleaming lens.
“Ah!” Pendergast cried. “The video camera! Good heavens, was what I just said captured on tape? How awkward. I imagine it will have to be officially investigated. In the meantime, Dr. Moberly, we’ve chatted long enough. I think you might want to leave, after all. Good morning to you.”
With trembling hands, Moberly slowly removed his mask and scrubs, dropped them in the bin, and shuffled out the door. The door hissed shut. The two dieners stood motionless, their mouths open. No one spoke.
Finally, Coldmoon, still stunned by the sudden reversal of Moberly’s fortunes, said: “I can’t believe how you just crushed that guy. I mean, you left him speechless.”
“When one detonates a nuclear bomb,” Pendergast said, “the shadows left behind on the walls are rarely able to protest.” He turned to Dr. Fauchet, who herself looked shell-shocked. “I regret disturbing your procedure with such drama. Please proceed.”
Fauchet took a long, deep breath, then without a word picked up the instruments and began to work.
26
ELISE BAXTER’S BODY was far better preserved than Agatha Flayley’s, and as such, the autopsy was far more bearable. Coldmoon endured it with his usual stoicism, glad he’d had nothing but camp coffee that morning. Fauchet proceeded with exceptional care, it seemed, with a steady stream of comments addressed to the video camera as she worked. Pendergast, for his part, remained silent. Ten o’clock came and still Fauchet worked on, slowly disassembling the body, removing the organs and putting them in containers. There were no surprises. Baxter gave every indication of being a suicide, like Flayley.
Shortly before eleven, Coldmoon felt the cell phone in his pocket vibrate. He pulled it out so quickly that coins spilled everywhere. Pickett. Fauchet had already warned them to not answer their phones in her presence, so he quickly ducked outside into the anteroom.
“Yeah?”
“I’ve been calling Pendergast’s phone,” said Pickett. “He’s not answering. I heard a while ago from the chief M.E., Moberly, that he’s exhumed the Baxter remains against my orders. I want to talk to both of you, now.”
“Pendergast’s still observing the autopsy.”
“Coldmoon? Did you not hear what I said?”
“I’ll go get him.”
“You do that.”
“Hold on.”
Coldmoon slipped back into the autopsy room. Fauchet was finishing up now, working on the head and shoulders, and Pendergast was watching carefully. Coldmoon signaled and he came over, frowning.
“Agent Pickett’s on the phone. He wants to talk to us.”
Pendergast almost looked like he was going to refuse, but then nodded. They slipped out into the anteroom, and Pendergast handed him the change he’d dropped on the autopsy room floor.
“Your thirty pieces of silver,” he said.
Coldmoon didn’t answer this. He put the phone on speaker.
“Agent Pendergast?” came Pickett’s voice. “Are you there?”
“Yes.”
“Agent Coldmoon?”
“Here, too.”
“Good, because you both need to hear this. SA Pendergast, I understand you authorized the exh
umation of Baxter’s remains, obtained a warrant, and are conducting an autopsy.”
“Correct.”
“So instead of pursuing a valuable line of inquiry such as the call-girl murder—which took place right across the street from your hotel, I understand—you’ve gone ahead with this autopsy contrary to my orders. My direct orders.”
“I did.”
A pause. “I just heard from the Baxter family lawyer. You did the exhumation over their objections. They’re going to sue.”
“That is unfortunate.”
“Is that all you can say? ‘Unfortunate’?”
“Since this is a federal law enforcement matter, their permission was not required.”
“I know that. But this is the real world, and a lawsuit like this doesn’t look good. So—has the autopsy revealed any vital new evidence?” There was a heavy dose of sarcasm in the voice.
Nobody answered.
“Agent Coldmoon?”
“No, sir, it didn’t,” said Coldmoon.
“Is it completed?”
“Just about.”
“I see. Agent Pendergast, I told you on more than one occasion that this would be a waste of time, and you still disobeyed my orders. Your insubordination has done nothing but generate a lawsuit and a public relations problem.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Pendergast replied.
“I am, too. Because you must certainly understand that such behavior by a federal officer is unacceptable. You’re aware that the FBI views insubordination in the strongest negative light. I’m taking you off the case. I’ve already set the wheels in motion. Coldmoon’s going to be the new lead agent, with three junior agents, two from Miami and another from New York. And as it turns out, Agent Pendergast, we have an opening in the Salt Lake City Field Office.”
Silence.
“Let me emphasize this is not a demotion or a punishment. It’s not even a matter for OPR. The Salt Lake Field Office covers all of Utah, Idaho, and Montana. It will be a major responsibility, equal to what you’re doing here.”
Pickett paused. The silence continued.
“The bottom line, Agent Pendergast, is that your sense of ethics conflicts with mine. I simply can’t manage an office with a freelancer such as yourself doing whatever the hell you please, with no regard for the chain of command. Do you understand?”
“I do.”
“Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
“No.”
“Agent Coldmoon, if you have any thoughts on what I’ve just said, let’s hear them.”
Coldmoon was surprised at Pendergast’s mild acquiescence. If it was, in fact, mild: what was that crack a minute before about the thirty pieces of silver? But as he’d been listening to this triumphant tirade of Pickett’s, Coldmoon was even more surprised to find that something was happening to him. He was beginning to grow angry: at himself, for getting maneuvered into this situation; at Pendergast, for his secretive and unorthodox methods; but most of all at Pickett—for encouraging him to violate one of the FBI’s most sacred codes…that of loyalty to your partner. It was not right. Pressure or no pressure, he should never have agreed to Pickett’s agenda, and he could only blame himself for that. But Pickett should never have put him in the position in the first place.
“I do have a thought,” Coldmoon said.
“I’m listening.”
“My thought is that I’m 100 percent behind my partner. You take him off the case, you take me off.”
“What? Have you lost your mind?”
“I think what I just said was both clear and logical.”
“Well, I’ll be…” There was a moment of silence before Pickett’s voice came rasping out again through the cell phone speaker. “You’ve disagreed with Pendergast’s entire investigative approach. You said he was wasting your time on irrelevant tangents. You got burned going to Maine, Ithaca was a bust, and now you’re burned a third time with this useless autopsy. And yet here you are, sticking up for him with a misplaced sense of loyalty. Well, if that’s how you want it, I’ll transfer the both of you to Salt Lake City. This is a high-profile case and I’ll have no trouble finding top-notch agents to take it over. Is that really how you want it?”
“Yes, sir, that’s really how I want it.”
“So be it. I’m flying down to make things official.” The phone went dead.
Coldmoon turned and found Pendergast’s eyes on him. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I did. I deserved it. I agreed to spy on my partner—I guess you probably figured out that’s what’s been going on.”
“I suspected it from the start.”
Coldmoon gave a mirthless laugh. “Of course you did.”
“You’re a good man, Agent Coldmoon.”
“Hell, Salt Lake City won’t be so bad. I’ve always liked the West. Florida is too flat. And too green.”
After a silent moment, Pendergast indicated the autopsy room door. “We might as well hear Dr. Fauchet’s conclusions before we pack our proverbial bags.”
They filed into the room just as Fauchet turned and put down her instruments. “Gentlemen, I’d like to show you something. Please come this way.”
Coldmoon and Pendergast stood on either side of the gurney as Fauchet adjusted the overhead light to illuminate the frontal portion of the neck.
“I’ll try to describe this in layman’s terms,” she said. “But first, let me point out that—as with the corpse of Ms. Flayley—the initial autopsy this body received was perfunctory, at best. Now, bearing that in mind: do you see these marks here, here, and here?”
She pointed to several very faint bruises.
“These were caused by ligature strangulation—according to the coroner’s report, a knotted bedsheet, which she allegedly used to hang herself from a curtain rod. In a hanging like this, these bruises would be expected. Do you follow me so far?”
Coldmoon nodded.
“Now, here—” she indicated a horseshoe-shaped bone she had exposed in the upper neck— “is the hyoid. This bone was fractured in the Flayley corpse, as you know. In that case it was fractured in the middle, what we call the body of the bone—as it is here. Again, typical of a self-hanging.” She paused. “In addition, there are fractures in the two greater horns, here and here, which form the wings of the hyoid.”
She rolled a portable magnifying glass on a stand into place. “You can see better with this.”
Coldmoon looked, then Pendergast did the same.
“Both horns are fractured in a fairly symmetrical fashion.” She pushed the stand away. “This type of double fracture cannot be caused by ligature strangulation. It’s typically caused by what we call a push-choke. That is, two hands are wrapped around the upper larynx and great pressure is brought to bear with the thumbs, a squeeze combined with a push or shake. It takes a person with powerful hands to do this—almost invariably a man. Right-handed in this case, judging by the differing degree of trauma to the two wings. Such choking cannot be self-administered.”
“So you’re saying—” Coldmoon began, then fell silent.
“I’m saying the victim did not die of a ligature strangulation. She died of a choke hold. The ligature strangulation was done immediately after death, when bruising was still possible, as a way of covering up the push-choke and making the death appear a suicide.” She paused. “But this was not a suicide. This person was most definitely the victim of a homicide.”
27
ROGER SMITHBACK PAUSED to blow his nose on a real estate gazetteer, crumple it into a ball of newsprint, and then toss it in the trash before entering Bronner Psychiatric Group PA, a low white-brick building on Northwest Fifteenth Avenue. The pollen season—actually, not a season but a year-round threat in Florida—was in full swing and his allergies were acting up as usual.
He took a moment to breathe deeply and practice mindfulness, centering himself for what was to come. He wasn’t an investigative reporter, but the last few days he’d started wond
ering if maybe he should switch his focus: he seemed to have the nose of a good one. The nose—presently runny—had brought him here, for example.
With a pair of binoculars it had been easy to get the names and dates of the decedents off the two roped-off graves where Mister Brokenhearts had left his grisly offerings—Baxter and Flayley. Other journalists, of course, had done the same thing and now the names were publicly known. Same with yesterday’s recipient, Mary Adler, the one whose ashes were kept in a columbarium.
But he’d taken it further than the rest of his half-assed journalistic brethren. He’d retrieved Baxter’s and Flayley’s obituaries from his paper’s digital morgue—he hadn’t been able to find Adler’s—and learned they were both suicides. And then he’d dug up their former addresses from old phone books and figured out that—though they’d died out of state—they’d lived in Miami, just a few miles from each other. From there he was able to fit together bits and pieces of their personal histories.
No doubt Miami PD and Pendergast had trod the same path. But then he’d had a stroke of genius. He flushed even now, thinking about his amazing cleverness. Here were suicides of two young women full of promise. He wondered: Did either of them go to a shrink? And if so, which ones, and could he prize any information from them?
Then it got even better. As he went through archived web pages, he was able to pull up sixteen psychiatrist and psychotherapist offices within a reasonable radius of each residence. He cleared his throat, worked up a shtick, and began making calls, using a variety of ruses, including posing as a long-bereaved brother seeking closure on his sister’s inexplicable suicide. He knew that he wasn’t going to pry any medical records out of these clinics over the phone, but he might be able to learn if anyone had at least treated a patient named Baxter or Flayley.
And this was where he hit pay dirt. Baxter and Flayley had indeed both seen shrinks—the same one. A guy named Peterson Bronner. Now, this was an incredible connection—yet one so improbable he doubted whether the police or even Pendergast had made it. Or had they, and they were just keeping it secret? Either way, it didn’t matter—he had the scoop.
Verses for the Dead Page 16
