Verses for the Dead

by Douglas Preston

  So who was this Bronner, and what did he know about Baxter and Flayley? Smithback had a vague idea—or maybe it was a hope—that Bronner himself might be involved in nefarious doings. Mind working feverishly, he had posited a number of scenarios: Baxter and Flayley had discovered Bronner was cheating Medicare, or he was a cash-hungry Dr. Feelgood, or he was doing something else of an illegal nature…and he had killed them to cover it up. Who better than a shrink to know exactly how to stage a suicide? Or maybe Mister Brokenhearts himself had been—or still was—a patient of Bronner’s? Christ, maybe Bronner was Brokenhearts, apologizing for their suicides, which would be an obvious treatment failure for a psychiatrist…!

  Smithback took another deep breath and tried to rein in his imagination. First, he had to meet this Dr. Bronner.

  Smoothing down his unruly hair, he put on the hangdog look that he imagined a severely depressed person might exhibit and pushed open the glass door to Bronner Psychiatric Group PA. He shuffled up to the receptionist. A plump man in his thirties greeted him cheerfully, asked his name, then inquired as to whether he had an appointment.

  “Um, I don’t,” Smithback said in a monotone. “I’m—” He stifled a sob. “I’ve tried everything. I’ve got no hope left. I just want to end it all. I need to see Dr. Bronner right away—it’s an emergency.”

  The receptionist seemed flustered, especially for someone working in a shrink’s office. “I’m so sorry, but we don’t handle walk-ins. You need to go to an emergency room.” He picked up the phone. “Here, I’ll dial nine-one-one and get you an ambulance.”

  “Wait! No. I won’t go. I want to see Dr. Bronner and no one else! He helped my sister years ago—she said he worked miracles. I won’t see anyone but him!” He raised his voice, hoping to become enough of a nuisance to flush out the doctor.

  The receptionist, now thoroughly alarmed, said, “I’ll get you a nurse right away.” He pressed a button.

  “I want the doctor!” Smithback wailed. This was a little embarrassing—his brother Bill had always enjoyed staging shows like this, but then he was an extrovert. Roger wasn’t nearly as good at it himself.

  A nurse rushed out into the reception area: a gaunt older woman with the demeanor of a battle-ax.

  “I need to see Dr. Bronner!” Smithback cried. “Don’t you understand? I’m desperate!”

  The woman fixed him with a stern but compassionate look. “What is your name, sir?”

  “Smithback. Ro…Robert Smithback.”

  The nurse nodded briskly. “Dr. Bronner is retired. I will bring you in to see Dr. Shadid.”

  Smithback hadn’t considered the possibility Bronner was retired. The clinic still bore his name. He stared, stupefied, trying to think what to do next.

  “Mr. Smithback? Please come with me.”

  If Bronner was retired, he didn’t need to go through all this rigmarole. He’d better get the hell out. “Um, you know what? I’m feeling much better.”

  Apparently, this was a bad sign, because her voice immediately softened. “I think you should see the doctor right away. Really I do.”

  Oh God. “No, no. I’m good!” He turned and fled the office, the nurse’s voice calling him back as he hurried out the door and sprinted across the parking lot to his car.

  Inside the car, he glanced back. No one was following him. Thank God. He pulled out his phone and—using his newspaper’s information gateway—quickly located a Dr. Peterson Bronner. But he lived way the hell down in Key Largo, and it was already late in the day—he would hit murderous traffic. He would go tomorrow morning and beard the doc in his den. If he was retired, that probably made him too old to be the Brokenhearts killer. Anyway, Smithback was pretty sure a kindly old shrink would be no match for him. He’d learn all there was to learn—and then just maybe publish the scoop of his career.

  28

  ASSISTANT DIRECTOR IN Charge Walter Pickett stepped out of the elevator and into the humid warmth of the rooftop bar. Given the overall footprint of the ultra-luxe 1 Hotel, he’d expected this space to be large, noisy, and crowded with tourists. He was mistaken: the restaurant had closed for the night; the candlelit tables lined up across from the bar were only sparsely occupied; and beyond the low glass barrier at the building’s edge the lights of Miami Beach, and the dark line of the Atlantic, spread out below.

  Beyond the bar was a pool, lit, as was the rest of the roof, in muted blues. It was empty and surrounded by luxuriously padded deck chairs with individual tables and umbrellas. Here and there, discreetly placed tiki lights radiated a yellow-orange glow. Almost all of the deck chairs were unoccupied. Pickett walked three-quarters of the way around the pool before he came upon Pendergast.

  The agent was relaxing, the chair placed in a reclining position. Pickett—a clotheshorse as far as his budget allowed—noticed that Pendergast had swapped out the black suit for one of pure white linen, and instead of the handmade English shoes he wore a pair of Italian slip-ons. His pale hair, and the very dark glasses he wore despite the late hour, seemed to reflect the blue-and-orange light coming from the pool and the lamps.

  Pendergast saw him coming, put down a tiny glass of espresso, and sat up. “Sir,” he said in an utterly neutral voice.

  Pickett raised a hand, indicating that Pendergast should stay as he was. He, meanwhile, looked around, then perched on the edge of the adjoining deck chair.

  Since he’d abruptly terminated the phone call with Coldmoon that morning, there had been no communication between Pickett and Pendergast. Pickett, of course, knew what had transpired after the call. And on the flight down, he’d done some thinking. A great deal of thinking.

  “Had to catch a later flight,” Pickett said by way of explanation.

  “I was happy to wait up. Would you care for coffee—or a digestif?”

  Pickett shook his head and Pendergast waved off the approaching waiter. “I presume you’ve brought my transfer orders.”

  Pickett patted his jacket pocket. “Coldmoon’s, too.”

  “I must confess I’ve never been to Salt Lake City. I can’t imagine how I’ve managed to miss it all these years.”

  Pickett didn’t reply.

  Pendergast took a sip of espresso. “May I see them? I assume they include the names of the agents who’ll be replacing us. No doubt you’ll want us to brief them.” He held out his hand.

  “In a moment,” Pickett said. “I’d like to ask you a hypothetical question.”

  “My favorite kind.”

  “As you know, you’re now off the case. But hypothetically: if I were to keep you on, what would your next move be?”

  Pendergast appeared to consider this. “I would look into the, ah, client list of Miss Carpenter. She seems to have been a freelance escort of the most enterprising caliber—I’m sure such a clever woman would have learned all kinds of secrets during her career.”

  “The Miami PD is already doing that—and you know it.”

  A brief pause. “Then I’d continue looking for commonalities among the three murdered women. All were killed at night, in high-traffic areas. Why would the killer take such chances? The care taken in the killings and the methodical nature of the graveside gifts would seem to place the killer at the far end of the organized-killer bell curve. That seems like fruitful ground for—what is the term?—traction.”

  Pickett stirred impatiently. “Goddamn it, Pendergast. I’m not a fool, so stop treating me like one. Those are all obvious lines of inquiry. I don’t want to hear bullshit. I want to hear what you would look into—if you were given the chance.”

  The next pause was much longer. Then Pendergast took off his dark glasses, folded them, and slipped them into the pocket of his jacket. Now it was his pale eyes that reflected the pool. “Very well,” he said. “It has always been my conviction that the old suicides, and the new murders, are fundamentally connected—beyond the obvious leaving of the gifts. Possibly even historically connected. The killer, despite his youth, may have a personal connection
with these past suicides. At least one of which, we now know, has turned out to be a homicide. For these reasons I would put my main effort into investigating those earlier deaths. That’s how you’re most likely to track down this person—or persons.”

  Pickett frowned. “But the old suicides appear to have nothing in common, either—except that they were all from Miami.”

  “I repeat: Elise Baxter did not kill herself. She was murdered. A much closer look at the other two presumed suicides is in order.”

  Pickett sighed in exasperation. “That’s assuming this assistant M.E. is correct—remember, the chief examiner was only partially involved in the autopsy.”

  “I have every reason to think she was correct. Further, I suspect that Flayley and Adler were also homicides.”

  “Flayley was just exhumed and autopsied, at your insistence—and the assistant M.E., whose opinion you seem so partial to, declared her death a suicide!”

  “I’m aware of that. There is some kind of a slowdown in getting the autopsy records on Mary Adler, which, when available, might offer corroborating evidence. But I’m sure we’re not here just to bandy words: you asked me what aspect of the case I would ‘look into,’ and I answered the question.” Pendergast took another sip of his espresso. “So much for hypotheticals. What’s more, this is fruitless speculation, as I am on my way to the Beehive State. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to peruse my transfer orders.”

  Pickett sat quite still for perhaps sixty seconds. Then, slowly, he reached into his jacket and withdrew an envelope. Pendergast reached for it.

  Grasping the envelope with both hands, Pickett tore it in two. Then he replaced the pieces in his jacket pocket.

  “You have my permission to proceed along the lines you’ve just outlined,” he said.

  Pendergast’s only reaction was the slight raising of one eyebrow. Sitting back, he withdrew his hand.

  “Now I’d like you to listen to me very carefully, Special Agent Pendergast,” Pickett said, clasping his hands. “I’ve gotten where I am because I believe in the system and its rules. I also have a good understanding of the psychology of motivation and reward. But I’m not so blinded by ego as to believe I can’t still learn a thing or two. You’re an iconoclast—and you enjoy being one. Your method of operating violates just about every principle I hold true, save for one—and that is arithmetic. You get results. Like pursuing this Baxter autopsy, when everyone thought it was a dead end.”

  Instead of responding, Pendergast simply finished his espresso.

  “But getting results doesn’t change the fact that your methods are unusual. With unconventional methods, there’s no backstop against failure. What I mean is, those of us who follow the rules can feel secure even if we screw up. But if you break the rules, failure is magnified. And so here’s what’s going to happen. You and Coldmoon are going to stay here and finish this case—and do it your way. Naturally, I want to be kept informed of important advances. If you need help, let me know. Otherwise, I don’t want to know about your going off piste. Keep things on the down low…and get results. I’ll give you space to work, in exchange for one thing: if this case goes down in flames because of your methods, you’re going to take the full rap. Not Coldmoon. Not me. And sure as hell not the New York Field Office. Make no mistake—I will hang you out to dry.” He paused. “Deal?”

  Pendergast gave a curt nod.

  Pickett went on. “Another thing. No flying solo. This is a massive, sprawling case and you’re going to need backup. You’ve met Commander Grove. He’s there to get you whatever you need from Miami PD. This is a police department with some of the best resources in the country. They can get you the files and case data, they can throw a hundred cops at any problem you want solved, they can do surveillance, they can knock on doors, they can interview everyone on an entire city block if need be. You don’t have to keep Grove in the loop, necessarily—but tell him what you need and he’ll get it done.”

  “He seems a competent enough individual,” Pendergast said.

  “He’s got a damn good reputation. And don’t discount him because of the administrative position—he did more than his share of working the streets back in the day.” There was a pause. “Are we clear, Agent Pendergast?”

  “Completely, sir.”

  “Just remember: if things go south, it’s on you—and you alone.”

  “That is how I always prefer it,” said Pendergast.

  Pickett held out a hand; Pendergast grasped it briefly; then Pickett rose, turned, and—navigating the perimeter of the shimmering blue pool—disappeared into the darkness of the rooftop bar.

  29

  CHARLOTTE FAUCHET LAY in bed at four o’clock in the morning, staring at the faint red glow on the ceiling cast by her digital alarm clock. A nightmare had woken her at two—she had been dissecting a cadaver, and the knife kept slipping until at last the cadaver sat up and berated her for incompetence. She had lain awake ever since, uneasy about the Flayley autopsy.

  This wasn’t like her—having nightmares, feeling uneasy. Thanks to that dirtbag of a boss Moberly, she’d developed a pretty thick skin. What Agent Pendergast—who seemed so nice—had done to the man was terrifying…yet perversely karmic. He seemed like the kind of avenging angel who would make an unshakable friend—or an implacable enemy.

  Her mind wandered back to the dream. Clearly, the Baxter autopsy had shaken her confidence. She’d confirmed it was a homicide. But was she right? And what about Flayley—had she examined her hyoid bone thoroughly enough? As she reflected on that moment—the appearance of Moberly, the way he’d pushed her aside, his horrid slashing at the corpse’s neck—she realized it had rattled her and, perhaps, broken her concentration. When she finished up the examination of the hyoid bone, she was flustered and hadn’t given it her utmost attention. She might have missed something.

  At four thirty, giving up on sleep, she finally got up, took a shower, downed a mug of coffee, got in her car, and headed to the morgue. The night was still soft: times like these were one of the reasons she was able to endure Miami, despite its glitter, traffic, crowds, and crime.

  The morgue was quiet and shadowy as she entered, and when she turned on the lights she was briefly dazzled. Working quickly, she slid the cadaver out of its drawer and wheeled it into the operating theater. She mentally went through the forensic checklist. When she was sure all was ready, she brought the A/V system to life, explaining out loud what she was doing and why.

  She wheeled the big stereo zoom microscope over the neck and started a new examination of the hyoid bone. The “body” of the bone, the center part, was clearly fractured—she had noted this in her original autopsy—either by Flayley’s struggle at the end of the rope or by the short fall from the bridge. Nothing abnormal there. Now she turned her attention to the horns of the hyoid. The hyoid was one of the most unusual bones in the body, in that it didn’t articulate with any others—it essentially floated between muscles and ligaments, providing an attachment for the tongue, the floor of the mouth, the epiglottis, and the pharynx. It was in the shape of a horseshoe, with a lesser and greater horn on each side. In Baxter, the horns had been symmetrically fractured by a push-choke, the right more than the left, suggesting that a right-handed person had wrapped both his hands around the neck and squeezed, the right thumb exerting the greater pressure. But here, the push-choke—assuming one occurred—had been too weak to fracture the bone. What she really should have done was order up an MRI, but that would have taken a lot of paperwork and time, not to mention raised a lot of questions.

  She upped the magnification and started with the right horn, carefully removing the tiniest bits of tissue. She could see where Moberly’s careless cutting had left grooves. Gently, scraping and brushing, she got the tip of the greater horn exposed and worked backward toward the lesser. It was a painstaking process, but by the time she reached the base of the horn she had found nothing. This was the bone that would have been broken by the killer; was it
worth doing the same to the left horn?

  She sighed, then proceeded. She couldn’t feel secure until she had done everything she could.

  About two-thirds of the way down the left horn, she stopped. Was that something? She upped the magnification one stop further and then saw it: the faintest crack on the inside of the bone. It was a greenstick fracture in which the bone had bent rather than broken, but—in this case—with enough force to cause a faint stress fracture that ran longitudinally along the length of the bone rather than across it. It was extremely subtle, almost invisible—so faint as to be beyond the reach of an ordinary digital camera. An MRI, however, would bring it into sharp relief.

  She breathed out. Special Agent Pendergast had been right all along. He’d asked her to take a special look at the hyoid bone, and she had done so, seeing nothing. If Moberly hadn’t come in, she might eventually have seen this fracture. But Moberly had pushed her aside and she’d lost focus…Then she shook her head. She couldn’t blame Moberly: he might be a dick, but failing to identify the fracture was on her, and nobody else. She felt the blood going to her face at the thought of how she’d failed Agent Pendergast.

  She straightened up, scolded herself for the self-pity, and went back to work. She was a scientist, and emotion should play no role. She finished cleaning and exposing the left horn. After describing everything she saw for the benefit of the recording, she carefully supported and protected the exposed bone with cotton pads and a covering, packed the cadaver back up, and rolled it into its refrigerated niche. Then she sat down at her desk to fill out the paperwork for the MRI.

  It was strange how this homicide had not been as cleanly performed as Baxter’s. The push-choke was weaker and had not killed the victim, only rendering her semiconscious. She didn’t actually die until she was hung from the bridge, and a witness saw her dancing around a short while before finally succumbing. Odd, too, it was the left horn this time—not the right. Perhaps the killer was ambidextrous.