“Here’s my comment, you little shit!” Bronner balled up a massive fist and stepped forward. Even though Bronner had thirty years on the journalist, he was formidable, and Smithback, being a natural coward who’d always managed to talk his way out of dicey situations, skipped backward. “Just a moment, think about what you’re doing, about how this is going to look—”
Bronner rushed toward him with a grunt. Smithback ducked a heavy swing and turned, scampering out the front door, the doctor in pursuit. He raced for the fence, Bronner behind. He leapt up just as the doctor seized his foot. Smithback gave a heave, losing one slip-on, and tumbled down the other side. He sprinted to his car — one foot shoeless — clambered in, gunned the engine, and tore off with a spray of sand. The last he saw was Bronner shaking the gate, face black with rage.
You bastard, he thought, you can’t threaten the press like that and get away with it. He’d lost one of his shoes — a Vans Classic, sixty dollars a pair — and it didn’t seem likely Bronner would give it back.
He glanced at the time on the dashboard display. Ten thirty — still plenty of time to get in a story. “Hey, Siri,” he said as he drove, “look up Dr. Peterson Bronner.” And then, as an afterthought, he added: “criminal record.”
“Here’s what I found on the web,” the irritatingly pleasant voice replied. The first image that appeared on his phone’s screen was a mug shot of the doctor, holding a sign up to his chest and standing against a cinder-block wall.
31
The headquarters of the Miami Police Department was housed in a large, squat building that — with its tiers of smoked windows, angled up and out in cantilever style — reminded Coldmoon of an air traffic control tower. It was on Northwest Second Avenue, near the skyscrapers of downtown and not far from the city cemetery; he even recognized a few landmarks from their memorable dash to Agatha Flayley’s tomb.
And that wasn’t all he found memorable. Upon being picked up by Pendergast at his hotel, Coldmoon found his partner within a dented yellow cab whose interior odor, not to mention driver, were all too familiar. Pendergast, it seemed, had tracked down Axel and hired him as temporary chauffeur. “He knows the city,” Pendergast had explained as they’d shot westward over the MacArthur Causeway. “And he seems to enjoy this newfound freedom to drive without the usual constraints. I admire a man who takes pride in his work.”
Coldmoon — who was sick and tired of driving them around in the ludicrous Miami traffic — didn’t complain.
After a suitably terrifying ride, the cab pulled up beside the entrance of the Miami HQ with a squeal of poorly maintained brakes. A mob of reporters, journalists, and camerapeople at the main double doors fell back at the sound, and Pendergast got out, Coldmoon following. Axel — Coldmoon still had no idea what his last name was — showed no intention of moving, but instead placed a small black wallet with a gold shield on the dashboard.
“What did you give him?” Coldmoon asked.
“A mere bauble,” came the reply.
Sensing fresh meat, the crowd of reporters now closed back in on them. They pushed through, avoiding eye contact and ignoring shouted questions. One television journalist — a young woman with short blond hair, wide cheekbones, and an expensive-looking outfit — blocked Coldmoon’s way and danced to one side and the other as he tried to pass. He recognized her from flipping channels in his hotel room: she was the investigative reporter for a local news channel. Someone-or-other Fleming — he couldn’t remember her first name. Very attractive, but with eyes as bright as a rattlesnake’s.
“Excuse me, sir!” the woman said, thrusting forward a microphone labeled with a garish 6 as Pendergast paused to look back. “Sir! What can you tell me about the latest victim? Can you confirm a serial killer’s involved?”
Coldmoon removed his cap. “H’ahíya wóglaka ye,” he said. “Owákahnige šni.” And he stepped around her as tactfully as possible.
“What did you tell her?” Pendergast asked as they entered the building.
“Ms. Fleming? I said I couldn’t understand and asked her to speak more slowly.”
Pendergast clucked disapprovingly. “A lie is a lie, even in Lakota.”
“On the reservation the elders had a saying — the only person worse than a liar is a hypocrite.”
“My Cajun grandmother in New Orleans was fond of the same hoary proverb.”
Pendergast walked over to a large front desk and said something in low tones to a uniformed officer. The cop pointed toward a nearby elevator bank. They showed their IDs, signed in, bypassed the metal detector, and headed for the elevators.
“We’re going to what’s known as the war room,” said Pendergast. “It’s where the MPD keep their electronic toys. It gives them access to the most up-to-date real-time information available, along with links to medical and criminological databases. I’m preparing a little worksite of our own, in a less conspicuous area, but this office will do for an initial confabulation. That liaison fellow, Commander Grove, promised to meet us there, along with Lieutenant Sandoval.”
“You really think Pickett will live up to his promise and let us work without interference?”
“We haven’t been packed off to Salt Lake City, have we?” They exited the elevator and made their way down a cluttered hallway. Coldmoon looked at his watch: 3:00 PM exactly.
The war room lived up to its name, bristling with computers and a huge glossy blackboard on casters. Coldmoon looked around. Some of the fluorescent bulbs behind their frosted ceiling panels were burned out, and one was flickering. There was a battered drip coffeemaker on a table in the far corner, surrounded by stacks of paper cups and cans of powdered milk. He could tell just by looking that the half-full pot had been sitting for only a few hours. Too fresh. Despite the high-tech equipment, this felt a lot more familiar than the sleek FBI headquarters in Miramar, where they’d been given the psych profile by Dr. Mars. This place had a lived-in feel, a place where real police work was done, with scuff marks on the walls, a grumbling HVAC system, and no windows. Coldmoon relaxed.
The center of the room was taken up by a rectangular table. At one end sat Sandoval and Commander Grove. Sandoval’s face was studiously neutral, but the commander couldn’t quite conceal his look of interest, even eagerness. And why not — this was a spectacular investigation, one for the books.
“Gentlemen,” Pendergast said, nodding at each in turn. “Thanks to the work of Dr. Fauchet, we now know Flayley was subjected to the same kind of push-choke strangulation that killed Baxter. In short, these were homicides staged as suicides.” He turned to Sandoval. “Lieutenant, anything new to bring to our attention?”
Sandoval stroked an imaginary mustache as his impassive expression turned sour. “That damned newshound Smithback is really riling people up. First he digs up the Brokenhearts moniker, then just this morning he figures out that both Baxter and Flayley saw the same shrink.” He picked up his cell phone and began reading aloud from an online article:
While the police have declined to release the texts of the notes left on the graves, the grisly “gifts” themselves reveal a troubled person who, surprisingly, might not fit the mold of the classic psychopath — generally assumed to be without remorse or normal human feelings of compassion and empathy. One must ask: What do these “gifts” signify to the giver? Loss? Remorse? Repentance? Perhaps if the authorities would devote more time to looking into the psychology of Mister Brokenhearts, and asking themselves what terrible experiences must have happened to create an individual with such a warped perspective, they might be able to find him — without further loss of life.