“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.”
“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.”