“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.”