“That’s probably true. But then, Bill wasn’t one to let facts stand in the way of a good story.”
“Of what facts, in particular, are you unsure?”
Smithback regarded the FBI agent through slightly narrowed eyes. He hadn’t seen Pendergast in maybe two weeks. What was he up to? “Are you kidding? I mean, where do I start? When is Brokenhearts going to explain just what the hell he was doing?”
“He’s already done all the explaining we can hope for. He’s confessed to having committed the three recent murders in Miami, as well as being involved in the old murder/suicides. He killed Commander Grove, too.”
“Why? What did Grove do to him?” He paused, thinking. “Did Grove... have something to do with his mother’s death?”
More silence.
“Wait, did Grove kill his mother, Lydia, twelve years ago? Right before the father returned from a tour of duty?”
Pendergast only smiled.
“I get it. The father was going to mess up their little love nest. Probably an argument escalated. Right?”
“You could call it a reasonable assumption.”
“Vance intuited that his wife’s death was murder, made to look like suicide. But the cops didn’t buy it. Grove must have done all he could to keep a lid on the investigation.”
“Keep going.”
“So: why then did Ronald’s father stage all these killings of women, dressed up like suicides?”
“Why, indeed? What did the murders have in common?”
“They were all killed the same way as Lydia Vance — murder made to look like suicide by hanging with a knotted cord.”
“What else?”
“They all came from Florida.”
Pendergast folded his arms and fixed Smithback with pale eyes, waiting.
“One thing the cops did say was that John Vance’s first tour in the Gulf was cut short by a TBI from a roadside bomb. That’s why he was an MP his second tour. When he came home and found his wife dead, and the cops ignored him, he went nuts. He started killing Miami women in other parts of the country, exactly the way his wife was killed. A murderous road trip, with his kid riding shotgun.”
A slow nod. “To what purpose?”
Smithback scratched one cheek thoughtfully. “Maybe... maybe he was planning to eventually confess what he’d done and humiliate the Miami PD by exposing their incompetence. But then why drive all over the damn place? Why not stage the killings here in Florida?”
“Give the man some credit. He may have felt a perverse, vengeful need to show up the Miami police, but he didn’t want to make it too easy — so easy that, say, he might get caught before he was finished.”
“That makes sense. Killing as catharsis. And when he was satisfied, he’d have found some suitably gratifying way to drag the Miami PD through the mud for not seeing the pattern. Except his plans were cut short by the fatal car accident.”
“Not bad. That might get you a C in journalism class. But you aren’t answering the questions you raise in your own article: what was the dynamic between father and son?”
Smithback paused. “The cops said the son, Mister Brokenhearts, confessed to the last murder, the one in Ithaca off the bridge. Apparently, his father had told him it was time to step up, be a man.”
“Do you think he wanted to do that?”
A longer pause. “No.”
“So follow that thread to its end. Why did the murders stop?”
“I just said. Because of the car crash a week later.”
Pendergast gave him that silvery look again.
“Wait a minute. You don’t think — you’re not saying that crash was deliberate? That Ronald couldn’t take it anymore and wanted it to stop... and tried to kill the two of them himself? But he wasn’t even old enough to drive!”
Pendergast said nothing.
“It wouldn’t matter — he was old enough to reach over and grab the wheel at the right moment.” Smithback was thinking fast now. “His dad was killed in the crash... but he wasn’t. Bad enough that his mother had been murdered. He hadn’t wanted to kill those innocent women. But he was young. Young, confused, and mentally ill. And he was injured in the crash — badly injured.”
“Head trauma. On a related note, you might find his father’s obituary quite enlightening. Not the one that ran in the Scranton newspaper, but the one from the Greater Pittston Eagle, a locale closer to the actual crash. It’s not so much an obituary, really, as an article covering the accident. It’s quite graphic in its attention to detail. John Vance died as a result of being impaled on the steering column. Apparently, the man’s rib cage was crushed and the steering assembly pierced his heart. The son was trapped in the mangled car with his dead father for over forty minutes until he was freed by the Jaws of Life.”
“Oh God,” Smithback said. He was shocked... but still thinking fast. “So he would have been hospitalized — hospitalized and institutionalized — until he reached adulthood. The doctors probably considered his ravings, if there were any, a side effect of TBI. But all that time he was actually tortured by what he’d done. Hence the need to atone. Right?”
“Close enough. You published his letter yourself: Their deaths cry out for justice. Hers most of all. She was my reason for life. I must atone. I’d say you just raised your grade to a B, Mr. Smithback.”
Smithback barely heard him. “And all these years, Grove thought he’d gotten away with the murder of his lover. He didn’t realize John Vance, her husband, had gone on a killing spree afterward. They were all recorded as suicides. How would Grove know? Now, coasting to retirement as a police liaison or whatever, he wouldn’t have gotten concerned about a bunch of new murders. Until he realized the new killings were linked to the old ones — which, because they imitated his killing of Lydia Vance, might in turn lead to her... and from there to him.”
The agent gave a slow nod of affirmation.
“This is pure gold. Can I quote you — on the record?”
“Quote what, exactly? I’ve only asked questions.”
“I need a source.”
“In that case, you’ll have to content yourself with calling it ‘a deep background source in law enforcement.’”
“I can live with that.” Smithback began turning toward his keyboard, then paused. “But why would Brokenhearts think killing more people could help atone for the old murders?”
“Only Ronald Vance can answer that — assuming even he knows the answer. Who can guess what went on in that damaged, tormented mind during these ten years of hospitalization? But one thing is clear: he didn’t want his recent victims to suffer more than necessary. Hence the quick killing cuts with a sharp knife. His only interest was in retrieving the... gifts.”
“Right.” Smithback returned his fingers to the keyboard, then stopped once again. “Um, please don’t take this the wrong way, but — why are you helping me?”
Pendergast adjusted the already perfect cuffs of his shirt. “I’m from New Orleans, and we tend to be a superstitious lot. Your brother Bill was a friend of mine. I have a strong sense that — if I didn’t help you with this story — his shade might disturb my peace.”
“Huh. You’re probably right.” And Smithback began typing quickly, getting it all down. After a minute, the typing slowed. “Hey. One other thing. That doesn’t explain how Commander Grove managed to lure you two out into—”
But when he turned around, all he saw was the half-empty newsroom, his fellow workers hunched over their own screens. It was as if Pendergast had never been there at all.