Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense (137 page)

Inside were two eight by ten black-and-white photographs, both of the same stone building, one shot from a few hundred feet away, one much closer. The photos were curled with water damage and had
DUPLICATE
stamped across the upper right. They were not official PPD photographs. The structure in the photograph appeared to be a farmhouse; the long shot revealed that it sat on a gently sloping hill, with a line of snow-covered trees in the background.

“Have you run across any other pictures of this house?” Jessica asked.

Nicci looked closely at the photographs. “No. Haven’t seen it.”

Jessica flipped one of the pictures over. On the back was a series of five numbers, the last two of which were obscured by water damage. The first three numbers appeared to be 195. A zip code, maybe? “Do you know where the 195 zip code is?” she asked.

“195,” Nicci said. “Berks County, maybe?”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“Whereabouts in Berks?”

“No idea.”

Nicci’s pager went off. She unclipped it, read the message. “It’s the boss,” she said. “You have your phone with you?”

“You don’t have a phone?”

“Don’t ask,” Nicci said. “I’ve lost three in the last six months. They’re gonna start docking me.”

“With me it’s pagers,” Jessica said.

“We’ll make a good team.”

Jessica handed Nicci her cell phone. Nicci stepped out of the storage locker to make the call.

Jessica glanced back at one of the photographs, the one showing a closer view of the farmhouse. She flipped it over. On the back were three letters, nothing else.

ADC.

What does that mean?
Jessica wondered.
Aid to Dependent Children? American Dental Council? Art Director’s Club?

Sometimes Jessica hated the way cops thought. She’d been guilty of it herself in the past, the abbreviated notes you wrote to yourself in a case file, with the intention of fleshing them out at a later date. Detectives’ notebooks always went into evidence, and the thought that a case might hang on something you wrote in a hurry at a red light while balancing a cheeseburger and a cup of coffee in the other hand was always a challenge.

But, when Walt Brigham had made these notes, he had no idea another detective would one day be reading and trying to make sense of them—a detective investigating his homicide.

Jessica flipped over the first photograph again. Just those five numbers. The numbers 195 followed by what might have been a 72 or a 78. Perhaps 18.

Did the farmhouse have something to do with Walt’s murder? It was dated a few days before his death.

Gee thanks, Walt,
Jessica thought.
You go and get yourself killed and you leave the investigating detectives a Sudoku puzzle to figure out.

195.

ADC.

Nicci stepped back in, handed Jessica her phone.

“That was the lab,” she said. “We struck out on Walt’s car.”

Square one, forensically speaking,
Jessica thought.

“But they told me to tell you that the lab ran some further tests on the blood found on your multiples,” Nicci added.

“What about it?”

“They said the blood is old.”

“Old?” Jessica asked. “What do you mean, old?”

“Old as in whoever it belonged to has probably been dead a long time.”

67

Roland wrestled with the devil. And while it was a daily occurrence for a man of faith such as himself, today the devil had him in a headlock.

He had looked at all the photos at the police station, hoping for a sign. He had seen so much evil in those eyes, so many blackened souls. All of them spoke to him of their deeds. None had spoken of Charlotte.

But it could not be coincidence. Charlotte had been found on the bank of the Wissahickon, posed as if she had been some doll in a story.

And now the river killings.

Roland knew that the police would eventually catch up with Charles and him. He had been blessed all these years, blessed with his stealth, his righteous heart, his endurance.

He would receive a sign. He was sure of it.

The good Lord knew that time was of the essence.

“
I’VE NEVER BEEN
able to go back down there.”

Elijah Paulson was telling the harrowing tale of the time he had been assaulted while walking home from the Reading Terminal Market.

“Maybe one day, with the Lord’s blessing, I will be able to. But not now,” Elijah Paulson said. “Not for a good long while.”

This day the victim’s group had only four participants. Sadie Pierce, as always. Old Elijah Paulson. A young woman named Bess Schrantz, a North Philly waitress whose sister had been brutally assaulted. And Sean. He sat outside the group, as he often did, listening. But this day there seemed to be something churning beneath his surface.

When Elijah Paulson sat down, Roland turned to Sean. Perhaps at last this was the day that Sean was ready to tell his story. A hush fell upon the room. Roland nodded. After a minute or so of fidgeting, Sean stood, began.

“My father left us when I was small. When I was growing up it was just my mother, my sister, and myself. My mother worked at a mill. We didn’t have a lot, but we got by. We had each other.”

The members of the group nodded. No one here was well off.

“One summer day we went to this small amusement park. My sister loved to feed the pigeons and the squirrels. She loved the water, the trees. She was gentle that way.”

As Roland listened, he could not bring himself to look at Charles.

“That afternoon she wandered off, and we couldn’t find her,” Sean continued. “We looked everywhere. Then it got dark. Later that night they found her in the woods. She … she had been killed.”

A murmur skirted the room. Words of sympathy, sorrow. Roland found that his hands were trembling.
Sean’s story was nearly his own.

“When did this happen, Brother Sean?” Roland asked.

After taking a moment to compose himself, Sean said, “This was in 1995.”

TWENTY MINUTES LATER
the meeting wrapped with a prayer and a blessing. The faithful filed out.

“Bless you,” Roland said to all of them at the door. “See you on Sunday.” The last person through was Sean. “Do you have a few moments, Brother Sean?”

“Sure, Pastor.”

Roland closed the door, stood in front of the young man. A few long moments later, he asked, “Do you know what an important day this has been for you?”

Sean nodded. It was clear that his emotions were not far from the surface. Roland took Sean in an embrace. Sean sobbed softly. When the tears ran their course, they broke the embrace. Charles crossed the room, handed Sean a box of tissues, retreated.

“Can you tell me more about what happened?” Roland asked.

Sean bowed his head for the moment. When he looked up, he glanced around the room and leaned forward, as if to share a secret. “We always knew who did it, but they never could find any evidence. The police, I mean.”

“I see.”

“Well, it was the sheriff ’s office that did the investigating. They said they never found enough evidence to arrest anyone.”

“Where are you from exactly?”

“It was near a little village called Odense.”

“Odense?” Roland asked. “Like the town in Denmark?”

Sean shrugged.

“Does this person still live there?” Roland asked. “The person you suspected?”

“Oh, yes,” Sean said. “I can give you the address. Or I can even show you, if you like.”

“That would be good,” Roland said.

Sean looked at his watch. “I have to work today,” he said. “But I can go tomorrow.”

Roland glanced at Charles. Charles left the room. “That will be fine.”

Roland walked Sean toward the door, his arm around the young man’s shoulders.

“Did I do the right thing in telling you, Pastor?” Sean asked.

“Oh my, yes,” Roland said, opening the door. “It was the right thing to do.” He held the young man in another deep embrace. He found that Sean was shaking. “I’ll take care of everything.”

“Okay,” Sean said. “Tomorrow then?”

“Yes,” Roland replied. “Tomorrow.”

68

In his dream they have no faces. In his dream they stand in front of him, statuary, statu
esque,
unmoving. In his dream he cannot see their eyes, but nevertheless knows they are looking at him, accusing him, demanding justice. Their silhouettes cascade into the fog, one after the other, a grim, unflinching still-life army of the dead.

He knows their names. He recalls the position of their bodies. He remembers their smells, the way their flesh felt beneath his touch, the way their waxy skin, in death, did not respond.

But he cannot see their faces.

And yet their names echo in his dream-chamber of remembrance. Lisette Simon, Kristina Jakos, Tara Grendel.

He hears a woman crying softly. It is Sa’mantha Fanning, and there is nothing he can do to help her. He sees her walking down the hallway. He follows, but with every step the corridor grows, lengthens, darkens. He opens the door at the end, but she is gone. In her place is a man carved of shadows. He draws his weapon, levels, aims, fires.

Smoke.

KEVIN BYRNE WOKE
with a start, his heart pounding in his chest. He glanced at the clock. It was 3:50
AM
. He looked around his bedroom. Empty. No specters, no ghosts, no shambling parade of corpses.

Just the dream-sound of water, just the knowledge that all of them, all the faceless dead in the world, were standing in the river.

69

On the morning of the last day of the year the sun was bone pale. The weather forecast predicted a snowstorm.

Jessica was off duty, but her mind was not. Her thoughts jumped from Walt Brigham to the three women found on the banks of the river to Sa’mantha Fanning. Sa’mantha had still not been found. The department did not hold out much hope that she was still alive.

Vincent was on duty; Sophie was bundled off to her grandfather’s house for New Year’s Eve. Jessica had the place to herself. She could do whatever she wanted.

So why was she sitting in her kitchen, nursing her fourth cup of coffee, thinking about the dead?

At just after eight o’clock there was a knock at her door. It was Nicci Malone.

“Hey,” Jessica said, more than a little surprised. “Come on in.”

Nicci stepped inside. “
Man,
it’s cold.”

“Coffee?”

“Oh, yeah.”