Richard Montanari

by The Echo Man

  'May I ask what it is that you do for a living?' Byrne asked.

  'I am a recording engineer by trade,' Novak said. 'But I keep my hand in with all aspects of the music world. I review for jazz and classical publications.'

  'Interesting,' Byrne said. 'I'm a fan of classic blues, myself.'

  Novak smiled. 'I have a small but rather interesting collection of old blues. My treasure is the box set of 78s with early recordings of Mary Johnson, Scrapper Blackwell and Kokomo Arnold.'

  'Sweet. Any Roosevelt Sykes?'

  'Not yet.'

  Jessica stepped forward. In a situation like this, she and her partner liked to tag-team the person they were interviewing. If you split the person's attention it gave your partner the opportunity to look around, checking the small details of the room. One wall had a series of shelves with objets d'art on it. Small sculptures, Maori carvings, as well as a unique stainless steel bracelet with a single garnet stone inlaid.

  Jessica turned her attention back to the CDs. 'This is quite an impressive collection of music you have here,' Jessica said.

  'Thank you,' Novak said. 'I've been at it for quite a while. But I did not purchase most of them. Receiving free and promotional CDs for review is one of the perks of being a music critic.'

  'What's the downside?'

  'Listening to terrible music.'

  Jessica scanned the wall. 'So, from all of this music, do you have a favorite composer?'

  Novak smiled again. 'I imagine that is like asking an Eskimo if he has a favorite snowflake. If pressed, for me there is Johann Sebastian Bach, and then there is everyone else.'

  'I'm sorry to impose, but do you think I might use your restroom?' Jessica asked.

  This was another old ploy for investigators. It gave you the opportunity to see a little more of a person's dwelling while they were talking with your partner. Not to mention the opportunity to check out their medicine cabinet and perhaps discover what meds they were taking. Someone's medications could tell you a lot about them. Plus, it was a hard thing for people to say no to.

  Novak hesitated. His stare shifted to the hallway, then back. The question hung in the air.

  'Yes, of course,' he said finally. 'The second door on your right.'

  'Thanks.'

  Jessica walked down the hallway. The kitchen was on the left, the bathroom on the right. At the end of the hall was the bedroom, its door slightly ajar.

  Jessica stepped into the bathroom. It was spotless. On one wall was a large print, a black and white photograph of a man conducting an orchestra. The man was dark-haired, darkly handsome. He wore white tie and tails. Jessica looked at the caption: riccardo muti, 1986. Muti was the Italian conductor who had replaced Eugene Ormandy as the musical director of the Philadelphia Orchestra in 1980.

  Jessica peeked into the bamboo wastebasket to the right of the toilet. Empty. She opened the medicine cabinet gently. Gently, because she had once opened a medicine cabinet in a similar situation, without thinking, only to have a few bottles crash loudly into the sink.

  In the cabinet were an array of skincare products. No meds. If Joseph Novak took any medications, he did not keep them in his bathroom.

  When she had exhausted her search, Jessica flushed the toilet. She washed her hands anyway, to keep up the illusion, and because it was a deeply ingrained habit.

  She stepped out of the bathroom, listened. Byrne and Novak were still talking. She stepped to her right, inched open the bedroom door. The bedroom continued the rather industrial look of the apartment. There was a king-size platform bed, a pair of night stands bearing stainless steel lamps with rectangular linen shades.

  But it wasn't the furnishings that nearly took Jessica's breath away. The entire room was covered in paper. She had to look closely to believe what she was seeing. At first she thought it might have been some kind of creative wallpaper. It was not. What she'd at first thought was wall-covering was really hundreds and hundreds of photographs, articles, magazine covers, newspaper clippings, drawings. All of them seemed to be about one subject. Murder.

  Her eyes were drawn to a large corkboard. To it were pinned a number of tabloid pages. The page on top stopped her cold. It was a tear sheet from the sleazy local newspaper The Report. The headline read:

  Pummeled in Pennsport!

  The article was about a brutal murder in 2002. March 21, 2002 to be exact.

  The photograph was of a smiling Antoinette Chan.

  Jessica looked back down the hall, saw no one coming. She took her iPhone out of her pocket, stepped fully into the bedroom, and began to photograph the walls, hoping there was enough light. Then she walked back down the hall. She stepped into the living room, held up her phone.

  'Detective?'

  Both Byrne and Novak turned to look at her.

  'I'm sorry to interrupt, but there's a call for you.'

  Byrne got up, walked across the living room, took a few steps down the hall. Jessica gestured to the opened bedroom door. Byrne stepped to the opening, took in the room. He stepped back.

  Their gazes met in silent understanding. Byrne flicked a glance toward the front door. She would take the door. He would take Novak.

  They were out of the living room for just a few seconds, but it was long enough. They heard a loud noise. When they returned, the chair in front of the desk was on its back. Novak was gone.

  'Fuck,' Byrne yelled.

  He went for the window and the fire escape beyond. Jessica ran to the door.

  She peeked out into the hallway. It was not that long - there were only four apartments on this floor - and there were stairs at only one end. She hurried over to the elevator. Silence. Novak would not have had time to call the elevator, and make it even one floor. She ran down to the stairs, eased open the door, her hand on the butt of her weapon.

  The stairwell was empty.

  Jessica moved silently down the stairs, her weapon held out front, low. She turned a corner, carried on circling downward, her ears tuned to the sounds around her. Traffic outside, television noise coming from an apartment on the first floor. No footsteps.

  She had to make a decision when she came to the first-floor landing. Continue on to the basement or check the first floor? She opted for the first floor. She eased open the door. It led to a short hallway. The lobby was straight ahead. She still-hunted down the hall. When she came to the lobby she saw Joseph Novak sitting uneasily on one of the chairs. His right foot was tapping nervously.

  Jessica stepped fully into the lobby and was just about to raise her weapon when she sensed another presence. She looked over. It was Josh Bontrager. He was leaning against the front door, a hoagie in one hand, his weapon in the other. He smiled, winked at Jessica just as Byrne came barreling into view in front of the building.

  Byrne entered the lobby, caught his breath. Josh Bontrager ate his sandwich. Jessica stepped forward, holstered her weapon, and took Joseph Novak into custody.

  Chapter 32

  Lucy found herself standing in front of the door, the small red door with the tarnished golden key on it. She didn't even remember walking to Cherry Street. All she remembered was clocking out for lunch and then, magically, there she was.

  Lucy walked down the hallway. It was a lot quieter than it had been the day before, or maybe that was because it was so noisy inside her head.

  In a few moments she was in front of the Dreamweaver's door. This time it was closed. She knocked, waited. She heard music coming from inside, some kind of classical music. She didn't know anything about classical music. She knocked again. The music stopped. Then she heard some light footsteps. The door opened.

  'Lucinda.'

  She was instantly taken aback by his appearance. She might have even made some kind of involuntary noise. Mr. Costa seemed younger. Not younger as in he looked like a younger man, but more animated, quicker in his movements. His hair was combed, parted in a perfectly straight line on the right side. He wore what looked like a fresh white shirt. His shoes were ne
wly polished. He smelled of good soap.

  Lucy found herself trembling as she walked into his room. She turned slightly as she passed through the doorway, but found that the photograph - the one she was certain was the one of her house when she'd been growing up, the picture that was hanging just above the light switch - had been replaced with a different photograph, this one of a valley full of flowers and a small cabin with smoke curling out of the chimney.

  Had she imagined it?

  Mr. Costa closed the door behind her. They walked together into the front room.

  If the man looked more youthful, his place also looked improved. He had straightened it up a little. He had even dusted.

  Mr. Costa gestured to the green chair. Lucy took off her coat, sat down.

  'I trust you slept well?' he asked.

  'Not really,' Lucy said. 'I'm not sure I slept at all.'

  'Understandable.'

  'I think maybe you were right.'

  'In what way?'

  Lucy put down her purse, arranged herself in the chair. It too seemed different. Larger, somehow. She felt like a little kid sitting in it, or maybe Alice through the looking glass. 'When you said I may have opened a door yesterday. I think maybe I did.'

  Mr. Costa smiled. 'This is wonderful news. What leads you to think this?'

  On the way over, Lucy had debated whether or not to tell Mr. Costa about the man in the hotel. She decided to wait until after this session, to wait and see what, if anything, she got out of it. 'I'm not sure,' she said. 'It's just a feeling.'

  The look on Mr. Costa's face indicated that he might not have believed her completely, but that it was okay. Lucy had the feeling that a lot of people said things like this to him - half-truths about their lives, their feelings.

  'Are you comfortable?' he asked.

  As comfortable as I have ever been, Lucy thought. For some reason.

  'Yes,' she said. 'I'm fine.'

  'Did you bring the notepad with you? The hotel notepad?'

  Lucy reached into her bag, took out the notepad. She handed it to Mr. Costa but he put out his hands, palms toward her. 'No, this is for you to write on. Do you have a pen?'

  'No,' Lucy said. 'Sorry.'

  Mr. Costa reached into his coat pocket, took out a beautiful old fountain pen, uncapped it, handed it to Lucy. 'You will write something on the pad a little later.'

  'Okay.'

  'Are you ready to begin our session?'

  'I am.'

  'Now, I want you to close your eyes, and listen to the sound of my voice.'

  Lucy was not floating above the town this time. This time she was sitting. No, she was kneeling, sort of. She was on her knees but leaning back on her heels. And she was afraid.

  Where are you?

  I'm in the dark. I have a blindfold on.

  Do you know where you are?

  No.

  Are you inside or outside?

  I'm inside. Inside a building.

  Is the room large or small?

  Small. It feels like a closet or something.

  Where is the man?

  I don't know.

  Has he hurt you in any way?

  I don't think so.

  Are you alone?

  Yes. But I met someone else. A girl.

  How old is she?

  She's my age.

  What can you see?

  When I take off the blindfold I see a keyhole in the door. I can see out of the keyhole. There's a table next to the sofa. There's something on it.

  What is on the table?

  It's shiny. It's kind of oval-shaped.

  What is it? What is the shiny object?

  It's a badge. A policeman's badge.

  What are you wearing?

  A dress. He put a dress on me.

  What kind of dress?

  A spangly dress. A grown-up dress. And he calls me Eve.

  Eve? Who is Eve? Someone you know?

  No. He means Eve in the Garden of Eden. Eve who was tempted by the apple.

  Can you see his face?

  No. Not yet. But I can see his hand. He wears a big ring.

  What kind of ring?

  It looks like a snake. It looks like a ring in the shape of a snake.

  Suddenly, in her dream world, Lucy Doucette felt herself falling. She sensed that someone was trying to save her. Someone or something.

  No. It was the darkness itself. She reached out—

  - a ring in the shape of a snake . . . the snake in the Garden of Eden -

  —and let the darkness take her.

  Chapter 33

  Joseph Novak sat in Interview A, one of the two cramped and oppressive interrogation rooms at the homicide unit. They did not have much, and they probably wouldn't have been able to bring him in without his consent, but he'd run. People don't realize that once you run from the police it opens a big can of possibilities. It immediately establishes a hostile relationship. What might once have been a conversation that moved gently from casual to mild inquisitiveness now began with doubt and suspicion.

  Even if you had to cut people loose, sometimes you got lucky. A lot of it had to do with the nature of the case itself, the heat generated not only within the department and the district attorney's office but also with the public. If a case broke open in the public consciousness, pressure was brought to bear on law enforcement to produce results, therefore detectives put the pressure on DAs, who worked a little harder on judges, and as a result search warrants and body warrants were granted with a little more leeway. When you searched a house or car you never knew what the search would produce. Warrants were the handmaidens of criminal charges, even when you had no idea what you were looking for.

  They let Novak simmer in Interview A for a few minutes. Interview A at the unit didn't look anything like the interrogation rooms on TV. On TV the rooms had soft gray walls, dramatic lighting, clean carpeting, expensive furnishings, and were usually the size of an average living room. In reality, at least in Philly homicide, the real room was about six by eight, not much bigger than your average jail cell - which was not an accident of design.

  There were no windows, just the two-way mirror, which was not much bigger than a magazine. Then there were the bright fluorescent lights overhead, the bolted-down chairs, and the short-legged table. No matter how often the room was cleaned, or even painted, it held onto the faint odors of urine and bleach. All in all, it was the Philadelphia equivalent of a visit to George Orwell's Room 101. Or so the Homicide Unit hoped.

  If you had claustrophobia issues and you heard that door close, the bolt slide on the other side, you started to come apart. More than one tough guy had blurted a confession after an hour or two inside Hotel Homicide.

  Jessica sat across from Novak. Byrne stood, leaning against the wall next to the observation window. Novak sat dispassionately in the bolted- down chair, his face void of all expression.

  Byrne put the large file box on the table. It was almost empty but Novak didn't need to know that. Novak glanced at the box, then turned his attention back to Byrne.

  'Now, where were we?' Byrne said.

  Novak said nothing.

  'We were having such a nice conversation. Why did you run?'

  Novak still said nothing.

  'Where were you heading?'

  Silence.

  Byrne let the questions float for a few moments, then reached out his hand. Jessica handed him her iPhone. Byrne turned the screen toward Novak and began to scroll through the series of pictures Jessica had taken of Novak's bedroom.

  Novak scanned the photos, remained impassive.

  'This is quite an interesting collage,' Byrne said.

  Novak took a moment. 'Is it common practice for the police to be invited into someone's home, then to take covert photographs?'

  'Common?' Byrne asked. 'No, I don't suppose it is.'

  'I'm sure there are a number of privacy laws that have been violated here. My attorneys will have a lot of fun with this. Search and seizure,
for one.'

  'It's my recollection that you invited us into your home, Mr. Novak.' Byrne turned to Jessica. 'Is that how you remember it, detective?'

  'It is.'

  'There were no jackbooted thugs kicking in your door, no one rappelling down the side of your building and smashing in your windows. Just three people talking, two of whom were invited in.' Byrne tapped the photos on the cellphone screen. 'All of this was in plain view.'

  Novak didn't react.

  'Anything you'd like to share with us?' Byrne asked.

  'Such as?'

  'Such as why you have a room dedicated to the history of homicide in the City of Brotherly Love?'

  Novak hesitated. 'It's research. I am a fan of true crime stories.'

  'As you might imagine, so am I,' Byrne said. He indicated one of the photos. 'I remember many of these. In fact, I worked some of the cases.'

  Novak said nothing.

  Byrne tapped the iPhone screen, selecting another photograph. This one displayed a section of the room devoted to the Antoinette Chan case. It was a collage of clippings from the original stories in the Inquirer, Daily News and the tabloid Report, as well as from follow-up stories when Kenneth Beckman had been brought in for questioning.

  'I see you are following the Antoinette Chan case,' Byrne said.

  Novak crossed his hands in his lap, began to rub a finger over his left fist. A classic self-touch gesture. They were getting into a discomfort zone. 'It is an interesting case. One of many. I have research going back one hundred years. I'm sure you'll agree, this city has no shortage of crimes against persons.'

  Byrne held up his hands, surrendering the point. 'You'll get no argument here,' he said. 'But let's talk about current cases first, okay?'

  Nothing.

  'What did you find interesting about the Chan case?' Byrne asked.

  Novak leaned back in his chair, looked down, breaking eye contact with Byrne. A disconnect. 'It was particularly brutal, I thought. The weapon used was a claw hammer, if I remember correctly.'