Richard Montanari

by The Echo Man

  He picked up the file next to him on the seat, opened it, looked at the photos, at the body of Gabriel Thorne lying on the floor, the bloody white kitchen where all this had begun.

  He had met earlier in the day with a man named Robert Cole, a man who ran an independent lab that sometimes took contracts from the department when rush forensic services were needed. He had seen Cole testify a number of times. He was good, he was thorough and, above all, he was discreet. Cole had promised Byrne a rush job on what he wanted.

  Byrne flipped through the case file. He looked at his signature at the bottom of the form. A much younger man had wielded the pen that day. A man who had his whole career, his whole life, ahead of him.

  Byrne didn't have to look at the time of arrest, the moment he had placed Christa-Marie Schönburg in custody. He knew.

  It was 2:52.

  Chapter 62

  In the night, when hotel guests are asleep in their beds, the dead roam the halls. They ride the elevators, take the back stairs, slip into rooms and stand at the foot of your bed. They sit on the edge of the sink when you take your shower. They watch as you make love, as you stuff the free toiletries and soaps into your luggage, thinking yourself so clever. They watch as you view late-night porn.

  Stacy Pennell walks these hallways, her small feet barely making an impression on the soft carpeting. Guests come and go, but Stacy stays on, her final words circling in Room 1208 like sorrowful little birds.

  Soon she will be set free.

  Chapter 63

  Saturday, October 30

  Jessica jogged down third street. at this early hour the running was not as bad as she'd thought it was going to be. Traffic was sparse, and the only people on the streets were those opening their bakeries and coffee shops, city crews, other joggers and cyclists. The hard part of running through a city was the uneven sidewalks, the curbs, the occasional stray dog.

  There was a light drizzle, a condition that the weather report said would end by mid-morning. Jessica wore her rain gear and an Eagles ball cap. She was wet, but not soaked. The temperature was in the high forties. Perfect jogging weather.

  As she turned the corner onto Wharton she thought about her and Byrne's meeting with Frederic Duchesne. She thought about the photograph on the wall of the Prentiss Institute, the picture of Christa-Marie Schönburg wearing the bracelet they had seen in Joseph Novak's apartment.

  This morning they would get the background information on Carnival of the Animals, and they could begin to work on what might be the killer's twisted method.

  She turned the corner and saw someone standing in front of her house. Again. She slowed up.

  This time it was not Dennis Stansfield. It was Kevin Byrne. As Jessica approached she got a better look at him. She had never seen him look worse. His face was drawn and pale. He hadn't shaved. He was wearing the same clothes he'd had on yesterday. And he was just standing in the rain. He didn't seem to be looking for her, didn't seem to be doing anything. He was just standing in the cold rain, holding a large envelope in his hands. Just a few feet from where he stood was an awning that would have provided him shelter.

  Jessica came to a stop, then walked the last few yards.

  'Hey,' she said, catching her breath.

  Byrne turned to look at her. 'Hey.'

  'Want to come in? You're getting soaked.'

  Byrne just looked up at the sky, letting the rain fall on his face.

  'Come on inside,' Jessica said. 'I'll make some coffee, get you a towel.'

  'I'm okay.'

  Jessica took him by the arm, led him under her neighbor's awning. She shook the rain off her ball cap, brushed some of the water from Byrne's shoulders. 'What's up?'

  Byrne was silent for a few moments. He pointed across the street, at a novelty sign in the window of a row house. It read PARKING FOR ITALIANS ONLY.

  Jessica offered a smile. 'South Philly. What are you going to do?'

  Byrne turned the envelope over and over in his hands. The moment drew out. 'I don't think I know how to do this anymore, Jess.'

  He looked down the street, remained silent. Lights flickered on in some of the windows. Another morning in Philadelphia.

  Jessica turned him to face her fully. 'There are two dozen people working these cases. Every resource available is on this. We're going to shut him down. Take the day. I'll call you every hour on the hour. If something breaks I'll—'

  'We heard from the lab,' Byrne said, interrupting her. 'From Irina. We have a fix on the murder weapon.'

  'Well, that's good, right? That's a good thing.'

  'The killer is using strings from an instrument.'

  'An instrument?'

  Byrne looked down the street, back. 'The wire is a string from a cello, Jess. He's strangling them with a string from a cello. That explains the animal hair on the wire. It's horsehair from the bow.'

  The implications of this were deep, and Jessica knew now why her partner had been up all night. There could no longer be any excuse for not bringing Christa-Marie Schönburg in for questioning. There were too many connections.

  Jessica knew she had to tread lightly. 'How do you want to handle this?'

  Byrne said nothing. A city street-sweeper trolled slowly by. They took a step back, closer to the building. When it had passed Byrne turned to her.

  'When I walked into that house, twenty years ago, I felt something, you know? It was my first case as a lead investigator, and I had it all in my hand. I saw the body, the weapon, the blood. I saw the suspect, I knew the motive. I saw it all in one second. One big picture, no parts.' He looked at Jessica. He was on the edge. 'I said to myself this is what you were meant to do.'

  Jessica wanted to jump in. It wasn't the right moment.

  'I don't see it like that anymore,' Byrne said. 'Now it's all in pieces, and I'm scared that I made a mistake. I'm scared I can't do it anymore.'

  'You're wrong, Kevin. I have no doubt that you can do this. I don't know anybody who does this better. But you know what scares me?'

  'What?'

  'What scares me is that this killer might go underground. That he might finish this up and disappear forever.'

  'He's not done.'

  Byrne said this with such finality that it stopped Jessica cold. 'What do you mean? How do you know?'

  Byrne held up the large envelope. It was soaked. He didn't seem to care. 'This came in at four o'clock this morning.'

  'What is it?'

  Byrne pulled the document out of the envelope. But he didn't look at it, didn't hand it to Jessica. He just let it get wet. 'A body was found yesterday in a town called Garrett Corners.' 'How does this concern us?'

  'It looks like it's connected,' Byrne said. 'We have to go there. We're expected.'

  Chapter 64

  The Dreamweaver was waiting for Lucy with his door open.

  He gave her a start. Again, he looked different. Even younger than the day before. He stood a little straighter, and his clothes looked new.

  'Lucy,' he said, gesturing for her to step inside.

  She almost gasped. The place was all but empty. The only thing left inside was the stand. The Dreamweaver booth.

  'Are you moving somewhere?' Lucy asked.

  'Yes. Quite soon.'

  She wanted to ask what this was all about. She had a million questions, but she decided to wait. What was most important was to go back under, to slip back to that horrible day in 2001 and see the man's face, the man who took her somewhere and at the same time took her memory, her life. The man who was staying in Room 1208. The man who knew her mother.

  'Today we are going to sit inside,' he said. 'Is that all right?'

  Lucy pointed to the booth. 'Inside there?'

  'Yes. Today we go all the way back.'

  Lucy took a deep breath. 'Okay.'

  Mr. Costa opened the door. Lucy took off her coat and stepped inside. It was like a confessional. Inside was a small bench. She sat down. When Mr. Costa closed the door, it was pitch black.
She heard him sit down on the other side.

  He began to speak, and—

  —suddenly she was back there. The darkness around her did not change. But she sensed that she was under. It was different from the first two times because this time she knew. It was like when you were dreaming and you knew you were dreaming, and therefore you could not be hurt. For the first time in nine years, she felt strong.

  Are You Alone?

  No.

  Who is there with you?

  Another girl. A girl my age. Her name is Peggy.

  Tell me about her.

  She has on a spangly dress. And make-up. She's too little for make-up.

  Are you wearing make-up?

  I don't know. I can't see myself. But I am wearing high heels. They are big for my feet.

  What is the other girl doing?

  She's crying.

  Are you crying?

  No. I don't cry.

  What else do you see?

  I see candles. Candles and moonlight.

  Why do you see moonlight?

  Because I am running now. I'm running through the trees. The smell of apples is everywhere.

  Is it an orchard?

  Yes. It's an orchard.

  Is the other girl with you?

  No, but I see her. I see her up by the lake.

  What is she doing?

  She's not moving.

  Why is she not moving?

  I don't know.

  Can you see the man's face?

  I can't. But I know who he is. Is he the man in Room 1208? Yes. It's him.

  You are certain?

  Yes.

  Did you place the note in his room? The note you wrote here last time?

  Yes.

  Good. Now I'm going to ring a bell for you. Is that okay?

  Yes.

  Can you hear the bell?

  I can hear it.

  It's a special bell, Lucy.

  A special bell.

  There is no other sound like it.

  No other.

  When you hear this bell at the hotel, there is something you have to do. Something you have to do for me.

  Okay.

  You will tell no one about this.

  No one.

  Remember the bell, Lucy.

  Chapter 65

  The drive across southeastern Pennsylvania was energizing. The rain had stopped and it was a bright and sunny day. A lot of people think that the best place to view fall colors in the United States is New England, and they have a point. But the rolling hills of Pennsylvania, painted in scarlet and gold and lemon yellow, might well give New Hampshire a run for its money.

  For a long time neither Jessica nor Byrne said much. Both were lost in the events of the past four days and the possibility of a break in the case, a break located far out of their jurisdiction.

  Before leaving Philadelphia, Jessica had gotten Byrne to stop at his apartment, shower and shave, change clothes. He looked like two-thirds of his old self again.

  They stopped for coffee on the way. When Jessica got back in the car she remembered something she had been meaning to ask her partner. It was about as far removed from the case as she could imagine.

  'You didn't happen to find a piece of green yarn in your van, did you?'

  'No,' Byrne said. 'Are you talking about the yarn that was around the box with your mom's things in it?'

  Jessica nodded. The thought of having lost the yarn made her sick. 'I looked everywhere, asked everyone. It's gone.'

  'Maybe it'll turn up.'

  Jessica didn't hold out much hope for this. It was only ten cents' worth of yarn, but it had belonged to her mother. And that made it priceless.

  The town of Garrett Corners was a notch on the map off 1-80, set among rolling farmland. If you lived here, and you wanted something that could not be obtained at the local general store, hardware store, or pair of diners, there were a few larger towns within thirty or so miles where you could find a Wal-Mart, a Lowe's, or a Bed, Bath & Beyond. Dinner on Saturday night or special occasions was at Max and Erma's or Outback.

  The police department of Garrett Corners was three officers strong. In addition to the standard duties involving processing civil matters such as court orders, writs and orders of possession, there were mortgage foreclosures and township auctions. Rarely did they deal with homicide.

  The town itself was an intersection, twenty buildings deep in four directions. The municipal building was a featureless block of limestone, housing the police department, courthouse and public agencies. It was every small-town city hall east of the Rockies. Jessica and Byrne were instructed to meet the chief of police, a man named Rogers Logan.

  The woman at the desk was in her fifties and had a lacquered, highly complex hairdo, cantilevered to one side. She also had about her an air of small-town bureaucratic efficiency that told Jessica there was no doubt who ran the office, if not the lives, of the three police officers stationed there. Her name was Helen Mott. There was a plate of Halloween-themed cookies on her desk.

  Jessica and Byrne announced themselves, showed ID, and took a seat on the worn oak bench across the room. Jessica scanned the walls.

  Affixed to them with yellowed tape were mostly outdated posters for D.A.R.E and other community drug and outreach programs. After a few minutes the door to the back opened, and a man walked out.

  Rogers Logan was a fit sixty: military flat-top, big hands and farmer's shoulders. He walked with a purposeful gait. Behind him was a young woman in full uniform and Sam Browne.

  'I'm Chief Logan,' he said. 'This is Officer Sherri Grace.'

  Handshakes all around.

  Officer Grace was in her late twenties, stout and surly. She was maybe fifteen pounds over her prom weight, and Jessica knew why. Cop hours and cop food would do it to you if you didn't fight it hard. Jessica waged the battle every day. Still, Officer Grace wore it well.

  'Can I get everyone some coffee?' Grace asked.

  'Sure,' Byrne said.

  'How do you take it?'

  'Like it comes.'

  Grace winked and left the office.

  'Coffee maker's fritzed,' Logan said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder, a sheepish look on his face. He probably figured that in Philadelphia the police department issued espresso machines and milk frothers to every squad. Little did he know. The first thing Jessica noticed when she walked into the office was that they had the same make and model of fax machines.

  They retired to the squad room, which amounted to two desks pushed up against each other, a pair of large corkboards on the wall, a conference table pushed into the corner, along with five or six dented file cabinets.

  A minute later Officer Grace returned with three cups of coffee in chipped ceramic mugs. The outside temperature had dropped a few degrees, and the mugs billowed with steam. She put the cups down on the desk, then put a cardboard box filled with packets of non-dairy creamer, sugar, Equal, Sweet'N Low and plastic stirrers on the table.

  'I'm off to patrol,' she said. 'Nice meeting you all.'

  Giving Byrne a little extra wattage in her smile, she left the office.

  The coffee rituals came to a close. It was time to get down to business. Logan, the country gentleman, gestured to Jessica to take his chair. Jessica smiled, declined. All three of them stood as Logan described the victim.

  'His name was Thomas Archer. Twenty-six years old. Lived over in Kelton, right near the county line. He worked in the beauty salon over there.'

  'Where was he found?' Byrne asked.

  Logan moved over to a map on the wall, a map of Garrett Corners and surrounding townships. He pointed to a small green area just a short distance from the county line. 'He was found here, in the Shadyside Cemetery. As you can see, the cemetery is on both sides of the creek. Tommy was found on the southern end, near the mausoleum.'

  At the word cemetery Jessica and Byrne exchanged a look. All they had really known on the way up to Garrett Corners was what the telex had told them,
namely that there was a homicide victim with a possible connection to the Philadelphia murders.

  'Who found the body?' Jessica asked.

  'Body was found by the mail carrier. He was doing his afternoon route and he noticed a pack of dogs circling something in the cemetery. We've had a few problems with meth labs out here in the past couple of years, and where there's meth labs there're mean dogs. Mail carrier figured they'd gotten loose, called it in, and we went out to check it out. County game warden scooped up two of the dogs, others got away. The dogs had been at Tommy, but not too bad.'

  'Where is Mr. Archer now?'

  'The body was taken to the coroner's office in the county seat. They do all our autopsies, what few we need done.'

  'Do they know how long the body had been there?' Byrne asked.

  'Hard to say until they give it a good going-over. Not that long, though.'

  'Do you have photographs of the crime scene?'

  'Yeah,' Logan said. 'Unfortunately, I do.'

  Logan led them to a small area off the squad room, which served as storage space for fax paper, toner, and other supplies. A folded crib leaned in one corner. Logan flipped on the overhead fluorescents.

  One wall was dedicated to racks of official forms. The town might have been small, but it rivaled the PPD for forms needed. In the center was a folding conference table. Most of the table's contents were bunched to one side, and a pair of large manila envelopes sat in the middle.

  Logan opened the envelopes, slid out the photographs. He arrayed them side by side on the table. The longer shots showed a rural cemetery. The close-ups were of the body. It was a sight with which Jessica and Byrne were all too familiar.

  Jessica looked closely at the victim. The signature was identical to the bodies found in Philadelphia. The body was nude, and shaved clean of all hair. The band of paper was wrapped around the head, just barely covering the victim's eyes. There were three bloodstains on the paper, one lateral, one circular, along with the mutilated ear. The body was sprawled on a hillside, surrounded by low headstones. The left leg was clearly broken.