by Blake Pierce
since he had learned to walk. Something so big and majestic, capable of
making whispering crystalline noises and deep bass-like drones. And even
when out of tune and mostly wrecked, there was still something beautiful
about them. So much potential. So much promise.
He went to the next to last piano on the right side of the workshop space
and sat on the makeshift bench he had created. The top of the piano was
opened, the inside covered by a clear plastic tarp. He removed the tarp and
exposed the strings inside. Again, he grew enamored. The inner workings of
a piano were, to him, just as complicated as the human brain or heart. Yet, on
the other hand, the strings inside were so easy to manipulate and shape. He
looked at them now, the strings recently tuned by his own hands—his skills
taking something that had been forgotten and gone to dust and transforming it
into a thing of beauty.
He reached inside his coat pocket and took out a small baggie and a small
set of tweezers. He opened the baggie and used the tweezers to carefully
remove what was inside: a single strand of blonde hair, taken from the head of a woman named Meredith Lowell. He took great care and caution to place
the hair onto the A string along the middle scale. As he did so, he tried not to
get too distracted from the other strands of hair on the two keys next to it—
hairs from Marjorie Hix and Karen Hopkins respectively.
He worked with his fingers and with the tweezers to tightly spool the hair
around the piano string. It was a meticulous process, one that he assumed was
much like making one of those ridiculous ship-in-a-bottle things. When it
was wound perfectly and tightly some six minutes later, he took a moment to
admire the loops and coils of the hair, like some thin sliver of magic on the
string. He experimentally struck the key to make sure the hair would not
come untangled or jostled. He smiled when it stayed unmoved.
The immense satisfaction he took from this was like waking up from some
very long and much needed nap. He stared at the string a bit longer before
covering the top back with the tarp but leaving the lid up.
After all, he’d be back under it very soon.
With that thought in mind, he walked back down his aisle of piano bodies
and up the stairs. He walked through his very empty house and picked up his
landline phone. He took the receiver from the cradle and dialed. As the phone
rang in his ear, a little coil of excitement started to churn inside of him.
A woman picked up on the other end after four rings. “Hello?”
“Hi, is this Anna Forester?” he asked. Already, his hands were clenching;
his right hand grasped the receiver while his free hand made a fist that
opened and closed, opened and closed.
“It is. Who is this?”
He gave his name, giving it in the lighthearted, singsong sort of way he
always did. “I got your message about your console piano. Sorry it’s taken
me so long to get back to you, but it’s been a crazy week.”
“It’s no worry,” Anna said. “Are you still available?”
“I am. I actually have a chunk of time available this afternoon and I’m
headed out your way, in fact. I know it’s short notice, but how about two?
Could we work that out?”
“I believe so. I have to step out in a moment, but I should be back home
by then. Does that work for you?”
His hands were still clenching and unclenching, anxious to get to work.
With a smile on his face, he said: “That’s perfect.”
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
It was 11:15 when Kate and DeMarco pulled up in front of Barry Turner’s
home. He lived in a respectable neighborhood, though a few steps down from
what they had been seeing so far during this case. It was an old two-story
brick home, the kind that looked aged and worn but in a charming sort of
way. There was ivy climbing up one of the side of the house, as well as the
worn white fence that separated Turner’s yard from his neighbor’s. The yard
was covered in trees, the sidewalk covered in shadows from the branches.
As they approached the front door, Kate could hear piano music. It was
not the same as when they visited Knudsen’s residence; it was obvious from
the sound and volume that this was a piano piece being played through a
speaker, at a relatively high volume.
Kate knocked on the door, rapping loudly to be heard over the music. She
was met with a “be right there” right away, coming from a cheerful voice
with a musical quality. The door was answered several seconds later by an
older gentleman with messy white hair. The hair was the only thing messy
about him, though; his kind-looking face was closely shaved and he was
dressed in a button-up shirt and a pair of casual khakis.
“Can I help you?” he asked, looking back and forth between Kate and
DeMarco.
“Are you Barry Turner?” DeMarco asked.
“Guilty,” he said with a smile.
“We got your name from your piano teacher, Thomas Knudsen,” Kate
said. “We’re looking for information on someone and he thinks you might be
able to help. Do you have a moment to speak with us?”
“Of course, come on in,” he said. His tone was somewhere between
concern and delight, betraying that musical tone to his voice.
The front door led almost directly into a little parlor area. It was here that
the music was blaring through a Bose speaker. It was a classical piece that
Kate had heard before but she could not recall the name. A smaller-sized
piano sat in the center of the room. A small bookshelf was lined with thick
volumes on the right side of the room. It had the feel of an old study. Turner
grabbed a little remote from a table by an armchair, pointed it at the Bose,
and turned the music down.
“That’s a pretty piece,” Kate said.
“One of my favorites,” Turner said. “Bach’s ‘French Suite Number Six.’”
“It’s actually because of your love for piano that we’re here,” Kate said.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes. We’re trying to find a man who is likely a piano tuner in the
Frankfield and possibly the Chicago area. Knudsen said you had worked with
one fairly recently.”
“Well, I called one recently. He came over and worked on the piano and
he did an okay job but to say he worked might be a stretch.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he was a weird gentleman,” Turner said. “He came in and I think
all he said was hello before he went to the piano. He was here for about ten minutes, did his job, took my money, and left. Not sure why, but the whole
thing sort of creeped me out.”
“Any particular reason?”
“He barely acknowledged me at all. It was like he had punched a clock
and stepped into some factory or something. He muttered to himself while he
was tuning the piano. Not humming or anything like that, but actually
muttering to himself. It reminded me of some of the homeless people you
pass by from time to time up in the city. I know that might sound crude, but
it’s exactly the vibe I got from him.”
“Did he seem menacing at all?”
“No…not r
eally. But I did feel like I wanted him out of my house. He was
like some sort of ghoul or something.”
“Do you have a name and number?”
“His name was Eric Letterman. I’ll have to dig for his number because I
had no intention of ever using it again.” He reached to the table by the
armchair again and grabbed his cell phone. As he scrolled through his call
history in the hopes of finding the number, Kate went on with the
questioning.
“How did you learn about his services?”
“I don’t remember, honestly. Maybe in the local paper? I think that’s right,
but I honestly don’t remember. Maybe Facebook…”
“Had you heard of him before?”
“No, I don’t believe so.” He stopped scrolling and then showed the agents
his phone. “Right here. Eric Letterman.”
Kate moved to type the number down in her phone but, as usual, DeMarco
was the quicker of them when it came to all things tech. She simply snapped
a picture of Turner’s screen and re-pocketed her phone. It took less than three
seconds.
“Anything else you can tell us about him?” Kate asked. “Identifying
marks, what he was driving, things like that?”
Turner thought about it for a moment before shaking his head. “I’m sorry,
but no. The only thing I can tell you is that he was middle-aged. Maybe a
little younger than me. Probably in his fifties. But that’s all I’ve got. Like I
said…we never spoke. He stayed in here and when it was clear that he was an
antisocial type, I left him to it. Went into the kitchen and puttered around.”
“Well, I think you’ve given us more than enough,” Kate said, turning and
heading for the door. “Thank you for your time.”
“Sure,” Turner said, walking with them to the door. He seemed a little
perplexed, like a man in a whirlwind. The visit had lasted less than five
minutes and he looked as if he almost regretted that his company was leaving
so soon. “How is Knudsen doing anyway?” he asked. “I haven’t spoken to
him in about two months.”
“He’s…grumpy,” Kate said.
“So the same, in other words.”
Turner gave them a wave and a smile as they headed down his porch steps
and back across the shadow-covered front lawn. Kate looked over and saw
that DeMarco was already saving Eric Letterman’s number into her phone.
By the time they made it to the car, she had already called Bannerman’s men
and was requesting an address.
Kate smiled in spite of the situation. DeMarco was going to be pretty
much untouchable within a few years.
It’s a good thing, too, she thought. Because in about half an hour, Duran is going to be on to you and that could very well be the end of your second
career.
***
As it turned out, Eric Letterman lived only two miles away from the home
of Marjorie and David Hix. It was a decrepit-looking house, tucked away on
the corner of what Kate assumed was the so-called downtown area of Frankfield. A single black pickup truck sat on the curb in front of the house.
The lawn was slightly overgrown and the columns on the porch could use a
good sanding and coat of paint.
As they made their way toward the house, Kate peered into the back of the
pickup truck. If it belonged to Eric Letterman, it appeared as if he might be a
jack-of-all-trades. There was a tied down toolbox in the back, as well as a
sledgehammer, a shovel, and two cinderblocks. None of the items was really
enough to make her suspicious, but they certainly did not set her mind at
ease, either.
She and DeMarco walked up onto the porch, where Kate knocked on the
screen door. They were instantly met with the sound of a barking dog—a
smaller breed from the sound of it. A man’s groaning voice sounded out from
somewhere in the house. Kate could not make out the words, but she was
pretty sure the voice was telling the dog to shut up.
They heard footfalls approaching, punctuated by the creaking of
floorboards. The door was opened moments later by a man dressed in a dingy
white T-shirt and jeans. It was clear that he had been interrupted from
something. His forehead was coated in sweat and he looked irritated that he
had been interrupted. A Jack Russell terrier ran laps around his feet, growling
at the unexpected visitors on the porch.
“Hi,” he said uncertainly.
“Hello,” Kate said. “Are you Eric Letterman?”
“I am. And you are…?”
She realized as she pulled her badge that this might very well be their guy.
It made the act of reaching for her ID a little nerve-wracking. She could feel
each moment ticking by, but slowly, as if she was moving through water.
“We’re Agents Wise and DeMarco, with the FBI.”
He eyed Kate’s ID rather suspiciously but after a few seconds, a slow
realization crept into his face. “I see. Is there something I can help you with?”
“Can we come inside?”
He shrugged, a little embarrassed. “You can, sure. But the place is a
mess.”
“That’s quite all right.”
Letterman invited them inside, picking things up along the way as he led
them though his hall. It was a mess, though not nearly as bad as some other
places Kate had seen. She watched carefully as he picked up after himself, making sure he wasn’t trying to hide anything incriminating. She saw nothing
to cause concern: a pair of shoes, an empty Amazon package, an empty soda
bottle.
He led them into the living room, which smelled of lemon-scented polish.
She saw a violin on a rack on the right side of the room. On the left, there
was an ornate-looking harp—the sort that should be in a stage play rather
than actually used.
“I see the instruments here,” DeMarco said. “Are you a musician?”
“I used to be,” he said. “But after a few failed attempts to make it onto the
Chicago Symphony Orchestra, I called it quits. I’ve been tuning, repairing,
and repurposing instruments ever since then.”
“Is it what you do for a living?” Kate asked.
“More or less,” he said, wiping his brow with a handkerchief he pulled
from his back pocket. “I’ve got an old church organ out back in my little
work area that I’ve been tinkering with for the better part of a week or so. But
there’s no way just this sort of stuff would pay the bills. I have a YouTube channel where I cover classic rock songs on violin, cello, and classical guitar.
I also sell my stuff on Bandcamp online.”
“Do you think we could see the organ you’re working on?” Kate asked.
“Sure,” he said, clearly surprised. “Come on back. But the house gets
messier the further in we go.”
“I assure you, that’s quite all right,” Kate said again.
Letterman led them through the house, all the way to the back and through
his kitchen. The Jack Russell followed along, sniffing at Kate’s and
DeMarco’s feet. Off of the kitchen, they walked into what was clearly a small
built-on room. It was in nicer shape than the rest of the house, though quite
small. There was indeed an old-looking church organ in the room. It was
propped on its side, held st
eady with straps and a few makeshift sawhorses.
The back of it had been opened up to reveal the inner workings.
“Do you enjoy what you do?” DeMarco asked.
“I do.”
“And how many pianos would you say you tune in the space of a month?”
“It depends. I’m not exactly the best when it comes to marketing. So some
months, I might tune three. Others, none.”
“When was the last time you tuned a piano for a customer?”
He thought for a moment, folding his arms and looking to the inside of the organ. “Maybe three weeks ago.”
“Who was the customer?”
“A guy named Dan Fritz. A single dad, brought this old clunker of a piano
online for his daughter.”
“Three weeks ago?”
He nodded.
“No pianos since then?”
He started to see where this was going and, as such, seemed to start to get
defensive. It alarmed Kate a bit, but she did not sense that they were in
danger.
“No pianos. I’ve tuned a fixer-upper-type cello since then, but that’s it.
Everything else has been maintenance work like this.”
“Mr. Letterman, did you ever tune a piano for a gentleman named Barry
Turner?”
“Yes, I did. That’s been…I don’t know…maybe six months ago, give or
take.”
“What about Karen Hopkins, Marjorie Hix, or Meredith Lowell?”
DeMarco asked. “Did you ever work with any of them?”
“Marjorie Hix, yes. It’s been a while but I do remember tuning her piano.
A beautiful piano, too.” He paused here and Kate could literally see the
pieces clicking together in his head. “What’s going on here?”
“Mr. Letterman, we’ll get to the point. We’re investigating a series of
murders in the area and currently, everything points to the murderer being a
piano tuner.”
“Karen Hopkins…yeah, I heard about her. I heard she had died…but
killed?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Marjorie Hix…dead?”
“Yes. And while we obviously can’t get into the details, your name came
up.”
Letterman looked as if he had been slapped hard across the face. He
looked hard at both women, as if he were trying to determine if they were
pulling a prank on him. When he realized that they were indeed serious, he