Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense: The Rosary Girls, the Skin Gods, Merciless, Badlands

by Richard Montanari

“You are a dead man,” the kid yelled. “You are … you are so fucking dead.”

  Lilly watched in stunned silence as the kid backed up, turned, ran the length of the block, then disappeared around the corner. She discovered that she hadn’t taken a breath in maybe a minute or so.

  What the hell had just happened?

  She knew the basics. She had been hanging on the corner. A board rat had approached her, threatened her, grabbed her. A man appeared out of nowhere and set the kid’s face on fire.

  Somehow. Like magic.

  She looked up Filbert Street, saw a police car trolling. It looked like they hadn’t seen what happened. She turned to ask the man his version of the events, to say thank you, but he had vanished.

  | FORTY-TWO |

  JESSICA GOT ON THE COMPUTER. FOR THE PAST TWO DAYS SHE’D BEEN trying to block out an hour or so to run some things. If their killer was playing a sick game with the department, the city, then there was a chance that there were things they were not seeing, pieces of the puzzle that did not quite fit. Yet.

  She made a list of names, references, places, possibilities, and impossibilities.

  She knew that sometimes a search engine could make a connection you might never think of. Sometimes the result of a search was so far off it got you thinking in a new direction.

  Forty minutes later she had answers. She knew Byrne was down in the cafeteria. Unable to wait for the elevator, she ran down the stairs.

  BYRNE WAS NURSING a cold coffee, a wooden Danish, skimming the Daily News.

  “You’re not going to believe this,” Jessica said.

  “Man, do I love it when conversations begin this way.”

  Jessica pulled out a chair, sat down. “I ran everything I could think of through a few search engines, along with a couple of things I never thought would click.”

  Byrne folded the paper. “Okay. What do we have?”

  “Well, I think we know what game he was playing with the name Jeremiah Crosley. Nonetheless, I ran a search regarding the Book of Jeremiah. Interesting guy, but not one of the biggies. Josh was right. Jeremiah was no ray of sunshine. Nothing jumped.

  “Next, our guy said he lived at 2917 Dodgson Street. As we know, there is no Dodgson Street in Philly, right?”

  “Can’t argue with the folks at MapQuest.”

  “I have issues with MapQuest. They always seem to lead me right into construction. But that’s for later. Anyway, I found a Dodgson Street in Lancashire, England, but I figured that would be one hell of a commute, even for a psycho. There are, however, a number of other references. The one that stuck out was a person’s name. Charles Lutwidge Dodgson. Ever heard of him?”

  Byrne shook his head.

  “That’s because he was much better known by another name: Lewis Carroll, author of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Turns out he was also a fanatical game and puzzle enthusiast. Plus, I discovered there’s something called the Alice in Wonderland syndrome, also known as micropsia, which causes a person to perceive large objects as being much smaller.”

  “The big red, yellow, and blue boxes in that crawlspace, and the small colored squares in the Bible,” Byrne said.

  “It might be a stretch, but yeah, it crossed my mind.” Jessica pulled up another chair, put her feet up on it. “Next I ran ludo. Guess what it means?”

  “You’re going to make me guess everything, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have no idea what it means.”

  Jessica held up a color printout. It was a graphic of a game board: a large square marked with a cross. Each arm of the cross was divided into three columns; each column was divided into six smaller squares. The large squares were brightly colored. “Ludo.”

  “It’s colored squares,” Byrne said. “Again.”

  “Yeah, but there are four of them, not three.”

  “Is it possible we missed something down there?”

  “In that crawlspace? Not a thing,” Jessica said. “I also looked up the origin of ludo, as in, the origin of the word. Guess where it comes from?”

  “Greek.”

  “Latin,” Jessica said. “It gets its name from the word ludus.”

  “Which means?”

  Jessica put both hands out, palms up, in her best ta-da fashion. “It means game.”

  Byrne turned to the window. He tapped his coffee stirrer on the rim of his cup. Jessica let him absorb the details.

  “I think we can safely assume that the old woman was completely certifiable, yes?” he finally said.

  “Yes.”

  “And deeply involved in this somehow.”

  “Up to her broken neck.”

  Byrne turned back to the table. “Remember that puzzle I did? The one with the geometric shapes?”

  “Tangram.”

  “Right. She had that book about tangram and other games. The one with all the diagrams in it.”

  “What about it?”

  “I think we should find a copy of that book.”

  “She said the author lived in Chester County.”

  “Even better.”

  BYRNE CALLED Chester County Books & Music. He got the store manager on the line, identified himself.

  “What can I do for you?” the man asked.

  “We’re trying to locate a local author.”

  “Sure. What’s the name?”

  “That I don’t know, but I believe he lives in Chester County. He wrote a book about games and puzzles, and in it were a lot of—”

  “David Sinclair,” the man said, interrupting him. “He’s written a few books on the subject. He’s done some signings here.”

  “Do you know how to get hold of him?”

  “I’m sure I have his number somewhere.”

  “Could you ask him to give us a call? As soon as possible if you can. It’s very important.”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  Byrne gave the man his cell phone number, thanked him, hung up.

  Since the story broke on the murder and mutilation of Monica Renzi, the PPD’s press office had held a news conference. The official word was that it was still not known if the murder of Monica Renzi was connected to the murder of Caitlin O’Riordan, but that did not stop the mainstream press from speculation, or the alternative press from simply saying so.

  In typical journalistic fashion, they had to pin a name on this case. A “unnamed source” within the police department told a reporter that there was a man who was taking girls off the street, keeping them in custody for a while before killing them. The newspaper referred to the killer as “The Collector.”

  Byrne figured no one at the paper, a birdcage liner called The Report, had ever read The Collector by John Fowles—a novel about a young man, a butterfly collector, who kidnaps a woman and keeps her in his basement—but that didn’t matter. It would only be a matter of time before the mainstream press picked up on it, then the public, and eventually it would find its way into police department memos.

  The four detectives met in the lobby of the Roundhouse. They were all dressed in casual clothes. The strategy being, if they were going to talk to runaways and homeless kids, they wanted to look like anything but authority figures. Byrne and Andre Curtis were pretty much hopeless in this area. They both looked like cops. Jessica and Josh Bontrager were a little more likely to gain their confidence.

  Jessica wore jeans and a white T-shirt and running shoes. She could almost pass for a college student, Byrne thought. Byrne wore a black polo shirt and chinos. He looked like an off duty cop trying to blend in. But he was surprised to see that this shirt fit. It had been getting a little tight. Maybe he was getting in shape after all.

  Jessica briefed Josh Bontrager and Dre Curtis on what she had found online. They made their notes and headed out.

  A few minutes later Jessica and Byrne walked out of the Roundhouse. The air was a blast furnace. Still no rain.

  “Ready to revisit your misspent youth?” Byrne asked as they slipped into the Taurus.<
br />
  “What are you talking about?” Jessica said. “I’m still misspending it.”

  __________

  WHILE JOSH BONTRAGER and Dre Curtis went to Penn Treaty Park, Jessica and Byrne started on South Street. They parked on Columbus Boulevard and took the South Street pedestrian bridge over I-95.

  South Street was part of the Queen Village neighborhood, one of the oldest sections of Philadelphia. Its business district ran from Front Street to around Ninth Street.

  On the way to South Philly they had decided that it would be best for Jessica to ask the questions. Byrne would shadow her from the other side of the street.

  They began at Front Street, in front of Downey’s, and slowly worked their way west. This section of South was crammed with pubs, restaurants, clubs, bookstores, record stores, piercing and tattoo parlors, pizza shops, and even one large condom specialty store. It was a magnet for young people of all styles—Goth, punk, hip-hop, skateboarders, collegiates, Jersey Boys—as well as a thriving tourist trade.

  There wasn’t too much you couldn’t find on this street; legal, otherwise, and every stop in between. To a lot of people, South was the beating heart of Philly.

  Between Second and Third, Jessica talked to a group of teenagers; three boys and two girls. Byrne always marveled at how good she was at things like this. They had to identify themselves as police officers of course, and the few kids Byrne tried to approach on his own just took off once Byrne produced his ID. Not so for Jessica. People opened up to her.

  All of the kids said they were either from Philly, or in town visiting relatives. Nobody was ever a runaway.

  At the corner of Fourth and South, Jessica talked to a young girl. The girl, about fifteen, had her blond hair in pigtails, and wore a tie-dyed tank top and denim skirt. She had a half dozen piercings in her nose, lips, and ears. Byrne was out of earshot, but he saw that when Jessica showed the girl a photograph, the girl studied it, then nodded. A minute later Jessica handed the girl a card, moved on.

  It turned out to be a dead end. The girl said she had heard of a girl named Starlight, but had never met her, and had no idea where she might be.

  By the time they got to Tenth Street, where the shopping and hangout spots dropped off, they had talked to fifty or sixty teenagers, about two dozen shop owners. No one remembered seeing either Caitlin O’Riordan or Monica Renzi. No one knew anything about anything. Jessica and Byrne grabbed lunch at Jim’s Steaks, and headed to the train station.

  | FORTY-THREE |

  LILLY SAT ON THE GROUND NEAR THE FRANKLIN INSTITUTE, HER BACK against the low stone wall. She was still high, crashing fast, and still a little freaked out about the incident on the corner. Had the kid’s face really been on fire?

  Regardless, all of that was rearview mirror. She was broke, she had nowhere to stay, and everybody she met was worse off than her.

  But she would not give up. She had made a promise, and that was something she rarely did. It would be honored.

  Before she could formulate a new plan, she looked up to see a man coming toward her. He walked all the way across the street, motoring fast, his eyes on her the whole time. She looked away a few times, but every time she glanced back he was staring at her. And getting closer.

  He was dressed in a white shirt and black pants. He was blond, had pretty cool hair, light blue eyes, a nice face. He stopped right in front of her, smiled. He was kind of cute, actually.

  But he was still a stranger.

  “Hi,” he said.

  Lilly didn’t answer. The guy didn’t leave. Instead, he waited a few seconds, then reached into his back pocket.

  Now what? Lilly thought. Jehovah’s Witness? Human resource director for a strip club?

  “My name is Josh Bontrager,” he said. “I’m with the Philadelphia Police department.”

  He showed her a gold badge and ID card, but Lilly didn’t really see it. She felt the blood rushing in her ears, felt her heart start beating like a racehorse. This was it, she thought. This was how it was going to end. She had come to Philadelphia with a purpose, and now she was going to jail. All she could see was that sick twist, Mr. Mushroom Teeth, laying in that alley, drooling on the pavement.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  His voice brought her spiraling back to reality. She looked around, a little surprised to see all the people. She had forgotten where she was for a moment.

  “Lilly.”

  Her voice sounded small, even from the inside. She sounded like a wounded mouse.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Lilly.”

  “Ah, okay. Nice to meet you, Lilly. Great day, huh?”

  Lilly just stared at the ground.

  “Right. Well. I’d like to talk to you for a few seconds, if that’s okay.” She looked up. He didn’t look mad, or threatening or anything. Actually, he looked a little bit like a farm boy at a school dance. “What about?” she asked.

  He put his badge back into his pocket, held up an envelope. “I won’t take up too much of your time. I promise.”

  He got on the ground next to her, sat down, back against the wall. He put his feet out in front of him, crossed his legs. If he was going to arrest her, put her in handcuffs and haul her away, this was a pretty friggin’ weird way of going about it. They never played it this way on Law & Order. Not even on COPS.

  “Now, first off, I’m not going to ask you anything about your life, okay? I’m not going to ask you where you’re from, why you’re here, or what you’re doing. I’m not even going to ask you your last name. Deal?”

  For some reason, this made Lilly even more nervous. But getting up and running didn’t really seem like an option. This guy looked to be in pretty good shape. He’d catch her for sure. Whatever this was about, she would have to play along.

  “I guess.”

  “Good. I just want you to know that you’re not in any trouble, and you’re not going to get into any trouble for anything you tell me.”

  He opened the envelope, took out a pair of pictures.

  “I just want to ask you if you recognize a couple of people. If you could do that, it would really help me out.”

  He was lying to her. She knew it. All that business about not getting into trouble was bullshit. He was going to show her a picture of Mr. Mushroom Teeth, and a picture of that skateboard asshole by the bus station. She was going to get arrested for kneeing some pervert in the balls and burning that kid’s face, too. And she didn’t even do that one. Double assault and battery. She was going away for life.

  When he flipped over the first picture, Lilly felt a cool breeze blowing across her heart. It wasn’t Mr. Mushroom Teeth in all his creepy glory after all. It was a picture of a girl. Kind of heavyset, but she had on a pair of great hoop earrings and a killer necklace.

  “Do you recognize this girl?” he asked. “Her name is Monica.”

  Lilly took the picture from him, looked closely. The girl in the photograph looked like a girl she had gone to school with, Trish Carbone, but Trish had smaller eyes. Snake eyes. She didn’t like Trish Carbone. “No,” she said. “I don’t recognize her. Sorry.”

  “No sweat.” He put the picture back into the envelope, flipped over the other picture. This one was of a blond girl. She was really pretty.

  Like model pretty.

  “What about her?” he asked. “Have you ever seen her before?”

  Lilly scanned the photo. She didn’t know too many girls this pretty. Sure, there were girls at her school who looked good—rich girls from Rivercrest and Pine Hollow—but they were all haters. Mean Girls, Inc. This girl looked like someone she could hang out with. “No. Sorry again.”

  “That’s okay. You tried, and I appreciate it.”

  He slipped the second picture into the envelope, closed the clasp.

  “Just one more thing, and I’ll leave you to this beautiful day,” he said. “I want to give you a few names, see if they sound familiar.”

  “Okay.”

  “
Daria.”

  Lilly shook her head.

  “Starlight.”

  “No,” she said, absolutely positive her face would give her away. It didn’t.

  “Govinda.”

  “Is that a girl?”

  “I think so.”

  Lilly shrugged. “Don’t know her either.”

  “Okay.”

  He gathered his things together, preparing to leave.

  “I wasn’t much help, was I?”

  “Don’t worry about it. You did great,” he said. “Some people won’t even talk to me.”

  “Well that’s just plain rude.”

  He laughed. He had dimples. “It surely is. Back in Berks County, where I’m from? People are more than happy to conversate. Well, maybe not in Reading so much, but in Bechtelsville you can’t shut them up.”

  This guy is from Berks, Lilly thought. She knew there was something farm boy about him. She’d always been a sucker for farm boys. For a second she wanted him to stay and talk to her, but she knew that wasn’t going to happen.

  He stood up, brushed off his pants. “Well, thanks again. It is most appreciated.” He reached into his pocket and took out a little black wallet. He pulled out a card, handed it to her. “If you remember anything, or run into anyone who might have known these girls, please give me a call.”

  “I will.”

  He smiled, turned, and walked across the sidewalk. He waited for the light.

  “What was her name?” Lilly asked.

  Detective Joshua Bontrager spun around. “I’m sorry?”

  “The girl in the picture. The blond girl. You never told me her name.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Sorry. Great cop I am. It was Caitlin. Her name was Caitlin O’Riordan.”

  Lilly felt dizzy. It felt as if the earth was falling away beneath her, as if she had just chugged a fifth of bad whiskey and gotten on a Tilt-A-Whirl. And he was going to notice. He was going to notice something was wrong and ask her if she was okay and she was going to blurt everything out. Then she was going to jail for sure.

  But that’s not what happened. Although it felt as if her ears were jammed with wet cotton, it sounded like he said, “Have a great day.”