Still, as urbane as he had become, Josh Bontrager would forever be known throughout the unit as the first Amishide cop in Philadelphia history.
Bontrager put the cassette player on top of a rusted grill made from a fifty-gallon drum, an abandoned barbecue sitting in the middle of the vacant lot. A few seconds later he had the tape cued up. 'Ready?' 'Hit it,' Jessica said. Bontrager hit PLAY.
'Philadelphia Police Department Hotline,' the female officer said. 'Yes, my name is Jeremiah Crosley, and I have information that might be helpful in a murder case you are investigating.'
The voice sounded white male, thirties or forties, educated. The accent was Philly, but with something lurking beneath. 'Would you spell your last name for me please, sir?' The man did.
'May I have your home address?'
'I live at 2097 Dodgson Street.'
'And where is that located?'
'In Queen Village. But I am not there now.'
'And which case are you calling about?'
'The Caitlin O'Riordan case.'
'Go ahead, sir.'
'I killed her.'
At this point there was a quick intake of breath. It wasn't clear if it was the caller or the officer. Jessica would bet it was the officer. You could be a cop forty years, investigate thousands of cases, and never hear those words. 'And when did you do this, sir?' 'It was in May of this year.' 'Do you remember the exact date?' 'It was the second of May, I believe.' 'Do you recall the time of day?' 'I do not.' I do not, Jessica thought. No contractions. She made a note. 'If you doubt that I am telling the truth, I can prove it to you.' 'How will you do that, sir?' 'I have something of hers.' 'You have something?'
'Yes. A button from her jacket. Third from the bottom. I have sent it to you. It will come in the mail today.' 'Where are you right now, sir?'
'I will get to that in a second. I just want to have some assurances.'
'I can't promise you anything, sir. But I'll listen to whatever it is you have to say.'
'We live in a world in which a person's word is no longer valid currency. I have seven girls. I fear for them. I fear for their safety. Do you promise me no harm will come to them?'
Seven girls, Jessica thought.
'If they are in no way responsible for this or any other crime, they will not be involved. I promise you.'
One final hesitation.
'I am at a location near Second and Diamond. It is cold here.'
It is cold here, Jessica thought. What does that mean? The temperature had already topped ninety degrees.
'What's the address?'
'I do not know. But you will know it by its red door.'
'Sir, if you'll stay on the line for-'
The line went dead. Josh Bontrager hit STOP.
Jessica glanced at her partner. 'What do you think?'
Byrne gave it a few moments. 'I'm not sure. Ask me when we get the full report back from the lab on that button.'
It was common practice to run a PCIC and NCIC check on anyone who called in with information, especially those who called in to confess to a major crime. According to the boss, there was no record of a Jeremiah Crosley- criminal, DMV, or otherwise-in the city of Philadelphia. His Queen Village address turned out to be nonexistent. There was no Dodgson Street.
'Okay,' Jessica finally said. 'Where to?'
'Let's go back to the Eighth Street scene,' Byrne said. 'I want to recanvass. Let's bring the cassette and see if anyone around there recognizes our boy's voice. Maybe after that we can take another ride to Millersville.'
A day earlier they had gone to Millersville to speak with Robert and Marilyn O'Riordan. Not to conduct a formal interview-the original team had done that twice-but to assure them that the investigation was moving forward. Robert O'Riordan had been sullen and uncooperative, his wife had been nearly catatonic. They were two people all but incapacitated by the torment of grief, the black hole of an indescribable loss. Jessica had seen it many times, but each time was a fresh arrow in her heart.
'Let's do it.' Jessica grabbed the cassette player. 'Thanks for bringing this down, Josh.'
'No problem.'
Before Jessica could turn and head to the car, Byrne put a hand on her arm.
'Jess.'
Byrne was pointing at a dilapidated refrigerator against the brick wall of the music store. Or what was left of the refrigerator. It was an ancient model from the 1950s or 1960s, at one time a built-in, but the side paneling had long ago been stripped away. It appeared the appliance had originally been a powder blue or green, but age and rust and soot had darkened it to a deep brown. The refrigerator door hung at a crooked angle.
Along the top, on the skewed freezer door, was a logo. Although the chrome letters were long gone, the discolored outline of the brand name remained.
Crosley.
The brand dated back to the 1920s. Jessica recalled a Crosley fridge in her grandmother's house on Christian Street. They weren't that common anymore.
My name is Jeremiah Crosley.
'Could this be a coincidence?' Jessica asked.
'We can only hope so,' Byrne replied, but Jessica could tell he didn't really believe it. The alternative led them down a path nobody wanted to follow.
Byrne reached out, opened the refrigerator door.
Inside, on the one remaining shelf, was a large laboratory specimen jar, half-filled with a filmy red fluid. Something was suspended in the liquid.
Jessica knew what it was. She had been to enough autopsies.
It was a human heart.
THREE
Whilethey waited for the crime scene unit to arrive and begin processing the scene, Josh Bontrager took digital photographs; of the lot, the graffiti on the shanty wall, the refrigerator, the neighborhood, the gathering rubberneckers. Jessica and Byrne played the recording three more times. Nothing leapt out to identify the caller.
And while there were many things they did not yet understand about what they had just found, they knew these human remains did not belong to their victim. Caitlin O'Riordan had not been mutilated in any way.
It's cold here, Jessica thought. He had been talking about the refrigerator.
'Guys.' Bontrager pointed behind the refrigerator. 'There's something back here.'
'What is it?' Jessica asked.
'No idea.' He turned to Byrne. 'Give me a hand.'
They got on either side of the hulking appliance. When the fridge was a few feet from the wall, Jessica stepped behind it. Years of dust and grunge coated the area where the compressor once was.
In its place was a book of some sort; chunky, with a black cover, no dust jacket. Watermarks dotted the linen finish. Jessica put on a latex glove, gently retrieved the book. It was a hardbound edition of The New Oxford Bible.
Jessica checked the front and back of the book. No inscriptions or writing of any kind. She checked the bottom edge. A red ribbon marked a page, splitting the book in half. She carefully lifted the ribbon. The book fell open.
