And it suddenly hit me. I suddenly knew why that cemetery had free fill dirt. Why all cemeteries have free fill dirt. I thought about all those people who took them up on that offer over the years, filling their gardens, their potted plants, their window boxes. The cemeteries make space in the earth for the dead, and people take that dirt and grow things in it.'
Jessica just looked at Byrne. The longer she knew the man, the more layers she saw. 'That's, well, beautiful,' she said, getting a little emotional, battling it. 'I never would have thought of it that way.'
'Yeah, well,' Byrne said. 'We Irish are all poets, you know.' He uncapped the pint, took a swallow, capped it again. 'And drinkers.'
Jessica eased the bottle out of his hands. He didn't resist.
'Get some sleep, Kevin.'
'I will. I just hate it when we're getting played and I can't put my finger on it.'
'Me, too,' Jessica said. She fished her keys out of her pocket, snuck another peek at her watch, then immediately chided herself about it. 'You know, you ought to go running with me sometime.'
'Running.'
'Yeah,' she said. 'That's like walking, but faster.'
'Ah, okay. It kind of rings a bell. I think I did it once when I was a kid.'
'I may have a boxing match set up for the end of March, so I better start doing roadwork. We could run together. It does wonders, believe me. Clears the mind completely.'
Byrne tried to suppress the laughter. 'Jess. The only time I plan on running is when someone is chasing me. And I mean a big guy. With a knife.'
The wind picked up. Jessica shivered, turned up her collar. 'I'm gonna go.' There was a lot more she wanted to say, but there would be time. 'You sure you're okay?'
'Never better.'
Right, partner, she thought. She walked back to her car, slipped in, started it. As she pulled away she glanced at her rearview mirror, saw Byrne silhouetted against the lights on the other side of the river, now just another shadow in the night.
She looked at her watch. It was 1:15 AM.
It was Christmas Day.
44
Christmas morning broke clear and cold, bright with promise.
Pastor Roland Hannah and Deacon Charles Waite offered service at 7:00 AM. Roland's sermon was one of hope, of renewal. He spoke of The Cross and The Cradle. He quoted Matthew 2:1-12. The baskets overflowed.
Later, Roland and Charles sat at the table in the basement beneath the church, a pot of cooling coffee between them. In an hour they would begin to prepare a Christmas ham dinner for upwards of one hundred homeless people. It would be served at their new facility on Second Street.
'Look at this,' Charles said. He handed Roland the morning's Inquirer. There had been another murder. Nothing special in Philadelphia, but this one had resonance. Deep resonance. This one had an echo that reverberated over the years.
A woman had been found in Shawmont. She had been discovered at the old waterworks near the train station, just on the eastern bank of the Schuylkill.
Roland's pulse raced. Two bodies found on the banks of the Schuylkill River in one week. Then there was the story in the previous day's paper, an article reporting that Detective Walter Brigham had been murdered. Roland and Charles knew all about Walter Brigham.
There was no denying the truth of it.
Charlotte and her friend had been found on the bank of the Wis- sahickon. They had been posed, just like these two women. Maybe, after all these years, it was not about girls. Maybe it was about the water.
Maybe this was a sign.
Charles dropped to his knees and prayed. His big shoulders shook. In moments he was whispering in tongues. Charles was a glossolalic, a true believer who, when overtaken by the spirit, would speak in what he believed to be God's idiom, an edification of one's self. To the casual observer, it might have sounded like so much gibberish. To the believer, to one moved to tongues, it was the language of Heaven.
Roland glanced back at the newspaper, closed his eyes. Soon, a divine calm descended upon him, and a voice inside gave query to his thoughts.
Is it him?
Roland touched the crucifix around his neck.
And knew the answer.
PART THREE
45
'Why are we in here with the door closed, Sarge?' Park asked.
Tony Park was one of the few Korean-American detectives on the force. A family man in his late forties, a wizard on the computer, a skilled interrogator in the room, there was not a more practical, streetwise detective on the force than Anthony Kim Park. This time, his question was on the mind of everyone in the room.
The task force was four detectives strong. Kevin Byrne, Jessica Balzano, Joshua Bontrager, and Tony Park. Considering the enormous job of coordinating the forensic sections, collecting witness statements, conducting interviews, and all the other minutiae that made up a homicide investigation-a pair of related homicide investigations-the task force was meager. There simply was not enough manpower available.
'The door's closed for two reasons,' Ike Buchanan said, 'and I think you know the first one.'
They all did. Task forces were played close to the vest these days, especially those given the challenge of hunting a compulsive killer. Mostly because a small group of men and women tasked with tracking down an individual had a way of drawing that individual to them, putting wives, children, friends, and family in jeopardy. It had happened to both Jessica and Byrne. It happened more than the general public knew.
'The second reason is, and I'm sorry to have to say this, is that things have had a way of making it into the media from this office lately. I don't want to start any rumors or any panic,' Buchanan said. 'Besides, as far as the city is concerned, we're not sure we have a compulsive out there. Right now, the media thinks we have two unsolved homicides that may or not be related. Let's see if we can keep it that way for a while.'
It was always a delicate balance with the media. There were a lot of reasons not to give them too much information. Information had a way of rapidly becoming disinformation. If the media ran with a story that a serial killer was walking the streets of Philadelphia, many things could result, most of them bad. Not the least of which was the possibility of a copycat killer taking the opportunity to get rid of a mother-in-law, husband, wife, boyfriend, boss. On the other hand, there had been a number of occasions when the newspapers and television stations had broadcast a suspect sketch for the PPD and within days-sometimes hours-they'd had their man.
As of this morning, the day after Christmas, the department had not yet released any specific details about the second victim.
'Where are we on the ID on the Shawmont victim?' Buchanan asked.
'Her name was Tara Grendel,' Bontrager said. 'She was identified through her DMV records. Her car was found half in, half out of a parking space at an indoor lot on Walnut. We're not sure if that was the abduction site or
