'Does this person still live there?' Roland asked. 'The person you suspected?'
'Oh, yes,' Sean said. 'I can give you the address. Or I can even show you, if you like.'
'That would be good,' Roland said.
Sean looked at his watch. 'I have to work today,' he said. 'But I can go tomorrow.'
Roland glanced at Charles. Charles left the room. 'That will be fine.'
Roland walked Sean toward the door, his arm around the young man's shoulders.
'Did I do the right thing in telling you, Pastor?' Sean asked.
'Oh my, yes,' Roland said, opening the door. 'It was the right thing to do.' He held the young man in another deep embrace. He found that Sean was shaking. 'I'll take care of everything.'
'Okay,' Sean said. 'Tomorrow then?'
'Yes,' Roland replied. 'Tomorrow.'
68
In his dream they have no faces. In his dream they stand in front of him, statuary, statuesque, unmoving. In his dream he cannot see their eyes, but nevertheless knows they are looking at him, accusing him, demanding justice. Their silhouettes cascade into the fog, one after the other, a grim, unflinching still-life army of the dead.
He knows their names. He recalls the position of their bodies. He remembers their smells, the way their flesh felt beneath his touch, the way their waxy skin, in death, did not respond.
But he cannot see their faces.
And yet their names echo in his dream-chamber of remembrance. Lisette Simon, Kristina Jakos, Tara Grendel.
He hears a woman crying softly. It is Sa'mantha Fanning, and there is nothing he can do to help her. He sees her walking down the hallway. He follows, but with every step the corridor grows, lengthens, darkens. He opens the door at the end, but she is gone. In her place is a man carved of shadows. He draws his weapon, levels, aims, fires.
Smoke.
Kevin Byrne woke with a start, his heart pounding in his chest. He glanced at the clock. It was 3:50 AM. He looked around his bedroom. Empty. No specters, no ghosts, no shambling parade of corpses.
Just the dream-sound of water, just the knowledge that all of them, all the faceless dead in the world, were standing in the river.
69
On the morning of the last day of the year the sun was bone pale. The weather forecast predicted a snowstorm.
Jessica was off duty, but her mind was not. Her thoughts jumped from Walt Brigham to the three women found on the banks of the river to Sa'mantha Fanning. Sa'mantha had still not been found. The department did not hold out much hope that she was still alive.
Vincent was on duty; Sophie was bundled off to her grandfather's house for New Year's Eve. Jessica had the place to herself. She could do whatever she wanted.
So why was she sitting in her kitchen, nursing her fourth cup of coffee, thinking about the dead?
At just after eight o'clock there was a knock at her door. It was Nicci Malone.
'Hey,' Jessica said, more than a little surprised. 'Come on in.'
Nicci stepped inside. 'Man, it's cold.'
'Coffee?'
'Oh, yeah.'
They sat at the dining room table. Nicci had brought a number of files.
'There's something here you should see,' Nicci said. She was pumped.
She opened a large envelope, took out a few photocopied pages. They were pages from Walt Brigham's notebook. Not his official detective's book, but a second, personal notebook. The last entry regarded the Annemarie DiCillo case, dated two days before Walt's murder. The notations were in Walt's now familiar cryptic hand.
Nicci had also signed out the DiCillo PPD homicide case file. Jessica scanned it.
Byrne had told Jessica about the case, but seeing the details made her sick. Two little girls at their birthday party in Fairmount Park in 1995. Annemarie DiCillo and Charlotte Waite. They had walked into the forest, and never walked out. How many times had Jessica taken her own daughter to the park? How many times had she taken her eyes off Sophie just for a second?
Jessica looked at the crime-scene photographs. The girls were found near the base of a pine tree. Close up photographs showed what appeared to be a makeshift nest built around them.
There were a few dozen witness statements from families that were in the park that day. No one seemed to have seen anything. The little girls were there one minute, and the next they were gone. Police were called at about 7 PM that evening, and a tender-age search was conducted, involving two officers and dogs from the K-9 unit. At 3 AM the next morning the girls were found near the bank of the Wissahickon Creek.
Over the next few years there were periodic entries into the file, mostly from Walt Brigham, some from his partner John Longo. Each of the entries was similar. Nothing new.
'Look.' Nicci took out the photographs of the farmhouse, flipped them over. On the back of one picture was the partial zip code. On the other were the three letters ADC. Nicci pointed to a timeline in Walt Brigham's notes. Among the many bits of shorthand were the same letters: ADC.
ADC was Annemarie DiCillo.
A jolt of electricity shot through Jessica. The farmhouse had something to do with Annemarie's murder. And Annemarie's murder had something to do with Walt Brigham's death.
'Walt was getting close.' Jessica said. 'He was murdered because he was closing in on the killer.'
'Bingo.'
Jessica considered the evidence and the theory. Nicci was probably right. 'What do you want to do?' she asked.
Nicci tapped the picture of the farmhouse. 'I want to take a ride to Berks County. Maybe we can find this house.'
Jessica was on her feet in an instant. 'I'll go with you.'
'Aren't you off duty?'
Jessica laughed. 'What's off duty?'
'It's New Year's Eve.'
'As long as I'm home and in my husband's arms by midnight, I'm good.'
At just after 9 AM on December 31, Detectives Jessica Balzano and Nicolette Malone of the Philadelphia Police Department's Homicide Division got on the Schuylkill Expressway. They headed to Berks County, Pennsylvania.
They headed upriver.
PART FOUR
