Richard Montanari by The Echo Man Read Free Book Online Page B

east, Queen Village to the north,
Whitman to the south.
        One
of the oldest sections of the city, Pennsport had been slow in the development
of new projects, with some of the homes dating back to 1815. It was quite
possible to have a new block of row houses bookended by structures that had been
built when James Madison was president of the United States.
        When
Jessica and Stansfield pulled up to the crime scene - a boarded-up storefront
near the corner of Fifth and Federal Streets - a sector car was parked
diagonally across the street. Both Federal and Fifth were one-way streets and
at either end of the block stood a pair of uniformed officers, diverting
traffic. The Crime Scene Unit had not yet arrived, so there was no tape ringing
the perimeter yet. Budget cuts had forced the city to curtail new hires, to
postpone updating equipment, and these days there could be a two-hour or longer
lag in the arrival of key crime scene personnel.
        But
while CSU was not yet there, David Albrecht was, camera in hand.
        'Morning!'
he shouted from across the street.
         Great ,
Jessica thought. Another morning person. Her husband and Sophie were
morning people. Everyone around her was a morning person. Except Byrne. It was
one of the reasons they worked so well together. On most days they grunted at
each other until noon.
        Jessica
waved at David Albrecht, who promptly put up his camera and filmed the gesture.
Then Jessica glanced at Dennis Stansfield. Stansfield, seeing he was on camera,
buttoned his coat, sucked in his gut, and tried to look official.
     
        They
signed onto the log. The uniformed officer pointed down the alley.
        'Inside
or outside?' Jessica asked.
        'Inside,'
he said. 'But just.'
        The
scene was the rear entrance to a closed-up independent shoe store called All Soles.
In the back were steps leading down to the basement, a door through which the
various retail establishments that had been located there over the years
received their shipments. The small area behind the store was littered with
fast-food trash, discarded tires, the sort of urban detritus that people found
too time-consuming to put in the Dumpster that was located just a few feet
away.
        Jessica
and Stansfield stopped at the top of the steps. There was an iron handrail
leading down. Just as Jessica made a mental note to ask CSU to dust the
railing, Stansfield put his hand on it, striking a macho pose, lording his gold
badge over the gathering personnel.
        'Um,
detective?' Jessica said.
        Stansfield
looked over. Jessica pointed at his hand. Stansfield realized that he was
possibly contaminating the site, and withdrew his hand as if he were grabbing a
red-hot poker.
        Jessica
turned her attention to the entrance to the crime scene.
        There
were four steps. She scanned the immediate area, saw no blood trail. The door
was open just a few inches. She walked down the stairs, edged open the door,
Stansfield a little too close behind her. His cologne was nauseating. It would
soon become welcome.
        'Holy
shit,' said Stansfield.
        The
victim was a white male of undeterminable age - undeterminable partly because
they could not see all of his face. He was lying in the middle of the small
dusty storage room, amid cardboard boxes, plastic buckets, wooden forklift
pallets. Jessica immediately saw the deep purple bruises on his wrists and
ankles. The victim, it appeared, had been shackled. There was no blood, no sign
of struggle in this room.
        But
two things gave her pause. First, the victim's forehead and eyes were wrapped
in a band of white paper. The paper was about five inches wide and completely
encircled the man's head. Across the top of the band was a streak of brown, a
straight line drawn in what could have been dried blood. Beneath it was another
spot, this one a nearly perfect oval about an inch wide. The paper overlapped
at the left side of