Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense by Richard Montanari Page A

steel bolt and nut,” he said.
    “Was the bolt done postmortem?” Jessica asked, hoping the answer would be yes.
    “I’d say it was,” Weyrich said. “Very little blood. I’ll get on it this afternoon. I’ll know more then.”
    Weyrich looked at them, found no more immediate questions pending. Walking up the steps, his cigarette was out and lit by the time he reached the top tread.
    Silence owned the room for a few moments. Many times, at a homicide scene, when the victim was a gang member shot by a rival warrior, or a tough guy laid out behind a bar by a fellow tough guy, the mood among the professionals delegated to probe, investigate, examine, and clean up after the carnage was one of brisk politeness, sometimes even lighthearted banter. The gallows humor, the off-color joke. Not this time. Everyone in this damp and hideous place went about his or her task with a grim determination, a common purpose that said: This is wrong .
    Byrne broke the silence. He held out his hands, palms skyward. “Ready to check for ID, Detective Balzano?”
    Jessica took a deep breath, centering herself. “Okay,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound as wobbly as she felt. She had anticipated this moment for months, but now that it was here, she found herself unprepared. Putting on a pair of latex gloves, she carefully approached the girl’s body.
    She had, of course, seen a number of corpses in her time on the street and in the Auto Unit. One time she had babysat a dead body in the backseat of a stolen Lexus on a ninety-five-degree day on the Schuylkill Expressway, trying not to watch the body, which seemed to bloat by the minute in the stifling car.
    In all those instances, she knew she was handing the investigation off.
    Now it was her turn.
    Someone was asking her for help.
    In front of her was a dead young girl whose hands were bolted together in eternal prayer. Jessica knew that the victim’s body, at this stage, had much to offer, by way of clues. She would never again be this close to the murderer: to his method, his pathology, his mind-set. Jessica opened her eyes wide, her senses on high alert.
    In the girl’s hands was a rosary. In Roman Catholicism, the rosary is a string of beads forming the shape of a circle, with a pendent crucifix, usually consisting of five sets of beads called decades, each composed of one large and ten smaller beads. On the large beads, the Lord’s Prayer is said. On the smaller beads, the Hail Mary.
    As Jessica approached, she saw that this rosary was made of black carved wood oval beads, with what appeared to be a Madonna of Lourdes center. The rosary was looped around the girl’s knuckles. It appeared to be a standard, inexpensive rosary, but on closer inspection Jessica noted that two of the five decades were missing.
    She gently examined the girl’s hands. Her nails were short and clean, exhibiting no evidence of a struggle. No breakage, no blood. There appeared to be no material beneath her nails, although they would bag her hands anyway. The bolt that passed through her hands entered and exited at the center of the palms, and was made of galvanized steel. The bolt appeared to be new, and was about four inches in length.
    Jessica looked closely at the mark on the girl’s forehead. The smudge formed a blue cruciform, as the ashes did on Ash Wednesday. Although Jessica was far from devout, she still knew and observed the major Catholic holy days. It had been nearly six weeks since Ash Wednesday, but this mark was fresh. It seemed to be made of a chalky substance.
    Lastly, Jessica looked at the label at the back of the girl’s sweater. Sometimes dry cleaners left a tag with all or part of the patron’s name. There was none.
    She stood up a little shakily, but confident she had done a competent examination. At least for a preliminary look.
    “Any ID?” Byrne stayed along the wall, his clever eyes scanning the scene, observing, absorbing.
    “No,” Jessica replied.
    Byrne grimaced.