Authors: Richard Montanari
259 BADLANDS
“Oh my goodness, no. I live here with my family.”
“Are they home now?”
“My daughters are out, and I’m afraid my wife is a bit under the
weather.” He gestured to the sideboard, which held a number of photos. His phantom family. He wondered if she would notice that all the photos were solo.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” the detective replied. “I hope she feels better soon.”
“Most kind of you to say.”
“They are going to stop you, Joseph. You cannot allow this to happen.”
The detective produced a photograph. “Do you recognize this girl?”
She presented a photograph of Elise Beausoleil. It was one he had seen before. He gave it its proper time, its owing. “Yes. I believe I do, but I cannot remember from where or when.”
“Her name is Elise Beausoleil.”
“Yes, of course. I remember now. A pair of detectives came around making inquiries. They spoke to my wife and eldest daughter about this young lady. I happened to be in the garden at the time. They stopped and asked me about her as well. I had not seen her.”
“Were these city detectives or private detectives?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know. What is the difference exactly?”
“Did they have gold badges?”
“Yes. I believe they did. In fact, I am certain of it.”
“They were the police,” she said. “Has anyone been around here since, inquiring about this girl?”
“She knows, Joseph. You cannot allow her to leave.”
Swann feigned deep thought. “I don’t think so.”
The detective made a note in her book. Swann angled to see it, but couldn’t. He put a hand into his pocket, palmed a chloroform ampoule. He would take her in the foyer.
“Once again, I appreciate your time.” She handed him a card. “If you think of anything that might help us, I’d appreciate a call.”
Swann removed his hand from his pocket. “By all means.”
He opened the front door. The pretty detective stepped out onto the porch, just as the FedEx man arrived. The two of them smiled at each other, made room.
Swann took the package, thanked the deliveryman. The drawer pulls no longer mattered. He closed the door, his heart fit to burst.
Upstairs, Claire screamed. It was an unearthly sound.
Swann closed his eyes, certain that the police officer had heard. He peeked through blinds. The woman was walking to her car, her chestnut hair luminous in the late afternoon sun. She was already talking into her cell phone.
And then she was gone.
SIXTY-ONE
A
t just after seven o’clock, six detectives and twelve patrol officers returned to the Roundhouse after having done a sweep canvass of the neighborhoods where Elise Beausoleil had been seen the previous January.
They distributed a few hundred photographs, talked to a few hundred people. Some recalled the first time the police came around looking for the girl. Most did not. None admitted to ever having seen her.
Before they got their coats off, a call came in from the communications unit.
They had a break in the case.
They gathered around a thirty- inch high- definition LCD monitor in the communications center. Six detectives, as well as Hell Rohmer and Lieutenant John Hurley, commanding officer of the unit. Tony Park sat at the computer keyboard.
“We found this about twenty minutes ago,” Hurley said.
Jessica looked at the monitor. It was a splash page, an entry to something called GothOde.
“What’s GothOde?” Josh Bontrager asked.
“It’s like YouTube,” Hell Rohmer said. “It’s nowhere near as big, but it’s ten times more demented. There are videos of every movie murder ever filmed, pseudo- snuff films, homemade perversions of every stripe. I’m thinking GothOde is a play on the word cathode, but don’t quote me. We followed that link and ran the top video. When we saw where it was going we shut it down, made the call.”
Park looked at Byrne. “You ready?”
“Yeah,” Byrne said.
Park clicked the entry link. Instantly the browser window opened a new web page. To Jessica it looked almost identical to a YouTube page—a main video on top, with linked videos along the side. Unlike YouTube, the background was black, and the logo, scrawled along the top, was written in a blood red.
Park clicked on the play button. Immediately a soundtrack started. It sounded like a string quartet.
“Does anyone know this music?” Jessica asked the room.
“Bach,” Hell Rohmer said. “J. S. Bach.
Sleepers Awake.
Cantata 140.”
The screen stayed black for the moment. The music continued.
“Any significance here?” Jessica asked, still unsure what this was all about. “Any relevance?”
Hell thought for a few seconds. “I think it’s about the assurance of salvation.”
“Josh? Anything to add?”
Jessica glanced at Bontrager. Bontrager took his right hand, palm down and sent it slicing the air over his head, meaning just that—this was way over his head.
A few seconds later a title faded up. White letters on a black background, a classic serif type, written in one line.
the seven wonders
“
I have seven girls,
” Byrne quoted.
“I fear for them. I fear for their safety.”
He pointed at the monitor. “Seven girls, seven wonders.”
Another fade to black, then a second screen, a graphic of red velvet curtains. Over it, another title.
part one: the garden of flowers
Soon the curtains parted, showing a small stage with a spotlight in the center. Seconds later a man stepped into the spotlight. He wore a black cutaway tuxedo, white shirt, red bow tie, a monocle. He stopped center stage. He looked to be in his forties, although the video was grainy and it was hard to discern details. He sported a Van Dyck goatee.
“Behold... the Garden of Flowers,” the man said. He had a slight German accent. He picked up a large woolen shawl, draped it over an arm, and began producing bouquets of flowers from beneath it, flinging them individually onto the stage. The bouquets appeared to be weighted, and have darts protruding from the bottom. One by one they stuck in the stage floor. When he had created a full circle, he gestured offstage. “And behold the lovely Odette.”
A young woman walked tentatively onto the small stage, and stepped into the circle of flowers. The girl was slight, pale, dark- haired. She was terribly frightened.
The girl was Elise Beausoleil.
Without another word, a large fabric cone descended over the girl. A few seconds later it was raised. The girl was now lying in the center of a gigantic floral mass, her head twisted at an unnatural angle. She didn’t move.
On-screen the man bowed. The curtains closed. The music faded out.
The detectives waited, but there was nothing else to see.
“Have you played the second video?” Byrne asked.
“No,” Park said.
“Play it.”
Park hovered the mouse over the second video, clicked.
part two: the girl without a middle
Sleepers Awake
was again the sound track. The curtains parted, revealing the same stage. Again a spotlight came up. Center stage were three brightly colored boxes similar to the ones they had found in the crawlspace of 4514 Shiloh Street. They were stacked. All three doors were open.
The man appeared. He was dressed exactly the same. “Behold... the Girl Without a Middle.” He held out his hand. A heavyset girl walked onto the stage. It was Monica Renzi. “And behold the lovely Odette.”
Monica was crying. She stepped into the boxes. The illusionist closed all three doors. He picked up a thin metal plate and shoved it between the top two boxes.
“My God,” someone said. “My God.”
There were no other words.
“Click on the next one,” Byrne said, his anger clearly rising.
Moments later, the third video began.
part three: the drowning girl
This time the curtain parted to show a large, empty glass tank. It looked similar to the glass display case in the Eighth Street crime scene. There was a girl sitting inside.
“It’s Caitlin,” Jessica said.
Within seconds the tank began to fill. Caitlin just sat there, as if she was accepting this fate. A diaphanous drape was lowered, hiding the tank. There was just the sound of the water beneath the heart- rending music of J. S. Bach.
Tony park clicked on the fourth video.
part four: the girl in the sword box
It was Katja Dovic in the Sword Box, a red lacquered box with slits cut into the top and sides. The vision of the swords being pushed into the closed container was as horrifying as anything they had ever witnessed.
Tony Park clicked on the remaining three screens, but none of them launched a video.
For a long time no one in the room said a word. It appeared that the killer’s kidnap attempt that morning had been thwarted, but there were a lot more girls from which he could choose.
“Can we find out where this is coming from?” Byrne asked.
“It’s my understanding that this GothOde is based in Romania,” Hell said. “Unfortunately, there’s no way for us to know from where these videos have been uploaded. He could be doing it from a cybercafe.”
“What about the FBI?” Dre Curtis asked.
“I put in a call and forwarded everything to the Computer Crimes Task Force,” Hurley said. “They have a forensic examiner on it now, although it will probably take a handful of court orders and three federal agencies to get anything done in a foreign country.”
It was then that Jessica noticed something at the bottom of the screen. “What’s this?” she asked, pointing to it.
There was a single word beneath the last video.
Corollarium.
It looked to be an active link. Before clicking on the link, Park navigated to an online Latin to English dictionary. He entered the word. The page displayed:
corollarium - i n. [a garland of flowers; a present, gratuity]
Park returned to the GothOde page, clicked the link. A small window opened. It was a still photograph of a room with rotting plaster and broken shelves. In the middle of the room, amid the debris, was what looked a like a large package, wrapped in thin green paper. Out of the top came a variety of fresh- cut flowers.
Through the window beyond the box was visible a vacant lot, partially covered in snow. At the other side of the lot was a mural covering a whole wall, an elaborate rendering that included a man blowing a ribbon of smoke over a city skyline.
“This is Philly,” Jessica said. “I know that mural. I know where this is.”
They all knew where it was. It was across from a corner building near Fifth and Cambria.
Jessica ran out of the room.
By the time the other detectives got to the parking lot she was gone.
Jessica paced in front of the address. The front door was padlocked. Across the street was the mural in the still photograph.
Byrne, Josh Bontrager, and Dre Curtis approached.
“Take the door down,” Jessica said.
“Jess,” Byrne said. “We should wait. We could—”
“Take it . . . the fuck
...down
!”
Bontrager looked to Byrne for direction. Byrne nodded. Bontrager
went into the trunk of his departmental sedan, came out with an iron
pry bar. He handed it to Byrne.
Byrne took the door off the hinges with the massive lever. Josh
Bontrager and Dre Curtis hauled it out of the way. Jessica and Byrne,
weapons drawn, entered the space. The area they had seen in the photograph was now piled with more trash. But the view out the barred
window was the same.
Jessica holstered her weapon and stormed across the room. She
began pulling trash off the huge pile of debris in the center. “Jess,” Byrne said.
She didn’t hear him. If she did, she did not acknowledge him. Soon
she uncovered the thing she sought, the thing she knew would still be
there, the thing that had been placed in this precise spot, waiting for
them.
“It’s a crime scene, Jess,” Byrne said. “You have to stop.” She turned to look at him. Her eyes stood with tears. Byrne had
never seen her like this.
“I can’t.”
Moments later she had all the trash thrown aside. In front of her lay
a body wrapped in green paper, the same kind of green paper used by
florists.
The Garden of Flowers.
The dead girl was his bouquet.
Jessica tore open the paper. The scent of dried flora and putrefying
flesh was overwhelming. Even in this decayed state it was obvious that
the girl’s neck had been broken. For a moment, Jessica did not move. Then she fell to her knees.
SIXTY-TWO
T
hey stood in the punishing heat. Around them buzzed yet another CSU team. Around them stretched another circle of yellow tape.
“This isn’t going to stop until he’s done all seven,” Jessica said. “There are three more girls out there who are going to die.”
Byrne had no response. Nothing he could say.
“The Seven Wonders. What the fuck is this all about, Kevin? What’s next?”
“Tony’s on it now,” Byrne said. “If the answer is out there he’ll find it. You know that.”
Until now, all four of these girls had lived in two dimensions. Photographs on paper, a graphic file on a computer screen, myriad details on a police activity log or an FBI sheet. But now they had seen them alive. All four girls had been breathing on those videos. Elise Beausoleil, Caitlin O’Riordan, Monica Renzi, Katja Dovic. All four of them had entered that chamber of horrors and never left. And if that was not enough, this madman had to apply a special brand of indignity by putting them on display, for the whole city to see.
Jessica had never wanted someone dead so badly in her life. And, God forgive her, she wanted to be the one who pulled the switch.
“Jessica?”
She turned. It was JoAnn Johnson, commander of the Auto Squad. The Auto Squad had citywide jurisdiction to locate vehicle chop shops, investigate car- theft rings, and coordinate investigations with the insurance industry. Jessica had worked in the unit, now a part of Major Crimes, for almost three years.
“Hey, JoAnn.” Jessica wiped her eyes. She could just imagine what she looked like. A crazed raccoon, maybe. JoAnn didn’t react in the least.
“Got a minute?”
Jessica and JoAnn stepped away. JoAnn handed her the preliminary report on the Acura.
They had towed the car to the police garage at McAllister and Whitaker, just a few blocks from the Twenty- Fourth District station. The order was to hold for prints and processing, so it was held inside. They had identified the owner.