1
   REQUIEM FOR A POSTMAN
   by
   MARGARET L. PRESS
   (Draft of  July 5, 1991)
   
   
    Prologue
   
        There is nothing deader than a dead dog.  The hair
lies oily and flat against the skin.  The chest is deflated
and the carcass is a prisoner of gravity until the
stiffening makes it rigid.  One force or another.  But never
again its own.  Ray Bishop lifted what was once his wife's
spaniel into a black Hefty bag and lowered it into the hole
behind the garage.
        Thinking that maybe the bag wasn't such a good
idea, he extracted it, finally.  To restore a bit of
ceremony, he went into the kitchen and got the last of the
Milk-Bones from the cupboard under the sink.  He returned to
the graveside.  Bishop shook the box solemnly over the dog.
The only sound was of the bones sliding off the cardboard.
They made no noise as they fell upon the fur.
        While his wife Christmas-shopped, Bishop shoveled
back the dirt.  He was lucky the ground had still been soft
for December.  When he was done, the yard restored, shovel
put away, he returned to the kitchen to wash his hands and
to weep.
    Chapter 1
   
   
   Exaudi orationem meam;
   ad te omnis caro veniet.
   
              Hear my prayer,
              unto you shall all flesh come.
   
                        Psalm 65:2
   
   
    "Hate it when the flies get to them before we do."
Detective Sergeant Gabriel Dunn had taken a few minutes
accommodating himself to the stench in the men's cottage
before approaching the body.
   From his post at the doorway, the patrolman grunted in a
barely audible response, "Gotta be the worst part of dying,
huh?  Maggots in your eyes."
   Sergeant Dunn let out his breath slowly.  "Like they're
looking up at you and saying, 'where ya been?'" he said.
"Guy's missing two weeks and he turns up three hundred yards
from his house.  You sure it's him, Brian?"
   Officer Brian Hurd had been the primary officer called
to the scene.  The Willows, which included the park, was
part of the twenty-one car beat, Hurd's for the past six
years.  He knew the residents well.  Stable, quiet, a lot of
vets.  Not much turnover.  "Yeah, I'm sure.  His face is
pretty distinctive.  Even with all the uninvited guests."
Hurd always sounded like he had laryngitis.
   Puffy and distorted from decay, faces took on a new kind
of distinction.  Hardly a noble fate, Dunn thought.
Entombed in the men's room of your local park with insects
in your face.  Perpetuating the original assault.
Prolonging the demise.  Somehow you're not done dying until
someone with two legs discovers you.  The detective looked
at his watch.  Twelve fifty- three P.M., Monday, March 19.
Well, you're dead now, Mr. Bishop.  Real dead.
   Dunn swung the stream light around the chamber.
Fixtures and corners, caught as if in oncoming headlights,
were bathed in rusty illumination.  High windows on either
side would afford a cross breeze without their winter
shutters, but now offered no air, no relief, and no light.
Across from the half dozen stalls were a row of urinals.  At
the end of the room were a couple of sinks and a foggy
mirror.  In front of the sinks was the former postman,
stretched at an angle and lying on his back.  The cement
floor between the threshold and the corpse looked scraped
clean and free of debris.
   The thirty-six year old detective sergeant turned his
attention again to the dead man.  Male, Caucasian, looked to
be in his late fifties, early sixties.  About a hundred and
seventy, he guessed, despite the distension, and five seven
or so.  Dunn was pretty used to estimating heights from
lengths in this job.  He bent down and shone the light into
what was left of the eyes.  The State might have to pull in
an entomologist to help place the time of death.
   Dunn crouched, mindful of where he placed his feet.
Careful prodding revealed no stiffness.  Most likely it was
long gone.  The discoloration from early stages of
decomposition masked any traces of postmortem lividity.  A
single wound, forceful enough to break the skin, adorned the
left temple.  The head was turned slightly to one side, and
behind the left ear, the hair was matted with dried blood.
No pool blemished the floor below, however.  Only a brown
smear testified to this off-season intrusion.
   Not much else he could check until the lab arrived.
Finally he stood up.  "Talk to me, Brian."
   Hurd opened up his notebook.  With rasping voice, the
patrolman recounted his initial observations, the time of
the call, and everyone's movements since his arrival.  A Mr.
Arnie Costa, supervisor from the Department of Public Works,
had opened the door, but had touched nothing else.  "The
medical examiner's on her way.  State's been notified."
   Dunn joined him in the doorway.  "I want Mr. Costa to
show us exactly where he stepped.  Also, let's get
elimination prints of his hands and shoes before he
disappears.  Where is he now?"
   "I told him to stick around."
   Dunn stepped outside where cruisers were gathering like
flies.  He took several lungsful of fresh air.  Despite the
overcast, it actually felt like spring, smelling of green
and tasting of the sea.  The audience was assembling.  The
local dicks were cooling their heels.  The State, in its own
good time, would be making their entrance shortly, moving in
with the faint threat of higher jurisdiction, changing the
scene into The Scene.  When the invasion was over, it would
be Dunn's case.  But for the next two hours, he would be
tripping over Crime Prevention and Control guys from the
DA's office, busy trying to strike a perfect balance between
sounding helpful and being patronizing.  The photo and lab
team would come in, be useful, then return to Boston to let
the spoils age.
   Yellow crime-scene tape had been strung around the trees
nearest the cottage.  Officer Paul Szymanski, who had been
Hurd's backup, was practicing some measure of crowd control
on the growing public.  Half the Salem Police Department
were milling around unsupervised waiting to get their look,
with vehicles and manpower still pulling up like latecomers
to the Christmas ball.  Dunn began to commandeer every cop
who felt important enough to step out of his cruiser.
Rather than watch in frustration as the scene was trampled,
he had his guests organize a grid search of the park.  When
the chief pulled up, Dunn exercised the full extent of his
authority in the case and sent him out for coffee and
doughnuts.  A symphony of radios chorused like hens from the
marked units clogging the parking lot.
   Before the searchers had a chance to destroy it, Dunn
started to check out the cordoned area himself.  He circled
the cottage slowly, inspecting the window shutters for signs
of force, and scanning the ground for loose rocks or places
a weapon might have been discarded.  He was halfway around
when Hurd's cracking voice called out, "Lab's here."
   Behind them came the doughnuts, and behind the doughnuts
came the medical examiner.  The waiting was over.  After the
formalities and pleasantries, Dunn hung around until
everything of interest had been photographed and listed.
Not much of a haul; this scene was pretty unyielding.  While
the lab set about rehashing and bracketing, the detective
went to find Arnie Costa.
   
   On the other side of the parking lot, the Salem Willows
Park arcade, known locally as "the line," was still closed
for the season.  Faded orange rowboats, rentals from
Memorial Day through late October, were stacked between
Hobbs's popcorn stand and Salem Lowe's Chow Mein.  The
park's main footpath was now littered with dead leaves,
devoid of its popcorn boxes and summer attire, and the kids
who, six months ago, crouched down to peel gum off the
sidewalk.
   The grounds embraced the eastern tip of the Salem
Willows promontory, which separated Beverly and Salem
harbors.  A few green gazebos were elevated to give ocean
views on all sides that once were idyllic.  Nowadays, the
Beverly shoreline to the north was branded with a pair of
golden arches.  To the southwest, the towering stacks of the
New England light plant, which occupied a sizable chunk of
the Willows, intruded upon each vista.
   Except for the small cleanup crew from the DPW, the park
had been still that morning.  The pair of swans, which
before every St. Patrick's Day briefly grace the harbor
periphery, were late this year.  Weeks ago the last of the
Canada geese had left.  The cormorants were a month off.
Only a few gulls were in attendance, and the gray ducks of
assorted varieties known to the hunters.  And there were the
dogs.
   The men's and ladies' cottages took up discreet
residence close to the road, hidden from view by the
graceful willow trees for which the peninsula was named.
Green shutters covered the high, frosted windows, protecting
against the winter's fury.  "Closed" signs adorned each
door.  The water had been shut off, and dozing mosquitoes
clung to the damp tiles within.  By noon the temperature had
hit fifty and the dogs had come sniffing round the men's-
room door, painted green and bolted shut.
   The dogs of the Willows came with every season.  Like
the ducks, they needed no justification and had unknowable
purposes.  Some followed daily schedules more predictable
than the commuter train, which rumbled incongruously across
the Beverly Harbor bridge into Salem each hour.  Dogs
everywhere patrol the earth with a narrow but acute
sensitivity for things gone wrong.
   Two in particular, a stringy brown collie and a small
black all-American, made the rounds of the entire Willows
each morning, finishing down at the park around ten.
Mondays took them longer because it was trash pickup day.
It was just after noon when they had arrived at the cottage
door.  Approaching the threshold, the smaller dog had nosed
his way up to the gap at the bottom of the door and had
started to whine.  Finally it was the collie's barking that
had attracted the attention of the Public Works crew.
   Dunn located the DPW men in the tiny amphitheater at the
far end of the park.  Perching on the backs of the benches,
they were talking quietly among themselves.  Work had come
to a complete stop.  They had collectively decided that to
best lend assistance to the police, nothing more on the
entire grounds should be touched.  Sitting by himself a few
rows over, the white-haired supervisor stared at the empty
stage where last summer he had watched the Air Force band
perform a night of military fanfares.  Dunn went over and
sat down beside him.
   "The officer said I could come down to the station for
the prints later," Mr. Costa announced, a bit defensively.
He wasn't about to detach himself from the bench.
   "That's fine, Mr. Costa.  Just wear the same shoes."
Dunn offered him a doughnut.
   The man shook his head.  "I lost it in there, you know."
   "I know," Dunn answered.  "Understandable.  Can you tell
me exactly what you saw and did?"
   "I hardly went in.  I could smell it as soon as I turned
the doorknob.  Swung it halfway open and saw him."
   "There was no light."
   "The light from the door.  I could see his foot.  And I
could hear the flies.  That was what got me ... the
buzzing."
   The detective considered asking him how he knew the foot
was dead, but Mr. Costa's face was as blanched as his hair.
   Leaving the supervisor to his recuperation, Dunn went
back and found Officer Szymanski.  "Paul, I'd like you to
notify the wife.  Call in and find out where she works.
Make sure she's taken home.  I'll be by to talk to her when
I'm through here."
   "You don't need her here for identification?"
   "Brian is good enough for the moment.  I don't want her
seeing him like this."
   
   Mrs. Ray Bishop had reported her husband missing on
March 5.  Only three years away from retirement, he was not
of an age where wandering off would have been a credible
explanation.  Nor had anyone been able to imagine a reason
why he would willfully disappear.  Every weekend for thirty-
five years, he had poured his soul into his house and
garden.  Energy and affection that might have been absorbed
by children had been diverted into flower beds with clay
animals, chronically trimmed lawn and hedges, and a home out
of Family Handyman.
   Everyone had known Bishop was counting the months.  His
job with the post office had become barely tolerable, as
happens when one loses interest.  Nevertheless, he had
seldom taken sick leave, and had arrived punctually for each
shift.  But on the fifth of March, Bishop had not shown up.
Retirement had come early.
   
   After eight years as detective, Dunn took his corpses
seriously.  Unlike Boston, where homicide is weekly fare,
death in Salem tends toward natural causes.  But once or
twice a year, it is helped along by someone who benefits
from the demise.  Dunn's job was to find those who had
helped.  He was still twenty years away from the ulcers and
heart disease that the job promised in the end.  Not yet at
the age where cynicism and frustration would cripple him,
but enough years of good police work to have acquired some
measure of competence, wisdom, and respect.  His time on the
street notwithstanding, Dunn often felt that his acceptance
by his fellow officers was based more on his not disgracing
himself in softball than on his investigative or supervisory
prowess.  Despite a lanky runner's build, Dunn was not
excessively athletic.  The Salem Police Department softball
team was one of the more perilous facets of his job.
   Neither was he overly erudite.  Mild dyslexia diagnosed
late in his childhood had prevented him from becoming a
strong reader.  Dunn was keenly aware of the cost.
Throughout his life he had gravitated to more comfortable
channels of communication.  Music was his passion; pounding
on his upright piano was his release.
   Dunn was not illiterate.  He had, with difficulty,
learned to read and to compensate well, struggling his way
through a bachelor's degree at a local college.  On his
first police case he had scrambled a license number, wasting
two days of his time and nearly costing him the case.  Since
then he had been meticulous; every note he took, every
report he read, was done laboriously and accurately.  At
home the mental effort of the day left the detective drained
and aversive to the written word.  Dunn had never subscribed
to a newspaper, except during the four years of his ill-
fated marriage.  He never read owners' manuals or assembly
instructions.  Much of his early sleuthing habits came from
having to assemble patio furniture or set his VCR up for
Timer Record, all without print.
   
   The men from the lab were winding up.  The chemist had
been unable to raise any recent traces of human blood,
visible or occult.  A few fresh prints had been obtained
from the doorjamb, quite possibly Mr. Costa's.  A couple of
footprints.  No obviously significant evidence had been
found in the room, aside from the cadaver.  They had
collected a small amount of trash, including a couple of
cigarette butts, which now occupied a plastic bag destined
for Boston.  After the photographer finished his last roll,
the three packed up their equipment and turned the cottage
over to the medical examiner.
   Dunn had worked with Dr. Gloria Mei before and knew she
didn't like to be crowded.  He watched quietly from the
doorway while she finished conducting her examination by
flashlight.  Hurd peered over his shoulder.
   "Wouldn't the scarcity of blood indicate he died
immediately?"  Hurd asked hoarsely.  Hurd hoped to make
detective someday.
   Dunn shook his head.  "Oh, this guy bled all right.  He
just didn't bleed here."
   
   Dr. Mei emerged from the cottage and removed her latex
gloves from tiny hands.  At five ten, Dunn towered over her
by nearly a foot.  The guys from the DA's office liked to
call her Dr. Ruth.  She tucked her flashlight into her kit
with an air of finality.
   "Sorry, Gabriel.  We won't be able to post him until
tomorrow ... we're so backed up." "Can't get good help
nowadays?" he asked.
   "Not at sixty-five dollars a case."
   "What can you give me now, Gloria?"
   "Without the lividity I can't tell yet if he was moved
after death.  May know from the post."
   "How about the wound?"
   "For now, blunt weapon to the left temple.  No other
obvious wounds or signs of fighting.  Nails are clean.  Some
scratches on the backs of his hands.  I'd say he was
dragged.  Back of his trousers looked dragged, anyway.  The
jacket was clean, though.  Any witnesses I should talk to?"
   Dunn shook his head.  "How long's he been dead?" he
asked.
   "Difficult.  Depends how long he was out in the freezing
temperatures.  Rigor mortis has completely passed.  The cold
has slowed down the decomposition."  She looked out toward
the parking lot.  "By the way, I sent Rescue away.  Who
called for them?  You have a new beat man?"
   "I believe Mr. Costa notified every city department in
the book.  You think it's OK to dismiss the harbormaster,
too?"
   "Mr. Bishop has been pronounced.  You can dismiss the
dog constable if you like.  I'll call you when we've
scheduled the post."
   Dunn gave her a smile.  "Thanks.  Don't spend it all in
one place, Gloria."
   Dr. Mei returned to her car and called for an
undertaker.  She contacted Salem Hospital to alert them a
corpse was arriving, that it should be held for autopsy in
the morning.  Then she was gone.
   Dunn watched while the body was removed.  Then he took a
closer look at the floor.  Some effort had been made,
apparently, to obscure the killer's footprints.  The
concrete immediately surrrounding where the corpse had lain
was smudged.  Whoever it was had probably worked in the dark
or by flashlight, however, so there was still a possibility
the lab might have salvaged some remnant.  Finally he turned
his attention to the door and padlock.  Hurd was still
stationed at the threshold.  Dunn asked him about the state
of the lock when the police had arrived.  DPW had come up
with a key and had themselves unlocked it prior to calling
the police.
   "Are they sure it was locked?  Not just, somehow,
closed?"  Dunn asked.
   "Absolutely.  They tried to open it while they hunted
down Mr. Costa.  He had the key."
   Dunn made a mental note to talk to Mr. Costa again,
about when these cabins were locked up for the winter and
who had keys besides the park officer and DPW.  Then he took
a close look at the hasp.  A cheaply installed hasp can make
a joke of even the best of padlocks.  And sure enough, this
hasp was a riot.  Each piece was attached to its destination
by a couple of wood screws.  Or rather, wood screw, in the
case of the piece on the door.  One screw was gone.  Dunn
looked slowly down to the ground, letting his eyes trickle
down the doorjamb half expecting to see it caught in some
crevice.  He crouched down and probed the cracks around the
threshold with his Swiss Army knife.  Unsatisfied, he
straightened up and, taking a small pen light from his
pocket, gave his full concentration to the remaining screw.
The head, like the hasp, had been painted green once,
probably in this decade.  Leaning closer, he could see the
fresh signs of a screwdriver's work.  This screw had been
removed recently.  Faint markings, scratching off tiny bits
of paint, also were visible around the second hole.  Whoever
had come here had removed two screws and replaced one.  The
blond detective, hair the color of hay, dropped his head for
one last search.
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
    Chapter 2
   Kyrie eleison
   Christe eleison.
   
              Lord, have mercy
              Christ, have mercy.
   
                        Requiem "Kyrie"
   
   
    Across the harbor, Dover Landry had gone back to her
room on Rantoul Street during a late lunch break.  Hauling
out a manila folder from the chest by her bed, she dumped
the contents onto the linoleum camping table set up in the
middle of the floor.  From the pile before her she extracted
a list of names and addresses.  From her jacket pocket she
produced a small piece of notepaper with Cabot Street
Antiques printed on the top, followed by a string of
penciled phone numbers.  The young woman laid it to one side
and began running her finger down the list of names.  Near
the bottom of the page she came to Bishop.  She stopped.
Fishing out the pencil from the other pocket, Dover slowly
checked it off.
    The Salem Police Department occupied a condemned
building on the corner of Central and Charter streets, four
blocks from the nearest witch museum.  The inadequacies of
the facility extended to what served as the parking lot.
The short block of Central Street had been bricked at one
end, dissuading traffic and corraling cruisers during shift
changes into a coagulated and confused flock at the front
door.  There were reserved spaces for the Criminal
Investigation Division, the Juvenile officer, Patrol
supervisor, Executive officer, and Chief.  There were no
spaces for the public.  Dunn swung the recently seized blue
Camaro into one of the spaces marked CID and killed the
engine.  He went upstairs to the detectives' office, rang
the officer in charge and asked him to locate Detective Jake
Myles.  Then he pulled the missing-person file on Ray
Bishop.  He spread the contents out on his desk.  Included
were assorted statements obtained from family, neighbors and
friends two weeks earlier.  According to those who knew him,
Bishop had had no known enemies, relevant medical problems,
was not on drugs, owed no money, was not cheating on his
wife.  No recent despondency, no prior history, or trouble
at work.  His wife knew of no unusual phone calls at the
house.  Last seen wearing a green jacket, reported by a
neighbor.  A missing-person bulletin was entered into the
National Crime Information Center computer Monday afternoon,
March 5, with a separate entry on his Lincoln.  The one on
the vehicle was taken out later the same day when it turned
up at the Salem commuter rail station.  A hard copy of the
BOLO on the car was stuck in the back:  Be On Look-
Out...operator of this car is possibly an involuntary
missing person.  Please hold for prints and notify Det. J.
Myles, Salem PD....  A neighbor down the street at No. 55
had once been involved in an altercation with Bishop over a
dog, ending up with some yelling and shoving and the threat
of a lawsuit.  Others who lived on Monument Road had
confirmed that Bishop's dog had been a nuisance since the
day it had arrived, but few wanted to arouse his notoriously
quick temper over it.  The neighbor immediately to the east,
No. 94, the last house in the row, had had a dispute over
the placement and height of a fence separating the two
properties.  The picture that emerged was of a man who might
have had no mortal enemies, but who certainly had few
friends.  The OIC rang Dunn's extension. "He's still in
court, Gabe.  Want him beeped?" "Nah.  I'm going back out to
Monument Road.  I'll call in after four.  Give him a message
when he next checks in.  Ray Bishop's been found.  He's
cold."  Officer Szymanski had visited Coleen Bishop before
Dunn arrived.  The Bishops' Cape house was near the end of
the row lining Monument Road as it approached the park.
Separating the quiet neighborhood from the park was a
stretch of no-man's-land, a tiny urban wilderness courtesy
of the nearby power plant. Most of the homes on the street
consisted of Capes and bungalows, originating from the late
forties and fifties.  From World War II through the Korean
War, the city of Salem, in a patriotic and  appreciative
gesture, had subsidized house lots along Monument Road for
veterans of the wars.  Shortly after returning from Korea,
Bishop had secured a lot across from Collins Cove for just
over a hundred dollars.  He hired the architectural firm of
J. Gerrison in September 1955, and built his dream house at
92 Monument Road.  The small Cape, ideally suited to a
couple without children, took advantage of the water view
but was otherwise modest.  Most of its charm lay in the
potential it held for the retirement years. Coleen Bishop
was nearly twenty years younger than her husband.  She was
his second wife.  Slender, carefully dressed, she was far
from dowdy, not quite what Dunn had expected.  Her face was
blotched from crying.  For a moment she stood with
uncertainty in the entrance hall, as if she were a stranger
in the house and waiting for guidance.  When the detective
suggested they sit down, Mrs. Bishop led him into the
kitchen and motioned toward a chair.  Dunn hated talking to
the widows.  Often their reactions were significant; they
were usually the primary suspect.  But when their grief was
sincere, he found himself making the difficult choice
between roles of observer and participant.  He needed
information from them.  Yet he watched his words prick and
tear at their wounds when what they needed was compassion.
Mrs. Bishop wasn't quite ready to sit down, needing to busy
herself first with coffee preparation.  While he waited for
her, Dunn studied her back.  The woman's hair was strawberry-
blonde and short.  Curly, probably permed.  A red wool skirt
topped with a splashy flowered blouse, out of tune with the
occasion.  Turquoise running shoes with white accents.  She
must have been brought home from work. Finally the woman set
down two mugs and lowered herself onto a chair.  Dunn
noticed that her earrings were identical to a pair his ex-
wife used to wear.  Small studs with green stones to match
her eyes. The police had questioned her extensively when her
husband was reported missing.  Dunn went over the story with
her again. On Thursday, March first, after a quarrel with
her husband, Mrs. Bishop had left for a four-day visit with
her sister in Gloucester.  She then had talked briefly to
him early Friday evening.  She had tried calling again over
the weekend without success.  Returning Monday around noon,
she had been alarmed to find newspapers uncollected in the
driveway.  Mail had littered the floor inside the front door
below the slot.  She then contacted his supervisor at work
and learned that he had failed to show up.  After trying a
few friends, she had finally phoned the police.  Bishop's
car had been located four hours later in the parking lot of
the train station.  No other trace of him had been found.
From that point on, life ceased to be private, and the quiet
desperation of a failing marriage turned into the foreboding
threat of widowhood. "Mrs. Bishop, do you know of anyone who
might have had reason to kill your husband?"  Dunn asked.
She shook her head and dabbed her reddened eyes with a
wadded-up Kleenex.  Dunn watched her carefully. "Any idea
why he would be down at the Willows?" She responded:  "He
walked down there nearly every day.  Even though he walked
so much on the job, he still liked to go down there."  She
looked up.  "Do you think maybe, maybe he was mugged,
Sergeant?" "We don't know yet. Mrs. Bishop, I know you've
been asked these questions before, but we need to go through
it again.  When you returned on Monday, what else besides
the mail and papers struck you as unusual?" "The garbage
hadn't been put out.  He usually puts it out... used to...on
Sunday night." Dunn said:  "Think carefully.  What was your
first impression when you walked in?  That he had left on a
trip, or just on an errand, or that he hadn't intended to
leave at all?  Think about whether lights were on, doors
locked, dishes cleaned, things like that." She pulled
herself together and thought for a minute.  "I thought he
had gone to work at first, but seeing the Boston Globes on
the steps changed my mind.  Then I didn't know what to
think.  He was meticulous.  Would've left me a note if he'd
gone away, and would have asked someone to pick up the
papers." "What papers did you find?  For which days?"
"Sunday's and Monday's." "Not Saturday's?  This is
important." "No.  I didn't see a Saturday paper.  I
remember, because the officer who talked to me when I
reported Ray missing asked the same thing," she said with
conviction. "What else did you notice?" She continued: "I
don't think any lights were on, but it was daytime...I might
not have noticed.  The front door was locked, the TV was
off...I would have remembered if it wasn't."  She paused.
"There was one thing, though, really spooked me.  I
mentioned it to the other detective.  The clock radio was
blaring in the bedroom.  It must have been on since six that
morning." "Did he set it every night?  On weekends?" "It's
set so the radio turns on every morning at six o'clock.  He
has to remember to unset it on weekends, then on Sunday he
turns it on again." "What time on Sunday did he usually do
this?" "Whenever he thought of it.  As long as it was after
six A.M. it didn't matter."  She shuddered remembering how
frightening the music sounded in a house with no audience.
Dunn continued: "How about the kitchen?" "It was clean.
When he eats alone he rinses his dishes right away.  Puts
everything away.  That detective checked the trash bag in
the kitchen....I don't know if he found anything." "Mrs.
Bishop, was anything missing from the house?  Any sign he
had packed for a trip, or that anything was stolen?" "No.
All his shaving stuff's here."  She closed her eyes for a
moment.  When they opened again, she added:  "No suitcases
are gone." "How about his wallet?  Keys?" "They...they're
not here."  She looked at him.  "Weren't they with ... on
him?" Dunn shook his head.  He glanced around the kitchen.
On the refrigerator door was a calendar advertising a local
insurance company.  He got up and walked over to it.  The
pages were held up by a pair of plastic pineapples and
turned to March.  On the side of the New England scene
depicted above the rows of numbers was taped a neatly
clipped Celtics regular season schedule from the Boston
Globe.  Dunn noticed a few of the dates on the calendar had
been circled, and assorted other annotations dotted the
month. "Mrs. Bishop, did your husband use this calendar?"
"Yes, we both did." "Do you mind?" he asked as he lifted the
page. She shook her head.  Dunn flipped to February and
studied the notes.  Diagonal lines were drawn through
February 6, 14, and 22.  Dunn asked about their meaning.
"Those were his days off.  They change every week." "Just
one day a week?" "Well, they always have Sundays off." "What
about the circles?"  He had returned to March.  "I'm not
sure," she answered.  She looked up at the page with little
interest.  "He was always circling days.  All different
reasons." Dunn looked at her.  The stones in her earrings
picked up the green in her eyes.  He removed the pineapples
and brought the calendar over to the table.  Starting with
early February and going to the end of March, he went
through each notation and asked her to translate. Calendars
were the same all over the world.  They all had hair and car
appointments, undelivered papers, and visits to the doctors.
They all had color photos of local scenery and small,
discreet reminders of your need for insurance.  Dunn
thought, what a lost opportunity for McHale Assurance.  Why
bother with the covered bridge in the snow?  Why not have
February's illustration be a red Mustang wrapped around a
telephone pole?  Why not have March show a house burned to
the ground with only the refrigerator left standing?
Standing charred, its harvest- gold skin blackened and
peeling, and with two tiny pineapple magnets, now molten
lumps, clinging to the freezer door. There were five remarks
about missing Globes during February and early March.  None
for Saturday, March 3, however.  Most of the other notes she
was able to illuminate, with the exception of the word
"Mackey" scribbled under Thursday, March 8. "Yours, or his?"
he asked. "Must have been his.  I don't recognize the name."
"You think definitely it's a name then?" She raised an
eyebrow.  "What else would it be, Sergeant?" He didn't
answer.  "Could I borrow this?" She nodded. Dunn stood up
and thanked her for the coffee.  "With your permission, Mrs.
Bishop, I'd like to take a look at your husband's papers.
Did he have a place where he kept correspondence?  A file
cabinet, or a desk?" She led him to the dining room.  On a
sideboard was an enamel tray with what appeared to be
current bills and a couple of letters.  Opening the top
drawer, she showed him where they kept a checkbook, bank
statements, and the rest of the business end of their life.
Dunn asked if he could take a few items back to the station.
"Whatever you want.  Do whatever you want."  She had held
together pretty well, he thought.  He stuffed them into a
brown paper bag and prepared to leave.  At the door, he
turned and asked if anyone would be able to stay with her.
She replied that her sister was on her way down from
Gloucester. "We may need you to make positive
identification," he said.  Considering the condition of the
body, he planned on avoiding it if any male relatives were
listed in the file.  "If we do, you'll be contacted later on
this afternoon to make arrangements.  I will have to ask a
few more questions, but they can wait till tomorrow." "Why
did he go to the train station?"  she asked as he opened the
front door. "I don't know, Mrs. Bishop.  But I intend to
find out."          Small green stones.  Claire's eyes had
been blue.

   
   
   
   
   
    Chapter 3
   
   Sehet mich an:  Ich habe eine kleine Zeit
   Muhe und Arbeit gehabt.
   
              Look upon me; for a little while
              trouble and labor were mine.
   
                        Ecclesiasticus 51:27
   
   
    According to the file, the last person to have seen Ray
Bishop alive was the neighbor next door at No. 94.  Walter
Pellegro lived with his nine-year-old daughter Annie at the
end of the road closest to the park.  To the east and south
he was bounded by trees, to the west toward the center of
town lay Bishop's property.  Separating the two yards was a
six-foot-high stockade fence stretching back halfway from
the sidewalk.  This gave way to chain link the rest of the
distance to the rear property line.
   Dunn looked at his watch.  It was close to four.  He
deposited the bag on the seat of the Camaro and walked up
Pellegro's front steps, taking a chance he would be home.
   The man who opened the door was fair-haired, full-
bearded, tall, and muscular.  Clutching half-opened mail in
one hand, he gave Dunn the impression he had only just come
home from work.  On the floor behind him lay a hard hat, a
schoolbag, and a child's jacket.  An attractive woman of
about twenty-five stood in the living room and was in the
process of removing her coat.  When Dunn explained his
purpose, the woman offered to leave.
   "It's all right, Yvonne."  He turned to Dunn.
"Sergeant, this is a friend of mine."
   Without further hesitation, Pellegro led the detective
into the living room, pointed to a chair, and sat down
across from him with a cooperative and attentive demeanor.
Dunn brushed off some Doritos and took a seat.
   "Mr. Pellegro, from your statement two weeks ago, you
last saw Ray Bishop on Saturday the third of March.  What
time was that, and what did you see?"
   "It was sometime between four and five in the afternoon.
I had a couple friends over...we went out later.  I went
into the kitchen for refills, and happened to notice Ray
getting into his car.  His was the gray one, the
Continental.  He backed out of the driveway, turned toward
town, and that's the last I saw of him."
   "How can you be sure of the time?"
   "Well, my friends came a little after three-thirty.  We
had sucked down one round of beers.  The sitter showed up
around five, so my best guess is four, four-thirty.  I
remember saying something to my buddies, like 'There he
goes,' or something.  They'd probably remember.  They could
back me up."
   "I'm not suggesting you need 'backing up,' Mr. Pellegro.
Was this before or after it started snowing, do you
remember?"
   "Right before, I think.  I know it had started when we
all left, but it wasn't snowing when I looked out the
window.  I'd have remembered if he brushed the car off."
   "Was it parked in the driveway, or in the garage?"  Dunn
asked.
   "Well, yeah, it was in the garage, I guess.  He had to
get out to close the door.  The fence back there is chain
link.  I could see pretty clearly."
   "And that's how you knew it was him?  Was he alone?"
   The man nodded.
   "Where was Mrs. Bishop's car?  It's a one-car garage,
isn't it?"  Dunn continued.
   "She wasn't around.  At least her car wasn't.  Her car's
maroon.  A Ford Escort.  I don't remember seeing anyone
around the rest of the weekend.  I was gone part of the
time."
   Dunn thought for a moment.  "Could you tell from where
you were standing if there was anything unusual about him?
Did he appear in a hurry ... was he carrying anything?"
   "No, not really.  He could have put something in the car
before I looked out.  I didn't notice anything unusual."
   "What was he wearing?"
   "Like I said two weeks ago, I don't remember.  Except
his jacket.  Green winter jacket."
   "You said a sitter came ... to stay with your daughter?
Were they both here all Saturday night?"
   "Yep.  And Sunday.  I went on a ski trip."
   "Tell me about the fence,"  Dunn said, remembering the
earlier report.
   Pellegro's voice grew quiet as he pulled on his beard.
"He said he put it up to keep his dog in.  His dog was
mostly spaniel.  Not likely to jump six feet.  And you'll
notice along the front he's got a three-foot-high picket
fence.  So he didn't need it for the dog, did he?   He made
sure his view wasn't blocked.  Mine sure was."
   "Was that the issue, your view?"
   "Yeah.  I looked into suing him, to make him take it
down, but he wasn't breaking any laws.  So there's nothing I
can do about it."  He smiled.  "Now he's gone, the dog's
gone, but the fence is still here."
   Dunn stood up.  He wanted to talk to the child.
   "She's out in back," the woman volunteered.  "You won't
find her very friendly right now.  She's been kind of
upset."  She turned toward Pellegro.  "Usually she's great
with strangers, isn't she, Walt?"
   Pellegro nodded.  He led Dunn into the kitchen and
opened the back door.  Dunn looked over at the window and
asked, "Mr. Pellegro, what did you mean when you said to
your friends, 'There he goes'?  What prompted that remark?
Did they know him?"
   Pellegro was taken aback for a moment.  "I must have
been talking to them about the fence."
   Dunn swung open the storm door and stepped out into the
backyard.  Ann Pellegro was sitting on the far swing, legs
dangling, shoulders slumped.  He watched as both feet
suddenly kicked back and forth, trying to tease the swing
into movement.  Dunn smiled and walked toward the swing set.
Resisting the urge to give her a push, he settled himself in
the seat beside her.
   "You must be Annie," he tried.  The girl stopped kicking
and stared at the ground in front of her.  Her flaxen hair
lifted in the offshore breeze.  Sensing that no response was
forthcoming, Dunn got up, crouched in front of her, and
peered up into her face.  Where normally such visual assault
would compel some acknowledgment, Dunn's eyes seemed to
repel the child's.  Wherever he moved his face, she turned
to avoid it.
   "She can't talk," her father called out from the back
door.
   "Is she deaf, Mr. Pellegro?"  Dunn asked without
turning.
   "She's got some hearing loss ... likes to crank up the
radio all the time.  But she can hear your voice.  She's
retarded, though.  She can't understand most of your words."
   How retarded?  Dunn wondered.  He sensed a tension in
the child, but had no baseline to compare it to.  Still, he
ventured,      "Your friend said she was upset.  Do you
agree?"
   Pellegro seemed to flush slightly:  "Well, yeah, she has
been a little worked up the last couple weeks.  I guess the
excitement and all.  You know, the police coming by when he
was missing and stuff.  She picks up on things a lot --
pretty sensitive.  I'm keeping a closer eye on her, too,
with a killer loose."
   Dunn stood up.  If he were going to interview Annie
Pellegro he would have to find a better way to reach her.
This young girl with the serene round face appeared to spend
a lot of hours in her backyard.  She had a good view of the
Bishops' dining-room windows, and through the chain link, of
their yard as well.  She had been home Saturday night, a
crucial time period.  Despite the partial deprivation of
hearing, Dunn held out one small hope.  People who didn't
spend time talking often spent more time listening.  And
there didn't seem to be anything wrong with her eyes.
   Dunn thanked the man, warned that he might have further
questions, and handed him a card.  Pellegro nodded.  He ran
his fingers through his hair and said he would do whatever
he could to help.
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
    Chapter 4 Siehe, ich sage euch ein Geheimnis.
Behold, I show you a mystery.                          1
Corinthians 15:51   Detective Jake Myles, who had a
different Hawaiian shirt for every day of the week, had had
primary responsibility in the missing-person investigation
and Dunn now requested his help in the homicide.  Myles had
worked with him on many previous cases, and although he
found his supervisor somewhat mediocre in the outfield, he
felt Dunn to be more than competent on the job.
Nevertheless, the two often worked in disharmony.  In
contrast to Myles's eager and impulsive manner, Dunn seemed
to approach his work with a languidly orchestrated pace.
Myles reluctantly tolerated their differences in tempo, but
found Dunn's image to be an occasional disappointment.  As
an avid reader of crime fiction, Myles thought the guy
played by too many rules.  The purpose, after all, was to
get the bad guys.  Wearing something with rows of brown
lions, Myles caught up with Dunn at the station as the
detective sergeant was returning from Monument Road.  At his
desk, Dunn filled the younger man in over styrofoam cups of
burnt coffee, and they reviewed the remaining contents of
the file.  Dunn dug out a marker from his desk and labeled
the bag of letters.  Next he spread out the calendar and
invited Myles to interpret the circles. After about two
minutes Myles broke into a wide grin.  He grabbed the
calendar and held it against his forehead.  Closing his eyes
and muttering for a moment, he then shouted: "Carnac says,
the answer is Tuesday night!" "Come on, Jake.  Cut the
crap." Myles brought the calendar back down and pretended to
rip it open like an envelope.  "And the question was, 'When
can I next catch Larry on Sportschannel?'" Dunn looked
extremely annoyed.  Myles tossed the pages at him and said:
"The answer is staring you in the face, sportsfan." Dunn
glared at him as he located March again.  "I'll have you
back directing parade traffic, pal."  Bending down Dunn
could see that, indeed, tomorrow's date was circled.  Then
he figured out, as Myles had, that Bishop had simply circled
all dates which the Celtics schedule clipping listed as
televised games.  He looked up at Myles. "The guy was
careful,"  Myles said in a low voice. Jesus Christ.  Bishop
probably labeled his tools, too. "Is Mackey a basketball
player?" Dunn asked, pointing to the March eighth entry.
"Bob Mackey?  Football, I think." Dunn scowled.  He copied
the name and date carefully onto a piece of scrap paper and
handed it to Myles.  "Find Mackey.  Find out what he's doing
on Bishop's calendar.  Get your jacket.  We're talking to a
few more neighbors first.  No, first lunch." Myles looked at
the clock.  "It's nearly five.  In my country we call this
dinner." "Is that your Monday shirt?"  Dunn asked.
   "We don't yet have a strong motive.  Let's start with
why the killer hid the body in the men's cottage," Dunn said
as he and Myles were waiting at the McDonald's drive-thru
speaker.  A single burst of noise, lacking in both high and
low frequencies and sounding like bacon frying, had
promised, the pair guessed, to be with them in a second. "He
was buying time before anyone found the body?" Myles
offered. "Why not throw it in the undergrowth?  Or the
water?"  "Maybe the tide was going out and he couldn't risk
waiting eight hours," Myles said.  Most of Salem Willows was
surrounded by mud flats and rocks, stretching nearly a
hundred feet at low tide.  Dragging a body over the rip-rap
would have been difficult, even for a strong man.  Except
for the patch of sand on the small public beach, anywhere
else one ventured into the water at low tide was sure to
cost a shoe and win only aggravation.  Dunn remembered
braving the mud as a boy, looking for tide pools and beach
glass.  He could never walk barefoot or the shells would cut
his feet.  So summer after summer he offered up numerous
pairs of foam-rubber thongs to the muck.  But it was well
worth it.  If you were young and stood still for a few
minutes, the mud would pull you in up to your Achilles'
heels.  Lest you doubted its animateness, the ground would
spit at that moment, a few feet away.  Then closer, then
more frequently.  Arms outstretched to steady yourself, you
would suddenly shriek and try to withdraw.  As tenacious as
peanut butter, the mud would bar your extraction.  You
eventually worked your ankles and feet free with a
succession of loud, sucking noises.  But the thongs would
remain behind. "WelcometoMcDonald's, may Itakeyourorder?"
They stared hard at the speaker.  Eye contact is important
when auditory cues are sabotaged. "Two quarter-pounders with
cheese, a large fries, and a chocolate shake."  Dunn, who
was driving and therefore qualified to order, said loudly
and slowly to the box. "Anything to drink?" came the
cheerful reply.  Dunn smiled at Myles.  You can't fight
programming. "Just that shake," he replied, with matching
enthusiasm. The amount due was announced as if it were good
news.  They were given driving instructions, and moments
later were rewarded with food. Turning back onto Canal
Street, Dunn said:  "The end of the pier goes out beyond the
mud, but it's probably lit at night.  Too exposed.  So's the
beach, and the sand gives way to mud before water." "Anyway,
wouldn't throwing him in the water only buy him a week or
so?  The sucker'd pop up after that.  What about the
bushes?" Dunn replied: "The dogs would have turned him up
the next day.  Or the dirt bikers.  Of course, the ground
was frozen, so burying him would've been hard.  No, I guess
the cottage was a good choice, easy to get into, and with
those rotting screw holes, he could push them back in and no
one who came too close would suspect anything.  At least
until the weather warmed up.  Course, we're assuming Bishop
was killed in the park." He slurped at his shake.  As the
liquid receded, he wondered for a second if he would find a
thong at the bottom.  McDonald's shakes have gotten thinner,
he thought.  Back when they contained cholesterol they were
so thick the straw was useless.       Myles watched him a
moment, then replied:  "Well, if he wasn't wasted in the
park, why hide him there?  The killer could have taken him
to a lot better hiding places, places he fucking never would
have come out of." Myles was right.  The North Shore held
many good dumping grounds, deep water included, for anyone
willing to drive a few minutes with a bleeding corpse in the
trunk.  How, then, was Bishop lured to the park?  Or did
they meet by chance?  Myles voiced a question which had been
on Dunn's mind: "You said the upper torso was clean but the
rest of the body was dirty and covered with leaves.  What's
your explanation?" "I think, judging by the pattern of the
dirt, that the killer must have wrapped something around
Bishop's head and shoulders while he was moving him.  A
jacket, or maybe a bag.  Perhaps a trash bag." "Why?  Maybe
to keep from getting blood on himself?" "Makes sense," Dunn
answered. Myles swallowed the last piece of his quarter-
pounder and fished around for the rest of the fries.  He
extended a small, twisted mass to Dunn, who declined.  "How
do you know the body was moved?" Dunn answered:  "There were
no signs of a struggle inside the cottage.  Most of the
floor, which was pretty dirty, was undisturbed.  A narrow
section alongside the corpse looked like it had been wiped.
Probably to obliterate footprints, though I think there were
traces enough to make the lab happy.  Also, we just agreed
Bishop's head was wrapped so the killer could move him
cleanly." "How about if the bag was to blindfold him, he was
led to the cottage, and they scuffled outside?  That would
explain the leaves and dirt on his pants."  They were
pulling up in front of 55 Monument Road, home to, among
others, Mr. Dale Timothy Raider, plaintiff in last
November's suit of Raider versus Bishop. Dunn let the engine
idle a minute before shutting it off.  Then he said:  "No,
Bishop didn't hit the ground alive.  At least he didn't push
himself back up.  His palms were clean." Myles looked
solemnly at the empty box in his hand.  "'Out, out brief
candle,'" he muttered.  Dunn wasn't sure if he was referring
to Ray Bishop or the french fries. They stepped out of the
car and approached the house, which was on the cove side of
the street.  Number 55 stood out like the proverbial sore
thumb when it came to yard work.  Flanked on either side by
lawns carefully mown in the fall before their winter's
sleep, this yard was scruffy and still wore a good portion
of October's leaves.  Loose scraps of paper and a soda can
were lodged among a row of untamed hedges.  A pickup truck
and a motorcycle inhabited the driveway, as did the lid to a
plastic trash can. It was well into the visit before the
members of the Raider household began to make any sense to
Dunn, and even then, he wasn't sure "sense" was the word.
Dunn and Myles were first greeted at the door by the dog.  A
bark like a cannon made them step back, despite the inch and
a half of Stanley steel exterior door which separated them.
Myles swore.  After several rings, which struck Dunn as
totally superfluous, the door was finally opened by a sturdy
young teenager with a gash on the top of his head.  The hair
around the gash, which had been stitched, was shaved.  The
back of the boy's head sported a tail, however, so that Dunn
couldn't be entirely sure whether the kid had an injury or a
hairdo. "Yeah?"  the boy asked, one hand gripping the collar
of a large Doberman-and-something-bigger mixed breed.  The
door was only half open in case the collar gave out.
"Sergeant Dunn, Detective Myles, Salem Police.  We called
earlier.  Are you Mr. Raider?" "Naw, that's my uncle. He's
out in back.  Ya wanna come in or go round back?" "We'll go
around."  Dunn smiled at the dog, the door closed, and the
two found their way to the backyard through some forsythias
gone berserk. The lawn was not deep, ending in a sort of
mangled sea wall at the edge of the water.  At one end of
the wall a makeshift dock jutted out at an angle, as if to
avoid calling attention to itself.  Tied to the dock was a
small sailing dingy, and in the dingy was a man in his late
thirties struggling with the mast.  Squatting on the dock
was a woman dressed in jeans and a blue plaid shirt,
gesturing and explaining what was obviously, from the look
on the man's face, unexplainable. The detectives approached
and introduced themselves.  The woman was not Mrs. Raider,
but she obviously lived there.  On the porch overlooking the
scene was another player, a young girl dressed in black,
sitting on the swing and reading a book.  She looked up and
squinted at the two men.  "Like we said on the phone, Mr.
Raider, we're investigating the death of Ray Bishop.  Could
we go inside?  We have a few questions." The man climbed up
onto the dock.  He was Dunn's height, and sported the
beginnings of a mustache.  Wiping his hands off on his
trousers, he led the way to the back door.  Inside, the dog
was shoved into a back room somewhere, where, much to Dunn's
annoyance, it whined without stopping.  Raider motioned for
the two to sit down.  The rest of the pack milled around
close by, but at least they didn't whine.  "You knew Mr.
Bishop?"  Dunn began. "No, not really.  Only talked to him
twice.  I knew his dog." "How?" asked Myles, who was taking
notes. "Dog came down every morning to crap on our front
lawn.  Your friend, Mr. Bishop, would stand a couple houses
away, like he didn't notice.  The minute the dog was done,
Bishop would call him back.  Then he'd turn and go back up
the street." "When did you first talk to him?" "October.  I
remember 'cause the lawn was covered with leaves," Raider
said.  Dunn smiled to himself.  With this yard it could just
as well have been March.  The man continued: "I saw the dog
come down as I was looking out the front bedroom window.  I
was getting dressed for work.  I also saw Bishop, so I ran
out the front door to the sidewalk just as the dog was
finishing.  I went over to the evidence and called out to
him." "What happened?"  Dunn asked. "I said, 'Look what your
dog did.  Don't you think you should clean it up?'  He
denied it at first.  I invited him down to examine it while
it was still steaming.  So he came down, but he was pretty
pissed about it.  Anyway, we started yelling at each other
and then he started, well, threatening me with his fists.  I
didn't exactly say much to calm him.  I was pretty mad.  We
go to a lot of trouble to keep our dog in our own yard.  I
have to clean up after him, why should I clean up after all
the neighbors' goddamn dogs, too?" "Did this convince him?"
"No.  He swung at me.  I ducked and then I pushed him.  He
fell down and then I helped him up.  After he went home, I
thought about it for a while and decided the asshole
shouldn't get away with starting a fight.  So I took him to
court for assault." "The record shows the suit was dropped."
"The day of the hearing we met with, I guess it was the
clerk, to try and settle before going in front of the judge.
He heard both our sides, chewed us both out, then suggested
we drop it." "Why'd he chew you out?"  Dunn asked. "Only for
letting the guy get to me.  I shoulda backed off.  But he
lectured him about cleaning up after his dog, how antisocial
it is when you don't, and also reminded him Salem has a
leash law.  He also warned him about trying to settle
arguments with his fists.  That's when Bishop fucked up."
Dunn leaned forward.  Myles looked up from his pad. "He told
the clerk he'd been in hundreds of fights before, and no one
had been ass enough to take him to court!" Raider said
incredulously.  Dunn and Myles looked at each other.  Had
Bishop found one last challenger two weeks ago? "Did he mend
his ways after that?"  Myles asked. "Seems to have.  Haven't
even seen the dog in a couple months, have we?"  he asked
the rest of the household.  They shook their assorted heads.
The policemen left a card and took their leave. As they
climbed into the Camaro, Dunn scribbled down the plate
numbers in the driveway.  "Let's run these," he said.
 Chapter 5
   Dies irae  Day of wrath        Requiem "Dies irae"
   It was getting late.  Dunn turned the car back toward
the park.  Directly behind the concession line was an
enclave of houses known as Juniper Point.  The sociology of
the neighborhood differed sharply from the Monument Road
neighborhood, separated by park, woods, and military
service.  Monument Road homes faced the sheltering lee of
Collins Cove, enjoying dry basements and neatly trimmed,
modestly spacious lawns.  Juniper Point houses faced
directly onto Salem Sound and the Atlantic Ocean.  Despite
their precarious and vulnerable state, homes on the Point
huddled defiantly together in quixotic eccentricity.  Behind
the arcade were the artists, the Willows activists, the wine
tasters, cedar shingles, and cluttered alleyways to the
water's edge.  In a world of their own, nevertheless
situated on the periphery of the park, they enjoyed a
proximity to the cottages that could prove fortuitous.  The
two men split up to canvas those houses immediately
adjoining the park, in particular the ones with views of the
men's cottage. No one had seen anything suspicious the
weekend of the third.  They had noticed a few dedicated
joggers, the usual year- round strollers, but not much else.
Certainly no forced break- ins to the men's room.  A few had
heard or known of the Bishops, although by and large the two
neighborhoods kept to themselves.  One woman, however, who
regularly distributed leaflets and organized functions for
local causes had been aware that the Bishops were not
getting along.  "It seems whenever I came to the door he'd
be yelling at the top of his lungs.  Not the most friendly
guy.  Did you hear about the windshield?" Dunn indicated
that he hadn't. "Last Labor Day.  Pretty crowded down here
at the Willows.  Lots of people picnic here every Labor Day.
All the streets get parked up.  Anyway, someone was down
here selling souvenir gulls made out of marble or something.
They were pretty solid, and heavy, not something you'd lug
around all day at a picnic.  But a lot of the neighbors were
buying them.  I got one myself.  They were beautiful.  So
Ray Bishop buys one for his wife.  When he walks home he
finds someone illegally parked in his driveway.  Does he
call the police?  Does he call a tow truck?  No!  He wigs
out.  In front of half the neighborhood he smashes the
windshield in with his wife's marble gull." The woman's face
retained a dramatic expression as she led him to the door.
He thanked her, and she answered him with a satisfied smile.
While waiting for Myles to return to the car, Dunn decided
to take another look around the park itself before the sun
disappeared.  He began to walk the perimeter, looking for
scars of a scuffle on the ground that might, with the
season's isolating influence, have been preserved.  He knew
the police had combed this ground already.  He also knew
what he was really searching for was a motive. He checked
the pier.  The water looked deep enough on one side,
probably dredged for the tour boat which docked there during
the summer.  There was indeed a light at the end, already
glowing in the dusk.  Out in the sound, Great Misery Island
was crawling under the night sky to the east. Stretching
south from the pier was a public beach.  Small and gray, its
mussel shells and tiny rocks were deposited  by the tide in
long rows, giving it a look more industrial than
recreational.  Less evocative of a Bermuda sandy shoal, it
was instead reminiscent of a wire fence, barnacles biting
the feet like barbs.  The dim illumination from the end of
the pier cast artificial shadows on the dark sand like a
prison searchlight. Dunn turned back.  Leaving the pier he
noticed a sign on the bait house at its entrance, which
invited fishermen to feed the lobsters and one below which
implored No Dumping.  Well, that explains why the body
wasn't here.  He smiled to himself.  He didn't see any
lobsters. The harbor waters to the north began picking out
isolated lights from the few masts of boats not stored for
the winter.  Through the willow trees he could look westward
along the shore into the cove where the sun had nearly set.
Taking the long way back to the car, he traced the rocky
shoreline that led that way.  Two gulls broke into a
cacophony of shrieks and cries over a piece of garbage on
the stones below him.  Dunn rounded a bend.  The trees were
behind him and continuous open sky stretched from the
horizon beyond the cove to far above his head -- more sky
than people are used to who live in cities or among trees
and power lines.  And the expanse of sky was on fire, with
cloud formations that for a few amazing seconds ignited in
deep and angry reds.  For a moment they intensified, then
slowly subsided as he watched, glowing embers subtly graying
until they no longer glowed and one could no longer recall
their anger.  A silent, visual climax to Bishop's day of
wrath.

   
   
   
   
   
   
   
    Chapter 6
   
   Confutatis maledictis,
   flammis acribus addictis.
   
              The damned are silenced
              and doomed to painful flames...
   
                        Requiem "Dies irae"
   
   
    Despite the coldness of the March night, Thomas Weber
woke up at three-thirty in the morning drenched with sweat.
The night had been a loss.  His ears still rang with the
sound of gunfire, heart still pounded from the running.  But
it was the violent shaking that awakened him, for at that
moment his pursuers had caught up with him.  He sat upright
and stared into the dark, trying to focus his eyes on some
object, any real object to wrench himself out of the past,
both distant and recent, and into the present.  It's OK,
it's OK, he said over and over to himself.  But it was not
entirely OK.
   
   
   The coffee maker erupted in a violent, noisy burst of
steam, signaling that the brewing was complete.  After a few
final sputters Lila Weber gingerly pulled out the carafe and
filled two waiting mugs.  She carried them over to the
breakfast table and slid into the seat across from her
husband.  Tuesday's Boston Globe was gazing up at him
unopened, but he was not returning the look.  Weber helped
himself to the sugar bowl, shoveled in two heaping
spoonfuls, then began to stir.  "We're out of cream," his
wife apologized.  He said nothing and continued to stir,
long after even the most stubborn of lumps would have
dissolved.
   "It may be time to move," he said.
   Her mug was halfway to her lips when her hands started
to shake.
   "Not again," she said, shocked and dismayed.  Coffee
spilled out onto her wrist.  She set the mug down and
grabbed for a dish towel to stop the burning.  "What
happened?"
   "A man was found murdered yesterday down at the Willows.
They were talking about it at the White Hen last night when
I went in for the bread.  I knew the guy.  We were together
in Korea."
   "Oh, God," she said, stunned.  After a pause, she asked:
"Who?  Was he from here?  Did he know you were here?"
   "A guy named Bishop.  A mailman, for chrissake.  I don't
think he was our usual carrier.  He might have been filling
in ... came by the last Saturday in February.  I waited for
him to go back down the walk and out of sight before I
opened the door to get the mail, but then suddenly he turned
around and came back ... forgot to leave the TV Guide.  So
there we were, face-to-face.  It's been probably thirty-
eight years, Lila, but we both recognized each other
immediately.  Took me a moment to place him, and I'm not
sure he realized then where he knew me from, but eventually
it came to him."
   "How do you know?"
   "Because four days later I got a letter.  He must have
jotted down our name from the TV Guide."
   "What did it say?"  She could barely speak.
   Weber stood up and looked out the kitchen window.  They
had shared this small backyard with their landlord for the
past nine years, each year daring to plant a bit more than
the previous season.  Weber turned the flower beds every
spring with caution, lest he call God's attention to
himself, risking wrath and exposure.  Last fall Lila had
decided to stick a few bulbs into the ground beneath the
kitchen window, where the March sun would reach into the
late afternoon.  In Lila's mind the flowers were not flags
of betrayal but offerings of appeasement, tendered to win
another year of God's coconspiracy.
   A couple of green shoots were starting to push up.
Weber suspected now that they would never see them bloom.
His heart began to ache.
   "The letter said that he knew about me, but that the
secret was safe.  He wanted one payment and would never
bother us again."  His voice turned sarcastic and bitter.
"One small payment.  At the end it said I would be contacted
in a few days, when I had gotten the money together.  He
wanted two thousand dollars." "What did you do?" she asked,
shocked.
   "I got a cash advance on our credit card.  We didn't
have that much in our account.  Then I got a call from him
the next weekend.  You were at Leona's.  Helping her with
inventory.  I think he was disguising his voice, but he told
me to bring the cash to Forest River Park.  So I did."
   "Why didn't you tell me?  Why did you pay him?"
   "I didn't want to upset you just yet, and I wanted to
buy time.  You were finishing up with Leona, and you were
about to get your bonus at the store."
   "It was nowhere near two thousand dollars!"
   "Come on," he said.  "It was worth a lot more to you."
   She sat back down, towel still around her wrist, and
said softly, "But he's dead now."
   "He may have told someone.  He may have left something
in writing.  If he did, the police will come around.  And if
they do, sooner or later they'll find out."
   Lila Weber looked around her kitchen.  They had managed
to stay in Salem nearly ten years.  In the early days of
their marriage they had moved frequently, out of
nervousness.  "I'm sorry," he said after a while.  She
managed a half-smile.  She hadn't chosen this life on the
run, this life with no close friends, no deep roots, no real
identity.  But she had chosen this man.
   
   
   
   
   At seven-thirty the same Tuesday morning, Dunn arrived
at the station to hunt up Jake Myles.  Together they drove
to the Salem post office to talk to Bishop's fellow letter
carriers before they set out on their routes.  They split
up, Dunn to the postmaster's office, Myles to talk to the co-
workers.  Many had known the victim for years, but not all
had liked him.  Most felt Bishop was reliable, stubborn,
friendly until you crossed him.  Some attributed his temper
to his war days, but others felt that Ray Bishop was simply
a fighter by nature.
   The postmaster, Mrs. Nevins, was a black woman in her
late forties, who refused to be referred to as
"postmistress."  Dunn remembered with amusement the last
female postmaster he had met.  She had done over the entire
substation office, infusing it with her personality and
homey touch.  The small lobby and counter had been painted
pink, and art works on consignment lined the walls wherever
the usual post office posters had left gaps.  Salem's post
office, however, looked precisely like a post office.
Behind Mrs. Nevins's oak door, the room was businesslike and
austere, with the exception of some office shrubbery.
   Dunn asked about Bishop's schedule just prior to his
disappearance.  The postmaster went down to the supervisor's
office and brought back the schedule book.
   "Mrs. Nevins, according to his wife, Bishop was off
Saturday the third.  Is that correct?"  Dunn asked the
woman.  The single large window was filled with plants.  The
low morning sun cast a green glow on the carpet.
   The postmaster opened the book, flipped through the
pages, and said finally:  "That's right, he had that
Saturday off.  And the Friday before."
   "And Sunday?"
   "Every six weeks they get Friday, Saturday, and Sunday
off."  She looked back down at the book.  "The week before,
his days off were Thursday and Sunday."
   Dunn glanced down at his notebook.  That agreed with the
Bishops' calendar.
   "Did Bishop ever have any problems with anyone on his
route that you know of?  Residents he might have had a fight
with?  Didn't get along with?  I guess at his age he must
have been pretty acquainted with his, whatever you call
them, patrons?"
   "Well, actually, he changed routes a couple of months
ago.  But no, I haven't heard of any problems.  I'll check
with the supervisor, though, and get back to you.  He'd be
more likely to know."
   "Why'd he change routes?  So close to retirement."
   "The route off Highland Avenue became vacant.  It's the
only mounted route in Salem.  Includes parts of Gallows
Hill, Witchcraft Heights.  Lots of condos and apartment
complexes.  You're in the jeep a lot of the time.  An
attractive route for an older carrier.  Less walking."
   "Where was his old route?" the detective asked.
   "In North Salem."
   Dunn, who lived in North Salem himself, looked startled.
Maybe he had been on Bishop's route.  Maybe that's why his
mail had taken a recent downturn.  No letters, no checks.
Just bills and ads.  Bills and ads didn't need a postman.
They walked to your door by themselves.
   Dunn thanked her and turned to leave.  Mrs. Nevins
looked up abruptly.  "Sergeant Dunn ... you said your name
was 'Gabe?'  Is that for 'Gabriel?'"  The detective looked
at her and nodded.
   She gave him a warm smile.
   "Gabriel.  The messenger.  Patron saint of postmen.
Good luck in your case, Sergeant."
   
   Dunn rejoined Myles.  They compared notes on the way
back to the station.  Myles negotiated the unmarked Crown
Victoria around Riley Plaza with one hand and lit a
cigarette with the other.  Dunn rolled down the window.
   "Listen, Jake, I'm going to find out where Annie
Pellegro goes to school.  Her teacher could shed some light
on what she's capable of picking up on.  I really believe
she saw something that weekend.  I just need to figure out
how to talk to her."
   He nodded toward the courthouse, a few blocks up the
street from the plaza.  "When you get a chance, why don't
you go up and check for records of any other lawsuits
against or by Ray Bishop.  We still need a motive, Jake."
   "You got a docket or date for me?  Otherwise, forget it.
There's enough bound volumes up there to fill the armory."
   "Stick to the past year, then."  That much was on
computer.
   Myles looked resigned.  "So you think maybe the killer
tried some other more legal avenue of retribution first?"
   "Distinct possibility.  Also, let's find out what
happened to the Bishops' dog.  That neighbor Raider said he
hadn't seen it for months.  Mr. Pellegro mentioned it, too,
come to think of it.  You can start with the dog constable,
then try the local veterinarians."
   Back at their desks, Myles began checking on the dog.
Dunn pulled out the Bishops' calendar and glanced at his
watch.  It was quarter to nine, a decent enough hour.  He
called Coleen Bishop to remind her she had a hair
appointment at one-thirty in the afternoon.
   "I'll try to get your things back to you sometime later
today, Mrs. Bishop," he added.
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
    Chapter 7
   
   Et misericordia ejus
   a progenie in progenies
   timentibus eum.
   
              And the fearful shall be pitied,
              from generation to generation.
   
                        Luke 1:50
   
   
   
   The Reading School was actually located in North
Reading, some twelve miles northwest of Salem.  Affiliated
with a local college, it provided day programs for multi-
handicapped children, including many from institutions in
the area.  As the principal led him down a dingy beige
corridor toward the classrooms, Dunn thought that the place
had all the cheerfulness of a VA hospital. The hallway was
uncomfortably reminiscent of the wing of his own elementary
school where the "resource room" and special education
services classroom were located.  His own childhood had
given him more than a passing acquaintance with special ed
teachers.  The sight of colored construction paper shapes on
each door rekindled in him old fears, fears of failure and
exclusion.
   Outside some of the classrooms were parked wheelchairs
in assorted sizes and colors.  Bags and knapsacks hung from
the backs, and occasional trays of plastic or wood rested on
the arms or leaned against the wall.  They stopped at a door
with a frosted window decorated with the names of the six
occupants:  WELCOME Tony, Karen, Chris, Fernando, Michael,
Annie!  The principal swung open the door, and Dunn found
himself confronted with a room which could only be described
as making the best of difficult circumstances.  Brown
plastic milk crates were stacked beside the door and served
as cubbies for lunchboxes and changes of clothes.  Makeshift
hooks lined the wall on the right for jackets and bags.
Toys and books, shabby and uninviting, were stacked on the
windowsill with a jar of peanut butter and several boxes of
crackers.  A yellowed plastic pitcher that once must have
been white rested on a low table, surrounded by plastic cups
with lids and spouts.
   The children were gathering around a large table for
snacktime.  Three in wheelchairs were pushed up and braked.
Trays were being clamped into place, and an aide took one of
the remaining kids out the door to fetch water.  A young boy
with a mop of curly hair was stretched out, relaxed and
limp, on a mat in the corner with what Dunn guessed to be a
physical therapist kneeling beside him.  At that moment the
teacher, a fair-haired woman named Mel Isaksen, excused
herself to retrieve the boy's chair from the hall.  When she
returned with it and had set the brakes, the therapist
carefully curled the boy up and positioned him in the chair.
Once he was tightly buckled, she released him.  The boy's
limbs stiffened and his head was thrown back.  The teacher
wheeled him up to the table and turned around to face the
policeman.  The principal introduced them and left.
   She gave him a broad, full-lipped smile.  "Please call
me Mel.  We all use first names here.  You're here to see
Annie?"
   "Mainly to observe.  We met last night.  I want to know
how to reach her.  I think she has something to tell me."
   "Why don't you join us?  Would you like some juice?  My
aide went for water and is bringing Annie back from
occupational therapy on the way."
   Dunn declined the juice, and selected a seat by the
window.  Not that he was squeamish, but the sight of forty
wet fingers undulating around the table made him queasy.
Four pairs of eyes were fixed on him now, and a couple of
grins which terrified him.  He felt that his discomfort was
probably the only handicap in the room for which there was
no accommodation.
   A moment later Annie came in with the aide, the pitcher
of water, and Chris, deducing from the empty, personalized
place mats.  If Annie recognized him, she didn't show it.
The teacher greeted her with a combination of some sort of
sign language and speech -- "Annie, what did you do in OT?"
-- all the while getting the kids fixed up with crackers and
apple juice.  The therapist offered to stay and help with
snacktime, since the classroom was apparently short a staff
member.
   Annie said nothing.  "You tied something today, didn't
you?  What did you tie?"  The girl brought her fists
together in a sign, and the teacher responded:  "Shoes?
Great!  Shoes!"  Annie pursed her lips, attempting the word.
   Resource Room was never like this. Mel brought over a
tray of peanut butter and crackers to Dunn.  "She's been
unusually quiet recently.  She has some speech, but is far
better in sign."
   "How much can she understand?" Dunn inquired, graciously
declining the snack.
   "Quite a bit.  I'd say, between a two- and three-year
level of comprehension."  To Dunn's surprised look, she
added:  "That's more than people think.  Expressive language
is less, though.  She has some two-word sentences, a
vocabulary of a couple hundred signs or so."
   "Can you tell me if there have been any recent changes
in her behavior?"
   Mel suggested they step into the hall, assuring her aide
they would only be a minute.
   "Sergeant, could I ask what this is about?  Does it have
anything to do with her home environment?  I thought
Department of Social Services usually..."
   "No, no.  I guess I didn't make myself clear to your
principal.  I'm investigating a homicide in Salem.  I have a
suspicion that Annie might have witnessed something.  I need
your help in finding out."
   She looked puzzled, then slightly horrified.  "My God.
No wonder she's upset."
   "How do you mean?"
   "She's been acting out quite a bit the last week or two.
Like this morning, for example, I was playing a tape she
really likes, and she started to throw things.  Annie is
never like that."
   "What tape?"
   "Oh, what was it...a Peter Gabriel album, his first
one."  Voices within were sounding at the rapidly thinning
edge of control.  "I'm going to have to go back in,"  she
said, apologetically.
   Dunn took her address and phone number and asked if he
could stop by her home after work.  She lived on the North
Shore, not far from Salem.  "Fine,"  she said, and slipped
back inside.  As the door swung shut, Dunn stared at the
names in six bright colors which now faced him again,
taunted him, daring him to reenter, to learn what he had
come to learn, but their bold capital letters knew he would
not, knew that he would flee to the world of the physically
whole.
   
   
   
   Cabot Street Antiques, located on the outskirts of
Beverly, had gradually lost some of its identity over the
years.  No longer just antiques, used furniture, and bric-a-
brac, it now sold new furniture in unfinished pine, not-so-
local arts and crafts, maple sugar candy from Vermont,
rented videotapes, and sported a small lunchroom.   Earlier
in the winter Dover had taken a job at the store after
leaving her home and similar position in Ossipee, New
Hampshire.  Although her room downtown was still alien and
temporary, Dover fit into the job as though it were home.
   Dover had spent the morning pricing used books in the
basement, then had gone upstairs to help with lunch.  The
radio in the kitchen was playing a Tom Petty song.  Dover
set about peeling eggs.  Turning at the sound of the
swinging door behind her, she gave a smile of recognition to
Gene Bettencourt, who pumped gas across the street, and who
came over for lunch and the company whenever he could.  At
twenty-one, he was two years younger than Dover.
   "So when are you going to see him?"  Gene asked, drawing
up a stool.
   "Dunno," she said quietly.  She was beginning to regret
having confided in him.  "Soon.  Maybe this Sunday."
   "You need help?"
   "Nope."
   "What if he won't see you?  What if he's...not nice?
You don't know what you're walking into, Dover."
   "I'll be all right."
   He watched her smash the next egg against the hard
surface of the table, possibly the only genuine antique in
the building, he was fond of informing her.  Deftly she
turned it over and over, until the loud smacks subsided into
soft noises as crazed as its shell had become.
   "You've had the damn address for almost a month," he
said, and stood back up.  "Can I get a Coke?"
   She nodded.  The next egg was one of those where the
shell doesn't come off but the white does.  She swore as she
had to scrape chunks off each bit of shell.  For egg salad
it didn't matter much, but it slowed her down.
   "I've been busy.  Payroll taxes last week, seasonal
inventory orders this week."
   "Just excuses, Dover," he said, mocking her.  "What will
it take you, one hour?"
   "I don't know what it'll take."  There was something
between tiredness and fear in her voice.  No, not fear; she
couldn't be afraid.  The hard part was over.  One thing left
to do.  And Gene was right.  It only needed an hour.  After
three years, only one hour.  Why, then, was she dragging her
heels?
   "You want company?" he asked, trying another tack.
   "Thanks, Gene, but no."  Dover finally granted him a
look.
   She slipped the last egg out of its crumbled shell and
began laying them one at a time in the egg slicer.  A quick
press, then quickly rotate the egg before it confronts the
fact it's no longer whole, then a second press.  "That's so
neat," Gene said in wonderment.
   Dover thought that the two years she had on the younger
man must be important ones.
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
    Chapter 8
   
   
   Selig sind, die da Leid tragen,
   denn sie sollen getrostet werden.
   Die mit Tranen saen, werden mit Freuden ernten.
   
              Blessed are they that mourn,
              for they shall have comfort.
              They that sow in tears shall reap in joy.
   
                        Matthew 5:4, Psalm 126:5
   
   
    "Walt?"  The woman's voice was strident.  Pellegro
shifted the receiver and lowered his voice.
   "Faith ... I'm working right now.  I'm talking to a
customer."
   "Oh, I thought you'd be having lunch now.  I haven't
heard from you in a couple weeks.  You OK?"
   "Yeah, I'm fine."  Sounding slightly guilty, he added:
"Thanks for the ride that night."
   "No problem.  Your skis are still here, y'know.  Did you
ever get your car?"
   "Yep.  They ripped me off.  They always do.  I hate
mechanics.  Listen ... I'll pick up the skis later.  I won't
need them for a while."
   "OK.  Well, anyway, I ... enjoyed that Sunday night.  We
gonna do it again sometime?" she asked.
   "Right.  I'll call you.  This guy's waiting, Faith."  He
hung up.  Why the hell couldn't Yvonne have been home that
night?
   
   
   
   It was lunchtime Tuesday when Dunn returned from Reading
and stopped at the station for Myles.  He wanted to talk to
Mrs. Bishop again before her hair appointment and his
autopsy at two o'clock.  Myles shared a bologna sandwich
with him in the car.  "I didn't know you could cook," Dunn
said appreciatively.
   Mrs. Bishop answered their knock almost immediately, and
led them to the front room.  Originally it must have been a
porch, but was now fully enclosed and weather-tight.
Motioning to a pair of olive-green Naugahyde chairs, she
offered them some coffee.  Dunn handed her the calendar and
the bulk of the letters he had borrowed.  She took them with
her to the kitchen.  The men waited for her to reappear with
the cups before sitting down.  When she had perched
nervously on the edge of one chair, Dunn turned to face her
in the other.  Myles settled himself on the couch but did
not take out a notebook.
   "Mrs. Bishop, what was your husband like?"  Dunn asked
gently.  "What sort of life did you have together?"
   There was a long silence. Finally:  "My husband was not
always easy to get along with,"  she said carefully.  "He
was not a mean man, but he had a temper.  He liked to have
his way."
   "How did you meet him?"  Dunn asked.
   "I work for the insurance agency that handled his
property insurance.  Ray came in one day about six years
ago, to sign some papers in connection with a claim.  His
first wife had passed away, and he just seemed terribly
lonely.  Anyway, we got to talking in the outer office while
he was waiting for the agent.  Finally he went in, but when
he was through, he stopped by my desk again and invited me
out for coffee."
   "What was the claim about?" Dunn inquired.
   "There had been some damage from a fire -- I think it
was sparks from his fireplace or something.  It wasn't
extensive -- smoke damage and part of the floor needed
replacing.  And a couch.  I wasn't there, of course."
   "And that was six years ago?"
   "Yes.  We started seeing each other.  He seemed nice --
seemed to care about me.  He wasn't just looking for
company.  And I guess I was about ready to settle down."
   Dunn hid his surprise.  She must have been in her mid-
to late thirties at the time, a secretary in a small agency.
Wild was not a word that came to mind.  He nodded.  "So you
married and moved into his house, here?"
   "The question of going somewhere else never came up.  I
had a small apartment off Bridge Street, which was obviously
unsuitable.  He'd had this place built in the fifties.
After seeing how much he had put into it, I didn't have the
heart to ask him to move."
   "But you considered it?" "There's nothing wrong with the
house.  It has a wonderful view, a nice neighborhood, close
to work..."  Her voice trailed off.
   "Ghosts?"  he offered.
   She paused.  "Yes."  She gestured towards the walls.
"He wouldn't let me change the color of the paint, even when
it needed a new coat.  The kitchen was hers, and still is,
after six years."
   She stopped.  Dunn thought, ironically, that it was
Coleen Bishop's kitchen now.
   She went on to describe their years together, how more
and more she felt compared to the first Mrs. Bishop, and
suffering in the comparison.  Despite his quick temper, he
never showed physical violence toward her.  But she never
won his approval, either.
   "Did you ever tell him how you felt?"
   "What would have been the point?  I really don't like
getting into arguments.  He'd just bury his head in the
paper, or the TV or the cereal box.  But maybe I should have
been more insistent."  She started to cry.  Tears of
inadequacy and anger, mourning not her bereavement, not the
eternity of his death, but the six years of her life with
him.
   Dunn just listened.  Coleen Bishop had two ghosts to
exorcise.  After a while he asked:  "What happened to the
dog?"
   "Muffet?"  She looked surprised.  "She died last year."
   "Wasn't she young?  The dog officer said she was three
or four."
   "She was hit by a car,"  Mrs. Bishop said without
looking up.
   Somehow Dunn didn't think so.  "Mrs. Bishop, did your
husband ever strike the dog?  Maybe the dog gave him reason
to be angry and he lost control?  Hit her harder than he
meant to?"  When she remained silent, he added softly:
"He's dead now.  You don't need to protect him."
   She spoke very quietly.  "He told me she was run over.
I wasn't here, and he didn't talk about it much."   Her
eyes, however, seemed to tell another story, seemed to
confirm his suspicion.
   "You must have been very fond of the dog."   Three
ghosts, he thought.  And in the response on her face he
wondered if he saw a motive.
   
   
   Salve me, fons pietatis.
              Save me, O spring of mercy.
                        Requiem "Rex tremendae"
   
    Four days before reporting her husband missing, Coleen
Bishop had opened her small blue book and turned to the
appropriate page for March 1:
   "...there can be no progress without humility."
   With no small degree of skepticism, she read then that
she must surrender to God's will as the only way of escaping
both the destructive life to which she had meekly submitted
and the distress she caused herself in the erroneous pursuit
of self- will.
   Coleen closed the book again and slipped it between the
mattresses.  Ray knew she attended Al-Anon, but she couldn't
bear him flipping through the pages and mocking its
contents.  Surrendering to the program was difficult enough.
She remained seated on the edge of the bed for several
minutes, staring at the braided rug in soft reds and grays
at her feet.  A dimple had formed in the middle, which
maddeningly refused to be pushed flat.  If God's will was
not defined as the hand she was dealt, nor was it defined as
the cards she would throw back, then how the hell was it
defined?  For five minutes she humbled herself.
   "The attitude of true humility confers dignity and grace
on us, and strengthens us to take intelligent spiritual
action in solving our problems," it had continued under
March 1.
   Ray had finished his fourth beer and was watching a
basketball game in the living room.  They had consumed a
joyless dinner of undercurried curry, and had discussed
whether it would be a good idea to drive up to New Hampshire
for the weekend.  Coleen liked going up in the off season
and walking through the snowy woods.  The year-round motel
on Route 16 had a spectacular view of the mountains.  But
Ray had thought it was a bad idea and dropped the subject.
Anyway, there was a game Saturday.
   Coleen stood up and looked at herself in the mirror.
Even with effort she could muster no grace, no dignity.  Her
face said simply, "I've made a mistake."  Answers still
declined to rain down upon her.  The will of God refused to
reveal itself.  Finally she moved to the closet and hauled
out a small vinyl suitcase.  She planned to stay with her
sister for a few days, if not to change her hand, at least
to examine it.
   As she bent down to fish her running shoes from under
the bed, her hand fell upon Muffet's vinyl squeaky crab, now
dry and silent.  She pulled it out for a moment, then
replaced it and started packing.  When you lose your dog,
you lose your most loyal fan.  She had finished crying for
Muffet, however.  She cried now only for herself.
   Now she must tell Ray, and must with all her
determination keep him from stopping her, from talking her
out of going. Composing her speech in careful words, Coleen
walked resolutely into the living room and stood behind her
husband's chair.
   "Ray?"  She always started difficult conversations this
way.  "Ray?"
   "What?" he answered without turning.  The t was heavily
aspirated with the suggestion of annoyance.
   "Ray, I was thinking that I'd like to go spend some time
with Angela..."
   "Go ahead."
   "...because I feel I need..."  She realized then that he
had ended the argument before it began.  His words were not
a blessing but a dare.  He wouldn't stop her now, but his
anger would be unbearable when she came back.  Coleen would
leave in fear and return in dread.
   Returning to the bedroom for the suitcase, Bishop's wife
took a quick, automatic look around, turned off the light,
and headed back down the hall to the front door.  When
you're being watched not by eyes but by the back of a head,
walking becomes suddenly an unlearned skill.  She was
conscious of even the sound of her footsteps, trying not to
move too fast lest she appear to be bolting, but not too
slowly, lest she appear to be tiptoeing.  Holding her breath
to disclose neither the fear nor the eagerness, she held a
nonchalant pace up to the end of the hall and opened the
door measuredly.  Daring one last glance, she could see him
in the living room.  Just then he turned to look at her and
the hair rose on the back of her neck.  Mustering up all her
courage, she met his eyes for a moment then stepped out into
the darkness.
   When the car reached Webb Street Coleen began to shiver.
Turning the corner, she pulled over to the curb and waited
until the violent shaking in her hands subsided. She forced
herself to think about the best route to Gloucester this
time of night, and of her sister, and whether she should
call.  She was at last able to continue, and it was several
blocks before she thought of Eric.  Should she call him?
Easier from the highway than from Angela's.
   Just as she hit Route 128 it started to pour.  Eric will
wait till morning, she thought.  I'm enough for me to handle
right now.  I can't handle him as well.
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
    Chapter 9
   
   
   Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi,
   dona eis requiem.
   
         Lamb of God, who lifts away the sins of the world,
         give them rest.
   
                   John 1:29
   
   
    The sound of a buzz saw ripping through skull is like
no other.  Dr. Mei had completed the external exam and was
attacking the head.  As she worked she dictated her findings
into a cassette recorder by her side.  The saw seemed to
intensify the smell.  Dunn took and held another breath.
The photographer from CPAC backed away to reload his camera.
Deep inside the ceiling vent a fan rattled ineffectually,
and Dr. Mei's assistant sprayed air freshener high over the
table. "Cause of death looks like blunt trauma, mechanism
most likely subcranial hemorrhage."  Dr. Mei had removed the
skull and appeared to be reading the surface of the brain.
"Skull fracture, associated subdural hematoma."  She
switched off the recorder and glanced at Dunn.  "The
dilation of the right pupil tells us he was alive when hit."
The witnesses watched with momentary solemnity as she lifted
and weighed the brain.  Inspired by the familiarity of the
white enamel scale, the photographer embarked upon a steady
stream of predictable butcher-shop jokes.  Humor in the
autopsy room, just as at the scenes, was horrible and
tasteless.  Yet it was a necessary part of the distancing.
Of keeping death away.  Of giving oneself permission to go
about the job unencumbered. "You're a sick man," Dr. Mei
said to the photographer. Starting with a Y-shaped incision,
the medical examiner opened up the torso and gave Bishop a
physical few know in their lifetimes.  Every organ was
weighed and described.  Except for liver findings consistent
with the onset of cirrhosis, the man had been in reasonable
health.  Dunn watched with interest as she removed the
stomach contents and bagged them for the lab.  Next to the
skull, Bishop's last meal was Dunn's most reliable witness.
He looked at the doctor with raised eyebrows. "Well, from
the looks of it, I'd guess he died less than two hours after
eating.  I'll try to get an analysis for you by the end of
the week," she said.  Anticipating his next question, she
added: "The settling of the blood doesn't support the
position you found him in.  I would have to say he was moved
during the first hour or so.  And the wound would have bled
considerably more than you saw in there.  Find the puddle,
Gabriel, and you'll find your killer." "Thanks, Mom.  You
make a fine detective.  How about a quick blood alcohol?"
The complete toxicology would take a couple of weeks to come
back from Boston.  To the crime lab, Salem's Biggest Case
was an oxymoron. Dr. Mei nodded to the assistant who had set
down the can of Glade to prepare sample vials for the lab.
The doctor peeled off her gloves and switched back on the
recorder.  "'It is the opinion of the undersigned, blah,
blah, pending toxicology.  The manner...'"  She switched it
off.  "What is it, boys?  Any doubts?" The CPAC photographer
raised his hand.  "Clearly suicide." Dunn smiled at Gloria.
"'The manner will be listed as homicide.'" The medical
examiner turned on the Smith Corona at the end of the
counter and began filling out the death certificate.  Dunn
looked over at the remains on the steel table, the sound of
water still running somewhere below the mesh surface.  Like
a babbling mountain brook.  No, not like a babbling brook.
The forest- scented Glade was getting to him. A good chunk
of Dunn's overtime outside of court was spent in this room.
The CID investigated most unattended deaths in Salem.  Any
suspicious ones were posted.  Whoever was on duty and caught
the call also attended the autopsy.  In Dunn's opinion, most
of the answers to each murder were spread out on this table.
Maybe in a hundred years they would know all the questions.
Maybe the next technological breakthrough would allow them
to see the murderer's face burned into the optic nerve, or
to measure the killer's desperation on the skin of the
victim the way they do powder burns.  But today this corpse
was nearly done talking.  Rest in peace, pal, Dunn said
silently. The assistant took a few more minutes to type the
blood and determine the BAC.  She looked up from the
microscope.  "Type's AB." Dunn smiled.  He loved rare blood.
"He blew a one-three," she announced finally, as if she were
going to book him. The photographer turned to the corpse.
"Mr. Bishop, are you on any medications?" Dr. Mei looked at
Dunn.  "Sounds like he had had a few.  Consistent with the
liver involvement.  Is that any help?" Dunn frowned.  "I
don't know yet.  What about the weapon?  And do you think
his death was instantaneous?" The state photographer was not
giving up.  "Are you contemplating, or have you contemplated
suicide, Mr. Bishop?"  The assistant laughed. Dr. Mei
ignored them.  "By the skull damage it looked like he was
hit once from in front with a cornered object.  Smooth
textured, hard enough not to fragment.  Your perpetrator was
probably right-handed, but that's your department.  I found
no vomiting, no bite marks in the mouth, or other evidence
of seizures.  Minimal clotting.  I'd say, yes, it was
sudden.  He was lucky.  Clean and swift.  We should be able
to release the body tomorrow." Clean and swift.  His
hangover would have been worse. From Salem Hospital, Dunn
stopped home to shower and change.  It was nearly four when
he returned to the station.  Myles was down at the front
desk running names and numbers through the computer.
Upstairs Dunn dug the phone out from the afternoon pile of
notes that had drifted onto his desk and called Mrs.
Bishop's sister to arrange a visit.  Then he rang downstairs
and asked for his partner.  "Jake, I'm starving.  I owe you
lunch ... Fine.  Call it whatever you want.  Let's go."
Myles agreed to meet him at the car. As Dunn stepped out the
front door of the station, he caught sight of Brian Hurd
climbing out of his cruiser.  The detective gave a quick
wave as he passed.  He remembered then that Hurd kept an
extensive tape collection in his locker, a collection that
put Strawberries Records to shame.  He turned and asked:
"Brian, any chance you have Peter Gabriel in your locker?
First album?" "Mmh" came Hurd's squeaky reply. "I'll check.
I'll leave it on your desk.  If I don't, I'll bring it in
tomorrow." Dunn thanked him and headed for the Camaro.  He
wondered if this was folly, if perhaps Annie held no key,
after all, to the murder or to anything else.  But just now,
Brian's locker was rippling around in his mind.  He jerked
open the car door, swung himself into the driver's seat, and
switched on the car phone.  Reaching the postmaster on the
third ring, he asked:  "Mrs. Nevins, this is Gabe Dunn,
Salem Police.  We spoke this morning.  I should have asked
earlier, but do your carriers have lockers at the post
office?  Would Bishop have had one?" She answered:  "Yes, as
a matter of fact he did.  It's still padlocked, I think, but
we would have the master key." "Find it.  Give me a half
hour... I'll need to get a warrant signed."  Dunn hung up
and turned on the ignition.  Luckily, Myles was prompt.  He
climbed in, orange hibiscuses flashing beneath his leather
jacket.  Dunn put the car into reverse.  He said over his
shoulder:  "Couple stops before we eat.  Courthouse, post
office." Thirty-five minutes later, in the presence of the
union steward and the postmaster, a representative from the
inspection service unlocked Bishop's locker in the swing
room on the second floor.  They laid the contents out on a
table.  There was, besides a spare uniform and raingear,
very little else.  A box of Kleenex, a mug, a small bottle
of sweetener.  Mrs. Nevins had brought up the victim's
satchel from his bench, empty now except for a pad of forms
and a can of Halt dog repellent. Dunn went through all the
pockets in the clothes.  Bishop appeared to be meticulous
when it came to emptying pockets at the end of the day, with
the exception of one in the rain coat.  Folded neatly in the
breast pocket was one of the pink forms from his pad, the
kind that say a registered letter is being held for you at
the office.  This particular form he must have changed his
mind about.  Perhaps the recipient finally answered the bell
and he delivered it after all.  The name and address were
filled in, but nothing was checked off and there was no
date.  Mrs. Nevins confirmed the street was on Bishop's
route.  Dunn held onto the form, though he wasn't sure of
its importance.  Still, he wondered, as compulsive as Bishop
was, why hadn't he tossed it out? The name on the form was
Thomas Weber, followed by two letters, J and W, unless the
latter was meant to be an r, for junior?  The address was in
the Gallows Hill section of Salem.  There must have been a
reason the form was saved.  It was worth calling on Mr.
Weber. The late-afternoon business had slowed substantially.
Dover took a short break and slipped into the kitchen to
read a copy of the Salem Evening News, still smelling of
ink.  It had been another mild day.  She pushed open the
screen door and settled out on the back stoop, the cement
still warm from the sun.  The lengthening days filled that
part of her spirit with joy that had dampened in late fall,
when the last of the reds had turned to brown.  Dover
scanned the Personals first out of age-old habit, then
tossed aside the classifieds.  Weeding out the Sports
section and the advertising inserts, she leaned back,
satisfied finally with her higher titer of news.  She
indulged herself, scanning every page of the remaining
sections in this daily ritual, greedily savoring the moments
before darkness. As her eyes swept past the Obituaries, the
entry heading the second column leapt out at her:
BISHOP - Of Salem, March 5, Raymond S. Bishop
                  age 62, of 92 Monument Rd. Salem, husband
of
                  Coleen M. (O'Shea) Bishop.   Funeral Fri.
at
                  9 A.M. from the Murphy Funeral Home, 26
Cabot
                  St. Salem, followed by a Mass of
Christian
                   Burial in Sacred Heart Church at 10 A.M.
Relatives and friends invited.  Visiting
              hours Thursday 2-4 and 7-9 P.M. Burial in
              Greenlawn Cemetery, Salem.
   
   
   
   There was no answer the first time they went to the
Webers' house.  The two men elected to finish their quest
for Big Macs and agreed to call it dinner.  The second visit
was more fruitful.  The door was answered by Mrs. Weber, a
quiet, anxious- looking woman in her fifties, short and
plump.  Soft, ashen hair accentuated the roundness of her
face.  Her small gray eyes appeared more used to smiling but
now held back.  The trace of caution in her stance seemed to
clash with an otherwise matronly affect.
   "Hi, my name is Gabriel Dunn, I'm a detective sergeant
with the police department.  This is my partner, Jake Myles.
We're here as part of an investigation into the death of a
man found at the Willows yesterday.  We would like to speak
to you.  Mind if we come in?"
   They were shown in, obviously interrupting preparations
for dinner.  A man's silhouette appeared in the kitchen
doorway.  Holding a jar in one hand, he turned rigid for a
moment, then relaxed and asked:  "What is this about,
Officers?"
   Dunn turned to him:  "Are you Thomas Weber?"
   The man nodded.
   "Mr. Weber, did either you or your wife know a man named
Ray Bishop?" Dunn asked.
   Myles dug out a picture and handed it to the couple.
   The two looked at each other, then at the photograph.
Turning back to the policemen, Weber said:  "No.  Should
we?"
   "He was your postman."  It seemed a simplistic way of
describing a man's life.  He could have said, he was a vet.
He was a husband, a homeowner, a dogowner.  A fence builder.
He was a bully.  He was a good provider.  He was reliable,
he was a tyrant.  He was an asshole.  But the only link he
knew of to the Webers' lives was the pink post-office
package-delivery form.  "He hadn't had this route for very
long.  We have reason to believe he may have delivered a
package or registered letter here a few weeks ago.  Do you
remember any such delivery?  You probably would have signed
for it."
   From a low part on the left side of his head, Weber's
thin, wispy red hair was combed upward in defiance of
gravity and nature to cover the extended forehead of its
owner.  Sunken dark eyes were fixed on Dunn's.  "No,
nothing.  I never really notice our mailman.  We're both at
work when he comes."
   "How about on Saturdays?"
   Weber shook his head.  "No, what's happened?"
   "Mr. Bishop was found dead yesterday.  Do the initials J
W mean anything to you?"  Dunn inquired.
   For a moment he froze, but it quickly passed.  "I'm
afraid not.  Sorry we can't be of any help."
   Mrs. Weber's hands had begun to tremble.  Self-
consciously she blurted out:  "That's terrible, that man
dying..."
   Explaining that it was a formality, Myles took down
their phone numbers and places of employment.  He asked if
they could remember any of their movements the weekend of
March third.  The Webers generally stayed home on Saturdays
and had probably watched TV.  On Sunday they might have gone
to the mall, but couldn't be sure about that particular
Sunday.  "Please call us if any of it comes back to you,"
Myles said and handed them a card.
   
   "What the fuck are they hiding?" he asked Dunn as they
headed back north.
   "I don't know.  Let's do a little checking around."
Dunn dropped Myles off at the station, then pulled out
again.  He had an appointment in Peabody.
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
    Chapter 10 Dies supremus musicae             The day
the music ended
   
    Annie's teacher lived in a mobile home in Peabody, a
somewhat more affluent city to the west of Salem, affluent
with the exception of its mobile-home parks lining both
sides of Route 1.  After interviewing Mel Isaksen at the
school, Dunn was unprepared for the teacher's domicile.  He
wasn't sure exactly what image he had conjured up on the
strength of what he had seen of the woman at work, but it
certainly wasn't a mobile home.
   "I apologize for the lateness of the hour," he offered
when she pulled open the door.  With the light behind her
she looked like Miss Norway in a goat cheese advertisement.
   She smiled the smile that had seemed so wasted in a
classroom.  "It's all right."  She showed him in.
   "You said today that Annie had been upset recently.
Acting up?"
   "She's been rather more aggressive toward the other kids
than is normal for her.  Also, she's had a problem settling
in each day -- getting down to work."
   "When did this begin?" he asked.
   "I checked her folder after you left this afternoon.  We
keep data sheets on each child's work and often add comments
or observations if we think it will help explain changes in
performance.  Annie started deteriorating early this month.
She wouldn't cooperate at all on March fifth, so we have
very sparse data that day.  Sometimes our kids just have bad
days, especially on Mondays."
   "A lot of us do,"  Dunn said.  His eyes relaxed,
dropping the tough, impassive interview look so well
ingrained in a cop.
   "Well, anyway, I wrote a short note to her father about
it, but when it continued the next day, I called him after
work."
   "What did he say?"  He leaned forward.
   "At first when I asked him if anything was going on at
home, any problems, he said no, none that he could think of.
But then I mentioned that she had been signing 'stop'  and
'music' for the last two days.  He remembered that her tape-
player had broken over the weekend and thought that was
probably the reason she was upset."
   "Did you think he was right?"
   "Well, I accepted it at the time.  It sort of made sense
that she could have been saying 'music stopped'.  Also it is
true that many of our kids get upset when music's taken away
from them.  It's as strong a motivator as food for them.
Sometimes greater.  But thinking about it later, it struck
me that Annie had been avoiding music for two days.  Not
only was she refusing to work to earn it, she was pulling
off the headphones whenever we simply made it available to
her."
   Digesting this for a moment, he asked:  "What else did
she like besides Peter Gabriel?"
   "She's not particular when it comes to style.  She likes
all kinds of things."
   "And she still avoids it?" he asked.  The teacher
nodded.  "And this never happened before?"
   She replied: "Not in the two and a half years I've known
her."
   Dunn sat back.  "Is Annie capable of telling us if she
saw anything?"
   "She could, if she has the right words or signs.  Asking
her directly won't work, though.  She won't understand a
question about the past, not that far back."
   "You mean she wouldn't remember?"
   "She'd remember all right.  But how would she know we
wanted to talk about two weeks ago, not about this morning?
We tried asking her why she was angry.  She's not at a stage
where she can communicate that, however."
   Not many of us are, thought Dunn.
   
   
   
   Hide me under the shadow of thy wings.
   
              Psalm 17:8
   
    "You mean new names, everything?" Lila asked, fighting
back tears.  It was around nine Tuesday night.  Her husband
had switched off the TV.
   He nodded.
   "What are we going to do about Chris?"  Their twenty-
nine- year old son was working as a carpenter in North
Carolina.
   "We'll contact him somehow.  When we're settled.  We'll
find a way to keep in touch with him, Lila.  I promise."
   "Tom, listen.  We may be jumping the gun," she pleaded.
"If the police had more than just a name they'd have said
so."
   "What makes you think that?  They're not going to tip
their hand to us."
   "Their questions would have been different.  They were
trying to find a connection."
   "They had more than just the name 'Tom Weber'.  They had
'Jack Wiley'."
   "Just the initials.  They can never trace them to you.
Tom, we can make preparations.  But let's please not go
unless we have to.  We've been safe here for so long.  We
get just the one threat, and now he's dead.  All he left
behind was a name.  And the police may conclude it was a
package delivery."
   Weber looked at his wife.  "This is a bad idea, Lila.  A
bad idea."  He paused, then said:  "But we'll give it a day
or two.  See what happens.  But let's start planning for it
while we can.  Lighten the load.  We may have to leave in a
hurry." Lila got up and went into the bedroom.  Unsure of
where to begin.  Unsure of how to pack ten years of life
into the trunk of a car.
   
   
   
   When Jack Wiley was Neil Walton he met and married Lila
Marie Kane in Alhambra, California.  It was late October
1957.  Wiley was easily spooked in the early days of their
marriage.  They moved frequently and went under a variety of
names for a while, none well established.  Changing
identities was easier for them then.  They were young.
   Wiley had confided in Lila when they were engaged.
Nevertheless she was not deterred.  Three years later, under
the names Brad and Laura Woods they had a son.  Christopher
Woods was born in early 1961 in a suburb just outside of
Philadelphia.  His parents managed to overcome their fears
for the next nineteen years, moving twice but keeping their
identity.  Chris's childhood had been a stable and
relatively happy time for them all.  Wiley's past threatened
to catch up with him in 1980.  Chris was living on his own,
then.  The pair fled without warning and without time, but
thankful that their son would not have to flee with them,
thankful that he would never experience what they had to
experience.
   They had managed to keep in close contact with Chris,
who had since moved to North Carolina, escaping the
harassment and questions.  Wary of phone taps they had
worked out alternative systems for keeping in touch over the
years.
   
   She remembered that last time, how she had felt like a
refugee.  Food left in the kitchen.  Clothes in the dryer.
The worst were the photo albums and the boxes in the
basement.  Boxes containing Chris's childhood:  baby
clothes, drawings from school, outgrown skates, pieces of a
train set.
   Nothing could ever be as bad as that time.  Tom had
picked her up from work one day and said they couldn't go
home.  With a sweater over her shoulders, her purse, her
remains of lunch in a brown paper bag, and a Tupperware
catalog she had borrowed from a friend at the office, Lila
followed her husband to Massachusetts.

   
   
   
   
   
   
    Chapter 11
   
   Ich will euch trosten,
   wie einen seine Mutter trostet.
   
              As one whom his mother comforts
              I will comfort you.
   
                        Isaiah 66:13
   
   "Good morning, Mr. President!  This is Joe and Andy from
the Joe and Andy Show!"  Walter Pellegro slammed off the
radio which had erupted by his pillow.  This was the third
time he had hit the snooze button.  He and Annie had had
another rough night,  another nightmared night.  A couple of
times a week she still woke up screaming.  He desperately
wanted to call in sick, for both of them.  Even the prospect
of getting her ready for school this morning was more than
he could bear. Pellegro stumbled to the bathroom, then to
Annie's room.  Praying the driver would be late this
morning, he helped his daughter get dressed.  Both of them
had to recycle socks from the bathroom floor.  Pellegro was
out of butter so handed her plain toast while he packed
whatever he could find in the refrigerator in a bag and
hoped it would pass for lunch.  Mel would give her some
peanut butter, he reassured himself.  The Travel Management
station wagon pulled into his driveway.  Pellegro stuffed
the child into a jacket, helped her into the backseat, and,
with one muscular arm, thrust the small brown paper sack at
the driver. "This one's Annie's.  Remember!" he growled. The
driver took the bag and tossed it onto a heap of bags by his
side. "They're supposed to have your kid's name on it.  We
can't be responsible..." Pellegro turned to his daughter and
blew her a kiss.  He knew parents should consider themselves
lucky if the drivers just remembered to drop their wards off
at the right school.  With leaden eyes he watched them back
out and accelerate down the street.  Slow down, he wanted to
shout, for chrissake's slow down.  His mind felt like fur,
his teeth like glue.  He wanted better for Annie.  Better
than this.  Better than dry toast and Travel Management.
But mostly he wanted sleep.
   
   Wednesday morning was spent trying to locate Sally
Matsamoto, the Salem State student who baby-sat Annie
Pellegro the night of the third.  Unfortunately, the school
was in the middle of spring break, and no one seemed to know
where Sally had gone.  Myles had checked Thomas and Lila
Weber in the computer and found nothing.  Nothing in either
NCIC or LEAPS, the local analog to the national computer
bulletin service.  Board of Probation showed no listings.
Nothing from the Registry of Motor Vehicles beyond basic
registration and license entries.  He was halfway through
the thirty-four Mackeys in the Salem phonebook and had
unearthed none who knew Ray Bishop.  Shortly after eleven
Dunn came up from downstairs.  He took a seat behind his
desk, which faced Myles and a shirt out of Miami Vice.  He
looked at the younger man, hoping for some news.
   "A morning of dead ends," Myles said wearily.  "Billy
said you were down in the garage this morning.  Go through
Bishop's car?  I listed everything in the report."
   "Mmmh, still gotta do that.  Actually, I had a
rendezvous with the wife of that guy Fagan we busted last
week."
   "We seized his Pontiac?"
   "That's the one.  Remember all the toys in the backseat?
Turns out one of the bears was critical.  Particularly
missed."
   "And her husband wasn't?"
   "She didn't say anything about him.  But she had tears
in her eyes when she talked about her kid's bear.  So I told
her to come back this morning and we'd try and arrange
something.  He's going to need a little restitching after
what Billy did to it, but at least he was satisfied enough
to release it."  Billy Trinidad was the evidence officer.
He was strict.
   Dunn leaned forward and opened a folder, changing the
subject.  "The neighbor to the west of the Bishops is a Mrs.
Gerard Lufkis.  Eighty-eight Monument Road.  She's good
friends with Coleen Bishop.  Thought I might have a talk
with her this morning.  By the way, the medical examiner's
releasing the body this afternoon.  Bishop's being waked
tomorrow.  Funeral's Friday morning."
   As they stood up, Myles asked:  "So, what'd we get in
return?"
   "Return for what?"
   "The bear."
   Dunn pointed to his wall.  "A thank-you drawing."
   For Lila Weber, life was now a giant game of musical
chairs.  Every time she left the house, she risked the music
stopping before she could return.  Lila had begun to pack a
box of things to ship to their son.  Things she could do
without, but not live without.  She tried to feel lucky to
be given this time.  In fact, it was torture.Lila thought
about where they would go this time.  She remembered the
poverty and isolation, extreme isolation, they would have to
endure for a while.  You keep to yourself a lot when you
have a past to hide.  Until you build some history in a new
town, there's not much to talk about at parties.  You never
talk about the place you just left.  Like you were from
outer space.  Tom always handled the business end of moving.
In Salem, his first purchase ten years ago had been a used
typewriter, his second, a blank Certificate of Merit form
from a local stationery store.  Thomas Weber's history and
first piece of ID had begun with an Employee of the Month
award from Atlantic Contracting, dated May 8, 1980.  In a
visit to the local library, his name had been culled from
the obituary page of a 1934 Salem Evening News, which had
reported the death in infancy of one Thomas Gordon Weber of
North Salem on March fourteenth. On his way back to the
motel, Weber had stopped at the Salem City Hall to purchase
a copy of the birth certificate for two bucks.  Then he had
returned to the library and obtained his library card.
Within two days he had procured a plastic ID from a local
health club, a driver's license, and a new social security
number.  A mail order credit card was on its way, and the
typewriter was getting heavy use putting out references.  By
the end of the week they had left the motel and had gotten a
room somewhere that was unlikely to check the pasts of
boarders.  Weber had learned to pick his first jobs with
companies equally uncurious.  He had been gainfully employed
before the cash ran out. Before leaving for her noon shift
at the store, Lila called and canceled a dentist
appointment, cleaning out her calendar the way she had
cleaned out closets the night before.  She shut the clasp on
her small overnight bag and loaded it into the trunk of her
car with the box for UPS.  Returning for one last look, she
decided on impulse to shut off the phone answering machine.
She didn't want any unanswered messages on her conscience if
no one came home tonight. Lila had started life in Salem as
a waitress in a lunchroom with an owner sympathetic to the
difficulties of a housewife just entering the workforce.  In
reality, not only had Lila always worked, she knew that
without social security she'd be in the workforce the rest
of her life. Neighbor Marietta Lufkis had apparently been
Coleen Bishop's haven for many a storm.  Never needing
explanations, she threw together pots of tea or served up
glasses of wine, whichever she felt the occasion called for.
Coleen often said nothing, just sat and watched her move
about the kitchen, brushing aside her dark pageboy bangs,
and every few minutes flashing a toothy smile at her two-
year-old son stationed under the table.  Marietta was the
perfect wife and mother, comfortably keeping everything
together while her husband was on some archaeological dig.
Flipping through Spiegel catalogs while the soup came to a
boil, she made every minute of her life count.  Here there
was peace, the kind working women have to treat as a luxury,
as a special moment, but women like Marietta live the peace
and miss the treat. Surprisingly, Mrs. Lufkis did not hold
Coleen Bishop's disclosures in confidence.  She was more
than willing to talk to Dunn, putting into words what he had
seen in Coleen Bishop's face.  In recent months the marriage
had gone sour, partly because the anger which Coleen
expressed at 88 Monument Road, couldn't be expressed at 92.
"I told her time and again she had to learn to fight,"  Mrs.
Lufkis explained.  "Everyone finds their own way of coping,
I suppose.  Fighting just wasn't hers."   Incongruously, she
wrinkled her face into a grin. "What was her way of coping?"
Dunn asked, fixing his eyes on her teeth. Marietta Lufkis
paused a long time before giving herself permission to
continue.  She examined him a moment through heavy- framed
glasses.  "She's having an affair." "With whom?" "His name
is Eric. Eric Something-or-other, Whittaker, Whittier.  He's
an artist sort.  Lives on a farm in Topsfield, I believe she
said.  Though he may well not be for long.  He's having some
difficulties with the payments."  Again, the grin.  She was
the kind of speaker who underscored the implication of her
words with exaggerated facial expression, like a second-
grade teacher.  But the sort who makes one expression serve
all purposes, the expression of an animal in fear. "When did
the relationship begin?" "I'm not entirely sure.  A year,
perhaps?  She didn't tell me for a very long while." "Was
Mrs. Bishop planning on leaving her husband for this man?"
"I don't think she had made up her mind yet.  She finds
comfort in security.  This man Eric doesn't sound any too
secure." Despite the grin, Marietta Lufkis obviously felt
secure.  Her husband was two thousand miles away, gone for
months.  And yet he was here. "Mrs. Lufkis, could you tell
me if you remember seeing either Mr. or Mrs. Bishop at any
time during the weekend of March third?" The woman's head
swiveled as her son emerged from under the table and darted
behind the couch.  "Donnie," she said as he passed by.  If
she had a verb in mind she soon forgot it.  "Not to my
recollection.  Coleen was at her sister's.  She told me that
when she got back.  She came over here Monday afternoon to
see if I knew where Ray was.  I hadn't seen him all
weekend." The child reappeared from behind the couch holding
a sock in one hand and a spatula in the other.  Squatting
down in the middle of the rug, he lay the sock down
carefully and began to poke it with the spatula. "Did you
happen to notice whether there were any cars in the driveway
that Saturday or Sunday?   Any come or go?" "I don't have a
good view of the driveway, and I'm sorry, but I wouldn't
really remember unless there was something out of the
ordinary." "What's he doing, your son?"  Dunn finally had to
ask. "Frying eggs." He stared at the intense expression on
the child's face and found himself believing it.  He smiled
and stood up to go. Picking up her son, she accompanied him
to the front door.  "I hope you don't suspect Coleen of
anything like... murder.  She's incapable of anything like
that.  I wouldn't want you to misconstrue what I've told
you, Sergeant." "You've been very helpful, Mrs. Lufkis."
Dunn wondered if Coleen Bishop knew how really loyal a
friend her neighbor was. "Please call me if anything else
comes to mind."  He handed her a card and she followed him
out to the car.  As he climbed in, she studied the ground as
if deciding whether to speak. The toddler began to squirm.
"Naptime," she announced in a singsong voice.  With a swift
movement she rotated the child in her arms, and carried him
back to the house upside down.  He in turn rewarded her with
peals of outrageous laughter.  Dunn watched them with envy
for a moment, then switched on the ignition. At the station
he picked up Myles and they headed for Topsfield.
   
   
   
   Quaint, he thought.   A hippie.  The man wore shoulder-
length, pewter-gray hair and one of those shirts from Africa
which showed up at cocktail parties in 1970 and had a name
we all knew back then.  Gaunt face, midforties.  Sandals, no
socks, and something with leather around his neck.
   Eric Whittier led them inside and pointed to the living
room.  The house appeared to be a couple of hundred years
old, a mixture of authentic old-world craftsmanship and
twentieth- century deterioration.  Exposed beams and
beautiful detailing framed crumbling plaster interspersed
with the telltale holes of blown-in insulation.
   Half expecting his host to sit on the floor, Dunn took a
seat by a large bay window, leaving Whittier and Myles the
couch.  To his relief, they both sat on it.
   "How long have you known Coleen Bishop?" Dunn asked.
   "I couldn't tell you exactly.  I don't keep a calendar."
   No, of course not, thought Dunn.  He was beginning to
wonder if Whittier would be a hostile witness, when the man
stretched out his thin legs and added:  "I guess it's been
about ten months."
   "How did you meet?"  Dunn doubted it was an insurance
claim.  The unlikelihood of these two people ever occupying
the same space or even the same time seemed overwhelming.
   "There's a festival and craft show every year on the
Salem Common.  I go each time to sell mirrors."  To Dunn's
questioning look, he continued:  "I take old window frames
and replace the glass with mirrored glass.  They sell pretty
well.  Last May Coleen came by my booth and bought one."
   "When did you next meet her?"
   "She took one of my cards.  Said she was interested in
seeing more of my work. So a week or so later she called me.
Came up, I made her some tea, and we talked."
   Dashiki.  Dunn remembered.  He asked:  "About what?"
   "Not really your business.  Let's stick to facts.
Pertinent ones."  The serene look in the man's face never
changed.  One of those guys left over from the sixties who
refused to display anger.  Myles, whose own shirt paled by
comparison, shifted in his seat and waited for Dunn's
response.  There was no way to force this line of
questioning.
   "To your knowledge, did her husband know she was seeing
you?"  Dunn met the serenity with impassivity.
   "Not to my knowledge."
   "Do you have any recollection about the weekend of March
third and fourth?"  Dunn asked, and braced himself for the
calendar line again.  He wished he had called this one down
to the station, onto his turf.  Interviews went smoother
when it was your doll and dishes.
   "That would be the weekend Ray disappeared?"
   "That's right."
   "Coleen was in Gloucester at the time.  I was here
working all weekend."
   "Did you talk to her at all?"
   "She called me Saturday to tell me where she was and
that she was coming back Monday morning."
   "Did she mention arguing with her husband?"
   "With Coleen, the problem is not the arguing, it's the
not arguing," Whittier explained. "She was going quietly
crazy living with him.  She went to Gloucester to decide
what to do about it."
   "And what did she decide?"  Dunn asked.
   The man turned unblinking and strikingly blue eyes
toward the detective.  "We'll never know, will we."
   "Mr. Whittier, do you think Coleen Bishop could have
killed her husband?"
   "What motive could she have?  Wouldn't divorce have been
less strenuous?"
   Dunn replied, "Money.  Life insurance, perhaps, and his
estate.  The house must be paid off by now, and if he didn't
agree to a no-fault, she probably would get very little in a
settlement."
   "In answer to your question, I don't think Coleen would
be capable of murder for that reason, or for any other."
   "How about you?"  Dunn asked.
   Whittier smiled, unperturbed.  "I didn't kill Ray
Bishop, Sergeant."
   "Nice place," Dunn remarked as they got up.  "Do you own
it?"
   "Me and the Bank of New England,"  the man replied.
   When the men had left, Eric went back out into the barn.
Flipping on the radio, he resumed his seat on a tall wooden
stool at the workbench.  Unheated except for a bronze-
colored quartz heater in the corner, the room had grown
chilly.  Eric pulled his jacket on.  From the small round
speakers of his radio ushered forth a familiar Led Zeppelin
riff.  Soul of a woman was cre...ATED below.  Eric smiled to
himself and bent down over the mirrored glass.  Taking up
his glass cutter he began to score.
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
    Chapter 12
   Recordare Jesu pie,
   Quod sum causa tuae viae;
   Ne me perdas illa die.
   
              Recall, merciful Jesus,
              that I was the cause of your journey;
              do not harm me on that day.
   
                        Requiem "Dies irae"
   
   
    Myles was the one with the contact at the bank.  One of
the security supervisors at the Bank of New England was a
retired cop from Peabody.  Myles had helped him out on some
case a few years back.  The two had been in touch a few
times since, and Myles had shown up at his retirement party.
Within a half hour he had the loan history on Eric Whittier.
Not admissible in court, but useful.
   Coleen was studying the first of the sympathy cards to
show up when Dunn and Myles rang the doorbell.   They
announced that a few more questions had come up, but that
they would try not to take too much of her time.
   "Mrs. Bishop," Dunn began when they were seated.  "Could
you tell us about your relationship with Eric Whittier?"
   She seemed unsurprised at the question.  Whittier must
have called to warn her, he thought.
   "I've been seeing him occasionally since last summer."
She fixed her gaze on the card still in her hand.  As if
reading from it she added:   "He was a friend to me.  I had
no intention of leaving Ray, if that's what you're
thinking."
   Dunn's voice was steady:  "We've just talked to the Bank
of New England.  They tell us that on March fifth Whittier
came in to make his mortgage payment, which was in arrears.
In fact, the bank had threatened foreclosure.  Whittier
brought it in cash.  Do you know where he got the money?"
   This time she looked surprised.  "No!"
   "Did you give it to him?"
   "No I did not.  He would never have asked me for it, nor
would he have accepted it.  He must have sold some of his
work."
   "Over one weekend?  He was unable to negotiate a partial
payment the week before."
   "It could happen.  Maybe he got a tax refund.  Is this
important?"
   Dunn began to think it was.  "One more thing, Mrs.
Bishop.  Have you ever heard the name Thomas Weber before?
Or Lila Weber?"
   She shook her head.
   As the door closed behind them, Dunn noticed the postman
coming up the driveway.  Recognizing the man as one they had
questioned the previous morning, he smiled and waved.
"Running late?"  It was nearly three o'clock. "Not at all.
This is my usual time. It's the end of my route."
   For a second, Dunn was surprised.  Why had he imagined
the mail would have come in the morning?  As they stepped
down from the porch, a question started to nag him.  If
Monument Road got their mail in the afternoon, what was on
the floor when Mrs. Bishop returned home at noon, Monday
March 5?  They continued down the brick path, Dunn in silent
thought.  The sounds of passing cars reminded the
neighborhood that the winter hiatus in traffic was drawing
to a close and that soon warm weather would bring crowds and
vehicles in constant pilgrimage to the Willows.
   Just then, Dunn heard Marietta Lufkis's muffled voice
calling out her son's name from next door.  He detected
alarm in the faint sound and stood still, listening.
Suddenly he spotted Donnie Lufkis's tiny body barreling down
their driveway toward the street.  Like a runaway bus, his
stubby little legs propelled him with terrifying momentum,
his red curls lifting in the breeze.
   Dunn sprang into motion.  With a few quick bounds he
reached the front fence and catapulted himself over.  Donnie
had crossed the sidewalk without slowing, eyes fixed on the
far side of the street and an objective known only to
himself.  The policeman sprinted straight for the child,
and, looking up, glimpsed to his horror the sun's
reflections in the chrome grillwork of a red Dodge Caravan
rounding the bend and doing fifty.
   Jake Myles leaped out into the street behind him and
began shouting and waving at the driver to slow down.
D