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.
Dunn's eyes were glued to the boy.  As the distance between
them decreased, he reached out his right arm.  In one heart-
stopping second he scooped up the child and twisted around
toward the curb.  The van never slowed, and its right mirror
grazed him on the shoulder as it sped by.  He fell to the
street, cradling the toddler.  As the van moved off, he
could hear through its open windows the Doppler effect
shifting the music down in pitch.  Somewhere behind him a
woman screamed.
   Donnie began to howl.  Marietta Lufkis had emerged from
the backyard in a frantic run, but now stood frozen on the
lawn, hands to her mouth.  All color had drained from her
face.
   Dunn sat up, his chest pounding violently.  "Get him,
Jake.  I'm all right,"  he whispered.  But Jake had left.
   
   
   
   
   Dunn refused the offer of a trip to the emergency room
and returned to the station.  The shoulder would probably be
worse the next morning, but for the moment he was alive, or
a close approximation thereof.  Myles had nailed the van
down by the entrance to the park.  He had radioed for Hurd,
and when the cruiser arrived, Myles had three youths spread-
eagled against the side of the van and, in defiance of
policy and good judgment, his Smith & Wesson drawn.  Hurd
had come with backup, and Myles relinquished the kids and a
few illegal items from the van.
   Sitting now across from Dunn and finishing a Mars bar,
he took longer to describe the chase than the chase had
taken.  "On top of the 'operating to endanger,' we got a
real good 'driving under' case."
   Dunn scowled.  "Patrol supervisor complained about the
gun.  You gotta watch it, Jake."
   "Reinhardt's a fucking asshole.  Clueless.  You know
that as well as I do.  He wouldn't see an armed robbery if
it were on the hood of his cruiser.  Know what?"
   A dull ache was beginning to spread throughout his
shoulder.  Dunn tried to rotate it, preferring pain to ache.
"What?" he managed to say.
   "Two of the guys are good friends of Kyle Raider, the
kid down the street."
   "So, is there supposed to be some connection?"  Dunn was
losing interest in the van incident.  And he had no
inclination to learn how Myles had extracted this
information.
   "Well, his uncle did have a beef with Bishop."
   "And?  Why take out Donnie Lufkis?"
   Myles leaned back and stroked his chin.  "Maybe the
Lufkis kid saw something he shouldn't have."
   Dunn stared at him a moment and said very slowly:
"Good.  Good work, Jake."
   Myles popped the end of the Mars bar into his mouth and
stood up.  As he reached the open door, Dunn said:  "Wait,
Jake.  Listen, how tall would you guess the boyfriend, Eric
Whittier was?"
   "Dunno.  About my height, I guess.  Why?"
   "Close enough to Bishop...he was five seven.  What are
you, five eight?" Dunn asked.
   "Eight and a half."  Myles resumed his seat.  He wadded
up his candy wrapper and shot it into Dunn's wastebasket.
   Dunn pulled out the bottom drawer of his steel-gray desk
and propped a foot on it.  Bottles of white.out rolled to
the back.  "If Whittier were wearing Bishop's jacket, maybe
with a bit of extra padding, and had a muffler wrapped
around his lower face, and was wearing a hat..."
   "What the hell are you talking about?"
   "Saturday.  Outside Pellegro's window.  Walter Pellegro
got only a brief glimpse as the guy got into the car and
drove away.  Through a window cluttered with plants, through
a chain-link fence.  And he would, of course, expect it to
be Bishop.  The mind often sees what the eye does not."
   "Why don't you think it was Bishop?" Myles asked.  "We
only have one clue to his whereabouts for the whole weekend.
Now you're trying to blow it off."
   "I'm just saying, we can't take anything for granted.
Pellegro says he saw Bishop Saturday afternoon.  Either he
saw Bishop, and Bishop was alive then, or he saw someone who
looked like Bishop."
   "Or he was lying," Myles added.
   "Or he was lying."
   The two were silent for a minute.  Then Myles asked:
"So what are you thinking?"
   "Maybe, just maybe, Coleen and Eric conspired to kill
her husband."
   "Motive?" "Oh, usual stuff.  Love, hate, money.  Not a
lot of money.  But people have been killed for less.  I'm
wondering if maybe Coleen helped Eric out with the mortgage
payment.  I looked over some of the Bishops' recent bank
statements.  Coleen loaned them to me with his stuff.  She
made a couple cash withdrawals that weekend, the weekend of
the third."
   "Go on," said Myles.  "Wouldn't that leave a trail?  It
did leave a trail."
   Dunn smiled.  "Of course.  And from the handwriting on
the back of the other statements, Ray Bishop usually
balanced the checkbook.  I wonder what he would have said
about the withdrawals.  If he had lived to see the records."
   The younger man frowned.  "Doesn't the lady strike you
as having been terrified of her better half?  Why would she
risk..."
   Dunn tried to give Myles a look he could appreciate.
"Maybe, just maybe she knew he'd never see the statement."
   "Let's ask her about the withdrawals!"  Myles slapped
the desk.
   Dunn answered softly.  "No.  I already returned them.  I
want to be careful, Jake, in case we have to subpoena them
later."
   "OK, OK.  So why would Whittier dress up as Bishop
Saturday afternoon?"
   "Throw the time of death off.  Maybe he had an alibi
after that.  And taking the car to the station would make it
seem like Bishop had left town, presumably of his own
volition.  When you got the missing-person call, what did
you think had happened?" Dunn asked.
   "That he booked.  We all did.  Especially after we heard
about their argument Thursday night.  That's usually the
answer, guy wants out."
   "Right.  You put up a pretty good show for her, though.
Understand you went through their garbage," Dunn said with
admiration.
   Myles smiled.  "And you can bet it's all in the report.
I considered heat-sealing it and sending it down to 1010."
   Dunn got up and began to pace.  "But let's keep in mind
the alternatives.  Bishop was alive or Pellegro lied.  OK,
Jake, why would Pellegro lie?  Could he have killed Bishop?
What's his motive?"
   His partner shrugged.  "Maybe he was really pissed off
about the fence.  I would have been."
   Dunn looked at him.  "You wouldn't have killed the guy."
   Myles leaned toward him and said menacingly: "Maybe ...
maybe I would have killed his little dog."
   Dunn stared back at him.  "You would, wouldn't you."  He
pulled the phone toward him and dialed Coleen Bishop's
number.  After a dozen rings he replaced the receiver.  "All
right, Jake.  Will you find out about the dog?  Someone's
gotta know something.  There's one other person who probably
wanted that dog dead."
   "Raider," Myles answered, shoving a finger in Dunn's
face.  He stood up, flashed his best Raymond Chandler grin
and sauntered toward the door.  Interrupting his second
exit, he turned and looked questioningly at Dunn.  "Wait a
minute.  Whittier didn't mention any alibi today." "I
suspect Whittier is cagier than we think.  I wouldn't be at
all surprised if one comes out of the woodwork next time we
chat with him.  I'd bet a lunch on it."
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
    Chapter 13
   Hostias et preces tibi,
   laudis offerimus.
   Suscipe pro animabus illis,
   quarum hodie memoriam facimus...
   
              We offer to you in praise, o Lord,
              sacrifices and entreaties.
              Take them for the souls
              we hold in memory today.
   
                        Requiem "Offertorium"
   
    The gray Lincoln Continental had been impounded late on
the evening of March 5, shortly after its discovery at the
train station.  Still covered with a layer of snow, it had
been photographed and towed.  Mrs. Bishop had come down to
identify the vehicle.  She also had provided a set of keys.
   The car was still down in the garage.  Wednesday evening
after Jake left, Dunn went downstairs to look through it
himself.  He could see the usual jumble of maps, a couple of
scraps of paper, a glove, an ice scraper.  Cars seem to suck
debris from their occupants, he thought.  They entrap
anything of any size that can be wrested from us.  Thermoses
lodge beneath its seats.  Hairpins, quarters, pens pile up
in every crack.  Small bits of foil, even if you don't chew
gum.  Coffee stirrers, empty sugar packs.  Crumpled tissues,
gas receipts, parking lot tickets, car wash coupons.
Unidentifiable but critical plastic and metal parts, often
carefully saved in the glove compartment.  Small
flashlights, usually several, that don't work, and a spare
fuse, or a blown one.
   Bishop's car had surprisingly few of these items.  It
struck Dunn that the debris in one's automobile seemed
inversely proportional to one's age, and that one of the
requirements for retiring seemed to be a spotless car.  By
this measure, he could estimate this driver to be sixty-two
or -three.
   Carefully he slid into the driver's seat, avoiding the
steering wheel with its fresh dusting of powder.  Out of
habit Dunn reached for the brake with his foot.  It seemed a
bit far for his comfort, and Bishop was three inches shorter
than he was.  Possibly the seat had been moved back when
Myles or the print man went through the car.  Dunn began his
search.
   The maps were mostly local - Boston downtown,
Massachusetts, New Hampshire, one badly worn of Danvers and
Peabody.  A popular road atlas of the Boston area, with the
most critical pages missing.  Such is the fate of all road
atlases when one lives or works on one of its pages.  An
automobile club map of New York City, also old.  The maps
all had a flattened dead look about them that suggested they
hadn't been opened in a while.  Like clothes you haven't
worn in five years and can't now because hanging in the back
of your closet they've had the life squeezed out of them.
   Dunn turned his attention to the assorted scraps of
papers that were clues to this man's life, or possibly to
his death.  Much in that category seemed indeed to be part
of the common denominator of all drivers.  Anything that had
dates he piled chronologically on the seat beside him.  An
ATM slip from early January didn't tell him much - a hundred-
dollar withdrawal.  The balance printed on the slip seemed
uninteresting.  Part of a grocery list, too faded to be
relevant, contained nothing more potent than Pepsi - six-
pack - and no date.  He pulled out a parking lot ticket from
the visor and looked at it closely.  The ticket was for the
indoor lot at the East India Mall.  Dunn felt a brief moment
of excitement.  The ticket was time-stamped 7:42 P.M. Friday
March 2.  Although Bishop hadn't been reported missing until
the following Monday, the ticket gave a tangible glimpse
into Bishop's last days.  Of course, he couldn't be sure
Bishop was the one who parked the car, and he needed answers
to the obvious questions:  when did the car leave the lot
and why wasn't the ticket turned in?
   Dunn slipped the ticket into his pocket.  Upstairs he
retrieved the photos of Bishop and the car, and the cassette
that Brian Hurd had left on his desk.
   
   
   
   It is said that Wednesday night is singles night at the
Purity Supreme.  For the rest of the world, it is spaghetti
night.  Six-fifteen was a bit early for any action, however,
and anyway, Tom Weber wasn't single.  The man at the
checkout counter towered like a linebacker above Weber's
small frame.  Weber had been selective in his purchases,
only buying a few meals at a time now.  Small-size laundry
detergent.  One can of coffee.  A box of Clairol hair
coloring.  The checker brushed the Clairol box over the
sensor and glanced up at Weber's balding pate.  Weber
squinted through thick glasses as the price flashed above
the register.  And the word "tint."  It always began with
"tint," their new lives, now up to $5.49 a box.
   "So how about those Bruins, hey?" said the linebacker,
as he passed the coffee can along with a wrist shot.
   Weber peered up at him.  "I don't watch the Bruins.
Sorry."
   "Oh, what's your game?  Did you catch the Celtics?"
   Weber gave a smile of impatience and looked back at the
Tide, whose turn had not yet come. "Nope. Didn't catch
them."
   The man looked down at him in disbelief.
   "Patriots?  Red Sox!  Baseball's your game!" he
announced.
   Weber shook his head apologetically.  The Tide shot
past.  "I don't really follow any of them."
   The man leaned back and hooted with laughter.  "Man, the
women must be all over you!"
   
   Dunn left the Camaro in front of the station and took
his own car home for the night.  Since it was on the way, he
decided to take a look at the mall.  At quarter to seven in
the evening he knew the place would be dead.  Except for the
moviegoers, milling around just before showtime.  And the
restaurant. Officially renamed "Museum Place" in an effort
to resuscitate business, the building nevertheless mirrored
Salem's economy and had steadily declined in occupancy.
Half the storefront windows were covered with paper.  The
halls and food court were empty and cold.  Even the
bookstore, one of the mainstays of the place for years, no
longer found it profitable to remain open evenings. The
remaining commodities were geared more and more toward the
tourist trade.  Not particularly proud of its past, Salem
had nevertheless been forced to capitalize on the witchcraft
hysteria in order to survive.  Creative marketing approaches
managed to give a kind of Disneyland packaging to the
present-day practice, much to the chagrin of the city's
current witches.  Halloween was the one day in the fiscal
year when the city went into the black, so to speak. Dunn,
whose own badge depicted an old woman on a broomstick, still
thought of the building as the East India Mall.  He turned
into the entrance to the lot and punched the large button.
A ticket offered itself.  He glanced at the time stamp.  A
sign on the booth indicated that his first hour was free.
After that the damage was fifty cents an hour, with a daily
maximum of four dollars.  The patrons of the cinema tended
to use the outdoor lot on the north side of the building.
The ramp ahead of him stretched upward into darkness.  Not a
car was in sight.  Dunn had no trouble finding a parking
place.  He nosed his Chevy up to the door of the stairwell.
The satisfaction of having the best lit, most convenient
place, free for one hour, almost made the trip to the mall
worthwhile.  A good parking place was like a good cigar.
Dunn pulled open the heavy door and followed the stairs down
to the main floor of the mall.  From the dank and uninviting
cement stairwell he emerged into the hallway in front of
Lotus Gifts, which was open.  The proprietor within looked
up from his book at the sound of the door.  Dunn looked down
the hall in each direction.  After the parking lot the
bright lights made him blink.  Bright lights, splashy
displays, hopeful signs.  But no customers.  Like a stage
before curtain. The detective toured the first floor and
took note of who and what was open.  Next to the movie
theater was a video arcade, with signs of life.  Not the
kind of life that would do the mall much good, though.  Out
of several food concessions, only one bothered to stick it
out until the last show started.  Dunn first checked with
the theater manager to find out show times for Friday, March
2.  All four films started between seven and seven-thirty.
The next showings were two hours later.  With slim hope he
showed the photograph of Bishop he was carrying to each of
the staff.  Maybe one of them knew him.  Maybe Bishop had
picked a fight.  They each shook their heads. Dunn repeated
the exercise at Roy's Gyros and back at Lotus Gifts, each
time with no success.  That only left Weylu's. "Good
evening!  One for dinner?" the waiter asked, picking up a
red leatherette menu. The detective thanked him and
declined.  "I'd like to speak to the manager." The waiter
gestured to the cashier. Mr. Chen had been managing this
branch of the highly successful chain of Boston-area Chinese
restaurants since it opened in the mall a decade ago.  Dunn
had been an occasional patron for as many years, and
recognized the man. "How may I help you this evening?" he
asked. Dunn showed him the picture and introduced himself.
"Have you ever seen this man before?"  Mr. Chen studied it
for a moment, then said:  "Yes, sir." "You know him?" "He
comes in now and then."  He took another long look at the
photograph, them seemingly reaching into some vast card file
in his mind, added:  "His name is...name is Bishop." "That's
correct.  Any possibility you'd remember if he came in on
March second, a Friday?"  Dunn asked doubtfully.  "Perhaps
he charged dinner." The man smiled.  "Too many people come
in here."  He gestured toward the bar where patrons sat
waiting for their names to be called.  "But I can look
through the slips for you."  The young woman beside him was
filling out a bill.  He turned to her and said something in
Chinese.  She nodded.  He came out from behind the counter
as she took his place at the register. The business office
for the restaurant was across the hall in a former shop.
Dunn followed the restaurant manager as he unlocked the door
and went inside.  Whatever filing method he used must have
been effective.  The receipts for March 2 were located
within a few minutes.  Mr. Chen separated the credit card
slips from the bundle and lay them on the desk.  There must
have been two or three dozen. They split the stack and each
searched for Bishop's name.  Both came up empty.  Dunn
handed his stack back and turned to the rest of the bundle.
"If Bishop paid cash, you'd have no record, right?" "We'd
have the bill, but no name.  That's right.  Unless he
ordered something to go." "You keep the names of the take-
out orders?" "Whatever name they give us when they call it
in, we write it on the order." Dunn nodded toward the
bundle.  "Could we check?" Bishop had indeed called in an
order to go, and luckily had not been creative when he gave
his name.  Spicy chicken with orange sauce, pork fried rice,
and an egg roll.  Mr. Chen translated the order out loud.
Circled in the upper right corner of the order form was the
time it was called in.  Seven-thirty P.M.. On the way out of
the garage Dunn handed his ticket to the man in the booth.
The first hour had indeed been free. "What time do you get
off duty?" he asked the attendant. The man looked startled.
Lest it sound like asking for a date, he rephrased the
question: "What time does the booth close, like on Friday
nights?" The man was still suspicious.  "Why?  You can still
get out.  The gate's left open." Dunn showed his badge, then
handed over the photographs. "Ever see this guy?  Or the
car?" "I'm not good with faces.  I see too many of them."
"He came into the lot a couple weeks ago.  Friday night,
March 2, around quarter to eight." "I don't see them when
they come in." Dunn retrieved the pictures.  "Do you always
see them when they come out?" "What d'ya mean?" "This guy's
ticket was never turned in.  I need to know what time he
left the lot.  When did you say you open the gate?" The man
smiled.  "Like I was saying, I leave after the last show
lets out.  Probably around eleven-thirty." "And if this guy
left before then, how could he have gotten out without
giving you his ticket?" "Might have lost it.  He pays me
four dollars.  I let him out." Dunn shook his head.  Bishop
didn't strike him as a man who lost parking lot tickets.
And Myles's report said the ticket was stuck in the visor,
in plain view.  "I don't think so." The man was quiet for a
minute.  Then he lowered his voice.  "Well, sometimes, once
in a while, I need a break.  Short, you understand." "I
understand.  How do cars get out while you're gone?" "I
leave the gate up.  After the evening shows start, things
are pretty quiet till they end.  Most people use the outdoor
lot for the restaurant." But the indoor parking garage was
more convenient if you were coming from the Willows.  Dunn
caught sight of two headlights reflecting in his rearview
mirror as a car started slowly down the ramp toward him.  He
was blocking the exit.  Until now they had been utterly
alone.  Dunn turned back to the attendant, who began to look
agitated.  He asked:  "Would you by any chance remember
taking a break on March second?" The man's eyes were fixed
on the headlights.  "Yes, I believe I did.  Yes." "What
time, and for how long were you gone?" "I...probably seven-
thirty." Dunn waited.  The car was on his rear bumper,
revving its engine.  In a second it would honk. The man
continued:  "I would have been back by eight-thirty.  No
later."  He had been holding Dunn's ticket the whole time.
Now he glanced down quickly at it, then stabbed at some
register keys.  "All set, mister." The digital display
outside the booth flashed $0.00.  The gate began to lift and
Dunn shifted into drive.  "Thanks," he said to the
attendant.  The car behind him honked.

   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
    Chapter 14
   
   I stand alone without beliefs,
   The only truth I know is you.
   
              -- Paul Simon
    It was Thursday morning.  Dunn had wasted a half hour
coaxing and swearing at his Chevy Impala.  The morning was
damp.  He should have anticipated the wires would be.  He
rued once again, as he did almost weekly now, not making the
break with this monstrosity.  Not old enough to be camp, it
was still a rarity to find a large American station wagon
such as this one on the road these days.  A true family car,
with a front end built like a tank for protection, room in
the rear for twenty bags of groceries, including the cart,
and seat capacity for six legally, twelve illegally.  The
previous owner, Dunn's brother-in-law, had once removed the
rear seat and housed his Honda 450 inside.  A family car
with no family.
   Dunn had acquired the car, at the time only four years
old and still recognizably gold in color, a month after his
daughter was born.  It had been an act of charity on the one
hand, since his sister Rachel needed some cash.  But at the
same time, Dunn had considered it an action of a Responsible
Man, providing a vehicle more appropriate for his expanding
family than the rusty MG he selfishly had clung to.  They
immediately bought an infant car seat, rated safest by a
leading consumer magazine. Dunn installed it in the right
rear seat.  For over a year after she left him, taking their
ten-month old child with her, Dunn couldn't bring himself to
remove the seat.  Even though his daughter, now five,
outgrew it years ago, it probably would be there still,
except for his being pressed into service one day to ferry
seven members of the Salem Police Department softball team
to a game.
   Finally Dunn gave up.  Directing his words to the Chevy,
he said, "I don't have time for this now," slammed down the
hood, and biked the mile to the police station.
   
   As he slipped into the office, Myles gave him a smug day-
is- half-over look.  Looking at his watch, he said: "We've
got this case nearly solved.  How's the shoulder?"
   "Just great,"  Dunn growled.  The internal line chirped
in response.  The desk announced that a female calling
herself Mrs. Bishop was here to see Dunn.  "Send her up," he
said.
   A few minutes later, there was a tap on the open door,
and Coleen Bishop was shown in.  Dunn pointed to the seat by
his desk, into which she settled down.
   "What can we do for you?" he asked.
   The woman gazed incredulously around the office before
answering.  Fundamentally, the place looked like a turn-of-
the- century schoolroom.  A Hearne Bros. map of the state
was mounted high on one wall, and a cardboard Dracula face,
left over from some Halloween, was taped to the door through
which she had just entered.  Seven steel-gray desks and an
assortment of neo- Salvation Army cabinets and office
appointments stretched down its length.  Dark wooden supply
shelves which might have held scissors and crayons instead
were crammed with police radios, blank warrant forms, and an
anatomically correct doll.  The walls above each detective's
desk displayed their individual interpretations of the car
repair bays at Gordo's Jiffy Lube.  Coleen's eyes skirted
around a vintage Marilyn Monroe calendar, discreet but
unmistakable in its message.  Like credentials in a doctor's
office.  These guys were Men.
   Unsettled, she checked her rain-abused hair in the
tabletop mirror on Myles's desk.  Etched onto the glass were
the outlines of Clint Eastwood's mug overlooking the end of
a pistol barrel, and the inscription, Feel Lucky, Punk?  Not
particularly reassured, she straightened her skirt and at
last let her eyes meet Dunn's.  She wasn't feeling very
lucky.
   "You asked me earlier if I had heard of Thomas Weber.  I
said I hadn't, but I think maybe I have.  Something peculiar
happened a week before Ray disappeared."
   Dunn nodded for her to continue.
   "It was Saturday.  He was delivering on his new route.
When he got home he was all excited.  Wouldn't tell me why
at first.  But he dug out an old photo album and started
going through pictures from his war years.  After a while he
must have found what he was looking for, because he suddenly
yelled out, 'Jack!'"
   "Did the name mean anything to you?" Dunn asked.
   "No.  I asked him what it was about, and finally he told
me.  Ray said he had known this guy in Korea.  Apparently he
got in some serious trouble and disappeared.  Ray never saw
him after that, until that Saturday.  Said he goes by
'Weber' now and that he was running from something.  Ray
felt sure of it."
   "What did your husband do about it?  Did he call the
authorities?"
   "No, at least I don't think so.  This is hard for me to
say, but I think he may have considered blackmailing Weber."
   "What makes you think that?"  Dunn asked, without
changing his expression.
   "Well, for the rest of the weekend he seemed to be
enjoying the discovery, enjoying the power the knowledge
gave him.  He didn't talk much to me about it, but he was
preoccupied with it.  I don't think he was spending all that
time thinking about calling the authorities."
   "Do you have any evidence that he contacted Weber after
that, or that Weber contacted him?"
   "Not directly, no.  It just struck me that the
possibility was very obvious, and that it would occur to
Weber, too, whether or not Ray did plan to blackmail him.  I
think uncovering a secret like that could endanger your
life.  And Weber apparently was no stranger to trouble."
   Mrs. Bishop opened her purse.  "I brought the picture.
I thought it might help."  She handed it across the desk to
Dunn.
   Dunn squinted hard at the black-and-white print.  It had
scalloped edges and was still glossy.  The contrast was poor
and the images unsharp.  Nevertheless, on the edge of a
group of about nine uniformed men stood, unmistakably, a
younger Thomas Weber.
   "Mrs. Bishop, did he mention a last name?"
   "No, not that I remember," she answered, knitting her
brow.
   After she had left, Myles whistled and said: "So what
are we waiting for?  Let's scoop him!"
   "Slow down, Jake.  What happened to 'means' and
'opportunity?'"
   "His only alibi Saturday night is his wife, and they
weren't even positive about what they did that particular
Saturday.  He was a soldier, so we know he's capable of
killing."
   "What about the weapon?"  Dunn mused.
   Myles responded with sarcasm.  "Blunt instrument.  Not
too many of those."
   "One blow.  It takes a lot of strength to kill with one
blow."
   "Weber doesn't strike me as a weakling.  He's on the
small side, but I think he's strong enough," Myles offered.
   "Maybe."  Dunn stared longingly at the cigarette in
Myles's hand.  "Her story's going to have to be verified.
And even so, we're still going to have a problem with the
alibi.  We're saddled with an indeterminate time of death.
Without an iron- clad alibi for the entire weekend, anyone
can be considered to have had an opportunity.  But let's
start with what alibis we do have.  Let's find that baby-
sitter.  I want to know what upset Ann Pellegro.  I want to
know who besides Coleen Bishop benefits from her husband's
death.  I want to know how her dog died.  And I want to know
how prone Mr. Raider is to violence.  And his nephew, the
kid with the gash on his head.  And who the hell Mackey is.
Come on, we've got work to do."
   Myles stood up.  "Shouldn't we talk to Weber?"
   "Not yet.  If what she says is true, he's likely to bolt
when he learns he's been made."
   "So we arrest him."
   Dunn's impatience was growing.  He rubbed his shoulder.
From the doorway he asked:  "Come on, Jake ... on what
grounds?  Take that photo with you, Jake.  You can do the
Army part.  Aren't they still looking for a few good men?
I'll take Salem State."
   "That's the Marines," Jake grumbled.  That's what you
get with a cop who can't read.
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
    Chapter 15 Quaerens me sedisti lassus
   
              Seeking me, thou sat down weary
   
                        Requiem "Dies irae"
   
    The registrar's office at Salem State College provided
Dunn with the address of Sally Matsamoto's dorm.  Dunn
mounted the steps of what was once a nineteenth-century
mansion on Lafayette Street and rang the bell.  It took a
good five minutes before the only resident to be at home
figured out no one else was answering the bell.  Footsteps
pounded down from the attic bedroom.  The girl, canonical
student in sweatshirt and jeans, flung open the door.  She
showed Dunn into a high-ceilinged, sadly misappropriated
parlor, now containing a pool table, TV, vending machine,
and two plaid couches.  The dark-hued woodwork was gorgeous
and looked original.  Each of the tall front windows was
bordered with small panes of leaded glass in rose and amber.
Adorning one of the center panes were two decals:  one
saying Salem State, the other of the cartoon character, Bart
Simpson. Dunn took a seat, removing a Diet Pepsi can from
between the cushions.  "I'm trying to locate Sally
Matsamoto.  I understand she lives here.  When we called her
number we were told she had left on spring break." "That's
right.  She left last Friday night." "Do you know where she
went?" "She and a friend were going to drive down to
Florida.  Fort Lauderdale." "Does she have family down
there?" Dunn asked. "Fort Lauderdale?"  She looked at him
like he had two heads. He tried again:  "Did she leave an
address or number where she'd be, or of places where she
might stop on the way?" The concept seemed to take her by
surprise.  She shook her head. "Has she called here at all?
And who did she go with?" "Her roommate Theresa.  Their
room's on the floor below mine.  I have the single in the
attic.  Yeah, they called here, musta been two nights ago.
They were in some motel somewhere, having a wicked good
time." "Any idea where?  Did they mention the name of the
motel?" She thought a minute.  "They had made it to Florida,
I think they said.  But were too tired to drive any more
that night.  Somewhere just over the state line.  I think
they were on Route 1.  They shoulda made Lauderdale the next
day." "When is she due back?" "Classes start next week.
Knowing Sally she'll be back at eight that Monday morning.
Or a few minutes after." Dunn asked for a picture of the
girl, and left instructions to ask Sally to contact the
police if they should call in again.  "Why are you sticking
around during break?" he asked at the door. "I'm in the
chorus.  We've got spring concert coming up.  We're
rehearsing every day."  She looked glum. "Is this Ralph
Mackey?"  Myles had nine names to go.  But then there were
six Mackies.  He wondered if Bishop could spell.  "This is
Detective Myles from the Salem Police Department.  Did you
by any chance have an appointment to see a man named Ray
Bishop on Thursday March 8?"  Nope. He dialed Richard
Mackey.  "Richard?  This is Ray Bishop.  Did I miss our
meeting the week before last?"  He had completed the lower
left corner of his desk blotter and began extending short,
fine pencil strokes up the left side to where the number for
Domino's Pizza was scrawled.  The design looked like
something between a woodcut and a porcupine.  "Bishop.
Ray...  Sorry?  Oh, I guess I dialed the wrong number." The
next number did not answer.  Myles filled in the "o" in
Domino's. The drive up to Gloucester took just under a half
hour.  Coleen's sister and brother-in-law lived only a few
blocks from the highway in a two-story house with pale-blue
aluminum siding.  Junipers clung to each corner, connected
along each side by neatly trimmed privet hedges.  The men
mounted the steps and rang the bell.
   Angela Robinson was heavier and taller than her sister.
With an unfaltering gaze from beneath her high forehead, and
a mouth set with opinion, her face contained the strength
that Coleen's lacked.  Her hair was pulled back with
barrettes; not a wisp remained untamed.  Even her polyester
pantsuit said "this woman will not wrinkle."
   Dunn and Myles stepped into the dark front hall.  At the
far end, Dunn could not help noticing a framed mirror
hanging on the wall.  The frame appeared to be from an old
window.  He smiled, and at his expression Mrs. Robinson
commented:  "Special, isn't it?  Coleen gave it to me.  She
thinks it's art."
   "What do you think?"  Myles asked her.  She laughed
scornfully.
   The men were led into the living room, overly filled
with rococo furniture, and ordered to sit.
   "The man was an animal," she started, unasked.  Dunn
wondered if she ever answered questions or simply issued
statements all her waking hours.
   Dunn tried anyway, during the fleeting second in which
her lips pressed together to underscore the word "animal."
"Do you mean he was physically abusive to her?"
   "No.  He didn't hit her.  He didn't have to.  You
should've heard him yell.  Like a Marine sergeant. And when
he wasn't yelling he spoke with a voice that would freeze
your blood."
   "And she put up with it?"
   "My sister's a wimp.  She was absolutely the wrong
person to live with a guy like Ray.  If I'd been his wife,
he would have been out the door in a week.  Mostly I'd have
yelled back.  But I wouldn't have put up with the boozing.
And no amount of a wife's yelling could have changed that
part of him."
   Probably true, Dunn thought.  "Why did she stay with
him?"
   Her sister shrugged.  "She didn't have the backbone to
fight back, and she didn't have the guts to walk.  I
suggested it, of course."
   "Mrs. Robinson, we need to ask you about your sister's
visit the weekend her husband disappeared.  When did she
arrive, when did she leave, and was she with you the whole
time?"
   "Well, I didn't do a bed check during the night.  She
slept in our guest room.  But other than that, yes, we were
together.  We spent Friday and Saturday shopping, gabbing,
errands, things like that.  Sunday we stayed in the house
all day.  Except for Mass.  My husband and I went to Mass in
the morning."
   "Did Mrs. Bishop go with you?"
   "No.  She doesn't usually go to Mass."
   "How long were you gone?"
   The woman thought for a second.  "Oh, about two hours,
maybe a bit more.  Our church is about a fifteen-minute
drive from here.  We have friends up there and we meet them
for breakfast beforehand."
   Salem's an hour round trip, Dunn reminded himself.
   "And she was here when you returned?" he asked.
   "Yes.  She was in the kitchen reading the paper."
   "And what was she doing when you left earlier?"
   "Well, she was asleep.  I didn't bother her."
   Dunn sat back.  "Are you absolutely sure she was in her
room?"
   "How could I be?  I told you I didn't check her bed."
   Chastised, Dunn regrouped.  "Where was her car when she
was here?"
   Mrs. Robinson thought for a moment.  "She had to park on
the street.  We only have room to pull in one car here."
   Myles looked up from his notebook and asked:  "Did you
notice her car when you left for Mass?"
   She sat in silence for a moment.  The steady gaze never
faltered, but it was as if a cease fire had been called.
The lips tightened and relaxed a few times, until finally
she made up her mind.  "I'm sure it had to have been there.
But I don't remember looking at it.  I was helping my
husband back the car out."
   Dunn glanced at Myles, who bent back down over his
notebook.  He turned again to the woman.  "Mrs. Robinson,
could your sister have left her room during the night
without your knowing?"
   The woman looked surprised.  Then she shook her head.
"Impossible.  The guest room's on the second floor.  The
stairs creak and my husband's a light sleeper.  Also, the
front door has to be slammed to shut properly.  We both
would have heard that."
   Dunn said:  "Couldn't she have used the back door?  Gone
out through the kitchen?  If your husband heard her on the
stairs, would he have told you?"
   "When he wakes up, I wake up.  Without fail.  He doesn't
say anything, just grunts and sighs.  He falls right back to
sleep.  I'm left staring at the ceiling for an hour.  I
would have heard even the back door.  She didn't leave
during the night, Sergeant, I assure you."
   Dunn asked to see the room.  Mrs. Robinson led him
upstairs and pushed open the door of a small bedroom.  Each
wall was papered in a different pattern.  Moving to the
window he estimated the height to the sill to be easily
reachable without a stool.  He undid the latch and carefully
swung open one side.  Sticking his head out, he noted there
were no convenient drainpipes or other obvious methods of
escape.  Finally he took a close look at the sill itself,
and decided the layer of dirt and dust, bearing the marks of
spattered raindrops, had not been disturbed in a long while.
   Mrs. Robinson began to show impatience.  "If you
gentlemen have nothing further, I have to get ready for the
wake."  Dunn glanced at his watch.  Taking a last look
around the room, he thanked the woman, signaled to his
partner, and the two men took their leave.
   Myles drove in silence for several minutes.  Finally, he
asked:  "Could Coleen Bishop drive back to Salem, whack her
husband on the head, drag the body in daylight to the men's
room at the Willows, and drive back to Gloucester by the
time Mass ended?"
   "Unlikely, not impossible.  Pull into that ADAP," Dunn
said suddenly.
   "What is it this time?  You should open a fucking
account with them,"  Myles replied with irritation.
   "I just need a set of wires."
   When Dunn returned to the car, Myles turned down the
radio and shifted into drive.  Merging into traffic he
asked, as he always did:  "The car, Gabe.  When?"
   And as he always did, Dunn responded:  "Soon."
   Dunn took out the box of wires from the plastic bag and
forced himself to read all six surfaces.  The Chevy warded
off the hubris, he thought to himself, kept his nerve
endings raw, his senses keen.  Kept him tough.  Kept him
compassionate.  Whenever his character headed off with too
much determination in one direction or another, this car
maintained the contradictions, maintained the balance.
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
    Chapter 16 Gere curam mei finis
             Take my demise into your care.
                   Requiem "Dies irae"
   
   People were filing in whom Coleen didn't even know.
Letter carriers, probably.  Since it was a closed casket,
Ray's cousin Alma had suggested a picture should be placed
on the top.  The woman had somehow turned up a framed
photograph of Ray taken about twenty years ago.  Coleen felt
increasingly uncomfortable.  She hadn't known Ray when it
was taken, and she found it somehow distasteful, having it
perched there on the gleaming wood.  It reminded her that
his life was, for the most part, not their life.  It also
reminded her of why the casket was closed.
   Ray's brother was leaning forward in the chair beside
her.  She rarely saw Robert when Ray was alive, perhaps once
a year or less.  The last time had been a wake, too.
Robert's wife's.  She had begun to feel a sense, a slight
sense, that he was family then, once it was over.  As if in-
laws are brought closer by funerals.  Closer by degrees.
   Under Robert's chair was an unopened bottle of Jack
Daniel's and a carton of cigarettes.  They were meant to go
in with Ray, to be laid beside him on the pink satin.  But
of course, now they couldn't.  Robert hadn't realized the
coffin would be closed.
   
   
   "I forgot all about it when we last talked.  I was at an
arts and crafts show all day Sunday.  Up in Ipswich.  I can
show you the receipt for my table if you like." The
policemen had detoured through Topsfield on the way back
from Gloucester.  "That won't be necessary.  We believe you,
Mr. Whittier.  And what about Saturday night?" The man
appeared to be struggling for a moment.  Finally: "How
important is this, Officers?" "How important is staying out
of jail?"  Myles answered. Oh, Jake.  Dunn thought to
himself.  But he let it go.  Jake Myles wasn't the only
master of theatrics present. Whittier paused, then said:  "I
was with a lady." Of course you were, asshole.  Myles gave
Dunn a knowing look.  "Let me guess...you spent the night in
her embrace and she went to the craft show with you...Sorry,
art show in the morning." Whittier looked glum.  "Close
enough." "She always did have a fondness for art." Dunn
stepped in.  "Thank you, Detective Myles.  Mr. Whittier,
we'll need the lady's name, if you don't mind.  And Mr.
Whittier, we ask that you please not leave town during the
next few days without notifying us." When the door had shut
behind them, they turned and walked back down his driveway,
the gravel crunching beneath their feet.  "So where am I
taking you to lunch?" Myles asked Dunn.
   The store where Lila Weber worked was called Ruby Doux.
It was part of a string of gift and specialty shops in the
Vinnin Square Plaza, on the line between Salem and
Swampscott to the south.  Ruby Doux specialized in plastic-
ware apparently.  Dunn threaded his way between columns of
red-and-white stacking shelves to the cashier halfway back.
   The man behind the counter was in his late forties.  His
face and hands looked scrubbed clean and pink.  Dunn asked
for Lila Weber and was told politely that she was on a break
and should be returning in a few minutes.  A few feet from
the counter a younger man was busy pricing plastic tape
measures in bright shades of mauve and green.
   Dunn decided to wait.  He wandered toward the rear of
the store and amused himself by guessing at the purpose for
some of the more mysterious items, each available in popular
colors.  Aside from him, the store was devoid of customers.
He picked up a pair of angular wire forms, advertised to be
"shelf dividers," and speculated as to the possible
improvement in his life they might bring.  Perhaps he could
get rid of some of his bricks.
   All at once, the cashier began to sing.  In a baritone
that was clearly not amateur, snatches of Rigoletto filled
the store.  At first, Dunn wasn't sure if it was the radio
or the man, but after each line or two, the singer paused
and conversed with the youth.  The detective was slightly
unsettled; since the conversation was clearly private, the
opera must have been as well.  Thus, rather than applaud, he
busied himself with some tumblers.  The man jumped into I
Pagliacci, interspersed with explanation for the pricer's
behalf.
   Finally, the claustrophobia Dunn was beginning to feel
among so much white polyurethane overpowered him and he
headed for the counter, shelf dividers still in hand.  The
cashier smiled.
   "Anything else today?" he asked, reaching for Dunn's
selection.
   Surprised, Dunn had forgotten that he still had them.
He relinquished the package, and as the man began to ring
them up, the detective said:  "I enjoyed the Rigoletto."
   The man beamed.  To the boy he said:  "See? Everyone
knows Rigoletto.  What did I tell you?"
   To Dunn he said quietly:  "In this life I'm learning
patience.  One does what one has to while one waits to do
what one wants."
   Dunn smiled and pulled out his wallet.  The baritone was
struggling with the cash register and finally asked the boy
for help.
   "Ya gotta put in the department code first," the kid
said, and coming around behind the counter, he poked at the
keys.  All of a sudden a small printer beside the register
sprang into life.
   "Shit," said the kid.  "It's coming out sideways."
   Dunn looked at his watch.  The printer was slow, maybe
twenty words per minute.  "I really don't care which way
it's printed," he said politely.
   "No, you see, when it's sideways it don't total.  We'll
get you another one ... only be a minute."
   I only bought one fucking item, Dunn thought.  I don't
need a total.  "I don't really need a receipt," he said.
"These aren't under warranty, are they?"
   "Oh, yes!" said the baritone.  "One year!"
   The three of them stared at the printer as it grated
away in a high-pitched whine.  Finally, the singer pulled
the receipt out carefully and handed it to Dunn.  The boy
went back to his tape measures.
   "You'll like these shelf dividers...they're marvelous!"
the man said sonorously.
   Dunn managed a smile and made his escape.
   Outside in the fresh air he selected a bench on which to
continue his wait, but before he reached it he spied Lila
Weber emerging from the Brigham's Ice Cream next door.
   
   
   
   This was not the fun part, said Jake Myles to himself.
He had emerged from the District Courthouse with a few
printouts and some more pages filled in his notebook.
Walking the few short blocks back to the station, he stopped
off at the Home Plate, pushed open the door, and found
himself a large table near the window.  He ignored the menu
and opened his notebook. The waitress was new, and gorgeous.
Myles smiled at her.  He ordered his usual chili and corn
bread, with a Coke.  This was the fun part.  Reluctantly, he
turned back to his day's results.  No other lawsuits against
or involving Bishop.  No court records on Thomas or Lila
Weber.  None on Dale Raider, Walter Pellegro, Coleen Bishop,
Eric Whittier.  Earlier queries on the Board of Probation
computer had turned up an assault charge on Kyle Raider, the
nephew at Raider's address.  Myles had also uncovered a
speeding complaint.  No city department had handled the
disposal of Bishop's dog.  Nor had the local vets.  If that
was worth pursuing he'd have to go back to Mrs. Lufkis.
Army intelligence had never heard of a Thomas Weber matching
that guy's description.  Or a Jack Weber.  Jack "W" they
couldn't help with. When she finally brought his order she
had forgotten the corn bread.  He forgave her and asked her
for a date.  She laughed lightly and declined, saying a girl
had to be careful nowadays. "You'd be safe with me,
sweetheart.  I'm an officer of the law.  'Serve and Protect'
... that's my job."  He resisted the impulse to flash his
badge. Before he made detective, Myles had been a real
street animal, a tough, aggressive cop.  Now he stroked his
jaw, as if to check that it was still square, that his face
was still hard. He was still shot down.  And no corn bread.
Recognizing the policeman, Lila froze.  Dunn walked up to
her.  She looked for a moment like she'd been hit.
   "Mrs. Weber?" he said.  "Can we talk a moment?"
   She nodded with a heavy expression.  They found a bench
and sat down.  Resting an arm along the back of the bench,
Dunn asked, without looking at her:  "How long has your
husband been blackmailed?"
   She said nothing.  Both stared straight ahead.  Her grip
tightened on a small paper bag clutched in both hands.
   "Personally, I'm not interested in why.  I need to know
if it was Ray Bishop."
   After a moment she spoke:  "I can't help you, Sergeant."
   Dunn stood up.  Looking down at her, he said softly and
without sarcasm:  "You have my sympathy, Mrs. Weber.  I
imagine it must be difficult for you."
   He turned and headed for the parking lot.  By the time
he stepped out into the curbside lane she had caught up with
him.  She touched his arm.  Dunn stopped.  Her eyes were
filling with tears and he led her back to the curb.
Silently, he offered her a handkerchief.
   "Can we...can he get some kind of immunity?  Can I talk
to you in confidence?"
   "I can't make you any promises, Mrs. Weber.  I can't
give you immunity from anything.  I certainly can't force
you to talk to me.  I will talk to the DA, if it's any
help."
   For a moment she broke down.  He put an arm around her,
then walked her to his car, away from the crowd, away from
the windows of Ruby Doux.  Settling her inside, he let her
cry.
   After a few minutes, she forced herself to regain
composure.  She studied his handkerchief.  As if finding the
answer there, she said:  "Tom was contacted.  Once.  The
weekend you asked us about.  He said Bishop wrote him a
couple days before.  Then called him Saturday night and
arranged to pick up the ... money."
   "What time was the call?"
   "I'm not sure."
   "How long was your husband gone?"
   She said, barely audibly: "I wasn't there.  I was
helping a friend.  I got back close to midnight."
   "Was your husband there?"
   "Yes."
   "When did you leave to go to your friend's?"
   "Around eight or eight-thirty.  Tom was home.  I don't
remember any calls before I left."
   "And he was absolutely sure it was Bishop?" Dunn asked.
   "He told me it was.  But he said the voice sounded
disguised."
   Dunn stared at her.  "Disguised?  Then how ... what made
him think it was Bishop?  Did he see him?"
   She returned his gaze.  "No.  But no one else kn--  no
one else had reason to blackmail him."
   "I'll need to talk to your husband."
   She winced.  He added:  "I don't need to tell him I
talked to you."
   "No, it's not that.  I'd tell him we talked.  It's ...
he may not talk to you.  He may be afraid to."
   "Maybe.  I have to try.  I'm looking for a killer, Mrs.
Weber."  He reached for his keys.  "Would you like me to
take you home?"
   She shook her head.  "No, that's all right.  I'm OK.  I
have to go back to work."
   Dunn got out and came around to open the door for her.
As she stepped out she added:  "Tom is...incapable of
hurting anyone.  He didn't kill your Mr. Bishop."
   "Hasn't he hurt you?" Dunn asked.
   She looked him squarely in the eye.  "Never.  I could
never wish for more than I have with him."
   He watched as she crossed the lot and disappeared into
the store.  Climbing back into the Camaro, he started the
engine and pulled out.  Lucky man, he thought.
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
    Chapter 17
   
   Ingemisco, tanquam reus
   
              I groan as one who is guilty
   
                   Requiem "Dies irae"
   
    Thomas Weber made much of his living as a self-employed
bookkeeper.  On Thursdays, according to his wife, Weber
spent the day at Baldwin's Carpet Sales in North Salem.
Although Mrs. Weber was working late, she had said her
husband should be through by five-thirty.  Dunn went
directly to Baldwin's from Vinnin Square.  He pulled into a
spot from where he could see the front door, threw a Copland
tape into the machine, and waited.  It was 5:26.  Halfway
through the Nocturne, Weber stepped out the front door.
Dunn slid out of his car.  He strode to the sidewalk as
Weber approached.  Swinging open the passenger door, he
said:  "Mr. Weber?  I need to have a word with you.  We can
talk in my car or we can talk in front of Baldwin's." Weber
got into the car. "I want to know what happened Saturday
night, March third.  The night your wife was at her
friend's." The man was silent.  Dunn continued:  "I have two
sources who have indicated you were blackmailed.  Is it
true?" "I don't have to answer that." "No, you don't.  I
don't have to charge you, either.  But if you leave me no
choice..." "Charge me with what?" "With the murder of Ray
Bishop.  You're my prime suspect." "You have no fucking
grounds!" Weber hissed. "I have witnesses who will
testify..." "You can't make Lila testify against me!" "Not
all my witnesses are married to you, Mr. Weber.  Also, I've
got a photograph.  And you've got a motive.  And no alibi.
Means and opportunity, Tom." "I didn't kill him." "No, of
course not.  Now tell me why I should believe you." Weber
got control of himself.  "All right.  Bishop sent me a note.
The Wednesday or Thursday before.  He said I had until
Saturday to get two thousand dollars in cash together."
"Bishop?  How do you know?" "The timing.  He ran into me by
accident the weekend before,  when he dropped off our mail.
Four days later, I get a letter.  It couldn't have been
anybody else." "Do you still have the note?" "It's at home."
"I'd like to take a look at it.  What happened next?" "He
called, like he promised.  Saturday night." "Did you know
Bishop's voice well?  Or did he identify himself." Weber
shook his head.  "I didn't remember his voice that well, no.
But the voice on the phone was strangled and whispered.  I
wouldn't have recognized it anyway." "Why do you think he
bothered to mask his voice, knowing you knew who he was?"
Dunn asked him. "Maybe scared I was taping him." "Were you?"
Weber laughed sardonically.  "Yes." Dunn stared at him.
Weber continued:  "I thought that if I had proof on tape,
that I'd have something on him.  In case he ever bothered me
again.  But with his voice disguised, I ended up with
nothing." "Well, not necessarily.  Disguising his voice
wouldn't affect the voiceprint if we have the tape analyzed.
It might not be conclusive enough to convict, but it would
be very useful in coubt." "Can't convict him of anything
now," Weber said ruefully. "What time was the call?" Dunn
asked him. "Just after nine, if I recall.  Nine P.M." "What
did he say?" "He told me to go to Forest River Park.  And to
drop a Filene's bag with the money into the first trash can
in the parking lot.  At ten sharp.  Come alone, leave
immediately, just like on TV." "What did you do?" "Exactly
as I was told.  Except that I went back around ten- thirty
to see if the money was gone.  I didn't want to throw it out
if something had gone wrong." "Was it gone?" "Yes." "Did you
see anyone?" "No." "And where's the tape now?"  Dunn asked.
"Home.  With the note." "Let's go."  Dunn reached over and
opened the passenger door.  "I'll follow you." Someone had
fixed Coleen a plate from the buffet and brought it into the
living room where she sat, stiff-backed, on the edge of her
chair.  Her sister and brother-in-law had drawn up chairs
beside her.  Angela was talking about the trees in Greenlawn
Cemetery.  Ray's brother was at one end of the couch, sunk
deep into the corner, working silently on his cold ham.  In
an hour they would have to go back to the funeral home for
evening visiting hours.  Then two more hours, plus some
minutes of politeness, minutes when her sister would settle
Coleen in for the night, probably offering to stay, but
Coleen would decline the offer.  Then she would be alone.
Coleen looked around.  She was still holding the plate of
untouched food in her hands.  She felt like she was the lead
part and had forgotten her lines.  The rest of the cast were
cleverly rewriting the script as they went, and writing her
out.  Then she remembered it was Thursday.  The fourth Al-
Anon meeting in a row she was going to miss.  For a brief
moment it flashed through her mind that she should go.  At
least to explain why she'd missed these past few weeks.  And
to say that anyway her problem had solved itself.
   Weber led him into the living room.  In a corner was
what appeared to be his "office-in-home" -- a couple of two-
drawer file cabinets supporting a desktop, a heavy-duty
calculator, boxes of forms, stacks of canceled checks,
ledgers, pencils, bookkeeping paraphernalia.  Weber went
over to the desk, pulled out the lower left file drawer, and
bent down.  He slipped his hand beneath the drawer.  Tearing
at what sounded like tape, his hand reemerged with a white
business-size envelope.  He handed it to Dunn. Dunn lifted
the flap, which was not sealed.  Inside were a sheet of
typing paper folded in thirds and a microcassette tape. "Has
anyone else handled the note?" "No one." Dunn carefully
removed the cassette, then with his handkerchief lifted the
note out and unfolded it.  It read:
   
         "Jack:  Remember Korea?
         $2000 in cash buys my silence.
         have until Saturday.
         Will contact you with instructions.
         Don't worry.  I won't bother you again."
   
   
   
   "Could we listen to the tape?"  Dunn asked.  Weber
popped open the cover of his phone answering machine and
switched tapes.  Then he hit the play button.
   The quality was abysmal.  It was a cheap answering
machine.  The call sounded like it had been made from a
public phone in an intentionally noisy environment.  The
voice was indeed distorted, hovering around a raspy whisper
with an attempt to feign some sort of accent, at least
sufficiently to cover any regionalism.  Most of the talking
was Weber's, repeating and clarifying the instructions.  The
voice on the other end had to specify Forest River Park
twice.  The rest -- the time, the drop point were clear
enough, and as tersely spoken as possible.  Then the caller
hung up.
   "I'd like to borrow this.  If it is Bishop, it helps us
establish when he was alive."
   "And if I killed him, it establishes a motive," Weber
answered.  Nevertheless, he ejected it from the machine and
handed it to Dunn.
   Sliding the note and envelope into the file folder he
had brought in, Dunn added:  "I'll need you to come down to
the station for elimination prints."
   Weber shook his head.  "Sorry.  Can't do that." Dunn
sighed.  It would be a lot easier if he could bring himself
to arrest the guy.  The alternative was to get a court
order, but the grand jury wasn't convening again till
Wednesday.  "Don't leave town, Mr. Weber."
   
   
   
   
   
   It was well past quitting time when Dunn got back to the
office.  He made a copy of the letter Weber had given him.
Then he filled out a form for the lab, bagged and heat-
sealed the original of the letter and the tape.  He wrote
out a note to the technician and taped it to the pouch:
   
              "Check tape for prints and save for later
              spectrography. Possible use as elimination
              set for prints found on letter."
   
   
   
    Dunn folded the copy he had made of the letter and left
it on Myles's desk with instructions to check out the
Bishops' typewriter.  He doubted any blackmailer who watched
TV would use his own machine when the nearest Sears had an
aisle full of them you could borrow in peace.  The chances
of finding a known recording of Ray Bishop's voice were
questionable.
   Exhausted, the detective went to his desk and collapsed
in the chair.  In the middle of his blotter was a note from
Myles on yellow lined paper in bold, self-satisfied script:
   
                   "Steven Mackey -- lawyer w/ firm
         Culbertson, Cheadle and Noyes/Salem
              Appt to write/change will.  Mackey
              thinks RB had none previous, at least
              w/ their office. Does not know what
              RB's intentions were.
              intestate -- wife inherits??"
   
   
    Dunn smiled.  Right, Jake.
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
    Chapter 18
   
   
   Domine, libera eas
   de poenis inferni
   et de profundo lacu!
   
                  Lord, free them
                  from the pains of hell
                  and from the deep abyss!
   
   
                        Requiem "Offertorium"
   
   
    Later Thursday night, the OIC phoned Dunn at home.
Sally Matsamoto had been located.  She had apparently come
down with the flu or something and was returning from
Florida early, by bus.  She should be arriving back in Salem
Friday evening.
   
   
   Are we as disappointing to men as they are to us?
Coleen wondered.  Where the hell are all the heroes?
   The last of her visitors had left.  Coleen checked each
phone to be sure all the extensions were on the hook,
picking one up every few minutes to hear the dial tone.  She
walked about the house with arms and chest of lead.  With so
much to do, it should have been easy to find some
distraction.  But no other thought could gain a foothold.
Her mind would not let go of its pain.  The sound of every
passing car measured her abandonment.
   Eric had said he would call.  Even the promise of a call
had seemed a letdown to her.  Of course, the need for
discretion was still important for a while.  But the
discretion should have been difficult for him, as it was for
her.  Would a little show of impatience have been beneath
his dignity?  And now, even the call, even the call had not
come.  It was quarter to ten in the evening.
   Eric didn't drink, didn't yell, didn't watch TV or
schedule his evenings around basketball games.  His
priorities seemed to her to be good ones:  his art, his
farm, but his priorities didn't include her.
   She lay down upon the bed and began to sob.  Was there
no man on earth for whom she could be the highest, the only
real priority?
   
   Whenever he was on a homicide case, Dunn ran out of
food.  They always seemed to catch him on the very day he
had planned to go grocery shopping.  Gabe starts a shopping
list...someone in Salem drops dead.  This was his fourth
night on the Bishop case and he was getting sick of sesame
seed buns.  Pulling the phone toward him, he lifted the
receiver and with the same hand dialed his sister. "It's
your uncle Gabe," he explained to the voice on the other
end.  "What are you doing up so late?  Put your mom on."
After several long minutes his sister came to the phone.
"Rachel, I'm starving.  I know it's late.  Have you got
anything to eat over there?  Of course I've been busy.  I
wouldn't be begging a meal if I had..." He let her give him
the lecture about the Ziplocs and the freezer while he went
through his mail.  The outcome was always the same.
Learning about buying in quantity was part of their routine.
"I'll...Rachel...I'll be right over."  Rachel and her family
lived in a handyman's special in the historic district of
Salem, just off Chestnut Street.  The house was still pretty
special after four years.  It boasted, among other features,
two kitchens, the second of which was upstairs and was
always about to be converted to some other thing.  In the
meantime, its cupboards were filled with a mixture of toys,
dirty laundry, and canned vegetables, making it
indistinguishable from the one downstairs.  It always
bothered Dunn when, in the middle of dinner, for example,
someone would ask where the A-1 sauce was, and his sister
would answer, "It must be in the other kitchen."  It seemed
to him too pat an answer, too perfect an excuse.  Rather
like having two chances to get your life right:  "Have you
made your contribution to the United Way?" "No, I'm taking
care of that in my other life."  Or: "It's OK, Dr. Danbury,
I'm flossing in my next life." In his sister's driveway,
Dunn switched off the Camaro, which he had borrowed for the
night.  Drug dealers' cars were so reliable.  When he went
in, the kids had been stuffed into beds.  Dunn's brother-in-
law Warren was in the living room correcting papers.  Warren
Carlson was a high-school teacher.  To Dunn he was braver
than any man on the force.  The detective followed his
sister into the kitchen where she had set out an assortment
of aluminum foil shapes.  Opening them, Rachel assembled a
plate of meat loaf, potatoes, and gravy and handed it to
him.  "Wave this for about two minutes."  He took the plate
and opened the microwave oven door behind him.  His sister
slid into a seat at the kitchen table.  She had brought her
book in, in case he didn't feel like talking.  "Make
yourself a salad.  There's stuff in the fridge.  Done any
flying?" "I don't need a salad," he said.  "And no.  No
time.  No money." "Make yourself a salad," she repeated.
"And you shouldn't let little things get in your way, Gabe."
Dunn tried to remember at what point in their lives their
parenting roles had switched.  At age sixteen, he had had to
take on much of the responsibility for his younger sister
and brothers when his mother had succumbed to a pulmonary
embolism, particularly since his father worked late hours.
Rachel had been both youngest and toughest, wilder than any
of her brothers.  When she was a senior in high school, the
last brother had left home and Rachel found life alone with
her father to be strife- ridden and unbearable.  After
running away twice, she had finally pleaded with Dunn,
eleven years her senior, to let her move in with him.  Dunn
had almost been dissuaded that year of ever having children
of his own.  His sister had not been easy, forcing him to
invent rules precisely because they had been breached.
Times of turbulence gradually gave way to moments of
equilibrium, however.  Both survived the year and came to
depend upon each other.  Throughout college Rachel came to
him frequently with her problems, but after her marriage and
babies, he no longer had any answers for her.  Dunn guessed
that her mothering must have emerged when his own wife left.
As he neared the end of the meat loaf he said:  "Rachel, you
have a radio alarm clock, don't you?  What do you do on
Saturdays and Sundays?" "What do you mean, what do I do?"
"Does it go off at the same time every morning?
Automatically?"  His own alarm clock was round with hands
and a button that had to be pulled out every night. "Well,
yes...I guess on the weekends we're supposed to unset it.
We usually forget.  Are you thinking about buying one?" "No.
Can I see it?"  They went into the bedroom and Dunn spent
twenty minutes playing with the clock -- how it got set,
armed, what happened when it went off, and how you shut it
off.  When he was satisfied he went back into the kitchen
and helped himself to coffee.  Rachel remained on the edge
of the bed resetting the clock and both alarms to the way
they were.  As usual, everything ended up off by twelve
hours so that the P.M. light was only on in the morning.
But somehow they always managed to wake up. She rejoined
Dunn but found her patience thinned.  "If you're going to be
mysterious, I think I'll go to bed." Dunn poured her a cup.
"I have a time problem." The chair scraped in response as
Rachel sat down.  "I have a dead man.  I have an
indeterminate time of death. He was indisputably alive
Friday afternoon when he left work.  He never showed up the
following Monday.  His car was found at the train station
covered with Saturday evening's snow, undisturbed. These I
take as facts.  Then I have a lot of claims." "Not all of
them true,"  Rachel said, returning the ball.  She yawned.
Get on with it, Gabe, she thought.  He was scoring the rest
of his mashed potatoes with his fork. After a dramatic pause
worthy of Jake Myles, he continued:  "If I believe the wife,
a man with her husband's voice talked briefly to her Friday
night around seven.  A parking lot ticket puts the car, or
would seem to put the car, in the East India Mall at twenty
to eight that night.  Someone using the name Bishop picked
up a take-out at Weylu's around that time.  The wife was
unable to reach him by phone over the weekend." "So what's
your problem?" "The Saturday paper was missing.  The Sunday
and Monday papers were outside.  The wife was out of town
the whole time.  We have one witness who claims to have seen
him Saturday afternoon, and another who thinks he talked to
him Saturday night." "So what's your problem?" she repeated.
"When the wife came home Monday the radio was on.  It had
turned itself on at six A.M." "Monday morning?" "Or Sunday,
or Saturday.  Whichever it was, he most likely wasn't there
to shut it off.  Unless he had gone deaf." "Maybe someone
stuck an ice pick in his ear." Ignoring her, Dunn said:
"There are lots of possible explanations, but the most
likely scenario is that he wasn't alive Sunday morning when
the Globe came." "Or just that he wasn't home." "True,
although he didn't pack for any trips.  Now this is
interesting.  When Jake Myles went over to the Bishops the
day she reported him missing, he, being the frustrated
archaeologist, was clever enough to go through the garbage
in the kitchen.  No one else in the department would have
done that." "What did he find?" "The top layer consisted of
a few beer cans and Chinese-food boxes.  We think Friday
night he picked up Chinese food at the mall.  Below that was
a piece of Friday's paper, egg shells and coffee grounds.
No signs of any other breakfasts.  Below that was stuff that
Mrs. Bishop recognized from Thursday night.  They never
found the Saturday paper." "You think he died Friday night?"
"The garbage suggests so.  But how could he?  Why would the
neighbor lie?  And then there's the blackmail incident.  One
of my suspects says he was contacted by Bishop Saturday
night.  The guy was told to make a drop-off, which was
definitely picked up.  My suspect checked later." "Sounds
like your guy Bishop was alive Saturday night." Dunn studied
the grounds in the bottom of his cup.  After a while he
said:  "The strange thing is, I really can't picture Bishop
as a blackmailer.  He was a tough guy, temperamental.  But
staunchly patriotic.  Living comfortably.  It would have
been stupid -- he'd have that hanging over him the rest of
his life.  The victim knew who he was.  Would have had a
hold over him.  I just don't see it." "Who else could it
have been?  Who else knew whatever it was he knew?" "The
wife.  But she was in Gloucester that night.  Two people
attest to that." "So what d'ya got?" she asked. "I don't
know.  I don't know what I got." Dunn changed the subject.
"Dad's birthday is Sunday.  Why don't you give him a call?"
She looked away. "Rachel, give him a call."  The roles had
reversed.  He added:  "Thanks for dinner."  Scraping back
his chair, he stood up, leaned over and kissed the top of
her head. Dunn carried his dish to the sink.  After
attacking it with a few shots of the sprayer, he reached for
a dish towel but came up empty-handed.  From her seat Rachel
tossed a limp red-and- white-striped wad toward him, which
his years on the softball team enabled him to snare.  "This
is sticky," he complained, and dropped it into the plastic
laundry basket next to the fridge.  "Haven't you got a clean
one?" "Try the other kitchen," Rachel answered.
 Chapter 19
   
   
   Inter oves locum praesta,
   Et ab haedis me sequestra
   
              Gift me with a place among the sheep,
              and separate me from the goats
   
                        Requiem "Dies irae"
   
   
    Early Friday morning Myles talked Dunn into breakfast
at Red's.  Red's Sandwich Shop occupied a seventeenth-
century building next door to the station on Central Street.
Just as they finished ordering, the front door swung open
and Brian Hurd entered the lunchroom.  They signaled to him.
Hurd approached their booth and settled in beside Myles.
   "Did you find the tape I left?"  Hurd asked Dunn
hoarsely.
   "Peter Gabriel?  Yeah, thanks.  Nice album.  Didn't tell
me anything, though."
   "What was it supposed to tell you?" asked the patrolman.
   Their waitress reappeared with coffee and added Hurd's
breakfast request to the order.  Myles yawned.
   Dunn responded with a sigh.  "I don't know.  Some key to
my star witness."
   Myles grumbled:  "You don't know that Annie was a
witness to anything."
   "Well, she is a mystery," Dunn said.  "Maybe not this
mystery, but a mystery.  And there's another one as well."
   "'Behold, I show you a mystery...'" Myles intoned.
   "What's that?"  Hurd asked.
   "Corinthians, I think," said Myles.
   "I was talking to Gabe."
   Dunn answered:  "Coleen Bishop.  She tipped us off to
the blackmail.  Why?"
   Hurd shrugged.  "I was being polite."
   "No, Brian, why'd she tip us off, not 'why did you
ask,'" Dunn explained.  Hurd could be a bit thick.
   Myles reached for the sugar.  "It seemed a reasonable
piece of information to bring to the police in my opinion."
   "Very reasonable.  So why did she wait four days.  Hell,
why'd she wait two and a half weeks?" Dunn asked.
   Hurd reached across Myles to hunt amongst the bottles
and jars at the head of the table.  "What blackmail?  Do you
see any Sweet'N Low?"
   Myles was putting together a response when the waitress
appeared.  "Who's the sausage?" she asked, with plates
balanced up one arm and down the other.
   Myles smiled at her.  "I'm the sausage."
   She turned to Dunn.  "No jeans today?  Got court?"
   All heads turned to stare at Dunn's navy-blue cords.
"No.  I'm going to a funeral," he said somewhat defensively.
   She set down Myles's plate and moved to the next booth
with the remainder.  Dunn and Hurd leaned over and watched
Myles poke open his eggs.
   Myles frowned.  "So you don't believe she just forgot."
   Hurd remembered his coffee and leaned around to the
girls in the booth behind him.  "Excuse me, could I borrow a
couple of your Sweet'N Lows?"
   Myles looked at him.  "Sweets...'N Low.  Brian, it's
Sweets'N Low."
   "Huh?"  Hurd turned to him.  The girls started fishing
through their jars.
   "Leave him alone, Jake,"  Dunn said.  "What was the
first question you guys asked her when she filed the missing
person?"
   "Any known enemies.  Anyone with reason to harm him,"
said Myles.
   Dunn nodded.  "She remembered the missing newspaper.
She forgot about the blackmail."
   Astonished at the intricacies of mass noun
pluralization, Hurd was still staring at Myles.  "Are you
sure?"
   Myles looked at him and smiled.  "'We shall not all
sleep, but we shall all be changed.'"
   Hurd's look changed to one of suspicion.  "What the hell
are you talking about, Jake?"
   "I told you.  Corinthians.  'O death, where is thy
sting?'"
   "How's your wife, Brian?"  Dunn asked.
   Finally his waffle arrived, followed by Hurd's eggs.
The Sweets'N Low flew over from the other booth like tiny
pink missiles.  The sun poked through on Hurd's face and the
three ate a while in silence.  Except for the chattering in
the booth behind them.
   Myles swallowed the rest of his coffee and dug three
dollars out of his pocket.  "I'm late.  I'm supposed to meet
Whittier's lady friend.  His other lady friend.  Wanna come
along?"
   "No, thanks,"  Hurd croaked.
   "I was talking to Gabe, Brian."
   Dunn replied:  "Like I said, I've got a funeral to get
to.  I'll meet you back at the office around lunch."
   "'O grave, where is thy victory?'"  Myles said.  Hurd
stood up to let him out.
   Dunn looked up at him.  "I thought you only read crime
fiction."
   "You'd be surprised."
   "Nice talking to you, Jake," Hurd said.
   "Check ya later, bud."
    When Hurd sat back down, he said to Dunn:  "She's
fine."
   "Who's that, Brian?"
   "My wife."
   Dunn smiled at him.  "Good!"
   Still, the guy did have a great tape collection.
   
   
   Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine:
   et lux perpetua luceat eis.
   
              Grant them eternal rest, O Lord,
              and may perpetual light shine upon them.
   
                        Requiem "introit"
    It was not Dunn's first visit to Greenlawn.  The
cemetery, located in North Salem, was known for its trees.
Native Sugar Maple, red oak, birch, pitch pine, hemlock, and
a hundred other varieties gave the grounds the appearance
more of a park than a burial ground, a place to which one
might choose to come, unbeckoned by any other purpose than
to enjoy its beauty.  But Dunn had come before to bury two
of his family:  his older brother and, years later, his
mother.
   Friday morning had started out cloudless and mild,
though the forecast was for colder weather by afternoon.
Dunn attended the funeral alone, and tried to stay out of
the way.  As the words were spoken under an inappropriately
sunny sky, he scanned the small crowd and took inventory.
Mrs. Lufkis, Mr. and Mrs. Robinson, several postal employees
he recognized, including Mrs. Nevins.  Pellegro was absent,
no love lost there, he supposed.  Eric Whittier was
tactfully absent.  Dunn wondered if he was much comfort to
her.  A brother had come from out of town.  Most of the rest
were just faces.  Somber and composed, briefly considering
their own mortality.  Composed except for one young woman he
hadn't seen before, who stood off at the far edge and had
started to weep.  It struck him from the intensity of her
tears that she might be family, but why, then, wasn't she up
with the rest of the relatives?  The woman turned then, and
strode quickly down the drive.
   Dunn caught up with her at the front gate, having peeled
himself from the group with the minimum of attention.
   "Are you all right?"  he asked.
   She turned, surprised.  Her face was wet, but otherwise
quite beautiful.  Dunn thought she must be in her twenties.
She was dressed in a dark-blue jersey dress with a charcoal
jacket for warmth.  Bareheaded, her dark hair shone in the
sun, and  rested lightly on her shoulders.
   She clearly wasn't.  Dunn suggested she sit down for a
while, and they took advantage of a concrete bench alongside
the caretaker's cottage.  Not knowing if it would make it
easier or harder for her, he explained that he was a
policeman.
   "Did you know him?"  he asked her then.
   She leaned her head back against the stone wall behind
her and closed her eyes.  At last she spoke.
   "I think he was my father."
   
   Portia Sunkist lived on Route 1 in Topsfield, across the
highway from the fairgrounds.  Her house looked barely
habitable.  The yard was an amalgam of meadow and woods, the
driveway impassible.  Myles parked the car in the parking
lot of the feed store next door and made a path to her front
porch.  By the looks of the steps, he tread carefully.  The
porch itself, however, still enjoyed heavy use.  Boards were
stacked on boxes on either side of the front door and were
lined with clay pots in various stages of drying.  A
refrigerator with no door sat at one end, stuffed with dirty
plastic-wrapped lumps of unknown identity.  Myles rang the
bell. A voice from the other side of the door invited him to
open it.  Some subconscious reflex caused him to pat his
jacket, feeling for his semiautomatic before venturing in.
He could smell controlled substances.  Stepping into the
front room, he found Ms. Sunkist bent over a bucket of clay.
Her forearms were caked to the elbows, her fingers working a
gray lump.  She stood up then and smiled at him as though he
were a brother. The woman who faced him could have been
Together Dating Service's top selection for Eric Whittier.
She was tanned and lean, as if she spent six months a year
working in a sun-drenched field.  And the other six months
chopping wood on the side of a mountain.  The hem of her
flowered skirt brushed boots that looked like they hadn't
been removed since 1968.  Long, straight dark hair, laced
with silver, hung against her breasts.  The shirt was some
sort of gauze and Myles had no doubt that she was lacking a
bra. Cats or something swirled around her feet.  On a bare
wooden table behind her were at least a dozen candles and a
glass jelly jar stuffed with neatly rolled joints.  Fat
ones.  Myles's mother used to keep a candy dish on the
living-room table, filled with Jordan almonds. He was
tempted to ask what it was really like in the old days.  He
calculated that he must have been in about third grade when
this lady was doing mushrooms at Woodstock.  Feeling as
though he were the anachronism, Myles flashed his badge and
gave her a big grin. Man passeth away like a shadow
                   -- Psalm 39:5
    The man had walked into Marsha Landry's life one
October, twenty-three years ago, life being the Wagon Wheel
Restaurant on Route 28, the road to Wolfeboro.  He was
staying in one of the cabins near Duncan Lake, one of the
few campgrounds open year round.  Preferring the cold to the
black flies and tourists, he felt lucky to experience the
area known as the foot of the White Mountains during its
finest seasons.  Early October was one of the finest.  He
had taken a week off from his job as a postman somewhere
down in the Boston area and made his biannual pilgrimage
north.  Sometimes he brought his wife, but this time he came
alone.  His hair was dark and short.  Short for the late
sixties era, but he had been a military man and was looking
at middle age.  His name was Ray. Marsha was having problems
with a customer who was giving her a hard time.  At one
point the man had raised his voice at her and then suddenly
Ray was standing by the table.  There was a brief scene,
then as it was about to escalate the customer stood up and
left. Marsha was a bit embarrassed.  She would have
preferred to handle the customer with a dinner on the house,
which usually worked.  But his concern endeared him to her.
She thanked him and he sat back down at his table.  By the
time he had finished dessert and coffee, which she neglected
to add to the check, they had a date. Marsha's shift ended
at ten P.M.  He had returned to the restaurant, freshly
showered and after-shaved, to pick her up.  They drove to
Wolfeboro for a couple of drinks and a walk along the lake.
Then, returning to the warmth of his car, and too eager to
wait for the drive back to his cabin, they climbed into the
backseat and Dover was conceived. Except for her shifts,
they spent every hour of the next  week together.  Marsha
felt she came to know him intimately, better than anyone she
had ever known.  But on the last day, as she watched him
drive off, she realized, of course, that she didn't know him
at all. "Not even his last name?"  Dunn asked, when the
story was finished. "No.  She used to say, 'Honey, you don't
need a last name in the dark.'"  The friends and relatives
of the deceased had trickled by, but except for a couple of
curious glances, no one had disturbed the two.  Greenlawn
Cemetery was empty now, empty of the living. "She knew he
was married.  He never made her any promises.  She accepted
all that.  But she thought that she would see him again, in
the spring." "Did she?" "She never saw him again." Her tears
had dried by now, and she stood up.  Dunn walked her to her
truck, parked in the next block down.  He asked as they
strolled:  "What made you think Bishop was the man?" "When
Mom died three years ago, I had written down everything she
had ever told me, which hadn't been much.  I resolved then
to find him." "Why?"  But he knew the answer. "When she was
alive, I didn't need to know who I was.  Or else, maybe,
somehow I did know.  When she died, I didn't anymore.  And
needed to." Dunn's head spun, but he understood. "So I
started searching, with very little to go on.  Wrote tons of
letters and got tons of nowhere.  She thought he had said
the north of Boston, so I concentrated there.  Do you know
how many Rays there are working for the post offices in the
North Shore?  Who were vets?  But then I got an inspiration.
I talked to the owner of the Duncan Lake Campground a few
months ago.  Inspiration doesn't come quickly to me, I'm
afraid." Dunn thought, to many people it never comes. She
continued:  "Of course, he didn't have records from twenty
years ago, but I knew the man had come up regularly, really
liked this area, and despite the risk of running into my
mother again, might venture up again.  So I asked him if he
could remember someone of that description -- someone who
occasionally brings a wife, someone from Massachusetts.  Who
came only in the off-season." They had reached the truck.
The cold front was beginning to move in and Dunn could feel
the temperature dropping.  She shivered as the first of the
gusts sought them out.  But the story wasn't finished. "Why
don't you come back to the station with me?  I could treat
you to a nice can of nuked spaghetti." The offer was too
good to refuse, and she agreed.  Twenty minutes later they
sat in the small lunchroom letting the chill which had
insidiously crept into their bodies melt away.  In the end
Dunn had actually opted for something resembling a pop-tart.
He watched her push the small mushy spaghetti rings around
with a plastic spoon and felt he had let her down. "Well,
eventually the Duncan Lake Campground paid off.  I looked
through most of the records myself, going back as many years
as he had kept.  The owner couldn't remember the name, but
thought he knew someone who fit.  That kept me going.  A
couple months ago I found it.  Ray Bishop.  Sometimes, Mr.
and Mrs., from Salem, Mass.  Ross, the owner, remembered the
car after I came up with the name.  Big Lincoln, with a
bumper sticker, America -- Love it or Leave it.  I figured
he had to be a vet.  But I wrote and got confirmation, also
that he worked for the post office.  That's when I came done
here.  Got a room and a job in Beverly." "Did you contact
him?" "You know, for three years I thought about the moment
when I would have a name and address in front of me, how I
would pick up the phone, jump in the truck, take off for the
past, face it good or bad, so I could come back home to the
present.  Get on with my life.  But I stared at the piece of
paper every night for months.  Postponing the
confrontation." "Why?" "I'd like to say I had second
thoughts about disrupting his life and hurting his family.
But that wasn't really it.  I was scared." Dunn smiled.  At
least she was honest.  But oh, so young. She continued with
the exuberant self-analysis that you must go through
constantly when young, until a family of your own forces you
to grow up and be that person most of the day.  Self-
examination is relegated to your third day of vacation, or
the wee hours of the morning when you can't sleep, or after
a fight with your spouse, or for weddings, or for funerals.
She was afraid, of course, of what she'd find.  A man less
handsome, less heroic than her mother had known.  He had,
after all, abandoned the mother of his child, yet for one
week, he had made her happier than she had ever been.
Marsha Landry had never expressed bitterness, but Dover felt
it for the first time at her mother's funeral, when the last
opportunity for the fairy tale to have a happy ending had
crumbled like ashes.  Dover was afraid of Bishop's rejecting
her, but mostly she was afraid of what she'd feel toward
him. For a moment, it occurred to Dunn that she could be
holding back a tiny bit.  What if the foot-dragging had
ended three weeks ago?  What if she had confronted Bishop,
and that all her worst fears had been confirmed?  This was a
determined young woman, with a rugged, protective quality
that permeated the telling of her mother's story.  Her arms
were slender, but the muscles defined. Could she kill with
one blow?  Could she kill for her mother's broken heart?
Were her tears at the funeral tears of guilt? Dunn asked:
"So you never met him?  Never contacted him?" "No.  I've
never even seen a picture.  The next thing was, I saw the
article and obituary in Tuesday's paper, and decided to come
to the funeral.  Never said hello, at least I could say good-
bye." "You seemed to be saying more than that," he said.  He
pushed back his chair and walked over to the coffee machine.
"Coffee?" he asked her. She waited until he had returned
with the cups before answering.  "I didn't expect it to hit
me like that.  A complete stranger being lowered into the
ground, a face I had never known, never will.  Never will
hear his voice.  But suddenly I felt like twenty-three years
of emotions you feel toward your father, or that I imagine
you feel, came forth, needing to be felt before the earth
swallowed him up.  I felt a kind of release, an ending.  But
also immense grief.  She loved him.  We loved him.  I was
grieving because I had just lost the father I never had."
"What do you do now?" "I don't know," she responded,
cradling her coffee. "Would you like to see a picture?" he
asked.  There was a good one that Coleen had given Jake
during the missing-person investigation.  A softer image
than the more recent shot they had been dragging around to
witnesses.  They went up to the office and he fished it from
the pile on top of his desk.  She stared at it quietly for a
few minutes, then said:  "I feel selfish...I think I really
need to know for sure.  I've come this far, what if it's not
him?  I expected all this time that one way or another, I'd
get confirmation from him.  He can't give it to me now." "Do
you want to meet his wife?  If he was your father, she could
tell you about him." "I would, yes.  But I can't bring
myself to upset her at a time like this.  She's entitled to
her memories, and to privacy right now." "You're entitled,
too.  You're entitled to the truth.  Coleen Bishop was not
the wronged wife, she married Bishop only six years ago.
Your mother was well before Coleen's time.  I don't think
she will be too upset about it." Her eyes began to shine.
"She may be able to help me."  Her words sounded like those
of a child.  She felt adrift.  Lost in space.  Is it better
to lose someone you love than to not know if you've lost
someone? "Then you should talk to her." Not every interview
yielded him a clue to the murder.  But each relinquished a
clue to life.
      Chapter 20 Quantus tremor est futurus,
   Quando Judex est venturus,
   Cuncta stricte discussurus!
   
              What a terror is in store
              when the Judge shall arrive
              and all knots shall be unravelled!
   
                        Requiem "Dies irae"
    Friday, shortly after one in the afternoon, Dunn's
phone rang.  It was Myles on the car phone.  A woman named
Portia Sunkist had confirmed Whittier's alibi.  "You can
forget Sunday.  I grilled her.  Their tables were side by
side.  Until late Sunday night, he was never out of sight
more than a few minutes." "OK.  How about Saturday?"
"Whittier drove to Portia's place around five Saturday
evening.  They had something to eat there, then they went
down to Salem for a movie." "East India Mall?"  Dunn asked.
"What d'ya take them for?  A foreign flick at the college.
Ran from about eight to about nine-thirty.  I checked." "He
never left her side?" "I really pressed her.  After a great
deal of effort and a lot of kneading of clay, she remembered
two times Saturday.  She offered me a piece of clay while
she was thinking." "To eat?" "No.  To knead.  She said it
would help me." "Help you what?" "Tension.  Karma.  I wasn't
all that clear.  Gabe, this lady still says stuff like 'far
out.'  Anyway, Whittier left the movie for a couple minutes.
Said he had to make a phone call." "Did he say who he was
calling?"  Dunn asked. "Nope.  Anyway, the second time, they
went up Lafayette to a sub shop for coffee after the movie.
He went to the men's room and was gone maybe fifteen
minutes.  When he came back to the table, he said he had
felt ill, but was all better.  She blamed it on the dinner
she had served him." "Which was..." "I didn't ask.  You
should have seen her kitchen.  I wouldn't be surprised if it
was eye of newt.  But my gut feeling is that dinner was
irrelevant." "I think I agree.  How far is the sub shop from
the Willows, would you say?  Five or ten minutes?" "Not
enough time, is it?" Myles said. "How about Forest River
Park?" The phone was quiet for a minute.  Myles whistled.
"Two blocks.  I wasn't thinking of that." "Neither was I,
until just now.  And afterward?" "They went straight to bed.
Hers.  He made damn sure she'd remember him." Dunn smiled.
"Far out."
   Denn alles Fleisch
   es ist wie Gras.
   
              All flesh is as the grass.
   
                        Peter 1:24
   
   
    After being outside the better part of the morning,
Coleen felt the kitchen to be stuffy and hot.  Her sister
was unloading the dishwasher and the clatter of glasses
grated on Coleen's undefended nerves.  Somewhere in the past
week she had lost her entire epidermis, as if Ray's fate had
inflicted her with third- degree burns.  Good or bad, a
marriage is a protective layer of sorts.  The world fears
you less, taunts you less, believes you more.  You're a
member of the club.  Coleen felt that the heat in the
kitchen was intensifying the pain from her burns.  She stood
up and opened a window.
   "Would you like me to come over tomorrow and help you go
through his things?" her sister asked from the sink.  Ray
had been him all week.
   "No, thanks.  I'm not ready yet."  She wanted to be
packed in a tub of ice.  The numbness was wearing off and
she longed for a bit more.  "Angela," she said after a
while.  "The money you've been keeping for me?" "Yes?"
   "I think I may as well put it back in the bank."
   "Yes, you should.  Like I told you, I would have helped
you out if you ever got stuck.  You didn't have to worry."
   "I know, Angela, but it made me feel...freer, somehow.
To be able to just leave, and not depend on anyone."
   "Wouldn't have lasted for very long," her sister said.
   Maybe not, thought Coleen.  But for a few days she
wouldn't have needed either of them.  She closed the window.
   
   Later Friday afternoon, Dunn was in the lunchroom making
a fresh pot of coffee.  As he was sweeping up the half
packet of grounds that had exploded onto the counter, Myles
came in.  The suggestion on the packet that one should tear
here was a practical joke.
   "You inquired about a dog, sir?"  Myles asked.  Behind
him was a man in his thirties, wearing tan chinos and a high-
school hockey jacket.  Dunn looked over his shoulder and
finished pouring in the water.  "Well, Mr. Hank Terell here
has come to tell you all about it."
   Dunn wiped a hand off and extended it.  "Mr. Terell."
   The man shook his hand and began:  "The officer here
told me they had heard the Bishop dog was killed in an auto
accident, and did I know anything about it.  I told him yes,
I did.  It was hit by a car.  That street's awful, you
know."
   "Yes, I know," Dunn said.
   "Anyway, I was home that day..."
   "What day was that?"  Dunn asked.
   "Right before Christmas.  I had the day off, musta been
the twenty-second or twenty-third.  It was late in the
afternoon, just starting to get dark.  Ray had just come
home and, well, I guess he took the dog out.  He sometimes
lets it off the leash.  Dog's usually pretty good.  But this
time I guess it saw something across the street it couldn't
pass up.  Now I didn't actually see what happened, but I
could sure hear it ...  the screech of tires.  Car musta
been going pretty fast, from the sound.  Then I heard the
dog.  A horrible sound, just horrible.  Then the dog was
quiet.  I could hear the car speed up.  I was looking out
the window by then.  Then I ran out front.  Ashamed to say,
I didn't get the plate on it.  Cream-colored sedan is all I
noticed.  No one from the neighborhood.  And Ray, I'm sure
he didn't get the plate, either.  He was sitting in the
street cradling the dog."
   Dunn and Myles glanced at each other.  Ray Bishop?  Dunn
thanked Mr. Terell for coming in.  "Did you know Bishop?" he
asked as Myles was walking the man to the door.  Mr. Terell
turned to face him.
   "Ray?  Yeah, a bit.  He was all right once you got to
know him."  The man smiled and left.  Salem High School, his
last words in yellow on his back.
   All right.  The most glowing praise the detective had
heard in five days.
    When Myles came back, Dunn asked:  "How many friends
and relatives have we questioned, Jake?  Finally we find
someone for whom Ray was 'all right.'"
   "Why didn't Bishop go after the car?"  Myles asked.
   Dunn said grimly:  "He had already been warned about the
leash law, remember.  The sedan may have been the
executioner, but Bishop did the sentencing when he let that
dog loose.  I can understand why he didn't want to talk to
Coleen about it.  But it might have helped them both if he
had."
   
   
   On the willows there
   We hung up our lives
   For our captors there
   Required
   Of us songs
   
              Stephen Schwartz
   
   
    When Dunn was a sophomore at Salem High he went out
with a girl named Alice from Juniper Point.  Long after they
broke up, he still hung out with her brothers, remaining an
honorary member of the Willows Boys, a local, and to the
cops, crazy but benevolent gang.  The Willows Boys usually
hung around down at the line, even during weather that
forced most primates to remain indoors.  When they weren't
defending their territory from the Danvers and Beverly kids,
they were up in the giant copper beech that spread from the
men's to the ladies' cottages and beyond, so old and
enormous were its branches.  And high.  The uppermost limbs
lifted you up and out of Salem, into space. They played Beat
the Bastard in the copper beech every night of the summer.
Those days they used a plastic bat, but the story was that
someone's cousin, or the cousin's friend from Swampscott,
had been hit with a real bat once and had died, or was
spending the rest of his life in Bridgewater, or went on to
become mayor.  Dunn hadn't seen it, nor had Alice's
brothers.  But they knew a guy who had been there.  The line
was a real jumpin' place back then.  The rides were still in
there, back before public safety was invented.  The original
carousel was down at the end, overlooking the water,  with
its famous Flying Horses, the oldest in New England, now
flying in some museum.  Dunn worked the carousel one summer
before they were retired, or put to pasture. One of the
younger kids in the gang, well after Dunn's time, had taken
a few wrong turns and dropped out of high school.  Dunn
didn't know him well, only by sight and reputation.  The
kid's name was David Morris. David had done some time and
was out on parole one summer when Dunn was still in uniform
and backing up the twenty-one-car during the July Fourth
weekend.  Vans had lined Monument Road that day where it led
into the park.  Clumps of teenagers had been hanging about
the open doors, and on the low wall demarcating the beach.
Closer in, the teenagers had given way to families, spread
out over the grass with precarious camping tables, loaded
coolers, and barbecues.  Hibachis, folding chairs, grocery
bags, and radios.  One or more in every group drowning out
the neighbors' music or the whining kids, creating a
campfire sort of peace. There was a new guy on the force,
Officer Joe Bader, who had transferred from the Registry
police a year earlier.  He was working the twenty-one-car
day shift that weekend.  The guy was a little high and
mighty for Dunn's tastes.  And a bit short-fused. Bader was
down by the public beach checking out the crowd.  Dunn was
in his cruiser at the opposite end of the park.  Between
them were a thousand people enjoying the holiday, a wall of
willow trees, and a volleyball game in the clearing across
from the beach.  Even back then, there was a law on the
books outlawing the consumption of alcoholic beverages in
the park.  Officer Bader's mission was to uphold the law.
And there was David Morris sitting on the low beach wall in
a pair of cutoffs, no shirt, and a can of Budweiser in his
hand.  Bader didn't know Morris was on parole, not that he
would have cared.  Morris didn't know about the law, nor
would he have cared.  Except this summer he cared. Bader
approached the youth.  "Hey, kid, would you come over here,
please?  You know it's against the law to drink down here."
He reached for his handcuffs.  "Afraid I'm going to have to
take you down to the station." David Morris froze for one
brief second in disbelief and then in terror.  Any other cop
would have given him a warning.  Many would have looked the
other way, or said quietly:  "Listen, pal, don't make me
look bad in front of all these people.  For chrissake, stick
it in a bag, would ya?  Or a paper cup!"  But there was
Bader unsnapping the cuffs. For David there was only one
response.  He bolted.  Tore off through the crowds, darting
around hibachis, pushing aside the cascading leaves of the
weeping willows.  Kids and seagulls scattered in his path.
Silver-haired heads turned, and heads with earphones.
Aluminum chairs strained, spatulas hung frozen in midair,
the volleyball bounced unnoticed out of bounds and onto the
sand.  David ran between the men's and ladies' cottages,
ducking the low-lying branches of the copper beech, no
longer able to save him from the Bastard.  This game he had
to win.  And so he ran.  Officer Bader pounding on foot
behind him, blinded with sweat, adrenaline cranked up as
high as it would go, screaming into his portable radio for
backup. Dunn heard the call and stepped out of the car, just
in time to see David Morris flying down the hill toward him.
Catching sight of the steaming patrolman in the distance,
Dunn reached out a hand and beckoned to the boy. "You better
come with me, kid," he yelled as David came within earshot.
The boy slowed, glancing fearfully over his shoulder and
from side to side, weighing his options.  Dunn continued:
"The way he's worked up now, you could get hurt.  It's me or
him." David stopped and turned desperate eyes toward him.
Something in Dunn's look tipped the balance.  The boy turned
and headed in his direction.  By the time he reached the
cruiser he was sobbing.  "One fucking beer and he comes
after me.  One fucking beer.  I just got out of prison. I
can't go back in there.  I can't go back."  The will to
resist drained from his limbs and soul.  Dunn leaned him
gently but firmly against the cruiser, patted him down, what
little there was to pat, and cuffed him.  Asshole, he
thought.  Who'd chase a kid for one lousy beer? Bader never
slowed.  Before Dunn had a chance to get the boy into the
car, Bader appeared from nowhere, in full nuclear meltdown,
headed straight for David, and began wailing on him,
pounding with full fury as David, manacled and defenseless,
collapsed to his knees in surrender.  Dunn grabbed Bader
around the neck and hauled back as hard as he could.  It
took all he had to pry the cop off. David Morris was taken
to the station alive.  Before bringing the boy inside, Dunn
handed him a mashed-up Dunkin' Donuts napkin for his nose.
Dunn took care of booking him, and stayed with him till he
was safely in a cell.  "Sorry, David," he said before he
left.  "It shouldn't have happened that way.  Cops get a
little crazy when they chase people.  Can I get you
anything?" The kid shook his head.  His upper lip was
swollen and caked with blood.  After the warm sunshine the
cell felt cold.  His belt and shoes were in a laundry basket
out in the hall.  He had declined his phone call.  Dunn
handed him a blanket and left. The next morning the court
released him on personal recognizance.  His trial date
wasn't for a couple of weeks, but with the resisting-arrest
charge, Dunn knew the boy had violated his parole
sufficiently to go back in. Two days later, shortly after
sunrise, the beat officer on the twelve to eight A.M. shift
found David Morris in the copper beech.  No note. The knot
in Dunn's stomach remained for years.  They say the job
changes you.  But it wasn't the job.  It was the people.
   Dover waited until evening, until she thought Mrs.
Bishop had rested from the last of her visitors.  She had
parked her truck in Pickering Wharf and wandered around the
stores for a couple of hours, killing time.  Several times
she had stopped at flower shops, and considered what
arrangement would be most appropriate to bring.  In the end,
they all seemed sadly inadequate to her and she showed up at
the door empty-handed. Dover realized as soon as she had
been invited in that her story could sound like the classic
missing-heir-shows-up-at- funeral deal, ready to claim a
share of the estate or to break the will.  Suddenly she felt
immensely embarrassed and wished she hadn't come.  She had
no place in this poor woman's house, and, as she took a seat
on the edge of the sofa, felt somehow that she contaminated
the room.  If she had only brought flowers, after all, she
could have made up some quick thing like, "I knew your
husband, met him once.  He paid me a small kindness I shall
never forget.  I wanted to remember him with these violets
and to let you know my thoughts are with you.  Good night, I
won't keep you."  What small kindness?  He fucked my mother.
"He let me in ahead of him at Stop and Shop.  You see, the
line was nine people long, each with full carts, and I only
had a package of processed cheese." But she didn't.  She
stayed and faced Coleen.  She explained her story briefly,
hesitantly, leaving out the part about the car.  "I could be
entirely mistaken, I need to know for my own peace of mind."
The words sounded so awful.  Talking to a new widow on the
day of her husband's funeral about how important my peace of
mind is, she thought. Coleen heard the whole story without
making a sound.  When Dover had finished, the older woman
stood up and came to sit beside her.  Slipping an arm around
the young girl's shoulders, she said in a voice that
cracked:  "I'm sorry you have made this journey for nothing.
Ray was sterile.  All his life."
 Chapter 21
   
   
   Esurientes implevit bonis
   
              He hath satisfied well the hungry
   
                        Luke 1:53
   
   
    The Friday-evening traffic on Lafayette Street had
congealed like cooked egg.  Unable to see far enough ahead
to determine the cause, if any, Dunn consoled himself with
the bumper stickers surrounding him.  There may well have
been no cause at all.  Often large herds of cars simply had
minds of their own, out of reach and beyond the
understanding of their individual drivers. Since learning to
drive, Dunn had forced himself to interpret bumper stickers
as an exercise in reading, much as a foreigner would to
practice his English.  When he was stuck in traffic, it kept
him from boiling over.  And, of course, the gratification
was immediate. Firstly, it was important for the world to
know your political, moral, and emotional leanings.  Who or
what you loved, and who or what you hated.  It was
important, too, to declare where you'd been.  Where you ate,
what your car had climbed. The car in front of him was a
small foreign compact.  Not surprisingly, the owner was a
Democrat, a supporter of whales, hugs, and a nonsupporter of
nuclear power.  It announced, falsely, that a child was
aboard.  Such announcements were no longer to be taken
literally, Dunn realized, meaning now more that the owner
had the ability to procreate rather than an actual inventory
of the contents of the car.  A separate sticker saying
Support Youth Hockey suggested the owner had procreated more
than once.  Or had never grown up.  The gentleman to his
right, not in a legal lane, but a lane which proclaimed the
driver to have guts, was not interested in whales.  The
pickup was topped with an ill-fitting but imaginative cap.
The back of the cap was covered with dirt, into which had
been etched, Clean Me by some good Samaritan.  Two stickers
graced his tail.  One supporting a local bar, the other
offering conservation advice:  Save a Tree -- Eat Beaver.
The foreign compact pulled smoothly and responsibly forward
when its time came, then suddenly jerked to a stop to let in
the truck.  The pack inched forward.  Whatever had lain
ahead no longer held its interest.  Finally, he reached
Sally's dorm.  The compact accelerated out of view.
   Sally Matsamoto was hunched up in a blue terry-cloth
robe at one end of the couch.  Still suffering the effects
of whatever she had come down with, she looked pale and
tired. "Miss Matsamoto,"  Dunn asked, conscious of the
effects a day and a half on a bus would have had upon her,
"could you tell me what you remember of Saturday, March 3?
You were baby-sitting for Annie Pellegro, according to our
notes." "I'll try.  It was three weeks ago."  She picked up
an aspirin bottle from the coffee table, shook out a couple
into her hand, brought them to her lips, and washed them
down with 7-Up. "It's very important.  Tell us what time you
arrived at the house and proceed from there." "I must have
got there around five o'clock, I think.  I walked from the
bus stop.  Mr. Pellegro didn't have his car.  There were a
couple guys there.  They were all going on a ski trip,
including Mr. Pellegro.  I stayed with Annie until Sunday
night." "Did anything during that time strike you as out of
the ordinary?" Sally thought for a moment, then said: "Well,
Annie was bugging...acting pretty weird.  Other than that,
no." "How was she weird?" "She stayed curled up in a corner
a lot, like she was frightened.  I couldn't get her to do
anything.  Even took her outside for a while, to push her in
the swing.  That seemed to work, but then it got dark and
the snow was getting heavier, so I brought her back in."
"What else did she do?" "Let's see.  I read to her a while.
She usually likes that.  We go through the comics in the
paper whenever I'm over there." Dunn recalled for a second
the pleasure he had felt years ago when his older brother
Stephen had read the comics to him.  Accommodating to his
dyslexia had taken Dunn many arduous years.  This had
prolonged the routine of being read aloud to until he was
nearly twelve.  Stephen drowned in a boating accident
shortly before that time, a tragedy which splintered the
family for all time.  The role of comic reader then fell to
his younger brother Archie.  Sheer embarrassment
subsequently drove Dunn to manage this task on his own and
started him on his rocky climb toward self-sufficiency.  He
also found himself missing Stephen too much, resenting any
attempts to fill the older boy's shoes.  It was either learn
to read the comics himself or give them up.  He learned to
read. "Did that calm her?" he asked. "I'm trying to
remember.  No, actually it didn't.  They weren't the usual
comics.  Wrong paper for some reason.  And Annie wasn't
being very flexible." Dunn continued:  "About what time was
it when you were out back?" "Maybe five-thirty or six."
"Sally, think very carefully.  Did you notice any signs of
activity next door, at the Bishop home?  Hear anything or
see anything?  Cars parked, or pulling in or out?" "I didn't
see anyone.  No cars that I remember.  'Course the garage
door was closed." "You said it got dark while you were out
there.  Did you see any lights on over there?" A slightly
puzzled look overtook her face.  She answered:  "I remember
there weren't any lights.  I remember because it struck me
as kinda strange..."  She seemed to finally snag some memory
that had been eluding her.  "Strange, 'cause I could hear
music." Dunn leaned forward from his seat on the opposite
couch.  "Music?" "The swing is back by the Bishops' garage.
There's some kind of room over the garage, with a window
right over the swing.  The window was closed, of course, so
I didn't hear it at first.  Almost didn't hear it at all.
It was real faint.  Sounded like a radio." "Did you notice
any lights later?" "No," she responded. "What about the next
day.  Sunday." "I don't remember anyone coming, or any signs
that they were home.  I managed to drag Annie out a couple
times to get some fresh air.  Pushed her around in the
wheelbarrow and stuff.  I remember still hearing the radio
faintly, but I didn't think anything of it at the time.
Figured someone had left it on, either forgot, or sometimes
people turn them on so people think you're at home." Dunn
was quiet for a moment.  "Annie was still upset Sunday?"
Sally nodded.  He continued:  "What about her tape recorder?
Did you try playing any of her tapes for her?" "No, you
know, I couldn't find the tape player anywhere," she said,
eyes widened.  "I meant to tell Mr. Pellegro when he got
back." "Did you?" "Well, no.  He had a friend with him, a
woman.  I thought I should make myself scarce.  He paid me
and I left." "And you saw no one else while you were there?"
She took a long sip of 7-Up.  "Oh, yeah.  Some neighbor came
by Sunday morning." "Who?"  Dunn asked. "The woman who lives
on the other side of the Bishops.  Came by to borrow a
screwdriver.  She said her husband was out of town, the
Bishops didn't answer, and she was desperate.  She didn't
have the right kind." "What did she need it for?"  Dunn
shuddered, remembering Rachel's suggestion about the ice
pick. "She said she wanted to tape Murder, She Wrote that
night, but her kid had stuffed dominoes in the VCR." Dunn
considered this with bemusement.  Then he stood up and
thanked the girl.  "Get some rest.  Would you give us a call
if you think of anything else?"  She nodded, giving a weak
smile as though her head were about to break.  He saw
himself out. Dunn looked at his watch and pulled back out
onto Lafayette.  He always imagined that if he had a bumper
sticker it would probably say, Never Home, in his ex-wife's
immortal words.
   Later Friday night, Dunn returned to Central Street and
immediately recognized the red pickup parked in front of the
station.  He pulled into a CID space and locked up the
Camaro for the night.  As he headed for the front door, he
noticed the pickup was not empty.  Dover Landry sat huddled
in the dark.  She rolled down the window as he approached.
"Can I see you a minute?" she asked. He leaned in the
window.  "Sure.  Let's go inside.  It's freezing out here."
When she nodded assent he opened her door, rolling up her
window as she stepped out. "How long have you been waiting?"
he asked. "A while.  The guy inside said you'd be back
tonight."   She paused and looked up the street.  "Will I
get a ticket if I park here?" "I'll take care of it.  Come
on."  He led her into the station, checked in with the desk,
then herded her up the stairs. A few minutes later, as they
sipped rewarmed coffee in the office, she told him of her
meeting with Mrs. Bishop.  Dunn digested her words quietly.
Her expression vacillated between pain and resignation.
Finally, she asked:  "What if she's lying?  Or mistaken?"
Dunn thought for a moment.  It was possible that the
recently bereaved widow might feel threatened by another
claim on the estate or perhaps by a claim on the reputation
and bereavement itself.  It could have been quite a shock to
Mrs. Bishop.  He thought it unlikely that she'd be mistaken
about his recent medical history, but it was of course
possible she had no certain knowledge of his past abilities
or lack thereof.  Finally, he asked:  "Dover, what's your
blood type?" She looked stunned, then answered:  "I don't
know.  I suppose I may have known once, but I've forgotten.
Jesus, I guess I should have thought of that ... you
probably know his?" "Bishop's was AB+.  Let's find out
yours."  He stood up and tossed out the styrofoam cup.
"Blood-typing can't prove fathers, but sometimes it can rule
them out.  Let's go visit my friend at Salem Hospital." As
he opened the door for her, she asked:  "I don't know my
mother's either.  Won't that matter?" "There's a pretty good
chance it won't." Fifteen minutes later they were
negotiating the quiet maze of halls leading to the hospital
laboratory.  A small reception area outside the door was
empty.  Dunn lead Dover behind the counter and tapped on the
lab door.  After a moment it opened, and a short figure in a
white coat looked out at him. "Mickey on tonight?" Dunn
asked. "Yeah, come on in." Mickey Dineen had worked at the
hospital about three years and was frequently hired by the
police to draw blood, usually in surroundings far less
friendly than the lab cubicles.  The man, in his late
twenties, was loading tubes into a centrifuge.  Dunn
approached him and exchanged some prerequisite basketball
chatter. "Mickey, I need to type this young lady's blood."
"Help yourself.  The serum's in those brown bottles down at
the end of that counter.  Everything you need should be
there.  Choose your weapon."  To Mickey's satisfaction,
Dover shuddered. Dunn drew a stool up for her.  She half
perched on it and watched while he rummaged through bottles
and jars.  The lab smelled like a lab, some unidentifiable
chemical aroma permeating the room.  She wondered as she
breathed in, whether lab technicians who spent all their
days here didn't end their lives partially embalmed.  Mickey
went back to his business and left them alone. Dunn selected
two of the bottles, labeled Serum B and Serum A and placed
them on the counter behind Dover.  Further searching netted
him a glass slide, a sterile, disposable needle, two tiny
pipettes, and a couple of cotton balls soaked with
disinfectant.  Taking her left hand in his, he swabbed her
index finger with the cotton.  While it dried, he prepared
the slide with a drop from each bottle.  "Ready?" he asked.
She nodded. Dunn lifted her finger once again, and with a
quick jab pricked it with the needle.  With one of the
pipettes he milked a couple of drops of blood, turned and
deposited them on one end of the slide, mixing them in with
one of the drops of serum.  He repeated this with the other
pipette, mixing the blood this time with the drop of serum
at the other end of the slide.  He picked up the slide and
carefully agitated it from side to side for a moment before
holding it up to the light. "Technically, we should give
this a half hour for accuracy, but if we're going to get
clumping, it should happen in a couple minutes."  They made
small talk for about five minutes, steering as clear as
possible from bloody topics. Finally Dunn said:  "Let's take
a look."  He leaned over and switched on a microscope so she
could see more easily what he was talking about.  She peered
through the eye piece and he showed her how to focus.
"Notice it's clear...no flakes.  If your blood contained
type B corpuscles you'd see clumping.  The result of serum A
agglutinating the cells." He shifted the slide so that they
could see the other end.  "This is serum B.  Look, still no
clumping.  So, no type A blood cells, either.  Dover, your
blood group is O, like half the population."
   Dover tried to remember the ramifications of this, but
hadn't found the need for this particular law since she had
passed biology.  Dunn saw her struggling and said:  "Ray
Bishop could not have been your father."
   Dover stared at the cotton ball pressed against her
fingertip, watching the alcohol evaporate.  In a barely
audible voice she said:  "Thank you."
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
    Chapter 22
   
   Deposuit potentes de sede,
   et exaltavit humiles.
   
              He hath deposed the mighty from their seat,
              and exalted the humble and meek.
   
                        Luke 1:52
   
   
    On Saturday Dunn felt an overpowering urge to fly.  He
had, for once, the necessary funds, a couple of hours to
himself, no winds, and not the least, a desperate need to
clear his mind.  He called up the flight school in Beverly
and found a ten A.M. slot in his instructor's schedule with
an available Skyhawk to match.
   It had been nearly a year since a knee injury sustained
while pursuing a suspect had resulted in some time off from
the force.  Dunn had passed one of those hours taking an
"intro" flight offered by one of the schools at Beverly
Airport, and had been hooked immediately.  Since then,
however, bad weather, low salary, poor budgeting, and gusty
weekends had delayed his training to below the threshold
pace needed to make progress.  He felt less competent now
than that moment during the intro when the instructor said
casually:  "You take it."  And he hadn't felt too competent
then.
   His instructor was called Zack.  At 280 pounds, he made
lessons in the cramped Cessna 150 an intimate experience.
Remarkably, Zack had stuck with Dunn, chiding him about his
infrequent visits and proclaiming him the longest presolo
student in New England aviation history.
   "So what case are we sick of this time, Gabe?"  Zack
asked him while Dunn started to preflight the plane.  Prior
to taking out the smaller craft, Zack generally requested
his students not to top off the fuel tanks, lest it put them
over gross weight.
   "I don't want to talk about it.  That's why I'm here."
Dunn undid a tie-down, letting the rope fall to the ground.
   While waiting for take-off he asked the instructor if
they could swing south over Salem before heading for the
practice area.  "I'd like to take a look at Salem Willows
from the air.  How low can we go?" he asked.
   "A thousand feet.  We'll still be in the control zone so
tell the tower your intentions when you're airborne."
   They departed straight-out from Runway 16, and as soon
as they cleared the treetops could see the gas tank and
power company stacks directly in front of them.  Leveling
off at a thousand feet, they reached the Willows in a couple
of minutes. Dunn crossed and started a shallow bank to the
left for two slow circles over the peninsula.  The Coast
Guard hangar and lighthouse on Winter Island, connected by a
causeway to the Willows, passed below them.  Then the narrow
lots on Juniper Point, giving way to the park, just
beginning to show some green.  Most of the trees were still
bare, however, and Dunn could make out the orange hulls of
the rowboats between the buildings.  The gazebos, the open
air theater with its rows of bleachers, the carousel, the
cottages, all could be picked out from that altitude.  As
the park dissolved into no-man's-land, he picked up the
eastern end of Monument Road, and was struck by the patterns
of trails and paths crisscrossing the central core of the
Willows, inaccessible and invisible from the road.  The
homes on Monument Road sprung into view, Pellegro, Bishop,
Lufkis, and across the street he spotted Raider's dock.
   "Watch the ball!"  Zack barked.  "You're making me
uncomfortable."  Dunn gave the plane enough left rudder to
coordinate the turn, then scanned the rest of the
instruments and swore under his breath.  Still losing
altitude in his turns, after nearly twenty hours of logged
flying time.  He pushed Bishop out of his mind and
concentrated on the cockpit.
   They turned northeast and headed up the coast for some
airwork.  Dunn looked down once more to take in the harbor
below him.  South of Winter Island lay the larger and richer
headlands of Marblehead, gracing Salem with a picture-
postcard view that seldom changed.  Marblehead money had
seen to that.  Ironically  her wealth and power had not been
able to preserve her own sweeping view, which toward the
north was saddled with her much poorer neighbor.  The
Electric Light District had built the power plant some forty
years before, along what used to be the Willows broadest
beach, and alongside it, some years later, the South Essex
Sewerage District had sited its primary treatment plant.
The sprawling grounds of the local hospital, the squalor of
the county jail, the not particularly beautiful campus of
the state college, also had found homes in Salem, whose
population's ability to defend itself had never recovered
from the devastation of the witchcraft hysteria three
hundred years ago.  Like guards appointed to keep the city
in perpetual bondage, the power station stacks could be seen
for forty miles on a clear day.  The property stretched over
half a mile, boasted almost a dozen storage tanks and a
mountain of coal.  Salem's cross to bear, however, was also
Marblehead's.  From the multimillion dollar homes on her
northern shore, you couldn't see the jail or smell the
sewerage plant.  But the stacks of the power station scarred
the view for rich and poor alike.
   High above Plum Island, Zack punished Dunn with a half
hour of stall practice, tacky jokes about dead people, and a
simulated engine failure.  Dunn failed the latter by
selecting a landing spot he had no hope of making.  "Time's
up, you're dead,"  Zack crowed.  "You'd have been better off
going back for the beach."  Thoroughly demoralized, Dunn
headed back to Beverly for what Zack fondly termed some
"crash and go's."
   As an escape, flying was guaranteed to do the job.  If
you didn't leave your mental baggage on the ground, it could
kill you in the air.  The effect, no matter how stressful
the flight, was to leave Dunn intensely exhausted but
refreshed when he landed.  It was also humbling.
   "Your airwork's improving,"  Zack said charitably when
they had landed and reentered the terminal. "Just need a
little consistency in your landings.  Better keep your day
job.  When will I see you next?  Never mind ... I'll just
have to track the obituaries."  He roared with laughter at
his own joke.  Dunn glared at him and pulled out his
checkbook.
   Even before he had left the parking lot, the case was
flooding back.  But in a different order, with a new
perspective.  Dunn found himself automatically putting back-
pressure on the steering wheel as he headed up the airport
road, and reminded himself that the car was never going to
break ground.  For five minutes after every flight he had to
relearn to drive.  Stuffing a Schumann cassette into the
tape deck, he turned south on Route 97.  Then he reached
over and switched it off again.
   Dunn now knew who killed Ray Bishop.
   
   Jake Myles had left a message on his answering machine
when the detective returned home.  On the second ring Myles
answered, and hearing Dunn's voice, said:  "The Webers have
split." "When?" "This morning.  I went by to check out their
typewriter.  You know, dumber stunts have been pulled.  I
thought it was worth ruling out.  Anyway, the place was
empty.  The landlord's upstairs and was willing to let me
in.  Furniture's still there, but most of the personal stuff
-- clothes, suitcases, and so forth -- are gone.  What do
you wanna do?" Dunn was quiet for a moment.  "Nothing.
They're not our problem." "Shouldn't we call Army
Intelligence?  Get his jacket pulled..." "Whose, Jake?
Whose jacket?  You said they never heard of Weber.  Figuring
out his real name's going to take a while.  Anyway, it's
Saturday.  You know they never answer on weekends."  He
thought about what life must be like on the run, starting
all over in some strange town.  Waking up with a new name,
fearful you wouldn't remember it, remember which persona you
were at some critical moment in a dangerous masquerade.
Every stranger, every crowd held the sudden possibility of
recognition.  Weber's past lay like a steel trap on a forest
floor.  Dunn remembered the fear in Lila Weber's eyes and
thought, she must really love him.  He wondered whose eyes
they were now.  "We can call Monday.  They won't get far,
whoever the hell they are." There was a second message.
Rachel had called, apparently from the train station.  Stuck
with no ride home and heavy packages, she had hoped to find
him in.  Dunn tried her home number and got no answer.  The
message was only twenty minutes old.  He got back in the
Chevy and headed downtown. The pay phone outside of Filene's
wasn't happy with Coleen's Canadian dime and spat it back.
She tried another and released her breath when Eric finally
answered the phone.  She had rehearsed her words but now
thought them better aired in person. "Can we talk?" she
asked. "Sure, Coleen.  Talk." "No, I mean, can I come up?"
"Come up." She hung up.  Realizing she hadn't eaten all day,
she stopped in the Papa Gino's next door.  She ordered an
overcooked spaghetti dinner and a cold glass of rose which
made up for it.  That should get her to Topsfield.
 Chapter 23 Quia respexit
   humilitatem ancillae suae
   
              For he hath looked to
              the lowliness of his handmaiden
   
                        Luke 1:48
   
   
   An early-morning battleground every weekday between the
train commuters and the employees of the courthouse across
the street, the commuter rail parking lot stands nearly
empty on Saturdays.  Dunn pulled into the bus lane and drove
slowly down the length of the station.  One car was live-
parked, its bumper telling Dunn, Only You Can Prevent Mental
Health.
   Less than a half dozen people milled around.  Judging by
their postures Dunn guessed the next train was not due for a
while.  No sign of his sister, he turned the car and was
about to accelerate when someone caught his eye.
   Perched on a railing overlooking the platform was a
vaguely familiar figure in black.  She was plugged into a
Walkman and reading a book.  It took a minute for Dunn to
realize she was the fifteen-year-old he had seen at Raider's
on Monday.  He pulled over and got out of the car.
   "Miss Raider?" he asked her.  He had to ask twice before
she turned and removed her headphones.
   "Hey," she said by way of universal and totally
egalitarian greeting.  Her feet were encased in tiny combat
boots that looked like they were made by Mattel.  Jeans in
faded blue, the only spot of color on her, were held at the
knees with safety pins.  Better the knees than the ears,
Dunn thought.   Her black T-shirt  said Megadeath with some
appropriate graphic depiction.  Like some cartoonist said:
Nature's way of saying Do Not Touch.
   "I'm Gabe Dunn, Salem Police.  I don't think we actually
met the other day."
   "I'm Sara."
   "You waiting for the train or for a ride?"
   "The train to Boston.  Anyway, I can walk home from
here," she said for the record, lest he think her a wimp.
It was about a mile to Monument Road.  Dunn nodded solemnly.
With shoes like those she could probably walk to Boston.
   "Take the train a lot?" he asked.
   "Just Saturdays.  I have friends in Boston."
   A glimmer of interest.  Dunn leaned against her railing
and asked:  "Saturdays?  Any chance you went in three weeks
ago?"
   "I go in every Saturday."
   "What time, usually?"  Dunn knew the trains were less
frequent on weekends.
   "Whenever I get up.  It varies.  I guess usually I get
the one o'clock, or the 2:07 sometimes."  Dunn looked at his
watch.  She did the same.  It was one forty-five.
   "Did you know Ray Bishop?  Know who he was?"
   She gave a wry smile.  "Everyone on our street did."
   "Why?"
   "He was a dork."  The words were not uttered but
expelled.  Each consonant emphasized, each vowel drawn out.
"A total jerk.  Every time he drove by our house he'd slow
down like he was inspecting our grass."  The last word was
hissed.
   He probably was, thought Dunn.  "You knew his car,
then?"
   "Sure.  The one with the flags and guns and shit on all
his bumpers.  Big silver Cadillac tank thing."
   "Lincoln?"
   "Yeah ... Lincoln Continental."
   Dunn recalled a passage on witnesses from the bible of
criminal investigation:
   
         "The female when young is intensely interested in
         the world as it reacts to her.  She can be an
         excellent source of information because she
         observes with interest events intrinsically
         boring."
   
   
   He felt it worth asking:  "So three weeks ago, you would
have been here about the same time?"  She nodded.  "No
chance you remember seeing Bishop here?  At the station, or
on your train?"  Pellegro had said four or five that
afternoon.
    She shook her head.  He noticed that at the roots the
black hair was light brown.  She actually had a sweet face.
   Disappointed but not surprised, Dunn thanked her and
straightened up.  "What are you listening to?" he asked as
she repositioned her earphones.
   "Amazing Mudshark," she answered.  "Know them?"
   "Ah, no."  He smiled and turned toward his car.  As he
reached the driver's-side door she looked up suddenly from
her book and shouted after him:  "Saw his tank, though."
   "What?"
   "His car.  The Lincoln.  It was parked over there."  She
pointed down the first of the parking aisles.
   Dunn could have kissed her.
   
   
   
   
   Why can't I talk to her
   when she's all I need
   
              -- Everett Pendleton
   
   
    Frank and Linda Wilson checked into the Bel-Air Motel
just outside of Indianapolis.  They had driven most of the
night and all morning.  Frank wanted to sleep a few hours
and continue the drive later in the evening.  Inside the
room he sat down on one of two flowered beds and began
pulling off his shoes and socks.  Linda moved a suitcase
onto the floor.  She sat beside him.
   "Tom, I can't do this anymore."
   "Frank.  It's Frank."
   "It can't be worth all this!"
   "You're not the one facing prison," he said.
   "What am I facing then?  Can you tell me?" Wilson stood
up and went to the window.  He yanked the drapes shut.
"What do you want me to do?" he said wearily.
   "Call another lawyer.  It's been thirty-six years, Tom.
Things may have changed."
   "I called a lawyer just a couple years ago, remember?"
   "You got him out of the phone book.  You got five
minutes of free advice.  Probably all it was worth."
   He pulled his keys and wallet from his pocket and set
them on the nightstand.  "Well, now I'm wanted for another
murder."
   She didn't answer.  She watched her husband as he
undressed and climbed into bed.  With a note of defiance he
pulled the sheet up to his chin.  The starch alone would
ward off all pursuers.  He hoped for a few hours, anyway.
   Lila leaned over to shut off the light.  The drapes
actually darkened the room pretty well.  She sat back, fully
clothed, and stared at the ceiling.  "Sweetheart, did you
kill that postman?"
   "No, dear."
   After several minutes Lila began to laugh.
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
    Chapter 24
   Quidquid latet, apparebit
              That which is hidden shall appear
                        Requiem "Dies irae"      On the
second visit to Walter Pellegro's house, Dunn brought a
search warrant.  The last time he had needed a warrant on a
Saturday he had pulled Judge Harkness out of a church Bingo
game.  This time, thankfully, the clerk on call had been
home.  Probable cause had not been easy to establish.  Dunn
had to base his argument more on Pellegro's "consciousness
of guilt," evidence that the suspect had lied with no
apparent reason.  The clerk was not impressed by the
mercurial musical habits of Pellegro's daughter.  Dunn knew
better than to press it.  He stuck to the car.  After he
laid out his case and itemized what he intended to look for,
the clerk gave him what he needed.
   Hurd and Myles accompanied him to Pellegro's.  After the
formalities the three men began to move about the house.
They started with the living room and hall closet while
Pellegro stood stiffly and watched them.  The living room
held no secrets, or held them well.  The floors looked
scrubbed and empty.  Myles checked the underside of the
coffee table with a flashlight.  Rhythmic sounds of Annie's
swing were discernible from the backyard.
   The closet, on the other hand, was packed with life.
Snow pants, boots, quilted snowsuits of sizes long outgrown,
took up precious space.  The correct sizes were there as
well.  At least Annie looked well cared for.  Her father had
saved a few inches for himself, and Dunn located outerwear
for every season.  He felt through the pockets of what
looked to be Pellegro's winter jacket.  One contained a lift
ticket dated March 4.  The plaid coat had numerous stains,
none obviously blood, but he couldn't be sure.  He pulled it
off the hook and handed it to Myles.  "Bag this for the lab,
Jake."
   Carefully they checked each room.  Anything that matched
the requirements of the murder weapon was wrapped and
removed for lab analysis.  Carpets were checked for stains.
Pellegro watched silently and did nothing to stop them.
Finally Dunn entered Annie's room and was thankful the child
was outside.  Most people reacted strongly to such an
invasion of their privacy, even those who could understand
the justification.  For Annie there was no justification.
   The room was cluttered but not unclean.  A number of
toys and books, most untouched, lined a set of shelves by
her bed.  The floor was strewn with cassette tapes and
clothes, a wind-up music box, and assorted felt-tipped
markers.  The window faced the street, and, he noticed, had
a good view of Bishop's stockade fence.  Over the top, at
the end closest to the sidewalk, Dunn could make out the
rounded top of the imposing white gas tank, situated across
the cove.
   As he was about to leave, his glance fell on the hook
dangling from the edge of the door.  Apparently there were
occasions when Pellegro did not want Annie to have free rein
of the house.  Dunn began to wonder what, if anything, she
might be able to see or hear from her room with the door
closed.  His eyes traced its contours as he slowly moved to
shut it.  There was a liberal gap at the bottom, suggesting
that when it was originally hung, the room had been
carpeted, probably wall-to-wall.  Dunn got down on his hands
and knees and put his head to the floor.  By pressing his
cheek down, he had a good view of feet in the living room,
and even if he had been hard of hearing, sounds carried as
clearly as when the door was open.  Dunn picked himself up
and reached for the doorknob when suddenly he noticed
something else.  For one moment he stopped breathing.
"Jake, get some tools in here.  We're taking the door."
Halfway up the back, the side which invariably was hidden
against the bedroom wall except when Annie was locked alone
within, were two faint, bloody handprints.  The uncovered
signature of a mute child's desperation, they told another
tale as well.
   
   
   Olim lacus colueram,
   olim pulcher extiteram
   dum cignus ego fueram.
   
         Once I dwelt in lakes,
         once I lived in beauty -
         that was when I was a swan.
   
                   -- Carmina Burana, Carl Orff
   
    Directly across the street from Walter Pellegro's house
was Camp Naumkeag, a city-owned site along the edge of
Collins Cove boasting a couple of wooden summer cottages, a
flagpole, and playground.  Various civic organizations
rented the camp for summer events, and the school and
recreation departments utilized it whenever the weather
warranted.  Locally it was known as the Girl Scout Camp.
Pellegro's water view, for which he paid dearly when he
moved in four years ago, lay just to the left of the larger
Naumkeag cottage.  Enough of a slice to catch the dazzling
reflections of the sun on the water in the late summer.  At
low tide he and Annie could see the sea gulls from her
window diving and climbing over and over again with mussels
for smashing on the rocks below.  During high tides they had
seen more colors of water than he dreamed the spectrum could
contain.  Every shade of gray, and white in the winter and
black at night, streaked with the reflections of a hundred
harbor lights.  Every shade of blue, from slate blue, deep
and dark on the coldest days in February, to teal in the
summer, scored by the wakes of water skis.  Early dawns on
school days when he had to get Annie ready for the bus he
discovered the violets and flame reds of the sea. In August,
as he sat on the stoop with a cold beer to his lips, he
watched the water transform to silver, just as the sun began
to set.  So white he had to avert his eyes.  So intense his
heart would pound.  Mortgaged to the hilt, this, his first
house, still gave him tremendous satisfaction, his first
perception of control in his life and peace in his
surroundings. One of his first investments when he moved to
Salem had been a pair of binoculars.  Never having known in
his life one bird from another, or caring, he had begun to
find excitement in spotting something new, if unnamed, each
season.  He often held them up to Annie's eyes but didn't
know how to aim them, nor fathom what she saw.  Still, she
seemed to delight in the sharing.  Early the past spring was
the first time he spied the swans, and he was shocked and
thrilled.  He ran into the kitchen for a handful of bread.
Bread he had rejected that morning for its initial green
spotting, bread Annie had rejected, too, on some more
general and elusive esthetic principle.  The swans would be
hungrier.  He went out the back door to pry his daughter
from her swing.  She sensed his urgency and did not
complain.  Together they crossed the street and climbed down
to the beach behind the camp.  Swans are greedy and mean,
but very, very cool.  They spotted the waving bread almost
immediately, changed course, and headed toward the beach.
But they refused to alter speed to any ungraceful rate.
Annie went wild, to a degree seldom seen when she was
without music.  Pellegro became infected with her
excitement.  He watched her face and felt happy.  The swans
were blessed with her eye contact the way he rarely could
be.  He turned to the undeserving birds and then understood.
Selfish they might be, but their physical beauty was
generous beyond words, their grace and dignity symphonic.
Late that summer Ray Bishop erected a six-foot stockade
fence between the two properties.  The Pellegros awoke one
morning in August and found their view, their water, their
gulls were gone.
 Chapter 25
   
   
   Pleni sunt coeli et terra
   gloria tua.
   
              Filled are heaven and earth
              with your glory.
   
                        Requiem "Sanctus"
   
   
   
   
   
   
    Dunn picked up the phone and dialed Gloria Mei's home
number.  When she answered, he asked:  "Gloria, you have the
results of the stomach contents yet?"
   "Are you approving overtime on this?" she asked
incredulously.
   "Just today.  Just Jake's and mine, unless we make an
arrest.  So I want to wrap it up.  I'm not working for free
tomorrow."
   "But I'm supposed to today?"
   "C'mon, Gloria.  I'll buy you lunch next time you get a
lunch break."
   She laughed.  "Actually I sent it over yesterday.  You
should have it Monday.  But if it's any help, contents
contained pieces of undigested pork, Chinese-style pork.
And bits of orange peel."
   Weylu's, Dunn thought.  The bastard died Friday night.
And the mail inside the door Monday had lain there two days,
because Bishop wasn't alive Saturday afternoon to pick it up
from the floor.  The clock radio would have come on at its
appointed time Saturday morning.
   "Thanks, Gloria.  You name the place."
   "Not McDonald's, and not Chinese."  She hung up.
   
   Mihi quoque spem dedisti.
              Thou hast given hope to me as well.
                        Requiem "Dies irae"
    Weber had gotten up for a drink of water.  When he
returned Lila rolled onto her side and faced him.  She
hadn't slept.  How could they confront the future if they
couldn't confront the past?
   "Tom?"
   "Mmmh?"  He sat down on the edge of the bed, cradling
his glass.
   She reached out and put a hand on his leg.  "Let's go
home," she whispered.  "Let's go home."
   He had wanted to be a hero.  He was only trying to help
her.  To be a hero for her.  The guy was slapping her
around, viciously, mercilessly.  Weber, ne, Wiley, didn't
know any Korean, so he couldn't know what the fight was
about.  Couldn't know what was worth doing this to another
human being.  Especially a ninety-pound woman.  Barely a
woman, a girl.  The man was smaller than Wiley, but twice as
strong.  And crazy.  Oblivious to Wiley's intrusion.
Unstoppable as a tank.
   The guy was fucking strong.
   But Wiley was fucking armed.
   Unfortunately, it didn't turn out right.  The girl was
upset, to put it mildly, when her man was wasted.  And there
were witnesses.  Witnesses who saw an American soldier gun
down an unarmed Korean on his native soil.  High Noon this
was not.
   Condemned and ashamed, Wiley took flight, carrying only
his weapon and his remorse.  The split second in your life
you would give all the rest to take back.  But you can't.
And so it never ends.
    Eric didn't answer at the house, so Coleen went back to
the barn where she supposed he'd be working.  She let
herself in the side door and called out his name.  Stepping
into the center of the workshop she surveyed for a moment
the assemblage of work, completed and uncompleted, that
lined the perimeter.  Panes of uncut mirrored glass were
interspersed with window frames and pieces of leaded glass.
Propped on the floor and leaning against the walls and
benches, the angular images distorted the chamber.
Reflections of her red raincoat spattered the muted grays
and browns of the dusk-shrouded room like so many wounds.
With each step, each turn, the shapes would disappear and
reappear somewhere else.  Coleen felt she was standing in a
kaleidoscope.
   She called again, louder.  This time she heard a door
creak open and from the storeroom at the back of the barn he
emerged. Bathed in the light from the doorway behind him,
Eric walked out to her, a roll of wire in one hand and a
glass cutter in the other.  At his wordless approach, Coleen
suddenly felt she no longer recognized the man.  An icy knot
tightened in the back of her neck.
   
   Dunn began to pace the station.  The alibi was no longer
a problem.  But he had no weapon, and not much of a motive.
All he could do now was wait for the state.  From his first
arrival on a scene to the last evidence transmittal form, it
was ultimately the state that set the pace.  As it was in
the beginning...
   Agitated, he took a walk downstairs to the garage.  He
made a quick circle around the silver Lincoln, like some
sort of rain dance.  Some pieces were fitting, some were
not.
   Dunn moved to the storeroom off the garage where
confiscated property was stored.  At the moment, it held
three motorcycles seized in various raids, a snowblower, a
bank of chairs, and boxes of junk.  And Annie's door,
wrapped and waiting for the trip to Boston.  It would be
days before the lab would give him results, even unofficial
ones.  Dunn was severely tempted to call Mickey at the
hospital.  AB was pretty rare.  If it was on the door,
Mickey could find out in twenty-five minutes.
   After making the rounds, Dunn went back up to the
detectives' room where the evidence bag from Pellegro's
house sat leaning against the water cooler, facing the same
fate and delays as the door.  He took it over to his desk.
Then he opened the bag and pulled out the contents.  Someone
had transported the body to the park on a cold winter day or
night.  If that person had been Pellegro, he was likely to
have worn this jacket.  Dunn twisted the desk light so that
it illuminated the coat.  He lifted each cuff, then went
over the rest looking for smears or splashes.  The ones he
found could have been any substance.
   Both he and Myles had given the pockets a cursory check
at the house.  Dunn went through them again.  Maybe they had
missed the car keys, or the blunt instrument, he thought
ruefully.
   Three of them were zippered shut.  They appeared to have
been unused.  One exterior breast pocket, and two inside the
jacket.  Exterior side pockets are always used, however, and
Pellegro's were no exception.  Dunn reached to pull the left
pocket inside out.  The flannel interior was grubby but not
bloody.  The lift ticket and a balled-up Kleenex dislodged
themselves and fell to the table.  Small woolly lumps that
grow in all pockets held more tenaciously.  Dunn patiently
separated each one with the blade of his knife, but
unearthed nothing.
   The pocket on the right was less communicative.  As Dunn
poked at the fluffy occupants he noticed an even more
universal feature -- a small hole.  The kind of hole you
lose dimes and keys in.  Curious, he prodded the jacket
lining carefully from the pocket insert down to the hem.
The stiffness of the hem and the natural tendency of jacket
lining to collect more densely along the bottom edge caused
him to nearly miss what he had in fact missed in his quick
search at the house earlier.  But this time he felt it.
   The screw was an inch and a quarter in length.  The
green paint had been scraped out of its slot, but still
clung to the head.  Green, the color of murder.
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
    Chapter 26 Libera me de ora leonis,
   Ne cadam in obscurum,
   Ne absorbeat me Tartarus.
   
              Free me from the mouth of the lion,
              And let me not fall into the darkness,
              Nor hell engulf me.
   
                        Requiem "Offertorium"
   
   
    "Eric?" she said, finally.  He gave her a smile which
confused her.  Hoping for reassurance she added:  "You
frightened me."
   He put down his things and offered to take her coat.
Coleen shivered and declined.  "It's like ice in here.
Eric, I have to ask you something."
   Maybe the rose was a mistake, she thought.  Maybe I
should leave.  But she steeled herself and continued:  "Did
you blackmail Mr. Weber?"
   Eric sat down on the stool and didn't respond.
   "It had to have been you.  You were the only one I told.
I thought for a while it was Ray.  But the police told me
about your mortgage payment.  And Ray wouldn't have done
it."
   "You think I would?"
   "Where did you get the money?"
   Eric got up and walked slowly around the workshop,
fingering the edges of panes as he moved by them.  Coleen
winced the way she did when Ray would test kitchen knives
for sharpness.
   "I didn't have enough information to blackmail him.
Nothing I could tell the authorities."
   Coleen thought for a minute.  "But Ray did.  If you told
Weber you were Ray, that would have been enough to scare
him."
   "Where I get my money is nobody's business.  I'm not
accused of anything.  No crime's been reported, has it?  And
I doubt Weber's going to.  Even if he does, how would they
prove it was me?  Ray is the obvious suspect, and he can't
deny it now."  He turned and faced her.  "Let it go,
Coleen."
   The fear had passed, replaced by remorse and disgust.
Coleen stared at his face, then turned and walked to the
door.
   "Where are you going?"
   She used to say "Salem."  "Coming to Topsfield," "going
back to Salem."  Now she opened the door and looked beyond
the paddock to where her Escort was parked, the rosy sunset
caught in its windshield.  She buttoned her raincoat and
rewrapped her muffler.
   "Home."
   
   Lacrimosa dies illa            The day of weeping
Requiem "Dies irae"      When Dunn called her, he didn't
explain, just that he needed her to translate.  And to stay
with Annie until someone from the Department of Social
Services could get there.  Mel was standing under a
streetlight at the entrance to the mobile home park when he
drove up just after six P.M. Saturday.  She climbed in
without a word. "I brought my Orff," she said when she was
settled.  Most of Mel's music collection had been through
her classroom at one time or another.  This particular tape
had become one of Annie's favorites, so much so that Mel had
made a duplicate for her to take home.  The search of
Pellegro's house had failed to turn up the copy, though the
father had confirmed on Mel's last home visit that the child
listened to it constantly.  Now, on the backseat of Dunn's
car, was a small cassette player. The warrant for his arrest
was based on circumstantial evidence only.  Possibly solid
enough to convict.  But Dunn felt he had to break the man.
Brian Hurd and Jake Myles pulled up in front of Pellegro's
as he did, and the four of them walked to the door.
Pellegro opened it and gave them a surprised look. "May we
step inside, Mr. Pellegro?" Annie was curled up on the couch
with a box of cereal.  When she caught sight of Mel, she got
up and slowly approached her.  On Dunn's signal, Mel
crouched down and inserted the tape. "Mr. Pellegro,"  Hurd
began in as clear a voice as he could muster, "we have here
a warrant for your arrest..." The music began to play.
Annie, who had dropped down beside her, suddenly stood up
and backed away.  Mel looked up at her, then shrugged and
signed, "What's wrong?"  Annie responded by striking the
edge of one hand against the palm of the other.  "Annie's
saying 'stop,'" Mel spoke and signed, more to Annie than to
anyone else.  Annie repeated the motion without taking her
eyes off the cassette player, commanding it, willing it to
be silent, but the music continued. "'You have the right to
remain silent...'"  Hurd continued, reading from the small
blue card.  But Pellegro wasn't listening.  His eyes were on
Annie. Annie moved forward and bent down toward the
recorder.  Fingers jabbing at various bumps, she knew these
things could be turned off.  Dunn reached down and gently
held her shoulders.  Pulling her out of reach, he said to
Mel, "Why?  Ask her why."  The police officer persisted:
"'Anything you say can and will be used against you in
court...'" Mel leaned forward and tried to engage the
child's eyes, but they were fixed toward the music.  Moving
into her field of view, Mel signed, "Why?  Why stop?"  The
child was becoming extremely agitated and kept reaching for
the recorder.  One last time Mel signed, inches from Annie's
face, "Why?" Then Annie responded:  "Hit."  Only instead of
moving one fist into the palm of her other hand, she held it
up to her head.  There was a long silence, and then Walter
Pellegro started to sob. "'Having those rights in mind do
you wish to talk to me now?'"
   
   
   Qua resurget ex favilla
   Judicandus homo reus
   
              When from glowing embers rises
              the guilty man to be judged...
   
                        Requiem "Dies irae"
    It was Annie who had let him in that Friday night.
Were it not for that, the argument might have remained at
the threshold.  Raised voices, fires fueled, fists clenched
impotently, separated by the invisible but powerful plane of
the doorway that says my house, my territory.  The lines
would never have been crossed.  But Pellegro had been in the
basement transferring the week's worth of laundry from
washer to dryer.  So when the doorbell began to ring
insistently, continuously, accompanied by loud pounding,
Annie went to the door, opened it, and their neighbor
stepped inside.  Her father's footsteps flew up the stairs
and into the living room.  Bishop greeted him with reddened
face, the stench of beer, and loud proclamations which
Pellegro could hardly make out over the blaring of Annie's
cassette player.  The pointing finger made the words
unnecessary, however.  Pellegro had, once again and with
some not-so-hidden malice, left the window nearest his
neighbor's house slightly cracked.  Since the outside
temperature was in the twenties, this was at some loss of
comfort and decided personal sacrifice to Pellegro and his
daughter.  He paid for this recurring message in this
season's heat bills.  In front of this particular window was
poised the cassette player.
             semper crescis
             aut decrescis;
             vita detestabilis...
   
                  always rising
                  and then falling;
                  detestable life...
   
   
   The scene played itself out quickly.  There was yelling,
there were words and accusations, neighbor against neighbor.
   
             nunc obdurat
             et tunc curat
             ludo mentis aciem,
   
                  now you are hard on us
                  and then you care
                  to amuse yourself by appeasing us,
   
   
   Bishop's emotions were swelled with drink.  The Latin
chanted forth from the speakers, taunting and defiant.
Defiant as his wife's final, wordless glance as she walked
out the front door twenty-four hours before.  No argument,
no shouting, no complaining.  The front door closed behind
her, the car door slammed, again and again his eyes filled
now with the images of doors, and he heard them slam in the
sounds of the bass drum.
   
             egestatem,
             potestatem
             dissolvit ut glaciem.
   
                  poverty
                  and power
                  are melted like ice.
   
   
   In sickness and in health, in sickness and in health.
She was supposed to be there.  Bishop reeled toward the
music, and bellowed at Walter Pellegro like a wounded
animal.  The music crashed around him like a net so that his
words, drowned out in its cacophony,  hung in the air
disarmed.  Let the fucking bitch go.  Let them all go to
hell.
   
             nunc per ludum
             dorsum nudum
             fero tui sceleris.
   
                  now because of your games
                  I offer my naked back
                  to your evil sport.
   
   
   Ray Bishop had reached a full boil.  As the orchestra
swelled in raucous climax, he took three steps toward the
box, and with a sudden sweep of his arm, sent it crashing
into the middle of the room.  Orff's final verse still hung
in the air, but the ensuing, absolute silence was louder
still.
   
   
             quod per sortem
             sternit fortem,
             mecum omnes plangite!
   
                  since by the mere casting of lots
                  the strong are crushed,
                  weep, all, with me!
   
   
   The sea gull was carved, incongruously, out of onyx,
hardly a stone indigenous to the North Shore.  Variegated in
white, almost translucent, it had an ethereal quality to it
which lifted it from the clutter adorning the mantelpiece.
It perched on the end closest to Pellegro now, and as rage
overtook him, he suddenly felt it in his grasp.  With one
powerful movement, he smashed it down, not on a human head,
but on a six-foot cedar stockade fence.  The walls that had
imprisoned him caved in before him and slumped with a thud
at his feet.  Annie screamed.
   In the eerie silence, Bishop had seen the gull coming
toward him slowly, frame by frame.  But to a man who is
paralyzed, no motion is slow enough.  He never heard the
scream, but in the fractional second preceding it, he
remembered his first wife, Meredith, poring over the
blueprints at his side.  Meredith, steadfast, headstrong,
whose personality had permeated every stud, every nail of
their house.  Meredith would have never left of her own
will.  Meredith would have stuck it out, as should Coleen.
The house lasted, so should the wives.  Till death do us
part, they had said.  Till death do us part.
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
    Chapter 27
   
   novo mundo reserat
   faciem Aprilis;
   
                   The face of April
                   reveals a new world.
   
                             Carmina Burana, Carl Orff
    Mel had seen the For Sale sign on the bungalow
overlooking the cove on her last home visit to the Pellegros
during the winter.  It lay at the opposite end of Monument
Road, farthest from the park.  At last she had obtained
financing, and closed, and felt blessed.  Blessed with a
stagnant housing market and condo glut throughout the
region.  Blessed with an anxious and desperate owner who
came down in price enough to cross the line between dream
and reality.  Blessed with a competent and aggressive
broker, who, despite showing up at each visit with an infant
strapped to her back, had belied her image in the end.  The
negotiations were forceful and the offer unbudging.  Two
days after the closing, Mel stood in the bare living room,
unadorned but for the three tall windows framing the harbor.
Her life lay in boxes stacked in the middle of each room,
and for the moment an open suitcase and sleeping bag were
the only signs she was living there.  Until she finished
painting and pulling up carpeting, gold, stained, and
blasphemous against perfectly good hardwood flooring, Mel
refused to open a box. It was a Sunday and peaceful.  With
no Sunday paper delivery yet, she had gotten an early start.
By late afternoon she had finished the first coat throughout
the living room and was cleaning her brush and roller when
Gabe Dunn's Chevy pulled into her driveway.  Excited over
her first visitor, this visitor in particular, she had the
door open before his second foot had hit the ground.  He
slammed the car door and smiled at her.  This was a social
call. "Would you care for a beer?" she asked as she closed
the door behind him.  She snapped open the lid of a small
ice chest and invited him to fish out one of the green
bottles swimming in the slush.  "I get electricity tomorrow,
if I behave." Dunn fished one out, opened it, and wiped his
hands on his jeans. The tour of the house was short, due to
its size and the absence of knickknacks and their
accompanying histories.  No photos on the mantelpiece or
unusual posters on the walls.  She refrained from the long
monolog that the home inspector had engaged in, realizing
that the fact of the doorways not being entirely square
could not possibly fascinate anyone else.  Finally they
carried their beers out onto the back lawn, trading the
smell of paint for the salty dampness of the sea.  They sat
together companionably on a low wall, sipping and talking
about the gas tank directly opposite them on the far shore
of the cove.  The tank was the one blemish in her view, but
was also the last blessing.  It alone probably shaved fifty
thousand dollars off the price of each home overlooking it.
Without the tank, she wouldn't be here now.  She laughed
then, and related to Dunn the previous owner's helpful
suggestion.  Get that nun to paint it, like Boston Gas did
down in Dorchester.  Mother Teresa? After a moment Dunn
said:  "Actually, I stopped by to ask if you want to go to a
concert at Salem State tomorrow night." Mel's eyes grew
bright.  "Sure.  What are they doing?" "Nothing as decadent
as Orff.  Berlioz's Requiem.  Starts at eight, I think." Mel
inquired then about his work, now that the Bishop case was
over. "I've got a blackmail case I've almost wrapped up.
And in my spare time I'm helping some kid find her father."
She asked about Annie.  The Salem Evening News had given a
sketchy but overly dramatic account of the confession and
had not mentioned what was to become of the child when her
father was led off to jail.  Dunn said she'd been placed in
foster care and should be returning to school in a few days.
Mel couldn't help but wonder what the child had had to
endure on the night of the murder.  "Do you know what
happened?" she asked, turning to him. "I think we do now.
Ray Bishop had gone over to complain about the radio being
too loud, like he had many times in the past.  Apparently
the two guys had a long-standing dispute over a fence that
Bishop built.  It ended up blocking almost the whole view of
the cove from Pellegro's place." Mel looked out over the
water.  Once she had made up her mind to have a piece of the
coast, if any of it remained affordable, she could not look
objectively at any other property the realtor showed her.
Houses far nicer and roomier than this one suddenly seemed
landlocked.  "What did the fence have to do with the radio?"
"Pellegro had tried every avenue available to him.
Consulted the city building inspector and every other
department down there.  And finally even a lawyer.  He tried
friendly negotiation, but didn't get anywhere.  Because of
the angle of the property lines and the siting of Pellegro's
house, the fence was pretty oppressive.  The guy felt like a
prisoner in his own yard.  No water view, which certainly
was a factor in what he originally paid for the place.  All
he could see was fence.  Somebody else's fence.  A constant
reminder of just how little power he had over his own
property.  A single parent with a handicapped kid already
has plenty of choices taken away from him in his life.
Pellegro was suffering from some sort of growing desperation
which he was finding harder and harder to contain." Dunn
took a long sip and continued:  "So last fall he started a
subtle counterattack, almost what you'd describe as passive-
aggressive, I guess, only actually not so subtle and not so
passive.  He began cracking open the window overlooking
Bishop's bedroom whenever Annie had her tape recorder
cranked up." "And that's quite often.  She turns it up to
the point of distortion because of her hearing." "Right.
Pellegro used to stuff ear protectors in his ears.  Anyway,
Bishop really went over about the noise, but I gather the
agenda went far beyond that.  Unfortunately, he had had a
few beers and ended up smashing the radio.  A pretty hostile
act." "Cranking it up full blast and opening your window
could be considered a hostile act, too,"  Mel said. "True,
but one for the police to handle.  You have to be pretty
careful what you do in another man's home.  Pellegro
responded with unpremeditated and somewhat justifiable rage.
Crushing Bishop's skull with a stone bird was a rather
excessive display, but he could almost have pleaded self-
defense, possibly defense of habitation.  At least he could
have gotten off a lot easier if he hadn't hidden the body.
If he had come forward immediately." "Why did he hide the
body?  And why so nearby?"  She jiggled her bottle and
watched the last bit of foam appear, then disappear. Dunn
explained that Pellegro hadn't had a car.  An accident
earlier in the week had tied it up in the shop awaiting some
part.  Bishop was killed just after nine P.M. and Pellegro
had eight good hours of darkness to go through successive
stages of panic and clarity. "He wasn't thinking in terms of
getting off lightly, or pleading out, or cutting deals.  He
was thinking of the Department of Social Services.  He knew
he would lose Annie if he were caught.  His first thought
was to get rid of the body, hopefully to delay its discovery
long enough to obscure the time and circumstances of death
and then to remove all traces from his house.  He spent the
rest of the night doing just that." "If he didn't have a
car, how did he get Bishop to the cottage?" "A wheelbarrow.
There are dirt bike trails crisscrossing the wooded area
that stretches from Pellegro's house down to the park.  Most
of it is right-of-way owned by the power company, some of it
is state-owned.  There are even some ruins of an old fort
back in there.  Anyway, the whole area is unbuildable and
secluded.  So he pulled a trash bag over the head and
shoulders and hefted the body into the barrow.  He was able
to work his way down the trails to the park, only four or
five hundred yards away.  He had plenty of time and there
was no moon.  The men's cottage was the first hiding spot he
came to.  He had thought enough to bring a small flashlight,
and when he discovered the padlock, he also discovered the
screws on the hasp were exposed. All he needed was a couple
of turns with his pen-knife blade and he could yank the hasp
right off the doorjamb.  But then he figured that to avoid
arousing the suspicion of some passerby he should replace
the hasp when he left.  So he bent down, found the screws
where they had fallen, and stuffed them into his jacket
pocket.  Unfortunately later on, when he went to put them
back in, one of them had slipped through a hole in his
pocket deep into the lining.  He used his knife to give the
other one a couple of twists to secure it, and it seemed to
hold." "Where was Annie all this time?"  Mel shivered.
"Annie, we know, must have witnessed the killing.  She was
crouched in a corner when Pellegro loaded the body into the
wheelbarrow, but at some point, she tried to pick up the
bird.  He knew he'd have to clean up carefully when he got
back from the park, but to contain the problem, he locked
Annie in her room.  Her pounding with bloodstained fists on
the back of the door, the one spot he didn't think to check
when he wiped everything clean, was his downfall." "How did
Bishop's car get to the station?" "Well, as he cleaned up,
his mind began to clear more and more.  Before dumping
Bishop in the cottage, he had thought to remove the keys and
wallet, possibly to make robbery look like the motive.  When
he felt his house was pretty free of traces, he went next
door and let himself in to Bishop's." "Why?"  Mel's eyes
widened. Dunn answered: "It occurred to him that if evidence
could point to Bishop leaving town, the police would delay
searching for him.  He wanted to be sure the TV was turned
off, and the lights.  He also checked the oven, stuff like
that.  Then the idea of moving the car struck him.  Of
course, if he had thought of it hours earlier, he could have
used it to move the body somewhere else.  Anyway, he locked
up, started up the car, closed the garage doors after
himself, and drove it to the station.  Less than a mile's
walk back.  He even slipped over early Saturday morning and
swiped Bishop's Boston Globe to delay suspicion and throw
the timing of his disappearance off."
   "Just Saturday's?"
   "He didn't care about Sunday. He had an alibi."
   Just then he reached inside his jacket.  "Almost forgot
-- I have something for you."  It was a tape of Carmina
Burana.  "To replace yours."
   She laughed.  "You keeping mine as evidence?"  But he
didn't answer.
   She studied the small box for a while, letting his story
roll around in her mind.  It was an RCA recording, a
different performance.  She was glad of that, and suspected
it was intentional.
   "This is all so crazy!" she said at last.  "That a man
could die over a fence!"
   "Mel, most homicides turn out to be stuff like this.
But Bishop didn't die just because he put up a fence.  He
died because Pellegro's life had become less and less
bearable.  Because of the quiet desperation a man can be
driven to when there seems to be no defense, and no options
anymore.
   "I can't believe murder can be so ... ordinary," she
said.
   Dunn drained the rest of his beer and stood up.  "Murder
is never ordinary."
   She followed him out to his car.  Standing in the
driveway, their heads both turned to look out over the cove,
as if drawn by the same force that pulled in the water twice
each day.  Mel's eyes riveted, and following her gaze, he
saw what she saw.  It was April eighth and the swans had
returned.