There was a proper moment of silence, the span of time needed for the appearance of deductive thought. The fact was, nobody knew anyone who could do what was done to Tessa Wells.
“No” was all Wells said.
A lot went with that no, of course; every side dish on the menu, as Jessica’s late grandfather used to say. But for the moment, it went unsaid here. And as the spring day raged outside the windows of Frank Wells’s tidy living room, as the body of Tessa Wells lay cooling in the medical examiner’s office, already beginning to conceal its many mysteries, that was a good thing, Jessica thought.
A damn good thing.
They left Frank Wells standing in the doorway to his row house, his pain fresh and red and raw, a million exposed nerve endings waiting for the infection of silence. He would make a formal identification of the body later in the day. Jessica thought about the time Frank Wells had spent since his wife had died, the two thousand or so days that everyone else involved had gone about their lives, living and laughing and loving. She considered the fifty thousand or so hours of inextinguishable grief, each one populated by sixty horrible minutes, themselves counted off by sixty agonizing seconds apiece. Now the cycle of grief began again.
They had looked through some of the drawers and closets in Tessa’s room, finding nothing of particular interest.A methodical young woman, organized and precise, even her junk drawer was orderly, separated into clear plastic boxes: matchbooks from weddings, ticket stubs from movies and concerts, a small collection of interesting buttons, a pair of plastic bracelets from hospital stays. Tessa favored satin sachets.
Her clothes were plain and of medium quality. On the walls had been a few posters, not of Eminem or Ja Rule or DMX or any of the current harvest of boy bands, but rather of maverick girl violinists Nadja SalernoSonnenberg and Vanessa-Mae. An inexpensive Skylark violin stood in a corner of her closet. They had searched her car and found nothing. They would examine the contents of her school locker later.
Tessa Wells was a working-class kid who took care of her sick father, got good grades, and probably had a scholarship to Penn State in her future. A girl who kept her clothes in dry-cleaning bags and her shoes in boxes.
And now she was dead.
Someone was walking the streets of Philadelphia, breathing the warm spring air, smelling the daffodils bursting through the soil, someone who had taken an innocent young girl to a filthy, decayed place and brutally ended her life.
In doing that monstrous thing, this someone had said:
There are one and a half million people in Philadelphia.
I am one of them.
Find me.
pa rt t wo 7
MONDAY, 12:20 PM
Simon Close, the star reporter for Philadelphia’s leading weekly shock tabloid, The Report, had not set foot in a church in more than two decades and, although he didn’t exactly expect the heavens to part and a bolt of righteous lightning to split the sky and rend him in
half, leaving him a smoldering pile of fat and bone and gristle if he did so, there was enough residual Catholic guilt inside him to give him a moment’s pause if he ever entered a church, dipped his finger in the holy water, and genuflected.
Born thirty-two years ago in Berwick-upon-Tweed in the Lake District, the rugged north of England that abuts the border of Scotland, a fell rat of the first order, Simon had never been one to put too much faith in anything, not the least of which was the church. The scion of an abusive father and a mother too drunk to notice or care, Simon had long ago learned to put whatever belief he had in himself.
He had lived in half a dozen Catholic group homes by the time he was seven—where he had learned many things, none of them reflecting the life of Christ—after which he was pawned off on the one and only relative willing to take him in, his spinster aunt Iris who lived in Shamokin, Pennsylvania, a small town about 130 miles northwest of Philadelphia.
Aunt Iris had taken Simon to Philadelphia many times when he was young. Simon recalled seeing the tall buildings, the vast bridges, smelling the city smells and hearing the bustle of urban life, and knew—knew as fully as the realization that he would, no matter what, hang on to his Northumberland inflections at all costs—that one day he would live there.
At sixteen, Simon interned as a copy dog at the News-Item, the local Coal Township daily paper, his eye, like everyone working at any rag east of the Alleghenies, on the city desk at The Philadelphia Inquirer or The Daily News. But after two years of running copy from the editorial office to the typesetter in the basement, and writing the occasional listing and schedule for the Shamokin Oktoberfest, he saw the light, a radiance that had yet to dim.
On a storm-lashed New Year’s Eve, at the newspaper’s offices on Main Street, Simon was sweeping up when he saw a glow from the newsroom. When he peeked in, he saw two men. The paper’s leading light, a man in his fifties named Norman Watts, was poring over the enormous Pennsylvania Code.
The man who covered arts and entertainment, Tristan Chaffee, was wearing a shiny tux, his tie down, his feet up, a glass of white Zinfandel in his hand. He was working on a story about a local celebrity—an overrated singer of syrupy love songs, a low-rent Bobby Vinton—who had apparently been caught in a child porn sting.
Simon pushed his broom, covertly watching the two men work. The serious journalist pored over obscure details of land plots and abstracts and eminent domain rights, rubbing his eyes, butting out long-ashed cigarette after cigarette, forgetting to smoke them, making frequent trips to the loo to drain what must have been a pea-sized bladder.
And then there was the entertainment hack, sipping sweet wine, chatting on the phone with record producers, club owners, groupies.
The decision made itself.
Sod the hard news, Simon had thought.
Gimme the white Zin.
At eighteen, Simon enrolled at the Luzerne County Community College. A year after graduation, Aunt Iris passed silently in her sleep. Simon packed his few belongings and moved to Philly, at long last loping after his dream (that being, becoming the British Joe Queenan). For three years he lived on his small inheritance, trying to sell his freelance articles to the major national glossies, with no luck.
Then, after three more years of writing freelance music and film reviews for the Inquirer and Daily News, and eating his share of ramen noodles and hot ketchup soup, Simon landed a feature job at a new start-up tabloid called The Report. He worked his way up quickly, and for the past seven years Simon Close had written a weekly discourse of his own design called “Up Close!,” a rather lurid crime beat column that covered the city of Philadelphia’s more shocking crimes and, when he was so blessed, the transgressions of its more luminous citizens. In these areas Philadelphia rarely disappointed.
And while his venue at The Report—the conscience of philadelphia read the tag—was not the Inquirer or The Daily News or even CityPaper, Simon had managed to file near the top of the news cycle on a number of big stories, much to the consternation of his far-better-paid colleagues in the so-called legitimate press.