There were no eyewitnesses, and no other blood types were found on the victim or at the scene. They had not found anyone in the PCIC system named Boise.
The barbed wire used to wrap Danny Palumbo’s body — essentially, the murder weapon, their only lead at this point — was unremarkable in every way. The firearms unit determined that the wire was anywhere from five to fifteen years old. It was made of galvanized mild steel, a type used primarily in agriculture, and would not, if left unaltered, be sharp enough to accomplish what their killer so clearly wanted to accomplish. That was why one of the barbs had been honed to a razor-sharp tip and carefully placed against Daniel Palumbo’s carotid artery.
Finding where the barbed wire was acquired was nearly impossible. If a length of concertina wire had been stolen from a Philadelphia business, and reported to police, they would have something to go on. Because the wire used to wrap the victim was agricultural, it left only a million acres of Pennsylvania farmland to investigate.
Ligature marks were found on the victim’s cheeks, as were cotton fibers, indicating Danny Palumbo had probably been gagged the whole time.
CSU found trace evidence of metal filings on Danny’s right shoulder.
On the final night of Danny Palumbo’s life, had the hooded figure they had seen on the street returned, and shaved down that barb to make it sharper? Had that person backed off on the paralytic drug so that Danny Palumbo could move his head, and thereby deliver the fatal wound?
The thought gave Jessica a chill.
But, if this were the case, why had the killer left Danny in there for ten days? Why not just do it and have done with it? Was the amount of time significant?
It had to be.
Jessica had put in a call to the Archdiocese of Philadelphia, and received a rather terse fax in reply, stating the obvious and expected: that since the building had not housed a Catholic church in more than seventy years, they had no information relevant to the recent crime. The fax referred Jessica and the PPD to Licenses and Inspections, which, of course, was where Jessica’s inquiries began.
The Crime Scene Unit had collected its physical evidence and removed the tape. A secure padlock had been put on the door and, for all intents and purposes, to anyone walking or driving by, nothing bad had ever happened at that address.
The crime lab was a state-of-the-art facility at Eighth and Poplar Streets, often shorthanded as the FSB — Forensic Science Bureau. It housed many of the department’s scientific divisions, including the fingerprint lab, the drug lab, the Firearms Unit, the DNA lab, and the document section.
The head of the document section was a man named Sergeant Helmut Rohmer. Jessica and Byrne had worked with Rohmer — who preferred to be called Hell — on a number of cases.
A giant of a man at six-four, Hell was a sight to behold, with his spiky white-blond hair and huge, but gentle hands. Since getting married to another one of the techs at the lab, a young criminalist named Irina Kohl, he had put on an extra twenty or so pounds. Despite the extra girth, it seemed that married life agreed with him. He was a bit calmer than he had been, but no less thorough. At least he was eating well.
Hell Rohmer was also known for his collection of black T-shirts, although he was probably up to the Big and Tall 3X size by now. Today’s gem read:
SILENCE IS GOLDEN.
DUCT TAPE IS SILVER.
They got their chitchat out of the way.
‘I’ve good news and bad news,’ Hell said. It appeared that he was about to continue, when he suddenly stopped. For a few long moments he stared into space.
‘What is it, Hell?’ Jessica asked.
‘It just occurred to me that I’ve never said that before.’
‘What, ever?’
‘Ever,’ Hell said. ‘And it also occurred to me that it always bugs the shit out of me when anyone says it to me. So I don’t think I’ll ever say it again.’
Silence.
‘Hell?’
‘Right, okay,’ he said. ‘Well, I’m not going to say “which do you want first” now, am I?’
‘Can I pick?’ Jessica asked.
‘Of course.’
‘I’ll take the good news.’
Hell sprang into action. ‘Okay. I have a fix on the little prayer book. It took a number of methods to dry it out, seeing as it was soaked in blood, but that’s why I get dental and two weeks a year in Biloxi.’
Jessica glanced at Byrne. They decided not to ask.
‘There were a few pages I could not separate without destroying them — yet — but I think we have a pretty good start.’
He pinned a half-dozen photographs on the wall.
‘The text is pretty standard issue. It has excerpts from the King James version, with selections from Genesis, Hebrews, Matthew, Numbers, and Revelation. There was no red ribbon like you used to get in books like these. Remember those?’
Jessica did. She said so.
‘I always liked those,’ Hell said. ‘Anyway, there was a red ribbon once, but it was torn out.’ He tapped a close-up photograph of the top of the book where the stub of the red ribbon was once attached. ‘Savages.’
Jessica almost smiled. The case was a brutal homicide where a man was wrapped in barb wire for ten days, and Hell Rohmer had harsh words for someone who ripped a ribbon out of a missal. Lab rats were a breed apart.
‘The print section had it before I did, and they dusted the exterior cover,’ Hell continued. ‘It has a pebbled surface, so no dice there. However, the inside of the book cover is a smooth plastic, so that holds some promise, print-wise. They’ll get this back in the afternoon.’
Hell then opened a drawer, reached in, pulled out a manila envelope. ‘And now the piece de whatever it is.’
‘There’s more good news?’ Jessica asked.
‘I kind of grouped the good news together into one big sundae,’ Hell said. ‘I hope that’s okay.’
‘Sundaes are good.’
‘Cool.’
Hell reached into the envelope, held up a small plastic evidence bag. He put it under his lighted, swing-arm magnifier. ‘I found a hair between one of the pages. Root and all. Not sure if it belonged to the vic or not. Either way, if we ever get the order to run DNA, there’s plenty here to work with.’
‘Awesome,’ Jessica said. She knew there was only so much a microscopic examination of a follicle of hair could determine — race, gender, sometimes approximate age. Everything else came from DNA testing.
‘Well done, big man,’ Byrne added.
Hell beamed. He loved being called ‘big man,’ especially by a guy like Kevin Byrne, who was pretty big himself.
As Hell basked in the glow of his accomplishments, the moment lingered.
‘And what about, you know, the other stuff?’ Jessica asked, trying to avoid the phrase ‘bad news.’
‘Oh, yeah. That.’
Hell pinned up another photograph, an enlarged image of the missal’s copyright page.
‘These missals were printed in a small town in West Texas, by a company called Mighty Word, Inc. Unfortunately, the book was printed in 1958, and the company has been out of business since 1961. There is no way to trace where or when this was purchased, unless you guys do some serious digging and can find someone who once worked there, or if they got bought out by another company and the records still exist.’ Hell shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘I’m afraid that stuff is out of my area of expertise.’
‘Can we take that page with us?’ Byrne asked.
‘Captain, my captain.’ Hell produced a pair of printouts.
On the way out Jessica turned, looked back. Hell stood, hands on his hips, proudly looking at the photos, Pablo Picasso in front of a half-completed Guernica.
The service for Danny Palumbo was held at All Souls Cemetery in Chester County. In all, there were twenty or so officers from the PPD. After the interment ceremony, Jessica and Byrne stood near the entrance to the parking lot. A young officer approached them. His nametag identified him as G. Hyland. He was in his early twenties — trim, blond, muscular.