JoshBontrager had only been in the unit a few years but he had developed into agood investigator. Josh was unique in a number of ways, not the least of whichwas the fact that he had grown up Amish in rural Pennsylvania before making hisway to Philadelphia and the police force, where he spent a few years in variousunits before being called into the homicide unit for a special investigation.Josh was in his mid-thirties, country-boy blond, deceptively fit and agile. Hedid not bring a lot of street smarts to the job - most of the streets on whichhe'd grown up had been barely paved - or any sort of scientific logic, butrather an innate kindness, an affability that completely disarmed all but themost hardened criminal.

    Therewere some in the unit who felt that Josh Bontrager was a country bumpkin whohad no business in one of the most respected elite urban homicide divisions inthe country. But Jessica knew that you underestimated him at your own peril,especially if you had something to hide.

    Bontragercrossed the alley to Jessica's side, lowered his voice. 'So, how do you likeworking with Stansfield?'

    'Well,aside from the racism, sexism, homophobia and completely exaggerated sense ofself-worth, it's a blast.'

    Bontragerlaughed. 'That bad?'

    'Nah.Those are the highlights.'

    'Howcome no one seems to like him?'

    Jessicaexplained the Eduardo Robles case, including Stansfield's monumental fuck-up -a fuck-up that to all intents and purposes had led to the death of SamuelReese.

    'You'dthink he would have known better,' Bontrager said.

    'You'dthink.'

    'Andwe definitely like this Robles guy for that second body?'

    'Yeah,'Jessica said. 'Kevin's at the grand jury today.'

    Bontragernodded. 'So, for messing up royally Stansfield gets a promotion and akick in pay?'

    'Thebrass works in mysterious ways.'

    Bontragerput his hands in his pockets, rocked on his heels. 'Well, until Kevin is back,if you want another partner next time you're up on the wheel, let me know.'

    'Thanks,Josh. I will.' She held up a folder. 'Write me up?'

    'Sure.'

    Hetook the folder from her, extracted a body chart, clipped it to a clipboard.The body chart was a standard police-department form that had four outlines ofthe human body drawn on it, front and back, left and right side, as well asspace for the rudimentary details of the crime scene. It was the first and mostreferred-to form in the binder that would be dedicated to the case.

    The twodetectives stepped inside. Jessica spoke while Josh Bontrager wrote.

    'Wehave a Caucasian male, aged thirty to forty-five years. There is a singlelaceration across the forehead, what appears to be a puncture wound above theright eye. The victim's right ear is mutilated. A portion of the ear lobe ismissing. There is a ligature mark across the base of the neck.'

    Bontragerwent over the form, marking these areas on the figure.

    'Thevictim is nude. The body looks to have been recently shaved from head to toe.He is barefoot. There are bruises on the wrists and ankles, which indicate thevictim may have been restrained.'

    Jessicacontinued to describe the scene, her path now forever crossed with that of thisdead man, a dead man with no name.

    Twentyminutes later, with Josh Bontrager back at the Roundhouse, and DennisStansfield still on canvass, Jessica paused at the top of the stairs. Sheturned 360 degrees, scanning the landscape. Directly behind the store was a doublevacant lot, a parcel where a pair of buildings had recently been razed. Therewere still piles of concrete, bricks, lumber. There was no fence. To the rightwas a block of row houses. To the left was the rear of some sort of commercialbuilding, with no windows overlooking the alley. If someone were to have seenanyone entering the rear of the crime scene, they would have had to have beenin a back room of one of the row houses, or in the vacant lot. The view fromacross the street was partially obscured by the large piles of debris.

    Jessicaapproached the responding officer, who stood at the mouth of the alley with thecrime-scene log. One of his duties was to sign everyone in and out.

    'Whofound the body?' Jessica asked him.

    'Itwas an anonymous tip,' the officer said. 'Came into 911 around six o'clock thismorning.'

    Anonymous,Jessica thought. A million and a half people in her city, and they were allanonymous. Until it was one of their own.

Chapter 7

    Heawoke, dreambound, still in the hypnotic thrall of troubled sleep. Thismorning, in his final reverie, as the light of day filtered through the blinds,Kevin Byrne stood in the defendant's well of a cavernous courtroom that was litby a sea of votive candles. He could not see the members of the jury but heknew who they were. They were the silent victims. And there were more thantwelve. There were thousands, each holding one light.

    Byrnegot out of bed, staggered to the kitchen, splashed cold water on his face. He'dgotten four hours of sleep; three the night before. Over the past few monthshis insomnia had become acute, a routine part of his life so ingrained that hecould not imagine living any other way. Nevertheless, he had an appointment -doctor's orders and against his will - with a neurologist at the University ofPennsylvania Sleep Clinic.

    Hetook a long hot shower, rinsing off the previous night. He toweled, dressed,pulling a fresh shirt out of the dry-cleaning bag. He put on a new suit, hisfavorite tie, then sat at his small dinette table, sipped his coffee. Heglanced at the Sleep Clinic questionnaire. All one hundred sixty probingquestions.

    Question87: Do you snore?

    IfI could get someone to sleep with me, I might be able to answer that, hethought.

    ThenByrne remembered his little experiment. The night before, at around two a.m.,when he'd found that he couldn't drift off, he'd dug out his small Sony digitalrecorder.

    Hegot back in bed, took two Ambien, turned on the recorder, flipped off thelight, and closed his eyes. Four hours later he awoke.

    Andnow he had the results of his experiment. He poured more coffee, played therecording from the beginning. At first he heard some rustling, the settling ofthe unit on the nightstand. Then he heard himself turn off the lamp, a littlemore rustling, then a bump of the table, which was so loud that it made himjump. He turned down the volume. Then, for the next five minutes or so, heheard nothing but white noise, the occasional car passing by his apartment.

    Byrnelistened to this rhythmic breathing awhile, which seemed to get slower andslower. Then he heard the first snort. It sounded like a backfire. Or maybe apissed-off Rottweiler.

    Great,he thought. So he did snore. Not constantly, but about fifteen minutesinto the recording he began to snore again, loudly for a few minutes, then notat all, then loudly again. He stared at the recorder, thinking:

    Whatthe fuck am I doing?

    Theanswer? Sitting in his small dining room, barely awake, listening to arecording of himself sleeping. Did it get dumber than this?

    Man,he had to get a life.

    Hepressed the fast-forward button, and every time he came across a sound hestopped, rewound for a few seconds, played it back.

    Byrnewas just about to give up on the experiment when he heard something thatsounded different. He hit Stop, then Play.

    'Youknow? came his voice from the recorder.

    What?

    Rewind.

    'Youknow.'

    Helet it run. Soon there was another noise, the sound of the lamp clicking on,and his voice saying, clear as a bell: