FOURTEEN

FAIRMOUNT PARK WAS one of the largest municipally operated urban parks in the country, covering more than 9200 acres and including more than sixty-three neighborhoods and regional parks. Over the years it had seen its share of mayhem. When there are this many places to hide, there will be crime. Fairmount Park boasted more than 215 miles of winding bike trails.

Jessica and Byrne pulled up onto Belmont Avenue, parked, exited the vehicle. They approached the crime scene, where there was already a flurry of activity. Detective John Shepherd greeted them. Shepherd was a twenty-year man in the homicide unit, soft-spoken, intuitive, as shrewd an investigator as anyone on the force. His specialty was interrogation. Watching him work a suspect in the room was a thing of beauty, almost a clinic. More than once Jessica had seen a half dozen young detectives bunched around the mirror looking into one of the interview rooms while John Shepherd was inside, working his magic. When Jessica had joined the unit, John Shepherd—who was tall and always classically attired, and who would have been a dead ringer for Denzel Washington, if not for his thrice-broken nose—was just going salt-and-pepper. Now his hair was pure silver. His receipt for experience.

“What do we know?” Byrne asked.

“We know it’s a human being,” Shepherd said. “And we know this human being was buried in a shallow grave, probably within the last sixth months or so. That’s about it.”

“I take it there was no driver’s license or Social Security card sitting on top of the body?”

“You take it right, Detective,” Shepherd said. “There’s some clothing, a pair of small size running shoes, so I’m guessing a woman, or perhaps an older teenage girl, but that’s purely conjecture on my part.”

Jessica and Byrne walked to the site of the shallow grave. It was bathed in blue from the tripod police lights.

Detective Nicci Malone walked up.

“Hey,” Nicci said. Jessica and Byrne nodded.

Nicolette Malone was in her early thirties, a third-generation Philly police officer. A compact and muscular five-five, she, like Jessica, had come to the job almost out of legacy. A few years on the street, a few more as a divisional detective, Nicci had advanced out of sheer willpower, and God help you if you insinuated she got this job because of her gender. Jessica had worked a few details with Nicci Malone and found her to be smart and resourceful, if not a little rash and hotheaded. They could have been twins.

“Any ID?” Jessica asked.

“Nothing yet,” Nicci replied.

In the distance lightning flashed, thunder rumbled. The clouds over the city were pregnant with rain, ready to burst. The CSU team had sheets of plastic ready if needed to cover the body in the eventuality of a downpour.

The four detectives stood at the edge of the grave. The body was partially decomposed. Jessica knew precious little about decomposition rates, despite her classes at Temple University, but she knew that a body that was not embalmed, buried six feet beneath the surface, in ordinary soil without a casket, took about ten years to decay fully into a skeleton.

This grave was only three feet deep, no casket, which meant that the body was exposed to far more oxygen than usual, plus the effects of rain and surface insects.

In Philadelphia, about three hundred bodies or sets of remains arrived at the Medical Examiner’s office each year as unknowns. Most were quickly identified, based on the fact that the victim had gone missing at some time within the previous year, often within just a few months. Other identifications took much longer, and called for a more specialized field of study. If needed, they would consult with a forensic anthropologist.

“Who found the body?” Jessica asked.

Nicci pointed to a man standing next to a sector car about twenty feet away on Belmont Avenue. Next to him sat a very nervous, very big dog. The dog, a German shepherd, was panting rapidly, straining against his collar and leash, wanting to get back to the scene.

“The man said he was jogging,” Nicci said. She glanced at her notebook. “His name is Gerald Lester. He states that he came up onto the plateau and his dog all but dragged him to this area and started digging.”

“The dog went down three feet?” Jessica asked.

“No,” Nicci said. “But the man said that the dog used to be on the job in Richmond, Virginia. He said that his wife Leanne used to work the K-9 unit there, and that when the dog retired they adopted him. He said that Demetrius—that’s the pooch—was trained as a cadaver dog, and when he fixed on the quarry, and didn’t give it up, Lester realized something was awry. At that moment he pulled out his cell and called it in.”

Jessica looked around the area. It was a popular spot in Fairmount Park. On the east side of the avenue there were a handful of softball fields and cross-country routes, as well as large open areas for picnics, family reunions, gatherings of all types. The Greek Picnic was held there every year. People came up here every day, often with their dogs, Frisbees, kites, footballs. Jessica wondered why, if this makeshift grave had been here for months, hadn’t another dog picked up the scent? Maybe they had, and were yanked back to the trail by their owners, figuring the dog was just jazzing a squirrel in the bushes. Or maybe—and Jessica figured this to be the case—a police-trained cadaver dog, being a special animal who could lead a human being across half a city to find a dead body, was the first of its kind to pass this way since the body had been buried. Jessica had seen cadaver dogs work. They do not give up on their game.

“Do we have all of his information?” Nicci asked John Shepherd.

“We do.”

“Tell him we’ll be in touch.”

“You got it.”

Shepherd crossed the field as Jessica, Byrne, and Nicci Malone crouched at the edge of the grave. On the ground around the opening were a patchwork of blue plastic sheets. Battery-operated spotlights on tripods illuminated the scene at either end.

The body was no taller than five-five or five-six. Partially clothed. The upper body had been partially skeletonized. Rotting denim pants, dark colored T-shirt. Sneakers appeared in relatively good shape.

Byrne looked at Nicci, gestured toward the body. “May I?”

“By all means, Detective,” Nicci said.

Every detective in the homicide unit had a specialty, often more than one—interrogation, computers, street work, undercover, finances, surveillance. Among his many abilities, Kevin Byrne was very good at a crime scene, and most investigators wisely and gratefully deferred to him.

Byrne snapped on latex gloves, borrowed a large Maglite from one of the officers. He ran the beam of the flashlight slowly over the victim.

Within seconds something flashed, something golden in color. Byrne knelt on the plastic, looked more closely.

“Christ,” Byrne said.

“What?”

Byrne took a few moments, then leaned in farther. He took out a pair of pencils, chopstick style, and picked up something that appeared to be jewelry. He held it up to the light. It was a charm bracelet. Five charms dangled from a gold chain. Little golden angels.

“What is it, Kevin?” Jessica asked.

Byrne turned the bracelet over, looked behind the clasp. He shone the flashlight close on the metal. In an instant he went ashen. He dropped the bracelet into an evidence bag without a word.

Jessica looked at her partner, at Nicci. It wasn’t often that Kevin Byrne got spooked, or found himself at a loss for words or actions. But Jessica could see that Byrne was taken aback. “What is it?” Jessica asked. “Have you seen this bracelet before?”

Byrne stood up, turned away from the shallow grave. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ve seen it.”

When Jessica realized he wasn’t going to continue, she pressed. “Talk to me, Kevin. Where do you know this bracelet from?”