Including the dozen or more framed photographs.
“This is how I’ve come to suspect that Rebecca and Kevin are, in fact, brother and sister,” said Brendan. He pointed to a photo, a studio portrait of the victim, perhaps only eighteen, and a fifteen or sixteen-year-old Kevin. The young Rebecca was posed behind the young Kevin. Her smile looked genuine, his perhaps a little manufactured. Skene began to drift through the room, lit by the overhead chandelier. While the faces in the frames, too, were covered with a film of dust, there was no mistaking them. Here was Kevin and Rebecca again, even younger, with two older people.
“Bops and Ma’am,” said Brendan.
Delaney glanced across the table at him. The senior investigator was on the other side, where more photos decorated the other shelf. “The parents,” he inferred.
Brendan nodded. He returned his attention to the last photo in the display on his side of the room. There were others – Bops standing next to a guide boat; a mountain vista with the four of them posing in tourist’s garb; a prom picture (Rebecca was a beautiful girl); and a young man in a black and white photo – likely Bops in his prime – standing shirtless next to the open hood of a cherry muscle car. But the last one had been what Brendan had been unable to get out of his mind all day. “This one here is of particular interest,” he said. “And one over where Detective Delaney is standing that would seem to correspond to it.”
He pointed to the picture, in an ornate gold frame, of Rebecca Heilshorn. Here she looked almost the same age as the girl who had stared at Brendan in the reflection of the mirror this morning, her eyes haunted, her mouth open. Here, she was the portrait of happiness, and why not? She held a beautiful bouncing baby girl on her lap. The child, only a few months old, had a bow on her nearly bald head.
Skene looked at the image for a moment. Something may have struck him, but he dismissed it, Brendan thought.
“So she has a child,” said Skene. “Or it’s her niece. Or a friend’s kid. What does it mean? How does it help us?”
Brendan turned to Delaney. He nodded at a frame propped on the shelf on the senior investigator’s side of the table. Delaney got the message. Typically cavalier, Delaney picked up the frame with his bare hands, studied it for a second, then faced it forward and held it out over the table for Skene, who leaned in to see.
This picture showed Rebecca and the child again. The child appeared to be about the same age.
“As you can see, the victim has company in this photograph,” said Brendan.
A man was standing next to Rebecca, just behind her. He was in his late thirties, dark-haired, dark-eyed, handsome, smiling. It appeared, in all ways, to be a quaint family photo.
“With any luck,” said Brendan, “we have his size-eleven boot print from where he kicked in the door upstairs. As soon as the pathologist finishes the investigation of the body, we could have his blood and semen, too.”
Skene remained fixed on the picture. He only glanced at Brendan briefly.
“I don’t believe in luck,” he said.
CHAPTER EIGHT / THURSDAY, 3:12 PM
Donald Kettering was cordial and cooperative on the telephone. He invited Brendan to come and see him at his hardware store in Boonville, a village ten miles north of Remsen. He left the offices of the Sheriff’s Department in Oriskany, got in the Camry and drove with the AC on. Oriskany was south of Rome, and the drive up to Boonville took an hour. Brendan took a route that went up 26 and entered Boonville from the west. Along the way he found himself thinking of the past.
Kettering looked the same as he did in the photo. Clean-cut, with a kempt appearance. He wore a fresh pair of Carhartt work pants and a button down white chambray work-shirt with an incongruous geometrically-patterned tie. His smile revealed Chiclet white teeth, and his grip was firm and dry as he shook Brendan’s hands on
“This is how I’ve come to suspect that Rebecca and Kevin are, in fact, brother and sister,” said Brendan. He pointed to a photo, a studio portrait of the victim, perhaps only eighteen, and a fifteen or sixteen-year-old Kevin. The young Rebecca was posed behind the young Kevin. Her smile looked genuine, his perhaps a little manufactured. Skene began to drift through the room, lit by the overhead chandelier. While the faces in the frames, too, were covered with a film of dust, there was no mistaking them. Here was Kevin and Rebecca again, even younger, with two older people.
“Bops and Ma’am,” said Brendan.
Delaney glanced across the table at him. The senior investigator was on the other side, where more photos decorated the other shelf. “The parents,” he inferred.
Brendan nodded. He returned his attention to the last photo in the display on his side of the room. There were others – Bops standing next to a guide boat; a mountain vista with the four of them posing in tourist’s garb; a prom picture (Rebecca was a beautiful girl); and a young man in a black and white photo – likely Bops in his prime – standing shirtless next to the open hood of a cherry muscle car. But the last one had been what Brendan had been unable to get out of his mind all day. “This one here is of particular interest,” he said. “And one over where Detective Delaney is standing that would seem to correspond to it.”
He pointed to the picture, in an ornate gold frame, of Rebecca Heilshorn. Here she looked almost the same age as the girl who had stared at Brendan in the reflection of the mirror this morning, her eyes haunted, her mouth open. Here, she was the portrait of happiness, and why not? She held a beautiful bouncing baby girl on her lap. The child, only a few months old, had a bow on her nearly bald head.
Skene looked at the image for a moment. Something may have struck him, but he dismissed it, Brendan thought.
“So she has a child,” said Skene. “Or it’s her niece. Or a friend’s kid. What does it mean? How does it help us?”
Brendan turned to Delaney. He nodded at a frame propped on the shelf on the senior investigator’s side of the table. Delaney got the message. Typically cavalier, Delaney picked up the frame with his bare hands, studied it for a second, then faced it forward and held it out over the table for Skene, who leaned in to see.
This picture showed Rebecca and the child again. The child appeared to be about the same age.
“As you can see, the victim has company in this photograph,” said Brendan.
A man was standing next to Rebecca, just behind her. He was in his late thirties, dark-haired, dark-eyed, handsome, smiling. It appeared, in all ways, to be a quaint family photo.
“With any luck,” said Brendan, “we have his size-eleven boot print from where he kicked in the door upstairs. As soon as the pathologist finishes the investigation of the body, we could have his blood and semen, too.”
Skene remained fixed on the picture. He only glanced at Brendan briefly.
“I don’t believe in luck,” he said.
CHAPTER EIGHT / THURSDAY, 3:12 PM
Donald Kettering was cordial and cooperative on the telephone. He invited Brendan to come and see him at his hardware store in Boonville, a village ten miles north of Remsen. He left the offices of the Sheriff’s Department in Oriskany, got in the Camry and drove with the AC on. Oriskany was south of Rome, and the drive up to Boonville took an hour. Brendan took a route that went up 26 and entered Boonville from the west. Along the way he found himself thinking of the past.
Kettering looked the same as he did in the photo. Clean-cut, with a kempt appearance. He wore a fresh pair of Carhartt work pants and a button down white chambray work-shirt with an incongruous geometrically-patterned tie. His smile revealed Chiclet white teeth, and his grip was firm and dry as he shook Brendan’s hands on
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