by Blake Pierce
Kate looked at DeMarco, having one of those little unspoken conversations. DeMarco shrugged, as if to say: What could it hurt?
“Mr. Knudsen,” Kate said, “we are fairly certain the killer is strangling his victims with piano wire. We have been told by two of the three victims’ husbands that their wives had indeed mentioned their pianos being out of tune…one of whom even said his wife had mentioned reaching out to a tuner. So…are you certain you don’t know of any tuners?”
“Again, not personally,” Knudsen said. “But I know of one offhandedly. A student of mine mentioned him a few months back. I offered to do it for him, but he balked at what I was charging for it.”
“Did he give you a name for this man?” Kate asked.
“No. Sorry.”
From the sound of his voice, Kate thought he actually meant it; he was bummed that he could not help further.
“Mr. Knudsen…I know you did not want to give the names of students earlier, but this one could be huge. Please…can we have the name of the student that mentioned this tuner?”
Knudsen thought about it for a moment and then sighed, slouching in his chair. “His name was Barry Turner. An older guy that lives here in Frankfield. Good guy. Shows promise but he’s a bit dramatic.”
“Thank you, Mr. Knudsen. Now…how about an address?”
“Of course. First, though…how about you take these damned handcuffs off?”
Kate didn’t even hesitate before opening the door to the interrogation room, poking her head out into the hall, and calling for anyone that could unlock Knudsen’s cuffs.
CHAPTER TWENTY
He did not know why, but stepping into his workshop reminded him of stepping into the small-town library where he had spent most of his youth. The smell was sort of the same, the silence of the place was exactly the same, and he knew he was going to get lost in the aisles that sat in front of him. Of course, the aisles in his workshop were vastly different from the aisles of that long-ago library; instead of books, there were the hollowed out bodies of pianos. Most were from flea markets and yard sales. One was even from a yard sale in some rich Chicago suburb, a great find that he’d only dropped one hundred bucks on.
He walked through his workshop now, extending his hands and touching each of the pianos he had collected. There were nine in all, lined up on opposite sides of his cellar workshop. They all smelled of dust and neglect, but he liked to think of all of the beautiful music they had created over the years—of all of the talented fingers that had touched the keys (though five of these bodies didn’t even have the majority of their keys intact).
He figured most craftsmen would have given up on these shells. But he had always seen beauty in ruin. He’d always been drawn to the piano, ever since he had learned to walk. Something so big and majestic, capable of making whispering crystalline noises and deep bass-like drones. And even when out of tune and mostly wrecked, there was still something beautiful about them. So much potential. So much promise.
He went to the next to last piano on the right side of the workshop space and sat on the makeshift bench he had created. The top of the piano was opened, the inside covered by a clear plastic tarp. He removed the tarp and exposed the strings inside. Again, he grew enamored. The inner workings of a piano were, to him, just as complicated as the human brain or heart. Yet, on the other hand, the strings inside were so easy to manipulate and shape. He looked at them now, the strings recently tuned by his own hands—his skills taking something that had been forgotten and gone to dust and transforming it into a thing of beauty.
He reached inside his coat pocket and took out a small baggie and a small set of tweezers. He opened the baggie and used the tweezers to carefully remove what was inside: a single strand of blonde hair, taken from the head of a woman named Meredith Lowell. He took great care and caution to place the hair onto the A string along the middle scale. As he did so, he tried not to get too distracted from the other strands of hair on the two keys next to it—hairs from Marjorie Hix and Karen Hopkins respectively.
He worked with his fingers and with the tweezers to tightly spool the hair around the piano string. It was a meticulous process, one that he assumed was much like making one of those ridiculous ship-in-a-bottle things. When it was wound perfectly and tightly some six minutes later, he took a moment to admire the loops and coils of the hair, like some thin sliver of magic on the string. He experimentally struck the key to make sure the hair would not come untangled or jostled. He smiled when it stayed unmoved.
The immense satisfaction he took from this was like waking up from some very long and much needed nap. He stared at the string a bit longer before covering the top back with the tarp but leaving the lid up.
After all, he’d be back under it very soon.
With that thought in mind, he walked back down his aisle of piano bodies and up the stairs. He walked through his very empty house and picked up his landline phone. He took the receiver from the cradle and dialed. As the phone rang in his ear, a little coil of excitement started to churn inside of him.
A woman picked up on the other end after four rings. “Hello?”
“Hi, is this Anna Forester?” he asked. Already, his hands were clenching; his right hand grasped the receiver while his free hand made a fist that opened and closed, opened and closed.
“It is. Who is this?”
He gave his name, giving it in the lighthearted, singsong sort of way he always did. “I got your message about your console piano. Sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you, but it’s been a crazy week.”
“It’s no worry,” Anna said. “Are you still available?”
“I am. I actually have a chunk of time available this afternoon and I’m headed out your way, in fact. I know it’s short notice, but how about two? Could we work that out?”
“I believe so. I have to step out in a moment, but I should be back home by then. Does that work for you?”
His hands were still clenching and unclenching, anxious to get to work. With a smile on his face, he said: “That’s perfect.”
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
It was 11:15 when Kate and DeMarco pulled up in front of Barry Turner’s home. He lived in a respectable neighborhood, though a few steps down from what they had been seeing so far during this case. It was an old two-story brick home, the kind that looked aged and worn but in a charming sort of way. There was ivy climbing up one of the side of the house, as well as the worn white fence that separated Turner’s yard from his neighbor’s. The yard was covered in trees, the sidewalk covered in shadows from the branches.
As they approached the front door, Kate could hear piano music. It was not the same as when they visited Knudsen’s residence; it was obvious from the sound and volume that this was a piano piece being played through a speaker, at a relatively high volume.
Kate knocked on the door, rapping loudly to be heard over the music. She was met with a “be right there” right away, coming from a cheerful voice with a musical quality. The door was answered several seconds later by an older gentleman with messy white hair. The hair was the only thing messy about him, though; his kind-looking face was closely shaved and he was dressed in a button-up shirt and a pair of casual khakis.
“Can I help you?” he asked, looking back and forth between Kate and DeMarco.
“Are you Barry Turner?” DeMarco asked.
“Guilty,” he said with a smile.
“We got your name from your piano teacher, Thomas Knudsen,” Kate said. “We’re looking for information on someone and he thinks you might be able to help. Do you have a moment to speak with us?”
“Of course, come on in,” he said. His tone was somewhere between concern and delight, betraying that musical tone to his voice.
The front door led almost directly into a little parlor area. It was here that the music was blaring through a Bose speaker. It was a classical piece that Kate had heard before but she could not recall the name. A smaller-sized piano sat in the center o
f the room. A small bookshelf was lined with thick volumes on the right side of the room. It had the feel of an old study. Turner grabbed a little remote from a table by an armchair, pointed it at the Bose, and turned the music down.
“That’s a pretty piece,” Kate said.
“One of my favorites,” Turner said. “Bach’s ‘French Suite Number Six.’”
“It’s actually because of your love for piano that we’re here,” Kate said.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes. We’re trying to find a man who is likely a piano tuner in the Frankfield and possibly the Chicago area. Knudsen said you had worked with one fairly recently.”
“Well, I called one recently. He came over and worked on the piano and he did an okay job but to say he worked might be a stretch.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he was a weird gentleman,” Turner said. “He came in and I think all he said was hello before he went to the piano. He was here for about ten minutes, did his job, took my money, and left. Not sure why, but the whole thing sort of creeped me out.”
“Any particular reason?”
“He barely acknowledged me at all. It was like he had punched a clock and stepped into some factory or something. He muttered to himself while he was tuning the piano. Not humming or anything like that, but actually muttering to himself. It reminded me of some of the homeless people you pass by from time to time up in the city. I know that might sound crude, but it’s exactly the vibe I got from him.”
“Did he seem menacing at all?”
“No…not really. But I did feel like I wanted him out of my house. He was like some sort of ghoul or something.”
“Do you have a name and number?”
“His name was Eric Letterman. I’ll have to dig for his number because I had no intention of ever using it again.” He reached to the table by the armchair again and grabbed his cell phone. As he scrolled through his call history in the hopes of finding the number, Kate went on with the questioning.
“How did you learn about his services?”
“I don’t remember, honestly. Maybe in the local paper? I think that’s right, but I honestly don’t remember. Maybe Facebook…”
“Had you heard of him before?”
“No, I don’t believe so.” He stopped scrolling and then showed the agents his phone. “Right here. Eric Letterman.”
Kate moved to type the number down in her phone but, as usual, DeMarco was the quicker of them when it came to all things tech. She simply snapped a picture of Turner’s screen and re-pocketed her phone. It took less than three seconds.
“Anything else you can tell us about him?” Kate asked. “Identifying marks, what he was driving, things like that?”
Turner thought about it for a moment before shaking his head. “I’m sorry, but no. The only thing I can tell you is that he was middle-aged. Maybe a little younger than me. Probably in his fifties. But that’s all I’ve got. Like I said…we never spoke. He stayed in here and when it was clear that he was an antisocial type, I left him to it. Went into the kitchen and puttered around.”
“Well, I think you’ve given us more than enough,” Kate said, turning and heading for the door. “Thank you for your time.”
“Sure,” Turner said, walking with them to the door. He seemed a little perplexed, like a man in a whirlwind. The visit had lasted less than five minutes and he looked as if he almost regretted that his company was leaving so soon. “How is Knudsen doing anyway?” he asked. “I haven’t spoken to him in about two months.”
“He’s…grumpy,” Kate said.
“So the same, in other words.”
Turner gave them a wave and a smile as they headed down his porch steps and back across the shadow-covered front lawn. Kate looked over and saw that DeMarco was already saving Eric Letterman’s number into her phone. By the time they made it to the car, she had already called Bannerman’s men and was requesting an address.
Kate smiled in spite of the situation. DeMarco was going to be pretty much untouchable within a few years.
It’s a good thing, too, she thought. Because in about half an hour, Duran is going to be on to you and that could very well be the end of your second career.
***
As it turned out, Eric Letterman lived only two miles away from the home of Marjorie and David Hix. It was a decrepit-looking house, tucked away on the corner of what Kate assumed was the so-called downtown area of Frankfield. A single black pickup truck sat on the curb in front of the house. The lawn was slightly overgrown and the columns on the porch could use a good sanding and coat of paint.
As they made their way toward the house, Kate peered into the back of the pickup truck. If it belonged to Eric Letterman, it appeared as if he might be a jack-of-all-trades. There was a tied down toolbox in the back, as well as a sledgehammer, a shovel, and two cinderblocks. None of the items was really enough to make her suspicious, but they certainly did not set her mind at ease, either.
She and DeMarco walked up onto the porch, where Kate knocked on the screen door. They were instantly met with the sound of a barking dog—a smaller breed from the sound of it. A man’s groaning voice sounded out from somewhere in the house. Kate could not make out the words, but she was pretty sure the voice was telling the dog to shut up.
They heard footfalls approaching, punctuated by the creaking of floorboards. The door was opened moments later by a man dressed in a dingy white T-shirt and jeans. It was clear that he had been interrupted from something. His forehead was coated in sweat and he looked irritated that he had been interrupted. A Jack Russell terrier ran laps around his feet, growling at the unexpected visitors on the porch.
“Hi,” he said uncertainly.
“Hello,” Kate said. “Are you Eric Letterman?”
“I am. And you are…?”
She realized as she pulled her badge that this might very well be their guy. It made the act of reaching for her ID a little nerve-wracking. She could feel each moment ticking by, but slowly, as if she was moving through water.
“We’re Agents Wise and DeMarco, with the FBI.”
He eyed Kate’s ID rather suspiciously but after a few seconds, a slow realization crept into his face. “I see. Is there something I can help you with?”
“Can we come inside?”
He shrugged, a little embarrassed. “You can, sure. But the place is a mess.”
“That’s quite all right.”
Letterman invited them inside, picking things up along the way as he led them though his hall. It was a mess, though not nearly as bad as some other places Kate had seen. She watched carefully as he picked up after himself, making sure he wasn’t trying to hide anything incriminating. She saw nothing to cause concern: a pair of shoes, an empty Amazon package, an empty soda bottle.
He led them into the living room, which smelled of lemon-scented polish. She saw a violin on a rack on the right side of the room. On the left, there was an ornate-looking harp—the sort that should be in a stage play rather than actually used.
“I see the instruments here,” DeMarco said. “Are you a musician?”
“I used to be,” he said. “But after a few failed attempts to make it onto the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, I called it quits. I’ve been tuning, repairing, and repurposing instruments ever since then.”
“Is it what you do for a living?” Kate asked.
“More or less,” he said, wiping his brow with a handkerchief he pulled from his back pocket. “I’ve got an old church organ out back in my little work area that I’ve been tinkering with for the better part of a week or so. But there’s no way just this sort of stuff would pay the bills. I have a YouTube channel where I cover classic rock songs on violin, cello, and classical guitar. I also sell my stuff on Bandcamp online.”
“Do you think we could see the organ you’re working on?” Kate asked.
“Sure,” he said, clearly surprised. “Come on back. But the house gets messier the further in we go.”
/> “I assure you, that’s quite all right,” Kate said again.
Letterman led them through the house, all the way to the back and through his kitchen. The Jack Russell followed along, sniffing at Kate’s and DeMarco’s feet. Off of the kitchen, they walked into what was clearly a small built-on room. It was in nicer shape than the rest of the house, though quite small. There was indeed an old-looking church organ in the room. It was propped on its side, held steady with straps and a few makeshift sawhorses. The back of it had been opened up to reveal the inner workings.
“Do you enjoy what you do?” DeMarco asked.
“I do.”
“And how many pianos would you say you tune in the space of a month?”
“It depends. I’m not exactly the best when it comes to marketing. So some months, I might tune three. Others, none.”
“When was the last time you tuned a piano for a customer?”
He thought for a moment, folding his arms and looking to the inside of the organ. “Maybe three weeks ago.”
“Who was the customer?”
“A guy named Dan Fritz. A single dad, brought this old clunker of a piano online for his daughter.”
“Three weeks ago?”
He nodded.
“No pianos since then?”
He started to see where this was going and, as such, seemed to start to get defensive. It alarmed Kate a bit, but she did not sense that they were in danger.
“No pianos. I’ve tuned a fixer-upper-type cello since then, but that’s it. Everything else has been maintenance work like this.”
“Mr. Letterman, did you ever tune a piano for a gentleman named Barry Turner?”
“Yes, I did. That’s been…I don’t know…maybe six months ago, give or take.”
“What about Karen Hopkins, Marjorie Hix, or Meredith Lowell?” DeMarco asked. “Did you ever work with any of them?”
“Marjorie Hix, yes. It’s been a while but I do remember tuning her piano. A beautiful piano, too.” He paused here and Kate could literally see the pieces clicking together in his head. “What’s going on here?”
