The Deepest Black: A Novel

by Randall Silvis

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Mystery

Synopsis

A crime novel unlike any you've ever read—based on true events

Where does the line blur between fact and fiction?

Acclaimed author Randall Silvis is looking for a story—any story to follow up the series of gripping mystery novels that catapulted him to success. And then, out of nowhere, a story appears. A mysterious stranger named Thomas Kennaday tips Silvis off about a series of murders in a small Pennsylvania town, sending Silvis off on a tentative investigation in hopes of finding material for his next novel.

What Silvis discovers is much more than a typical small-town murder case, and it soon becomes clear that Kennaday, who seems to have disappeared into thin air, is somehow pulling the strings of the investigation from behind the scenes. Based on true events, The Deepest Black is a profoundly thoughtful, unsettling read, and a crime novel unlike any you've ever read before.

 

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Release date: August 16, 2022

Publisher: Poisoned Pen Press

Print pages: 325

Sample

Chapter 1.

The report

Dear Detective Smathers:

The narrative you are about to read will strain your credulity. It has certainly strained mine, even though I lived it. Included here is everything I learned over the past four weeks about not only the triple homicide in the Burchette house in Bell’s Grove, but of the dark forces that might have precipitated that tragedy. Much of what I relate is unprovable, and the rest is unprovable by me but perhaps not by a department with your resources. At the very least, the following information, when reduced to its most elemental parts, will provide what you do not yet have, namely a motive for the murders, based upon a premise that can be verified by DNA, i.e., the paternity of Baby Doe. As I see it, and as I will attempt to illustrate, all of the following events, whether mundane or incredible, derive from Baby Doe’s true identity and the ramifications thereof.

I want to emphasize from the outset that I cannot vouch for the truth of any of this information except for that which I personally experienced, and which you will find the most difficult to believe. Of the rest, some came to me directly through four interviews with Ms. Phoebe Hudack and one conversation with a woman named Holly who alleged to be quoting Justin Cirillo’s older brother, Dennis. As you will see from my narrative, though, even I have reason to doubt the veracity of those sources.

As for the strange events that befell me personally over the past weeks, I can only assure you that they took place exactly as I have written. I felt, at times, that not only was my will being subverted, but that my mind had been hijacked. I was mind-jacked. Not possible, you say? I would like to believe that that’s true. Unfortunately, numerous precedents for such events and the clandestine sources responsible for them are readily available online to any researcher persistent enough to do the necessary digging.

My interest in the Burchette case, and in fact my first awareness of the case, began on October 12 of this year, at approximately 2:00 in the afternoon. I was having a late lunch at Joy Chinese Buffet in Hermitage when a young man who introduced himself to me as Thomas Kennaday approached my table and invited himself to sit. I will be happy to provide a physical description of this individual, but that, and the contents of our single conversation, are all I can provide in regard to him. Numerous attempts on my part to verify his identity have failed. It is my hope that you and your department will be more successful. Phoebe Hudack, a tenant in the Burchette house, was my only direct source of information about Kennaday; I trust that you and your team will find her more forthcoming now than she was during your initial interview(s) with her.

The above is the introduction to a report I composed for a detective employed by the New Castle, Pennsylvania, police department, and as such it concluded my mostly reluctant participation in an investigation that at times imperiled my personal safety as well as my sanity. My participation, as it turned out, had little to do with the final disposition of the case, but more to do with the unseen worlds that intersect, overlap, and often undermine our own.

Six additional months of research and rumination followed my submission of that report. This book is the result. But not, I think, the conclusion.

Most names have been changed to protect the privacy and safety of those individuals. 

Chapter 2.

The encounter

“I guess you could say it all started with the baby,” Kennaday told me.

“What baby are you referring to?”

“The one they found in the woods last month. Little girl? Four months old? Had a broken leg and concussion? Tested positive for meth?”

I shook my head.

It was a Tuesday, a few days shy of the middle of October. The day had dawned without promise, gray and cool. I put in my usual hours at the desk (though this time, and too many previous times, with nothing to show for it), but around 10:30 that morning, when I rose to dash the dregs of my coffee into the sink, I happened to glance out the window and was stunned to see the yard bathed in pools of sunlight. Western Pennsylvania sunlight is a rare thing from October through March, so the sight of it stopped me in my tracks. I pulled out my phone and checked the weather forecast. Mostly sunny till six, then cloudy and cooling, with a high temperature midday of sixty-six degrees. Sixty-six degrees! Suddenly all sourness evaporated from my stomach, all stiffness fled from my limbs. Twenty minutes later I was astride my motorcycle, where I remained through nearly three hours of aimless, blissful riding along the narrow country lanes of my home county.

Throughout that fall and all of the previous summer, riding one of my motorcycles was my only release from self-recrimination. I hadn’t written anything new since spring, and that last piece was an unmarketable novella now consigned to the dark limbo of my hard drive. With that piece, I had, I told myself, “lost the music.” Day after day since then I sat at my desk, starting one piece after another only to delete them in frustration. It was as if I had gone tone-deaf. I could no longer compose a single lyrical sentence or phrase. I honestly don’t know what happened. Early in the year I had finished a five-novel series, and they were all good books, and well received. But apparently I had written myself dry.

To a writer, this is a kind of death. And an especially dire one when the writer has no other identity, no other way of ascribing meaning to his life. There was a time when I defined myself in multiple ways—as a father, a novelist, a teacher, a screenwriter, a playwright, and a writer of creative nonfiction. These were the feathers in my cap, and I was proud of every one of them. But then my sons grew up and moved to other states and no longer needed my advice or my money. And, one by one, each of the other feathers also molted and fell out, and nothing grew back in their place. Finally, with my completion of the piece-of-crap novella, and my inability to blow any life into it, I saw what I had become. A nothing. My future had run out of road at the edge of a cliff. There was nowhere to go but down.

Still, I sat at my desk every morning and leafed through my notes for all of the stories and novels and essays I hadn’t had time to write when I wrote those notes. But instead of becoming immersed in one of those ideas, I would get lost in some memory sparked by one of those notes. A memory of when my boys were small and I was happy. Or when I was small and I was happy.

The irony of those memories is that I wasn’t happy back then, not in the way most people understand happy. My sensitivities were raw when I was a boy, and if anybody around me was unhappy, even a TV character, I was miserable for them. And in my little village filled with families on welfare, where most of the fathers were unemployed alcoholics, where domestic violence was a daily occurrence, I was unable to jibe what I was taught in Sunday school about a merciful and loving God with what I saw happening all around me. Any God who would allow such suffering and cruelty was a monster, and I hated him for it. This quietly seething anger stayed with me for decades.

Fortunately, at around the age of forty or so, I had an epiphany. On assignment for the Discovery Channel magazine, I interviewed a roboticist whose dream was to upload his consciousness into thousands of robots and send them out into space to beam their experiences and knowledge back to him. And on the drive home that day, it hit me. That’s why we’re here! We are God’s robots! With no body of His/Her own, and nothing to compare itself to, God had created us out of a vast, deep loneliness, gave us free will, and sent us out into the universe, and now, through us, was experiencing everything there was to experience, good and bad. Through the choices we make and the lives we live, God grows and learns.

The day I had that epiphany was the day I stopped blaming God for all the grief and suffering in the world. God has nothing to do with it. We started it, we perpetuate it. We can stop it if we want to, but not enough of us want to.

It was a watershed moment for me.

Yet nothing changed me more than becoming a father. In that role, I felt true happiness for the first time. And for a couple of decades, I basked in the joys of fatherhood plus enjoyed a degree of professional success and financial security. Then my creative talent abandoned me, though the creative urge remains as demanding as ever. And now it’s the same routine every morning. I start with ambition, which soon erodes into nostalgia, which soon morphs into melancholy, self-loathing, and despair. The only thing that keeps 

me going, that keeps me from throwing myself in front of any passing bus, is the knowledge that an hour or two on the motorcycle will buoy my spirits sufficiently to get me through another day.

And that’s the state I’m in, the person I am, when Thomas Kennaday comes walking toward me at the Joy Chinese Buffet. My plate is filled with Chinese green beans and California rolls. As is my habit, I am sitting in a booth as far removed from other customers as possible, thanks to a condition called misophonia, a hypersensitivity to certain sounds and smells and other sensory triggers. Even in the best of situations and without the exacerbating influence of misophonia, we introverts are never relaxed among others. We are never truly comfortable except when alone.

Unfortunately, I have been unable in my home kitchen to duplicate the umami of the Chinese green beans at this particular restaurant, and am forced now and then to suffer the clangs and clinks, slurps and chomps, the sinus-clogging breezes of too much perfume or cologne, the loud voices and squalling babies inherent to public dining.

So that’s me. And there I was in a high-backed booth at Joy Chinese Buffet, intending to enjoy some sushi and beans before scurrying home again. I looked up just in time to see a young stranger, whom I would come to know as Thomas Kennaday, striding toward me with a plate of lo mein and phoenix chicken in one hand, a bowl of steamed dumplings in the other. Neatly dressed in a pair of pressed khakis, brown Skechers mocs, a dark-green Columbia nylon pullover, a black T-shirt underneath, he was a good-looking young man in his mid- to late twenties, blue eyes, thick blond hair neatly clipped and styled, parted high on the right side. At first glance, he looked taller than his five eight, had a slender but fit body and a healthy tan. In every way not the kind of young man who would frequent a serve-yourself eight-dollar buffet.

He stepped up to my booth and flashed a bright, expensive-looking smile. “You’re Silvis, aren’t you?” he said. “The writer?”

Although it is flattering to be recognized by a stranger—it has happened only three times in my life, and never more than fifteen miles outside of my home—I am immediately knocked off-balance by such encounters, especially when I have a mouth full of sushi. So I looked up at him just long enough to mumble, “Nope. Sorry.”

“Yes you are. I recognize you from the photos on your book jackets.”

“Sorry,” I told him. “I don’t read much.”

He issued a little laugh, haha, two syllables, set his plate and bowl on the table, then plopped down across from me. “I’m Thomas Kennaday. I’ve seen you at Planet Fitness a few times. I thought that was you.”

“Sorry, but it wasn’t. It isn’t. And if you don’t mind, I just want to finish my meal and leave. I’m kind of in a hurry here.”

Kennaday acted as if he hadn’t heard my dismissal. “Just answer me this,” he said. “Have you been following that case over in Bell’s Grove?”

“

No,” I said, hoping I sounded annoyed, and also hoping that my mother didn’t reach out from the spirit world and give me a slap across the head. What did I tell you? I could hear her scold. Always be polite. To everybody! So, to the interloper at my table, I added, “What did you say your name is? Kennedy?”

“Kenn-a-day,” he answered. “We’re supposedly an offshoot of the Hyannis Port Kennedys. Some family disagreement a couple of hundred years ago. Somebody shagging somebody else’s wife, something like that. I can’t believe you’re not familiar with that Bell’s Grove thing. I mean,you write mysteries. I figured you’d be all over it.”

I said nothing. Poured more soy sauce into a little plastic cup.

He leaned toward me. “Four people murdered,” he said. “That doesn’t interest you?”

Yes, it did interest me. “Drugs?” I asked.

He chuckled. “Man, you don’t know the half of it.”

“And you do?”

“Intimately.”

I dipped a piece of the California roll into the soy sauce and lifted it to my mouth. Had Saint Francis de Sales, patron saint of writers, finally gotten around to noticing me?

Kennaday, grinning, watched me as I chewed. “I see a lot of DeMarco in you,” he said. Ryan DeMarco is the protagonist of the mystery series I had completed earlier that year.

His statement hit too close to home. As much as we introverts might resent our isolation, we fiercely guard our privacy, as if to be known is to be exposed, to be caught in public with our pants down. A statement as simple and well meaning as “I love your blue eyes!” can make us blush from our ears to our heels and look around frantically for the nearest exit. With Kennaday, I broke eye contact and spoke toward my plate. “No, you don’t.”

“Are you saying the two of you don’t share a lot of qualities and traits?”

“I’m saying it’s too easy to confuse a fictional character with his creator.”

“That sounds like something DeMarco would say.”

“It was Truman Capote. And thousands of other writers who get annoyed when people confuse them with their characters.”

“Yeah,” he said, still smiling. “I think they get annoyed because they are their characters. They just don’t want anybody else to know it.”

Cheeky guy, I thought. Perversely, I enjoy a certain degree of cheekiness. “You write fiction?” I asked.

“Me? No, I’m not a writer.”

I couldn’t help myself. “What do you do?”

He smiled, and his eyebrows went up, then down.

An inability to maintain eye contact can indicate either dishonesty or insecurity, but dishonesty can also be revealed by eye contact that never breaks, especially when accompanied by a smile that borders on 

cocky. Kennaday’s smile was near constant, and though he would break eye contact long enough to lift up a mouthful of noodles, those clear blue eyes always returned to regard me with a confidence I’d seldom encountered in one so young, and one which I, well beyond youth, have never been able to exude. Actually, his was more than confidence. What I saw in those eyes, I’m sure, was a taunt, a challenge.

He said, “I’m especially curious about DeMarco’s near-death experience. Pretty wild stuff.”

Again his eyebrows rose. He was looking at me now as if I were a new kind of bug in a petri dish. And he was comfortable doing so, too comfortable interrupting my meal and my solitude. He considered himself my equal, or more, despite the difference in our ages. This spoke to his upbringing. Loving, supportive parents. He was probably an only child, denied little. The neatness of his dress, the pressed khakis and stylish haircut, it all harkened back more to my generation than to his scruffier one. Catholic school maybe, followed by prep school. Ivy League possibly. Nowhere visible was the ungroomed, careless, and frequently unwashed quality I had seen creeping into my male students over the past twenty years, and which was now evident at nearly every other occupied table in the restaurant. This kid seemed to have been plucked straight out of a 1970s issue of Esquire and dropped into my booth at Joy Chinese Buffet.

He asked, “Have you had an NDE?”

“No.”

“You couldn’t have made all that up out of thin air.”

“Research,” I said.

“Naw, I don’t think so. You’ve been there. I’d bet money on it.” Again, that challenging smirk.

“I’ve had some experiences,” I said, and immediately regretted it.

“I’d love to hear them.”

I wasn’t about to discuss anything personal with him or any other stranger. “There’s nothing worth hearing.”

Not so much as a flinch disturbed his calm. “Hey, you know what else of yours I liked? Mysticus. A telepathic aborted fetus? That was sick, man. But in a good way, you know? I take it you believe that telepathy is also real?” He nodded in response to my silence. “Yeah, I bet you’re into all of that paranormal stuff, aren’t you?”

I saw through the trick he was using: get a person talking about himself or one of his passions, and that person won’t notice that you’re intruding upon his privacy. “I try to keep an open mind,” I told him. Then, “I’ll look into that local murder case. Thanks for the heads-up. Have a good day.”

It was impossible to insult him. He leaned forward again, pointed a chopstick at me, and said, “Four people dead and you don’t know anything about it? Honestly, I find that difficult to believe. It’s been right there on your doorstep for what, three weeks now? Don’t you pay any attention to the local news?”

“I do not.” I had every intention of researching the murders online the moment I got back home.

“

Me,” he said, “I can tell you every sleazy little detail if you want me to. I can tell you stuff the cops don’t know and maybe never will.”

Sleazy details? Stuff the cops don’t know? It was as if he had read an X-ray of my brain and knew exactly which pleasure points to probe. I allowed him half a glance, then asked, as nonchalantly as I could, “Why?”

“Why what? Why tell you?” He shrugged. “Because I’m here, you’re here, and I don’t know how to get in touch with John Connolly.”

He flashed his beautiful grin again, which made me shake my head and smile in spite of myself. “Besides, this is your turf, dude. You got to claim what’s yours.”

My turf? I have never felt a true part of any community, not even the one in which I spent my first eighteen years. As a small boy I spent many nights crying myself to sleep, praying for the answer to the questions Why am I like this? Why am I here?

At that moment, though, I had a different question. “Seriously, Thomas. What are you looking for here?”

He turned over his hands, showed me his empty palms. “The truth, I guess. Yeah. I feel like it needs to come out. The whole truth and nothing but.”

“The truth about what?”

Another shrug. “Change can’t start without awareness.”

“Awareness of what?”

“Of the need for change.”

Either he was talking in circles or I was missing something. We seemed to be on different frequencies. Still, my interest was piqued. Initially I had viewed him as a nuisance, but now modified that description to a nuisance who just might save me from drowning in a very private, very debilitating despair. I tried not to let the eagerness show in my eyes. “How is it that you know more about this case than the police do?”

He grinned. Leaned back against the vinyl-covered cushion. “So we have this baby,” he said. “They’re calling her Baby Doe, still don’t know who she is. It sure looks like the parents are responsible, seeing as how she was never reported as missing. But there’s not a single trace of evidence, nothing to charge them with. Plus, nobody knows who the parents are! And then, not long after the baby is found, this kid named Cirillo—very weird guy, by the way—he shoots up the Burchette house in Bell’s Grove, kills two adults and a little girl. The question is why, right? Apparently, nobody knows anything, and Cirillo’s doing a good impression of a clam. The cops are clueless. They have no idea where to go next.”

“But you do?”

Again he ignored my question. He finished off his dumpling, grinned, and shrugged. “So I come walking back from the buffet, see you sitting here and I think, he knows a thing or two about investigating a crime.”

“Having never done so,” I said.

“

Maybe so, maybe not.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“There’s this theory, ...