One murder. One victim. 47,000 suspects.

The Ropes Mansion garden, Essex Street, Salem, 10:40 PM on the Thursday night of Haunted Happenings week. Meredith Prendergast, sixty-eight, Chief Curator of American Decorative Arts at the Peabody Essex Museum, lies on the brick walk beside an unlit ship's lantern. A numbered coin in an empty sconce, a cloaked figure at the hedge, a lantern moving over the old graves: Salem blames the dead. Detective Hartmann lays the Marine Society register flat: the membership roll the East India Marine Society opened in 1799, 47,000 first names, seventeen clues, one killer.

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The Wheeler Opera House, Aspen, the Thursday before Christmas. While the carols play straight through the second half of the winter festival's Christmas concert, Lyle Crozier, fifty-nine, the festival's recording engineer for thirty-one seasons, lies strangled in the tape vault directly under the stage, a reel with a blank label under his hand. Detective Hartmann slides the player index across the table: every musician and chorister who has played the Wheeler for the festival since its first season, 47,000 first names, seventeen clues, one killer.

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The boathouse dock at the Homewood pier, Lake Tahoe's West Shore, the Friday before Christmas. Imogen Falk, thirty-seven, lead of the lake's clarity program, is found drowned at the edge of the dock, her red wool cap floating in the black water below, her gifts for the crew still waiting under the office tree. Detective Hartmann slides the clarity log across the desk: sixty-odd years of readings, each cast signed by the hand that drew it, 47,000 first names, seventeen clues, one killer.

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The timing hut above the Utah Olympic Park sliding track, Park City, Christmas morning. Marisol Vance, forty-four, chief of timing, lies on the floor where she walked up through the falling snow to close the day's logs after the Christmas Eve torchlight run, and only two sets of fresh prints cross the new snow to the door. Detective Hartmann slides the competitor register across the desk: every athlete, coach and forerunner she cleared to the start block in eleven seasons, 47,000 first names, seventeen clues, one killer.

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Sunset Boulevard, 3:17 AM. Marjorie Hayes, seventy-six, casting director, three Academy Awards on the mantel, lies slumped across her desk in her Laurel Canyon study. Detective Hartmann places her Rolodex in front of you: fifty years of names, 47,000 cards, seventeen clues, one killer.

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East 114th Street, East Harlem, 11:48 PM. Stella Cataldo, seventy-eight, lies in the kitchen of the restaurant her family has run since 1947. A marble mortar on the floor. Basil scattered across the tiles. Detective Hartmann opens her reservations book: fifty years of guests, 47,000 names, seventeen clues, one killer.

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Sonido Mar Records, Calle Ocho, Little Havana, 2:30 AM. Romina Valdés, forty-seven, lies on the control-room floor between the mixing console and the rack of vintage compressors. A Latin Grammy statuette on the floor by the door, blood on its base. Detective Hartmann turns the master tape ledger toward you: two generations of credits, 47,000 names, seventeen clues, one killer.

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17 Louisburg Square, Beacon Hill, just before midnight on the Sunday before the Marathon. Eleanor Whitcomb, seventy-six, retired Athenaeum trustee, lies on the marble step at the foot of the stair. A brass Athenaeum library bookend set back on the entry table. Detective Hartmann lays the subscriber register flat: 1827 to today, 47,000 first names, seventeen clues, one killer.

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218 Highland Drive, Queen Anne, the Counterbalance side, 10:50 PM on the Tuesday night of Veterans Day week. Frances Holloway, seventy-eight, retired Pike Place Market Historical Society executive director emerita, lies across the open November tenancy roll at her 1908 Craftsman writing desk. A Pilchuck Glass School blue-green paperweight on the corner of the desk. Detective Hartmann lays the Foundation tenancy roll flat: every fishmonger and farm-stall lottery winner since 1907, 47,000 first names, seventeen clues, one killer.

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2147 N. Cleveland Avenue, Lincoln Park, 9:42 PM on the Thursday night of the first Christkindlmarket week. Eleanor Petrov, seventy-four, retired Commission on Chicago Landmarks deputy director, lies across the open M-page of the bound Loft Survey at her 1881 worker's cottage. A Burnham & Root terra-cotta-glazed cast-iron cornice fragment on the parlor side table. Detective Hartmann lays the Loft Survey flat: every preservation consultant and Inland Architect contributor since 1907, 47,000 first names, seventeen clues, one killer.

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