The Doll Maker (18 page)

She recognized the crest. St. Jerome’s Academy Soccer Team.

Although it had not been confirmed, Jessica was certain that the two dead boys in the room were Mary Gillen’s sons.

Bontrager closed his phone, just as two officers from the crime scene unit arrived. Behind the technicians was an investigator from the Medical Examiner’s Office, along with his photographer.

While all of them signed onto the crime scene log, Jessica, Byrne, and Bontrager stepped to the side. They were silent for the moment, processing this new information. There was no question that, if the two boys in the room were Mary Gillen’s sons, the investigation into these three homicides had just gotten much wider.

What it did not do, in any recognizable way, at least at the moment, was bring the investigators any closer to the person or persons responsible.

As much as the detectives wanted to enter the room, there was a protocol that had to be rigidly observed. Usually, the first person to make any kind of physical contact with the victim of homicide was the medical examiner. This crime scene, as was the Nicole Solomon crime scene, was a little different.

The evidentiary integrity of the floor had to be preserved. The two CSU officers unrolled a 36-inch wide roll of white paper. They gently placed it onto the floor, a process which would allow the ME and his photographer to enter the scene and begin their investigation. Once the victims were pronounced dead, and the ME’s photographer had taken his photographs, the CSU officers could begin to process the scene, and the detectives could start their phase of the investigation.

Jessica stepped outside. Even though the air was clouded with exhaust from the traffic on 33rd Street, it was fresher than the air inside the building. She joined Josh Bontrager, Maria Caruso and Byrne. They stood a few yards from one of the flashing sector cars, parked in one of the vacant lots.

‘Who called it in?’ Jessica asked.

Bontrager pointed at the police car. ‘Mrs Ruta Mae Carver.’

Jessica glanced over to see a heavyset black woman in her late sixties. She sat in the backseat, door open, big legs dangling over the side, eyes closed. She rocked back and forth, perhaps in prayer. She held a white rosary.

‘Ms Carver was walking up 33rd when she looked through the window and saw the victims,’ Bontrager said.

Jessica stepped around the side of the building, turned to look. There was indeed a clear view of the two boys through the only open port in the building. The window overlooked 33rd Street, and the park beyond. As with the Nicole Solomon crime scene, the display looked surreal, as if framed by the window opening.

As she was looking, two CSU officers began the process of taping large sheets of paper over the portal. Jessica walked back to Josh Bontrager.

‘So she saw them through the window,’ Jessica said.

‘Yeah,’ Bontrager said.

‘Did she see anything else?’

Bontrager nodded. ‘She saw an old van. She said it had a faded sign on the door, said it looked like, and I quote: “one of them big crawly things, like a cockroach”.’

‘A cockroach? So maybe it was an exterminator’s truck?’

‘That’s what I’m thinking. She said it was pretty bleached, but the logo looked like it was at one time red and black. I’ve got someone searching for it online now.’

Bontrager showed Jessica and Byrne a sketch he’d made of the information he’d gotten from Ruta Mae Carver.

‘Why was she here?’ Byrne asked.

Bontrager pointed to the lone house on the next block. ‘She lives there. She was just coming back from church, heard the music and stopped. That’s when she saw the victims.’

‘The music?’ Jessica asked.

Bontrager nodded.

‘Coming from in there?’

‘That’s what she said.’

Jessica glanced back at the woman. She was on her second decade of the rosary, eyes still closed. Jessica lowered her voice. ‘So, are we talking
music
music or heavenly voices?’

Bontrager smiled. ‘Good question. ‘Ruta Mae, it seems, is a rather spiritual person.’ He pointed at the woman’s house. Even from a half-block away Jessica could see the crosses in every window. She wondered if that was to keep the spirit in or out.

Jessica was just about to ask Josh Bontrager where he wanted her to start her canvass when they all heard the voice coming from inside the house.

‘Oh
God
.’

It was a woman’s voice. The words were not screamed or shouted, but sounded more like a cry of anguish.

The detectives rushed inside.

A moment later one of the crime scene officers – a young woman in her mid-twenties – came around the corner, into the hallway.

Her skin was pallid, her lips trembling.

Byrne stepped forward. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

Jessica glanced at the officer’s nametag. L Betley. Jessica had seen her around, had worked scenes with her, but it was possible to see members of such a large police force – the sixth largest in the country – on a regular basis, to recognize them by sight, but not know their names.

Officer Betley seemed to swoon. Byrne took hold of her, held her for a few moments. He walked her a few feet down the hallway, away from the room.

‘What’s your first name, Officer Betley?’ Byrne asked softly.

The woman took a second. It appeared she had to think about this. ‘Lynn.’

‘It’s okay, Lynn. You want to take a few moments?’

Jessica saw the young woman relax at Byrne’s touch. She had seen it many times before.

Officer Betley nodded.

‘Would you like some water?’

‘Okay.’

One of the EMTs standing by reached into his pack, took out a fresh bottle. He cracked the seal, handed it to Byrne, who handed it to Officer Betley.

With a trembling hand, she raised it to her lips, took a small sip. She recapped it.

Still holding onto the woman, Byrne asked: ‘Can you tell me what’s wrong?’

She looked up at Byrne. ‘I worked that scene. Last week. I was there.’

‘What scene, Lynn? Which one?’

Lynn Betley said nothing. It looked like she might be getting ready to faint.

Byrne squared the young woman in front of him. He looked into her eyes. ‘Whatever’s in that room, we can handle it,’ he said. ‘And by
we
I mean you and I, Detectives Balzano and Bontrager here, and every member of the PPD. All of us. We are seven thousand strong. Do you believe that?’

‘I do. I guess that it’s just, I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I do.’

‘Good,’ Byrne said. ‘Never forget it. For the rest of your time on the job, for the rest of your life, you will never be alone. In this city, any city, if you identify yourself as a law enforcement officer, you will have a brother or sister who will have your back.’

The woman began to sag. Byrne eased her to the floor, caught the attention of one of the nearby EMTs. The firefighter came down the hall, eased Lynn Betley forward. She began to breathe a little more slowly.

Jessica made eye contact with Byrne. He would stay with Officer Betley; she would see what it was that had caused this PPD officer to balk.

Jessica steeled herself, walked back to the doorway. A fresh pair of gloves, another calming breath. She stepped into the room. Everything appeared as it had. As horrifying as the sight of the two dead boys was, Jessica did not imagine this was what set the CSU officer off.

She ran her Maglite around the dimly lit room and saw what had unnerved the crime scene officer so terribly. There, in the left-hand corner of the room – a section that had been shielded from Jessica when she had peered inside earlier – was something so out of place, that Jessica took off her glasses in order to see it better. She had to focus, had to concentrate, to assure herself that it was what it appeared to be.

In the corner of the room, behind the two dead boys, stood a doll. The doll was perhaps twelve inches tall, and appeared to be made of porcelain. It seemed to be looking at the two victims in the center of the room.

But as bizarre as this tableau was, as strange as it was to have a doll deliberately placed in the corner of the room, these things were not what took Jessica’s breath away.

She had seen the doll before. She had seen the white blouse, the dark skirt, the dark shoes. She had seen the deep brunette hair, as well as the chocolate brown eyes with irises flecked with gold.

I worked that scene. Last week. I was there.
 

Now Jessica understood what Officer Lynn Betley meant.

The doll was Nicole Solomon.

The four detectives stood at the end of the hallway, staying out of the way of the now-bustling crime scene.

The command presence was deep. In addition to Sgt. Dana Westbrook, was their captain and the deputy inspector.

The reasons were obvious.

These victims weren’t gangbangers or drug dealers. These boys weren’t part of the game. These were citizens. And while justice was supposed to be blind, anyone who thought that the lumbering machinery of crime and punishment moved forward with the same fervor and purpose for all victims was not being honest.

Jessica, speaking for herself and just about every other detective in the unit – especially her partner – liked to think that it didn’t matter who the victim was, that she applied herself equally at all times. This did not always carry over to every other squad and scientific team.

Two teenage boys – suburban white boys – found dead in a North Philly building, murdered in such a bizarre and savage manner, was going to go wide. It was only a matter of minutes before the story went national.

There were no tenants, either residential or commercial in the building or, for that matter, in the next three buildings in either direction. The entire block was blighted.

A section of Fairmount Park was across the street. The likelihood of an eyewitness to the boys being brought to this house was slight.

Again, for the second time in a week, Jessica had to wonder: Why here?

And while the
why
of it all was not yet known, the
when
was pretty clear.

This was the party – the
thé dansant
– to which Nicole Solomon had been invited. Today was November 23. The killers had brought Nicole to the tea dance.

Beneath one of the swings they had found another invitation, nearly identical to the first. Identical in all ways but the date.

You are invited! 

November 30 

See you at our
thé dansant!
 

It appeared as if they needed one week to crack this case. If not, other children would die.

Jessica and Byrne made notes on getting Josh Bontrager and Maria Caruso everything they had accumulated in the Nicole Solomon investigation, an inquiry that would now be folded into a larger inquiry. Somebody was killing Philadelphia teenagers in grotesque and detailed ways. There would soon be a task force, perhaps even a joint task force with the FBI. There were clearly federal laws being violated here, not the least of which was kidnapping.

Josh Bontrager was about to make a point when Byrne held up a hand and put a finger to his lips. Everyone stopped talking.

Jessica heard music. She thought she’d heard it before, but figured it was coming from a passing car.

Was this the music Ruta Mae Carver had heard?

Byrne cocked his head to the sound. He looked up, at Jessica, and pointed to the wall that joined the room just north of the crime scene room.

As they walked down the hall the music grew louder. It was piano music, a lively tempo, a standard.

Byrne tried the doorknob. It was unlocked. He pushed open the door.

They rolled into the room, a room cluttered with discarded junk – broken chairs, upended tables, dismantled bookcases.

The music was coming from somewhere in this room. Two things were obvious. There was no piano, and there was no piano player in this space.

Jessica and Byrne holstered their weapons. The sound seemed to be coming from the far side of the room, near the windows that overlooked 33rd Street.

Byrne began to lift the broken furniture from the pile. As he did, the music grew a little in volume. By the time he got to the bottom of the pile he discovered a single drawer, its sides splintered off.

In it was a small tape recorder. The piano tune continued to play. If Ruta Mae Carver had heard this from outside, her hearing had to be exceptional. Perhaps the reason no one on the investigating team had heard it was because they weren’t listening for it.

There was no indication that anyone was living in or squatting this space. Anything of value had long ago been taken. There were no switch plates or electrical outlets.

But here, inside a broken dresser drawer, was a tape recorder. Jessica shone her Maglite on the top of the device. The tape was about to run out.

Jessica turned to the detectives behind her.

‘Does anyone recognize this music?’

‘It sounds like Scott Joplin,’ Byrne said. He pointed at the recorder. ‘Mind if we run this?’

‘Be my guest,’ Bontrager said.

Byrne clicked off the recorder, lifted it carefully, dropped it into a paper evidence bag. ‘Let’s get this processed then over to Mateo.’

The AV Unit was located in the basement of the Roundhouse. The commander of the unit was Sgt. Mateo Fuentes. In addition to his duties recording and cataloging all city business – the mayor’s speeches, press conferences, city council meetings and the like – he had helped to design and establish the ever-growing network of PPD surveillance systems deployed around Philadelphia.

They met in one of the editing bays. They’d given Mateo an hour with the evidence.

Mateo Fuentes was in his forties, a career officer. While much of his job was mundane, there was no one better at divining the clues that resided in the mysterious worlds of audio and video. A denizen of the huge basement, somehow Mateo was never seen anywhere else in the massive building. Byrne once mentioned that no one actually saw Mateo Fuentes come and go. Jessica wondered if the man lived here.

In attendance were Jessica and Byrne, along with Josh Bontrager, Maria Caruso, and Dana Westbrook.