The Doll Maker (8 page)

‘I’m a social worker,’ he said. ‘LCSW. I minored in Talmudic studies.’

‘Are you in private practice, or do you work for a provider?’

‘A provider,’ he said.

‘We’ll need their contact information before we leave.’

Another nod.

‘Did Nicole have any troubles in her life recently?’ Byrne asked. ‘Perhaps at school, or here at home?’

Jessica watched the man closely. It was a mandatory question in a forensic interview such as this – that being a non-leading dialogue – one that always came loaded with a lot more innuendo and suspicion than was intended. Whenever parents or siblings of deceased minors heard the question, they also heard an accusation.

‘What do you mean by trouble at home?’ Solomon asked.

‘I’m asking whether or not Nicole had been depressed or unresponsive lately,’ Byrne said. ‘Maybe she spent more time in her room alone, less time with family.’ Byrne leaned back, increasing the space between himself and Solomon, giving the man the impression that this was not an accusation of any sort. ‘I have a daughter just a few years older than Nicole, and I know what a difficult age this can be.’

Byrne let the statement buffer what would be a second run at getting the information.

‘So,’ he continued. ‘Have you noticed any change in Nicole’s behavior over the last few days or weeks?’

In Jessica’s experience parents usually thought about this question for a few moments. Not so with David Solomon.

‘She was just fine,’ the man said, perhaps a little more loudly than he wanted. ‘Just
fine
.’

‘Did she have any problems with drugs or alcohol?’

At this question David Solomon seemed to sag, to become physically smaller. Perhaps these were issues he had chosen to ignore.

‘I don’t know,’ he said.

Jessica glanced at Adinah Solomon. Although Jessica was somewhat ashamed of herself for thinking so, she wondered if the woman was better off not knowing what was taking place in the next room.

‘When was the last time you saw Nicole?’ Byrne asked.

‘Yesterday morning. We had breakfast.’

‘Here at home?’

The man shook his head. ‘No, not here. We had breakfast at the McDonald’s. On Christian Street.’

Jessica made a note to contact the store’s manager. If there was one thing McDonald’s did well, at least in the big American cities, it was make surveillance recordings. There had been a rash of robberies, nationwide, in the past five years.

Solomon looked out the window, continued. ‘She always ordered the Egg McMuffins. Never any hash browns, nothing else. Nicole didn’t drink coffee, you see. She would open both McMuffins, take off two of the muffins, and make one big sandwich.’ Solomon looked at Jessica. ‘She always gave me the muffins, even though she knew that I never ate breakfast. I would eat one of them just to be kind.’

Jessica thought at that moment about having breakfast with Sophie and Carlos. She made a mental note to pay closer attention to their habits and affectations. This man would never again have breakfast with his daughter.

‘Did you often go to this McDonald’s?’ Jessica asked.

‘Once in a while. Perhaps once a month.’

‘Were you and Nicole considered regulars there?’ she asked. ‘By that I mean, were you known to the cashiers and employees by name?’

‘No, nothing like that,’ he said. ‘It’s a busy place, especially at that time of the morning. I don’t know the name of anyone who works there, and I seriously doubt they know my name, or Nicole’s.’

Jessica made a few notes. ‘Do you remember anything out of the ordinary happening at McDonald’s yesterday morning?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘I mean, did anything happen between you and another customer, or Nicole and another customer?’ Jessica asked. ‘Anything confrontational?’

‘Confrontational?’

‘Did anything happen, such as someone bumping into you, something that another person might have taken as a sign of disrespect?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Solomon said. ‘Nothing I can remember. Certainly nothing that I saw.’

‘Can you recall if anyone was paying particularly close attention to Nicole?’ Jessica asked. ‘Perhaps a young man, someone Nicole’s age? Or maybe an older man?’

Solomon thought for a few moments, dabbed at his eyes. ‘Young men are always looking at Nicole. She is very beautiful.’

‘Yes, she was,’ Jessica said, conscious suddenly of the fact that she was using past tense. She moved quickly on. ‘What I’m getting at is whether or not someone yesterday morning may have paid attention to Nicole in a way that seemed out of place, or a little excessive, or inappropriate.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Or maybe it’s just that I didn’t notice. I didn’t think I would be asked about it. I didn’t think that it would be our last moment together.’

‘I understand, sir,’ Jessica said. ‘Where and when did you part company with your daughter yesterday?’

‘In front of the McDonald’s. She had a school outing at the Franklin Institute.’

‘How did she get there?’

‘I put her in a cab.’

‘To the Institute?’

He shook his head. ‘To her school. They took a bus from there.’

‘Do you recall which cab company it was?’

Solomon thought for a moment. ‘No. Sorry. I don’t take them myself. They all kind of look alike to me.’

‘That’s okay,’ Byrne said. ‘We can get this information.’ Byrne flipped a few pages back. ‘Mr Solomon, how much did Nicole smoke?’

The man looked slapped. ‘
Smoke?
Nicole didn’t smoke.’

‘Are you certain of that, sir?’

‘Absolutely. She would never do a thing like that.’

Jessica had never been a smoker, but she’d snuck a few puffs from someone else’s cigarette when she was Nicole’s age. Whether or not Nicole was a casual or heavy smoker – or a non-smoker like her father believed – would be easily determined when the autopsy was performed.

‘I need to show you something now, sir,’ Byrne said. ‘If I may.’

Solomon looked apprehensive. It was understandable, under the circumstances. He nodded his assent.

Byrne reached into his bag, took out the invitation they had found taped beneath the bench. It was now in a clear evidence bag.

‘Mr Solomon, have you ever seen this before?’

Solomon reached into his pants pocket, took out a pair of reading glasses, slipped them on. He looked at the card, back at Byrne. ‘I don’t understand. What is this?’

‘This was in Nicole’s possession,’ Byrne said. It was not technically accurate. The possibility existed, albeit extremely slight, that the bench already had this taped to it.

Solomon held it up. ‘This was?’

‘Yes.’

Jessica watched the man’s eyes scan the text.

‘An invitation?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sir,’ Byrne said. ‘Have you ever seen it before?’

‘I don’t … no I haven’t.’

Jessica noticed that the man’s hands had begun to tremble. There was something about the card that spooked him.

‘Mr Solomon, do you have a recent photograph of Nicole?’ Byrne asked.

‘Of course,’ Solomon said. ‘Yes. I’m sure I have one.’

Solomon looked to the two detectives to see if it was okay, suddenly thrust into a world of facts and procedures and protocol.

‘It’s just upstairs,’ he said. ‘I can get it for you now.’ Before he mounted the stairs he added: ‘I also have to make a phone call.’

‘Yes,’ Byrne said. ‘Of course. Take your time.’

As Solomon went up the stairs, Jessica glanced at Adinah Solomon. The woman had not moved nor acknowledged the presence of two strangers in her house. Jessica then made eye contact with Byrne. A number of questions flowed silently between them.

Question One: Was David Solomon telling the truth about all this? It seemed as if he had been. At least until he saw the invitation.

Question Two: Was Nicole’s home life as stable and happy and normal as Solomon portrayed it? This was not quite as clear.

Jessica heard Solomon open a door at the end of the hallway upstairs, then close it. Perhaps two minutes later she heard the door open again.

Over the next few days, when Jessica thought of this case – the 306th homicide of the year in Philadelphia – she would think of the moment just after she heard the door open for the second time on the second floor.

That was the moment when everything changed.

In her experience, it sometimes happened. You thought the investigation was one thing, and it became something else.

Rarely did it happen so soon.

In that moment – the moment between a thought and a word, the distance that marks the chasm between life and death – a litany of remembrance and procedure rushed through Jessica’s mind.

She recalled going to the firearms qualifying range on State Road with her father when she was ten years old. She recalled staying well back, wearing headphones, thinking about how there was a slight delay between the muzzle flash and the sound of the weapon being discharged.

In this moment, sitting in the front room of a small row house in the Bella Vista neighborhood of South Philadelphia, a space now red with rage and grief and loss, it all came back to her.

Jessica first saw the blaze of light, a yellow flash that streaked down the hallway at the top of the stairs, followed by the crack of a large caliber handgun being discharged.

The gunshot shook the house.

Before she knew it she was on her feet. Her first thought was of her partner.

She made eye contact with Byrne, who was also on his feet, weapon now drawn, moving to the foot of the stairs. Without saying a word they each selected their duties.

Jessica got on her two-way, and called for backup – a shots fired/officer involved call that would bring every available cop for miles.

Their immediate concern was for the safety of the older woman. As far as Jessica and Byrne knew – and this was far from known – there were no other family members in the house. The glass block along the sidewalk in front of the Solomon row house told them that there was a basement, and from that place could come any number of potential threats.

Anyone could be down there.

And then there was the second floor.

If Mr Marseille had ever decided to become a movie star, he certainly could have been one.

He was that beautiful.

There was a way the light touches the planes of his face that would have made a generation of young women – maybe two or three generations – swoon in their velvet seats.

I have to admit that I don’t know much about new films, other than what I see in the newspaper and on television, and we do not watch much television. Most films nowadays seem to be based on comic books, which I’ve never read. While I do appreciate the colors of their world, I don’t know that I would want to see them in the flesh.

Besides, there was so much to do that Mr Marseille and I never seemed to find the time to attend the cinema.

There was one film we both enjoy immensely, though. We’ve seen it scores of times. The name of the film is
Bonnie and Clyde.

It is wonderfully acted, and the colors are beautiful, as are the costumes. The story ended terribly for Miss Parker and Mr Barrow and, although they had done bad things, my heart went out to them.

As I looked at Mr Marseille in profile, I thought about what it might be like to lose him. I don’t think I could bear it, even though we are both well acquainted with loss.

There are so many broken dolls.

I can’t tell you how many we have tried to mend, only to discover that the challenge was too great. Some people are so rough with their dolls that they cannot be sewn or patched.

It’s not as easy as you might think to mend a broken doll. There is the hair, for one. Mohair, modacrylic, mignonette, Toni style, human hair. Which to choose? Then there are the eyes which, of course, are most important. Are they counterweight? Paperweight? Button type?

There are some dolls that require so many parts that – and please don’t think me cruel or insensitive for saying this – it is just better for them to be put back on a shelf.

Mr Marseille and I have done this many times.

Every time we’ve had to do this we’ve been sad for days. It is never easy or pleasant. We know the pain of loss, and it is only right and proper that others know this same feeling. That is the way of life.

So many broken dolls.

We learned how to care for them from our own
maîtresse des marionnettes.

I returned from my reverie, a
déprimé
surely brought on by the knowledge that our story had turned the page, perhaps beginning our last chapter. I put on a brave face, turned to look at Mr Marseille. He held the gun in his right hand, looking every bit like Mr Clyde Barrow.

I covered my ears, just in case Mr Marseille was about to once again pull the trigger.

When Byrne reached the top of the stairs, he tilted his head to the sudden silence.

‘Mr Solomon?’

Nothing.

‘Sir?’

There was just stillness, the ringing peace that comes after a deafening report in a small space.

Byrne eased his head around the corner, quickly back. One hallway, three doors. Only one of the doors was open, the last door on the left.

He stepped into the hallway, his weapon pointed low. He tried calling the man’s name again.

‘Mr Solomon?’

Still no response. He raised his weapon and spun into the first doorway, took in the room in one snapshot.

Bed, dresser, nightstands, lamps. There was a cordless phone cradle on the nightstand, no phone. He peered around the door. No one standing there.

‘Mr Solomon?’ he tried again. No answer.

There were no curtains to hide behind. All the furniture was pushed to the walls. Byrne got down on one knee, looked quickly under the bed.

Clear.

He stood, stepped over to the closet. He could hear the crackle of Jessica’s two-way radio float up the stairs. Besides the beating of his heart, it was the only sound in the house.

The closet door was slightly ajar. Inside there was only darkness. Byrne tried to slow his breathing, listen for any sound coming from the closet – the creak of a floorboard, the unmistakable clang of two wire hangers touching, the quick breathing of someone else.