A gaggle of voices exploded over the radio as every officer within two miles of Broad and Vine joined the chase.
But as Wilson drove the relatively short distance from police headquarters to the accident scene, it was apparent that their cars would soon be useless in the search.
The truck Sonny rammed had burst into flames, blocking the Broad Street entrance to 1-95 and limiting access to the Ben Franklin Bridge, City Hall, and the Vine Street Expressway.
The Fire Department was on the scene, and traffic was already backed up for miles in all directions. Callowhill Street, where Sonny was last seen, was being used as an alternate route. So even the officers who managed to make it there on foot were hampered by the sheer volume of traffic.
Lynch jumped out of the car looking for the officer who’d initiated the chase. When he saw him, still bent over and sucking air, Lynch reached into Wilson’s glove compartment and took out a picture of Sonny. Then he ran over to the officer and stuck the picture in his face.
“Is this the guy you were chasing?” he asked.
The officer looked up from his crouch and nodded vigorously.
“I guess you didn’t see which way he went on Callowhill.”
The cop shook his head no.
Lynch got on his cell phone and called Captain Silas Johnson at Central Detectives. When he answered, Lynch tried not to let his still-simmering anger with the captain show through.
“It’s Kevin Lynch,” he said. “I’m down at Broad and Vine. I’ve got an officer who’s positively identified Sonny Williams. He was last seen at Sixteenth and Callowhill five minutes ago.”
“I’m on the other line with the commissioner now,” the captain said. “We’re shutting everything down. Nothing leaves that area, nothing leaves this city until we find Sonny Williams.”
“I understand.”
“And Lynch?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I heard about you finding the girl. Good work.”
There was a long pause as Lynch held the line.
“It would’ve been good work if I’d found her alive.”
Chapter Nineteen
By nightfall, it was clear to everyone that Sonny had eluded the police yet again. But after the commissioner approved the captain’s plan, the city was tightly sealed in the hope that he would eventually resurface.
Both airports were placed under surveillance, as were the bus and train stations. Photographs of Sonny were issued to cabbies and store owners. Even day-care centers were warned that Sonny was in the area. He was, after all, suspected of murdering a child.
That reality was now the driving force behind the search. And even as authorities sought Sonny in connection with the other murders and assaults he’d been involved in, the investigation of Kenya’s murder began to take precedence over everything, even the death of Judge John Baylor.
The police department’s crime lab spent a full day gathering evidence from the basement where the little girl’s body had been discovered. But they didn’t find much of anything.
The fingerprints they collected were virtually unusable. They found no physical evidence to link Kenya to a killer. The autopsy, which was performed just hours after she was found, revealed the official cause of death as cardiac arrest, no doubt brought on by the struggle with her killer. But the autopsy yielded no evidence of sexual activity. On the contrary, it showed that she was a virgin.
By Tuesday morning, the D.A. had disregarded Daneen’s trumped-up confession, and sought instead to charge Sonny, because the circumstantial evidence against him was so compelling.
He was known to have a penchant for young girls. He had a long history of violence. He remained a suspect in the similar murder of the child who’d been found in a trash bin twenty years before.
And though the story of Kenya being sexually active had proven to be false, detectives still believed that Sonny had made some improper contact with the girl and that he’d murdered her when the child threatened to tell.
In addition to motive, Sonny had opportunity, having left Judy’s apartment shortly after Kenya to replenish Judy’s drug supply.
There was only one problem. Bayot—the man who could place Sonny with Kenya on the night of her death—was unsure of what he’d seen. And the only other person who could corroborate his story was Monk.
That’s why Lynch rode back to the projects with Wilson on Tuesday afternoon. He was determined to convince the old man to come forward. Moreover, he was determined to figure out how everyone else fit into the equation.
“What do you think about Judy?” he asked Wilson, as they drove toward the Bridge.
“I think Judy’s greedy,” Wilson said. “Greedy and insecure about a man who never gave a damn about her in the first place.”
“Her nephew seems to think Judy wanted Kenya out of the way so Sonny wouldn’t have to deal with molestation charges.”
“He’s doing an awful lot of thinking for a piper,” Wilson said derisively.
“Think about it,” Lynch said. “Judy broke her neck to tell us that Sonny hadn’t done anything to Kenya. Then she gave us some bullshit about him being on his way to Miami. Maybe the hunch I had back at homicide was right. Maybe she was doing whatever she had to do to make sure he got away.”
“I think that’s a stretch,” Wilson said, as they pulled up in front of the building. “What does his getaway do for her now? She still can’t run a crack business without him.”
“Doesn’t make a difference,” Lynch said. “She doesn’t want to see her man in jail.”
“I still think it’s a stretch,” Wilson said.
They got out of the car and went into the building, walking past the elevator and taking the steps to Monk’s sixth-floor apartment. When they reached it, they knocked on the door for five minutes before they realized that he wasn’t going to answer.
Wilson tried the doorknob. It opened.
As the two of them walked inside, they were greeted by a rush of air that smelled of marijuana and ointments, cleaning solutions and sweat. And just beneath those odors, there was sickness—the smell of an old man.
The television in the bedroom was on. There were matchsticks and beer cans scattered about the floor. The remnants of marijuana cigarettes were everywhere. And so was the feeling that the old man had nothing left to live for.
When they walked back into his bedroom, they saw why. Monk was sitting in a chair, his face fixed in a look of permanent surprise, his hand reaching for a glass crack pipe on the floor.
Lynch walked over to him and checked for a pulse. But even before he touched him, he knew that there hadn’t been a pulse for days.
Monk was dead. And as Wilson radioed in the news, and Lynch called the Medical Examiner’s Office to have the body removed and autopsied, they knew that their chances of finding an eyewitness to place Kenya with Sonny had died with the old man.
The heat in the storage closet was stifling. With no windows and little space, Sonny was beginning to wonder how much longer he could survive there.
He’d considered himself lucky when he eluded the cop before walking into the library at Nineteenth and Vine. He’d thought himself brilliant when he waited until closing and slipped into the little-used basement closet.
But after a day of breathing his own recycled air in the cramped and pitch-black space, Sonny knew that it was just a matter of time before he would have to move.
He was contemplating a way to do that when someone opened an office door and the faint sound of a radio made its way across the hall.
When he heard his name, the broadcast seemed to grow louder. And the announcer’s words lent urgency to his plight.
“The D.A.’s Office is going forward with plans to charge Sonny Williams—the man wanted in connection with the murder of nine-year-old Kenya Brown—after witnesses identified him as the perpetrator in Sunday’s triple murder in a North Philadelphia drug house. Meanwhile, funeral services for Kenya Brown have been scheduled for one P.M., tomorrow, at the Cal
vary Baptist Church of Philadelphia. KYW Newstime at the tone is five o’clock.”
Sonny didn’t hear what came over the radio after that. He only heard the reality that rang in his ears as he stood there, realizing that his life was now in jeopardy.
If the drug-house murder charges stuck, he would surely get the death penalty—especially if the D.A. had her way.
And even if he was somehow able to get out of Philadelphia at some point—which he now doubted more than ever—he would still be in real danger of being brought back to the city to face lethal injection.
He couldn’t allow that to happen. So Sonny waited. And when he was sure that the building was empty of most of its workers, he ventured out of the closet and found a maintenance man who was almost his size.
With the last few ounces of strength he had left after so many days on the run, he pummeled the man, then dragged him into a bathroom, changed into his uniform, and transferred the money from the backpack to a trash bag.
As he slipped out of a side entrance of the library, Sonny knew he had to do one thing before making a final push to flee the city. And he knew that he’d have only one chance to do it.
Judy sat in the dank basement cell she’d occupied since Sunday, contemplating all that had happened to her family over the years and wondering if they could ever truly heal.
Kenya’s death, which she’d learned about just an hour after the body was found, had left her shocked, then angry, and, finally, guilty.
She cried, but her grief wasn’t just for Kenya. It was for Daneen: the child whose tear-filled eyes told tales of rape in the basement; the frightened teenager who’d been forced to make a choice between a moment of truth and a lifetime of lies.
Each time Judy thought of Kenya, she grieved for Daneen. The last time she’d done that—on the night when she’d learned of Daneen’s secret—she’d scrawled the words in a diary because she just couldn’t keep it inside. Then she hid the book in her son’s old backpack—the same bag Sonny had stolen from the roof.
As she sat in her cell watching a detective and a uniformed officer walking toward her, she wondered if Sonny had bothered to look at anything other than the money. More than that, she wondered if the words in the diary meant anything to him.
“Ms. Brown,” the detective said, as the uniformed officer opened Judy’s cell door. “Come with us.”
She got up and walked with them down a dimly lit hallway. At the end, a heavy steel door slid open. She blinked to adjust to the fluorescent light that washed over her.
The detective walked her over to an area with mounds of paperwork in metal racks on a Formica desk. One of the papers had her name on it. He thrust it in front of her and waited.
“What you want me to do?” Judy asked, looking up at the detective.
“The drug charges have been reduced to what amounts to disorderly conduct, and the district attorney has decided against filing assault charges in connection with the officer you injured at Central Detectives, since there were, um, mitigating circumstances. The bottom line is, we want Sonny, not you. Your testimony will help us get him. So if you sign this paper, you’re free to go.”
Judy looked at the letters scrawled across the top of the page.
“What does S.O.B. mean?” she asked.
“It means sign your own bail. It’s basically a promise that you’ll show up at your preliminary hearing.”
“How y’all gon’ send me outta here after I told you Sonny killed them men on Cambria Street? He know I’m the only one who seen him do it, so if I go home now, and he somewhere in Philadelphia, what you think gon’ happen?”
“Ms. Brown, we’re going to have a detail posted outside your door for the next few days. If you need anything, those officers will get it for you. If you have to go anywhere, they’ll take you. We’re going to make every effort to protect you until Sonny Williams is caught.”
“Can’t y’all put me in some kinda witness protection program and send me outta Philadelphia or somethin’?”
“You’re going to be protected, Ms. Brown.”
“If you wanna protect me, keep me in jail. I’m safer here than I am on the street.”
“We can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“There’s a federal consent decree that sets a limit on the number of prisoners we can hold. Under the guidelines, we’ve gotta let you go. Now please, sign here. There’s a car waiting to take you home.”
“I ain’t got nothin’ to go home for,” Judy said, taking the form.
“Sure you do,” the detective said. “Your great-niece’s funeral is tomorrow.”
As she signed the form and turned to leave the Roundhouse, Judy put aside her fears in order to deal with that very present reality.
Kenya was dead. She would have to be buried. And so would all the secrets of the past.
As the last few residents left the building for Kenya’s funeral, Kevin Lynch got out of his car and strolled down the street outside the front entrance of the Bridge.
He walked in through the building’s foyer and out toward the back entrance. Then he stood in the rear of the building, looking at the space where he’d seen the little girl’s dead body all those years ago.
As he stood there, the memories of his childhood came flooding back. He remembered his grandmother, and the stern manner in which she’d raised him. He remembered Daneen, and the heartbreak she’d caused him. He remembered Tyrone, and the death that embittered him.
And in the midst of those memories, Lynch lowered his head and began to do something he hadn’t done in years. He began to pray—for strength, for healing, for closure.
He stood there for what seemed to him an eternity—head bowed, eyes closed—and soon felt a soothing calm wash over him. It told him that his wife and daughter were still the most important people in his world. It said that his childhood and everyone from it were firmly in his past. It assured him that his attraction to Daneen was little more than a fantasy from long ago. It wrapped him in its arms and gave him peace.
A few minutes later, as he walked back through the building, that peace was interrupted by a faint rustling from the bottom of the ramp that led down to the basement.
He stopped to look into the shadows. At first, he didn’t see anything. But as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw a man standing in the darkness.
Lynch drew his gun and aimed at the figure.
“Come up here right now, with your hands where I can see them!” he shouted.
Nothing moved, so Lynch took a few steps down the ramp, trying to make out a face.
Suddenly, the man rushed at him, bowling him over and knocking the gun from his hand.
As Lynch got to his feet, the man lost his footing and fell facefirst on the ramp. Lynch dived on his back and the man reached back with both hands, grabbed Lynch by his jacket, and threw him over his head.
Lynch landed on his back, but scrambled quickly to his feet. When he turned to face the man again, he found himself staring into the eyes of his attacker. It was Sonny.
Lynch swung wildly, missed with a left hook, then connected with an uppercut. Sonny fell backward, but managed to hit Lynch, who landed three blows of his own, knocking a weakened Sonny flat on his back.
Sonny looked to his right and saw his last chance lying next to him, shining in the darkness. Lynch caught sight of the gun at the same time.
Sonny crawled toward it, but Lynch reached it first, then wheeled around and struck Sonny with the butt of the gun.
Falling against the wall with blood oozing from his wounds, an exhausted Sonny raised his hands in surrender.
Lynch took out a pair of handcuffs and chained Sonny to a pipe that ran along the wall. Then he lifted the gun and jammed it into Sonny’s mouth.
“Tell me about Kenya,” he said, panting through clenched teeth. “Tell me how she died, or I’ll kill you.”
Sonny slid down the wall and sat on the cold concrete floor, mumbling something about dyin
g and words on a page.
“It’s in the diary,” he said wearily. “Judy wrote it all down in the diary.”
The church across the street from the projects wasn’t big enough to accommodate the throng. So the funeral was held on Sixteenth and Fairmount, at a Baptist church called Calvary.
But even that church, which was considerably larger, had never seen so much activity.
Unmarked police cars with detectives slouched low in their seats, traffic units whose dome lights swirled against the bright summer sky, uniformed officers with radios hooked to their ears. And standing on a flatbed truck, a single homicide detective, videotaping the mourners in hopes of capturing some clue about the killer.
There were television crews and paparazzi, snatching bits and pieces of mourning, photographing the people of the Bridge and converting Kenya’s death into a Hollywood production.
When the hearse arrived and her casket was carried into the church, its diminutive size spoke volumes. Most people who saw it cried bitter tears as they grieved over the dark realities of life and death in the projects.
There was no such display from the family.
Daneen stood outside and hugged Darnell’s girlfriend, Renee, who whispered condolences in her ear. Daneen seemed taken aback by that. But she thanked her anyway, then went inside, looking as if she was determined not to cry. Darnell followed Daneen, wearing quiet grief with a dignity that didn’t exist in any other aspect of his life. Judy was last, looking more fearful than anything else.
As they passed by, the whispers followed them. Daneen, for one, pretended not to hear them. There was nothing anyone could say that she hadn’t already told herself a thousand times.
When they’d finished the long walk down the center aisle, they sat quietly on the front pew. Those who loved Kenya—Lily and Janay among them—sat close behind. Kenya’s classmates and friends were there, too, sprinkled in among the people who’d come to bask in the twisted air of celebrity surrounding the whole affair.
Daneen spent most of the funeral looking rather than listening.
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