by CJ Lyons
There were no obvious physical injuries. In fact, they appeared to be in good health. Their T-shirts weren’t torn or terribly soiled, and it was obvious that they’d bathed recently. Someone had cared for them, even as they’d been locked away from the world.
But abuse didn’t have to be physical. I was far more worried about the psychological impact of their captivity. Other than the few words I’d coaxed from them to get them out of their prison, they hadn’t made anything more than guttural sounds of confusion and fear.
Devon deposited the little girl he carried onto her feet, and she ran to join the others, the larger ones separating for a brief moment to let her sidle between them, placing her at the center with the other smallest ones. A herd protecting its weak. He reached to open the door, and they began keening as if in pain.
“I don’t think they want you to go.”
He looked at his hand, still on the doorknob, looked at the mass of children standing in the center of the room, swaying as if they shared a heartbeat. Then he glanced at me. Pain and fear and frustration gathered on his face. “Esme.”
“Ryder’s doing everything he can. If you go back down there alone, you might end up making things worse. Get shot by the police during their search or by whoever shot at us.”
His exhalation circled the room, and his shoulders slumped. “It’s been too much time anyway. They’ll be long gone.”
“Maybe these guys can help. They might know something if we can get them talking.”
He didn’t look convinced, but he nodded and pulled his hand away from the door. The kids relaxed, and the air in the room felt calmer, as if an electrical current had been shut off.
None of us at the Center work full time here—no way could our funding accommodate that luxury. In addition to Shari, I have three other ER nurses also certified as sexual assault forensic examiners; a local psychologist who volunteers her time; an ever-changing assortment of volunteers from the DA’s victim’s assistance office; and two social workers, neither of whom were on call for the holiday.
Which meant, until Shari finished with our nameless assault victim and the on-call social worker arrived, it was just me. And Devon. I was glad he’d stayed. Not just for the second pair of hands, but the kids seemed to respond to him. Right now, anything that kept them feeling safe and secure was the best thing for them.
I opened two bins of toys and scattered them onto the floor. Then I sat down myself and began bouncing one of the rubber balls. Devon took the hint and sat across from me, looking a bit goofy as he awkwardly folded his legs beneath him, tugging at the knees of his designer slacks. We played catch, exaggerating our smiles and encouraging each other. He hesitated when I began to sing Row, Row, Row Your Boat in time to the ball’s bouncing, but then joined in, adding to the harmony.
A few minutes later, we had a threesome, then five, until finally all the children were playing, passing the ball back and forth, singing the simple yet calming tune. I found another ball, this one the size of a kickball, and began rolling it between our loose group, keeping the rhythm and the kids focused.
“My name is Angela,” I sang, punctuating my words by using the ball like a bongo drum. “Angela Rossi.”
I passed the ball to Devon. “My name is Devon,” he chanted, catching on fast. “Devon Price.”
He rolled the ball to the oldest-appearing kid, a skinny black boy who looked to be around eight or nine. The boy caught the ball, hesitated, and for a second I thought he was going to freeze. But he began bouncing the ball between his palms, slid a look at me without ever raising his face, and said, “My name is Andre. Andre Brown.”
I smiled at him. “How old are you, Andre?”
Still bouncing the ball, he replied, “I’m Andre, and I’m eight.”
He looked at me for approval, and I nodded. “Good job. Who’s next?”
Devon leaned forward. “Do you know a girl named Esme? Esme Willard?” Urgency spilled into his voice. “Have you seen her?”
I glared at him while Andre pulled away, dropping the ball and hiding his face in his hands as if waiting to be hit. Before I could say anything, Devon realized his mistake and, to my surprise, lowered his body so he crouched below Andre’s eye level. He touched the boy’s knee.
“Hey, Andre,” he said in a low, man-to-man voice. “Sorry, man. You did good, real good.”
Andre peeked between his fingers. Said nothing. Neither did the other kids watching—waiting for his lead.
“C’mon, man,” Devon coaxed, still keeping his head low, giving Andre the position of power. He scooped the ball up and rolled it against Andre’s legs. “We can’t play the game without you. So far you’re winning.”
Andre blinked, and his hands came down. The tension in the room eased. He didn’t smile, not a normal kid smile, more like the shy glint of the sun caught behind a storm cloud. “I’m the winner?” He bounced the ball, regaining his rhythm. “Cool.”
Crisis averted. Devon sat up. I arched an eyebrow at him. He shrugged and turned his focus on the kids. Lesson learned. I hoped.
<<<>>>
After handing Tyree over to patrol officers and giving Petrosky the details about their new crime scene—emphasizing the need for both officer safety and secrecy—Ryder followed Rossi to the Advocacy Center and settled into the observation room, turning it into a command post.
He started with the SWAT commander, figuring he could better persuade Kingston to grant them permission to search the tunnels, but he also alerted his own commander, who in turn reached out to the deputy chief for more manpower, including the bomb squad, and the DA’s office for a warrant. Unfortunately, they had too little time. In fact, odds were it was already too late to stop whoever had taken Esme from escaping from the tunnels—too much ground to cover—and it was far too dangerous to send troops down there with Tyree’s IEDs littering the area.
Tyree could have helped but had chosen to invoke his right to remain silent. Ryder expected nothing less from the gangbanger. Self-preservation came before saving his own niece.
As he juggled the phone calls, coordinating the Amber Alert and search for Esme, as well as a missing person’s database search with the NCIC for the other victims they’d found in the tunnels, he watched Rossi and Price handle the kids. Damn, she was good.
He already knew Rossi was a skilled physician—the way she’d cut open Patrice, even a grunt like him knew that had taken guts and brains—but watching her with the kids, he was stunned. Never should have razzed her about that dying old lady when they first met. It was obvious Rossi wasn’t the kind of doctor who thought the best medicine came through pills and objectivity. No, she threw herself into her cases with passion, risking everything.
The observation room had a computer. There was little he could do until they were cleared to enter the tunnels or until he had IDs on the kids, so he gave in to temptation and did a quick Google search on Rossi. To his surprise, the first item that popped up was a page filled with videos.
Music videos. Intrigued, he clicked on one. It was obviously shot in a club or bar. Shadowed in murky lights filtered by cigarette smoke was Rossi. Playing a violin.
As she stroked the bow across the strings—a movement that sent her head arching back, flinging her hair past her face, exposing her neck—Ryder felt a stirring in his groin. Jesus, who knew a violin could be so sexy? She coaxed a long, complicated phrase from the instrument, her face twisted in anguish, sweat dripping from her chin, eyes squeezed shut.
The shot pulled back to reveal the crowd. They were as mesmerized as Ryder. The entire room, jammed with spectators, paused between breaths. It reminded Ryder of the moment right before Patrice died, that sense of anticipation, of wanting something more but unable to reach it. The note filled the air, circled through and above and around them, setting nerve endings on edge, then shuddered and died.
There was the smallest of pauses, a primordial silence. Finally, Rossi jerked her chin forward and down, her body following, and
life began anew. Music erupted from the violin, toe-tapping, hip-swaying, hand-clapping music that was irresistible.
The crowd breathed again, and others in the band began to join in. All men. One playing a round Irish drum, an accordion player, and Jacob Voorsanger puffing on a tin whistle that looked like something a kid would find in their Christmas stocking.
Jealousy flared through Ryder at the sight of Voorsanger up there beside Rossi, sharing something so powerful and intimate. Maybe the lawyer was bigger competition than Ryder had imagined.
He frowned and clicked the computer off, despite the fact that he wanted to watch more. He had a job to do, no need for distractions. Like that moment he and Rossi had shared in the church—what the hell had he been thinking?
Rossi’s voice coming from the speaker connected to the room beyond the observation window grabbed his attention. She’d gotten one of the kids to tell her his name. As Ryder listened, he made sure the DVR was recording, grabbed his notebook, and began taking notes. Only the two older ones gave both a first and last name, not much help there.
He called the precinct and waited for the computer tech to search the NCMEC and NCIC databases. Rossi asked the kids about their pets and school, avoiding the topic of what happened in the tunnels, easing into it. Kids were tricky. You couldn’t push too hard or fast, had to let them tell things their way.
The tech came back on the line. “Nothing.”
“What do you mean nothing?” Ryder drew a question mark on the page of his notebook, his pen impaling the dot at the bottom. “You telling me we have seven kids and no one reported them missing?”
“Yessir. What do you want me to do?”
“Get me their family contact information.”
“I can’t—not with last names like Brown and Taylor. Not without something more like a date of birth or address. We don’t have any database of underage children, and it’s not like they’re in the DMV.”
Shit. He hung up and stood. The oldest kids may know their addresses. Maybe all the kids knew each other. Maybe that’s how they all came to be abducted?
Glancing to confirm that the red recording light was on—he wouldn’t miss anything—he left. One sure way to get anyone talking was to give them what they wanted. Rossi had promised the kids ice cream, so he’d deliver on the promise.
On the way to the cafeteria, he checked in with the troops. Still no cooperation from Tyree, which meant they were crippled, forced to clear the tunnels inch by inch. It was going to be hours before he’d be able to get anywhere near his crime scene. Jane Doe hadn’t regained consciousness, according to the ER nurses. No sightings of Esme out on the street, at least none reported. Par for the course in this neighborhood where seven kids could go missing with no one noticing.
His only hope was to get the kids talking. Which meant letting Rossi work her magic.
A few minutes later, he was juggling two trays laden with bowls of soft serve from the cafeteria’s machine and knocking on the door to the room where the children were. Price answered, taking the trays from him.
“I need home addresses,” Ryder told the other man in a low tone. “And details of their abduction.”
Price frowned. “They’re just kids. Haven’t they been through enough already?”
“You want the animals who did this roaming free on the streets?”
Price’s face twisted with fury. “Any word on Esme?”
And why the hell did Price care so much? According to what little Ryder had been able to find through a quick NCIC search, the man lived in Philly, no wants, no warrants, and wasn’t related to Esme. He’d reached out to Philly PD for more but hadn’t heard back yet. “No. We’re working on it. The kids know anything?”
“Haven’t gotten there. Every time Angela pushes closer, they shut down.”
“It’s always hard with kids. Just give her my message, okay?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” Price closed the door again, and Ryder returned to the dark space behind the one-way glass. While the kids squealed with delight and dove into the ice cream, he used the DVR to watch what he’d missed while he was gone. Nothing helpful—Rossi was doing a good job getting the kids to open up, but still, they shied away from anything that got too close to what had happened to them.
Ryder wondered at that. Why hadn’t any of them asked for their parents? And the older ones, you’d think they’d be volunteering more info. They were old enough to be excited about helping the police—at least his niece and nephew would have been. But not these kids.
Rossi kept trying. The older two both said they lived in the Tower. When she asked if anyone else lived there, the others all nodded.
Seven kids missing, and no one had reported it. All from the Tower.
What the hell was going on there?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The ice cream wasn’t helping. The kids mentally retreated every time I got close to asking about their captivity. The most I got was one of the youngest saying she didn’t want to “go to church no more.”
I’d passed the point of exhaustion hours ago—typical for me these past few months. I couldn’t sleep more than a few minutes at a time, my body ricocheting between primed and hyperalert, running on adrenaline, and complete shutdown. I felt almost there now. Maybe not physically drained, but emotionally.
After the on-call social worker finally arrived, I left to check on my other patient, the unconscious girl we’d found.
Despite the awful things I see at the Advocacy Center, I usually enjoy the work there. It’s different from the ER in so many ways. Quiet, intense, focused. Everything at the Center is controlled, the chaos already finished.
One patient at a time. How luxurious it is to give one patient my full and undivided attention for as long as it takes. There is something just as rewarding in that as there is in juggling several dozen cases from a multicar pileup on the Turnpike.
I had just stepped through the double doors leading to the ER when it hit me again. After tonight, I might not be able to do either job. Hard to trust an ER doc with uncontrollable tremors and abrupt-onset catatonia. Harder still to trust her testimony on the witness stand when she was hearing voices of not-quite-dead people in her head.
Aw, hell. I was so screwed.
As if to drive the point home, I tripped over nothing, stumbling into the wall, banging my elbow. Anger and fear tangling like live wires in my gut, I pushed open the door to the critical care treatment room.
The sight of my Jane Doe, still unconscious, eyes staring unblinking at the ceiling tiles—now coated with ointment to protect her corneas—doused me in a wave of guilt that drowned out any self-pity.
If Jane Doe was going to be my last case, she was sure as hell getting everything I had to give.
Shari Bartholomew, one of my sexual assault nurse examiners, stood at the counter beside the sink. “Evidence of repeated sexual assault,” she told me as she finished labeling her specimens for the rape kit. “Physical assault as well. Similar pattern of injuries to the two cases we had last month.”
“The ones drugged with PXA?”
She nodded.
“Anything new?”
“Yeah, but it’s not good news. I think she might be our first PXA overdose. Her kidneys are shutting down. They’re planning to start hemodialysis as soon as they have the bed ready in the ICU. Liver function isn’t so hot, either.”
Our other PXA assault cases had all been conscious, although confused, when they were found. While they hadn’t suffered any major organ damage, their brains had been scrambled—so far, it seemed permanent. All four women were still in the psych ward, none with any sign of improvement.
Why had he given Jane Doe more? He obviously was an expert chemist to be synthesizing the PXA and titrating its effects over the days, weeks, he’d kept his victims. What had changed?
“He didn’t clean her up as thoroughly as the others,” Shari told me. “I found traces of secretions.”
A spark of hope sprang
to light. Finally, real evidence. Which meant real DNA that might be in the system or at least matched to a suspect—if we ever found a suspect. We hadn’t found any obvious DNA evidence on the other victims, they’d all been thoroughly washed before being dumped, but their rape kits were pending, so there was still a chance they might reveal traces of DNA.
“The brand on her chest, it’s more clear than the others,” Shari continued. “Not as swollen or inflamed. Here, I printed a copy for you.” She handed me an image that looked similar to those satellite images from outer space that almost look like letters or designs when they’re really river deltas and mountain ranges. Still, it was a step in the right direction.
“Do me a favor and follow up on the other victims’ rape kits,” I told her. “See if they found any DNA we can use as a comparison.” If there was, at least we could determine if it was the same perpetrator—and if he acted alone. I was surprised the lab hadn’t already gotten back to us with results. It was one of my few accomplishments in this era of budget cuts that I’d been able to coordinate our evidence evaluation with the crime lab so that active sexual assault cases went to the top of the queue, second only to homicides.
The techs had resisted at first, complaining that they’d get blamed for any delays in processing other evidence, but quickly found that by doing our cases first, they often cleared several cases at once, helping to ease their backlog. Unfortunate but true: most rapists don’t stop at one assault or one victim.
While we waited for the ICU transport team, I did a quick examination of Jane Doe, taking care not to touch her again. Shari was right, she fit the pattern of our other victims. Restraint abrasions, evidence of electrical burns, ligature marks on her neck, parallel lines of being lashed, and the hallmark all the victims had borne: an oddly patterned circular burn just above her left breast, over her heart, a centimeter and a half in diameter.