The Doll Maker

by Richard Montanari

  But even in this age of enlightenment, not to mention Rosetta Stone, speaking French was apparently not a common or highly prized skill set in the PPD. Spanish and Arabic, yes.

  Byrne handed back the card. Jessica gave it another quick scan. She brought it to her nose, sniffed it. ‘It has a scent,’ she said. ‘Kind of familiar. Gardenia maybe?’

  Byrne shrugged. ‘Can I see the envelope?’

  Jessica handed it to him.

  Byrne held it up to the light, gently worked the flap.

  ‘This has not been opened more than once or twice,’ he said. ‘And it hasn’t ever been opened fully.’

  He was right. There were no creases other than the factory crease at the top.

  Byrne angled it again to the sun, looking at the surface. Because it was a linen finish, the potential for latent prints was good.

  Jessica glanced down the path that led to the river. Josh Bontrager and Maria Caruso were walking up, toward the station. They had canvassed the few residences on Nixon Street, as well as the houses and small commercial buildings on Shawmont Avenue. They approached the area where Jessica and Byrne were standing. Jessica made eye contact with Josh. He shook his head. They had not learned anything.

  Staggering the interviews by four hours, over the next twenty-four, would give investigators a blanket coverage of the area – who came and went, when they did so, and what, if anything, they had seen.

  Since the massive Shawmont Pumping Station had been razed, the number of curiosity seekers taking the path down to the river had dropped significantly. The pumping station had been a destination for rendezvous, both covert and romantic, as well as drug dealing.

  As the two detectives joined Jessica and Byrne, one of the uniformed officers, P/O Kasky, approached.

  ‘CSU asked me to bring this over.’

  It was a small leatherette case, a delicate billfold of sorts. ‘Where was it?’ Byrne asked.

  ‘It was in the victim’s skirt pocket.’

  ‘Right or left?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  ‘Any other contents?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Kasky handed it to Byrne, who flipped it open. Inside was a school ID, along with an emergency contact number. The ID had a photo on the left.

  ‘Is that her?’ the officer asked, glancing toward the river.

  A few minutes ago he couldn’t look at the victim, Jessica thought. Now he was having a hard time looking at his fellow officers. This was clearly tough for him.

  Byrne looked at the picture on the school ID.

  It was her.

  The dead girl’s name was Nicole Solomon.

  As Byrne signed off on the crime scene log, and took down contact information from Annie Stovicek, Jessica walked back to the car. She turned and looked once again at the tableau. From her vantage she could see both the victim, Nicole Solomon, and the little girl in the bicycle carrier, Miranda Stovicek.

  Two girls.

  One beginning her life, one whose life was over.

  6

  The house was a two-story red brick row home on a gentrified block in the Bella Vista section of South Philadelphia, just a few blocks from where Jessica had grown up on Catharine Street, where her father still lived.

  On the way to make the notification, Jessica called Dana Westbrook and gave her a status report. She was told that, within the hour, Nicole Solomon’s body would be transported to the morgue, which was located at the Medical Examiner’s office on University Avenue.

  When Jessica and Byrne arrived at just before noon the sun shone brightly, the trees that lined the street were in full autumn burn.

  Before driving to South Philly, they had checked to see if there had been a missing person’s report for a girl matching Nicole’s description. They learned that David Solomon, the girl’s father, had called 911 at just after midnight.

  Byrne stood on the small porch, rang the bell. Jessica stood behind him. Jessica noted a mezuzah on the right side of the doorframe. After a few moments the door opened. A man in his late forties stood before them. He had close-cropped black hair, threaded with silver, and wore a navy sleeveless V-neck sweater, white oxford cloth shirt, and tan Dockers.

  ‘Are you David Solomon?’ Byrne asked.

  ‘Yes,’ the man said. ‘I am.’

  Byrne took out his ID. ‘Sir, my name is—’

  ‘It’s her, isn’t it?’

  Byrne stopped. ‘I’m sorry?’

  Solomon turned and pointed at the television behind him in the living room. The picture showed a live shot of the Shawmont train station, taken from just outside the police cordon. The crawl on the lower third of the screen read: ‘Body of missing girl found.’

  David Solomon turned back to the two detectives. ‘It’s her, isn’t it?’

  Byrne asked: ‘Mr Solomon, do you have a daughter named Nicole?’

  The man did not answer. He just raised a hand to his mouth.

  Byrne held up the girl’s school photo ID. ‘Is this your daughter, sir?’

  A few seconds later the man nodded slowly.

  ‘I’m sorry to say that, yes, the news report is about your daughter.’

  Solomon closed his eyes. A single tear coursed down his right cheek.

  ‘May we come in, sir?’ Byrne asked.

  Without a word, Solomon stepped to the side. Jessica and Byrne entered the front room. The room was well lived in, comfortable. The furniture was older, but solid and good quality. The area over the sofa was cluttered with family photographs. Jessica immediately recognized a half-dozen photographs of Nicole – as a toddler on the beach, a gap-toothed grin at about seven or eight, as a twelve-year-old at what looked to be a piano recital.

  ‘First off, Mr Solomon, on behalf of the PPD and the city of Philadelphia, I’d like to say how sorry we are for your loss,’ Byrne said.

  David Solomon leaned forward. His hands dangled at his side, as if he did not know what to do with them.

  Jessica had seen it too many times. Productive people, active people, blue-collar and white-collar, people who made things, fixed things, put things into their proper places suddenly, when faced with a shattering loss, had no idea what to do with their hands. Some clasped their hands in front of them in supplication or prayer, some shoved their hands into their pockets, perhaps to keep from lashing out at total strangers, or the world at large.

  Some, like David Solomon, simply let his hands float in space.

  ‘I know that this is a terrible time for you,’ Byrne said. ‘We just have a few questions for you, and then we will leave you to your family and your arrangements.’

  For a few moments, Solomon stared at Byrne. He seemed to be processing the information. Then he nodded.

  ‘Is there anyone else here today?’ Byrne asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘My mother, Adinah.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  Solomon pointed into a small room off the living room. There sat an older woman in a wheelchair. She was staring out the window. Jessica had not even noticed her when they entered the house.

  ‘She has Alzheimer’s,’ Solomon added. ‘It’s not good.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Byrne said. He took a few moments. ‘Now, some of the questions I’m going to ask you will seem terribly personal. Even invasive. I’m afraid they are necessary. What we’re trying to do is get as much information as we can, as quickly as we can.’

  Solomon nodded again.

  ‘Are you currently married?’ Byrne asked.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I am widowed.’

  ‘Do you have any other children?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Nicole was my only child.’

  The second wave of grief seemed to land when he said this. He tried to hold back the tears. He could not.

  While Byrne gave the man time to compose himself, he made a few notes. As he did this Jessica had to the opportunity to look a little more closely at the room. She saw that the stairs had a motorized lift, for, she figure
d, Adinah Solomon. She also noticed that all the doorways had been widened for the woman’s wheelchair.

  ‘We have just a few more questions for now,’ Byrne said. ‘May I ask what you do for a living?’

  ‘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.’<
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  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.