The Stolen Ones

by Richard Montanari

  Just as important, if not more so, was the money, which looked to be more than thirty thousand dollars. Had Freitag embezzled it? If so, why hadn’t his murderer come here and torn the place apart looking for it? Had John Garcia cleaned the place up during his one and only visit?

  These were questions neither detective had to ask aloud. They would collect the photographs, and cash, put it all into the chain of evidence, and have it processed.

  Robert Freitag’s secrets were now part of the record.

  Sorry, Mrs Edna Walsh of Forest Hills, New York, Jessica thought. This part of your loving relative’s estate will be tied up for a while longer. Maybe forever.

  As she buttoned her coat, and tried to brace herself for the icy rain, Jessica glanced around the small, forlorn house. Somehow, since the discovery of these ugly pictures, the atmosphere had morphed from one of loneliness into one of despair. She wanted a hot shower. She turned back to her partner.

  ‘So, I can understand hiding the stash of cash, and I can understand not wanting to leave those pictures on the coffee table, but why that page from the Inquirer?’

  ‘Good question, Counselor.’

  Jessica smiled. Counselor. She wondered if she would ever earn that title.

  ‘And why those pictures?’ Jessica asked. ‘There isn’t anything remotely like them in the whole house. No Playboy, no Penthouse, no Hustler. Do they still publish Hustler?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  The photographs and the money now added a sense of direction to the case. Perhaps Robert Freitag was not just at the wrong place at the wrong time after all, an ordinary man who just happened, by the luck of the draw, to cross paths with a madman, someone who would pound a railroad spike into his skull. The elements of money and sex – as it were – had just entered the room.

  Jessica once more pulled from the shelf the copy of Dreams and Memory. She opened it, looked at the inscription.

  Perchance to dream

  Before returning it to the shelf, Jessica glanced at the last page. ‘Kevin.’

  Byrne crossed the room. Jessica held up the book. ‘These drawings,’ she said. ‘These three shapes.’

  Byrne glanced at the book, then down the hallway in which they had found the hidden box in the ceiling. There could be no mistake. The hallway, the light switch to the left, and the square light fixture above.

  ‘It’s a drawing of the hallway and the fixture,’ Byrne said.

  ‘Sure looks like it.’

  ‘It’s as if he left a little treasure map for us,’ Byrne said. ‘He wanted us to find that box.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly, partner.’ Jessica took out a paper evidence bag, and slipped the book inside, adding one more piece of this ever-growing puzzle.

  On the way out to the car Jessica noticed that the front door of the row house next door was open.

  She got Byrne’s attention, then knocked on the screen door. The woman who answered the door was in her late twenties, and had about her the harried look of someone trying to wrangle young children.

  As Jessica introduced herself she heard screaming in the background, accompanied by the loud soundtrack of Finding Nemo. She told the woman she would be brief. She asked what the woman knew about Robert Freitag.

  ‘I told the other detective that I saw him the night that he disappeared.’

  Jessica wanted to correct the woman on Robert Freitag’s ultimate fate, but there was no need. ‘So, you saw him on February twentieth?’

  ‘Was that when it was?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I only know this because Robert would usually get home the same time my husband gets home. The kids are always at the door waiting for Howard. They’re watching the street, I’m watching them. That’s how I know.’

  ‘So Mr Freitag came home that day at the regular time?’ Jessica asked.

  The woman nodded. ‘Yeah. When Howard got home that night I asked him to run up to the store and get a few things. I met him on the porch and gave him a shopping list. I looked up and saw Robert walking down the street.’

  ‘Which direction was he coming from?’

  ‘That way. Like always.’ She pointed toward Allegheny Avenue.

  ‘Was he with anyone?’

  ‘It’s hard to remember clearly now, but I don’t think so. I’m not sure I ever saw him with anyone.’

  ‘What about his hands?’ Jessica asked. ‘Was he carrying anything?’

  The woman shrugged. ‘Sorry. I just can’t remember. I don’t think so.’

  ‘Do you recall what he was wearing?’

  ‘Not really. Probably something black or gray. He was a pretty drab guy.’ She brought a hand to her mouth. ‘I’m sorry. That wasn’t very kind.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Jessica said. She made a few notes. ‘Did your husband know Mr Freitag well?’

  ‘No. He didn’t care too much for the guy.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, it’s not that he didn’t like him. He didn’t really know him. It’s just that he found him a little… creepy.’

  ‘Creepy in what way?’

  ‘He called him a Gloomy Gus.’

  ‘He called him “Gus” because of Robert’s middle name?’ Jessica asked.

  The woman blushed. Admitting this would mean that she probably had scanned the man’s mail, and knew Freitag’s middle name was August. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s just an expression his parents used to use.’

  Jessica put her notepad away. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Again, we thank you for your time.’

  ‘Oh, you’re welcome. I’m just glad that we’re going to have new neighbors.’

  ‘Neighbors?’ Jessica asked.

  ‘Yes, new tenants are moving in next door.’

  ‘There are new tenants moving into Robert’s house?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure,’ she said. ‘Aren’t there?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Jessica said. ‘What makes you think someone is moving in next door?’

  ‘Well, I heard someone in there. I heard talking.’

  Jessica glanced at Byrne, then back at the woman. ‘When did you hear this?’

  The woman thought for a few moments. ‘A couple of days ago. Maybe a week. I just remember thinking to myself that it was a good thing, you know? That the place would be occupied. Less likely for it to be broken into, things like that.’

  ‘You heard talking coming from this house?’ Jessica asked, pointing to Robert’s house. ‘You’re certain it was coming from here?’

  ‘Well, I was until now.’ She gestured to the row house on the other side. ‘I know that Kate and Jennie – they’re the two girls who live on the other side – are not home during the day, so it couldn’t have come from there. So, yeah, I’m sure.’

  Jessica made the mental note. ‘Could you tell if it was the radio or television, or maybe a CD?’

  The woman shrugged. ‘No. Sorry.’

  ‘Not a problem,’ Jessica said. She handed the woman a card. ‘If you think of anything else, please give us a call.’

  ‘Sure thing.’

  Jessica and Byrne walked down to the avenue, around the corner, then down the alleyway behind the houses. When they got to Freitag’s house Jessica looked closely at the seal over the back door. It was intact. She took the seal out of her pocket, the one she had cut off the front door when they arrived, and held it up next to the sticker on the back door. She compared signatures. They were identical.

  There were bars over the windows, and seals on the only two doors.

  ‘So how did she hear anything coming from this place?’ Jessica asked as they walked back to the car.

  ‘Good question,’ Byrne said. ‘On the other hand, it’s a wonder she hears anything at all with that brood.’

  As they reached the corner the rain picked up again. Jessica was frozen to the bone.

  ‘Let’s get this stuff to the ID Unit, and then over to documents,’ she said. ‘Then we’ll go talk to Freitag’s fo
rmer co-workers at CycleLife.’

  While Byrne bundled the material into the trunk of the Taurus, Jessica closed the front door to Robert Freitag’s home, turned the key in the lock. She peeled a fresh sticker, smoothed it in place, signed it.

  She stood on the front steps for a few moments, looking both ways down the street, at the dozens of row houses, the scores of lives. She wondered what secrets were hidden in these houses, how many of them dreams, how many of them nightmares.

  8

  Sixteen years earlier

  ‘I heard something,’ Bean whispered. ‘I know it.’

  ‘No you didn’t.’

  ‘I did so, Tuff.’ Bean threw off her covers, sat on the edge of her bed. ‘I did hear something. In my ears.’

  Tuff flipped on the nightstand lamp. Part of her lot in life was taking care of her little sister when she got scared, which seemed to be all the time these days. She glanced at the clock. It was after midnight. If Mom saw the light under their door they were so dead. ‘What did you hear?’

  Bean shrugged.

  ‘Okay, then. Where did it come from? Under the bed?’

  Bean shook her head.

  ‘Outside?’

  ‘No.’

  Resigned, Tuff sat up, fluffed a pillow behind her. ‘Then where?’

  Bean pointed one small finger in the direction of the closet.

  Tuff looked at the closet, back. This was their routine, and had been almost every night since Bean turned four, nearly six months earlier. That’s when the fear began. That was when their father had died in an accident at his work. That’s when their mother started hiding the brown bottles in the house.

  ‘There’s no one in there, Bean.’

  Bean nodded feverishly, meaning: Oh yes there is, there most certainly is someone in there.

  Tuff got up, put on her slippers, padded over to the window, made a dramatic effort to lift it. ‘See? The window is closed and locked. Locked up really tight. Want to try?’

  Bean shook her head. Tuff again tried to lift the sash. As expected, it didn’t budge. She tapped twice on the intact glass. ‘We’re on the second floor. How would anyone get in here?’

  Bean shrugged.

  Tuff crossed the room, sat on the edge of her bed. She looked into her sister’s clear blue eyes. Their life before their father died suddenly seemed like a million years ago.

  ‘You know I wouldn’t let anything happen to you, don’t you?’

  Bean looked away, at the closet, shrugged again. Tuff put a hand under her sister’s chin, gently turned her head back. ‘Don’t you?’

  This time Bean nodded. ‘I know.’

  ‘Good.’

  Tuff pulled back the covers. Bean got into bed. Tuff then bunched the sheets under her sister’s chin. She picked up Bean’s three favorite bears and aligned them against the wall, a little stuffed army to protect against all invaders: foreign, domestic and imaginary.

  ‘We’ve got to get to sleep,’ Tuff said. ‘Mom’s gonna brain us.’ She picked up a book from the nightstand. It was Goodnight, Moon by Margaret Wise Brown, one of Bean’s favorites. ‘Want a story first?’

  Bean shook her head. Tuff put the book back on the nightstand. She knew what she had to do. If she didn’t, this would go on all night.

  ‘You want me to check the closet?’ she asked.

  Bean nodded.

  Tuff smiled. ‘You are the biggest scaredy-cat in the world, you know that?’

  Bean curled her fingers. ‘Yes.’

  Tuff brushed her sister’s fine blond hair from her forehead, gave her a kiss on the cheek, stood up and crossed the room.

  ‘Ready?’

  Bean covered her eyes. ‘No.’

  ‘Gonna do it anyway.’

  With a dramatic flourish Tuff opened the door to the closet, just to show her little sister that the only things inside were their clothes and their toys. Just like always.

  But this time it wasn’t true.

  This time there was a man inside the closet.

  A tall man in ragged clothes.

  9

  On the way to the crime lab Jessica and Byrne stopped first at the Roundhouse to have the photographs they’d found in Robert Freitag’s attic processed for fingerprints. They also signed the cash into evidence, and locked it down.

  The Forensic Lab was a state-of-the-art, heavily fortified building at 8th and Poplar streets. In the basement was the Firearms Identification Unit; on the first floor was the Crime Scene Unit, Document Examination Unit, the Chem lab – mostly used for the identification of drugs – as well as Criminalistics, which handled the processing of hair and fiber. The first floor was also home to the DNA lab.

  Firearms, Documents and CSU personnel were all sworn law enforcement officers. Everyone else was a civilian.

  Of all the section directors, no one was more flamboyant, or dedicated, than Sergeant Helmut Rohmer. Standing around six-five, he had recently shaved his head, and presented himself as a soft-spoken, lab-dwelling version of Shrek. He was also known for his black T-shirt collection, a wardrobe accessory rumored to be in the hundreds. Today he wore a shirt with the slogan: PART OF THE PROBLEM.

  He insisted you called him Hell.

  When Jessica and Byrne walked into the room, Hell Rohmer had on large, over-the-ear headphones, eyes closed, feet up on his desk.

  Jessica stepped closer, gently tapped Hell on the foot.

  The big man nearly levitated.

  Red-faced, Hell Rohmer scrambled to his feet, knocking over his chair. He turned off his MP3 player, took off his headphones, put them away.

  ‘Uh, hey, detectives. I didn’t see you come in.’ He righted his chair.

  ‘Didn’t mean to scare you,’ Jessica said. This wasn’t entirely true. ‘How is Doni?’

  Donatella Rohmer was Hell’s daughter from his first marriage. If Jessica recalled correctly, she was about twelve or thirteen now.

  Composing himself, Hell straightened a few things on the desk. ‘Well, Doni thinks I’m a dinosaur. Everything her father says and does is totally stupid. Do they ever get over that?’

  Jessica had no idea. She certainly hoped so. Her daughter Sophie was just entering that phase. Hell looked to Byrne for an answer.

  ‘They do,’ Byrne said. ‘Colleen used to feel that way about me. Now she thinks I’m the coolest. She bought me an iPhone 5 for my birthday.’

  ‘Sweet.’

  ‘Now if I could just learn how to use it.’

  ‘Can’t help you there,’ Hell said. ‘I use Windows at work, of course, but at home I’m a Penguin.’

  Jessica and Byrne just stared.

  ‘That’s what they call Linux users. Penguins.’

  Getting no further reaction, Hell leaned back against the examining table. ‘So, to what do I owe the pleasure?’

  Byrne took out the paper evidence bag containing the photographs. He opened the flap, shook the pictures onto the examining table.

  Hell glanced at the photograph on top, the picture of the nude older woman on the rusted cot. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘At least you have a social life.’

  One by one Hell turned over the photographs, each one more disturbing than the previous. When he got to the last picture – the one with the couple on the bed, being watched by the trio of men – Jessica heard him draw a quick breath. ‘Wow.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly,’ Byrne said.

  Hell looked up at the two detectives. ‘What’s the job?’

  Jessica gave Hell a brief rundown on the Robert Freitag homicide.

  ‘A railroad spike?’ Hell asked. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Jessica said. ‘Rusty, no less.’

  Hell took a moment to absorb this. He pointed at the photographs. ‘And where did you find these?’

  ‘In the victim’s house,’ Jessica said. ‘They were in a shoebox, hidden in the ceiling.’

  ‘Was it humid up there?’

  ‘Not particularly. It seemed pretty dry.’

  ‘Were the
y inside anything?’ Hell asked. ‘By that I mean, were they in a plastic bag, or wrapped in newspaper?’

  ‘They were in a plain white envelope,’ Jessica said. ‘It was sealed.’

  ‘Did you bring it?’

  ‘We did.’

  Hell picked up one of the photographs. ‘I take it these have been processed.’

  ‘Yes,’ Jessica said.

  ‘Who did them?’

  ‘Tommy D.’

  Hell Rohmer nodded with something close to reverence. ‘He’s good.’

  It was true. Tom DeMarco was the best print man in the PPD.

  ‘He said he’d red line them for us,’ Jessica added. A red line was a rush job. Jessica said this to give Hell a sense of urgency on the job, even though she had no idea if this material – these strange and grotesque pictures – was evidentiary or not.

  Hell smiled. ‘By us you mean you, right?’

  ‘What can I say? Tommy likes me.’

  ‘Jezebel.’

  Hell angled the overhead light, studied the specimens before him. He put his hands on his hips, his standard posture when standing at the precipice of a new puzzle.

  ‘What can you tell us off the top?’ Jessica asked.

  ‘Well, they’re Polaroids, of course,’ Hell said.

  Holding the pictures by the edges, Hell spread out the photographs on the table. He rearranged them twice, perhaps looking for the order in which they were taken. In the harsh light of the document room the images were even uglier than before.

  ‘I’d say they were mid-seventies vintage,’ Hell said. ‘Maybe a little later. The film is certainly pre-SX70.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Jessica asked. ‘What’s SX70?’

  Hell looked slapped. ‘Don’t you remember those great Polaroid commercials for the SX70? The age of miracles… a pocket-size, folding, electronically controlled, motor-driven, single-lens reflex camera that quite simply does the impossible.’