The Stolen Ones

by Richard Montanari

  Once the affidavit was checked for anything that might cause the case to be jettisoned if it ever came to that, the ADA had to take it to a judge. Taking it to the right – and available – judge was always tricky. Once a judge signed it, the actual warrant need not be physically taken to the scene.

  Until they got the warrant, all they could do was observe and wait. They could pursue an individual, but they could not enter the premises. Cars came and went. Pedestrians walked up and down the street. None of them was Lucius Winter.

  Byrne tried the man’s number again. The phone just rang. No voicemail, no answering machine.

  They waited.

  Byrne got the call at just after three p.m. They had their warrant.

  The back door of the unmarked van opened, and two SWAT officers exited the vehicle, crossed the road. They wore full urban tactical gear and carried SIG 556 rifles. They flanked the front door of the target house as one of the detectives from North, in body armor, brought a Stinger battering ram up the steps.

  Byrne drew his weapon, deployed to the left of the door, John Shepherd to the right. Byrne counted down a silent three.

  The detective drew back the Stinger, smashed it into the door, just above the lock. The door splintered off the jamb and crashed to the floor.

  ‘Philadelphia Police! Search warrant!’ one of the SWAT officers yelled as they breached the door.

  Byrne and John Shepherd were next to enter.

  In the dim light Byrne saw the layout of the small row house. A living room to the right, stairs left, hallway ahead leading to a kitchen. It was a typical layout, no more than ten feet wide.

  ‘First floor clear!’ one of the SWAT officers yelled. One of them went upstairs; the other, down.

  The only furniture in the front room was two tables, both in front of the windows. On each table was a lamp, no shade. The lamps were plugged into old-school timers, then into the wall sockets. Each lamp had in it what was probably a 25 or 40 watt bulb.

  ‘Basement clear!’ came the shout from the lower level.

  ‘Second floor clear!’

  The house was empty. Byrne and Shepherd holstered their weapons, took a few moments to decelerate. Byrne walked over to one of the lamps, carefully put his hand over the bulb. It was warm. He checked the timer. The lamp was programed to turn on at three in the afternoon, and off at three in the morning.

  While John Shepherd headed upstairs, Byrne went into the kitchen. Like the front room, the kitchen was devoid of any furniture. There was a thick layer of dust on all the counter tops and appliances. Byrne touched the burners on the stove. Stone cold. He opened the refrigerator. It was empty, unplugged.

  A quick check of the cabinets showed nothing but shredded shelf paper and mouse droppings. Byrne turned to see Shepherd coming down the steps.

  ‘Anything upstairs?’ Byrne asked.

  Shepherd shook his head. ‘There’s a bed frame in one of the bedrooms, no mattress. Nothing in the closets.’

  The two men assessed what they had found here, which amounted to nothing. It was clear that no one lived in this house, but the timers on the lamps were there to give the impression that someone did.

  ‘I’m going to check the basement,’ Byrne said.

  ‘Okay,’ Shepherd replied. ‘I’ll call this in.’

  Byrne walked down the narrow stairs. The basement layout mirrored the house above, long and narrow. There was an alcove for the furnace, which looked to be 1950s vintage. There were thick cobwebs in the open ceiling. Byrne ran his Maglite beam around the space. Dust, more shredded paper and droppings, an old card table folded against one of the walls.

  No signs of life.

  Byrne was just about to head back upstairs when something caught his eye on the basement wall that faced the street. Or, more accurately, something did not catch his eye.

  He crossed the room, put his ear to the wall. He took a step back. This made no sense. He went back upstairs, out onto the sidewalk. He was right. The glass block windows at the level of the sidewalk had bars over them.

  Byrne went back inside, stepped off the distance from the front door to the back door. He went downstairs and repeated the exercise. According to his rough calculation there was about three feet – a full stride for him – missing.

  Byrne took out his phone and made the call.

  ‘Tell me about this place,’ Byrne said. ‘Who lives here?’

  Someone had called the building’s landlord, a stout Ukrainian woman who had shown up with a snarling, one-eyed Rottweiler and a bad attitude. John Shepherd explained to the woman the wisdom of keeping the dog a good distance from the men with guns. She tied the dog to a railing three doors down, then returned.

  ‘Mr Winter lives here,’ she said.

  ‘Describe him.’

  The woman shrugged. ‘I haven’t seen him in a while. Long time.’

  ‘He probably looks the same. What did he look like when you last saw him?’

  ‘White man. Ordinary. Little too skinny.’

  ‘How does he pay you?’ Byrne asked.

  ‘I get check every three months.’

  ‘A personal check?’

  She thought about it. ‘No. Money order.’

  ‘Do you make copies?’

  ‘Who does copies? I deposit.’

  ‘How often does Mr Winter come and go?’

  ‘I never see him. He pays rent. Quiet. No problems.’

  ‘No red flags there?’

  ‘What flags?’ the woman asked.

  ‘Christ.’

  The woman pointed at the splintered jamb. ‘Who’s paying for this?’

  ‘I’ll get you a money order,’ Byrne said. ‘We’ll let you know if we need anything else.’

  The three dozen or so dogs under the command of the K-9 Unit of the Philadelphia Police Department were all male, all German shepherds. The dogs were trained in three disciplines – the detection of narcotics, cadavers or explosives. The cadaver dogs were sensitive to any and all human scents, not just those of the deceased.

  At just after four p.m., Sergeant Bryant Paulson arrived with Papa, a seven-year-old shepherd who got his name first for having an unusual amount of gray hair on his snout, even as a puppy, and then had it bronzed due to his rather prodigious ability to sire large litters.

  Papa was the best cadaver dog in the department. He wasn’t in the cellar more than five seconds before he sat down in front of the brick wall that faced the street, alerting his partner, Sergeant Paulson.

  Byrne had been right. There were windows on the outside, but not the inside. The basement wall was false.

  And there was something human behind it.

  An hour later, two officers with CSU began work on the wall. The work was slow, because they were not there for the express purpose of demolition. After determining that the cement block wall was not load bearing, they began with a saw with a silicon carbide blade at the bottom joint of the top row of block. They then cut both vertical joints, tapping out the dried mortar as they went. After removing the top row of block, they made quick work of the rest, which was simply a matter of using cold chisels to tap out the mortar between the blocks.

  When they removed the fifth course, and saw the first bone in the wall, Byrne knew who it was.

  They had just met the shadowy Mr Lucius Winter.

  41

  Luther watched the police from the rooftop of the building across the street.

  He had parked the Toronado – the first car he had ever driven, out one night with Lucius – in another part of the city. He now knew he could never drive it again. When the time was right he would burn it.

  He had one other vehicle, a nondescript ten-year-old van. Like Lucius, the man who first owned the van had once been a patient at Cold River. Luther had buried him in a landfill in New Jersey three years earlier, and had stored the van in a garage he rented in Bridesburg.

  Now he would need it.

  He climbed down the fire escape, cut through an alley,
began to walk down 4th Street, his hands shoved deeply into the pocket of his overcoat. He felt the comfort and heft of the bone-handled knife in its sheath. He tapped the side of the knife, thinking, thinking. He stood at 4th and Diamond, waiting for the light to change. He looked to his left, and saw a horse-drawn cart with wooden wheels, clattering along on the cobblestones. The man driving the rig was wizened, ancient. His corncob pipe billowed gray smoke.

  Luther blinked, and knew that it was not a horse-drawn cart at all, but rather a delivery truck. Painted on its side was a young man and a young woman, their brilliant white teeth glowing in the gray winter light.

  Luther hurried across the street, picked up his pace, the sound of the doctor’s voice echoing in his head.

  You know what you have to do.

  42

  ‘Don’t make me take that phone away from you,’ Colleen Siobhan Byrne signed. ‘I’ve been working out. I can do it.’

  Byrne smiled. She was right. She looked like she could take him in a fair fight.

  ‘Sorry,’ Byrne said. ‘I was supposed to get a call by seven o’clock.’

  The call was coming from the ME’s office, a preliminary report on the human remains found in the false wall. The truth was Byrne was still winding down from the raid on Lucius Winter’s house.

  The two detectives assigned to the case had determined the specifics in short order. After interviewing neighbors, they learned that occasionally there were voices and the sound of a radio coming from the property, but never loud enough to warrant a complaint.

  As far as family was concerned, detectives were able to locate the man’s brother, who told them that after Lucius had done his two stretches in prison, he was all but disowned.

  In addition to his time spent in prison, Lucius Winter had once been an inpatient at the Delaware Valley State Hospital.

  While the murder of Lucius Winter was being investigated by the SIU of the homicide unit, the connection to the current spate of murders was undeniable. The crime scene unit would be working every inch of the man’s house well into the night.

  Byrne turned off his phone. ‘I’m all yours,’ he said.

  ‘I’m the luckiest girl in Philly,’ Colleen signed.

  The waiter brought their salads, and with them what was probably his fifth smile for Colleen Byrne. The kid was about twenty, good-looking. Colleen vamped appropriately. Byrne always got better service when he dined with his daughter.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Colleen said when they were midway through their entrees. ‘I’m thinking about changing my major.’

  Colleen had talked about being a teacher for as long as Byrne could remember. Starting as early as junior high school she had tutored other kids, often inner-city hearing-impaired kids to whom deafness was an even greater obstacle. Quite often, an insurmountable one.

  ‘Why would you want to do that?’ Byrne asked. ‘You’ve always wanted to go into teaching. I thought that was a done deal.’

  Another pause. ‘I’m not sure I’m cut out for it, Dad.’

  ‘What are you talking about? You’re great with kids. You’re great with adults.’

  Colleen shrugged. ‘I don’t think I have the patience.’

  If there was one thing his daughter had it was patience. It was one of the many qualities she had inherited from her mother. She certainly didn’t get it from him.

  ‘Of course you do, honey,’ Byrne said.

  ‘I’m thinking about switching over to business administration.’

  Byrne just nodded. It was one of those moments as a parent that you just had to flow with the conversation. Although, anything that made his daughter happy would make him happy, too, he’d always had his mind and heart set on his daughter becoming a teacher.

  Maybe that was just because he always figured that was what Colleen wanted to do.

  They lingered over coffee, neither wanting the dinner to end. Byrne told Colleen about Violet.

  ‘How old is she again?’

  ‘Maybe two and a half.’

  ‘And she was in the middle of the street?’

  Byrne nodded. ‘Just standing there.’

  ‘Was she okay?’

  ‘As far as we could tell,’ Byrne said. ‘At least, physically. We took her to Children’s Hospital to see Jessica’s cousin Angela. The little girl wasn’t hurt. No cuts, no bruises.’

  ‘Are you sure she isn’t deaf?’

  ‘She isn’t. When Angela examined her, she said the little girl understood everything she said, responded to her requests. She can hear. She just doesn’t talk.’

  Byrne pulled up in front of his ex-wife’s house, where Colleen stayed when she was back in the city. He pulled to the curb, put the car in park. They sat for a while, watched the people scurry along the sidewalks in the rain.

  Colleen butterflied a hand, getting Byrne’s attention. He looked over. She had covertly placed a silver band on the ring finger of her right hand.

  ‘It’s a friendship ring. I’m not engaged, okay?’ she signed.

  The word was a fresh arrow. Byrne imagined it would be for a while, followed by the rest of the quiver – proposal, consideration, marriage, pregnant, grandpa. For as small a target as the human heart might be, there was always room for another barb.

  ‘Okay,’ Byrne said. ‘I just saw the ring on your finger. Freaked me out a little. It was on your right hand, but it was the left side of the screen. Some detective I am.’

  ‘You know you’d be the first person I would tell.’

  ‘Even before your mother?’

  Colleen smiled. ‘I have two hands,’ she signed. ‘I’d find a way to tell you both at the same time.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  Colleen unsnapped her umbrella. ‘Keep me posted on that little girl, okay?’

  ‘I will,’ Byrne said.

  ‘Text me if something happens.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Colleen thought for a few moments. ‘Someone has to come forward. She’s somebody’s little girl.’

  At that moment Byrne knew that his daughter was not going to be a businesswoman.

  Colleen leaned over and gave him a hug and a kiss. She opened her door, got out of the car, closed the door. Byrne rolled down the passenger-side window.

  ‘So, lunch on Friday?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure,’ Colleen signed. ‘I’ll come by the Roundhouse around two.’

  ‘I love you, sweetie.’

  ‘Love you too, Dad.’

  As he watched Colleen walk up the steps, and into his ex-wife’s house, her words resonated.

  She’s somebody’s little girl.

  As Byrne sat at a red light at 10th Street, he picked up the little pink purse. He thought about the process of how it came to be in his hand, at this moment, the journey it had taken. It was designed, manufactured, distributed, put on the shelf in a store, purchased, and given to the little girl.

  Who gave it to her? Who made the half-sandwich?

  In the streetlight coming through the window he looked at the little charm hanging off the zipper, and suddenly felt his chest tighten.

  He pulled over to the curb, the understanding a thunderclap in his mind. He turned the locket over, saw the engraving on the back:

  PPD 3445

  He recalled the words as if he’d heard them yesterday.

  If you’re ever in trouble, just present this to any detective in Philadelphia. They will take care of you.

  It was right there.

  It was right in front of him the whole time.

  How had he missed it?

  43

  The drive north was a slog. Rain plus snow plus slush.

  He stopped at a diner on Route 611 near Tannersville, a twenty-four-hour spoon. It looked clean and inviting.

  As long as the coffee was strong, he would have no complaints.

  She poured him a cup without even asking. He must have had the look. He hadn’t been able to take his mind off the locket since leaving Philadelphia. Somehow he had a
menu in his hands.

  ‘What can I get you, hon?’

  Byrne looked up. The waitress was in her late thirties, dark haired, pretty. He did a quick sweep. No wedding ring. Her laminated nametag read NICA.

  Monica? Veronica? If she smiled, he’d ask.

  Byrne slipped the laminated menu back into the holder. ‘Pancakes and sausage.’

  ‘Links or patties?’

  Her accent was pure eastern Pennsylvania. Byrne wondered if she’d ever been out of Monroe County.

  ‘What would you recommend?’

  Nica looked out the window for a moment. The fog was rolling across Route 611. In this gray light Byrne thought he read a little pain beneath her sunny demeanor. She looked back.

  ‘Me? I’d take the patties.’

  ‘And why is that?’

  ‘Because I see how they’re made.’

  She smiled. Byrne asked.

  ‘So, Nica is short for Monica or Veronica?’

  ‘Actually, it’s short for Dominica.’

  ‘Very pretty.’

  ‘Thanks…’

  Byrne soon realized she was waiting for something. Then it hit him. Man he was getting rusty. ‘Kevin.’

  ‘Kevin,’ she said. ‘It suits you.’

  ‘Thank God,’ Byrne said. ‘I’m way too old to answer to anything else.’

  She smiled again. ‘My husband was a Trooper, you know. Troop N, Hazelton.’

  Byrne nodded. He decided not to ask Nica how she knew he was on the job. He’d given up thinking he looked like anything other than a cop years ago.

  ‘Your husband’s retired?’

  A dark moment passed. Byrne understood. He’d asked the wrong question. Too late now. Damn.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Walt died. In ’09.’

  Byrne hadn’t expected this. Nica looked way too young to be a widow.