Broken Angels jbakb-3

by Richard Montanari

  Two women. In a department as politically sensitive as the PPD, having two female detectives working a case in this bright a spotlight was smart.

  Besides, Byrne thought, it might take some of the media attention away from the fact that there was a compulsive killer walking the streets.

  There was now full agreement that the pathology of the river killings was rooted in the stories of Hans Christian Andersen. But how were the victims being selected?

  Chronologically Lisette Simon had been the first victim. She had been left on the bank of the Schuylkill in the Southwest.

  The second victim had been Kristina Jakos, placed on the bank of the Schuylkill in Manayunk. The victim's amputated feet were found on the Strawberry Mansion Bridge, which spans the river.

  Victim number three was Tara Grendel, abducted from a Center City parking garage, murdered, then left on the bank of the Schuylkill, in Shawmont.

  Was the killer leading them upriver?

  Byrne marked the three crime scenes on a map. There was a long stretch of the river between the Southwest scene and the Manayunk scene, the two sites they believed represented the first two murders chronologically.

  "Why the long stretch of river between dump sites?" Bontrager asked, reading Byrne's thoughts.

  Byrne ran his hand along the crooked length of the river. "Well, we can't be sure there isn't a body in here somewhere. But my guess is that there aren't too many places to pull over and do what he had to do without being seen. Nobody really looks at the area beneath the Platt Bridge. The Flat Rock Road scene is shielded from the expressway and the road. The Shawmont pump house is totally secluded."

  It was true. As the river passed through the city, its banks were visible from many vantage points. Especially on Kelly Drive. Nearly all year that stretch was frequented by joggers, rowers, cyclists. There were places to pull over, but the road was rarely deserted. There was always traffic.

  "So he was looking for privacy," Bontrager said.

  "Exactly," Byrne said. "And enough time."

  Bontrager sat at a computer, maneuvered his way over to Google Maps. The further the river got from the city, the more secluded were its banks.

  Byrne studied the satellite map. If the killer was leading them up- river, the question remained: To where? The distance between the Shawmont pump station and the headwaters of the Schuylkill River had to be nearly one hundred miles. There were lots of places to hide a body and not be seen.

  And how was he choosing his victims? Tara had been an actress. Kristina had been a dancer. There was a connection there. Both had been performers. Entertainers. But the connection ended with Lisette. Lisette was a mental-health professional.

  Age?

  Tara had been twenty-eight. Kristina had been twenty-four. Lisette had been forty-one. Too much of a range.

  Thumbelina. The Red Shoes. The Nightingale.

  Nothing tied the women together. Nothing on the surface, at least. Except the fables.

  The scant information on Sa'mantha Fanning did not lead them in any obvious direction. She was nineteen years old, unmarried, had a six-month-old son named Jamie. The boy's father was a loser named Joel Radnor. He had a short sheet-a few drug possession charges, one simple assault, nothing else. He had been in Los Angeles for the past month.

  "What if our guy is some kind of stage-door Johnny?" Bontrager asked.

  It had crossed Byrne's mind, even if he knew the theater angle was a long shot. These victims had not been chosen because they'd been acquainted with each other. They had not been selected because they'd frequented the same clinic, or church, or social club. They'd been chosen because they had fit the killer's terribly warped story. They had answered a body type, a visage, a countenance that satisfied an ideal.

  "Do we know if Lisette Simon did any kind of theater?" Byrne asked.

  Bontrager got to his feet. "I'll find out." He left the duty room as Tony Park entered with a thicket of computer printouts in hand.

  "This is everyone who Lisette Simon worked with at the mental- health clinic in the past six months," Park said.

  "How many names are in there?" Byrne asked.

  "Four hundred sixty-six."

  "Jesus Christ."

  "He's the only one not in there."

  "Let's see if we can't whittle that down to males eighteen to fifty for starters."

  "You got it."

  An hour later they had the list reduced to a manageable ninety-seven names. They began the mind-numbing task of running a variety of checks-PDCH, PCIC, NCIC-on each of them.

  Josh Bontrager spoke to Ruben Simon. Ruben's late wife, Lisette, had never been involved with the theater.

  66

  The temperature had dropped a few more degrees and the storage locker was even more like a refrigerator. Jessica's fingers were turning blue. As awkward as it made it to work with paper, she put her leather gloves on.

  The last box she looked in had some water damage. It contained a single accordion folder. Inside were damp photocopies of files taken from the murder books of victims over the past twelve years or so. Jessica opened the folder to the most recent section.

  Inside were two eight by ten black-and-white photographs, both of the same stone building, one shot from a few hundred feet away, one much closer. The photos were curled with water damage and had DUPLICATE stamped across the upper right. They were not official PPD photographs. The structure in the photograph appeared to be a farmhouse; the long shot revealed that it sat on a gently sloping hill, with a line of snow-covered trees in the background.

  "Have you run across any other pictures of this house?" Jessica asked.

  Nicci looked closely at the photographs. "No. Haven't seen it."

  Jessica flipped one of the pictures over. On the back was a series of five numbers, the last two of which were obscured by water damage. The first three numbers appeared to be 195. A zip code, maybe? "Do you know where the 195 zip code is?" she asked.

  "195," Nicci said. "Berks County, maybe?"

  "That's what I was thinking."

  "Whereabouts in Berks?"

  "No idea."

  Nicci's pager went off. She unclipped it, read the message. "It's the boss," she said. "You have your phone with you?"

  "You don't have a phone?"

  "Don't ask," Nicci said. "I've lost three in the last six months. They're gonna start docking me."

  "With me it's pagers," Jessica said.

  "We'll make a good team."

  Jessica handed Nicci her cell phone. Nicci stepped out of the storage locker to make the call.

  Jessica glanced back at one of the photographs, the one showing a closer view of the farmhouse. She flipped it over. On the back were three letters, nothing else.

  ADC.

  What does that mean? Jessica wondered. Aid to Dependent Children? American Dental Council? Art Director's Club?

  Sometimes Jessica hated the way cops thought. She'd been guilty of it herself in the past, the abbreviated notes you wrote to yourself in a case file, with the intention of fleshing them out at a later date. Detectives' notebooks always went into evidence, and the thought that a case might hang on something you wrote in a hurry at a red light while balancing a cheeseburger and a cup of coffee in the other hand was always a challenge.

  But, when Walt Brigham had made these notes, he had no idea another detective would one day be reading and trying to make sense of them-a detective investigating his homicide.

  Jessica flipped over the first photograph again. Just those five numbers. The numbers 195 followed by what might have been a 72 or a 78. Perhaps 18.

  Did the farmhouse have something to do with Walt's murder? It was dated a few days before his death.

  Gee thanks, Walt, Jessica thought. You go and get yourself killed and you leave the investigating detectives a Sudoku puzzle to figure out. 195. ADC.

  Nicci stepped back in, handed Jessica her phone.

  "That was the lab," she said. "We struck out on Walt's car."
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br />   Square one, forensically speaking, Jessica thought.

  "But they told me to tell you that the lab ran some further tests on the blood found on your multiples," Nicci added.

  "What about it?"

  "They said the blood is old."

  "Old?" Jessica asked. "What do you mean, old?"

  "Old as in whoever it belonged to has probably been dead a long time."

  67

  Roland wrestled with the devil. And while it was a daily occurrence for a man of faith such as himself, today the devil had him in a headlock.

  He had looked at all the photos at the police station, hoping for a sign. He had seen so much evil in those eyes, so many blackened souls. All of them spoke to him of their deeds. None had spoken of Charlotte.

  But it could not be coincidence. Charlotte had been found on the bank of the Wissahickon, posed as if she had been some doll in a story.

  And now the river killings.

  Roland knew that the police would eventually catch up with Charles and him. He had been blessed all these years, blessed with his stealth, his righteous heart, his endurance.

  He would receive a sign. He was sure of it.

  The good Lord knew that time was of the essence.

  "I've never been able to go back down there."

  Elijah Paulson was telling the harrowing tale of the time he had been assaulted while walking home from the Reading Terminal Market.

  "Maybe one day, with the Lord's blessing, I will be able to. But not now," Elijah Paulson said. "Not for a good long while."

  This day the victim's group had only four participants. Sadie Pierce, as always. Old Elijah Paulson. A young woman named Bess Schrantz, a North Philly waitress whose sister had been brutally assaulted. And Sean. He sat outside the group, as he often did, listening. But this day there seemed to be something churning beneath his surface.

  When Elijah Paulson sat down, Roland turned to Sean. Perhaps at last this was the day that Sean was ready to tell his story. A hush fell upon the room. Roland nodded. After a minute or so of fidgeting, Sean stood, began.

  "My father left us when I was small. When I was growing up it was just my mother, my sister, and myself. My mother worked at a mill. We didn't have a lot, but we got by. We had each other."

  The members of the group nodded. No one here was well off.

  "One summer day we went to this small amusement park. My sister loved to feed the pigeons and the squirrels. She loved the water, the trees. She was gentle that way."

  As Roland listened, he could not bring himself to look at Charles.

  "That afternoon she wandered off, and we couldn't find her," Sean continued. "We looked everywhere. Then it got dark. Later that night they found her in the woods. She… she had been killed."

  A murmur skirted the room. Words of sympathy, sorrow. Roland found that his hands were trembling. Sean's story was nearly his own.

  "When did this happen, Brother Sean?" Roland asked.

  After taking a moment to compose himself, Sean said, "This was in 1995."

  Twenty minutes later the meeting wrapped with a prayer and a blessing. The faithful filed out.

  "Bless you," Roland said to all of them at the door. "See you on Sunday." The last person through was Sean. "Do you have a few moments, Brother Sean?"

  "Sure, Pastor."

  Roland closed the door, stood in front of the young man. A few long moments later, he asked, "Do you know what an important day this has been for you?"

  Sean nodded. It was clear that his emotions were not far from the surface. Roland took Sean in an embrace. Sean sobbed softly. When the tears ran their course, they broke the embrace. Charles crossed the room, handed Sean a box of tissues, retreated.

  "Can you tell me more about what happened?" Roland asked.

  Sean bowed his head for the moment. When he looked up, he glanced around the room and leaned forward, as if to share a secret. "We always knew who did it, but they never could find any evidence. The police, I mean."

  "I see."

  "Well, it was the sheriff 's office that did the investigating. They said they never found enough evidence to arrest anyone."

  "Where are you from exactly?"

  "It was near a little village called Odense."

  "Odense?" Roland asked. "Like the town in Denmark?"

  Sean shrugged.

  "Does this person still live there?" Roland asked. "The person you suspected?"

  "Oh, yes," Sean said. "I can give you the address. Or I can even show you, if you like."

  "That would be good," Roland said.

  Sean looked at his watch. "I have to work today," he said. "But I can go tomorrow."

  Roland glanced at Charles. Charles left the room. "That will be fine."

  Roland walked Sean toward the door, his arm around the young man's shoulders.

  "Did I do the right thing in telling you, Pastor?" Sean asked.

  "Oh my, yes," Roland said, opening the door. "It was the right thing to do." He held the young man in another deep embrace. He found that Sean was shaking. "I'll take care of everything."

  "Okay," Sean said. "Tomorrow then?"

  "Yes," Roland replied. "Tomorrow."

  68

  In his dream they have no faces. In his dream they stand in front of him, statuary, statuesque, unmoving. In his dream he cannot see their eyes, but nevertheless knows they are looking at him, accusing him, demanding justice. Their silhouettes cascade into the fog, one after the other, a grim, unflinching still-life army of the dead.

  He knows their names. He recalls the position of their bodies. He remembers their smells, the way their flesh felt beneath his touch, the way their waxy skin, in death, did not respond.

  But he cannot see their faces.

  And yet their names echo in his dream-chamber of remembrance. Lisette Simon, Kristina Jakos, Tara Grendel.

  He hears a woman crying softly. It is Sa'mantha Fanning, and there is nothing he can do to help her. He sees her walking down the hallway. He follows, but with every step the corridor grows, lengthens, darkens. He opens the door at the end, but she is gone. In her place is a man carved of shadows. He draws his weapon, levels, aims, fires.

  Smoke.

  Kevin Byrne woke with a start, his heart pounding in his chest. He glanced at the clock. It was 3:50 AM. He looked around his bedroom. Empty. No specters, no ghosts, no shambling parade of corpses.

  Just the dream-sound of water, just the knowledge that all of them, all the faceless dead in the world, were standing in the river.

  69

  On the morning of the last day of the year the sun was bone pale. The weather forecast predicted a snowstorm.

  Jessica was off duty, but her mind was not. Her thoughts jumped from Walt Brigham to the three women found on the banks of the river to Sa'mantha Fanning. Sa'mantha had still not been found. The department did not hold out much hope that she was still alive.

  Vincent was on duty; Sophie was bundled off to her grandfather's house for New Year's Eve. Jessica had the place to herself. She could do whatever she wanted.

  So why was she sitting in her kitchen, nursing her fourth cup of coffee, thinking about the dead?

  At just after eight o'clock there was a knock at her door. It was Nicci Malone.

  "Hey," Jessica said, more than a little surprised. "Come on in."

  Nicci stepped inside. "Man, it's cold."

  "Coffee?"

  "Oh, yeah."

  They sat at the dining room table. Nicci had brought a number of files.

  "There's something here you should see," Nicci said. She was pumped.

  She opened a large envelope, took out a few photocopied pages. They were pages from Walt Brigham's notebook. Not his official detective's book, but a second, personal notebook. The last entry regarded the Annemarie DiCillo case, dated two days before Walt's murder. The notations were in Walt's now familiar cryptic hand.

  Nicci had also signed out the DiCillo PPD homicide case file. Jessica scanned it.
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  Byrne had told Jessica about the case, but seeing the details made her sick. Two little girls at their birthday party in Fairmount Park in 1995. Annemarie DiCillo and Charlotte Waite. They had walked into the forest, and never walked out. How many times had Jessica taken her own daughter to the park? How many times had she taken her eyes off Sophie just for a second?

  Jessica looked at the crime-scene photographs. The girls were found near the base of a pine tree. Close up photographs showed what appeared to be a makeshift nest built around them.

  There were a few dozen witness statements from families that were in the park that day. No one seemed to have seen anything. The little girls were there one minute, and the next they were gone. Police were called at about 7 PM that evening, and a tender-age search was conducted, involving two officers and dogs from the K-9 unit. At 3 AM the next morning the girls were found near the bank of the Wissahickon Creek.

  Over the next few years there were periodic entries into the file, mostly from Walt Brigham, some from his partner John Longo. Each of the entries was similar. Nothing new.

  "Look." Nicci took out the photographs of the farmhouse, flipped them over. On the back of one picture was the partial zip code. On the other were the three letters ADC. Nicci pointed to a timeline in Walt Brigham's notes. Among the many bits of shorthand were the same letters: ADC.

  ADC was Annemarie DiCillo.

  A jolt of electricity shot through Jessica. The farmhouse had something to do with Annemarie's murder. And Annemarie's murder had something to do with Walt Brigham's death.

  "Walt was getting close." Jessica said. "He was murdered because he was closing in on the killer."

  "Bingo."

  Jessica considered the evidence and the theory. Nicci was probably right. "What do you want to do?" she asked.

  Nicci tapped the picture of the farmhouse. "I want to take a ride to Berks County. Maybe we can find this house."