The Doll Maker (11 page)

Theresa put down the article, looked out the window. Byrne could all but see the conflict doing battle inside her. He understood. The death penalty, and all its attendant emotions – political, spiritual, human – was, and forever would be, a war fought on the fields of the heart.

Theresa turned back to Byrne. ‘Are we absolutely sure she had something to do with Thad’s …’

Byrne wanted to finish her sentence for her. There were only two words. One was
disappearance.
The other was
murder
.

He used neither.

‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s still only a hunch on my part.’

This wasn’t true. It was more than that. It was a belief.

‘But the DNA,’ she said, as if for the first time. ‘In her car.’

There were a number of explanations as to why Thaddeus Woodman’s DNA had been found in Valerie’s car, none of which Byrne, or any other cop, would buy. The boy’s DNA was lifted from four strands of his hair on the upholstery in the back seat.

Byrne had first visited Theresa and her husband John the month after Valerie had been arrested. He had also visited the parents of eight of the twelve other children who had gone missing. During these visits Byrne had requested a personal item belonging to each of the missing children, something from which a DNA test could be run. He did not concern himself, at that time, with the four children who had lived at foster homes, as their clothing, hairbrushes and other personal items were almost always shared, therefore contaminating the sample.

Because the processing of these DNA control models were not part of an active investigation, the city would not authorize – or pay for – the analyses. Byrne had paid for the testing out of his own pocket. There had only been one match.

Thaddeus Woodman.

Byrne turned his coffee cup on the table, searching for the right words. ‘I would like to say I know how your son’s hair got there, but I can’t, Theresa. There’s no proof that Thaddeus was ever in Valerie’s car, or her house, or even in her company.’ He thought about taking a sip of coffee, stalling even longer, but he knew the coffee was cold. ‘It’s possible that Thaddeus came in contact with Thomas Rule somehow, that Thomas introduced the DNA into the car. Maybe the transference took place that way.’

Byrne could hear the uncertainty in his own voice, his disbelief in this implausible theory, and it made him feel dirty.

‘But how would that be possible? They didn’t know each other,’ Theresa said. ‘They went to different schools. We went to different churches, different stores. My God, Thad was only …’

Six
, Byrne thought. He was six years old.

Before Byrne could respond, Theresa continued. ‘And when she … dies, we may never know what happened.’

‘No,’ Byrne replied. He wanted to say more, but there was nothing to say.

They sat in silence for a while, the afternoon trade at Starbucks flowing around them. Every so often Byrne would glance at Theresa Woodman. He noticed that she watched the other women in the coffee shop – women who were about her age, all of whom wore wedding rings – with what looked like a mixture of envy and a terrible sense of longing. He noticed that Theresa did not make eye contact with these women. He understood this. The connection it might make – one that spoke of a shared bond, one that whispered the silent promise that exists between a mother and her child – would be too great to bear.

In the end, Byrne thought, no matter how much you rely on others for support, the inconceivable tragedy of losing a child is something that takes up permanent residence in the darkest corner of your heart, and must be endured alone.

Mr Marseille enjoyed reading newspapers, and he took four of them on a daily basis –
The New York Times
,
The Wall Street Journal
,
USA Today
and, of course
, The Philadelphia Inquirer.

Whenever there was something in which he thought I would be interested – generally speaking, something about fashion or music or theater – he would take out his scissors and carefully clip the article. Often, when he prepared my breakfast – usually something light like oatmeal, or perhaps a butter scone and tea, my favorites – there would be a small pile of articles just waiting for me to read them.

It had been a full day since our gala with Nicole, and we were already preparing for our next tea dance, to be held this coming Saturday.

‘Here’s an interesting item,’ Mr Marseille said.

I loved our mornings together. I always have.

Mr Marseille read from the front section of the
Inquirer
.

‘Police say they have no leads in the investigation of the murder of Nicole Solomon.’

‘Murder?’ I asked.

‘That’s what it says.’

‘Why do they think she was murdered?’

‘It doesn’t say. But the article ends like this: “Police are requesting the public’s help. Anyone with information should call the tip-line listed below. All calls will be kept confidential”.’

‘Do you think we should call?’ I asked.

Mr Marseille considered this for a few moments.

‘I’m not sure that what we could tell them that would be useful.’

He was right, of course. The police tend to be a suspicious lot – and rightfully so, given their jobs – and anything we’d tell them might reflect poorly on Mr Marseille and me.

As I cleared the morning dishes I thought about this strange turn of events. This sort of thing has happened before – not often, I must say, due to the fact that many of the dolls we have mended do not get their names in the newspaper – but whenever it does it fills me with the queerest sensation all day.

Murder
.

I don’t like that word, and I’m certain Mr Marseille does not either.

Jessica spent the morning pushing through the search warrants they needed to follow up on other calls that David Solomon had made in the days leading up to his daughter’s murder, and his own suicide. Because the David Solomon case was not a homicide, these warrants were not given high priority.

The process involved calling, leaving messages, getting voicemail, returning the call, faxing, waiting.

It was maddeningly slow.

While she waited for callbacks, she accessed ViCAP, the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. Maintained by the FBI, ViCAP was the largest investigative repository of major violent crime cases in the U.S designed to collect and analyze information about homicides, sexual assaults, missing persons, and other violent crimes.

Jessica put in details of the Nicole Solomon crime scene. And while there had been many homicides committed by strangulation in the past five or so years – a dozen or so using a stocking as a ligature – none included the signature of a painted bench, or the presence of a handwritten note.

She made a note to try again as more forensic data came in.

At ten o’clock, as Jessica and Byrne crossed the lobby of the Roundhouse, Jessica noticed a woman speaking to the desk sergeant. The woman looked familiar, but at first Jessica wasn’t sure where she knew her from. Then it registered. It was Annie Stovicek, the woman who had been their sole witness at the Shawmont crime scene. Today, instead of her jogging outfit, she wore a dark suit and overcoat.

When the woman saw Jessica and Byrne she looked up, offered a nervous smile. Jessica and Byrne stepped through the security checkpoint, into the outer lobby.

‘Mrs Stovicek. What brings you here?’ Byrne asked.

‘I was coming to see you, actually.’

‘What can we do for you?’

‘Well, after you left the other day, I took Miranda to her day care, then went to work. Needless to say, I didn’t get much done.’

‘That’s completely understandable.’

‘Later in the day I went to take a photo with my phone – we’re remodeling, and I take pictures of things like bathroom vanities and kitchen countertops I like and send them to my husband – and when I opened the folder that has my recent photos I saw a picture I’d forgotten I’d taken.’

Jessica and Byrne just listened.

Annie Stovicek continued. ‘You see, when we were down by the river, I took a picture.’

‘That morning?’

‘No. It was the night before. Late. I was with Ajax.’

‘Ajax?’

‘I’m sorry. Ajax is my dog. He’s a Sheltie.’

‘And you took a photograph of him?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘As I said, it was late. Maybe midnight. I couldn’t sleep.’

‘You have the photo with you?’

‘Yes.’ She took out her cell phone, tapped an icon. ‘I didn’t notice it at first, I guess because I wasn’t looking for it.’

‘Notice what?’

She turned the phone to face the two detectives. The photo was a medium close-up of a young Sheltie. Behind the dog was parked a white, late model Honda Accord.

‘Can you enlarge this a little?’ Jessica asked.

‘Sure,’ Annie said. She pinched two fingers, spread them. The photo, which was of a high resolution, enlarged. In the moonlight, the car’s license plate was perfectly readable. It was an up-to-date Pennsylvania tag. Jessica wrote down the number.

‘Did you notice if anyone was in the car at the time?’ Byrne asked.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’

‘That’s okay. And you didn’t see anyone near it?’

‘No. We were only down there a few seconds.’

Jessica recalled walking the site the morning after the picture was taken. When she had gone down to the river there was no car parked there. She glanced again at the photograph on the phone. There did not appear to be anything on the ground near the driver’s side.

Still, it was worth checking. ‘I’ll call it in,’ Byrne said. He headed across the main lobby, took out his phone.

‘Is there anything else you can remember about the car?’ Jessica asked. ‘Did you see it arrive? Did you see it leave?’

Annie shook her head. ‘No. To be honest, I don’t really remember it even being there. I remember seeing it for the first time when I saw that picture.’

‘And you don’t recall seeing it before or since?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’

‘That’s okay,’ Jessica said. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Byrne crossing the lobby. She knew his stride. He had something. Jessica turned back to the woman. ‘Mrs Stovicek, I can’t tell you how much we appreciate this. Not everyone would be this civic-minded.’

‘Do you think that car – or the person who was in that car – had anything to do with …’

‘Probably not,’ Jessica replied. ‘But we have to rule out everyone and everything.’

Jessica took out a card, wrote her business email on the back. ‘When you have a moment, could you send me that picture?’

She took the card. ‘Sure. No problem.’ Annie Stovicek buttoned her coat, slipped on her gloves. ‘Okay, then. Good luck.’

‘Thanks again.’

A little awkwardly, as if she might have been waiting to be dismissed, Annie Stovicek turned on her heels and walked through the double doors, out into the rear parking lot.

‘Did she remember anything else?’ Byrne asked.

‘No.’ Jessica turned to her partner. ‘We have something, don’t we?’

‘Am I that obvious?’

‘Seriously?’

Byrne cleared his throat, consulted his notebook. ‘The tag is registered to one Jeffrey Claude Malcolm, twenty-one, currently residing on Nineteenth Street in South Philly.’

‘Any wants or warrants?’

‘Funny you should ask. Mr Malcolm is currently out on bail.’

‘What for?’

‘He attempted to lure an underage girl into his car in September.’

The building was a newer three-story rehab in an older block of row houses on Nineteenth Street near Reed Street. Because the city had mandated off-street parking for some new construction, a number of newer row homes had been built with single car garages.

The address for which Jessica and Byrne were looking had a narrow garage as its first floor, essentially replacing what had one time been a front porch. Jessica and Byrne parked about a block away, scanned the street for their target car. They did not see it.

On the way they had called dispatch and requested a pair of sector cars to troll the streets and commercial parking lots for two blocks in all directions. None had spotted a white Honda Accord with the corresponding license plate.

As they approached the address, Jessica peeked into the window of the attached garage. It was empty. A quick scan of the second and third floors showed white honeycomb blinds, all lowered.

Byrne stepped up to the front door, put his ear near the jamb. Apparently hearing nothing, he rang the bell. After a few moments the door opened.

Jeffrey Malcolm looked younger than twenty-one. He had dark hair, dark eyes, and wore the vest and trousers from a well tailored suit, white shirt, burgundy tie. Before saying anything the man looked at Byrne, then around the big man at Jessica.

He knew.

‘Are you Jeffrey Malcolm?’ Byrne asked.

Through the screen door. ‘Do I need my lawyer?’

Byrne gave it a few seconds. ‘You need a lawyer to figure out whether or not you’re Jeffrey Malcolm?’

Malcolm looked down for a moment, at his highly polished shoes. He looked up. ‘What is this about?’

Even though it was clearly unnecessary, Byrne produced his badge, introduced himself and Jessica. ‘For the second and final time,’ Byrne said. ‘Are you Jeffrey Malcolm?’

‘Yes,’ Malcolm said. ‘But my preliminary hearing is next week. I’m sure whatever this is about can—’

‘This is another matter,’ Byrne said. ‘We need to ask you a few questions.’

Malcolm’s shoulders sagged. He opened the door wide. Jessica and Byrne stepped inside. The front room was empty, save for a number of movers’ boxes stacked against the far wall.

‘Moving in or out?’ Jessica asked. She knew the answer to her question – if Malcolm was moving in there was only a slight chance that this address would have flagged when they ran the license plate.

‘Moving out,’ he said. ‘I found a place up in Bustleton.’

Already answering questions that hadn’t been asked, Jessica thought.

‘Do you own a white Honda Accord, Mr Malcolm?’ she asked.