The Doll Maker (34 page)

They followed Cahill’s departmental sedan, which rode at a respectful and legal sixty miles per hour the entire way.

Cahill left the turnpike, took the spur to the other side – the southbound side – and pulled into the rest area. The stop had a huge parking lot, in which a half-dozen or so eighteen-wheel rigs were parked.

There was also a fueling station, an RV dump, and a small diner called Dot’s.

They all exited their cars, slipped on their winter gloves. Cahill put on a knit watch cap. The temperature had dropped fifteen or so degrees in the past hour.

Cahill led them to a far end of the lot where a worn-out big rig sat. It was the kind of semi with a studio sleeper behind the driver compartment.

A pair of Pennsylvania state troopers sat in their car next to the truck, engine running for heat.

‘The rig has been here about three weeks,’ Cahill said. ‘The owner of the diner – who leases the lot from the Commonwealth – was going to call in the plates to see if he could contact the owner and get it off the lot, but there are no plates.’

‘Has this happened to him before?’

Cahill shook his head. ‘People don’t abandon eighteen-wheelers. Not like some rusted out old Toyota. Even one in this shape could fetch eighty grand.’

‘When did he suspect something was wrong?’ Byrne asked.

‘He said he came out to look in the truck last night, opened the driver’s door, and freaked out.’

Cahill opened the driver’s door.

‘There was blood all over the wheel, the door handle. Forensics say there were trace amounts leading toward that path, but not enough to make a match.’

Cahill walked over to his car, reached inside, took out a large envelope. He opened it, handed Byrne a document.

When Jessica looked at the photocopy, a shiver went up her spine. She thought about how it had surfaced more than forty miles away from any of the other crime scenes.

The date coincided with the Nicole Solomon murder.

You are invited! 

November 16 

See you at our
thé dansant!
 

‘Your open investigation was posted on our secure site, so when the state police logged on and put in the information, it flagged,’ Cahill said. ‘State called us, we called you.’

‘Much appreciated,’ Byrne said.

‘It looks like the same handwriting,’ Cahill said.

Cahill went on to tell Jessica and Byrne that he’d sent exemplars to the FBI document section at Quantico. Their databases and resources were vastly superior to any municipal police department’s.

‘We’ll run it by our documents examiner, but it looks identical,’ Byrne said. He held it up. ‘Where was this found?’

‘It was in the visor on the driver’s side.’ Cahill reached into the truck’s cab, flipped down the visor. Clipped there was a smudged, half-silvered mirror, as well as an index card of a logo, a tongue coming out of the back of an eighteen-wheeler. Beneath the logo it said
Rolling Stoned, LLC
.

‘Rolling Stoned,’ Byrne asked.

‘We’re looking into it,’ Cahill said.

‘And the truck was unlocked?’ Byrne asked.

Cahill nodded.

Jessica could see the black powder on the visor. The truck had been processed for prints.

‘After the diner owner – his name is Richard Kendall – saw the blood on the door and the seat, he called the state troopers. When they didn’t show within ten minutes or so, he admits that his morbid curiosity got the better of him. He walked the path over there. The snow had melted a bit, and that’s when he found the bodies.’

‘How long do you think they’ve been out there?’ Byrne asked.

‘Our anthropology team says three weeks, give or take.’

‘Can you show us where they were?’

They walked across the parking lot, into the forest. The path was about three feet wide, but not paved. It was a hardpan clay, well traveled.

‘Is there something back here?’ Jessica asked, pointing to the other end of the path.

‘There’s a tavern, not part of the township,’ Cahill said. ‘You can’t sell liquor within a mile of these rest stops, but that only counts for establishments in the same township.’

The yellow tape ringed an area about fifty by fifty feet where the bodies were found.

Cahill took out the crime scene photos. They were grotesque.

The dead woman looked to be in her forties. She wore a short denim shirt and jacket, no blouse. Her face looked to have been severely burned. She had no eyes.

‘Any ID on her?’ Byrne asked.

Cahill consulted his notes. ‘The victim is Deirdre Emily Reese, forty-six, late of Richlandtown. We talked to the manager of the tavern, and learned that Ms Reese was last seen there on the night of November eleven in the company of the other victim.’

‘Hate to be indelicate, but was she a working girl?’ Byrne asked.

‘The bartender says yes, but added he hadn’t seen her in maybe a year. I ran a check and found out she had done nine months for soliciting and possession, getting out of county just this past October.’

‘What about the other victim?’

‘No ID, and nothing in the truck. Running the VIN.’

‘Where are the bodies now?’

‘They’re at the county coroner’s office. We have a team and equipment on the way from Quantico. The county’s not really equipped to perform an autopsy on victims that are this compromised.’

Jessica glanced again at the photographs. The dead man’s face was all but obliterated. It was clear that any number of animals had been at him. But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was that his arms and legs had been severed from the trunk of his body, and were stacked in a neat pile next to him.

Jessica pointed at the photo. ‘Any idea on a weapon?’

‘Team says an ax, perhaps a machete,’ Cahill said.

‘Nice,’ Jessica said. She held up the photos. ‘Can we get copies of these?’

‘You’re holding them.’

‘Call us if and when you make an ID,’ Byrne said. ‘We’ll be working on that on our end, too.’

‘Sure thing,’ Cahill said.

‘Thanks, Terry,’ Jessica added. ‘Don’t be a stranger at the Roundhouse.’

‘I won’t,’ he said. ‘Be safe.’

They sat in silence for a few minutes while the car warmed up.

‘Rolling Stoned, LLC,’ Jessica said.

Byrne didn’t bother stating the obvious. ‘Do you want to make the call first or go to Shawmont?’

‘Let’s call,’ Jessica said. ‘He’s earned it.’

‘I’ll tell Terry.’

While Byrne got out of the car and walked across the lot, Jessica searched her bag for the business card, found it. She took out her phone and called Detective Jack Paris, Homicide Division, Cleveland Police Department.

They had found Ezekiel Moss.

Jessica and Maria Caruso stood on the platform, looking at the dark woods around them. Because Byrne was expecting his family for dinner, Maria had agreed to drive to the Shawmont station to help Jessica conduct the search.

Jessica had thought about asking other detectives to join them, but decided against it. There was no threat in this place. Not any longer.

As they stepped from the platform, fanning out into the darkness, Jessica tried to find the path easiest to travel. As she moved through the low scrub she heard things scurry in the darkness. Squirrels, perhaps rabbits. Every so often she would turn, look back at the train platform.

Twenty minutes later, as she was just about to give it up for the night, opting to come back in daylight, her boot tapped up against something solid.

She crouched down, moved some of the ground cover to the side, and found it.

There, on the ground, was a doll that looked like Ezekiel Moss.

Next to it was a stack of doll arms and legs.

Of all the people whom Byrne was nervous about seeing his new house – and they really weren’t that many – his daughter Colleen, by far, made him the most anxious.

When she pulled in the driveway, in her Kia Rio 5 – which she purchased on her own, even though Byrne had offered to pay for it – he stepped out onto the porch.

All of his worry was for naught. He could see through the windshield the look on his daughter’s face. Although she had been deaf since birth, like many in the deaf community she relied quite a bit on facial expressions to communicate.

‘Oh my God, dad, I love it,’ Colleen signed.

Byrne felt a huge weight lifted from his shoulders. ‘Thanks, honey,’ he signed. ‘It’s coming along.’

If Byrne had learned anything since buying the house it was that the standard response to people saying nice things about the project was ‘it’s coming along.’ If he owned the house another twenty years, and replaced every floorboard, door, fixture, cabinet, and appliance, he was probably going to say the same thing.

Colleen opened the hatch at the back of her car, reached in, and extracted a large healthy houseplant with a bright red ribbon and bow wrapped around the ceramic pot. She closed and locked the hatch and walked up the walk.

Byrne smiled. ‘You know you’ve just signed a death warrant on that plant, don’t you?’

Colleen smiled back. ‘I predict many years in the appellate process.’

Although his daughter was majoring in business administration at Gallaudet University, the first and preeminent higher learning institution in the country for deaf and hard of hearing students, she had been around the cop life most of her life, and knew the vagaries, terms, and jokes.

Byrne took the plant from his daughter, placed it on the porch. They hugged. Byrne felt his heart soar. He had not seen his daughter in a few months and he felt his emotions running away. It seemed to be happening increasingly of late.

He leaned back, looked at his daughter’s face, her beautiful aquamarine eyes.

‘I’ve missed you,’ he said aloud. There was no need to sign such a thing.

His daughter smiled, and Byrne saw her eyes began to mist.

‘What’s wrong?’ he signed.

Colleen shook her head, hugged him again. When she pulled away, their attention was drawn by something at the far side of the porch. They both turned to look.

It was Tuck. The cat was just sitting there, as if he owned the place. Maybe he did.

Colleen beamed. ‘Is he yours?’

‘I don’t know yet,’ Byrne signed. He went on to tell Colleen how he’d met the cat.

‘And he still likes you after you brained him with the brick?’

‘Jury is out on that one. On the other hand, if he knew I spent two hundred sixty dollars with the vet, he might be a little more appreciative.’

When Tuck jumped on the railing, and began to preen, they saw what he had been hiding. There were two dead mice, set like a gift beneath the window sill.

Having been dropped off by one of his old dockworker buddies, Paddy Byrne arrived, a six-pack of Harp lager in hand.

The entire, immediate Byrne clan sat around a card table in the eat-in kitchen. The food was from an Indian takeout. Byrne had never had Chicken Tikka Masala before, but Colleen admitted to a twelve-step-sized addiction to it. Byrne could see why. It was delicious.

Halfway through the meal, well in his cups, Paddy Byrne raised his bottle of Harp. ‘To being around a table like this for many years to come, he said.
‘Sláinte chuig na fir, agus go mairfidh na mná go deo.’

The three of them touched bottles.

There was no need to translate the toast into sign language – a toast that meant health to the men, and may the women live forever – for Colleen. It was her grandfather’s one and only tribute.

While Colleen did the dishes, Byrne fetched a fresh six pack for himself and his father. Byrne sat on the floor, his back to the wall. Paddy took the easy chair, the only stick of furniture in the living room.

After a few minutes of silence, Paddy said: ‘Your mother always wanted a house like this.’

They had lived in a few different small apartments in and around Pennsport when Byrne was growing up, mostly because of Paddy Byrne’s job as a dockworker. Byrne never recalled a time when there wasn’t enough room.

‘You know, I’ve never asked you …’ Byrne said.

‘Asked me what?’

‘How you met.’

‘Me and your mom?’

Byrne nodded. ‘Yeah. I can’t believe I don’t know this. Do you remember the first time you set eyes on her?’

‘Do I ever.’

Byrne cracked open another beer, handed it to his father. Paddy took it. It gave the old guy a few seconds to gather the tale. Byrne had been thirty-eight when he’d lost his mother to cancer. He and his father had never really discussed it. He imagined they never would. The Irish, for all their passion, for all the raucous energy of their wakes, did their real grieving alone.

‘I was twenty years old,’ Paddy said. ‘I was working Pier Eighty-Two with your Uncle Michael in those days. Davy’s dad.’

Byrne smiled. ‘I know who Uncle Mike is.’

Paddy glared. ‘Do you want to hear this or not?’

Byrne tipped the neck of his beer, meaning:
Sorry
.
Go on.

‘Anyway, we were working Eighty-Two – this was before they built the Packer Avenue Terminal – and we would hit this little place called Katie’s over on West Oregon. The food was crap, but the beer was always cold.’ He sipped his lager. ‘So anyway, there was this little dress shop across the street, and every day, when we were getting to Katie’s – maybe around five-thirty – the ladies at the dress shop were getting ready to close at six. Three years we went to Katie’s and I never paid that dress shop any mind.’

Byrne just listened.

‘So, one day I’m sitting there, maybe checking the
Daily News
, and I look across the street, and I see this woman locking up. I only see her from behind, right? Beautiful strawberry blond hair. And she had on this fine red coat.’

‘I remember that coat,’ Byrne said.

‘I couldn’t get her out of my mind. A few days later I’m sitting in a booth by the front window, and I see a shadow to my right. I look up, and there she is. Never a more beautiful woman born. She was standing on the sidewalk, wearing that red coat, putting on her lipstick, using the front window at Katie’s for her mirror.’

‘Did you go out and talk to her?’