The Doll Maker (42 page)

Don’t think it, Jessica.
 

She did anyway.

She looked like a doll.
 

‘Don’t be silly,’ the girl said. ‘Of
course
you know who Mr Marseille is.’

Byrne took a moment. ‘What I meant to say, of course, is that I know a few
different
men named Mr Marseille. I’m just not sure which one you mean.’

The girl wagged a finger. ‘There is only one.’

‘Is Mr Marseille on his way here now?’ Byrne asked.

The girl shrugged. ‘I don’t know for certain, but he has never been late for tea, and we are never apart for very long.’

‘May I ask your relationship to Mr Marseille?’

‘My relationship?’

‘Yes,’ Byrne said. ‘Is Mr Marseille your boyfriend, your husband, your brother?’

Another smile. ‘A gentleman would not ask such a question.’

Byrne nodded. ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘You mentioned tea. Can we get you a cup?’

The girl looked up. ‘Oh I don’t think you have our favorite kind. It is
very
special. We brew it ourselves. Thanks for the offer, though.’

Jessica thought:
She’s talking about the magic mushrooms.

Byrne clicked his pen, leaned forward, and asked: ‘You haven’t yet told us your name.’

‘How could you
not
know my name?’

Byrne returned the smile. ‘Well, when you get to be my age, you forget things all the time,’ he said.

‘My name is Anabelle.’

Byrne wrinkled his brow. ‘That’s odd, because I have here that your name is Cassandra.’

Jessica watched the girl closely. No reaction.

‘Cassandra? That is a perfectly lovely name, but it is not mine.’

‘Your name isn’t Cassandra White?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘You see?’

‘See what?’

‘You have the wrong girl. This is a big misunderstanding. It’s Cassandra White you want!’

‘You might be right about that. But we’ll go with Anabelle for the time being.’ Byrne made a note. ‘It’s nice to meet you, Anabelle.’

Another sly smile. ‘We haven’t quite met yet, sir. All I know is that you call yourself Detective Byrne. I don’t know your first name.’

‘How rude of me,’ Byrne said. ‘My name is Kevin.’

‘Another perfectly lovely name.’ She extended one small, delicate hand. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance.’

Byrne offered a hand. ‘Charmed, I’m sure.’

They shook hands.

‘May I know your last name?’ Byrne asked, his pen poised over his notebook.

The girl looked quizzically at him. ‘I don’t have a last name, of course.’

‘My boss is rather picky about such things. She always wants to know the full names of our visitors here. Is there some kind of last name I can just put in the blank here?’

The girl perked. ‘Your boss is a woman?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh my,’ she said. ‘How very modern.’

Byrne waited a few seconds. He asked again. ‘Anabelle? Is there a last name I can put down here?’

She thought for a few moments. ‘There simply is not. I am, and always have been, simply Anabelle.’

Jessica saw Byrne write N/A in the box for last name. He clicked his pen again, put it down on the notepad. He then reached into his folder, took out a form they used in circumstances similar to this, rare as they may be.

‘If I don’t do this, I’ll will be in a world of trouble,’ he said.

‘We don’t want
that
.’

‘I just need you to write your first name, and today’s date on here. Then we’ll be done with this portion of the interview, and we can move on. Can you do that for me?’

‘Of course.’

Byrne turned the document to face the girl. On it were two lines of text. My name is _____. Today’s date is _____.

Before the girl could ask for Byrne’s ballpoint pen, he reached into his suit coat pocket, took out a different pen. A Staedtler Calligraph Duo. Black ink.

Anabelle took the Staedtler, uncapped it, wrote her first name on the appropriate line. She did the same for the date. She then capped the pen, and handed it back to Byrne.

‘I can’t thank you enough for this,’ he said, returning the pen to his pocket. ‘You’ve saved me a lot of grief.’

‘We couldn’t have your boss be angry with you, could we?’

Byrne smiled. On cue there was a knock at the door. The door opened; Josh Bontrager popped his head in.

‘Sorry to bother you,’ Bontrager said. ‘Jess, you’ve got a call.’

Jessica stood, gathered a few documents, including the form Anabelle had just filled out.

‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I’ll be right back.’

She stepped out of the interview room, closed the door behind her. Sitting at a nearby desk, just a few feet away, was Hell Rohmer. In front of him were photocopies of the invitations they had found beneath the bench at the Shawmont train station, on Sansom Street, beneath one of the swings at the Gillen crime scenes, as well as Ezekiel Moss’s truck.

Jessica put the exemplar that Anabelle had just made down on the desk.

Hell Rohmer put on his glasses, studied the documents side by side. He took out a lighted magnifying glass, pored over the documents one by one. He took off his glasses, sat back.

‘No,’ he said. He picked up a photocopy of one of the invitations, as well as the newly created form. ‘These two documents were not written by the same person.’

Shit
, Jessica thought. It was the kind of evidence they would need to hold this girl.

They would have to find something else.

Jessica reentered the interview room, sat down. She studied the girl for a few moments. The girl did not look away, did not break eye contact with Byrne.

Who is this girl?
Jessica wondered.

‘While we’re waiting for Mr Marseille, are you sure I can’t get you something to eat or drink?’ Byrne asked. ‘Maybe a water?’

‘A water would be lovely.’

At this, Jessica again walked out of the interview room, turned the corner into the small coffee room next door, the room with the two-way mirror. Sgt. Dana Westbrook and Josh Bontrager were watching.

Jessica took a bottled water from the small refrigerator, as well as a fresh clear plastic cup from the stack. She walked back into the room, put the cup on the table, opened the bottle and poured half a cup of water. She put the cap back on the bottle, set it down.

‘Thank you very much,’ the girl said. She picked up the cup, sipped daintily from it.

Byrne made a dramatic gesture of looking at his watch. ‘You know, I’m not sure that Mr Marseille knows you’re here,’ he said. ‘I’d be happy to call him if you like.’

The girl put down her cup of water. ‘I’m afraid he does not have a telephone.’

‘Was he nearby when we met at the fabric shop?’

‘Of course.’

‘How could he know where we’ve gone?’

‘He just knows,’ the girl said. ‘He has always known.’

‘Now, Anabelle, I’d like to mention a few names to you, and see if you know these people. Would that be okay?’

‘Like a game?’

‘Something like that,’ Byrne said.

‘Okay.’

‘I’ll mention a name, and you just tell me – yes or no – if you know the person.’

‘I will.’

‘Nicole Solomon.’

‘No.’

‘David Solomon.’

‘No.’

‘Robert Gillen.’

‘No.’

‘Edward Gillen.’

‘No.’

‘Andrea Skolnik.’

‘No.’

‘Ezekiel Moss.’

Jessica had been watching the girl carefully. At the mention of this name – the name of a man they were all but certain was this girl’s biological father – there was the slightest hesitation. Then:

‘No.’

‘What about Valerie Beckert?’

This time, it seemed, the girl was ready. She didn’t even flinch.

For the past few questions Byrne had been nudging his notebook ever nearer the girl. Especially the plastic cup in front of her. On top of his notepad sat his iPhone. Right on cue, the iPhone rang. Byrne reached for it. In doing this, he knocked over the plastic cup spilling the inch or so of water onto the table.

‘Oh my God,’ Byrne said. ‘I’m so
sorry
.’

Byrne reached for the box of Kleenex on the other side of the table. He handed a few of them to the girl.

‘No bother,’ the girl said. ‘I’ve been known to be somewhat clumsy in my time, too.’

As the girl blotted the water, Byrne picked up the plastic cup by its rim, excused himself, left the room, where he found Josh Bontrager just outside the door with a paper evidence bag.

Bontrager would now run the bag to the ID unit, just downstairs. They needed to confirm that the young woman in the room was the same person as the young woman who worked in the store. They had collected a number of prints from the porcelain dolls, the figurines that were on the shelves at The Secret World, where Jessica had seen the girl in the blond wig – the girl in Interview A – dusting and cleaning.

They had visual evidence, but they needed the science.

Byrne reentered the room, sat down. He put a fresh cup on the table, poured water into it.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said.

The girl said nothing.

Byrne settled into his chair. ‘I’d like to show you something, if I may.’

‘Of course!’

Byrne took his laptop out of its case, opened it. He pulled his chair to the other side of the table, positioned the laptop so that all three of them could see it.

‘This is a short video I’d like you to watch.’

The girl sat up straighter in anticipation. Jessica noticed that so much of her body language, so many of her gestures, were in many ways childlike.

Byrne tapped the space bar on the laptop. The video began.

It was the recording Byrne had gotten from Dr Allen.

Jessica watched the young woman as the tape began to play. There could be no mistake. The little girl on the tape, and the young woman in the room, were one and the same.

Byrne said nothing at first. He let the recording play.

‘What a delightful room,’ Anabelle said. ‘So cheerful.’

‘What do you think the dolls are doing?’
Dr Allen asks.

Byrne hit
PAUSE
. ‘Do you recognize this little girl?’

Anabelle pointed at the screen. ‘This little girl in the movie?’

‘Yes.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t know her.’

‘Look again.’

Anabelle glanced at the screen. After a few seconds, she turned back to Byrne. ‘Once again, I’m so sorry. I don’t know her. I hope nothing bad has happened to her.’

‘What about the boy?’ Byrne asked. ‘Do you recognize him?’

Another glance. ‘I feel I am being no help to you and Detective Balzano whatsoever. I’m afraid I don’t recognize him either.’

‘Isn’t that little girl you?’ Byrne asked. ‘And isn’t that little boy Mr Marseille?’

At this the young woman burst out laughing, then quickly covered her mouth. After a few moments she said: ‘I am
so
sorry. I don’t mean to make light of all this. I mean, the fact that I am here, in a police station, means that something bad has happened. It’s just that the notion of this little girl being me is quite amusing.’

‘This recording was made about twelve years ago, in the office of Dr Meredith Allen. You do remember Dr Allen, don’t you?’

The young woman gave Byrne a look that Jessica could only describe as one of maternal concern, as if she were trying to figure out how to tell a child the truth about Santa or the Easter Bunny.

‘You have a wonderful imagination, Kevin. I’m wondering if you may have missed your calling.’

Byrne held the look for a few seconds. ‘There is one more thing I’d like you to look at,’ he said. ‘May I?’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘But don’t be cross with me if I cannot be of any help to you.’

‘I won’t.’

Byrne tapped a few keys, then the spacebar. This time the video was from the SafeCam. On the screen, Nicole Solomon is standing alone at the intersection. A few seconds later, the young man and young woman approach. Unlike the video shot at Dr Allen’s office – an image made almost at eye level to the children – this was a high-angle shot, and from behind.

The young woman watched intently. There was no audio.

‘This looks
terribly
covert,’ she said.

‘Do you recognize anyone in this video?’

For a long time, Anabelle said nothing.

Byrne stopped the recording, took out his phone, opened the photo folder to a still photograph of the video transmission from SCI Rockview.

It was a picture of Valerie Beckert.

‘Do you recognize her?’ Byrne asked.

The girl sat back in her chair, smoothed her skirt. ‘I’m afraid all of this has been quite exhausting for me. I still have a great deal of work to do today.’ She looked up at Jessica. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be of any help to you, but I must be going. Unless I am compelled to stay. Am I?’

They were being played. The young woman was trying to see what they had. She was going to ask for a lawyer.

‘Could you excuse us for a second?’ Jessica asked.

‘Of course.’

Jessica and Byrne stepped out, closed the door. They were joined by Josh Bontrager, Dana Westbrook, and ADA Paul DiCarlo.

What did they have? They had a high-angle pole cam shot of two people talking to Nicole Solomon on the day she was murdered, one of who might have been the young woman in the other room. The person on the recording could have been any one of fifty thousand other young women in the city. Add to that the fact that, even if it was ‘Anabelle,’ there was no crime committed on the tape.

They had a twelve-year-old recording of a six-year-old girl that Jessica would swear under oath was their suspect. Again, no crime.

They had no prints, no DNA, no hair or fiber, no eyewitness to put the young woman at the Solomon or Gillen or Skolnik crime scenes.

What connected the young woman, however tenuously, was the fact that she worked at the doll shop, a place where the dolls found at a crime scene may or may not have been purchased.

If they could put the young woman’s fingerprints on the teapot from which Emmaline Rose drank her tainted tea, they might be able to work with it. However, the fact that they could not prove that Anabelle had made the tea, or, even if she had, Miss Emmaline might have known what she was drinking, it would take a first-year public defender about ten minutes to get the girl released.