The Doll Maker (7 page)

There were no tire treads, no footwear impressions, no shell casings, or blood near the body. A CSU officer took her own photographs, moved away.

Jessica put on a pair of latex gloves and stepped in.

Standing this close to the victim, Jessica could see that the girl was younger than she originally thought. She was perhaps thirteen or fourteen. Her eyes were open, and even with the naked eye Jessica could see the hemorrhaging. She was certain that the ME would rule that the cause of death was strangulation.

The girl’s white blouse, dark skirt, and dark knee socks were an indication that she attended a private school. But there was no sweater or blazer bearing a school logo. Her dark hair was parted on the left side and blunt cut at her shoulders. On the right side was a rose-colored barrette in the shape of a swan.

She wore what appeared to be good quality black loafers. Even in this most undignified state her skirt was pulled modestly to the tops of her knees.

Being careful where she stepped, Jessica put one foot into the doorway behind the victim and shone her Maglite on the back of the girl’s neck. She could now see that the ligature was a nylon stocking of some sort. It was the same, or similar, to the stockings that tied the girl’s hands. Between her fingers was a filtered cigarette, stubbed out to a length of no more than a half-inch.

With a gloved hand Jessica gently lifted up part of the girl’s skirt. She saw that the yellow paint had come off on the woolen material. The paint was indeed fresh.

Jessica motioned to one of the crime scene technicians, a female officer in her twenties. She requested more photographs of the immediate area beneath the bench, as well as photographs underneath the bench, of the envelope taped there.

‘When you’re done with the photographs, let’s get that envelope off. Let’s do our best to preserve that tape and that cigarette butt as well.’

At this, Jessica walked back to the path. Somehow the sun had come out from behind the clouds. At this dark moment, in this terrible place, the sun still shone. Long shadows draped the path.

‘Any other witnesses?’ Jessica asked.

Byrne shook his head. ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘Josh and Maria are working the nearby houses.’

They took a few moments, each to their own thoughts. They were both the parents of girls and, no matter how many times they did this, a teenaged female victim always slammed home hard.

‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ Jessica eventually asked.

Byrne turned to look at her, a slight smile on his face. ‘That’s probably a trick question, but I have a pretty good idea,’ he said. ‘You’re thinking about Tessa Wells.’

It was true. Her partner knew her better than anyone. Tessa Ann Wells was the victim of a murderer who became known in Philadelphia as The Rosary Killer. The Wells case was Jessica’s first homicide investigation. And while the signature of that killer was different, the situation was the same. A young teenage girl was murdered, and posed in a public place.

For many reasons, not the least of which that the Wells case was the first time Jessica had been tasked as a lead investigator to step into the mind of the psychopath, she had never, nor would she ever, forget Tessa Wells.

A few moments later the crime scene technician approached them. In her hand were two evidence bags: one that contained the envelope taped to the bottom of the bench, one that held the short filtered cigarette butt.

‘Were you able to preserve the tape?’ Jessica asked.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ the officer said. ‘If there’s a latent on it, we’ll have it.’

Because Jessica had touched a number of other surfaces, she took off her latex gloves, slipped on another pair. Byrne followed suit.

Jessica opened the evidence bag and, holding it by its corner, pulled out the envelope.

The envelope was of a medium size, perhaps five inches wide, four and a half inches deep. It was buff in color, and appeared to have a linen or vellum finish. It was the size and type used for thank you notes and invitations.

Jessica noted that the flap – a deeply pointed flap – was tucked into the envelope, not sealed. This was good news and bad news as far as the evidentiary possibilities were concerned.

The good news was that Jessica and Byrne could immediately examine the contents of the envelope. Had it been sealed it would have been put into the chain of evidence, returned to the criminalistics lab, and while there opened by some magic process known only to the denizens of the lab.

The bad news was that, had the envelope been sealed, the possibility of a transference of DNA to be found in the saliva might have eventually given them a direction, and a suspect.

Jessica had learned long ago that in this life she’d chosen, you take what you can get when you can get it.

There was no writing on the face of the envelope, nor on the back. There was nothing embossed, etched, or engraved. Still holding the envelope by its edge Jessica gently worked the flap out from the inside. She held the envelope up to the sun. She could see what appeared to be a single card inside. She reached in, pulled out a card. Byrne moved to the side so that they might see it together.

One side was blank. Jessica flipped it over.

On the other side, calligraphed in black ink, was an invitation. It read:

You are invited! 

November 23 

See you at our
thé dansant!
 

‘November twenty-third,’ Byrne said. ‘That’s a week from today.’ He pointed at the last line. ‘Any idea what this means?’

‘Not a clue.’

Byrne looked down the path, at the handful of crime scene investigators. ‘Anyone here speak French?’

The officers all looked up, at Byrne. The expressions on their faces looked as if Byrne asked if any of them could fly. There were many intelligent, crafty, highly skilled people in the PPD. When Jessica’s father became a police officer, very few of his fellow officers had four-year degrees, or even two-year associates degrees. At that time many, if not most, applicants to the academy applied after serving in the military, the continuation of the paramilitary command structure a comfortable fit. Nowadays, it was not that unusual to run across cops with Masters Degrees.

But even in this age of enlightenment, not to mention Rosetta Stone, speaking French was apparently not a common or highly prized skill set in the PPD. Spanish and Arabic, yes.

Byrne handed back the card. Jessica gave it another quick scan. She brought it to her nose, sniffed it. ‘It has a scent,’ she said. ‘Kind of familiar. Gardenia maybe?’

Byrne shrugged. ‘Can I see the envelope?’

Jessica handed it to him.

Byrne held it up to the light, gently worked the flap.

‘This has not been opened more than once or twice,’ he said. ‘And it hasn’t ever been opened fully.’

He was right. There were no creases other than the factory crease at the top.

Byrne angled it again to the sun, looking at the surface. Because it was a linen finish, the potential for latent prints was good.

Jessica glanced down the path that led to the river. Josh Bontrager and Maria Caruso were walking up, toward the station. They had canvassed the few residences on Nixon Street, as well as the houses and small commercial buildings on Shawmont Avenue. They approached the area where Jessica and Byrne were standing. Jessica made eye contact with Josh. He shook his head. They had not learned anything.

Staggering the interviews by four hours, over the next twenty-four, would give investigators a blanket coverage of the area – who came and went, when they did so, and what, if anything, they had seen.

Since the massive Shawmont Pumping Station had been razed, the number of curiosity seekers taking the path down to the river had dropped significantly. The pumping station had been a destination for rendezvous, both covert and romantic, as well as drug dealing.

As the two detectives joined Jessica and Byrne, one of the uniformed officers, P/O Kasky, approached.

‘CSU asked me to bring this over.’

It was a small leatherette case, a delicate billfold of sorts. ‘Where was it?’ Byrne asked.

‘It was in the victim’s skirt pocket.’

‘Right or left?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘Any other contents?’

‘No, sir.’

Kasky handed it to Byrne, who flipped it open. Inside was a school ID, along with an emergency contact number. The ID had a photo on the left.

‘Is that her?’ the officer asked, glancing toward the river.

A few minutes ago he couldn’t look at the victim, Jessica thought. Now he was having a hard time looking at his fellow officers. This was clearly tough for him.

Byrne looked at the picture on the school ID.

It was her.

The dead girl’s name was Nicole Solomon.

As Byrne signed off on the crime scene log, and took down contact information from Annie Stovicek, Jessica walked back to the car. She turned and looked once again at the tableau. From her vantage she could see both the victim, Nicole Solomon, and the little girl in the bicycle carrier, Miranda Stovicek.

Two girls.

One beginning her life, one whose life was over.

The house was a two-story red brick row home on a gentrified block in the Bella Vista section of South Philadelphia, just a few blocks from where Jessica had grown up on Catharine Street, where her father still lived.

On the way to make the notification, Jessica called Dana Westbrook and gave her a status report. She was told that, within the hour, Nicole Solomon’s body would be transported to the morgue, which was located at the Medical Examiner’s office on University Avenue.

When Jessica and Byrne arrived at just before noon the sun shone brightly, the trees that lined the street were in full autumn burn.

Before driving to South Philly, they had checked to see if there had been a missing person’s report for a girl matching Nicole’s description. They learned that David Solomon, the girl’s father, had called 911 at just after midnight.

Byrne stood on the small porch, rang the bell. Jessica stood behind him. Jessica noted a mezuzah on the right side of the doorframe. After a few moments the door opened. A man in his late forties stood before them. He had close-cropped black hair, threaded with silver, and wore a navy sleeveless V-neck sweater, white oxford cloth shirt, and tan Dockers.

‘Are you David Solomon?’ Byrne asked.

‘Yes,’ the man said. ‘I am.’

Byrne took out his ID. ‘Sir, my name is—’

‘It’s her, isn’t it?’

Byrne stopped. ‘I’m sorry?’

Solomon turned and pointed at the television behind him in the living room. The picture showed a live shot of the Shawmont train station, taken from just outside the police cordon. The crawl on the lower third of the screen read: ‘Body of missing girl found.’

David Solomon turned back to the two detectives. ‘It’s her, isn’t it?’

Byrne asked: ‘Mr Solomon, do you have a daughter named Nicole?’

The man did not answer. He just raised a hand to his mouth.

Byrne held up the girl’s school photo ID. ‘Is this your daughter, sir?’

A few seconds later the man nodded slowly.

‘I’m sorry to say that, yes, the news report is about your daughter.’

Solomon closed his eyes. A single tear coursed down his right cheek.

‘May we come in, sir?’ Byrne asked.

Without a word, Solomon stepped to the side. Jessica and Byrne entered the front room. The room was well lived in, comfortable. The furniture was older, but solid and good quality. The area over the sofa was cluttered with family photographs. Jessica immediately recognized a half-dozen photographs of Nicole – as a toddler on the beach, a gap-toothed grin at about seven or eight, as a twelve-year-old at what looked to be a piano recital.

‘First off, Mr Solomon, on behalf of the PPD and the city of Philadelphia, I’d like to say how sorry we are for your loss,’ Byrne said.

David Solomon leaned forward. His hands dangled at his side, as if he did not know what to do with them.

Jessica had seen it too many times. Productive people, active people, blue-collar and white-collar, people who made things, fixed things, put things into their proper places suddenly, when faced with a shattering loss, had no idea what to do with their hands. Some clasped their hands in front of them in supplication or prayer, some shoved their hands into their pockets, perhaps to keep from lashing out at total strangers, or the world at large.

Some, like David Solomon, simply let his hands float in space.

‘I know that this is a terrible time for you,’ Byrne said. ‘We just have a few questions for you, and then we will leave you to your family and your arrangements.’

For a few moments, Solomon stared at Byrne. He seemed to be processing the information. Then he nodded.

‘Is there anyone else here today?’ Byrne asked.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘My mother, Adinah.’

‘Where is she?’

Solomon pointed into a small room off the living room. There sat an older woman in a wheelchair. She was staring out the window. Jessica had not even noticed her when they entered the house.

‘She has Alzheimer’s,’ Solomon added. ‘It’s not good.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Byrne said. He took a few moments. ‘Now, some of the questions I’m going to ask you will seem terribly personal. Even invasive. I’m afraid they are necessary. What we’re trying to do is get as much information as we can, as quickly as we can.’

Solomon nodded again.

‘Are you currently married?’ Byrne asked.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I am widowed.’

‘Do you have any other children?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Nicole was my only child.’

The second wave of grief seemed to land when he said this. He tried to hold back the tears. He could not.

While Byrne gave the man time to compose himself, he made a few notes. As he did this Jessica had to the opportunity to look a little more closely at the room. She saw that the stairs had a motorized lift, for, she figured, Adinah Solomon. She also noticed that all the doorways had been widened for the woman’s wheelchair.

‘We have just a few more questions for now,’ Byrne said. ‘May I ask what you do for a living?’