Shutter Man

by Richard Montanari

  ‘She was also wearing a white cowl-neck sleeveless top,’ Shepherd said. ‘Calvin Klein.’

  The three men looked to Maria.

  ‘I suppose it’s not that strange, but the top is a lot dressier than the slacks. When I went through the scene, especially Laura Rousseau’s closet, she looked pretty well put together. It doesn’t seem like an outfit she would leave the house in.’

  ‘It looks like she was cooking dinner, or had just finished, when the home was invaded,’ Byrne said. ‘If she was in for the evening, you’d think she would have fully changed into loungewear.’

  Maria nodded. ‘When I get home from work, I’m out of my work clothes in about ten seconds. Pet the dog, pour the Chardonnay, then it’s right into my sweats and a T-shirt. Some days it’s straight to the wine. I have a very forgiving dog.’

  ‘So you think the victims are being made to put these items of clothing on?’ Bình asked.

  ‘Just about anything is possible at this point,’ Byrne said. He tapped the photos of Laura Rousseau and Edwin Channing. ‘A big part of this is why was Laura Rousseau singled out to be mutilated? Why not her husband and son?’

  No one had an answer to this.

  Josh Bontrager’s cell phone chirped. He stepped away, answered the call. A few seconds later he returned.

  ‘We’ve got something on the ballistics,’ he said.

  ‘Channing matches the other three?’ Byrne asked.

  ‘Let’s go find out.’

  The Forensic Science Center was a state-of-the-art, heavily fortified building at Eighth and Poplar streets. In the basement was the firearms identification unit. On the first floor was the crime scene unit, document examination unit, the chem lab–mostly used for the identification of drugs–as well as Criminalistics, which handled the processing of blood, hair and fiber. The first floor of the FSC was also home to the DNA lab.

  Firearms, Documents and CSU personnel were all sworn law-enforcement officers. Everyone else was a civilian.

  In his early fifties, Sergeant Jacob Conroy was the commander of FIU. After having spent years on patrol in southwest Philly, he’d transferred to evidence intake, the unit by which all evidence was stored, collated, handed out for court.

  Based out of Fort Hood, Texas, Jake had risen through the ranks of the army’s 2nd Armored Division. This served him well when he applied to become a ballistics examiner in FIU. In the past few years he had consulted and worked with the FBI, the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives, Homeland Security and any number of joint task forces.

  Today he was giving a brief tour to a small group of visitors, law enforcement officers from mainland China.

  ‘The purview of the unit is to examine everything from firearms to firearm-related evidence: cartridges, cartridge cases, specimens,’ Jake said. ‘A lot of the time we attend autopsies, working with the ME as to ammo used, and what to look for.’

  While Jake Conroy wrapped up the tour with a brief stop at the unit’s small but exotic museum of weaponry, Byrne made a phone call to Anne-Marie Beaudry, Angelo Rousseau’s sister. Once again, he got a voicemail recording.

  He hung up just as Conroy returned.

  ‘Speak of the man,’ Conroy said.

  ‘And up he pops,’ Byrne said. ‘Good to see you, Jake.’

  They shook hands.

  ‘Do you know Detective Bontrager?’ Byrne asked.

  ‘Only by reputation,’ Jake said. ‘Nice to meet you, detective.’

  ‘You as well,’ Bontrager said. ‘And please call me Josh.’

  Jake gestured to the walls around them. There were no windows in FIU, of course. He looked at Byrne.

  ‘Haven’t seen you in daylight for a while.’

  Byrne smiled. ‘It’s the garlic.’

  Conroy nodded to the items on his examining table.

  ‘This one’s got me thinking,’ he said.

  ‘Channing?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Four bodies on one shooter got the attention of everyone, all the way to the federal level. The PPD wanted nothing more than to shut this psychopath down before there was any kind of intervention by the Feds.

  ‘I got together with Mark DeBellis on this.’ Sergeant DeBellis was the examiner working the Rousseau case. ‘I think we have something.’

  Jake Conroy picked up a pair of envelopes on his desk, opened each of them, then unwrapped the contents from their tissue bindings. He walked over to the microscope against the far wall.

  It was a state-of-the-art universal comparison microscope, which permitted comparative investigations of traces on fired ammunition, tool marks, documents and much more. With it, the examiner could inspect and correct images directly on a high-definition monitor and immediately print them.

  Jake put one of the projectiles on the right-hand side of the stage, on a piece of wax; the other on the left. He then physically turned one bullet to match the markings on the other.

  Byrne looked at the image on the screen. To his eye, they looked almost identical.

  ‘What are your thoughts?’ Jake asked.

  ‘I’m thinking a Mauser .380,’ Byrne said.

  ‘I was thinking that too.’

  ‘Great minds.’

  ‘But now I have other ideas.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘I’m thinking a Makarov.’

  Byrne looked at Bontrager and back again. ‘A Makarov,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard of them, but wouldn’t know one if I was firing one.’

  ‘It’s a Russian design, but it’s been manufactured in a lot of places over the years. East Germany, Bulgaria, Albania. China, too.’

  ‘Available here?’

  ‘Oh yeah. Very fine weapon. We’ve run across our share.’

  Jake left the room for a moment, came back with a semi-automatic weapon. In the world of handguns, there was a lot of junk, but there were also works of art. The Makarov looked to be in the latter group.

  He ejected the magazines, gently pulled back the slide, telling everyone present that the firearm was not loaded. They all knew as much, but the gesture was understood and always appreciated. As odd as it might sound, the FIU was one of the safest places in Philly.

  ‘The Makarov 9x18,’ Jake said.

  Byrne took the weapon from the man, hefted it, sighted it. Jake Conroy was right. It had a beautiful balance. He handed it to Josh Bontrager.

  ‘I’m running them all through NIBIN later today,’ Jake said.

  Maintained by the AFTE, NIBIN–the National Integrated Ballistic Information Net work–was a sophisticated database that automated ballistic evaluations, replacing the tedious and time-consuming task of side-by-side comparisons.

  Byrne gestured to the printed images of the four bullets taped to the whiteboard, the bullets used to kill Angelo, Laura and Mark Rousseau, as well as Edwin Channing.

  ‘Same manufacture?’ Byrne asked.

  ‘Yes, sir. These are all Hornady.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  It was a routine question. Byrne knew that Conroy knew. He wouldn’t say so otherwise.

  ‘Of this I am a hundred percent sure.’

  ‘Same weapon?’ Bontrager asked.

  ‘Ninety-nine percent,’ Jake said. ‘Fired cartridge casings I can match in my sleep. Spent projectiles leave some room for doubt, unless you have the weapon.’

  ‘Same shooter?’ Byrne asked.

  Jake smiled. ‘That’s your job, detective. If it’s metal, I can read it. People? Not so much. Ask my two ex-wives.’

  Byrne considered everything they had. It was good. ‘Anything else you can tell us?’ he asked.

  Conroy slipped each slug into its envelope.‘Get me the gun,’ he said. ‘All will be revealed.’

  ‘Hopefully we will,’ Byrne said. ‘With the guy still attached to it.’ He held up his phone. Jake nodded. He’d call immediately if there was a NIBIN match with a previous crime or a gun owner.

  On the way out, Byrne noticed a poster of Clint Eastwood pinned
to the wall next to the door. At the bottom it read:

  I have a very strict gun control policy: if there’s a gun around, I want to be in control of it.

  ‘So, we are moving forward with the belief that we are looking for the same person or persons who committed all four of these homicides,’ Bontrager said.

  Josh Bontrager, when he was in the zone, got very formal. They were standing by their car in the large parking lot of the FSC.

  ‘I think we are,’ Byrne said. ‘It looks like the same bullet evidence and same gun; no reason to believe it’s not the same shooter.’

  ‘That is one sweet semi-auto, by the way,’ Bontrager said, referring to the Makarov.

  ‘It is.’

  Byrne knew that Josh Bontrager knew his way around service weapons, and qualified with high marks every year at the range. He wasn’t so sure if the Amish used guns or not. He asked.

  ‘Oh my gosh, yes. We used to hunt all the time,’ Bontrager said. ‘Varmints, mostly. Deer causing trouble.’

  ‘What was your weapon of choice?’

  ‘Had a Remington 700, bolt action,’ Bontrager said. ‘30.06.’

  ‘Nice,’ Byrne said. ‘Were you any good with it?’

  Bontrager smiled. ‘We ate.’

  Byrne glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve got to do that interview with Angelo Rousseau’s sister.’

  ‘I’ll go with you if you like.’

  ‘You sure?’

  Bontrager opened the passenger door. ‘We had a saying in the church, I think it’s from Proverbs: Be with wise men and become wise.’

  Byrne laughed. ‘If that’s the case, I’ll stop back at the shop and we’ll pick up John Shepherd.’

  8

  The Beaudry house was a stone ranch in Cheltenham. When Byrne and Bontrager arrived, there was no room in the driveway or, for that matter, a half-block in both directions. The extended Beaudry family, it seemed, was here in full force.

  The front door was wide open, the screen door closed. Josh Bontrager took the lead, rang the bell. A few moments later, a man in his late forties came to the door.

  ‘Yes?’

  Bontrager had his shield in his hand. He raised it, intro ducing himself and Byrne. The man looked over his shoulder, perhaps gauging whether or not now was the right time for this–whatever this was. He seemed to resign himself to the fact that the sooner it was done, the faster things would begin to come to a close. Not to mention the possibility of catching the person who did this unspeakable thing to Angelo, Laura and Mark Rousseau.

  The man unlocked the screen door–a door that probably stood unlocked most of the spring and summer but now stood fortified. Byrne had seen it many, many times. The small points of security that had so casually lapsed were suddenly fastened in the wake of a tragedy. As the man held the door open, he introduced himself.

  ‘I’m Don Beaudry, Anne-Marie’s husband. Angelo was my brother-in-law.’

  All three men shook hands.

  Don Beaudry was just over six feet, broad-chested, with a full reddish beard, speckled with gray.

  The living room was cluttered but comfortable.

  In a high-backed chair next to the fireplace sat Anne-Marie Beaudry. For some reason Byrne had thought she would be older. She appeared to be in her early thirties, with short chesnut hair, deep green eyes. She looked better, more rested, than he had expected. Byrne knew the toll of grief, and Anne-Marie Beaudry seemed to be holding her own.

  They all sat down, each perched uncomfortably on the edge of his chair. It was common. The families of murder victims rarely sat back in a chair or on a couch in those first few days and weeks. It was as if they felt that at any moment they might need to jump to their feet, to put out some fire, to throw themselves into the breach to protect a remaining member of their now dwindling family. Investigators often matched the posture.

  Coffee was offered, declined.

  The two detectives had decided on the way over that Byrne would conduct the interview and Josh Bontrager would take the notes.

  ‘What can you tell us about your brother?’ Byrne asked.

  Anne-Marie took a few moments. ‘He was a saint,’ she said. ‘Always willing to pitch in, always there when you needed advice, or a shoulder.’ She grabbed a tissue from the box on the coffee table, dabbed at her eyes. Maybe she wasn’t coping all that well, Byrne thought.

  Anne-Marie Beaudry went on to give Byrne a brief history of Angelo Rousseau’s life: high school valedictorian, a stint in the Marines, the birth of his son, Mark, the opening of his company, his work with the Boys and Girls Club. By her account, the victim was an outgoing, gregarious man. Byrne didn’t hear a single thing that would lead him to potentially solve the man’s brutally violent murder.

  ‘Do you know if they had a safety deposit box?’ he asked.

  Anne-Marie looked at her husband, back. ‘I don’t think so. Laura never mentioned it.’

  ‘What about Laura?’ Byrne asked. ‘Did she have any enemies?’

  ‘Oh my goodness, no. Laura? Laura was quiet. The exact opposite of my brother. Maybe that’s why they got along so well. What they say about opposites attracting, right?’

  ‘When was the last time you saw her?’

  Anne-Marie thought for a moment. ‘We belong to a knitting circle. Our most recent meeting was this past Thursday. Over in Haverford.’

  ‘And that’s when you last saw her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did anything happen there that might have seemed out of the ordinary?’ Byrne asked.

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

  ‘Were there any rivalries? Any harsh words? Any unpaid debts?’

  Anne-Marie Beaudry looked at Byrne as if he had just touched down to earth from another planet. ‘This is a knitting circle, detective. There were no harsh words. We’re all very close friends.’

  Byrne nodded, took this in his stride. Sometimes you had to ask the question, no matter how trivial or ridiculous or unkind it sounded. More than one case had broken because of a question like that.

  To make her point further, Anne-Marie took out an iPad, launched the photo app, swiped back a few recent pictures, turned the tablet so that Byrne and Bontrager could see the screen. It was a photo of a half-dozen women sitting around a cozy-looking living room, each with a knitting project at some stage of completion in her lap, balls of brightly colored yarn emerging from straw sewing baskets.

  The second photo was of the same women in the dark parking lot of an Applebee’s, each holding up a sweater or a shawl or a scarf. The picture was more than a little out of focus.

  Byrne pointed to the woman in front on the left. ‘This is your sister-in-law?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you all went to Applebee’s after the knitting circle?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes. The one on City Line.’

  Byrne held out his hand. ‘May I?’

  She handed him the iPad. Byrne swiped back and forth between the two photos. Something was different. In addition to the seven women photographed in the knitting circle, there was someone else in the picture taken in the parking lot. It looked to be a very petite older woman with long white hair, but she was standing a good bit behind the group, and far out of focus. Only the right side of her face, which was mostly obscured by hair, and her pencil-thin right arm was visible.

  Byrne went back to the photograph in the living room. He counted seven women, none over the age of sixty. Certainly none with long white hair. He swiped over to the photograph taken in the Applebee’s parking lot. There was no question. There were eight women. The eldest stood behind a woman who appeared to be the tallest of the group. She was mostly obscured or in shadow.

  Byrne turned the tablet momentarily to Bontrager, who nodded. He knew where this might be going. He’d seen it too. Byrne handed the iPad back to Anne-Marie.

  ‘The woman at the back, the older woman, is she part of the group?’

  Anne-Marie looked closely. ‘Oh my.’

  �
�What?’

  ‘I didn’t realize she was in the photograph until just now.’

  ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘No. What I mean is, I just saw her that night outside Applebee’s.’

  ‘Under what circumstances?’ Bontrager asked.

  ‘Hang on. I took more pictures.’ She swiped her finger across the screen a few more times. ‘Huh.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘She’s not in any of the pictures. Just that one.’

  ‘And you’re saying she’s not part of your group, and that you’d never seen her before?’ Bontrager asked.

  ‘No she isn’t, and no I hadn’t,’ she said.

  ‘How did she come to end up in this photograph?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ She put down the iPad, thought for a few moments. ‘We were in the restaurant, getting ready to leave, and I remembered that I left my purse in the car. I excused myself from the table. I walked out of the restaurant and over to my car, which was parked at the far end. Near the high hedges that separate the lot from the lot at Costco.’

  ‘What happened then?’ Byrne asked.

  ‘I heard singing.’

  Byrne felt a cold hand close around his heart.

  ‘Singing?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Someone was singing. A beautiful melody. Haunting. Definitely in another language.’

  ‘You don’t know what language?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘And you’re saying that it was this woman who was singing?’

  ‘Yes. It was the oddest thing.’

  ‘Was she in a car?’ Byrne asked. ‘On a bench?’

  ‘Neither. She was just standing there in the shadow cast by that tall hedge.’

  ‘Can you describe her?’

  ‘Not really. She was pretty much hidden. But I can tell you she was old.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘I’m not really good at this. Eighty, maybe. Perhaps older. Long white hair, a white dress.’

  ‘Anything in her hands?’

  ‘Not that I saw.’

  ‘What can you tell us about the song?’ Byrne asked.

  ‘Nothing really. It seemed kind of… I don’t know. You’ll think I’m crazy.’