The Stolen Ones

by Richard Montanari

  What did the white flowers mean?

  Glancing back at the map, Byrne tried to discern a pattern in the spots where both bodies were dumped. No, he amended. They were not dumped. They were placed. He’d had quite a lot of experience with bodies in parks, and mostly they had been simply left. Some were buried.

  These victims were left in the open for a reason.

  Robert Freitag had been deliberately carried to the center of the field, sat upright in a chair, and killed with a railroad spike. Byrne had encountered almost every type of murder weapon in his time. Never this one.

  Joan Delacroix, as far as they could conclusively determine, was carried to that spot on the bank of the creek. They had found depressions in the earth near to where the large stones were located. She had been killed by blunt-force trauma, possible with one strike each from the large stones.

  Footwear impressions had been found next to the holes, but because of the rain CSU could not get an accurate read on the tread pattern. What they did have, however, was not incompatible with the footwear impressions collected from the Robert Freitag scene.

  Just to say he did it, Byrne again tried calling Joan Delacroix’s iPhone. As expected, as had happened for each of his previous dozen calls, it went straight to voicemail.

  On the way home Byrne stopped at the Barnes & Noble on Rittenhouse Square. While there he picked up an iPhone for Dummies book, then stopped into the Cosi on Walnut Street. By the time he was done eating he felt he had a fairly good handle on how to handle a FaceTime call on his phone.

  He got home with just a few minutes to spare.

  He knew how to operate the phone, but the question now was where to set it up. He wanted the background to not be too distracting. He first set it up on the dining-room table, turned it on, got a preview of what it would look like. Not bad, he thought, but he could see through the doorway behind him, the messy bedroom, the unmade bed. Plus the lighting made him look like he hadn’t slept or shaved in days, which wasn’t far from the truth.

  He tried the kitchen, and with the overhead light off, and the phone propped on the pass through to the dining room, coupled with the soft light from the table lamp on the counter, it looked pretty good. Or as good as it was going to look.

  A few moments later his phone rang, and Byrne felt a twitch in his heart. He hadn’t seen his daughter in a few months, and at first, when her video image appeared on his iPhone screen, she looked to him like a young woman who looked like Colleen.

  But it was her.

  She smiled her mother’s smile, signed hello. Byrne signed back.

  Colleen, who had been deaf since birth, the result of a condition called Mondini Dysplasia, was attending Gallaudet University, the country’s first and most preeminent college for deaf and hard of hearing undergraduate students. Since she moved from Philadelphia, Byrne had only managed to see her every few months or so, and his heart ached over it.

  There was music in the background. It seemed a little loud to Byrne – or would have been if he were in the same room with his daughter – but obviously this was not a distraction to Colleen. They had often joked about how one of the benefits to deafness was not having to put up with music you hated, or loud-mouthed jerks. Sometimes Byrne envied her. Especially about the jerks.

  ‘How is school?’ Byrne signed. It was a standard question. Colleen was a 4.0 student.

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘I’m thinking about a second major.’

  Byrne thought about how she got her smarts from her mother. A second major. He often thought about whether or not he could have handled one at her age.

  ‘Sounds great.’

  ‘By the way, I’ll be in tomorrow.’

  This was a surprise. ‘Tomorrow?’ Byrne signed. ‘I thought you were coming in two weeks.’

  Colleen smiled. ‘Don’t you want to see your beautiful daughter?’

  ‘Of course. That was happy. A happy question.’

  ‘I’m done with my classes and I don’t have my mid-terms for a week. I thought I’d come up.’

  ‘That’s great. We’ll go to dinner somewhere nice.’

  ‘You don’t have to do that.’

  ‘Says who?’

  Onscreen Byrne saw someone walk in front of the camera, sign something to Colleen. It was way too fast for Byrne to pick up. Colleen responded, then pointed at her iPhone. The boy – who looked about seventeen – signed a sorry to the camera, then bolted.

  ‘My ride is here,’ Colleen said.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘We’re going to the movies. A Fellini double bill. La Strada and Amarcord.’

  Colleen had to fingerspell Fellini, which Byrne didn’t quite get at first. But he knew the film titles, which were both subtitled. Even though Colleen did pretty well lip reading non-subtitled films, she had gravitated to foreign and silent films since she was a young teenager.

  ‘Okay,’ Byrne said. ‘Have fun.’

  ‘So, I’ll see you tomorrow?’

  ‘Can’t wait.’

  As she signed this, Byrne thought he saw something.

  Was that a ring? On her ring finger?

  ‘What’s that?’ Byrne signed. He pointed to Colleen’s left hand. Which, from her perspective, would have been backwards.

  ‘Got to go,’ Colleen signed. ‘Love you.’

  Before Byrne could respond, the screen went black. Byrne sat still for what had to be a full minute, trying to catch his breath.

  Was his daughter engaged? Was that why she was coming into Philly two weeks early? Was it because she wanted to make an announcement?

  Detective Kevin Byrne suddenly felt nauseous.

  30

  The man sat on one of the dining-room chairs. Although he was in his fifties, his hair had only a few touches of gray around the temples. Luther wondered if he colored it. Although his recollection of the man was clouded by time, by dreams, he recalled the man’s vanity. Luther decided that if he were to go and look in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom off the master suite, he would certainly find a box labeled Just for Men.

  The man, unfortunately for him, would not be able to lead the way. In addition to the duct tape over his mouth, there was duct tape around the ankle of each foot, binding him to the legs of the chair. There was also duct tape around his hands in the back.

  The man’s name was Edward Richmond.

  Dr Edward Royce Richmond.

  ‘It has been years since you and I have shared a room,’ Luther said. ‘I dare say that the dynamic has changed. Has it not?’

  The man’s eyes shifted left, right.

  ‘I know you cannot answer. I posed the question just for effect.’

  Luther crossed the room to the fireplace. There, arrayed on the mantelpiece, were a number of family photographs. One of them showed the man in a dark tuxedo with his arm around an attractive young woman. Luther surmised it was his wife.

  ‘She is quite beautiful. It seems a tragedy the two of you could not work it out.’

  The man shifted his weight in the chair, pulsing at his restraints.

  Luther put the photograph back on the mantelpiece picked up another. This one was of the boy as an infant, the type of inexpensive photo studio shot sold to young families through direct mail. The frame was cheap and gaudy. Five ceramic balloons spelled Timmy.

  ‘Timmy,’ Luther said. ‘That is the boy’s name.’ He did not pose this as a question, but rather made a statement. ‘I don’t think the diminutive fits his personality and demeanor. I don’t think it will serve him in school and later in life. I should think Timothy more appropriate.’

  At the mention of his son’s name the man began to sweat even more profusely.

  Luther walked back across the room, stood directly in front of the man. He then sat on the edge of the coffee table, looked into his captive’s eyes. ‘I already have some of what I’ve come for. Do know what I’m talking about?’

  The man shook his head violently side to side. Luther nodded. ‘I have the re
mnants, or at least some of them, of our time together. I found the newsletters, some of the photographs, and an interesting document that was folded and placed into the same large envelope as your last will and testament. Would you like me to read it you?’

  The man screamed, but the sound was muffled by the duct tape over his mouth.

  Luther reached into his pocket, took out the document, unfolded it.

  ‘To whom it may concern,’ he began. ‘Let this document serve as my confession. The things that I did, the research in which I took part during the years 1992 to 1996, I did of my own free will. To the families and descendants of those I harmed, I ask forgiveness. I believed, at the time, what we were doing was in the interest of science. I know now that I was wrong, and if there is a God, and I stand before him now, I will answer for my sins.’

  Luther paused for a moment, then folded the document, and slipped it back into his pocket.

  ‘Science,’ Luther said. He knew that he needn’t say more. He looked down, sniffed the air. The man had wet himself. This was to be expected. Luther was certain that this man – this fully diminished man sitting before him, this powerless man who had stood before many others as Luther stood before him now – had witnessed such a degrading display many times.

  ‘And so to business,’ Luther said.

  Luther took off his overcoat and draped it over the chair. He reached into his back pocket and removed the black felt hat. He put it on his head. When the man saw his clothing, the many bloodstains, he began to cry. His tears ran across the duct tape in thin rivers.

  ‘Now, I am going to ask you one question. I will ask you this question only one time. Nod your head if you understand me.’

  With tears streaking his face, the man nodded.

  ‘Good. Before I ask this question, you should know that your son is in the upstairs bathroom. I know you are curious about him, and his well-being. I assure you he is fine. For the moment.’

  At hearing this, the man tried desperately to stand up. He rocked side to side so violently that he tipped the chair over, crashing to the floor. Luther allowed the man to spend himself. He then reached over and lifted the man to the upright position. When the man had calmed somewhat, Luther continued.

  ‘As I was saying, Timothy is in the upstairs bathroom. He is bound in much the same manner as you.’ Luther reached out and held the man by his shoulders. ‘The only difference is that the boy is in the bathtub. I have done this to facilitate the draining of his blood.’

  The man screamed loud and long and hard, the veins protruding in his neck and on his forehead. Once again, when the strength of his instinctive reaction diminished, Luther continued.

  ‘I want you to know that it need not come to that. As a man of science, I’m sure you know that not all outcomes are certain.’

  Luther leaned very close to the man.

  ‘Now, to return to the matter at hand. I will ask you this question, and you will give me a truthful answer. The question regards the existence in this home, or elsewhere, of anything that ties you to the experiments conducted during the years nineteen ninety-two to nineteen ninety-six at Cold River. I am talking about anything, and everything, no matter how small or peripheral. You will tell me where it is, and I will judge its relevance.’

  Luther once again sat on the edge of the coffee table. He looked directly into the man’s eyes, which were now a bright crimson, filled with tears.

  ‘I will remove the tape from your mouth,’ Luther said. ‘You will not scream, nor raise your voice in any manner. When I remove the tape I will ask you the question, and you will give me a truthful answer. Do you understand this?’

  The man nodded his head slowly.

  Luther reached out and gently removed the duct tape. As soon as he had done this the man gasped for air, sucking down great gulps. He began to cough, his shoulders shaking.

  When he settled down, Luther stood up, towering over him. ‘Do you have the material I seek?’

  The man took a few more deep breaths, gathering himself. ‘Look, you don’t understand. That was a long time ago. I’m sorry for what happened. But you don’t have to do this. I have some money. Not a lot, but it’s yours.’

  Luther waited for a moment, then reached into his bag, removed the roll of duct tape. He put another piece over the man’s mouth, drew his bone-handled knife, and ran up the stairs.

  When Luther descended the steps he thought, for a moment, that the man was dead. His head was slumped forward and his skin was pallid.

  But when Luther reached the bottom tread, it groaned beneath his weight, and the man sat upright. He had, it seemed, fainted for just a moment.

  Luther crossed the living room, his knife in hand. Making certain that the man kept his eyes on the blade, Luther took a cloud-white handkerchief from his pocket, wiped off the blood.

  ‘Your son is not dead. Not yet. I am now going to offer you a courtesy I rarely extend. I’m going to give you the opportunity to answer my question.’ Luther sat back on his heels, the knife now at his side. ‘Look at me, Dr Richmond.’

  The man slowly focused his eyes on Luther.

  ‘I will now remove the duct tape. You will have five seconds to tell me where the documents or photographs I am looking for are located. If you do not, I will bring your son down here one piece at a time.’

  Luther removed the tape. Quickly this time. The man did not hesitate to tell him what he wanted to know.

  ‘In my safe,’ he said.

  ‘Where is it?’

  The man told him. Without being asked, he also told him the combination.

  The photographs took Luther back. He recalled some of the people in them; others, not. He flipped through them, glanced once at each. When he was done, he put them all in his bag, and knelt before Dr Edward Richmond.

  ‘Have you told me everything?’ Luther asked.

  The man nodded.

  ‘Good. I’m afraid that time has run out for you, Dr Richmond, but if I find out that you are lying to me, and the authorities learn the truth behind Cold River, I will revisit your son. It may not be soon, but it will happen one day. He will awaken in his bed, and I will be there.’

  Luther zipped shut his bag, took out his knife.

  ‘It is time to go, Juris Spalva.’

  When Edward Royce Richmond heard the name of the Latvian businessman, it was clear that he remembered the dream – the steel garrote, the forest floor slashed with blood, the body ravaged by animals.

  It was then that Dr Richmond began to cry in earnest.

  Ten minutes later, it was not Luther who opened the trunk of the car in the closed garage. Luther was dreaming. It was Eduard Kross who slammed shut the trunk lid.

  He had one stop to make before heading to Priory Park.

  31

  Jessica dreamed of warm sand, cool water. She was three years old, standing on the beach in Wildwood. She had a red plastic bucket in one hand, and was carefully shoveling small shells into the bucket with the other.

  Nearby, her brother Michael was throwing a Frisbee with one of his friends. Her mother and father were sitting on a big blue beach towel. As always, her father was listening to a baseball game on his transistor radio while her mother had her nose stuck in a book, every few seconds looking up to make sure her little girl wasn’t being washed away to Europe.

  Jessica felt the sun on her face, felt the water tickling her little toes. She heard the sea gulls, and tasted the salt water taffy lingering on her tongue.

  She scooped some of the sand into her plastic shovel. But when she reached over to put the shells in her bucket, something was wrong.

  It wasn’t shells in the pail.

  It was dried white flowers.

  Suddenly, there was noise behind her, a sound of metal on metal. It seemed to echo, as if she were now in a cave.

  Then there was the sound of footfalls.

  Jessica sat up, disoriented, her heart racing. She turned to see Vincent, Sophie and Carlos standing behind her. />
  As it turned out, she wasn’t down the shore. She was on the couch in her living room.

  Jessica took a few moments, tried to calm herself. She rubbed the nap from her eyes, glanced at her watch. She wasn’t wearing a watch.

  ‘Was I snoring?’ she asked.

  Vincent shrugged. ‘Not so you’d notice.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means not more than usual.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ Jessica asked. ‘You’re saying I snore?’

  ‘No, honey. I was joking.’ Vincent nudged Carlos. Carlos giggled.

  Sophie pointed at the television. ‘Who’s winning, Mom?’

  Apparently it was some sort of sporting event. ‘I don’t know.’

  Sophie sat on the arm of the couch. ‘You don’t know who’s winning the game?’

  Jessica reached around, hugged her daughter. ‘Sweetie, I don’t even know who’s playing.’ Jessica glanced back at the TV. It was the Sixers. ‘The basketball team is winning.’

  It was Sophie’s turn to giggle.

  ‘How was practice?’ Jessica asked.

  Sophie had recently lobbied to take up a musical instrument. At first she had wanted a cello, but the idea of scratchy string music around the house for a few years had been too much of a gamble. Not to mention the challenge of carting around an instrument that was as big as her daughter. After much discussion, they arrived at the flute. Sophie Balzano took to it surprisingly quickly.

  ‘It was good. We did duets. With a piano.’

  ‘That sounds great, honey.’ Jessica silently berated herself for missing this mini-milestone. There had been too many of late.

  Vincent leaned over, kissed Jessica on the top of her head. ‘Did you eat?’

  Jessica had to think about it. ‘I’m Italian, Vince. There’s a pretty good chance I did.’

  ‘Oh, that’s too bad.’ Vincent held up two big white plastic bags. He smiled.

  ‘Chickie’s and Pete’s?’ Jessica asked.