The Stolen Ones

by Richard Montanari

  The kid just nodded.

  ‘How many?’

  He held up two fingers, like a peace sign.

  Shepherd took the information in. ‘So who is this guy?’

  ‘Just some guy, man.’

  ‘You don’t know his name?’

  The kid shook his head.

  ‘Where do you know him from?’

  Another shrug. ‘I just see him around. We all just see him around.’

  ‘Who is we?’

  ‘Just us. The kids I hang around with on the street.’

  ‘These are kids you go to school with?’

  The kid almost laughed. ‘Just street kids, man. We see this guy around sometimes. Older guy, but cool. Sometimes he lets us do jobs for him.’

  ‘You’ve done jobs for him before?’

  ‘Not me. But I know people who have.’

  ‘What’s his angle?’

  Now the kid got very interested in his own shoes. He shuffled in place, licked his lips, continued to perspire. ‘I have no idea, man. He never tried anything with me, or any other of the kids I know.’

  ‘What does this guy look like?’ Shepherd asked. ‘Is he black, white, Hispanic?’

  ‘White guy, kind of thin.’

  ‘How old?’

  Yet another shrug. ‘I have no idea, man. Thirty? Forty? How old are you?’

  Shepherd let the kid slide on that one. When you’re seventeen, the whole adult world is forty.

  ‘Can you describe him to a sketch artist?’

  ‘Yeah, no problem. I can even draw him for you. I’m pretty good.’

  Before John Shepherd could ask another question the kid swayed again, this time losing his balance. Jessica was beginning to doubt that those pills were ecstasy. Whatever they were, they were starting to kick in. Shepherd, of course, noticed this, too. He eased the kid over to the sector car, leaned him against the hood. He got down to business. ‘Tell me about the car.’

  At this the kid lit up. ‘Fucking beautiful, man.’ He suddenly realized what he said in front of a homicide detective. ‘I mean, it was hot.’

  ‘I need make and model, Dustin.’

  The kid looked at the sky for a moment. ‘I can’t tell you that. It was old school. Grandpa old, like a classic. Dukes of Hazzard classic. But in perfect shape.’

  ‘What color was it?’

  ‘Black.’

  Jessica glanced at Byrne. It was just what Old Tony Giordano had said about the car that was used to abduct Joan Delacroix.

  ‘Did the car have a bench seat? Buckets?’

  The kid stared. He didn’t know the difference.

  ‘Did he tell you what was in that big bag?’ Shepherd asked.

  The kid’s eyes were starting to fog. Jessica had to wonder how much more conversation – specifically detailed conversation – they were going to get from Dustin David Green.

  Shepherd got the attention of one of the EMTs, beckoned him over.

  ‘He said he took two of these,’ Shepherd said to the paramedic. ‘He says they’re X, but I don’t think so. Check them out, okay?’ The paramedic nodded as Shepherd handed him the bag of pills.

  Shepherd then walked over to P/O Dasher. He told him that, when the EMT had finished with Dustin Green, he was to take Green to the Roundhouse, and sit on him until he got there.

  Shepherd returned to where Jessica and Byrne waited.

  ‘What’s in the big bag?’ Byrne asked.

  ‘Shredded paper,’ Shepherd said. ‘Looks like it was picked up from an office Dumpster. CSU is going to try to piece some of it together, see if we can get a lead on the source.’

  ‘So the kid was a diversion,’ Jessica said.

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘Where’s the victim?’ Byrne asked.

  ‘About twenty yards into the trees from the chapel parking lot.’

  ‘So it’s right near where Weldon was parked when he got the call.’

  Shepherd nodded.

  Jessica considered this. This was a true nightmare for any young officer. Even a veteran cop. Weldon was drawn off his post by a diversionary tactic, only to find out that a murder was committed within what would have been his clear line of vision.

  ‘What about this black car?’ Jessica asked. ‘The car the kid drove up here?’

  ‘Long gone,’ Shepherd said. ‘I’ve got units securing that lot now. I was hoping we could get some tire impressions, but then we got this damn rain.’

  Jessica had hardly noticed. It seemed it would never end.

  It was now evident that the compulsion that drove this madman to commit these crimes in Priory Park would not be denied.

  Shepherd pulled out onto the avenue, heading north. In a few minutes they were at the north end of the park. They pulled off, into the parking lot of the old stone chapel. There were half a dozen departmental cars, as well as a CSU van.

  ‘You say we have an ID on the victim?’ Byrne asked.

  Shepherd nodded. ‘We do. We got a positive from running his vehicle.’ He pointed to one of the vehicles in the lot, a new Chrysler 300. As a matter of procedure they would now have the car towed to a police garage, where, away from the elements, they would process the entire vehicle. The victim’s car was its own crime scene.

  ‘I figure the killer drove the victim up here in the 300, and when the sector car took the call, he walked the victim into the woods, killed him, then took off in his own car.’

  ‘The mysterious black car,’ Jessica said.

  Shepherd nodded. ‘When Officer Weldon got back up here he found the Chrysler where you see it right there.’ Shepherd put his laptop on the dash, hit a few keys. Soon a photo ID came up on the screen.

  ‘The victim is one Edward R. Richmond, MD, late of Spruce Street.’

  Jessica glanced at her partner. A doctor, a nurse and a man who worked in the pharmaceutical industry.

  ‘Detectives went to the victim’s residence, found the doors wide open.’

  ‘Was there anyone at the house?’

  Shepherd nodded. ‘A seven-year-old boy. The victim’s son.’

  ‘Where was he?’

  Shepherd consulted his notes. ‘He was in the upstairs bathroom. He was bound and gagged with duct tape.’

  ‘What’s his status?’

  ‘Some bruises, a few small cuts, probably in shock.’

  ‘Do we know if he can describe our subject?’ Jessica asked.

  ‘No idea. He’s on the way to the hospital. I put a call in to the ER at Jefferson. They’ll give us a call, if and when.’

  They sat in the car for a few minutes, watching CSU officers walk in to and out of the clearing. Soon they saw the medical examiner’s investigator with his photographer in tow. The investigator nodded at Shepherd. The detectives were cleared to begin their investigation.

  ‘Ready?’ Shepherd asked.

  Jessica desperately wanted to say, No thanks. ‘Let’s do it.’

  ‘There are umbrellas in the back.’

  When Jessica opened her door, the first thing she heard was the low rumble of the generator that CSU had set up for their portable lighting. She grabbed an umbrella and began to make her way through the trees, drawn to the ethereal glow of the halogen lamps.

  When she stepped into the clearing she saw the victim for the first time. The scene was horrifying. Edward Richmond’s body was suspended between two trees, arms out to his side, a wire holding him up. The wire wrapped around his neck, cutting deep into his throat, spiraling around each arm, then looped up to the lowest branches of the trees. He wore a white dress shirt and dark slacks. His feet were bound together with wire. The long shadow cast on the floor of the forest made him look like a scarecrow.

  At his feet, splashed with blood, were a ring of white flowers.

  ‘Detective Shepherd?’ came the voice through Shepherd’s two-way. It sounded like one of the EMTs on the other side of the park.

  Shepherd keyed his rover. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Are you still on scene?’


  ‘I am,’ Shepherd said. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘You’d better get back here.’

  33

  Rachel parked across the street. The house was a four-bedroom, two-and-a-half bathroom stone front with hardwood floors and a sun porch. It was overpriced for the street, but that was not Rachel’s concern at the moment.

  She got out of her car, took her phone out of her pocket, pretended to make a call. It was a great way to scope a neighborhood without just standing around looking. Not that anyone would mistake her for a burglar.

  She was dressed all in black – stretch pants, full zip hoodie, tech stretch gloves. She had even taken a black magic marker to the reflective strips on her running shoes, having noticed one night that she could probably be seen from a block away.

  Finding the street deserted, she walked up to the door and, using her small LED flashlight, found the lockbox. In a few seconds she entered the combination she had gotten from Bancroft, retrieved the key, and slipped it into the lock. She clicked off her flashlight, looked up and down the street. Deserted. She couldn’t be certain that she wasn’t being observed from the houses across the street, but it was a chance she always took. It was a chance she had to take.

  She stepped inside, closed the door behind her.

  She headed to the basement.

  She launched the compass app on her phone, found her bearings, then took out her portable electric screwdriver, and removed the vent for the cold-air return. She pulled herself into the crawlspace, pleased to find that most of it was poured concrete. There was only about two feet of clearance, but at Rachel’s size it was enough. She put her flashlight in her mouth and began to crawl. At the far end she saw a dim light.

  She let herself down, into the plenum, walked about fifty feet north, which, according to her calculations, brought her just behind the corner row house. She pulled herself up into the crawlspace, but this time she was not so lucky. The crawlspace was packed earth, not concrete. It was damp and moldy.

  She reached into her pocket, pulled out a small facemask, put it on over her nose and mouth. When she reached the end of the crawlspace she stopped, listened for activity. Hearing none, she dropped down onto the basement floor.

  From upstairs she could hear the faint sound of a television program drifting down, a sitcom of some sort. She glanced at her watch, then took out her notebook. If her averages were right, and they had yet to be proven inaccurate, the television would be turned off within twenty minutes.

  Rachel Gray sat on the floor, beneath the stairs, and waited for silence.

  34

  It was after two a.m. when Jessica and Byrne left the park. The body of Dr Edward Richmond had been removed from the scene and transported to the morgue on University Avenue. There would be an autopsy at nine thirty a.m.

  Jessica and Byrne would be back at the Roundhouse in just a few hours for a task force meeting.

  They learned at just after one o’clock that Dustin Green had become cyanotic on the way to the hospital. En route his condition worsened and, according to what Jessica learned from John Shepherd before they left the park, Green began to exhibit symptoms of a condition called hypoxia, a complete lack of oxygen in his lungs.

  Dustin Green died at 1:07 a.m.

  A toxicology report would be rushed through channels. If the kid was telling the truth, then the man who had hired him to drive the car for five hundred dollars and pills had murdered him to prevent his speaking to investigators. The narcotics unit would be copied in and most likely put a pair of detectives on the task force to try to track down the pills.

  There were now four bodies on this madman.

  When Jessica and Byrne arrived at a small residential area west of Priory Park known as the Cloisters, Jessica was sure they had gone the wrong way. She kept it to herself for the moment. Because they had learned that parts of I-95 were closed due to high water, they decided to take Roosevelt Boulevard back to the city. What they got was a wrong turn.

  Jessica glanced at her watch. It was too late to play lost. She tapped the navigation screen in the dashboard. ‘Let’s see, what is this thing, again?’

  ‘I don’t need a map,’ Byrne said. ‘I know where we are.’

  Byrne pulled into a driveway, turned around. He hit the gas, a little too hard, the way you do when you realize you just went six blocks in the wrong direction, and you want to make up for lost time.

  ‘We need to get detailed work histories on these people,’ Byrne said. ‘A doctor, a nurse and a man who worked in medical sales. At some point their pasts link up. Either in school or at a job.’

  Jessica made a few notes.

  ‘You know,’ Byrne added, ‘I think we should check out the neighbor —’

  Jessica saw the shadow first, then the shape. It was less than twenty feet away. She screamed: ‘Kevin!’

  Byrne slammed on the brakes. The Taurus fishtailed as it hurtled forward.

  There, in the middle of the street, in the middle of the night, stood a two-year-old girl.

  They were going to run her over.

  35

  Luther sat in the main corridor, the wide catacomb below G10. The Long Hallway was almost a mile in length, and at the far end, the end at which Luther had lived for more than three years – the silent place – he could see pale yellow light. As a boy he would run from one end of the corridor to the other, hiding in the alcoves and niches, watching as they transferred patients between buildings, covering his ears to the ranting and raving of the mad citizens of the hospital.

  The echoes never fully ceased.

  The dead doctor stood before him, bathed in shadow.

  ‘You have disappointed me,’ he said.

  Luther could not see the doctor, but he had seen his charred body after the fire. It was better this way. ‘I know,’ he replied. His own voice sounded young, like a child’s.

  The visage of the doctor shimmered, his white coat a chimera in the gloom. ‘You know what you have to do.’

  When Luther returned from the park he’d found the main door open. It was a mistake, the biggest he’d ever made.

  But that wasn’t the worst of Luther’s problems. Not by a long shot.

  You know what you have to do.

  Luther rose, walked slowly toward the light, just as the final dream began to unspool in his mind.

  No, Luther thought. This is not like the dream.

  This is not like the dream at all.

  36

  The little girl sat on the wrought-iron bench in the middle of the small turnabout at the end of the street. She had fine blond hair, blue eyes, pale, nearly translucent skin. She wore a pink Care Bears hoodie, denim pants. On her feet were what appeared to be brand-new Baby Reeboks, feet that barely made it to the edge of the bench. She carried a small pink purse with a gold-colored plastic shoulder strap. On the zipper was clipped a charm of some sort.

  When Byrne had slammed on the brakes, the girl had not jumped back or, for that matter, reacted in any way to the car barreling toward her. Byrne had stopped well short, backed up, pulled to the curb, leaving the car running and the headlights on.

  Jessica had picked up the girl and carried her to the bench. When Jessica did this the girl had not fought her or resisted in any way, nor had she cried out in pain. That was a good thing. But neither had the girl uttered a single word.

  That was not such a good thing.

  Jessica knelt in front of the bench. ‘Are you okay, sweetie?’ she asked.

  The little girl looked over at Byrne, then at her hands. She did not respond.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  The girl remained silent. In the distance, probably on the avenue a few blocks away, the sound of an ambulance siren rose into the night. The girl did not look up, did not react.

  ‘My name’s Jessica.’ She gestured at Byrne. ‘This is my friend, Kevin.’

  Nothing. For a moment, Jessica wasn’t sure the little girl had heard her. Her stare was so distant, so s
ad, so… what?

  Wise, Jessica thought. The girl couldn’t have been three, yet her eyes mirrored a lifetime of trial.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ Jessica asked. ‘Does anything hurt?’

  The girl did not answer.

  Jessica did a quick inventory of the girl’s face, hands, arms, legs. Nothing visible. No bruises, no lacerations, no blood, no rips or tears in her clothing. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t hurt.

  Jessica stood up, turned a slow, full 360. Only one of the houses in the immediate vicinity had a light on, and that was a dim amber glow on the third floor of a brick row house, a candelabra bulb in the window. Probably a nightlight of some sort, she thought. Other than that, the dozen or so houses around them were dark, their tenants surely fast asleep. There was not even the flickering blue light of a TV on any of the closed and shuttered windows.

  Jessica crouched backed down. ‘Can you point at your house for me? I can take you back to your mom.’

  Nothing.

  Jessica pointed over her left shoulder. ‘Is it this house?’

  Silence.

  Jessica pointed over her right shoulder. ‘This one?’

  Zip.

  In her time on the police force Jessica had interviewed thousands of people. Most of them had been citizens with nothing to add to the case she was investigating, the conversations being of the forensic interview variety – a non-leading dialogue. Some had been material witnesses, some had been collateral witnesses, and quite a number had been witnesses who turned into suspects. She was usually quite good at finding the tell – the involuntary behavior or gesture or mannerism that gives information to the questioner – knowing that all but the most hardened criminal could not hide it.

  When she’d asked the little girl about her house Jessica watched the girl’s eyes carefully. The girl did not cast a glance right or left, nor up at any of the nearby houses, most of which were what Philly natives called trinities – tall, three-story row homes.

  How was this possible? Jessica wondered. Did someone just drop this little girl off in the middle of an intersection, in the middle of the night, like some unwanted pet?