The Stolen Ones

by Richard Montanari

Torrance got up, stood in front of the large window that overlooked the Benjamin Franklin Bridge in the distance. He didn’t speak for a long time, but when he did he said the three words that Byrne knew were buried deep in his heart.

  ‘I killed her.’

  When Torrance turned back, Byrne saw the pain in his friend’s eyes. He didn’t know what to do. The only thing he could do, at this moment, was to sit there and listen. To just be there. And for that, he had all the time in the world.

  48

  Byrne and Torrance stood outside Finnigan’s Wake, near the short steps on 3rd Street. Torrance was smoking.

  Since the smoking ban had gone into effect in most Philadelphia bars and nightclubs (the rule had something to do with what percentage of your income was derived from alcohol, no one understood it) small designated areas had sprung up just outside the entrances to watering holes – from small corner taverns in Grays Ferry to the poshest hotel bars in Center City. On any given night – whether it was ninety degrees with a hundred per cent humidity or ten below zero with a wind chill factor of minus forty – you would find tiny clusters of smokers, attached to the building like gargoyles, enshrouded in gray smoke.

  ‘She seems good,’ Torrance said.

  ‘Jessica?’

  Torrance nodded.

  ‘I don’t know what I’d do without her,’ Byrne said. ‘She makes me look a lot better than I am. Best partner I’ve ever had. Best partner you could have.’

  They were joined by two more smokers. They edged down the sidewalk.

  ‘Unfortunately, I’m going to find out soon what it’s like not to work with her,’ Byrne went on.

  ‘Why is that?’ Torrance asked. ‘She’s retiring?’

  Byrne nodded.

  ‘She’s a kid.’

  ‘She’s going to law school.’

  ‘Uh oh.’

  ‘Trust me. She’s going to land on the right side.’

  Torrance flicked his cigarette butt into the street.

  The voice came from behind them.

  ‘You know, you can be arrested for that.’

  Byrne and Torrance both turned to see two women in their mid-twenties descending the steps. One redhead, one blonde. At this time of the night, in this light, they both looked off-the-chart gorgeous.

  ‘Is that right?’ Torrance said.

  ‘Yeah,’ the blonde said. ‘Don’t make me pat you down.’

  The two young women laughed, walked down 3rd Street. Byrne and Torrance watched.

  ‘One of life’s great ironies,’ Torrance said.

  ‘You mean how, when you’re twenty-two, you have no idea how to talk to women. And once you’re over forty you’re too old to do anything about it?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  Torrance waited a while, shot his final arrow. ‘Look, I realize there’s only so much you can do on this,’ he said. ‘Just copy me in on everything. Okay?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Byrne said, hoping the decision would not come back to haunt him. ‘Okay.’ He buttoned his coat to the top, wrapped his scarf tighter. ‘By the way, I have news for you.’ He pointed down the street. ‘Those two women you just talked to?’

  ‘What about them?’

  Byrne gave his response the proper weight. ‘They’re both cops.’

  Torrance looked punched. ‘What?’

  Byrne nodded. ‘Yep. Both rookies out of the Twenty-third.’

  Torrance glanced up the street at the two young women, who were getting into a car at the corner of Green and 3rd, just beyond the sprinting capabilities of men of a certain age. He looked back at Byrne. ‘Unbelievable.’

  ‘No argument there.’

  Byrne checked his watch. He had to be in court in the morning to testify in a case he had closed almost three years earlier. ‘We should go.’

  Torrance nodded, hooked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘I’m gonna run back in and say goodbye.’

  ‘Take your time.’

  When Torrance left, Byrne looked down Spring Garden Street. It was clear and cold, and the neon and traffic lights reflected off the street. He wondered if it would ever be spring.

  When Ray Torrance didn’t return, Byrne walked up the steps, back into the bar. He got the barmaid’s attention.

  ‘Did Ray come back in?’

  ‘He left.’

  Byrne went upstairs, and down to the Quiet Man’s Pub. The place was all but deserted.

  Ray Torrance was nowhere to be found.

  It was well after three a.m. by the time Byrne put his head down on the pillow. Within minutes he was awakened by someone pounding on his door. In the dusk of half-sleep it sounded like a shotgun blast. His first instinct was to take his service weapon with him to the door, but he’d had far too much to drink.

  He opened the door to see two young patrol officers in the hallway. In between them was a barely coherent Ray Torrance.

  His face was streaked with blood.

  ‘Are you Detective Byrne?’ one of the officers asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ Byrne said. ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘Not sure,’ the officer said. ‘But you should see the other guy.’

  ‘Is the other guy pressing charges?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Byrne stepped into the hall. He got hold of Torrance, hooked a meaty arm around his neck.

  ‘Thanks, guys,’ he said. ‘What house do you work out of?’

  ‘Sixth.’

  ‘I’ll remember.’

  ‘Have a good night, sir.’

  Night, Byrne thought as he lugged Ray Torrance inside and closed the door. Young officers on last-out always called it night, even at four in the morning.

  Had he ever been their age?

  Ray Torrance sat on the couch. Byrne sat on the chair. The man’s face had begun to swell.

  ‘Christ, Ray. What did you do?’

  Torrance shrugged. ‘I have some stuff in storage. There was a little misunderstanding with the owner about hours of operation.’

  Byrne pointed at the cut on Torrance’s forehead. ‘You want to get that looked at?’

  Torrance gave him a look, the old Irish flatfoot look. Byrne went into the kitchen and got the Irish first-aid kit – a bottle of Bushmills, ice, and a paper towel. Torrance used all three.

  After a few silent minutes Torrance reached into his bag, took out a large rectangle of paper. On it was scribbled a number of words and numbers, connected by a series of arrows. As Torrance began to unfold the paper, Byrne could see that the edges of the creases were soiled with time and use. Whatever this was, it had been folded and unfolded many times.

  When Torrance turned it over, and smoothed it out on the coffee table, Byrne saw that it was a map, specifically a city map of a small section of Northeast Philadelphia. Marked on the map were dozens and dozens of red Xs. Before Torrance could say a word Byrne realized what he was looking at.

  ‘These are the break-ins you were talking about,’ Byrne said. ‘These are the places your boogeyman hit.’

  Torrance didn’t answer right away. He just brought a hand to his mouth and stared at the map. A few moments later he nodded and said, ‘Yeah.’

  When they had been in the bar, and Torrance had told him that there had been a number of break-ins, Byrne figured he meant five or six. If each X on this map was a separate case, he now knew there were more than three dozen.

  ‘The first one was up here,’ Torrance said, tapping an index finger on Grant Avenue. ‘The last one, Marielle’s house, was down here.’ He tapped the lower left of the map.

  Byrne scanned the grid, felt a small spike in his pulse. ‘They’re all around Priory Park.’

  Torrance reached for the bottle of Bushmills, tipped a few more inches into his glass. Byrne knew that his friend was probably six sheets to the wind by now, but he didn’t stop him. Ray wasn’t going anywhere else tonight.

  Dozens of break-ins surrounding Priory Park, more than fifteen years earlier, and now the bodies of three homicide victims, four counting Dus
tin Green. What was the connection?

  Because Ray Torrance was not officially involved in any investigation, Byrne kept these questions to himself.

  Torrance stared at the map for a few more moments, then reached back into his bag. He pulled out an old VHS tape, glanced up at Byrne.

  ‘Please tell me you still have a player.’

  Byrne rummaged through his hall closet, hauled out his VHS machine, brought it into the living room. He searched a few drawers, found the RCA cables, hooked it up. He flipped on the TV. Torrance handed him the tape.

  ‘You’re sure you want me to see this?’ Byrne asked.

  ‘Kev.’

  Byrne held up a hand. He’d asked. It was all he could do. He slipped in the tape, hit PLAY.

  The video was a high-angle shot of what looked to be a vinyl dinette set. On the right side of the frame was an empty chair. Behind the chair, on the floor, was a pair of royal blue laundry baskets.

  After a few moments a little girl slides onto the chair. She wears a pair of magenta pants and a floral long-sleeved T-shirt. Her face is partially obscured by the swag light fixture. She looks to be about four years old.

  In the background is the sound of a Saturday-morning cartoon show on television.

  The girl knits her fingers, waits.

  From off screen:

  ‘My name is Ray.’

  The little girl looks down at her hands. She remains silent.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Ray asks.

  The girl looks up, to her right. From off camera: ‘It’s okay.’ A woman’s voice. Byrne assumes it is the girl’s mother. The girl looks at Ray.

  ‘Marielle,’ she says.

  ‘Marielle. That’s a very pretty name.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I heard that they call you Bean.’

  Marielle nods.

  ‘That’s a funny name. How did you get that name?’

  Another shrug. Another look off camera. She looks back at Ray. ‘It’s because I like string beans.’

  ‘You like string beans?’

  Marielle nods.

  ‘I like string beans, too!’ Ray says. ‘Especially with mashed potatoes. Do you like mashed potatoes?’

  The little girl nods again. ‘With butter.’

  ‘Got to have butter,’ Ray says. ‘Now, Bean, do you know who I am?’

  ‘Yes. A p’liceman.’

  ‘That’s right. Do you know why I’m here?’

  Marielle nods again.

  ‘Why am I here?’

  ‘The man in the closet.’

  ‘There was a man in your closet?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know his name?’

  Marielle shrugs.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Ray says. ‘I see people all the time and I don’t know their names.’

  Marielle shifts her weight on the chair.

  ‘Now, this man, did he come out of the closet and into your room?’

  Marielle nods.

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He told stories.’

  ‘Stories? What kind of stories?’

  Another shrug.

  ‘Were they scary stories?’

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘They were sleep stories.’

  ‘Sleep stories?’

  The little girl nods again.

  ‘You mean stories like when you’re sleeping?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How many times did he come to visit you?’

  Marielle thinks for a few moments, then holds up both hands, all fingers out.

  ‘Ten times?’

  Marielle shrugs.

  ‘Did you ever go anywhere with the man?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘He took me and Tuff for a walk. To meet the other man.’

  ‘What other man?’

  Marielle looked at her hands again. When she didn’t answer, Ray continued.

  ‘This man,’ Ray says. ‘The man who was in the closet. Can you tell me what he looks like?’

  ‘I made a picture of him.’

  ‘May I see it?’

  Marielle slides off the chair. She soon returns with a piece of white construction paper. When she turns it over there is a stick figure drawing of a man.

  ‘This is the man?’

  Marielle nods.

  ‘He looks like a scarecrow,’ Ray says.

  Instead of answering, the little girl just folds her hands in her lap, and remains silent.

  When Byrne came back from the kitchen, two steaming mugs of decaf in hand, Ray Torrance was fast asleep on the couch. He had rewound the tape to an instant when Marielle’s face was in profile, her scarecrow drawing in hand. The tape showed both the little girl and the drawing in freeze frame.

  As Byrne put the mugs down on the coffee table, Ray Torrance mumbled something in his sleep.

  ‘PWD, man.’

  ‘What?’ Byrne asked.

  Torrance remained silent, his eyes still closed. He turned onto his side.

  ‘What did you say, Ray?’ Byrne asked. ‘I didn’t hear.’ It sounded like PPD. Philadelphia Police Department. Maybe Ray was reliving the case in his dream.

  Nothing. The man was out cold.

  Byrne took the remote out of Torrance’s hand. He then got a blanket out of the hall closet, tucked it around his old friend, and turned off the television.

  49

  The surveillance on Priory Park was no longer covert. There were patrol cars at either end of Chancel Lane, as well as two SWAT officers deployed on the roof of the old stone chapel at the northwest end of the park.

  At the eastern end there were three cars in short rotation watching the entrances from the avenues.

  In addition, because Priory Park was a state park, the PPD requested assistance from park rangers. There were four rangers on foot patrol.

  At nine-thirty a.m. Byrne got a call from the desk sergeant. He picked up the phone, punched the button. ‘This is Detective Byrne.’ He listened for a few seconds, glanced at Jessica. ‘Okay, bring him up.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Jessica asked.

  Byrne hung up the phone. ‘James Delacroix is downstairs. He wants to talk to us.’

  It had been just a few days since they first met James Delacroix. Somehow, in that short period of time he had become a different man, someone Jessica might have passed on the street without recognition. Grief, and the shock of a loved one’s sudden, violent death, had a way of making a person smaller. His jacket hung loosely around his shoulders.

  Byrne crossed the room to meet Delacroix at the doorway. He extended his hand. ‘Mr Delacroix,’ he said. They shook hands. ‘How are you holding up?’

  Instead of answering the question – after all, what answer would be truthful at a time like this – the man just lifted his shoulders slightly, dropped them.

  ‘Come on over here,’ Byrne said. ‘I’ll get you a chair.’

  The man seemed to float across the duty room, as if he had no weight or substance at all. Byrne found an empty chair, rolled it over to one of the desks. Delacroix sat down. Jessica sat across from him.

  ‘Can I get you something?’ Jessica asked. ‘Coffee, soda?’

  After a few seconds Delacroix looked up. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m fine, thank you.’

  Byrne sat down. Both he and Jessica waited a few moments for the conversation to begin. Soon it became clear that the two detectives had to initiate this encounter.

  ‘What can we do for you?’ Byrne asked.

  Delacroix leaned forward, steepled his fingers. ‘My sister and I were born twelve years apart,’ he said. ‘She was very protective of me when I was small. But by the time she reached her late teens, and began college, everything changed, of course. She had her own life, her own friends, her future to think about.’

  Jessica had seen this many times. Whatever reason had drawn Delacroix to the station needed to be prefaced by history. It probably had nothing to do with why he was there, but in
these first days and weeks of grieving, when the whole world seemed to be moving on, it was necessary.

  ‘We shared a pair of safe deposit boxes,’ he said. ‘One each. I told her I didn’t need one; she insisted that I did. And although we each had access to the other, we had an understanding, an unspoken understanding, that whatever we had in our boxes was sacred. Important papers, such as our wills, any deeds or titles to automobiles or property, was always clearly labeled. These are things to which, if and when the need arose, we would have legitimate access.’

  At this Delacroix stopped for a moment. Jessica could see his eyes beginning to well with tears. Clearly, the need had arisen to address his sister’s property. Jessica got up, crossed the duty room, and came back with a small roll of paper towels. As she handed the roll to Delacroix, she reminded and scolded herself about the fact that there were no boxes of Kleenex tissues anywhere. God knew enough people cried in this room. James Delacroix tore off a few of the towels, folded them, dabbed at his eyes. He nodded a thank-you. Jessica sat down again.

  Somewhat composed, he continued. ‘We always said that there would be one envelope in our boxes that was not to be opened until after our deaths. I went to the bank today, and took out the contents of my sister’s safe deposit box.’

  Delacroix turned the flap on his messenger bag, reached inside. Jessica found that she was holding her breath. She had no idea what he was going to take out of the bag. It turned out to be a cassette tape. A seemingly ordinary, inherently benign cassette tape. James Delacroix put the tape down on the desk. Through the clear plastic cover Jessica could see that there was something written on the label.

  ‘The only thing in the envelope in Joan’s safe-deposit box was this tape. This tape and a small note.’ Once again he reached into his bag. This time he pulled out a small piece of note paper. He unfolded it. For a moment it appeared that he would read it aloud. His hands began to shake. Jessica reached out to take the man’s hands in hers.

  ‘Would you like me to read it for you?’ she asked.

  The man just nodded. Jessica took the note from him. The paper was a quality linen, buff in color. At the top, printed in deep burgundy ink, was JOAN CATHERINE DELACROIX. Jessica scanned the two lines that were hand printed on the paper. It was not what she expected. She looked up, at Delacroix.