For years Rachel wondered if her mother was coming to see her. It was the route her mother always took when she came to Drexel University.
Rachel had spoken to her boss earlier in the day, and Diana told her that the offer on the house was for $350,000, which was at least $75,000 more than for any other house on the block.
The sale, of course, was contingent on an inspection.
Rachel stood in the doorway to Bean’s room. She wondered if the new owners had children, and if two new little girls would grow up in this space.
She would find out soon.
The buyer would be there in twenty-four hours.
51
Named for St Thomas of Villanova, and located in Radnor Township, northwest of Philadelphia, Villanova University was the oldest Catholic university in Pennsylvania.
Byrne met the woman Josh Bontrager had contacted, Elizabeth Troyer, in her small office near the language lab in Mendel Hall.
In her mid thirties, Elizabeth Troyer was an Associate Professor of English.
‘We appreciate you taking the time,’ Byrne said.
‘I’m happy to help, but I’m afraid I cannot say it has been a pleasure.’
‘Why is that?’
She picked up the notebook, held it for a moment. She did not open it. ‘As you requested, I did listen to this tape. Not all of it, mind you, but a fair sampling. I am not a linguist, nor an audiologist by any stretch of the imagination, but I can tell you that there are two distinct voices on these tapes.’
‘Only two?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It seems the recordings were made in a small room of sorts. There is no echo.’
‘Can you tell anything about who is speaking?’
‘Not much, I’m afraid. I can tell you that it is two men. I can also tell you that one of the men, the one asking the questions, seems to be quite educated. His grammar, syntax, vocabulary, all point to a university-level education.’
‘What about where they are from?’
‘The man who is asking questions is indeed speaking German. The other man is not so easy to pin down. I believe it is one of the Uralic languages.’
The look on Byrne’s face must have conveyed a question. Before he could ask it, she answered.
‘The Uralic languages are a family of about three dozen tongues, mostly called Finno-Ugric today. The name derives from people who lived in or near the Ural Mountains. A number of languages are loosely associated with the Uralics – Hungarian, Finnish, others.’
‘And you’re saying that the other speaker on this recording, the one not speaking German, is speaking one of these languages?’
‘Yes, I believe so,’ she said. ‘Although I think it is more Finnic. Balto Finnic, perhaps.’
She stopped the recording, rewound it to the beginning. She then reached into a drawer in her desk, took out a pair of headphones, plugged it into her tape player. ‘Do you have a few moments?’
‘Absolutely,’ Byrne said.
She rose from her desk, walked across the room to the bookcase. She ran her finger along the spines of the books on the top shelf, stopped, and removed one of the volumes. She stepped back to her desk, put the headphones back on, and started the recording.
Byrne could no longer hear it.
On the other hand, hearing it the first few times had not helped. Once again, as he had many times before, he promised himself that as soon as he had some free time he would try to learn a foreign language.
The woman closed her eyes as she was listening. After a minute or so she restarted the recording, played it again. She stopped it one more time, flipped through the book on her lap. She came to a page, read for a few moments, then restarted the recording. A minute later she took the headphones off. She hit the eject button, took out the tape, and handed it to Byrne.
‘It’s Estonian.’
‘Estonian?’
‘Yes. One of the men is speaking German, the other is speaking Estonian. I am sure of it.’
Byrne made a few notes. ‘What about context?’
‘You want to know what they’re talking about?’
‘Whatever you can tell me would be of great help.’
At this, the woman sat down in one of the chairs by the window. She reached into her bag and took out a small silver case. She opened the case, extracted a small white pill, placed it on her tongue. She poured herself a half glass of water, drank it. Whatever she was about to say, it appeared it was going to have some negative effect on her.
When she reached into her bag, and took out a pack of cigarettes, Byrne realized it was going to be worse than that.
‘Do you mind?’ she asked, holding up the pack.
‘Not at all,’ Byrne said. It wasn’t entirely true, but this was her patch.
The woman tapped a pair of cigarettes halfway out of the pack, offered one to Byrne. He shook his head. She then opened the window, extracted a lighter from her purse, lit the cigarette, drew deeply, and blew the smoke out the window.
‘I could probably lose tenure over this,’ she said, holding up her cigarette. ‘Sometimes I think it would be worth it.’
Although Byrne had never been much of a smoker, he was always amazed at the effect a cigarette could have on someone. Along with the smoke, it appeared, the woman had released at least some of the anxiety she anticipated in relating the details of what she heard on the recording.
Ritual now complete, the woman opened her notebook.
‘As I stated, I only listened to portions of the tape, but I heard more than enough to understand the structure of these conversations, if not their exact nature. Once again, I can only understand half of it, and not even close to every word at that.’
‘I understand.’
‘What I determined from the German speaker was something – how shall I put this? – something disturbing.’
‘Disturbing? How so?’
‘I’m not exactly sure,’ she said. ‘You said this was, in some way, related to an investigation? A homicide investigation?’
‘Yes.’
She nodded. ‘I don’t want to mislead you about something that really amounts to what is probably no more than a feeling on my part. As I said I am not fluent in German. I am conversational, but not fluent.’
‘Okay.’
‘I do feel confident in telling you that the German speaker in this recording seems to be coercing thoughts from the other person.’
Coercing, Byrne thought. ‘Are you saying that this might be a tape recording of some type of interrogation?’
She was silent for a moment. ‘Maybe coercing is the wrong word.’ The woman took another hit on her cigarette. She then reached in the drawer of her desk, took out a small travel ashtray. She carefully butted the cigarette into the ashtray enclosed with swivel top. She opened the window more fully. Byrne had to admit the fresh air helped.
‘Maybe I’m completely wrong about this,’ she said. ‘There are as many nuances in German as there are in English. There are a number of instructors here at the university who can give you a precise translation of this material.’
The woman was retreating. Byrne said nothing.
‘I’m afraid we don’t have anyone here at the university who speaks or teaches Estonian or any of the Finno-Baltic languages. There isn’t that much call for it. At least at a college this size.’
‘I understand.’
‘I am, however, a member of one or two national and international organizations. I could send out a few feelers. I’m sure I could find someone in very short order who could help you with the translation of the Estonian side of this conversation.’
Byrne thought about it. He considered the woman’s statement that the questions being asked in German were ‘disturbing’. There was now no doubt that this recording was evidentiary in a homicide, perhaps a series of homicides. He’d had some reluctance about even bringing it to the university, and now that he knew that the tone, if not the context, of what was being said on the tape was dark in nature, it
would probably not be the best thing to bring more people into the fold.
‘That’s very kind of you,’ Byrne said. ‘I’m not sure where this recording fits into the investigation just yet. And I think you can understand the need for confidentiality here.’
‘Of course.’
‘So I’ll let you know whether or not we need you to contact any of your colleagues.’
The woman looked a little relieved. ‘Do let me know, then. I’d be more than happy to help.’
‘Did you make a copy of this?’
‘No.’
Byrne glanced at his notepad. ‘I’m wondering about the first thing said on the tape,’ he said. ‘After the date and time. That Träumen…’
‘It’s a German expression. Träumen Sie.’
‘Do you know what that means?’
‘I do. I believe it was phrased as a question. It translates as “Do you dream?”.’
‘“Do you dream?”’ Byrne repeated.
‘Yes.’
Byrne stood up. The woman followed suit. They shook hands. ‘Thanks so much for your time and your help. It’s much appreciated.’
‘Any time.’
‘And if you could keep this to yourself, it would probably be best for the time being.’
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘On one condition.’
‘And what is that?’
‘You don’t tell anybody about the smoking.’
Byrne smiled. ‘Trust me. Nobody is better at keeping secrets than the police.’
The woman returned the smile. She opened the door to her office. ‘Even under oath?’
‘Especially under oath.’
Byrne sat in the parking lot. He watched the students scurry across campus in the freezing rain, wondering if he was ever that young. When he was their age he was already a police officer. He wondered about their choices, his choices.
His mind soon returned the recording.
Träumen Sie, he thought.
Do you dream?
He considered the book in Robert Freitag’s house, and its inscription: Perchance to dream.
They were all about dreaming in the Big Place, Lenny Pintar had said.
Die Traumkaufleute.
The Dream Merchants.
Byrne looked at the clock, saw that it was after one a.m., hit the speed-dial number before he could stop himself. Jessica answered in two rings.
‘Hey.’
‘Were you sleeping?’ Byrne asked.
‘I don’t sleep,’ Jessica said. ‘I work, I study, and I make sandwiches without crust.’
‘What were you doing just now?’
‘Okay, I nodded off. What’s up?’
Byrne told her about his visit to Villanova.
‘That’s what she said? Disturbing?’
‘Yeah. Her word.’
Jessica was silent for a moment. ‘What do you think she meant?’
‘She didn’t want to say too much, probably thinking it would be misleading without context. She’s probably right. She said she thinks it sounds like a Q and A, and the questioner, the one speaking German, is coercing answers out of the other speaker.’
‘Do we know what language that is?’
‘Estonian.’
‘Wow. Okay. What’s our next step with this?’
Byrne told her that the woman offered to track down someone who could translate the Estonian part of the recording.
‘I think we should take her up on it,’ Jessica said.
‘Yeah. You’re probably right.’
‘Oh, by the way, I checked the obituary on Dr Kirsch. Kirsch died in a fire in the basement of G10, along with two administrators from the hospital.’
‘Does it sound like Kirsch might have been involved in nefarious activities?’
Jessica laughed. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to go to law school?’
‘Maybe I will. It’s got to be easier than this.’
‘I’ll read the obit again tomorrow when I’m not cross-eyed with exhaustion.’
‘Okay,’ Byrne said. ‘See you in the morning.’
‘It is morning.’
‘See you later.’
Byrne poured himself another few inches of Bushmills. He walked over to the dining-room table, took the cassette tape out of his bag. He turned off the music he was listening to – Rory Gallagher’s Irish Tour ’74 – then opened the cassette deck. Before he inserted the tape he took out his pen and made sure he took up the slack on the left side of the reel, Mateo Fuentes’ stern brow in his mind’s eye. He popped in the cassette, pressed PLAY, turned off the lights, sat in the chair by the window. As he did this it occurred to him that he might be turning into Old Tony Giordano.
There were probably worse fates.
After a few seconds the recording started. After the time stamp, he heard the question again, the one he now knew meant: ‘Do you dream?’
Byrne closed his eyes. He tried to imagine the room in which this recording was made. There were clearly two men, one more or less interviewing the other.
Were they sitting in chairs, facing each other? And, if so, what kind of chairs? Were they comfortable, upholstered chairs? Were they utilitarian, folding metal chairs? Byrne tried to listen for some kind of echo, some audible reflection of sound off metal. He heard none.
He took a sip of the Bushmills, put his feet up on the windowsill. Was this recording made at Cold River? Was this part of the secretive research Miriam Gale had alluded to?
When the second man began to speak, Byrne –
– is on a long road, unpaved, winding through green hills, the near distance dotted with farmhouses, idyllic, the sound of footsteps on hardpan, now accented with the sound of rain pelting through tall trees, the smell of –
– sack cloth and wet straw.
At three a.m. Byrne surrendered to his insomnia. He got out of bed, walked over to the bathroom, all but drowned himself in cold water. He glanced out the bathroom window. The street was quiet, still. He walked back into the living room, eyed the bottle of Bushmills. It eyed him back. There was only an inch left. Was there anything sadder? Maybe. But not at the moment.
He resigned himself to the fact that it was in fact today, not last night, not any more. He put some coffee on and tried to will himself alert.
Fifteen minutes later, a pot of strong coffee at his side, he sat down at his dining-room table, opened his laptop. It took about twenty seconds for him to dump the last inch of whiskey into his cup, justifying it, as always, that he was Irish, and now his coffee was, too.
The only thing he knew about Estonia was that it was a Baltic country, along with Lithuania and Latvia. It was not as if he was scholarly about Germany, not by any means, but Estonia was a blank slate.
Within minutes he learned the basics. Estonia was approximately the size of Vermont and New Hampshire combined, with a population of about 1.3 million people. The capital was Tallinn, a seaport on the Gulf of Finland, about fifty miles south of Helsinki. Their form of government was a parliamentary democracy, but it had not always been so.
From the early seventeen hundreds to the First World War, Estonia was ruled by the Russians. In 1917 Estonia declared its independence, and by 1920 Russia recognized it as a sovereign state. Unfortunately, for the people of Estonia, that independence was short-lived. The Second World War ushered in the darkest time in Estonia’s history. Between 1939 and 1945, as a result of both the Nazi and the Soviet occupations the country lost 180,000 citizens.
Those dark days – years of oppression, starvation and brutality – continued for decades. In the late 1980s, with the onset of Glasnost, controls on the freedom of expression were eased, and the singing of banned songs caught fire through Estonia, resulting in what was known as ‘the singing revolution’.
In 1991 the Soviets once again recognized Estonia as a sovereign nation. Three years later the last of the Soviet troops left the country.
Byrne did an image search for Estonia. From what he found the capital city of Tall
inn was beautiful. It looked to be from another time, a beautifully preserved and restored medieval city. The people seemed to have kind faces; the streets were clean and not covered in litter and graffiti.
In the course of his online searches he had a brainstorm. It might’ve been a Bushmills storm, but nonetheless he navigated to a web page for the administrative offices for the city of Tallinn. He clicked around for a while, and found the page for the municipal police department. He located the contact email address, opened his email program.
He rationalized what he was about to do this way: If, as the woman at Villanova had told him, the context of that which was being discussed in the audio recording was ‘disturbing’, then it probably wouldn’t make the best sense to have a citizen – or, more accurately, someone who was not in law enforcement – do the translation.
God knew the world had big ears these days.
Byrne composed a brief email query to a man named Peeter Tamm, listed as the media relations officer for the city of Tallinn municipal police department, requesting help in the translation of the recording. He didn’t know if he was following the correct PPD protocol when it came to things like this, because he had never before encountered a thing like this.
Before he could stop himself, he hit SEND, and heard the email begin its journey across the Atlantic.
52
The evidence from the four homicides – Robert Freitag, Joan Delacroix, Edward Richmond and Dustin Green – was posted on a giant white board in the duty room. Arrows made what few connections there were.
The autopsy of Edward Richmond concluded that the man had died from asphyxiation due to strangulation. The murder weapon was, presumptively, the steel wire with which he had been propped between the trees in Priory Park, a wire that had crushed the man’s trachea. The angle of the wound indicated that the strangulation had occurred when the man’s body weight pulled him down. The time of death was very accurately pinpointed at 9:30 p.m., literally minutes after P/O Weldon got the call and was drawn off his post.
To put it mildly, morale was not high on the first floor of the Roundhouse as it related to these cases.
The Stolen Ones Page 27
