Torrance voiced no objections.
There were four children in the front room. Violet was wearing a purple sweatshirt and matching sweatpants. Okay, not an exact match. It was the kind of match made at Walmart when you were trying to buy a birthday gift for someone named Violet.
Violet was at one of the small tables, by herself, working on a castle made of blocks.
According to the woman who ran the home, Violet had yet to say a word. She said the little girl responded to instructions, and slept through the night, but had yet to answer a question.
When Violet saw Byrne there was a moment of hesitation. Byrne watched her carefully as she spotted him, looked away, then got up, walked across the room, and put her arms out. Byrne picked her up, and she wrapped her arms around his neck.
He walked her back to the table.
‘What are we building?’ Byrne asked.
No answer. He put the little girl down, and she went immediately back to her task. At first it looked like Violet was going for a pyramid shape, but when she stacked the blocks too high, they all fell over.
Still no reaction. No anger, no frustration, no joy. As Byrne watched her gather together the blocks for another try, he marveled at how pale she was. Her skin was almost paper white; her hair was nearly white blond. Someone, it seemed, had found a barrette for her, a clip to keep the hair from falling into her face. The barrette, in the shape of a five-petal flower was, of course, a shade of purple.
Byrne watched her for a while, woefully unprepared to talk to the little girl. He simply didn’t know what to ask her. He knew she had been seen by a child psychologist, to whom the girl had not uttered a word. If a behavioral therapist couldn’t get anything out of her, what chance did a big dumb cop have?
Apparently, none.
When it came time to leave, Byrne gave Violet another hug.
She stood next to the table, watching him as he crossed the room. But when Byrne turned around to wave goodbye to her, he saw that her attention had been drawn away from him. She was looking at the television.
Violet stood in front of the screen. She looked over at Byrne for a moment, then back at the TV. She put her tiny hand on the screen.
The movie playing was The Wizard of Oz. The scene was the one where Judy Garland comes around the bend on the yellow brick road, and meets Ray Bolger for the first time.
It was the scarecrow.
Violet was trying to touch the scarecrow.
They stood on the sidewalk in front of the row house. When it began to rain again they stepped under the awning of the bakery next door. The aromas of fresh bread and pastries were maddening. Byrne had not eaten all day.
‘This is a bit of a reach, Ray.’
‘Come on, Kevin. You saw that sketch that Marielle made. She said the man looked like a scarecrow.’
‘All due respect, you said it was a scarecrow. She didn’t correct you on that.’
‘You’re saying there’s no connection?’
Byrne considered what Torrance was saying. He wanted to shoot it down. He had no ammunition.
‘One night,’ Torrance said. ‘Give me one night on the streets. If I don’t make the link, I’ll go back to my cabin.’
‘I don’t want that, Ray. Nobody wants that.’
‘Look, I won’t insult you by asking if you have a case or two you can’t shake. Christ, I know for a fact you do. You don’t get to pick and choose which ones get to you.’
Byrne looked at his old friend. His posture was stooped, he was leaning forward. He didn’t want to reduce this once great cop to begging. He put a hand on the man’s shoulder.
‘One night,’ Byrne said.
Ray Torrance smiled.
‘But first we have to get some of this bread.’
It had been a while since Byrne had done this kind of street work. He never cared for it. It mostly amounted to drinking coffee, trying to stay not only awake but alert and on point, playing bathroom tag team with your partner, and getting home at dawn with nothing to show for it. Once in a while you got lucky, and the person for whom you were looking made the mistake of going where they should have known not to go, and you had them.
That was rare.
There were a few places in Philadelphia to find street kids. If you were a runaway you came in through the bus terminal on Filbert, or the majestic, cavernous 30th Street train station. These were your points of entry.
But the place you hung out, once you got here, was South Street. Especially after dark. You could hang out at the malls during the day, right up until closing time, but after that you headed to South.
Both Byrne and Torrance dressed down as much as possible. Byrne wore his leather coat, jeans, his comfortable black boots. He didn’t know how much running might be involved this night. None, he hoped. Torrance was between wardrobes, as it were. He borrowed one of Byrne’s old navy pea coats, and a pair of dark gray corduroys. They were about the same size, and the ensemble, even as dated as it might’ve been, suited him.
They began the search near the bottom of South Street, in front of Downey’s. After an hour or so they split up for a while, Torrance staying in touch via a burner cell phone Byrne had bought for him.
When they reconvened, at ten o’clock, they had talked to maybe three dozen teenagers. They’d learned nothing. The temptation to slip into one of the many bars on South was great, but they decided to give it until midnight.
The girls couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen. They both stood with their cell phones in hand, glancing at them every few seconds, as if the answers to all life’s problems could be found on a four-inch LCD display.
Maybe they could, Byrne thought. He’d looked everywhere else, and so far came up empty.
‘You guys are cops, right?’ one of the girls asked.
‘I’m not a cop,’ Torrance said.
It was technically true. Ray was an ex-cop. Byrne had not produced a badge or ID.
Torrance took the photograph out of his pocket. ‘I’m trying to find this girl,’ he said. ‘She’s not in any trouble or anything. And you won’t be in any trouble if you help us.’
It was a high school photograph of Marielle Gray, one taken just a few weeks before she ran away from home. Ray Torrance had gotten it out of a yearbook he had purchased online.
One of the girls, the taller one, took the picture from Torrance and looked at it closely. When she was done she handed it to the other girl who did likewise.
‘I like her earrings,’ the short one said. ‘Do you know where she got them?’
Byrne heard Ray Torrance take a deep breath, exhale. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I think they were a gift. Does she look familiar to you?’
The girl handed the photograph back, shook her head. ‘No,’ the girl said. ‘Sorry.’
Torrance reached into his coat pocket, took out a coupon for a pizza place on South, courtesy of an old friend, a former detective from Major Case who had recently opened a parlor. Torrance had been handing them out all night.
Torrance then pulled out a pencil, put the coupon on top of a newspaper box, scribbled his cell phone number on the back. ‘If you think of anything, like where you may have seen this girl, or who she might have hung out with, give me a call.’ He handed the coupon to the taller girl. ‘If not, this is good for a free slice.’
The other girl looked hurt. Ray Torrance reached into his pocket, pulled out a second coupon, handed it to her. ‘One for you, too.’
Both girls smiled.
‘Just one other thing,’ Torrance said. He reached into his inner pocket, took out a picture of Dustin Green. ‘Do you know him?’
The girls looked at each other, then at the ground.
‘You do know him,’ Torrance added.
‘Yeah,’ the taller girl said. ‘We know Dusty. I heard he died. Is that, like, true?’
There was no reason to lie. The kid’s death was probably in the paper. ‘Yeah,’ Byrne said. ‘He did.’
‘He said there was a guy he used to
do things for,’ Torrance said. ‘An older guy.’
‘I know who you mean,’ the taller girl said.
‘You do?’
‘I think so. This guy would show up now and then. Always has money. Drives this really cool old car.’
‘A black car?’ Byrne asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘This guy, the guy with the black car,’ Torrance said, ‘could you describe him to a sketch artist?’
‘No problem.’
‘Do you know his name?’
‘Sure,’ the girl said. ‘His name is Luther.’
54
Jessica stood over the printer, the fatigue a grand piano on her shoulders. She had soldiered through two morning classes, and still managed to get to the Roundhouse by ten a.m.
The transcripts of the recorded tape, sent by the detective in Estonia, had arrived in Byrne’s email box at seven a.m. Jessica was making copies for all eight detectives on the task force.
The man the two street kids called Luther was a cipher. There was no record of him in any police database. There were plenty of men named Luther in the system, but none of them looked like the sketch made from the girls’ description.
A copy of the sketch was in every sector car in the city of Philadelphia.
They had processed the MasterCard found in Joan Delacroix’s purse, and found no trace evidence of blood or fingerprints. The card had been wiped clean with a bleach solution. There was only one plausible explanation, and that was that whoever had killed Cheque Marquez, had also killed Joan Delacroix.
The direct line between the two homicides had yet to be drawn.
Eight detectives, along with Sergeant Dana Westbrook and the captain of the homicide unit crowded into Westbrook’s office. Each had a copy of the transcript – fifty-five pages in all – in hand.
Kevin Byrne stood at the front of the room.
He began to read:
12 January 2:15 p.m.
Building G10
Subject: Eduard Kross
Träumen Sie?
Yes, I dream.
Where are you?
I am in Riisipere. A small village in Nissi County. Near the center of town. I have been walking for days. I smell of the road.
What is the year?
It is the spring of 1964.
What do you see?
I see a small town square, cut into quadrants. At the center is a crumbling bandstand. The structure is early Stalinist era, terrible construction, already falling down. Not enough sand for the mortar. To the right is a café. In front are four tables. No umbrellas. It is too early in the season.
Who is seated at the tables?
An elderly couple. The man wears a blue flannel coat with rips at the elbow. The woman is heavy. She seems to have no shape beneath her coat. Her hair is dyed an uncommon shade of red, far too young for her years. They are thick-waisted, thick-witted. Peasants. The man drinks a mug of ale. The woman just stares.
Who else is seated at the tables?
No one.
Can you see inside the café?
Yes. I can see a young woman. She is cleaning off one of the tables near the door.
She works at the café?
Yes.
Will you go inside?
I will.
Tell me what you see.
I enter the café. To the left is a bar, five or six stools. Another old man sits at the far end. In front of him is a small shot glass, filled to the brim. He stares at it, does not look up when I enter.
Do you sit down?
Yes. I sit at one of the tables, farthest from the door, farthest from the light.
What do you smell?
Cabbage, beets, fatty beef. Beneath it all is the stink of the provinces, cheap vodka, the sweat of the fields.
What of the young woman?
She is now standing next to my table, her right hand on her hip, waiting. She wears a much laundered dress with a soiled apron tied around her waist. She is very beautiful. Her eyes are ice gray, Slavic. Her lips are the color of coral.
Do you speak with her?
Yes. I order my food. A beef stew. Without a word, the young woman walks across the café, through the swinging doors, into the kitchen. A swirl of steam greets her. Soon she returns with my stew. The bowl is chipped and cracked. I notice she wears a ring on her left hand, a simple silver band, tarnished. I finish my stew, leaving the gristle on the table as a gratuity.
What do you do then?
I place a few coins, in the correct amount, on the bar top, and walk into the early evening air. I cross the square, and step onto the bandstand. I roll a cigarette, smoke it.
Are you alone?
I am.
What do you feel?
I feel the beast stir within me.
Can you describe the feeling?
No more than I could describe my own birth.
What do you do now?
I sit in the bandstand until it is full dark. Soon, the lights are extinguished in the café, the only illumination now are the gas lamps on the quadrant. The young woman exits the building, slips a padlock through a hasp. She pulls a scarf tightly around her throat and begins to walk north, into the darkness.
Do you follow?
Yes.
Where does she take you?
Through the forest. She seems to know the way, walking along a beaten path. We soon come to a clearing, then a gravel lane that runs parallel to the tracks. This is the line that leads to Tartu. We follow it for a full kilometer.
What do you see?
In the distance I see lights.
A farmhouse?
No. It is a small house, near the railroad tracks. I watch her enter. When it is safe, I walk up to the house, peer in the window.
What do you see?
I see her preparing dinner – peeling brown carrots. She is the station master’s wife. I do not mean either of them harm. I just want to rob them. But the man sees me peering in the window. He picks up a rifle and puts it to my head. His name is Toomas Sepp.
What happens then?
He marches me to the stable, makes me lie down in the barn, in a pile of fresh manure. He says that this is where I belong. He freely insults my mother. He does not see the steel neck yoke on the floor, beneath the wet hay. I am able to subdue him with it.
What do you do then?
I tie the woman up in the stable. When I come out, I re-enter the house, remove one the wooden chairs, then take the chair to the center of the small field next to the barn.
Where is the man?
He is tied to the bumper of an old car. With a hammer in hand, I untie the man, and lead him to the chair. Along the way, I pick up an old spike laying next to the tracks. When he is seated I tell him to voice a prayer, if he knows one.
Does he pray?
Yes. I tell the man that if he gives his life, I will spare his wife.
Does he agree to this?
Yes. Sitting in the middle of the field, he holds the spike to the back of his head. I lift the hammer and bring it down with all my strength.
Träumen Sie?
Yes, Doctor. I dream.
For a long time, no one in the room said a word. What Byrne had just read was an account of Robert Freitag’s murder, committed nearly fifty years earlier, halfway around the world. The circumstances were not the same, but the act was identical.
Over the next ten minutes or so they all read the rest of the transcripts in silence.
In 1966 Eduard Kross bludgeoned to death a woman named Etti Koppel, and left her body on the banks of the Narva River, large stones on her hands. He’d dressed her in the dark, placing her shoes on the wrong feet.
In 1970 he killed a Latvian businessman named Juris Spalva by suspending him between two trees with a steel wire wrapped around his neck.
In 1977 he killed a thief named Jaak Männik by cutting out his eyes.
Robert Freitag was Toomas Sepp.
Joan Delacroix was Etti Koppel.
; Edward Richmond was Juris Spalva.
Ezequiel Marquez was Jaak Männik.
‘As far as I know, this has never been published anywhere. No books or articles,’ Byrne said. ‘According to Peeter Tamm these murders are considered ancient history in Estonia. I asked him to look and see if he could find any books written on this Eduard Kross. He said he searched the libraries and the bookstores, and found none.’
Dana Westbrook looked at the transcript for a few long moments. ‘Sorry to be such a dunce, but where is Estonia again?’
Byrne reached in the folder, produced a printout he had made from Google Maps.
‘Tamm told me that a lot of the records – police records, birth and death certificates, marriage licenses, and the like – from the years of Soviet occupation were destroyed.’
‘So we’re thinking that someone – this Luther – is basing these murders on this tape?’ Westbrook asked.
‘It’s possible.’
Westbrook held up the transcript. ‘What is this, though? He calls him “Doctor” at the end of each session. Is this a therapy session with a psychiatrist?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Byrne said. ‘I think the voice on that tape is Eduard Kross himself, and I think he was dreaming when it was recorded. I think these are recollections from his life.’
‘How did our subject get hold of this?’
‘I think he was a patient at Cold River when Joan Delacroix worked there,’ Byrne said. ‘I think he was a subject of this Die Traumkaufleute group. I think they created this monster, and now he is visiting this violence on them.’
‘But why now?’ Westbrook asked. ‘It’s been years. The place is shut down.’
Byrne thought for a few moments. He looked out the window. The rain was pouring down in torrents. There was a flood advisory for the city in effect. He looked back at everyone in the room, and said: ‘I don’t know.’
A few minutes later, Jessica’s cell phone rang. She stepped out of the office, took the call. When she stepped back in, everyone was gathering their belongings. She got Byrne’s attention.
‘I just heard from Martin Léopold’s publishing house. They said they spoke to him, and that he would be delighted to talk to us.’
The Stolen Ones Page 29
