The Stolen Ones

by Richard Montanari

  In the meantime, the newspapers ran grainy, black-and-white photographs of the deplorable conditions that existed at the hospital.

  While investigators believed that the full story of what happened during the last days of the Delaware Valley State Hospital might never be known, little by little people were coming forward, both hospital personnel and former patients alike.

  The PPD turned the audio recordings of Eduard Kross’s dreams over to the FBI’s behavioral science unit, in the hope of divining meaning from them, and perhaps applying their findings to unsolved homicides that had occurred in and around Philadelphia County over the last twenty years.

  Both James Delacroix and Edward Richmond’s son Timothy were treated for their wounds, and released from the hospital.

  The funeral was attended by police officers from as far away as Chicago.

  Ray Torrance was buried next to his parents in Holy Cross Cemetery in Lansdowne.

  Jessica had not known the man well, but she could not stop the tears. It was such a waste. She thought of the torment Ray Torrance had lived with for years, and it broke her heart. As she stood watching the casket lowered into the earth, Byrne put his arm around her. They both had seen this too many times in their time on the force.

  As the first flower was dropped on the casket, Jessica glanced at her father. Peter Giovanni, in full dress blues, was stoic, as always. But Jessica knew that each time this happened, each time the bagpipes played, it took a little more from him.

  It took something from them all.

  76

  Two days after Ray Torrance’s service, as Jessica was just finishing up her reports, preparing to leave the office, her phone rang.

  ‘Balzano, Homicide.’

  ‘Detective Balzano, this is Jane Wickstrom with DHS.’

  Jessica didn’t recognize the name. Perhaps sensing her confusion, the woman continued.

  ‘I work with Pat Mazzello. I’m her supervisor. We met at the Survivor’s Benefit last year.’

  Jessica sort of recalled the woman. Blond, fifties, a little chatty. ‘Yes, of course. How are you?’

  ‘Very well, thanks. Do you have a minute?’

  ‘Sure. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I have some good news about Violet.’

  The name Violet had stuck, it seemed. Jessica had heard that the little girl had begun to respond to it.

  ‘What’s the news?’ Jessica asked.

  ‘I found a really good program that deals with children, young children who have been through some recent trauma.’

  ‘Well, Violet certainly qualifies.’

  ‘I spoke to the director of the program and she told me that they have an immediate opening. They’re located in upstate New York, and the program is an intensive, twenty-one-day residential program.’

  ‘That sounds great,’ Jessica said. ‘How soon will the process start?’

  ‘That’s why I was calling,’ Jane said. ‘I’ll be flying out with Violet later tonight.’

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘Yes, sometimes the wheels turn really quickly. I think you’d agree, this little girl has been through enough, and the sooner she can go through the process, the sooner she can get back to Philadelphia and into a stable home environment.’

  Jessica knew that Violet’s biological aunt, Rachel Gray, the young woman Luther had kidnapped, was in the process of petitioning the court for custody. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘Well, right now, Violet is at DHS. Seeing as she knows both you and Detective Byrne, I was hoping one of you could pick her up and bring her to my house. There’s plenty of time, the flight doesn’t leave till nine o’clock. I don’t live that far from the airport.’

  Jessica glanced at her watch. She was hoping for a bubble bath, dinner, half a bottle of Pinot Grigio, windowpane-rattling sex, and ten hours of uninterrupted sleep. In precisely that order. But the job goes on.

  ‘Sure,’ Jessica said. ‘I can pick her up. Where are you located?’

  Jane Wickstrom gave her an address.

  ‘Do I need to pick up anything for Violet?’ Jessica asked. ‘Things she might need on the flight?’

  ‘Thanks, but I’m just about to run to the store. No need for you to stop.’

  ‘Okay then,’ Jessica said. ‘I should be at DHS in about ten minutes. Give us another thirty, and we’ll be there.’

  When Jessica arrived at the Department of Human Services, it was all but deserted. She signed in and took the elevator to the intake room.

  The little girl was sitting in a chair in the waiting room. When Jessica walked into the room Violet looked up and smiled.

  This was a good thing.

  On the way to Jane Wickstrom’s house Jessica made a few attempts at conversation. Most of the time, the little girl just responded with a nod or shake of the head. By the time they got off I-95, Violet was humming a song, a song that was vaguely familiar to Jessica, but one she could not immediately put her finger on.

  She pulled over in front of the row house, parked the car.

  ‘Are you ready?’

  Violet looked out the window, then back at Jessica. It suddenly occurred to Jessica that the little girl didn’t understand the question. Ready for what?

  ‘Were going to go see Jane,’ Jessica said. ‘Do you remember Jane?’

  Violet looked down at her hands. She remained silent. Jessica wondered just how to explain who Jane was. It’d been a long time since she’d talked to someone as young as Violet.

  ‘Jane is the nice lady with blond hair. Pretty blond hair like yours. She’s really nice.’

  Violet looked out the window again. After a few moments Jessica got out of the car, opened the rear passenger door, unlatched the belt on Violet’s car seat.

  Without being prompted Violet stepped out of the car. She walked to the sidewalk, waited. Jessica took the little girl by the hand and together they walked up the sidewalk.

  Jessica was just about to ring the doorbell when she saw the Post-it note:

  Det. Balzano. Ran out to the store. Make yourself at home. BRB!

  Jessica opened the door, stepped into the house. A few seconds later she turned to see Violet still standing by the door. She looked so small.

  ‘You can come in, honey. It’s okay.’

  Violet took a few tentative steps into the living room. She glanced around at the bookshelves, at the magazines on the coffee table, at the pictures on the wall. Jessica followed her gaze. One of the framed photographs on the living-room wall was of Jane and what appeared to be her sister, along with her sister’s children. The kids in the photograph looked to be about eight, five and three. They were standing on a beach somewhere, possibly down the shore. Violet seemed transfixed.

  Jessica glanced at her watch. If the flight was at nine o’clock, and they allowed ninety minutes or so for the check-in, and all the other crap you had to put up with to fly these days, and they were about ten minutes from the airport, it was time to leave.

  ‘Are you thirsty, sweetie?’ Jessica asked.

  Violet said nothing.

  ‘Why don’t I see if Jane has some juice?’ Jessica pointed to the big wingback chair next to the fireplace. ‘You can sit here, okay?’ Without a word Violet crossed the room and climbed onto the chair.

  ‘I’ll be right back,’ Jessica added.

  Jessica walked down the short hallway toward the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator and found that there was apple juice, orange juice and grape juice. She didn’t expect an answer, but she thought she might give it a try. Perhaps if she wasn’t in the same room with the little girl, the little girl might answer.

  ‘Violet? Do you want apple juice or grape juice?’

  Jessica closed her eyes, waited. Nothing.

  Ah, well, Jessica thought. Worth a shot. She decided to just take two of the bottles into the living room, along with a cup.

  She crossed the kitchen, opened one of the glass-front cabinet doors next to the sink, took out a small juice glass. When
she closed the cabinet door she saw the reflection behind her, and felt the barrel of a gun touch the back of her head.

  77

  Byrne finished filling out the reports by seven o’clock. If there was a less glamorous aspect to what he did for a living than filling out the seemingly endless paperwork, he couldn’t imagine what it would be. Maybe a stakeout in high summer after a full Mexican meal.

  He went through each of the forms one last time, dotting every i, crossing every t, ticking every box. He checked the dates, addresses, names, police codes, checking for inaccuracies. There were none. Somehow, as fatigued as he was, there were no mistakes.

  He signed his name in the appropriate places, clicked his pen, stood up, crossed the duty room, and put the reports on his boss’s desk.

  As he slipped on his coat, he checked his cell phone. He had a text message from Jessica, sent about thirty minutes earlier. Byrne scanned the message. Jessica said she was on her way to pick up Violet, and take her to Jane Wickstrom’s house – whoever that was – and from there they were taking the little girl to the airport to fly to New York to enroll Violet in a treatment program.

  Byrne put that day’s Inquirer and his iPhone into his shoulder bag, and was just about to zip it up when he heard the tone that signaled he had new email.

  No more, Byrne thought. I’m done for the day. Hell, I’m done for the week. Maybe the month. I’m off duty. There’s a burger and a Guinness waiting for me somewhere in this city.

  Ah, who the hell was he kidding?

  He sat back down, took his iPhone from the bag. He tapped the mail program, marveling at how quickly he had taken to the Mac interface. The program opened, and Byrne saw that the email he’d just received was from Peeter Tamm. The subject line read: Eduard Kross Redux.

  Byrne tapped on the email icon. He began to read.

  Kevin,

  I trust you are well. As a man of 46 years (somehow) I am still amazed at the depth and breadth of this thing called the internet. Even though the people of Estonia were among the first to pioneer its use, I was a late-comer to the concept and practice. I say this to you because as easily as I can read the Eesti Ekspress, I am able to read your hometown newspaper. I read with great interest, greater concern, and no small measure of sadness, the details – or, at least those interpreted and reported by your print media – of the case about which you first approached my department.

  It appears that it all came to a tragic, if not foreseen, ending. I was sorry to read of Detective Raymond Torrance’s death.

  The other reason for this missive is the attached file. Not unexpectedly, as a result of our inquiries into the infamous Eduard Kross, people’s memories were awakened. While much, if not most, of his past life and terrible deeds remain unknown, he was not the complete cipher we had thought. There does indeed exist a photograph of Eduard Kross as a boy of 17 or so, perhaps the last image of him until he was captured at a limestone quarry in northeastern Estonia.

  I apologize for the poor quality of the attached JPEG. The photograph was sent to me via facsimile from a man in Lithuania. It is a copy of a copy, if you will.

  I hope that this will not be the last of our communiqué. Having shuffled paper for the last few years, I must admit being a detective again, even for just a few days, was most gratifying. I hope I was of some help.

  With my very best wishes, and hopes for our new friendship,

  Nägemist!

  Peeter

  Byrne tapped the icon for the attached photograph. A moment later it appeared on the screen. The photo was of a young man in a dusty four-button suit, the sleeves of which exposed the dirty cuffs of his shirt. His dark hair was hastily and inexpertly cut. He stood on a country road. Behind him was the corner of a dilapidated building, as well as the rear bumper of a truck.

  In all, the boy in the picture looked ordinary in every way. Except for his eyes. There was no light in his eyes.

  Byrne was just about to leave when the phone vibrated in has hand. He was getting a call. He had intended to make a video call to Colleen later in the evening, but now was just as good a time as any. Even better. He needed to talk with someone who loved him.

  He tapped the icon. It was not Colleen. For some reason, he was getting a call from Peeter Tamm. He propped the iPhone on his desk, answered the phone.

  Tamm was dressed much the same as he had been in their last call, but this time he was wearing a maroon tie.

  ‘Peeter,’ Byrne said.

  ‘Hello, Kevin. Tervist from Tallinn.’

  ‘Greetings from Philly.’

  ‘I fear you have probably had enough of me. My wife says to anyone who will listen that a little bit of Peeter Tamm goes a long way.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Byrne said. ‘I was just reading your email.’

  ‘I know that it is the end of your workday there, so I won’t keep you too long. There is something that I forgot to include in my email to you.’

  ‘Not a problem. What’s up?’

  ‘As I said, your inquiry into Eduard Kross reignited the detective in me. Today I spoke with the young lady who translated the audio file you sent to me, the text of Eduard Kross’s mad dreams.’

  ‘She did a great job for us,’ Byrne said. ‘The next time you see her, please pass along thanks from all of us at the PPD.’

  ‘I will.’ Tamm stood up for a moment, leaned out of the frame. When he sat back down he had in his hands a small pile of documents. ‘I have something here regarding the recording that I think you’ll find as fascinating as I have.’

  ‘What do you have?’

  ‘I don’t know how well you can see this, or if you have any experience with these things.’ Tamm reached over to a desk lamp, angled it towards himself. He then held up one of the pieces of paper, positioning it in the beam of the lamp. The image was a little blurry at first, as the camera racked its focus. Byrne soon recognized that the document was some sort of printout of a pattern, not unlike that produced by a lie detector machine.

  ‘After the recording was translated, I took it over to our audio lab,’ Tamm said. ‘We employ the same technicians and analysts used by our central government. They are very good. The graph you are looking at is a voiceprint of the German speaker on the recording.’

  Byrne was sure that Tamm was trying to hold the document steady. Nonetheless it shook in front of the camera.

  ‘I don’t know too much about this,’ Byrne said.

  ‘Nor do I,’ Tamm replied. ‘Please bear with me for a moment, though.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Tamm then picked up a second document. He held this up to the camera. ‘This is a voiceprint of the second speaker. The Estonian speaker on the recording.’

  Byrne tried to focus.

  ‘Well, Peeter, from here they look far too similar for me to make any kind of judgment about them.’ Byrne often went through moments like this when dealing with latent prints in the ID Unit. They all looked the same.

  ‘These two voiceprints are not similar,’ Tamm said.

  ‘Ah, okay,’ Byrne replied. ‘They look similar to me.’

  ‘What I mean is, they are not similar. They are identical.’

  Byrne was certain he had misunderstood what Peeter Tamm said.

  ‘I’m not sure I heard you correctly,’ Byrne said. ‘Could you say again?’

  ‘The voices on the recording,’ Tamm said. ‘The analyst in our audio lab did an analysis of the recording and determined that both speakers in the recording are the same.’

  ‘Wait, are you saying that both of the men in that recording – the one speaking German, and the one speaking Estonian – are the same person?’

  ‘Yes,’ Tamm said. ‘Our analyst in the audio lab is very good, inarguably one of the best in Estonia. He says there is no doubt in his mind but they are the same person. The man asking the questions in German and the man responding in Estonian is the same man.’

  Byrne almost got to his feet. He then remembered that he was on a video ca
ll. He thanked Peeter Tamm for his time and effort. Tamm, a fellow detective, recognized the urgency, and signed off.

  Byrne again looked at the JPEG photograph of Eduard Kross. And saw it. The eyes. He had seen them before.

  Twice.

  78

  Unlike the first time he had visited the house, Byrne saw no vehicles in front, no activity on the grounds. This time there were burlap cloths over all the hedges, and the construction materials were gone from the partially renovated boathouse.

  Byrne slowly worked his way around the perimeter of the building. He glanced through the kitchen window. The table and chairs had been removed. Beyond the kitchen he saw white sheets over the massive dining-room table.

  He continued around the structure, looking in all the windows. Empty.

  Byrne then walked down the path at the rear of the property, to the small carriage house. The door was ajar. He raised his weapon, toed open the door.

  There, in the small kitchen, he saw Jessica sitting at a table. Behind her stood a man with a gun to her head. Byrne recognized the man as the gardener who was clipping the hedges the first time they had visited Martin Léopold’s house.

  Byrne had no choice.

  He put his weapon on the floor, and his hands above his head.

  They sat on the floor in the wine cellar, back to back, their handcuffs circling a steel stanchion support. The man they had seen working on the hedges the first time they visited sat on the narrow steps, a Colt Defender in his hand. Both Jessica and Byrne’s service weapons were on a table across the room, magazines removed.

  Before long Jessica heard the muffled sounds of police cars arriving, the faint clamor of a dozen or so detectives and patrol officers fanning out. Byrne had called for backup on the way to Torresdale, but because they had been led to the wine cellar by way of a hidden door, concealed behind a bookcase off the study, Jessica knew it was unlikely they would be found.

  Whoever was upstairs in the house would tell the officers that Byrne had come and gone, and would let them search the premises. Jessica surmised that Byrne’s car was probably already at the bottom of the Delaware.