Broken Angels jbakb-3

by Richard Montanari

  "Oh yes." Bridgwood smiled, a little sadly. He crossed the room, sat at the desk. "You probably have the notion that fairy tales are rather sweet little morality tales for children."

  "I guess I do," Byrne said.

  "Some are. Many are much darker than that. In fact, a book called The Uses of Enchantment by Bruno Bettelheim explored the psychology of fairy tales and children. It won the National Book Award.

  "There are, of course, many other important figures. You asked for an overview, and that's what I'm giving you."

  "If you could sum up what they all have in common, it might make it easier for us," Byrne said. "What is the common thread?"

  "Essentially, a fairy tale is a story that arises out of myth and legend. Written tales probably grew out of the oral folk-tale tradition. They tend to involve the mysterious or supernatural, they tend not to be tied to any specific moment in history. Hence the phrase 'once upon a time.' "

  "Are they tied to any religion?" Byrne asked.

  "Not usually," Bridgwood said. "They can be quite spiritual, however. They usually involve a humble hero, a perilous quest, a vile villain. Folks are usually all good or all bad in fairy tales. Many times the conflict is resolved by using, to some extent, magic. But this is terribly broad. Terribly broad."

  Bridgwood sounded apologetic now, like a man who had shortchanged an entire field of academic study.

  "I don't want to leave you with the impression that fairy tales are all alike," he added. "Nothing could be further from the truth."

  "Can you think of any specific stories or collections that focus on the moon as its subject?" Jessica asked.

  Bridgwood thought for a few moments. "One that springs to mind is a rather long story that is really a series of very short sketches. It is a narrative that tells of a young painter and the moon."

  Jessica flashed on the "paintings" found on their victims. "What happens in the stories?" she asked.

  "Well, this painter is very lonely, you see." Bridgwood suddenly became quite animated. It appeared that he was shifting into a theatrical mode-better posture, hand gestures, lively tone. "He lives in a small town and has no friends. One night he is sitting in his window and the moon comes to him. They talk for a while. Before long the moon makes the painter a promise that every night he will return and tell the painter what he has witnessed all over the world. In this way, the painter, without leaving his home, could imagine these scenes, render them to canvas, and perhaps become famous. Or maybe just make a few friends. It is a marvelous story."

  "You say the moon comes to him every night?" Jessica asked.

  "Yes."

  "For how long?"

  "The moon comes thirty-two times."

  Thirty-two times, Jessica thought. "And this was a Grimms' tale?" she asked.

  "No, this was written by Hans Christian Andersen. The story is called 'What the Moon Saw.' "

  "And when did Hans Christian Andersen live?" she asked.

  "From 1805 to 1875," Bridgwood said.

  I would put the originals at around the second half of the nineteenth century, Ingrid Fanning had said about the dresses. Closer to the end. Perhaps 1875 or so.

  Bridgwood reached into a suitcase on the table. He extracted a leather-bound book. "This is not by any means the complete works of Andersen, nor despite its weathered appearance, is it particularly valuable. You are welcome to borrow it." He slipped a card into the book. "Return it to this address whenever you are finished. Take as long as you like."

  "That would be helpful," Jessica said. "We'll get it back to you as soon as possible."

  "Now, if you'll excuse me."

  Jessica and Byrne stood, slipped on their coats.

  "I'm sorry I have to rush," Bridgwood said. "I have a performance in twenty minutes. Can't keep the little wizards and princesses waiting."

  "Of course," Byrne said. "We thank you for your time."

  At this, Bridgwood crossed the room, reached into a closet, pulled out a very old-looking black tuxedo. He hung it on the back of the door.

  Byrne asked, "Is there anything else you can think of that might help us?"

  "Only this: To understand magic, you have to believe." Bridgwood slid into the old tuxedo coat. Suddenly he was a denizen of the late nineteenth century-slender, aristocratic, somewhat peculiar. Trevor Bridgwood turned, winked. "At least a little bit."

  61

  It was all in Trevor Bridgwood's book. And the knowledge was horrifying.

  "The Red Shoes" was a fable about a girl named Karen, a dancer who has her feet amputated.

  "The Nightingale" was about a bird that captivated an emperor with its song.

  "Thumbelina" was about a tiny woman who lived on a lily pad.

  Detectives Kevin Byrne and Jessica Balzano, along with four other detectives, stood speechless in the suddenly quiet duty room, looking at pen and ink illustrations from a children's book, the realization of what they were facing a raging stream beneath their thoughts. The anger in the air was palpable. The feeling of frustration was worse.

  Someone was killing the citizens of Philadelphia in a series of murders based on the stories of Hans Christian Andersen. The killer had struck three times that they knew of, and now there was a good chance that he had Sa'mantha Fanning. Which fable would she be? Where was he going to place her on the river? Would they be able to find her in time?

  All these questions paled in the light of one other gruesome fact contained between the covers of the book they had borrowed from Trevor Bridgwood.

  Hans Christian Andersen wrote nearly two hundred stories.

  62

  The details surrounding the strangulation murders of the three victims found along the banks of the Schuylkill River had leaked, and every newspaper in the city, the region, and the state was carrying the story of a compulsive killer in Philadelphia. The headlines, as expected, were lurid.

  A Fairy Tale Murderer in Philadelphia?

  A Fabled Killer?

  Who is the Schuylkiller?

  Hansel and Regrettable? trumpeted the Record, a tabloid rag of the lowest order.

  The usually jaded Philadelphia media were off and running. There were news crews up and down the Schuylkill River, doing stand-up shots on the bridges, on the banks. A news helicopter had flown the entire length of the river, taking footage as it did so. The bookstores and libraries could not keep books on Hans Christian Andersen on the shelves, nor the works of the Brothers Grimm and Mother Goose. It was close enough for the sensationalists.

  Calls were coming into the department every few minutes about ogres and monsters and trolls following children throughout the city. One woman called and said she had seen a man in a wolf costume in Fairmount Park. A sector car followed up and found it to be true. The man was currently in the drunk tank at the Roundhouse.

  By the morning of December 30 there were a total of five detectives and six crime-scene officers assigned to investigate the crimes.

  Sa'mantha Fanning had not yet been found.

  There were no suspects.

  63

  At just after three o'clock on December 30 Ike Buchanan stepped out of his office, got Jessica's attention. She had been collating rope suppliers, trying to track down retail outlets that carried the specific brand of swim lane rope. Trace evidence of the rope had been found on the third victim. The bad news was that, in this day and age of Internet shopping, you could buy just about anything without face-to-face contact. The good news was that Internet shopping generally required a credit card or PayPal. That was Jessica's next line of inquiry.

  Nick Palladino and Tony Park were off to Norristown to interview people at the Centre Theater, looking into anyone there who might have been connected to Tara Grendel. Kevin Byrne and Josh Bontrager were canvassing the area near where the third victim had been found.

  "Can I see you a minute?" Buchanan asked.

  Jessica welcomed the break. She stepped into his office. Buchanan motioned for her to close the door. She did.
>
  "What's up, boss?"

  "I'm pulling you off the multiple. Just for a few days."

  The statement took her by surprise, to say the least. No, it was more like a hook to the gut. It was almost as if he had said she was fired. He hadn't, of course, but she had never been pulled from an investigation before. She didn't like it. She didn't know a cop who did.

  "Why?"

  "Because I'm putting Eric on that gang hit. He's got the contacts, it's his old patch, and he speaks the language."

  There had been a triple homicide the day before, a Latino couple and their ten-year-old son had been killed, execution-style, while sleeping in their beds. The theory was that it was gang retaliation, and Eric Chavez, before joining the homicide unit, had worked antigang.

  "So you want me to-"

  "Work the Walt Brigham case," Buchanan said. "You'll be partnered with Nicci."

  Jessica felt a strange mixture of emotions. She had worked one detail with Nicci, and she looked forward to the chance of working with her again, but Kevin Byrne was her partner, and they had a bond that transcended gender and age and time on the job.

  Buchanan held out a notebook. Jessica took it from him. "These are Eric's notes on the case. It should get you up to speed. He said to call him if you had any questions."

  "Thanks, Sarge," Jessica said. "Does Kevin know?"

  "I just talked to him."

  Jessica wondered why her cell phone hadn't yet rung. "Is he partnering up?" As soon as she said it, she identified the feeling spiking through her: jealousy. If Byrne picked up another partner, even on a temporary basis, it would feel like she was being cheated on.

  What are you, in high school, Jess? she thought. He's not your boyfriend, he's your partner. Get a freakin' grip.

  "Kevin, Josh, Tony, and Nick will work the cases. We're stretched to the limit here."

  It was true. From a peak of 7,000 police officers three years earlier, the PPD was down to 6,400, the lowest it had been since the mid-nineties. And it got worse from there. Around 600 officers were currently listed as injured and not reporting for work, or were on restricted desk duty. Special plainclothes teams in each district were being switched back to uniformed patrol, boosting the police profile in some neighborhoods. Recently, the commissioner had announced the formation of the Strategic Intervention Tactical Enforcement Mobile Unit, an elite forty-six- officer anticrime team to patrol the city's most dangerous areas. For the last three months every nonessential officer at the Roundhouse had been put back on the street. It was a bad time for Philly's cops, and sometimes a detective's assignments, and their focus, shifted at a moment's notice.

  "How long?" Jessica asked.

  "Just for a few days."

  "I have calls out, boss."

  "I understand. If you have a few spare minutes, or if something breaks, follow it. But for now, our plate is full. And we simply don't have the warm bodies. Work with Nicci."

  Jessica understood the pressure to solve a cop killing. If the criminals were getting bolder and bolder these days-and there was little debate about that-they would go off the chart if they thought they could execute a cop on the street and not feel the heat.

  "Hey, partner." Jessica turned. It was Nicci Malone. She liked Nicci a lot, but it sounded… funny. No. It sounded wrong. But, like any other job, you go where the boss puts you, and right now she was partnered with the only other female homicide detective in Philly.

  "Hey." It was all Jessica could muster. She was certain that Nicci read it.

  "Ready to roll?" Nicci asked.

  "Let's do it."

  64

  Jessica and Nicci drove down Eighth Street. It had begun to rain again. Byrne still hadn't called.

  "Bring me up to speed," Jessica said, a little shell-shocked. She was used to working more than one case at a time-the truth was that most homicide detectives worked three and four at a time-but she still found it a little difficult to shift gears, to take on the mind-set of a new perpetrator. And a new partner. Earlier in the day she was thinking about a psychopath who was placing bodies along a riverbank. Her mind was filled with titles of Hans Christian Andersen stories-'The Little Mermaid,' 'The Princess and the Pea,' 'The Ugly Duckling'-wondering which, if any, might be next. Now she was chasing a cop killer.

  "Well, I think one thing is obvious," Nicci said. "Walt Brigham wasn't a victim of some botched robbery. You don't douse someone with gasoline and set them on fire to get their wallet."

  "So you think it was someone Walt Brigham put away?"

  "I think that's a good bet. We ran his arrests and convictions for the past fifteen years. Unfortunately, no firebugs in the group."

  "Anyone recently released from prison?"

  "Not in the last six months. And I don't see whoever did this waiting that long to get to the guy he blamed for putting them away, do you?"

  No, Jessica thought. There was a high level of passion-insane as that passion might be-in what was done to Walt Brigham. "What about someone involved in his last case?" she asked.

  "Doubt it. His last official case was a domestic. Wife bashed her husband with a crowbar. He's dead, she's in prison."

  Jessica knew what this meant. Because there were no eyewitnesses to Walt Brigham's murder, and there was a dearth of forensics, they would have to begin at the beginning-everybody Walt Brigham had arrested, convicted, even ruffled, starting with his last case and moving backward. That narrowed the suspect pool down a few thousand.

  "So, we're off to Records?"

  "I have a few more ideas before we bunker up with the paperwork," Nicci said.

  "Hit me."

  "I spoke with Walt Brigham's widow. She said Walt kept a storage locker. If this was something personal-as in, nothing directly to do with the job-there might be something in there."

  "Anything to keep my face out of a file cabinet," Jessica said. "How do we get in?"

  Nicci held up a single key on a key ring, smiled. "I stopped by Mar- jorie Brigham's house this morning." THE EASY MAX Storage on Mifflin Street was a large, U-shaped, two- story facility that housed more than a hundred units of varying sizes. Some were heated, most were not. Unfortunately, Walt Brigham had not sprung for one of the heated units. It was like walking into a meat locker.

  The space was about eight feet by ten feet, stacked nearly to the ceiling with cardboard boxes. The good news was that Walt Brigham was an organized man. All the boxes were of the same type and size-the kind you buy flat at office-supply stores-and most were labeled and dated.

  They started at the back. There were three boxes dedicated to nothing but Christmas and birthday cards alone. Many of the cards were from Walt's children, and as Jessica went through them she saw the years of their lives pass and, as the children got older, their grammar and penmanship improve. The teenage years were easy to spot, with just simple signatures of their names, not the gushy sentiments of childhood, as glittery handmade cards yielded to Hallmark. Another box contained only maps and travel brochures. It seemed that Walt and Marjorie Brigham were summer RV people, taking trips to Wisconsin, Florida, Ohio, and Kentucky.

  At the bottom of the box was on old piece of yellowed notebook paper. On it was a list that contained a dozen girls' names-Melissa, Ar- lene, Rita, Elizabeth, Cynthia among them. They were all crossed out, except for the last one. The last name on the list was Roberta. Walt Brigham's oldest daughter's name was Roberta. Jessica realized what she was holding in her hand. It was a list of possible names for a young couple's first child. She gently returned it to the box.

  While Nicci looked through a few boxes of letters and household documents, Jessica sifted through a box of photographs. Weddings, birthday parties, graduations, police functions. Like always, whenever faced with rooting through the personal effects of a victim, you wanted to accrue as much information as possible, while at the same time preserving some degree of the victim's privacy.

  More boxes produced more photographs and mementos, all meticulously dated and cata
logued. An incredibly young Walt Brigham at the police academy, a handsome Walt Brigham on his wedding day, dressed in a rather striking navy blue tuxedo. Pictures of Walt in uniform, Walt with his kids in Fairmount Park, Walt and Marjorie Brigham squinting at the camera on a beach somewhere, maybe Wildwood, their faces a deep pink that portended a painful sunburn that night.

  What was she gleaning from all this? What she already suspected. Walt Brigham was no renegade cop. He was a family man who collected and cherished the touchstones of his life. Neither Jessica nor Nicci found anything yet to indicate why someone had so viciously taken his life.

  They continued to look through the boxes of memories, interlopers in the forest of the dead.

  65

  The third victim found on the bank of the Schuylkill River was named Lisette Simon. She'd been forty-one, had lived with her husband in Upper Darby, had no children. She worked for a county mental-health facility in North Philadelphia.

  Lisette Simon was just under forty-eight inches tall. Her husband Ruben was an attorney with a storefront legal firm in the Northeast. They would be interviewing him that afternoon.

  Nick Palladino and Tony Park had returned from Norristown. No one at the Centre Theater had noticed anyone paying particular attention to Tara Grendel.

  Despite the circulation and publication of her picture in all local and state media-broadcast and print alike-there was still no trace of Sa'mantha Fanning.

  The whiteboard was covered with photographs, notes, memos, a mosaic of disparate clues and blind alleys.

  Byrne stood in front of it, as frustrated as he was impatient.

  He needed his partner.

  They all knew that the Brigham case was going to get political. The department needed movement on the case, and they needed it now. The City of Philadelphia could not have its high-profile police officers at risk.

  There was no denying that Jessica was one of the best detectives in the unit. Byrne did not know Nicci Malone that well, but she had a good reputation, and a ton of street cred, coming out of North detectives.