The Doll Maker Read online

  And while the community got its name from a restaurant that at one time served strawberries and cream, the block on which Jessica and Byrne arrived reflected none of that gentility.

  The block – on Monument Street between 32nd and 33rd Streets – had only a handful of dilapidated structures. One row house, the only building that looked occupied, stood bravely between four vacant lots, all of which were dotted with urban detritus – tires, discarded appliances, broken storm windows.

  The building on the corner was a two story, dirty brick building with a high gable peak facing 33rd Street. Its Palladian windows were covered in delaminated plywood and spray painted with years of gang lore.

  There was a sector car parked at all four corners of the block, lights flashing. Although the day was a brisk forty degrees, there seemed to be a crowd of onlookers surrounding the building. Never an easy task for patrol officers whose job it was to preserve the crime scene for the detectives and crime scene technicians.

  Jessica and Byrne parked on Monument Street, about fifty feet from where the other personnel had gathered. Jessica clipped her badge on her jeans belt, then slipped on her leather gloves.

  They entered the building by way of a side door, an opening made by a sheet of rotted plywood roughly torn from its nailing. They walked down the narrow hallway that was pocked with what looked to be bullet holes made by many different caliber weapons.

  In addition, there was graffiti sprayed and carved into the walls by every known gang in this part of North Philadelphia.

  Josh Bontrager stood just outside the doorway. He had his hands on his hips, lost in thought. Jessica knew the look well. With all kinds of people milling around you, sometimes a circus atmosphere, it was possible to be isolated in the middle of the mayhem. Every new job was a puzzle. Some were easier to solve than others. Most, in fact, were. Somewhere around half of the homicides in the city were drug or gang-related, and there was not a lot of loyalty involved. People talked.

  Those homicides that were committed in the course of a robbery were rather straightforward. Watch the surveillance tape; follow the tips.

  The ability to put the pieces together – be they large or small pieces – in these first crucial minutes and hours, was a talent and ability that, if you were adept at it, you would excel at the job of being a homicide detective. Jessica had met more detectives who were unable to do this than she had met detectives who could.

  Josh Bontrager, who had grown up Amish, brought a singularly unique perspective to the job. The younger detectives in the unit – those who got the job since Josh came to Homicide – had no idea that this street-savvy detective had at one time lived on a dairy farm in rural Pennsylvania.

  As Jessica and Byrne reached the room where the victims were, they stopped. Jessica saw the shadows spill through the door, and knew what she was going to see. It filled her with rage.

  She hoped she was wrong, but the look on Josh Bontrager’s face told her she was not.

  ‘Dana says it’s a double,’ Jessica said.

  Bontrager nodded. He gestured to Jessica and Byrne to take a look.

  Jessica removed her leather gloves, replaced them with latex gloves. She took a deep, calming breath, peered around the door jamb into the room.

  In the center of the room two young teenaged boys were seated on makeshift swings. The swings were attached to the ceiling with loops of nylon rope, threaded through four large steel eyelets. Their victims’ heads lolled forward. Around each of their necks was what looked to be tightly knotted silk stockings. Their hands were tied to the ropes with what looked like similar stockings, holding them in place.

  The boys were white, dressed in a similar fashion – faded jeans, new-looking running shoes, long-sleeved polo shirts. One boy’s shirt was red and blue striped. The other, a solid green. There was an identical crest on the left breast pocket of each shirt.

  The seats of the swings were painted in a pale yellow color, a color Jessica had no doubt would be the same color used to paint the bench at the Shawmont station.

  Mindful to not fully cross the threshold – the crime scene unit had yet to begin to process the scene – Jessica got down on her knees to get a better look at the boys’ faces. When she saw them her heart stammered. She sat back on her heels. Hard.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What is it, Jess?’ Byrne asked.

  Jessica knew what she wanted to say, but for a moment the words would not come. She took a deep breath, her head filled with the chemical scent of the paint.

  ‘I know who they are,’ she said.

  This, of course, got Josh Bontrager’s attention. He walked the few steps down the hall to where Jessica was kneeling.

  ‘You know them?’ Bontrager asked.

  Jessica nodded, held up a hand, took another moment. Then she shook her head.

  ‘I don’t know them,’ she said. ‘But I think I know who they are.’

  Bontrager exchanged a glance with Byrne, looked back at Jessica. Jessica reached into her back pocket, pulled out her notebook. She flipped a few pages until she found the entry she wanted.

  ‘The woman I interviewed,’ Jessica began. ‘The woman whose phone number David Solomon called right before he shot himself.’

  ‘I thought that was a dead-end,’ Byrne said. In another circumstance, most notably some gang hit, or drug-related murder, his choice of words would’ve been taken as gallows humor. Not today.

  ‘I thought so, too,’ Jessica said. She found what she was looking for, silently berating herself for not remembering the woman’s name. ‘Mary Gillen.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Bontrager said. ‘Who’s Mary Gillen?’

  Byrne gave Bontrager a brief rundown on the details of the Nicole Solomon case.

  ‘And you’re saying that Nicole’s father called this woman? This Mary Gillen?’ Bontrager asked.

  ‘He called her number,’ Jessica said. ‘Her landline. We confirmed with the phone company that the call was made at almost the precise moment Solomon pulled the trigger.’

  ‘And the call came from his phone?’ Bontrager asked. ‘Solomon’s phone?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Byrne said. ‘I hit the redial on his cordless phone at his house.’

  ‘So, Nicole Solomon’s father spoke to Mary Gillen just before he killed himself?’

  ‘No,’ Jessica said. ‘He got her answering machine. We’ve got a copy of the recording, but Mateo hasn’t been able to clean it up enough for us to get anything out of it.’

  Sgt. Mateo Fuentes was the commander of the PPD’s A/V Unit.

  Bontrager thought for a few moments. ‘I’m feeling pretty thick here, guys. I’m not seeing the connection.’

  ‘When I interviewed Mary Gillen, she said she didn’t know anybody named David Solomon,’ Jessica said. ‘I asked her who else lived in the house. She then told me she’s divorced, and said the only other people living in her house were her boys. She said her boys are—’

  ‘Twins,’ Bontrager said. ‘She has twin boys.’

  Jessica nodded. ‘Twin boys about twelve. She said that they were at soccer practice.’

  Bontrager took out his cell phone. He scrolled through some photographs. He studied one of them for a few moments, then tapped it to enlarge it. He turned the phone so that Jessica and Byrne could see it.

  Jessica put on her glasses, looked at the picture. She could see it was a photograph of one of the boys in the other room, a somewhat pixelated close-up of the boys shirt, the one wearing green and white.

  She recognized the crest. St. Jerome’s Academy Soccer Team.

  Although it had not been confirmed, Jessica was certain that the two dead boys in the room were Mary Gillen’s sons.

  Bontrager closed his phone, just as two officers from the crime scene unit arrived. Behind the technicians was an investigator from the Medical Examiner’s Office, along with his photographer.

  While all of them signed onto the crime scene log, Jessica, Byrne, and Bontrager stepped to the s
ide. They were silent for the moment, processing this new information. There was no question that, if the two boys in the room were Mary Gillen’s sons, the investigation into these three homicides had just gotten much wider.

  What it did not do, in any recognizable way, at least at the moment, was bring the investigators any closer to the person or persons responsible.

  As much as the detectives wanted to enter the room, there was a protocol that had to be rigidly observed. Usually, the first person to make any kind of physical contact with the victim of homicide was the medical examiner. This crime scene, as was the Nicole Solomon crime scene, was a little different.

  The evidentiary integrity of the floor had to be preserved. The two CSU officers unrolled a 36-inch wide roll of white paper. They gently placed it onto the floor, a process which would allow the ME and his photographer to enter the scene and begin their investigation. Once the victims were pronounced dead, and the ME’s photographer had taken his photographs, the CSU officers could begin to process the scene, and the detectives could start their phase of the investigation.

  Jessica stepped outside. Even though the air was clouded with exhaust from the traffic on 33rd Street, it was fresher than the air inside the building. She joined Josh Bontrager, Maria Caruso and Byrne. They stood a few yards from one of the flashing sector cars, parked in one of the vacant lots.

  ‘Who called it in?’ Jessica asked.

  Bontrager pointed at the police car. ‘Mrs Ruta Mae Carver.’

  Jessica glanced over to see a heavyset black woman in her late sixties. She sat in the backseat, door open, big legs dangling over the side, eyes closed. She rocked back and forth, perhaps in prayer. She held a white rosary.

  ‘Ms Carver was walking up 33rd when she looked through the window and saw the victims,’ Bontrager said.

  Jessica stepped around the side of the building, turned to look. There was indeed a clear view of the two boys through the only open port in the building. The window overlooked 33rd Street, and the park beyond. As with the Nicole Solomon crime scene, the display looked surreal, as if framed by the window opening.

  As she was looking, two CSU officers began the process of taping large sheets of paper over the portal. Jessica walked back to Josh Bontrager.

  ‘So she saw them through the window,’ Jessica said.

  ‘Yeah,’ Bontrager said.

  ‘Did she see anything else?’

  Bontrager nodded. ‘She saw an old van. She said it had a faded sign on the door, said it looked like, and I quote: “one of them big crawly things, like a cockroach”.’

  ‘A cockroach? So maybe it was an exterminator’s truck?’

  ‘That’s what I’m thinking. She said it was pretty bleached, but the logo looked like it was at one time red and black. I’ve got someone searching for it online now.’

  Bontrager showed Jessica and Byrne a sketch he’d made of the information he’d gotten from Ruta Mae Carver.

  ‘Why was she here?’ Byrne asked.

  Bontrager pointed to the lone house on the next block. ‘She lives there. She was just coming back from church, heard the music and stopped. That’s when she saw the victims.’

  ‘The music?’ Jessica asked.

  Bontrager nodded.

  ‘Coming from in there?’

  ‘That’s what she said.’

  Jessica glanced back at the woman. She was on her second decade of the rosary, eyes still closed. Jessica lowered her voice. ‘So, are we talking music music or heavenly voices?’

  Bontrager smiled. ‘Good question. ‘Ruta Mae, it seems, is a rather spiritual person.’ He pointed at the woman’s house. Even from a half-block away Jessica could see the crosses in every window. She wondered if that was to keep the spirit in or out.

  Jessica was just about to ask Josh Bontrager where he wanted her to start her canvass when they all heard the voice coming from inside the house.

  ‘Oh God.’

  It was a woman’s voice. The words were not screamed or shouted, but sounded more like a cry of anguish.

  The detectives rushed inside.

  A moment later one of the crime scene officers – a young woman in her mid-twenties – came around the corner, into the hallway.

  Her skin was pallid, her lips trembling.

  Byrne stepped forward. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  Jessica glanced at the officer’s nametag. L Betley. Jessica had seen her around, had worked scenes with her, but it was possible to see members of such a large police force – the sixth largest in the country – on a regular basis, to recognize them by sight, but not know their names.

  Officer Betley seemed to swoon. Byrne took hold of her, held her for a few moments. He walked her a few feet down the hallway, away from the room.

  ‘What’s your first name, Officer Betley?’ Byrne asked softly.

  The woman took a second. It appeared she had to think about this. ‘Lynn.’

  ‘It’s okay, Lynn. You want to take a few moments?’

  Jessica saw the young woman relax at Byrne’s touch. She had seen it many times before.

  Officer Betley nodded.

  ‘Would you like some water?’

  ‘Okay.’

  One of the EMTs standing by reached into his pack, took out a fresh bottle. He cracked the seal, handed it to Byrne, who handed it to Officer Betley.

  With a trembling hand, she raised it to her lips, took a small sip. She recapped it.

  Still holding onto the woman, Byrne asked: ‘Can you tell me what’s wrong?’

  She looked up at Byrne. ‘I worked that scene. Last week. I was there.’

  ‘What scene, Lynn? Which one?’

  Lynn Betley said nothing. It looked like she might be getting ready to faint.

  Byrne squared the young woman in front of him. He looked into her eyes. ‘Whatever’s in that room, we can handle it,’ he said. ‘And by we I mean you and I, Detectives Balzano and Bontrager here, and every member of the PPD. All of us. We are seven thousand strong. Do you believe that?’

  ‘I do. I guess that it’s just, I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I do.’

  ‘Good,’ Byrne said. ‘Never forget it. For the rest of your time on the job, for the rest of your life, you will never be alone. In this city, any city, if you identify yourself as a law enforcement officer, you will have a brother or sister who will have your back.’

  The woman began to sag. Byrne eased her to the floor, caught the attention of one of the nearby EMTs. The firefighter came down the hall, eased Lynn Betley forward. She began to breathe a little more slowly.

  Jessica made eye contact with Byrne. He would stay with Officer Betley; she would see what it was that had caused this PPD officer to balk.

  Jessica steeled herself, walked back to the doorway. A fresh pair of gloves, another calming breath. She stepped into the room. Everything appeared as it had. As horrifying as the sight of the two dead boys was, Jessica did not imagine this was what set the CSU officer off.

  She ran her Maglite around the dimly lit room and saw what had unnerved the crime scene officer so terribly. There, in the left-hand corner of the room – a section that had been shielded from Jessica when she had peered inside earlier – was something so out of place, that Jessica took off her glasses in order to see it better. She had to focus, had to concentrate, to assure herself that it was what it appeared to be.

  In the corner of the room, behind the two dead boys, stood a doll. The doll was perhaps twelve inches tall, and appeared to be made of porcelain. It seemed to be looking at the two victims in the center of the room.

  But as bizarre as this tableau was, as strange as it was to have a doll deliberately placed in the corner of the room, these things were not what took Jessica’s breath away.

  She had seen the doll before. She had seen the white blouse, the dark skirt, the dark shoes. She had seen the deep brunette hair, as well as the chocolate brown eyes with irises flecked with gold.

  I worked that scene. Last week. I was th
ere.

  Now Jessica understood what Officer Lynn Betley meant.

  The doll was Nicole Solomon.

  25

  The four detectives stood at the end of the hallway, staying out of the way of the now-bustling crime scene.

  The command presence was deep. In addition to Sgt. Dana Westbrook, was their captain and the deputy inspector.

  The reasons were obvious.

  These victims weren’t gangbangers or drug dealers. These boys weren’t part of the game. These were citizens. And while justice was supposed to be blind, anyone who thought that the lumbering machinery of crime and punishment moved forward with the same fervor and purpose for all victims was not being honest.

  Jessica, speaking for herself and just about every other detective in the unit – especially her partner – liked to think that it didn’t matter who the victim was, that she applied herself equally at all times. This did not always carry over to every other squad and scientific team.

  Two teenage boys – suburban white boys – found dead in a North Philly building, murdered in such a bizarre and savage manner, was going to go wide. It was only a matter of minutes before the story went national.

  There were no tenants, either residential or commercial in the building or, for that matter, in the next three buildings in either direction. The entire block was blighted.

  A section of Fairmount Park was across the street. The likelihood of an eyewitness to the boys being brought to this house was slight.

  Again, for the second time in a week, Jessica had to wonder: Why here?

  And while the why of it all was not yet known, the when was pretty clear.

  This was the party – the thé dansant – to which Nicole Solomon had been invited. Today was November 23. The killers had brought Nicole to the tea dance.

  Beneath one of the swings they had found another invitation, nearly identical to the first. Identical in all ways but the date.

  You are invited!

  November 30

  See you at our thé dansant!