The Doll Maker Read online

  Before she knew it she was on her feet. Her first thought was of her partner.

  She made eye contact with Byrne, who was also on his feet, weapon now drawn, moving to the foot of the stairs. Without saying a word they each selected their duties.

  Jessica got on her two-way, and called for backup – a shots fired/officer involved call that would bring every available cop for miles.

  Their immediate concern was for the safety of the older woman. As far as Jessica and Byrne knew – and this was far from known – there were no other family members in the house. The glass block along the sidewalk in front of the Solomon row house told them that there was a basement, and from that place could come any number of potential threats.

  Anyone could be down there.

  And then there was the second floor.

  7

  If Mr Marseille had ever decided to become a movie star, he certainly could have been one.

  He was that beautiful.

  There was a way the light touches the planes of his face that would have made a generation of young women – maybe two or three generations – swoon in their velvet seats.

  I have to admit that I don’t know much about new films, other than what I see in the newspaper and on television, and we do not watch much television. Most films nowadays seem to be based on comic books, which I’ve never read. While I do appreciate the colors of their world, I don’t know that I would want to see them in the flesh.

  Besides, there was so much to do that Mr Marseille and I never seemed to find the time to attend the cinema.

  There was one film we both enjoy immensely, though. We’ve seen it scores of times. The name of the film is Bonnie and Clyde.

  It is wonderfully acted, and the colors are beautiful, as are the costumes. The story ended terribly for Miss Parker and Mr Barrow and, although they had done bad things, my heart went out to them.

  As I looked at Mr Marseille in profile, I thought about what it might be like to lose him. I don’t think I could bear it, even though we are both well acquainted with loss.

  There are so many broken dolls.

  I can’t tell you how many we have tried to mend, only to discover that the challenge was too great. Some people are so rough with their dolls that they cannot be sewn or patched.

  It’s not as easy as you might think to mend a broken doll. There is the hair, for one. Mohair, modacrylic, mignonette, Toni style, human hair. Which to choose? Then there are the eyes which, of course, are most important. Are they counterweight? Paperweight? Button type?

  There are some dolls that require so many parts that – and please don’t think me cruel or insensitive for saying this – it is just better for them to be put back on a shelf.

  Mr Marseille and I have done this many times.

  Every time we’ve had to do this we’ve been sad for days. It is never easy or pleasant. We know the pain of loss, and it is only right and proper that others know this same feeling. That is the way of life.

  So many broken dolls.

  We learned how to care for them from our own maîtresse des marionnettes.

  I returned from my reverie, a déprimé surely brought on by the knowledge that our story had turned the page, perhaps beginning our last chapter. I put on a brave face, turned to look at Mr Marseille. He held the gun in his right hand, looking every bit like Mr Clyde Barrow.

  I covered my ears, just in case Mr Marseille was about to once again pull the trigger.

  8

  When Byrne reached the top of the stairs, he tilted his head to the sudden silence.

  ‘Mr Solomon?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Sir?’

  There was just stillness, the ringing peace that comes after a deafening report in a small space.

  Byrne eased his head around the corner, quickly back. One hallway, three doors. Only one of the doors was open, the last door on the left.

  He stepped into the hallway, his weapon pointed low. He tried calling the man’s name again.

  ‘Mr Solomon?’

  Still no response. He raised his weapon and spun into the first doorway, took in the room in one snapshot.

  Bed, dresser, nightstands, lamps. There was a cordless phone cradle on the nightstand, no phone. He peered around the door. No one standing there.

  ‘Mr Solomon?’ he tried again. No answer.

  There were no curtains to hide behind. All the furniture was pushed to the walls. Byrne got down on one knee, looked quickly under the bed.

  Clear.

  He stood, stepped over to the closet. He could hear the crackle of Jessica’s two-way radio float up the stairs. Besides the beating of his heart, it was the only sound in the house.

  The closet door was slightly ajar. Inside there was only darkness. Byrne tried to slow his breathing, listen for any sound coming from the closet – the creak of a floorboard, the unmistakable clang of two wire hangers touching, the quick breathing of someone else.

  He heard nothing.

  When he reached the closet he took a moment, then kicked the door wide. Except for a handful of suit coats, shirts and jackets, the closet was empty.

  The bedroom was clear.

  He rolled the door jamb, into the hallway his weapon pointed upward. He toed open the door to the second bedroom. This was clearly Adinah Solomon’s room. It smelled of infirmity. There was a lift over the bed. A card table on the far side of the bed held a number of pill vials, water pitchers and bottles. Byrne checked the closet. Empty.

  He heard a number of sirens rise in the near distance. This was South Philly. Sector cars were never more than a few blocks from each other, or from any crime scene. A call of shots fired, with officers on scene, would bring them all.

  The third bedroom was Nicole’s. Boy band posters on the walls, a laptop on a small nearly-wood desk, a coat tree in the corner laden with scarves and hats and jackets. There was no door on the closet.

  Byrne noted that the bed was made, and resting on the pillow were three stuffed turtles.

  The only room left was the bathroom.

  The door was ajar.

  Byrne knew he should wait, but he couldn’t. He took a deep breath, rammed a shoulder into the door, spun into the opening, his weapon leveled.

  The bathroom was a bloodbath.

  David Solomon was in the tub, naked, the left side of his skull blown away, blood and brain tissue on the white tile behind him. A stainless steel .357 handgun lay on the floor next to the tub. Solomon’s clothing was piled neatly on the toilet seat.

  Byrne had seen it too many times before. Sometimes firearm suicide victims stepped into the tub to make the cleanup easier. David Solomon, it seemed, wanted to preserve his clothing, as well.

  Byrne had been right about the caliber. There is nothing quite as loud as a .357 or .44, especially in a confined space. He stepped forward, toed the handgun toward him, even though there was no longer a threat from the man in the bathtub.

  The room smelled of iron and blood and scorched flesh. The redolence of cordite filled the air.

  Byrne holstered his weapon, keyed his two-way.

  ‘Jess,’ he said.

  No response.

  ‘Jess,’ he repeated.

  A few agonizing seconds later: ‘I’m here.’

  ‘Second floor is clear.’

  ‘Solomon?’ Jessica asked.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘DOA?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You good?’

  Byrne hesitated. He knew what she meant. Still, he hesitated. It wasn’t fair. He answered. ‘Yeah, I’m good.’

  ‘Backup is here,’ she said. ‘They’ve cleared the basement.’

  ‘The mother?’ Byrne asked.

  Static.

  Jessica said: ‘Secured.’

  9

  Detectives Byrne and Balzano stood outside the front door of the Solomon row house. They were joined by their supervisor, Sgt. Dana Westbrook. Around them flowed the machinery of establishing a crime scene.
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  ‘What happened, Jess?’ Westbrook asked.

  Jessica gave Sgt. Westbrook a minute by minute recalling of what had happened from the moment David Solomon opened his door until Byrne went upstairs and found the man’s body.

  ‘Where was the gun?’

  ‘I don’t know, Dana,’ Jessica said. ‘He certainly didn’t have it on him when he was downstairs. It’s a big weapon. We would have noticed.’

  Jessica instantly recognized her defensive tone. She wasn’t on a witness stand – a place she had been many times, a place in front of which, as a lawyer, she might one day stand – so she softened her manner.

  ‘He probably had it in his bedroom.’

  ‘And what did he say right before he went upstairs?’ Westbrook asked.

  ‘We asked him if he had any recent photographs of Nicole. He said he did, and that he had to make a phone call.’

  Dana Westbrook walked down the street, flagged the approaching crime scene unit van, the second one deployed to this location. Even though David Solomon’s death would probably not be investigated as anything other than a suicide, it still fell under the category of a suspicious death. David Solomon’s body would soon be transported to the morgue, and an autopsy would be performed at nine-thirty the following morning.

  Both Jessica and Byrne were keenly interested in a toxicology report to see what, if anything, was in Mr Solomon’s bloodstream. Toxicology reports could sometimes take five or six days, often longer when it involved the victim of an apparent suicide. Homicides always took precedence.

  The moment the medical examiner cleared the body for investigators to step in, they would look in the man’s medicine cabinet. Jessica had enough experience to anticipate certain medications. She would bet that somewhere in the medicine cabinet, or David Solomon’s dresser, they would find a prescription bottle of antidepressants. Probably more than one.

  When Byrne and Jessica were alone, Jessica asked the question. ‘You saw him spook when he saw that invitation card, didn’t you?’

  Byrne just nodded.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think it triggered something in him. A memory of some sort.’

  ‘Do you think there was any abuse involving his daughter?’

  Byrne thought for a few moments. ‘I don’t know.’

  The investigator from the ME’s office walked out of the row house, nodded to the detectives.

  Jessica would take the dead girl’s room.

  Byrne would take the father’s.

  10

  The room was clean and uncluttered, a young girl’s private sanctuary.

  Jessica had hoped to be given permission to search the room when she and Byrne first arrived to give notification – a permission just as often denied as granted, and a victim’s family had no legal obligation to allow investigators to do so – but now there was no one to object.

  Jessica was all but certain that the last time the girl left this room – just over twenty-four hours earlier – she’d had no idea what would be her fate.

  Jessica had made the note about asking the one question Byrne had not yet gotten to, a question about whether or not Nicole had been plagued by any bullying at school or online. She glanced at the girl’s laptop. She wondered what secrets it would reveal.

  Jessica put on a pair of latex gloves. She began with the girl’s dresser, feeling once more like an intruder. In the top drawer were the frivolous debris of youth – ticket stubs to a concert, The Warped Tour, as well as a Playbill from a recent performance of Once at the Academy of Music. There was also a small jewelry box. Jessica took it out and opened it. It was a music box. At first Jessica could not pin down the tune, but she soon recognized it as ‘A Whole New World’ from the movie Aladdin.

  Inside the box was an assortment of rings, bracelets, and earrings. Nothing looked expensive or precious.

  Jessica put the box on top of the dresser, letting the tune continue to play if for no other reason than to fill the room with something other than this deadly silence that echoed the sudden violent death of two people.

  The rest of the drawers in the dresser contain the expected: underwear, socks, T-shirts, a few light sweaters. The drawers were neither particularly orderly nor messy. None of them contained anything covert, no stash of torrid love letters or anything of the like.

  Jessica moved on to the girl’s closet. Hanging there she found three or four complete outfits for the girl’s school uniform. She briefly flashed on her own closet when she was fourteen. Only the school colors were different. She recalled hating the conformity of it all when she was Nicole’s age. She wondered if Nicole had felt the same way. Perhaps not. There was nothing particularly rebellious in the accouterment in of this girl’s room. Perhaps the only thing that could be considered rebellious was the poster of a rapper named Machine Gun Kelly.

  Jessica felt around the two shelves in the closet, beneath the folded sweaters, looking for something out of the ordinary, something that might indicate why Nicole Solomon’s path crossed with someone who would do the horrible things he did to her. She found nothing.

  Neither of the nightstands in the girl’s room had drawers. Jessica gave a quick look beneath the bed, found nothing more sinister than a pair of new-looking slippers.

  She sat down at the laptop, brought it to life, scanned the handful of desktop icons. She opened the browser, did a quick scan of the browsing history – a few news sources, Wikipedia, the main page for her school, Amazon, Zappos.

  Jessica saw that Nicole had established a smart mailbox for email from her father. Jessica clicked on the box and saw that the mail subject lines were indexed by day of the week. Her father had sent her an email the previous morning, wishing his daughter a beautiful day.

  As Jessica clicked through the mailbox, she discovered that David Solomon had sent Nicole email every morning, going back years. From just a few feet away, in the house they shared, he’d sent email to his daughter. Jessica’s heart began to ache. This was not an abusive relationship.

  She quickly perused the rest of the applications on the hard drive. There was no calendar application, no chronicle of Nicole’s days.

  Jessica would have the computer forensic team take a closer look at the hard drive and its contents, both visible and hidden.

  She stood in the doorway, took off her latex gloves. For a brief second she saw Sophie’s room a few years from now. The thought brought with it a surge of sadness and fear. She feared every day for her daughter’s safety. Today more than most. Today especially.

  Before leaving Nicole Solomon’s bedroom, Jessica walked back to the music box and rewound it.

  As she headed down the stairs the sound of that hopeful song filled the dead girl’s room.

  Then, like Nicole Solomon’s brief life, it soon faded to silence.

  11

  Byrne stepped into David Solomon’s bedroom doorway. Although there was nothing immediately visible in the bedroom – visible in the sense of evidence as it related to the deaths of David or Nicole Solomon – Byrne walked as close to the wall as he could.

  A visual scan of the bedroom, now that he saw it with fresh eyes, as well as the knowledge that the man who once slept here had just taken his life, showed a scene not dissimilar to his own bedroom. The bed was a queen size, or a large double. Only one side was unmade. On that side of the bed, on the nightstand, was a lamp, a pair of paperback books, a small digital clock – set about ten minutes fast – a half-empty bottle of AquaFina water, along with a cordless phone. The handset was not sitting in its charging cradle, but rather was lying down on its side.

  The other side of the bed, the side with the down comforter tucked tightly beneath the mattress, held a matching lamp, and nothing else. There were no clothes strewn about the room, no shoes lined up at the baseboard.

  Byrne glanced back at the cordless phone. He had noticed, almost by rote, that just about everything else in David Solomon’s house was in its place. Downstairs there were two rem
otes placed neatly next to the 42-inch LCD television, magazines squared on the end tables. Even the fruit in the bowl on the dining room table seemed to be purposefully arranged.

  Byrne took out his notebook, clicked his pen, looked at his watch, noting the exact time. He put down his notebook, picked up the phone between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, found the redial button, and pressed it. Keeping the phone an inch or so away from his ear, he listened. There were seven tones. The last number called was a local call. Mr Solomon, or whoever had last used his phone, had not made a long-distance call.

  The line rang once, twice, three times. Then there was a solitary click as it transferred over to voicemail.

  ‘Hi, you’ve reached the Gillens. I’m sorry I missed your call. When you hear the beep, leave a message and I’ll get right back to you. Or you can try me on my cell.’

  As she related her cell number, Byrne wrote it down.

  In the second or two before the beep Byrne realized that he had expected someone to pick up the phone. He was not prepared with a message. He hung up.

  He dialed the cell number, and once again got voicemail. When he heard the beep he plowed ahead. He left a message saying merely that he was with the Philadelphia Police Department, and that he would appreciate a call back as soon as possible. He left his pager number, as well as his cell number. He added that there was nothing wrong. That wasn’t necessarily true, of course, but he had no idea what relationship David Solomon, or whoever had last used his phone, had with the Gillens, whoever they might be.

  Before Byrne clicked off he read the number he had just dialed on the cordless. He hung up the phone, wrote down the number, and called the Comm Unit.

  The commander of the communications unit would get back to him in short order with the name and address of the person to whom that number was registered.

  12

  The house was a split level in Miquon, a bedroom community on the Schuylkill River that sat just over the Philadelphia County line in Montgomery County.