Broken Angels (11 page)

21

Jessica lay in bed, her eyes wide open. Vincent was enjoying the sleep of the dead, as usual. She’d never known anybody who slept more deeply than her husband. For someone who saw just about every depravity a city had to offer, every night around midnight, he reconciled himself with the world, and drifted right off to sleep.

Jessica had never been able to do that.
She couldn’t sleep, and knew why. Actually, there were two reasons. One, the image in the story Father Greg had told her kept galloping around her mind: a man being torn in half by the Sun Maiden and the sorceress.
Thanks for that one, Father Greg.
The competing image was of Kristina Jakos, sitting on the riverbank like a battered doll on a little girl’s shelf.
Twenty minutes later Jessica was at the dining room table, a mug of cocoa in front of her. She knew that chocolate contained caffeine, and that it would probably keep her up a few more hours. She also knew that chocolate contained chocolate.
She spread the Kristina Jakos crime-scene photographs on the table, put them in order, top to bottom: photographs of the road, the driveway, the front of the building, the abandoned cars, the back of the building, the slope to the riverbank, then poor Kristina herself. Looking at them top to bottom Jessica approximated the view of the scene as seen by the killer. She retraced his steps.
Had it been dark when he posed the body? It must have been. Seeing as the man who had taken Kristina’s life did not commit suicide at the crime scene, or turn himself in, he had wanted to get away with his twisted crime.
SUV? Truck? Van? A van would certainly make things easier for him.
But why Kristina? Why the odd clothing and mutilation? Why the “moon” on her stomach?
Jessica looked out the window at the ink-black night.
What kind of life is this? she wondered. She sat not fifteen feet from where her sweet little girl was sleeping, from where her beloved husband was sleeping, and she was looking at pictures of a dead woman in the middle of the night.
Still, for all the danger and ugliness Jessica encountered, she couldn’t imagine doing anything else. From the moment she’d entered the academy, all she had ever wanted to do was work homicides. And now she was. But the job began to eat you alive the moment you stepped onto the first floor of the Roundhouse.
In Philadelphia, you got a job on Monday. You worked it, chasing down witnesses, interviewing suspects, compiling forensics. Just when you started to make progress, it was Thursday and you were up on the wheel again and another body fell. You had to move on it, because if you didn’t make an arrest within forty-eight hours, there was a good chance you might never make an arrest. Or so the theory went. So you dropped what you were doing—while still keeping an ear to all the calls you had out—and worked the new case. The next thing you knew it was next Tuesday, and another bloody corpse landed at your feet.
If you made your living as an investigator—any kind of investigator— you lived for the
gotcha
. For Jessica, as well as every detective she knew, the sun rose and set on
gotcha.
At times,
gotcha
was your hot meal, your good night’s sleep, your long passionate kiss. No one understood the need but a fellow investigator. If junkies could be detectives for one second, they would toss away that needle forever. There was no high like
gotcha.
Jessica wrapped her hand around her cup. The cocoa was cold. She looked back at the photographs.
Was the
gotcha
in one of these pictures?

22

Walt Brigham pulled onto the shoulder on Lincoln Drive, cut the engine, the headlights, still reeling from his farewell party at Finnigan’s Wake, still a bit overwhelmed at the big turnout.

This section of Fairmount Park was dark at this hour. Traffic was sparse. He rolled down his window, the frigid air somewhat reviving him. He could hear the water of the Wissahickon Creek flowing nearby.

Brigham had mailed the envelope before he had gotten on the road. He felt underhanded; almost criminal, sending it anonymously. He’d had no choice. It had taken him weeks to make the decision, and now he had. All of it—thirty-eight years as a cop—was behind him now. He was someone else.

He thought about the Annemarie DiCillo case. It seemed like only yesterday when he had gotten the call. He remembered pulling up to the stormy scene—right at this spot—getting out his umbrella, walking into the forest...

Within hours they had rounded up the usual suspects, the peepers, the pedophiles, the men who had recently been released from prison after having served time for violence against children, especially against young girls. No one stood out from the crowd. No one cracked, or rolled over on another suspect. Given their nature, their heightened fear of prison life, pedophiles were notoriously easy to turn. No one did.

A particularly vile miscreant named Joseph Barber had looked good for a while, but he had an alibi—albeit a
shaky
alibi—for the day of the murders in Fairmount Park. When Barber himself was murdered— stabbed to death with thirteen steak knives—Brigham had figured it was the story of a man being visited by his sins.

But something nagged Walt Brigham about the circumstances of Barber’s demise. Over the next five years, Brigham had tracked a number of suspected pedophiles, both in Pennsylvania and New Jersey. Six of those men had been murdered, all with extreme prejudice, none of their cases solved. Granted, no one in any homicide unit anywhere really busted his hump trying to close a murder case when the victim was a scumbag who hurt children, but still the forensic data was collected and analyzed, the witness statements taken, the fingerprints run, the reports filed. Not a single suspect materialized.

Lavender,
he thought.
What was it about lavender?
In all, Walt Brigham found sixteen men murdered, all of them molesters, all of them questioned and released—or at least suspected—in a case involving a young girl.
It was crazy, but possible.
Someone was killing the suspects.
His theory never really gained any traction in the unit, so Walt Brigham had dropped it. Officially speaking. He had made highly detailed notes about it anyway. As little as he might have cared about these men, there was something about the job, the nature of being a homicide detective that compelled him to do so. Murder was murder. It was up to God to judge the victims, not Walter J. Brigham.
He turned his thoughts to Annemarie and Charlotte. They had stopped running through his dreams just a short time ago, but that didn’t mean the images didn’t haunt him. These days, when the calendar flipped from March to April, when he saw young girls in their springtime dresses, it all came back to him in a brutish, sensory overload—the smell of the woods, the sound of the rain, the way it looked like those two little girls were sleeping. Eyes closed, heads bowed. And then the nest.

122
RICHARD Montanari

The sick son of a bitch who did it had built a
nest
around them. Walt Brigham felt the anger wrench inside him, a barbwire fist in his chest. He was getting close. He could feel it. Off the record, he had already been to Odense, a small town in Berks County. He’d gone several times. He had made inquiries, taken pictures, spoken to people. The trail to Annemarie and Charlotte’s killer led to Odense, Pennsylvania. Brigham had tasted the evil the moment he crossed into the village, like a bitter potion on his tongue.
Brigham got out of the car, walked across Lincoln Drive, continued through the barren trees until he reached the Wissahickon. The cold wind howled. He flipped up his collar, bunched his wool scarf.
This was where they had been found.
“I’m back, girls,” he said.
Brigham glanced up at the sky, at the raw gray moon in the blackness. He felt the undressed emotion of that night so long ago. He saw their white dresses in the police lights. He saw the sad, empty expressions on their faces.
“I just wanted you to know, you have me now,” he said. “Full time. Twenty-four seven. We’re gonna get him.”
He watched the water flow for a while, then walked back to the car, a sudden spring in his step, as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, as if the rest of his life had been suddenly mapped. He slipped inside, started the engine, cranked up the heater. He was just about to angle onto Lincoln Drive when he heard...
singing
?
No.
It wasn’t singing. It was more like a nursery rhyme. A nursery rhyme he knew very well. His blood froze in his veins.

“Here are maidens, young and fair, Dancing in the summer air...”

Brigham looked into the rearview mirror. When he saw the eyes of the man in the backseat, he knew. This was the man for whom he had been searching a very long time.

“Like two spinning wheels at play...”

Fear lurched up Brigham’s spine. His weapon was under the seat. He’d had too much to drink. He’d never make it.

“Pretty maidens dance away.”

In those last moments many things became apparent to Detective Walter James Brigham. They settled upon him with a heightened clarity, like in those seconds before an electrical storm. He knew that Marjorie Morrison was indeed the love of his life. He knew that his father had been a good man, and that he had raised decent kids. He knew that Annemarie DiCillo and Charlotte Waite had been visited by true evil, that they had been followed into the forest and delivered unto the devil.

And Walt Brigham also knew that he had been right all along. It had always been about the water.

23

The Health Harbor was a small gym and workout spa in Northern Liberties. Run by a former police sergeant out of the Twenty-fourth District, it had a limited membership, mostly cops, which meant you generally didn’t have to put up with the usual gym games. Plus, it had a boxing ring.

Jessica got there about 6 am, did her stretches, ran five miles on the treadmill while listening to Christmas music on her iPod.
At 7 am, her great uncle Vittorio arrived. Vittorio Giovanni was eighty-one, but still had the clear brown eyes Jessica remembered from her youth, the kind and knowing eyes that had swept Vittorio’s late wife Carmella off her feet one hot August night at the Feast of the Assumption festival. Even today those sparkling eyes said there was a much younger man still inside. Vittorio had once been a professional prizefighter. To this day he could not watch a televised boxing match sitting down.
For the past few years Vittorio had been Jessica’s manager and trainer. As a professional, Jessica had a record of 5-0, with four knockouts, her last bout televised on ESPN2. Vittorio had always said that whenever Jessica was ready to quit, he would support the decision and they would both walk away. Jessica wasn’t sure yet. What got her into the sport to begin with—the desire to lose weight after Sophie was born, along with the desire to be able to hold her own with the occasional violent suspect when necessary—had grown into something else: the need to fight the aging process with what was, hands down, the most brutal discipline there was.
Vittorio grabbed the pads, slowly slipped between the ropes. “You do your roadwork?” he asked. He refused to call it “cardio.”
“Yeah,” Jessica said. She was supposed to do six miles, but her overthirty muscles were tired. Uncle Vittorio saw right through her.
“Tomorrow you do seven,” he said.
Jessica didn’t bother to deny it or to argue.
“Ready?” Vittorio slapped the pads together, held them up.
Jessica started slowly, jabbing at the pads, crossing with her right. As always, she fell into a rhythm, finding the zone. Her mind traveled from the sweaty confines of the gym, across town to the bank of the Schuylkill River, to the image of a dead young woman ceremoniously placed on the river’s edge.
As she picked up the pace, her anger built. She thought of the smiling Kristina Jakos, the trust the young woman might have had in her killer, the faith that she would not be harmed in anyway, that the next morning would dawn and she would be that much closer to her dreams. Jessica’s anger ignited and blossomed as she thought of the arrogance and brutality of the person they sought, the act of strangling a young woman and mutilating her body—
“Jess!”
Her uncle was shouting. Jessica stopped, the sweat pouring off her. She pawed it out of her eyes with the back of her glove, took a few steps back. The handful of other people in the gym stared at them.
“Time,”
her uncle said softly. He’d been here with her before.
How long had she been gone?
“Sorry,” Jessica said. She walked over to one corner, then another, then another, circling the ring, catching her breath. When she stopped, Vittorio made his way over to her. He dropped the pads, helped Jessica wiggle out of her gloves.
“Tough case?” he asked.
Her family knew her well. “Yeah,” she said. “Tough case.” jessica spent the morning working the computers. She put a number of search strings into the various search engines. The results regarding amputation were meager, if incredibly gruesome. In medieval times it was not uncommon for a thief to lose a hand, or a Peeping Tom to lose an eye. Some religious sects still engaged in the practice. The Italian mob had been cutting up people for years, but they generally didn’t leave the bodies in public and in broad daylight. They usually hacked folks up in order to fit them into a bag or a box or a suitcase so they could dump them in a landfill. Usually in Jersey.
She ran across nothing like what was done to Kristina Jakos on that riverbank.
The swim-lane rope was available from a number of online merchants. From what she could determine, it was similar to standard polypropylene stranded rope, but treated to resist chemicals such as chlorine. It was used primarily to hold together a line of floats. The lab had not detected any trace of chlorine.
Locally, between marine-supply and pool-supply retailers in Philadelphia, New Jersey, and Delaware, there were dozens of dealers who carried this type of rope. The minute Jessica had the final report from the lab, detailing a type and model, she would get on the phone.
At just after eleven, Byrne came into the duty room. He had the 911 tape of the call-in of Kristina’s body.

the audio visual Unit of the PPD was located in the basement of the Roundhouse. Its main purview was to supply A/V equipment to the department as needed—cameras, video equipment, recording and surveillance devices—as well as monitor the local television and radio channels for important information the department could use.

The unit also aided in investigating surveillance tapes and audiovisual evidence.
Officer Mateo Fuentes was a veteran of the unit. He had been instrumental in cracking a recent case where a psychopath with a movie fetish had been terrorizing the city. In his thirties, precise and meticulous in his work, strangely scrupulous with his grammar, nobody in the AV unit was better at finding the hidden truth in an electronic recording.
Jessica and Byrne entered the control room.
“What do we have, Detectives?” Mateo asked.
“Anonymous 911 call,” Byrne said. He handed Mateo the audiocas- sette.
“No such thing,” Mateo replied. He slipped the cassette into a machine. “I take it there was no caller ID?”
“No,” Byrne said. “It looks like it was a terminated cell.”
In most states, whenever a citizen calls 911 they give up their proprietary right to privacy. Even if you have a block on your phone—which prevents most people who receive your calls from seeing your number on their caller ID—the police-department radio unit and dispatchers can still see your number. With a few exceptions. One of them is a 911 call from a terminated cell. When cell phones are turned off—for nonpayment, or perhaps because the subscriber has moved to a new number— the 911 capabilities remain. Unfortunately for investigators, the ability to trace the number does not.
Mateo hit play on the tape machine.
“Philadelphia Police, Operator 204, how can I help you?”
answered the operator.
“There’s...there’s a dead body. It’s behind the old auto parts warehouse on Flat Rock Road.”
Click. That was the extent of the recording.
“Hmmm,” Mateo said. “Not exactly long-winded.” He hit stop. Then rewind. He played it again. When it was finished, he rewound the tape and played it a third time, cocking his head to the speakers. He hit stop.
“Man or woman?” Byrne asked.
“Man,” Mateo replied.
“Are you sure?”
Mateo turned, glared.
“Okay,” Byrne said.
“He’s in a car or a small space. No echo, good acoustics, no back- ground hiss.”
Mateo played the tape again. He adjusted a few dials. “Hear that?”
There was music in the background. Very faint, but there. “I hear something,” Byrne said.
Rewind. A few more adjustments. Less hiss. A melody emerged.
“Radio?” Jessica asked.
“Maybe,” Mateo said. “Or a CD.”
“Play it again,” Byrne said.
Mateo rewound the tape, fed it into another deck. “Let me digitize it.”
The AV Unit had an ever-expanding arsenal of audio forensic software with which they could not only clean up the sound of an existing audio file, but also separate the tracks of a recording, thereby isolating them for closer scrutiny.
A few minutes later Mateo was on a laptop. The 911 audio files were now a series of green and black spikes on the screen. Mateo clicked play, adjusted the volume. This time the melody in the background was clearer, more distinct.
“I know this song,” Mateo said. He played it again, adjusting slide controls, bringing the voice down to a barely audible level. Mateo then plugged in a pair of headphones, slipped them on. He closed his eyes, listened. He played the file again. “Got it.” He opened his eyes, pulled off the headphones. “The name of the song is ‘I Want You.’ By Savage Garden.”
Jessica and Byrne exchanged a glance. “Who?” Byrne asked.
“Savage Garden. Australian pop duo. They were big in the late nineties. Well, medium-big. That song is from 1997 or 1998. Fair-sized hit then.”
“How do you know all this?” Byrne asked.
Mateo glared again. “My life is not all Channel 6 Action News and McGruff videos, Detective. I happen to be a very social individual.”
“What’s your take on the caller?” Jessica asked.
“I’ll need to run it some more, but I can tell you that this Savage Garden song doesn’t get much airplay anymore, so it probably wasn’t the radio,” Mateo said. “Unless it was an oldies station.”
“Ninety-seven is oldies?” Byrne asked.
“Deal with it, pops.”
“Man.”
“If the person who made the call has the CD, and is still playing it, they are probably under forty,” Mateo said. “I’d guess thirty, maybe even twenty-five, give or take.”
“Anything else?”
“Well, you can tell by the way he says the word ‘there’s’ twice that he was nervous about calling. He probably rehearsed it a bunch of times.”
“You’re a genius, Mateo,” Jessica said. “We owe you.”
“And here it is, almost Christmas, with only a day or so left to shop for me.”

jessica, byrne, and Josh Bontrager stood outside the control room. “Whoever called knows it was once an auto parts warehouse,” Jes
sica said.
“Which means he is probably from the area,” Bontrager said. “Which narrows it down to about thirty thousand people.” “Yeah, but how many of them listen to Savage Garbage?” Byrne
asked.
“Garden,” Bontrager said.
“Whatever.”
“Why don’t I hit some of the bigger stores—Best Buy, Borders?”
Bontrager asked. “Maybe this guy asked for the CD recently. Maybe
someone will remember.”
“Good idea,” Byrne said.
Bontrager beamed. He grabbed his coat. “I’m working with Detectives
Shepherd and Palladino today. If something breaks, I’ll call you later.” A minute after Bontrager left, an officer poked his head into the
room. “Detective Byrne?”
“Yeah.”
“There’s someone upstairs to see you.”

when jessica and Byrne walked into the lobby of the Roundhouse they saw a diminutive Asian woman, clearly out of her element. She wore a visitor’s ID badge. As they got closer Jessica recognized the woman as Mrs. Tran, the woman from the All-City Launderette. “Mrs. Tran,” Byrne said. “What can we do for you?” “My father found this,” she said.
She reached into her tote bag, held up a magazine. It was last month’s

issue of
Dance Magazine.
“He says she left it. She was reading it that night.”
“By ‘she’ you mean Kristina Jakos? The woman we asked you about?”
“Yes,” she said. “That blond lady. Maybe this will help you.”
Jessica gripped the magazine by its edges. They’d brush it for prints. “Where did he find this?” Jessica asked.
“It was on top of dryers.”
Jessica carefully flipped through the pages, making her way to the back of the magazine. On one of the pages—a full-page ad for Volkswagen, an ad made up of mostly white space—there was an elaborate web of doodles: phrases, words, drawings, names, symbols. It appeared that Kristina, or whoever had done the drawings, had doodled for hours.
“Your father is sure that Kristina Jakos was reading this magazine?” Jessica asked.
“Yes,” Mrs. Tran said. “You want me to get him? He’s in the car. You could ask again.”
“No,” Jessica said. “That’s okay.”

upstairs, in the duty room of the homicide unit, Byrne pored over the magazine page with the drawings. Many of the words were written in the Cyrillic alphabet, in what he figured was Ukrainian. He already had a call in to a detective he knew from Northeast, a young guy named Nathan Bykovsky whose parents came from Russia. In addition to the words and phrases, there were drawings of small houses, threedimensional hearts, pyramids. There were also a few sketches of dresses, although nothing resembling the vintage-style dress Kristina Jakos wore in death.

Byrne got the call from Nate Bykovsky, then faxed the page. Nate called him back immediately.
“What is this about?” Nate asked.
Detectives never had a problem with another cop reaching out. Still, by nature, they liked to know the play. Byrne told him.
“I believe this is Ukrainian,” Nate said.
“Can you read it?”
“Mostly. My family is from Belarus. The Cyrillic alphabet is shared by many languages—Russian, Ukrainian, Bulgarian. They are similar, but some symbols are not used by the others.”
“Any idea what this says?”
“Well, two of the words—the two written above the hood of the car in the photograph—are illegible,” Nate said. “Below them she has written the word ‘love’ twice. At the bottom, the most legible words on the page, she has written a phrase.”
“What’s that?”
“ ‘I am sorry.’ ”
“I am sorry?”
“Yes.”
Sorry,
Byrne wondered.
Sorry for what?
“The rest are individual letters.”
“They don’t spell anything out?” Byrne asked.
“Not that I can see,” Nate said. “I will write them out in order, top to bottom, and fax them back to you. Maybe they add up to something.”
“Thanks, Nate.”
“Any time.”
Byrne scanned the page again.
Love.
I’m sorry.
In addition to the words and letters and drawings there was one recurring image, a succession of numbers that were drawn in an everdecreasing spiral. It looked to be a series of ten numbers. The drawing was on the page three times. Byrne took the page over to the copy machine. He positioned it on the glass, adjusted the settings to increase the size to three times that of the original. When the page emerged he saw that he had been right. The first three numbers were 215. It was a local phone number. He picked up a phone, dialed the number. When someone answered, Byrne apologized for dialing wrong. He hung up, his pulse quickening. They had a direction.
“Jess,” he said. He grabbed his coat.
“What’s up?”
“Let’s take a ride.”
“Where to?”
Byrne was nearly out the door. “A club called Stiletto.”
“Want me to get an address?” Jessica asked, grabbing a two-way radio, hurrying to keep up.
“No. I know where it is.”
“O
kay
. Why are we going there?”
They reached the elevators. Byrne punched the button, paced. “It’s owned by a guy named Callum Blackburn.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Kristina Jakos doodled his phone number in that magazine three times.”
“And you know this guy?”
“Yeah.”
“How so?” Jessica asked.
Byrne stepped into the elevator car, held the door. “I helped put him in prison nearly twenty years ago.”