No Such Thing as a Free Ride (25 page)

We met the following morning at a diner on Division Street. Stacey didn’t want to meet at work and I was just as happy, as I hadn’t had much to eat since the cookies at DiCarlo’s, and that seemed like a million years ago.

While I waited for her to arrive, I ordered a BLT minus the bacon because I’m trying to collect some good karma, but then the lettuce grossed me out on account of it was soggy on the ends so that just left me with tomato and bread which wasn’t very satisfying, so I treated myself to a black and white malted.

I liked Stacy the minute I met her. She’s one of those old school, no-nonsense, heart-of-gold sort of people you immediately trust. Plus, she ordered French fries for breakfast which legitimized my sandwich and malt as a perfectly respectable choice.

“That girl still haunts me,” she told me, dipping a fry into a pool of ketchup. “I’ve worked for the coroner’s office for over 20 years, and I’ve seen my share of tragic endings, but the young ones always tear my heart out.”

“Did anyone ever find out who she was? I don’t mean to imply that people weren’t doing their jobs,” I added. “It’s just that my ex-boyfriend is a homicide detective, and I understand the realities of the job. There’s only so much you can do with limited staff and funds.”

“Far as I know, she’s still listed as a Jane Doe,” she said, digging in her pocketbook. “I was hoping you’d have better luck finding out who this kid was.” She took out some photos and held them close to her chest. “They’re not pretty,” she said, handing them over to me.

“I could lose my job if it ever got out I gave you those, but the truth is I never did feel right about that girl and I’m hoping you can make some sense of her death. I’ve always thought there was more to it than an accidental overdose. You ever have one of those gut feelings?”

“All the time,” I told her, staring at the photos. I was having one at that very moment, but not the kind she meant. I told myself it was the malted.

Stacey had to get to work. I thanked her profusely and said I’d keep in touch.

“Brandy, if you don’t mind my asking, why exactly are you interested in this kid? I mean you’d never even met her.”

Flashing on Crystal’s thin, pretty face, I said, “In a way, I feel like I have.”

*****

I needed to regroup, so I made a pit stop at the public library to partake of their air conditioning and to look over my notes and try to coordinate everything I knew, which, admittedly, wasn’t much. The girl was young, white and had given birth just before she died. According to the autopsy report her drug of choice was heroin. A quick call to Linda Morrison revealed the Jane Doe from Philly had also had a penchant for “horse.”

The girl I found, this girl, the one from the agency that Cynthia Mott told me about, the girl Bobby found in the dumpster… could it just be a coincidence that all these young, white girls, some of whom were known hookers, had gotten pregnant and then died of a heroin overdose?

No
, every fiber of my being told me. Which led me to a horrific conclusion. This had to be the work of a serial killer.

Some psychopath was out there killing off young, pregnant prostitutes and making it look like they’d overdosed! I was convinced I was right—for about a nanosecond before realizing my theory made no sense at all. According to the M.O. of most serial killers, if they’re going to go to all the trouble of killing somebody or a group of somebodies they want credit for a job well done. Half the fun is striking fear in society’s heart.

Then if killing for the sheer joy of it wasn’t the answer, what was?

Ruling out crimes of passion, motives for committing murder generally fall into two main categories—revenge and profit. So, who might have a grudge against these young, prostitutes? A disgruntled wife? Maybe there was an entire group devoted to taking revenge on underage street walkers.

I got a sudden mental picture of a roving gang of hype stick-wielding suburbanites killing off the competition for their husbands’ affections, and then I ruled that out as too ridiculous to consider.

Okay, so if the killer—or killers—were motivated by
greed
, how could they profit from murdering these girls? After all, they couldn’t turn tricks if they were dead. The whole thing was like a Rubik’s Cube that I just kept twisting and turning, knowing the solution was in there somewhere if I could just assemble the damn thing correctly.

They were young… they were white… they were Jane Doe’s … they were pregnant. And no one knew what happened to their babies. Their babies! Oh my God!
A light went on over my head like a big neon “Duh-uhh!”
The girls were a dime a dozen. The true hot commodity was their babies.

Last year, WINN did a segment on adoption and how white, middle class Americans had put off having babies for so long they were now turning to private adoption to complete their families. Since the number of white babies available for adoption has diminished over the years, there was a premium on them, so a lot of couples were being aced out of the market.

If someone came up with a relatively cheap way to supply white babies they’d stand to make a mint. And who better to exploit than a young, scared, teenage girl? In each case where the girl went full term, the police were unable to find the infant. It may have been assumed that the girls had left them with family before shooting themselves into oblivion. But since no one filed a missing person’s report, it was almost impossible to trace.

The person or persons responsible for their deaths must have counted on the fact that these girls were “throw-aways.” Since no one cared about them, no one would miss them when they were gone.

In defense of the police department, it would have been a huge red flag if all the girls had been discovered at the same time or in the same location, but their deaths had been spread out over the course of two years, and the bodies were discovered in various major metropolitan areas. There was no reason to think the deaths were related or more than tragic, but routine overdoses. Until now.

My head was spinning with a million unanswered questions, but my immediate thought was to find out more about the girl from the Camden morgue. If I could find the link between her and the other girls, maybe I could locate Star. I sat down at one of the computers and started my search.

*****

Fresh Start Homeless Youth Services was a drop in center located in the Camden borough of Lindenwold. I pulled up to an old commercial building on the corner of Amherst and Broadway and turned off the engine. Having spent the entire afternoon schlepping all over the city checking out agencies that dealt with homeless youth, I was hot, tired and cranky. Plus, my deodorant had quit working about two agencies back, but the pit bull in me wouldn’t let me stop until I found what I was looking for.

I checked in at the reception desk and asked to speak to the director. A few minutes later a guy walked into the room and introduced himself.

“My name is Matt,” he said, extending his hand to me. I’m the program director.”

Matt was about 30 years old, dressed in jeans and a New York Rangers tee shirt. I like a man who isn’t afraid to dress out of season. I smiled and introduced myself and the reason for my visit.

I really wasn’t expecting much in the way of information. Based on the reception I’d gotten from the three thousand other agencies I’d visited, I knew the people who worked there were bound by law and moral fiber not to divulge any information about their clients. Not even the dead ones. I took out the picture that Stacey had supplied for me and handed it to him.

“Look,” I told him. “I’m trying to help a street kid locate her best friend. She’s scared that something really bad happened to her, and frankly, so am I. The trail’s led me to this girl,” I said, pointing to the photo. “Supposedly, she died of a self inflicted overdose right after giving birth. But there are just too many coincidences between her death and the deaths of three other girls I’ve been tracking to chalk it up to an accident. I believe this kid was murdered. And if I’m right, she’s not the only one.”

Matt stared at the picture for several moments and I noticed a subconscious working of his jaw muscles as he handed it back to me. “Excuse me a minute, would you?”

He turned and walked into an office adjacent to the reception room. It had a big glass window and I watched him as he rummaged through a large file cabinet. While I waited for his return, I began reading the inspirational posters plastered on the wall. My favorite one was simply and elegantly stated. “The streets are not the end of the road.”

Matt returned just as I finished testing my “Drug I.Q.”

“You really believe she was murdered?” he asked, his eyes searching out mine.

I met his gaze. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

He rocked back on his heels and blew a small puff of air through his teeth. “I’m not saying I knew this girl, but if she had found her way to this facility, it would have been on the recommendation of her state case worker. Child Welfare’s located on Horizon Avenue.”

I thanked Matt and turned to leave, but he called me back.

“Listen, if you do find out what happened to her, let me know, okay? I, uh, you hate to see this happen to any kid, y’know?”

“Yeah,” I nodded. “I know.”

It was after five and Child Welfare was closed, so I had to put my visit on hold until the next day. Just as well, seeing as I was supposed to meet the Baby Shower Committee for dinner at Chickie’s and Pete’s and I was running late.

There was a humongous traffic jam on the Betsy Ross so I used the time to test out my new “hands-free” phone equipment. I put on the headset and shouted a command into the air. “Call John.”

A very pleasant, mechanical voice spoke to me through the ear piece. “Did you say ‘call Tom?’”

I don’t even know a Tom. I tried again. “Call
John.
”

“Call Shawn? If that’s correct say “yes.”

“No! Call John! John!”

“I’m sorry. Did you say, ‘Call Jomjom?”

“Listen you dumb bitch. That’s not even a name!”

Okay, calm down, Brandy. The nice computer-generated voice lady is just trying to do her job.
I took a deep breath. “Call Tom.”

“Did you say, “Call John?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you?” John asked, as I listened to the sound of ice cold beer being chugged in the background without me.

“I’m stuck on the bridge and my car is beginning to overheat. Order me some wings, will ya? I’ll be there soon.”

John dropped his voice to a whisper. “Hurry. You don’t know the hell I’ve been through. Janine brought her grandmother along.”

“The one who talks really loud or the one who chews with her mouth open?”

“The chewer. She was in the middle of telling a story when her partial fell out and landed in her soup tureen. She’s spent the past ten minutes rooting through the clam chowder for her teeth.”

“Hang tough, sweetie. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

I disconnected and moved exactly three feet when traffic stalled out again. I turned off the air conditioner and opened the windows, letting in the fetid smell of ‘summer in the city.’ It didn’t look like we were going anywhere any time soon, so I picked up the phone again and put in a call to Crystal.

I figured she must be feeling frustrated that I hadn’t found Star yet, so I braced myself for a verbal harangue and she didn’t disappoint.

“I thought you said you could find her,” she sulked. “Haven’t you been trying
at all
?”

I did a mental count to ten. “Look, I know it’s hard to be dependent on other people, Crystal. That’s not exactly my strong suit, either. But I’m trying the best I can. Maybe it’s time we called in the cops,” I added, mainly because I had nothing else to offer.

“No! They don’t care about street kids. They’ll only cause more trouble. I swear if you go to the cops—”

“
Alright.
Forget I said anything. Listen,” I added, changing the subject before she said something at least one of us would regret. “Was there any chance that Star might have been pregnant?”

“Fuck, no! Star knows how to take care of herself. Besides, she told me she can’t get pregnant.”

“Um, no disrespect to Star, Crystal, but a lot of girls think they can’t get pregnant— until they do. Look, I’m not trying to be nosy. I’m just trying to figure out something here.”

“Star was raped when she was eleven,” Crystal said softly. “She ended up with some kind of infection and now she can’t have kids. She used to joke about having one less thing to worry about, but I know it bothered her. We’d talk sometimes, y’know?”

Abruptly, her voice hardened. “Why did you want to know if Star was pregnant, anyway? You’ve heard something, haven’t you!”

“No,” I said honestly. “Nothing about Star.”
Damnit. If Star wasn’t pregnant, maybe I was wrong about everything.”

Traffic started moving again. “Crystal, I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.” I hung up before she could utter a response. I’m sure it would have been a good one.

By the time I reached Chickie’s and Pete’s Janine and her grandmother had left. John was on his way out too, which just left me and Carla. I ordered a Rolling Rock to go with my wings and slumped into the booth across from her.

Carla tapped a lacquered nail on her glass of chardonnay and looked at me for a long moment. “What’s wrong, hon?”

“Nothing. Long day.” I tried to smile but it came out more like a grimace.

“Honey, that is not the face of a happy camper.” She hesitated. “Is it Bobby?”

I shook my head. “Bobby and I are cool. At least for the moment. I don’t know, Carla. I think work’s got me down. Sometimes I think I’d be happier going back to interviewing local chefs on the best way to cook a holiday turkey. I’m in way over my head here.”

“Anything I can do to help?” she asked kindly.

“I know you would if you could.” I took a long swig of beer and dove into my wings, smearing habanera sauce all over my face. I didn’t bother to wipe it off.