75
Byrne looked at the contents of the envelope-a handful of photographs, each with a notation scrawled along the bottom in ballpoint pen-but had no idea what any of it meant. He glanced again at the envelope itself. It was addressed to him, c/o the Police Department. Hand lettered, blocky style, black ink, no return, Philly postmark.
Byrne was at a desk in the duty room at the Roundhouse. The room was all but deserted. Anyone with anything to do on New Year's Eve was out getting ready to do it.
There were six photographs: small Polaroid prints. Written along the bottom of each print was a series of numbers. The numbers looked familiar-they appeared to be those of PPD case files. It was the pictures themselves he could not understand. They were not official department photos.
One was a snapshot of a small lavender plush toy. It looked like a bear. Another was a picture of a girl's barrette, also lavender. Yet another was a photograph of a small pair of socks. It has hard to tell the exact color, due to the slight overexposure of the print, but they looked to be lavender as well. There were three more photos, all of unrecognized objects that were each a shade of lavender.
Byrne scrutinized each photograph again. They were mostly close- ups, so there was little context. Three of the objects were on carpeting, two on a hardwood floor, one on what appeared to be concrete. Byrne was writing down the numbers as Josh Bontrager came in, holding his coat.
'Just wanted to say Happy New Year, Kevin.' Bontrager crossed the room, shook Byrne's hand. Josh Bontrager was a hand-shaker. In the past week or so, Byrne had probably shaken the young man's hand thirty times.
'Same to you, Josh.'
'We'll catch this guy next year. You'll see.'
It was a little bit of country wit, Byrne supposed, but it came from the right place. 'No doubt.' Byrne picked up the sheet with the case numbers on it. 'Could you do me a favor before you leave?'
'Sure.'
'Could you get these files for me?'
Bontrager put down his coat. 'I'm on it.'
Byrne turned back to the photographs. Each showed a lavender item, he saw again. A girl's item. A barrette, a bear, a pair of socks with a small ribbon at the top.
What did it mean? Did the photos represent six victims? Were they killed because of the color lavender? Was it the signature of a serial killer?
Byrne glanced out the window. The storm was picking up. Soon the city would come to a halt. For the most part, police welcomed snowstorms. They tended to slow things down, smooth out arguments that often led to assaults, to homicides.
He looked back at the pictures in his hand. Whatever they represented had already happened. The fact that a child was involved- probably a young girl-did not bode well.
Byrne got up from his desk, walked through the corridors to the elevators, and waited for Josh.
76
The cellar was dank and musty. It was made up of one large room and three smaller ones. In the main section were a few wooden boxes stacked in one corner, a large steamer trunk. The other rooms were mostly empty. One had a boarded-up coal chute and bin. One had a long rotted shelving unit. On it were a few old one- gallon green glass jars, a pair of broken jugs. Tacked above were cracked leather bridles, along with an old leg-hold trap.
The steamer trunk was not padlocked, but the broad latch seemed to be rusted shut. Jessica found an iron bar nearby. She swung the bar. Three hits later, and the latch sprung. She and Nicci opened the trunk.
Across the top was an old bed sheet. They pulled it away. Beneath that were layers of magazines: Life, Look, Woman's Home Companion, Collier's. The smell of mildewed paper and moth cakes drifted up. Nicci shifted some of the magazines.
Beneath them was a leather binder, perhaps nine by twelve inches, veined and covered with a thin green layer of mold. Jessica opened it. There were only a handful of pages.
Jessica flipped to the first two pages. On the left was a yellowed news clipping from the Inquirer, a news item from April 1995, an article concerning the murder of two young girls in Fairmount Park. Annemarie DiCillo and Charlotte Waite. The illustration on the right was a crude pen and ink drawing of a pair of white swans in a nest.
Jessica's pulse began to race. Walt Brigham had been right. This house-or more accurately the occupants of this house-had something to do with the murder of Annemarie and Charlotte. Walt had been closing in on the killer. He had been getting close and the killer had followed him into the park that night, to the precise spot the little girls had been murdered, and burned him to death.
Jessica considered the potent irony of it all.
In death, Walt Brigham had led them to his killer's house.
In death, Walt Brigham might get his revenge.
77
The six case files were homicides. Each one of the victims had been male, all of them between the ages of twenty-five and fifty. Three of the men had been stabbed to death-one of them with a pair of garden shears. Two of the men had been bludgeoned, one run over by a large vehicle, possibly a van. All of them had been from Philadelphia. Four had been white, one black, one Asian. Three had been married, two divorced, one single.
What they all had in common was that they had all been suspected, to some degree, of violence against young girls. All six were dead. And, it appeared, at the scene of their murders there had been some sort of lavender item. Socks, a barrette, plush toys.
There wasn't a single suspect in any of the cases.
'Are these files tied to our killer?' Bontrager asked.
Byrne had almost forgotten that Josh Bontrager was still in the room. The kid was quiet that way. Maybe it was out of respect. 'I'm not sure,' Byrne said.
'Do you want me to hang around, maybe follow up on some of them?'
'No,' Byrne said. 'It's New Year's Eve. Go have a good time.'
After a few moments, Bontrager grabbed his coat and walked toward the door.
'Josh,' Byrne said.
Bontrager turned around, expectant. 'Yeah?'
Byrne pointed to the files. 'Thanks.'
'Sure.' Bontrager held up two of the books by Hans Christian Andersen. 'I'm going to read these tonight. I figure that if he's going to do this again, a clue might be in here.'
Some New Year's Eve, Byrne thought. Reading fairy tales. 'Good work.'
'I thought I'd call you if I came up with something. Is that okay?'
'Absolutely,' Byrne said. The kid was starting to remind Byrne of himself when he'd been new to the unit. An Amish version, but still similar. Byrne got up, put on his coat. 'Hang on. I'll walk you down.'
'Cool,' Bontrager said. 'Where are you headed?'
In the case files, Byrne had looked at the investigating officers on each of the homicides. On all cases it had been Walter J. Brigham and John Longo. Byrne had looked up Longo. He had retired in 2001, and now lived in the Northeast.
Byrne hit the button on the elevator. 'I think I'll take a ride to the Northeast.'
