Authors: Richard Montanari
42
The crime scene was once again on the bank of the Schuylkill River, this time adjacent to the Shawmont train station, near Upper Roxborough. The Shawmont station was one of the oldest stations in the United States. The trains no longer stopped there, and it had fallen into disrepair, but it was a frequent stop for railroad aficionados and purists, much photographed and rendered.
Just below the station, down a steep incline that angled toward the river, was the enormous derelict Shawmont waterworks, located on one of the last publicly owned riverfront parcels of land in the city.
The exterior of the mammoth pump house was overgrown with decades of scrub and vines and gnarled branches hanging from dead trees. In daylight it was an imposing relic of a time when the facility had taken water from the pool behind Flat Rock Dam and pumped it up to the Roxborough Reservoir. At night it was all but an urban mausoleum, a dark and forbidding haven for drug deals, clandestine unions of all sorts. The inside was gutted, stripped of anything even remotely of value. There was graffiti around the walls to a height of seven feet or so. A few ambitious taggers had written their sentiments at a height of perhaps fifteen feet on one wall. The floor was an uneven topography of pebbled concrete, rusted iron, and sundry urban rubble.
As Jessica and Byrne approached the building, they could see the bright temporary lights illuminating the front of the building, the façade facing the river. A dozen officers, CSU techs, and detectives waited for them.
The dead woman sat in the window, legs crossed at the ankles, hands folded in her lap. Unlike Kristina Jakos, this victim did not appear to be mutilated in any way. At first, it looked as if she were praying, but closer inspection showed that her hands were cupped around an object.
Jessica stepped into the building. It was almost medieval in scale. Since the facility’s closing, it had fallen into decay. A number of ideas had been floated regarding its future, not the least of which had been the possibility of turning it into a training facility for the Philadelphia Eagles. The cost of renovation would be enormous, though, and so far nothing had been done.
Jessica approached the victim, careful not to disturb any possible footprints, although there was no snow inside the building and collecting any thing usable was unlikely. She shone her light on the victim. This woman was in her late twenties or early thirties. She wore a long dress. It, too, seemed to be from another time, with its elasticized velvet bodice and fully shirred skirt. There was a nylon belt around her neck, knotted at the back. It appeared to be an exact duplicate of the one found around the neck of Kristina Jakos.
Jessica hugged the wall as she scanned the interior. The CSU techs would soon be setting up a grid. Before leaving, she took her Maglite, made a slow careful sweep of the walls. And saw it. About twenty feet to the right of the window, buried in a jumble of gang tags, was the graffiti of the white moon.
“Kevin.”
Byrne stepped inside, followed the beam of light. He turned, found Jessica’s eyes in the gloom. They had stood there before, as partners, at the threshold of a burgeoning evil, at a moment when something they thought they’d understood had become something bigger, something far more sinister, something that had redefined everything they’d believed about a case.
Standing outside, their breath formed vapor clouds in the night air. “ME’s office won’t be here for an hour or so,” Byrne said.
“An hour?”
Merciless
203
“Christmas in Philly,” Byrne said. “Two other homicides already. They’re stretched.”
Byrne pointed to the victim’s hands. “She’s holding something.”
Jessica looked closely. Something was in the woman’s grasp. Jessica took a number of close-up pictures.
If they were to follow procedure to the letter, they would have to wait for the ME’s office to pronounce the woman dead, and for a full set of photographs and perhaps video to be taken of the victim and the scene. But Philadelphia was not exactly following procedure this night—that bit about love thy neighbor came to mind, followed closely by that peace-onearth business—and the detectives knew that the longer they waited, the more likely it was that precious information would be lost to the elements.
Byrne stepped closer, tried to gently pry apart the woman’s fingers. Her fingertips responded to his touch. Full rigor had not set in.
At first glance it appeared that the victim had a ball of leaves or twigs in her cupped hands. In the harsh light it looked to be a dark brown material, definitely organic. Byrne stepped closer, set himself. He spread a large evidence bag on the woman’s lap. Jessica tried to hold her Maglite steady. Byrne continued to pry apart the victim’s grasp, slowly, one finger at a time. If the woman had scooped a ball of earth or compost from the ground during a struggle, it was possible that she had gotten important evidence from her killer lodged beneath her nails. There could even have been a piece of direct evidence in her hands—a button, a clasp, a piece of fabric. If something could immediately point to an individual of interest, such as hair or fiber or DNA evidence, the sooner they could begin looking for him the better.
Little by little, Byrne pulled back the woman’s dead fingers. When he finally had four fingers back on her right hand, they saw something they did not expect to see. In death this woman was not holding a fistful of earth or leaves or twigs. In death she held a small brown bird. In the light thrown by the emergency lamps it appeared to be a sparrow, or perhaps a wren.
Byrne gently closed the victim’s fingers. They would place a clear plastic evidence bag around them to preserve every trace of evidence. This was far beyond their ability to assess or analyze in situ.
Then something totally unexpected happened. The bird wiggled out of the dead woman’s grip and flew away. It darted around inside the huge, shadowed space of the waterworks, the beat of its flitting wings resonating off the icy stone walls, chirping either in protest or relief. Then it was gone.
“Son of a
bitch,
” Byrne yelled.
“Fuck.”
This was not good news for the team. They should have immediately bagged the corpse’s hands and waited. The bird might have provided a host of forensic details, but even in its departure it yielded some information. It meant that the body could not have been there that long. The fact that the bird was still alive—perhaps preserved by the warmth of the cadaver—meant that the killer had posed this victim within the last few hours.
Jessica aimed her Maglite at the ground beneath the window. A few of the bird’s feathers remained. Byrne pointed them out to a CSU officer, who picked them up with a pair of forceps and placed them in an evidence bag.
They would now wait for the ME’s office.
jessica walked to the bank of the river, looked out, then back at the body. The figure was perched in the window, high above the gentle slope that ran to the road, then more steeply to the soft bank of the river.
Another doll on a shelf,
Jessica thought.
Like Kristina Jakos, this victim faced the river. Like Kristina Jakos, she had a painting of the moon nearby. There was little doubt that there would be another painting on her body, an image of the moon rendered in semen and blood.
the media showed up just before midnight. They clustered at the top of the cutoff, near the train station, behind the crime-scene tape. It always amazed Jessica how fast they could get to a crime scene.
The story would make the morning editions of the paper.
43
The crime scene was locked down, sealed off from the city. The media had gone off to file their stories. CSU would process the evidence through the night, and far into the next day.
Jessica and Byrne stood near the river’s edge. Neither could bring themselves to leave.
“You gonna be okay?” Jessica asked.
“Yeah.” Byrne took a pint of bourbon out of his coat pocket. He toyed with the cap. Jessica saw it, said nothing. They were off duty.
After a full minute of silence, Byrne glanced over. “What?”
“You,” she said. “You’ve got that look in your eye.”
“What look?”
“The Andy Griffith look. The look that says you’re thinking about turning in your papers and getting a sheriff ’s job in Mayberry.”
“Meadville.”
“See?”
“You cold?”
Freezing my ass off,
Jessica thought. “Nah.”
Byrne hit the bourbon, held it out. Jessica shook her head. He capped the bottle, held it.
“Years ago we used to drive out to my uncle’s place in Jersey,” he said. “I always knew when we were getting close because we would come upon this old cemetery. And by
old
I mean Civil War old. Maybe older. There was this small stone house by the gate, probably the caretaker’s house, and in the front window was this sign that read: ‘free fill dirt.’ Ever see signs like that?”
Jessica had. She told him so. Byrne continued.
“When you’re a kid, you never give stuff like that a second thought, you know? Year after year I saw that sign. It never moved, just faded in the sunlight. Every year, those blocky red letters got lighter and lighter. Then my uncle passed, my aunt moved back to the city, we stopped going out there.
“Years later, after my mother died, I went to her grave one day. Perfect summer afternoon. Blue sky, cloudless. I’m sitting there, telling her how things are going. A few plots down there was a fresh gravesite, right? And it suddenly hit me. I suddenly knew why that cemetery had free fill dirt. Why
all
cemeteries have free fill dirt. I thought about all those people who took them up on that offer over the years, filling their gardens, their potted plants, their window boxes. The cemeteries make space in the earth for the dead, and people take that dirt and grow things in it.”
Jessica just looked at Byrne. The longer she knew the man, the more layers she saw. “That’s, well, beautiful,” she said, getting a little emotional, battling it. “I never would have thought of it that way.”
“Yeah, well,” Byrne said. “We Irish are all poets, you know.” He uncapped the pint, took a swallow, capped it again. “And drinkers.”
Jessica eased the bottle out of his hands. He didn’t resist.
“Get some sleep, Kevin.”
“I will. I just hate it when we’re getting played and I can’t put my finger on it.”
“Me, too,” Jessica said. She fished her keys out of her pocket, snuck another peek at her watch, then immediately chided herself about it. “You know, you ought to go running with me sometime.”
“Running.”
“Yeah,” she said. “That’s like walking, but faster.”
“Ah, okay. It kind of rings a bell. I think I did it once when I was akid.”
“I may have a boxing match set up for the end of March, so I better start doing roadwork. We could run together. It does wonders, believe me. Clears the mind completely.”
Byrne tried to suppress the laughter. “Jess. The only time I plan on running is when someone is chasing me. And I mean a big guy. With a knife.”
The wind picked up. Jessica shivered, turned up her collar. “I’m gonna go.” There was a lot more she wanted to say, but there would be time. “You
sure
you’re okay?”
“Never better.”
Right, partner,
she thought. She walked back to her car, slipped in, started it. As she pulled away she glanced at her rearview mirror, saw Byrne silhouetted against the lights on the other side of the river, now just another shadow in the night.
She looked at her watch. It was 1:15 am.
It was Christmas Day.
44
Christmas morning broke clear and cold, bright with promise.
Pastor Roland Hannah and Deacon Charles Waite offered service at 7:00 am. Roland’s sermon was one of hope, of renewal. He spoke of The Cross and The Cradle. He quoted Matthew 2:1-12.
The baskets overflowed.
later, roland and Charles sat at the table in the basement beneath the church, a pot of cooling coffee between them. In an hour they would begin to prepare a Christmas ham dinner for upwards of one hundred homeless people. It would be served at their new facility on Second Street.
“Look at this,” Charles said. He handed Roland the morning’s
Inquirer.
There had been another murder. Nothing special in Philadelphia, but this one had resonance. Deep resonance. This one had an echo that reverberated over the years.
A woman had been found in Shawmont. She had been discovered at the old waterworks near the train station, just on the eastern bank of the Schuylkill.
Roland’s pulse raced. Two bodies found on the banks of the Schuylkill River in one week. Then there was the story in the previous day’s paper, an article reporting that Detective Walter Brigham had been murdered. Roland and Charles knew all about Walter Brigham.
There was no denying the truth of it.
Charlotte and her friend had been found on the bank of the Wissahickon. They had been posed, just like these two women. Maybe, after all these years, it was not about girls. Maybe it was about the
water
.
Maybe this was a sign.
Charles dropped to his knees and prayed. His big shoulders shook. In moments he was whispering in tongues. Charles was a glossolalic, a true believer who, when overtaken by the spirit, would speak in what he believed to be God’s idiom, an edification of one’s self. To the casual observer, it might have sounded like so much gibberish. To the believer, to one moved to tongues, it was the language of Heaven.
Roland glanced back at the newspaper, closed his eyes. Soon, a divine calm descended upon him, and a voice inside gave query to his thoughts.
Is it him?
Roland touched the crucifix around his neck.
And knew the answer.
Part Three
The River Darkness
45
“Why are we in here with the door closed, Sarge?” Park asked.
Tony Park was one of the few Korean-American detectives on the force. A family man in his late forties, a wizard on the computer, a skilled interrogator in the room, there was not a more practical, streetwise detective on the force than Anthony Kim Park. This time, his question was on the mind of everyone in the room.
The task force was four detectives strong. Kevin Byrne, Jessica Balzano, Joshua Bontrager, and Tony Park. Considering the enormous job of coordinating the forensic sections, collecting witness statements, conducting interviews, and all the other minutiae that made up a homicide investigation—a pair of
related
homicide investigations—the task force was meager. There simply was not enough manpower available.
“The door’s closed for two reasons,” Ike Buchanan said, “and I think you know the first one.”
They all did. Task forces were played close to the vest these days, especially those given the challenge of hunting a compulsive killer. Mostly because a small group of men and women tasked with tracking down an individual had a way of drawing that individual to them, putting wives, children, friends, and family in jeopardy. It had happened to both Jessica and Byrne. It happened more than the general public knew.
“The second reason is, and I’m sorry to have to say this, is that things have had a way of making it into the media from this office lately. I don’t want to start any rumors or any panic,” Buchanan said. “Besides, as far as the city is concerned, we’re not sure we have a compulsive out there. Right now, the media thinks we have two unsolved homicides that may or not be related. Let’s see if we can keep it that way for a while.”
It was always a delicate balance with the media. There were a lot of reasons not to give them too much information. Information had a way of rapidly becoming
dis
information. If the media ran with a story that a serial killer was walking the streets of Philadelphia, many things could result, most of them bad. Not the least of which was the possibility of a copycat killer taking the opportunity to get rid of a mother-in-law, husband, wife, boyfriend, boss. On the other hand, there had been a number of occasions when the newspapers and television stations had broadcast a suspect sketch for the PPD and within days—sometimes hours—they’d had their man.
As of this morning, the day after Christmas, the department had not yet released any specific details about the second victim.
“Where are we on the ID on the Shawmont victim?” Buchanan asked.
“Her name was Tara Grendel,” Bontrager said. “She was identified through her DMV records. Her car was found half in, half out of a parking space at an indoor lot on Walnut. We’re not sure if that was the abduction site or not, but it looks good for it.”
“What was she doing in that garage? Did she work nearby?”
“She was an actress, working under the name Tara Lynn Greene. She had an audition the day she went missing.”
“Where was the audition?”
“At the Walnut Street Theater,” Bontrager said. He flipped back through his notes. “She left the theater alone at around 1 pm. Parking lot attendant said she walked in about ten after one, took the steps to the basement.”
“Do they have surveillance cameras?”
“They do. But nothing is taped.”
The maddening news was that there was another “moon” painting on Tara Grendel’s abdomen. A DNA report was in the works to determine if there was a match to the blood and semen found on Kristina Jakos.
“We showed Tara’s picture around Stiletto, and to Natalya Jakos,” Byrne said. “Tara was not a dancer at the club. Natalya didn’t recognize her. If she’s connected to Kristina Jakos, it’s not from her place of employment.”
“What about Tara’s family?”
“No family in town. Father deceased, mother living in Indiana,” Bontrager said. “She’s been notified. She’s flying in tomorrow.”
“What do we have on the crime scenes?” Buchanan asked.
“Not much,” Byrne said. “No footprints, no tire tracks.”
“And the clothes?” Buchanan asked.
The consensus now was that the killer was dressing his victims. “Both vintage dresses,” Jessica said.
“We’re talking thrift-store stuff?”
“Could be,” Jessica said. They had a list of more than one hundred secondhand clothing and thrift stores. Unfortunately, the turnover in both product and personnel at such stores was quick, and none of the stores kept any detailed records of what came in and went out. It was going to take a lot of shoe leather and interviews to gather any information.
“Why these particular dresses?” Buchanan asked. “Are they from a play? A movie? A famous picture?”
“Working on it, Sarge.”
“Walk me through it,” Buchanan said.
Jessica went first. “Two victims, both white women in their twenties, both strangled, both left on the bank of the Schuylkill. Both victims had a drawing on their bodies, a detailed painting of the moon rendered in semen and blood. Both crime scenes had a similar drawing painted on a wall nearby. The first victim had her feet amputated. These body parts were recovered on the Strawberry Mansion Bridge.”
Jessica flipped her notes back. “First victim was Kristina Jakos. Born in Odessa in the Ukraine, moved to the United States with her sister Natalya and brother Kostya. Parents deceased, no other relatives in the States. Until a few weeks ago Kristina lived with her sister in the Northeast. Kristina recently moved to North Lawrence with her roommate, one Sonja Kedrova, also from the Ukraine. Kostya Jakos is pulling a ten-year stretch in Graterford for aggravated assault. Kristina recently got a job at a Center City gentlemen’s club called Stiletto, where she worked as an exotic dancer. On the night she went missing she was last seen at the All-City Launderette at approximately 11 pm.”
“Do you think there’s any connection to the brother?” Buchanan asked.
“Hard to say,” Park said. “Kostya Jakos’s victim was an elderly widow from Merion Station. Her son is in his sixties, no grandchildren in the area. It would be a pretty brutal payback if that was the case.”
“What about something he stirred up inside?”
“He hasn’t been a model prisoner, but nothing jumps over the wall as a motive to do this to his sister.”
“Have we gotten DNA back on this blood-moon drawing on Jakos?” Buchanan asked.
“DNA on Kristina Jakos’s drawing is in,” Tony Park said. “The blood is not hers. The workup on the second victim is still out.”
“Have we run it through CODIS?”
“Yes,” Park said. The FBI Laboratory’s Combined DNA Index System enabled federal, state, and local crime labs to exchange and compare DNA profiles electronically, thereby linking crimes to each other and to convicted offenders. “Nothing yet on that front.”
“What about some crazy son of a bitch from the strip club?” Buchanan asked.
“I’m talking later today or tomorrow to some of the girls from the club who knew Kristina,” Byrne said.
“What about this bird that was found at the Shawmont site?” Buchanan asked.
Jessica glanced at Byrne.
Found
was the word that stuck. No one had mentioned that the bird had flown away due to Byrne’s prodding open the victim’s hands.
“The feathers are at the lab,” Tony Park said. “One of the techs is an avid birder, and he says he is not familiar with it. He’s on it right now.”
“Good,” Buchanan said. “What else?”
“It looks like the killer used a carpenter’s handsaw on the first victim,” Jessica said. “Trace of sawdust was found in the wound. So, maybe a boatbuilder? Dock builder? Dock
worker
?”
“Kristina had been working on building sets for a Christmas play,” Byrne said.
“Have we interviewed people she worked with at the church?”
“Yeah,” Byrne said. “No one of interest.”
“Any mutilation of the second victim?” Buchanan asked.
Jessica shook her head. “Body was intact.”
At first they had entertained the possibility that their killer was taking body parts as souvenirs. It looked less likely now.
“Any sexual angle?” Buchanan asked.
Jessica wasn’t sure. “Well, despite the presence of the semen, there was no evidence of sexual assault.”
“Similar murder weapon in both cases?” Buchanan asked.
“Identical,” Byrne said. “Lab thinks it’s the type of rope they use to separate the lanes in a swimming pool. However, they haven’t found any trace of chlorine. They’re running some more tests on the fibers now.”
There were plenty of industries linked to the water trades in Philadelphia, a city that had two rivers to nurture and exploit. Sailing and powerboating on the Delaware. Sculling on the Schuylkill. Each year there were a number of events on both rivers. There was the Schuylkill Sojourn, a seven-day float up the entire length of the river. Then there was the Dad Vail Regatta, the largest collegiate regatta in the United States, with more than one thousand athletes taking part in the event, held the second week of May.
“The dump sites on the Schuylkill indicate that we are probably looking for someone with a pretty good working knowledge of the river,” Jessica said.
Byrne thought of Paulie McManus, and his Leonardo da Vinci quote.
In rivers, the water that you touch is the last of what has passed and the first of that which comes.
What the hell was coming?
Byrne wondered.
“What about the sites themselves?” Buchanan asked. “Any significance?”
“Plenty of history in Manayunk. Same with Shawmont. So far, nothing has clicked.”
Buchanan sat down, rubbed his hands over his eyes. “One singer, one dancer, both white and in their twenties. Both public abductions. There’s a connection between these two victims, detectives. Find it.”
There was a knock on the door. Byrne opened it. It was Nicci Malone.
“Got a minute, boss?” Nicci asked.
“Yeah,” Buchanan said. Jessica thought she had never heard anyone sound quite so exhausted. Ike Buchanan was the link between the unit and the brass. If it happened on his watch, it came through him. He nodded to the four detectives. It was time to get back to work. They exited the office. Just as they were leaving, Nicci poked her head back through the doorway.
“There’s someone downstairs to see you, Jess.”