The Stolen Ones (24 page)

The surveillance on Priory Park was no longer covert. There were patrol cars at either end of Chancel Lane, as well as two SWAT officers deployed on the roof of the old stone chapel at the northwest end of the park.

At the eastern end there were three cars in short rotation watching the entrances from the avenues.

In addition, because Priory Park was a state park, the PPD requested assistance from park rangers. There were four rangers on foot patrol.

At nine-thirty a.m. Byrne got a call from the desk sergeant. He picked up the phone, punched the button. ‘This is Detective Byrne.’ He listened for a few seconds, glanced at Jessica. ‘Okay, bring him up.’

‘What’s going on?’ Jessica asked.

Byrne hung up the phone. ‘James Delacroix is downstairs. He wants to talk to us.’

It had been just a few days since they first met James Delacroix. Somehow, in that short period of time he had become a different man, someone Jessica might have passed on the street without recognition. Grief, and the shock of a loved one’s sudden, violent death, had a way of making a person smaller. His jacket hung loosely around his shoulders.

Byrne crossed the room to meet Delacroix at the doorway. He extended his hand. ‘Mr Delacroix,’ he said. They shook hands. ‘How are you holding up?’

Instead of answering the question – after all, what answer would be truthful at a time like this – the man just lifted his shoulders slightly, dropped them.

‘Come on over here,’ Byrne said. ‘I’ll get you a chair.’

The man seemed to float across the duty room, as if he had no weight or substance at all. Byrne found an empty chair, rolled it over to one of the desks. Delacroix sat down. Jessica sat across from him.

‘Can I get you something?’ Jessica asked. ‘Coffee, soda?’

After a few seconds Delacroix looked up. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m fine, thank you.’

Byrne sat down. Both he and Jessica waited a few moments for the conversation to begin. Soon it became clear that the two detectives had to initiate this encounter.

‘What can we do for you?’ Byrne asked.

Delacroix leaned forward, steepled his fingers. ‘My sister and I were born twelve years apart,’ he said. ‘She was very protective of me when I was small. But by the time she reached her late teens, and began college, everything changed, of course. She had her own life, her own friends, her future to think about.’

Jessica had seen this many times. Whatever reason had drawn Delacroix to the station needed to be prefaced by history. It probably had nothing to do with why he was there, but in these first days and weeks of grieving, when the whole world seemed to be moving on, it was necessary.

‘We shared a pair of safe deposit boxes,’ he said. ‘One each. I told her I didn’t need one; she insisted that I did. And although we each had access to the other, we had an understanding, an unspoken understanding, that whatever we had in our boxes was sacred. Important papers, such as our wills, any deeds or titles to automobiles or property, was always clearly labeled. These are things to which, if and when the need arose, we would have legitimate access.’

At this Delacroix stopped for a moment. Jessica could see his eyes beginning to well with tears. Clearly, the need had arisen to address his sister’s property. Jessica got up, crossed the duty room, and came back with a small roll of paper towels. As she handed the roll to Delacroix, she reminded and scolded herself about the fact that there were no boxes of Kleenex tissues anywhere. God knew enough people cried in this room. James Delacroix tore off a few of the towels, folded them, dabbed at his eyes. He nodded a thank-you. Jessica sat down again.

Somewhat composed, he continued. ‘We always said that there would be one envelope in our boxes that was not to be opened until after our deaths. I went to the bank today, and took out the contents of my sister’s safe deposit box.’

Delacroix turned the flap on his messenger bag, reached inside. Jessica found that she was holding her breath. She had no idea what he was going to take out of the bag. It turned out to be a cassette tape. A seemingly ordinary, inherently benign cassette tape. James Delacroix put the tape down on the desk. Through the clear plastic cover Jessica could see that there was something written on the label.

‘The only thing in the envelope in Joan’s safe-deposit box was this tape. This tape and a small note.’ Once again he reached into his bag. This time he pulled out a small piece of note paper. He unfolded it. For a moment it appeared that he would read it aloud. His hands began to shake. Jessica reached out to take the man’s hands in hers.

‘Would you like me to read it for you?’ she asked.

The man just nodded. Jessica took the note from him. The paper was a quality linen, buff in color. At the top, printed in deep burgundy ink, was
J
OAN
C
ATHERINE
D
ELACROIX
. Jessica scanned the two lines that were hand printed on the paper. It was not what she expected. She looked up, at Delacroix.

‘Do you want me to read this out loud?’ she asked.

The man dabbed at his eyes again. ‘Yes. Please.’

Jessica cleared her throat.

‘
My dear brother, if I have come to an untimely end, please take this to the police. To whom it may concern, if my brother James has preceded me in death, please destroy this without listening to it
.’

A silence fell between them. Byrne spoke first. He pointed at the note.

‘Mr Delacroix, do you recognize this as your sister’s handwriting?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s Joan’s writing.’

‘Do you have any idea why she would have written something like this?’

Delacroix thought for a few moments. It was clear he had already spent some time on this question. ‘No,’ he said. ‘My sister helped people. She wouldn’t harm anyone. She didn’t have enemies.’

‘Why do you think she may have feared or anticipated an untimely death?’

Something seemed to dawn on the man. ‘Wait. This is why they tried to burn down her
house
, isn’t it? They were trying to destroy this
tape
.’

James Delacroix broke down crying. Jessica handed the note to Byrne. She once again took James Delacroix’s hands in hers.

‘Have you listened to this tape?’ Jessica asked.

‘No, I… I didn’t…’ he began. ‘I didn’t have the courage. To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure I want to know what’s on it. Part of me does, but a greater part wants to remember my sister as she was. If there is something on this tape that helps you find the person who did this to her, that will be enough for me. I don’t need to know the details.’

Jessica reached into her coat pocket, retrieved a pair of latex gloves, snapped them on. She picked up the cassette tape box by its edges, opened it. She shook the tape onto the desk, then turned the tape so both she and Byrne could see what was written on the label. It was a name:

Jessica looked at the other side. The label was blank.

‘Mr Delacroix,’ Jessica said, ‘do you recognize this name? This Eduard Kross?’

Delacroix glanced at the tape, at the label, as if seeing it for the first time. He shook his head. ‘No.’

‘We know this is a terrible time for you,’ Jessica said. ‘With your permission, we’re going to listen to this. It certainly appears that this is what your sister wanted. Do we have your permission to listen to this recording?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You have my permission. What I mean is, it’s okay.’

Jessica glanced at Byrne. He had questions.

‘Just to make sure you understand,’ Byrne began. ‘Once we listen to this tape, it becomes part of the investigation. Part of the official record. That cannot be undone. Do you understand what I mean by this?’

The finality of what Byrne said took a moment to sink in. Once it did, Delacroix nodded again. ‘I understand.’

‘Good,’ Byrne said. ‘And there may be things on this tape that lead us in certain directions, down certain paths that we are bound by duty to follow. While we hope that these avenues of investigation are in your sister’s best interest –
your
best interest – we can’t guarantee that. Do you understand this as well?’

It appeared that Delacroix might suddenly be feeling that bringing this tape to the police might not have been such a great idea. It was too late for that now.

‘I do.’

‘Okay,’ Byrne said. He took out his notebook. ‘Just a couple more questions. Are you up for it?’

‘Sure.’

‘We know that your sister was employed as an RN,’ Byrne said. ‘Can you tell us about her work history?’

James Delacroix regrouped, began. ‘Well, she graduated at the top her class at Penn State. She worked as a registered nurse at Jefferson. But after a while she went back to school and became a psychiatric nurse.’

‘Do you know where she worked then?’

‘She moved to California, and I know she worked at Cedars-Sinai,’ Delacroix said. ‘You should know that by the time she got out of nursing school I was just starting junior high school, and a whole new set of personality and lifestyle conflicts came between us. Our parents died within just a few years of each other, and for maybe five years after that we kept in pretty close touch.’ Delacroix blotted a tear on his cheek.

‘So your sister worked as a nurse her entire professional life?’

Delacroix nodded. ‘Yes. But there was one stretch of time when we didn’t talk at all. It was not for lack of effort on my part, however. I sent her cards and letters, but they all came back
Return to Sender
.’

‘How long of a period of time was this?’ Byrne asked.

‘I don’t know. Maybe four years or so. Less.’

‘And you don’t know where your sister worked during this time?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I didn’t even know where she was living during those years. When we got back in touch there were many other things to talk about, and I didn’t ask.’

‘Do you recall when this was?’ Byrne asked.

He is going to say 1992 to 1996
, Jessica thought.
The same missing years from Robert Freitag’s resume.

‘I think it was right around nineteen ninety-two,’ Delacroix said. ‘From nineteen ninety-two to ’ninety-six.’

‘Is it possible your sister worked at the Delaware Valley State Hospital during those years?’

‘You mean Cold River?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s possible, I suppose. I don’t know.’

‘There’s only one more thing I need to ask for right now,’ Byrne said. ‘It may happen that there will be things on this recording that we don’t understand, things that, as a family member, you may be uniquely qualified to explain. Will you be willing to talk to us again on this matter?’

James Delacroix took a deep breath, released it slowly. In doing this, Jessica saw a measure of resolve returning. He seemed a little bigger. ‘Absolutely, Detective. I want you to find the man who did this terrible thing.’

‘We will do our very best, Mr Delacroix,’ Byrne said. ‘I give you my word.’

James Delacroix stood up on legs steadier than those with which he’d entered the room. They all shook hands. Byrne took the opportunity to propose something Jessica knew needed to be done.

Holding Delacroix’s right hand in his own, Byrne pointed to the cassette tape on the desk with his left. ‘I take it that, when you removed that tape from the safe deposit box, you were not wearing gloves.’

Delacroix shook his head. ‘No. I wasn’t.’

Byrne released the man’s hand. They began to walk toward the door. ‘What we’d like to do, if you don’t mind, is to get a set of your fingerprints while you’re down here. That way, when we process the tape and the box for fingerprints, we can eliminate yours.’

‘I understand,’ Delacroix said. ‘Where do you want me to go?’

‘I’ll walk you down there,’ Byrne said. ‘It will only take a few minutes.’

Jessica watched the two men leave the duty room, and disappear around the corner, heading to the ID unit. She turned and walked back to her desk. She glanced at the tape, reading again the label through the clear plastic box.

Who is Eduard Kross?
She picked up the note, reread it.

An untimely end.
 

What did Joan Delacroix know about the grotesque and bloody act that ended her life?

Perhaps that answer was on this tape.

They huddled in a corner of the duty room. Byrne spoke softly. ‘We’ve got Robert Freitag in medical sales, we’ve got Joan Delacroix as a nurse, we’ve got Dr Richmond. All three of our victims had a tidy little meal set up in their kitchens, each with a spoon from Cold River.’

Both detectives had the same thought. Jessica voiced it.

‘Do you think these people were that research group Miriam talked about? This
Die Traumkaufleute
?’

‘It’s possible. And this Dr Kirsch died in a fire. Remind me to check the obituary archives in the
Inquirer
.’

While Jessica made the note, Byrne held up the cassette.

‘Have you ever wanted to listen to anything more than this?’ he asked.

‘Maybe
Blind Man’s Zoo
when it came out in nineteen eighty-nine.’

‘What’s
Blind Man’s Zoo
?’

‘It was a 10,000 Maniacs album.’

‘Really?’ Byrne asked. ‘10,000 Maniacs?’

‘Hey,’ Jessica said. She snatched the tape from his hand. ‘The Maniacs
rocked
.’

The Audio Visual Unit of the PPD was located in the Roundhouse basement. Among its many duties was the supply and maintenance of A/V equipment and support material – cameras, televisions, recording devices, collateral audio and video gear. In addition, the unit analyzed surveillance audio and video evidence for every unit in the department, as well as keeping an official record of every public event in which the mayor or police department was involved.

Now forty, the commander of the unit, Sergeant Mateo Fuentes, was a true denizen of the dark confines of the basement, and suffered fools not at all, especially when it came to his time and equipment. Fuentes had helped set up and create the Video Monitoring Unit, which monitored police cameras throughout the city. The unit’s value had proven to be immeasurable over the past few years.