By the morning of December 30 there were a total of five detectives and six crime-scene officers assigned to investigate the crimes.
Sa'mantha Fanning had not yet been found.
There were no suspects.
63
At just after three o'clock on December 30 Ike Buchanan stepped out of his office, got Jessica's attention. She had been collating rope suppliers, trying to track down retail outlets that carried the specific brand of swim lane rope. Trace evidence of the rope had been found on the third victim. The bad news was that, in this day and age of Internet shopping, you could buy just about anything without face-to-face contact. The good news was that Internet shopping generally required a credit card or PayPal. That was Jessica's next line of inquiry.
Nick Palladino and Tony Park were off to Norristown to interview people at the Centre Theater, looking into anyone there who might have been connected to Tara Grendel. Kevin Byrne and Josh Bontrager were canvassing the area near where the third victim had been found.
"Can I see you a minute?" Buchanan asked.
Jessica welcomed the break. She stepped into his office. Buchanan motioned for her to close the door. She did.
"What's up, boss?"
"I'm pulling you off the multiple. Just for a few days."
The statement took her by surprise, to say the least. No, it was more like a hook to the gut. It was almost as if he had said she was fired. He hadn't, of course, but she had never been pulled from an investigation before. She didn't like it. She didn't know a cop who did.
"Why?"
"Because I'm putting Eric on that gang hit. He's got the contacts, it's his old patch, and he speaks the language."
There had been a triple homicide the day before, a Latino couple and their ten-year-old son had been killed, execution-style, while sleeping in their beds. The theory was that it was gang retaliation, and Eric Chavez, before joining the homicide unit, had worked antigang.
"So you want me to-"
"Work the Walt Brigham case," Buchanan said. "You'll be partnered with Nicci."
Jessica felt a strange mixture of emotions. She had worked one detail with Nicci, and she looked forward to the chance of working with her again, but Kevin Byrne was her partner, and they had a bond that transcended gender and age and time on the job.
Buchanan held out a notebook. Jessica took it from him. "These are Eric's notes on the case. It should get you up to speed. He said to call him if you had any questions."
"Thanks, Sarge," Jessica said. "Does Kevin know?"
"I just talked to him."
Jessica wondered why her cell phone hadn't yet rung. "Is he partnering up?" As soon as she said it, she identified the feeling spiking through her: jealousy. If Byrne picked up another partner, even on a temporary basis, it would feel like she was being cheated on.
What are you, in high school, Jess? she thought. He's not your boyfriend, he's your partner. Get a freakin' grip.
"Kevin, Josh, Tony, and Nick will work the cases. We're stretched to the limit here."
It was true. From a peak of 7,000 police officers three years earlier, the PPD was down to 6,400, the lowest it had been since the mid-nineties. And it got worse from there. Around 600 officers were currently listed as injured and not reporting for work, or were on restricted desk duty. Special plainclothes teams in each district were being switched back to uniformed patrol, boosting the police profile in some neighborhoods. Recently, the commissioner had announced the formation of the Strategic Intervention Tactical Enforcement Mobile Unit, an elite forty-six- officer anticrime team to patrol the city's most dangerous areas. For the last three months every nonessential officer at the Roundhouse had been put back on the street. It was a bad time for Philly's cops, and sometimes a detective's assignments, and their focus, shifted at a moment's notice.
"How long?" Jessica asked.
"Just for a few days."
"I have calls out, boss."
"I understand. If you have a few spare minutes, or if something breaks, follow it. But for now, our plate is full. And we simply don't have the warm bodies. Work with Nicci."
Jessica understood the pressure to solve a cop killing. If the criminals were getting bolder and bolder these days-and there was little debate about that-they would go off the chart if they thought they could execute a cop on the street and not feel the heat.
"Hey, partner." Jessica turned. It was Nicci Malone. She liked Nicci a lot, but it sounded… funny. No. It sounded wrong. But, like any other job, you go where the boss puts you, and right now she was partnered with the only other female homicide detective in Philly.
"Hey." It was all Jessica could muster. She was certain that Nicci read it.
"Ready to roll?" Nicci asked.
"Let's do it."
64
Jessica and Nicci drove down Eighth Street. It had begun to rain again. Byrne still hadn't called.
"Bring me up to speed," Jessica said, a little shell-shocked. She was used to working more than one case at a time-the truth was that most homicide detectives worked three and four at a time-but she still found it a little difficult to shift gears, to take on the mind-set of a new perpetrator. And a new partner. Earlier in the day she was thinking about a psychopath who was placing bodies along a riverbank. Her mind was filled with titles of Hans Christian Andersen stories-'The Little Mermaid,' 'The Princess and the Pea,' 'The Ugly Duckling'-wondering which, if any, might be next. Now she was chasing a cop killer.
"Well, I think one thing is obvious," Nicci said. "Walt Brigham wasn't a victim of some botched robbery. You don't douse someone with gasoline and set them on fire to get their wallet."
"So you think it was someone Walt Brigham put away?"
"I think that's a good bet. We ran his arrests and convictions for the past fifteen years. Unfortunately, no firebugs in the group."
"Anyone recently released from prison?"
"Not in the last six months. And I don't see whoever did this waiting that long to get to the guy he blamed for putting them away, do you?"
No, Jessica thought. There was a high level of passion-insane as that passion might be-in what was done to Walt Brigham. "What about someone involved in his last case?" she asked.
"Doubt it. His last official case was a domestic. Wife bashed her husband with a crowbar. He's dead, she's in prison."
Jessica knew what this meant. Because there were no eyewitnesses to Walt Brigham's murder, and there was a dearth of forensics, they would have to begin at the beginning-everybody Walt Brigham had arrested, convicted, even ruffled, starting with his last case and moving backward. That narrowed the suspect pool down a few thousand.
"So, we're off to Records?"
"I have a few more ideas before we bunker up with the paperwork," Nicci said.
"Hit me."
"I spoke with Walt Brigham's widow. She said Walt kept a storage locker. If this was something personal-as in, nothing directly to do with the job-there might be something in there."
"Anything to keep my face out of a file cabinet," Jessica said. "How do we get in?"
Nicci held up a single key on a key ring, smiled. "I stopped by Mar- jorie Brigham's house this morning." THE EASY MAX Storage on Mifflin Street was a large, U-shaped, two- story facility that housed more than a hundred units of varying sizes. Some were heated, most were not. Unfortunately, Walt Brigham had not sprung for one of the heated units. It was like walking into a meat locker.
The space was about eight feet by ten feet, stacked nearly to the ceiling with cardboard boxes. The good news was that Walt Brigham was an organized man. All the boxes were of the same type and size-the kind you buy flat at office-supply stores-and most were labeled and dated.