The Stolen Ones (25 page)

Jessica and Byrne found him in the editing bay, working on a recording of the mayor’s recent speech.

‘When are you going to Hollywood?’ Byrne asked.

Mateo stopped the recording, turned in his chair. ‘When they bring Billy Wilder back from the dead. Everything after him sucked.’

Byrne smiled. ‘You’ll get no argument from me.’

Jessica held up the audio cassette. ‘We’d like to listen to this tape.’

‘I live to serve.’

Jessica handed Mateo the cassette. Mateo scrutinized it. ‘Old-
school
,’ he said. ‘I haven’t seen C-90s in a long time.’ He held up the tape. ‘Has this been processed?’

‘It has,’ Byrne said.

Mateo took the tape from its box. ‘Well, it looks like it’s still in good shape.’ He glanced at Byrne. ‘What are we listening for?’

‘Don’t really know,’ Byrne said. ‘We haven’t listened to it yet.’

‘Okay then.’ Mateo sat a little straighter in his chair. ‘So it might be the covertly obtained animal ruttings of a sitting Philadelphia councilperson in some one-star motel down the shore?’

Byrne looked at Jessica, back at Mateo. ‘It’s certainly possible,’ he said. ‘But I doubt it.’

‘One lives in hope. What’s the job?’

Byrne told Mateo about the murder of Joan Delacroix, as well as the note that accompanied the tape. Accordingly, Mateo took his role in the investigation a lot more seriously now.

‘And that’s what the note said?’ Mateo asked. ‘
In the event of my death
?’

‘In the event of my
untimely
death,’ Byrne corrected. ‘We sent the document over to Hell Rohmer to see if he can lift anything from it.’

Mateo absorbed the details of the note for a moment. He glanced up at the two detectives. ‘Do you want to listen to this now?’

‘If we could,’ Byrne said.

Mateo put down the tape, opened a desk drawer, retrieved a ballpoint pen. At first, Jessica thought he was going to begin making out a form, a receipt for the evidence. Instead, he inserted the ballpoint cap in the left-hand spool, tightening the slackened tape.

‘I can’t tell you how many times people have managed to ruin the tape by not tightening the leader.’

Jessica knew that Mateo was pretty much talking to himself at this point. He opened the larger drawer in the file cabinet to his left, took out a Panasonic tape player, probably as old-school as the C-90 tape. Mateo plugged it in, opened the top, slipped in the cassette tape, and clicked it shut.

He hit
REWIND
, making sure the tape would roll from its start.

‘Shall we?’ Mateo asked.

‘By all means,’ Byrne said.

Mateo hit
PLAY
. A few seconds later the recording engaged. At first it was just a low hiss. Then, a click. Although Jessica was no expert at any of this, she could tell just by the difference in sound that the acoustics had changed. Moments later, someone began speaking.

It was a man with a deep voice, speaking another language.

‘
Träumen Sie
?’

As the recording continued, it became clear that whatever this was, it was all in a foreign tongue.

‘Do you know what language this is?’ Byrne asked Mateo.

Mateo held up a forefinger. He adjusted the volume on the tape player. A few seconds later he stopped the tape, rewound it, reached behind to one of the shelves next to his desk, retrieved an audio cable, plugged it into the side of the tape deck then into the back of one of the laptops on the desk. When the tape was fully rewound, he hit
FAST
-
FORWARD
for just a few seconds, stopped it again. He then opened a program on the laptop, clicked one of the controls, and started the tape again.

‘
Träumen Sie
?’

Mateo adjusted some of the meters in his audio program. Both Jessica and Byrne listened for a full minute, understanding and comprehending nothing. Jessica was just about to say something when there was a break in the audio, and another man began to speak. He, too, was speaking in a foreign language.

Great
, Jessica thought. Their murder victim had a Berlitz tape, wrapped in a cryptic note about her death.

‘Do you know what language this is?’ Byrne repeated. Before Mateo could respond a voice came from behind them.

‘It’s German.’

Both Jessica and Byrne turned to see Josh Bontrager standing at the back of the room.

‘German?’ Byrne asked.

‘Yeah.’

‘I didn’t know you spoke German,’ Jessica said.

Bontrager crossed the room, sat on a stool. ‘I don’t, really. But if you grow up around Pennsylvania Dutch, you hear enough of it.’

‘Okay, I’ll bite,’ Jessica said. ‘I always thought Pennsylvania Dutch was, well, Dutch.’

‘Lots of people do,’ Bontrager said. ‘I’m certainly no expert on this, but I’m pretty sure that it comes from Deutsche. Hence, the German.’

‘So, the Amish and the Mennonites speak German?’ Jessica asked.

‘Not really. The Amish and the Mennonites are religious faiths. Pennsylvania Dutch is a language of sorts. It’s kind of a smash-up between English and German. Believe it or not, I think there may be a little Yiddish involved. Don’t quote me on that, though.’

Jessica pointed at the paused recorder. ‘Do you know what these guys are saying?’

‘Gosh, no,’ Bontrager said. ‘I just know a couple of words and phrases. Stuff like
schnickelfritz
and
wonnernaus
. When we were kids
schrecklich
was a big one.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I think it means scary,’ Bontrager said. ‘It gets pretty dark in Berks County at night.’

‘Do you know anyone who might be able to help us with this?’ Jessica asked.

Bontrager thought for a few moments. ‘Well, ever since I left the church, there aren’t a lot of people in Bechtelsville who are too crazy about me. My family is cool, but that’s about it. Let me make a few calls. I’ll find someone.’

Bontrager stepped out of the room, his phone already in hand.

‘So,
schrecklich
means scary?’ Jessica asked.

‘Apparently.’

‘And that’s where Shrek gets his name?’

Byrne laughed. ‘I think you’ve been hanging around little kids too much.’

‘Tell me about it.’

Byrne turned to Mateo, got his attention. Mateo took off his headphones.

‘Is there a way to clean up the sound on these recordings?’ Byrne asked.

Mateo just stared.

‘Okay, dumb question. What about putting all of this on a single disc, or making it an MP3?’

Mateo pointed at his screen, at the progress bars, and the digital readout of audio levels. It was already in the works.

Byrne just nodded. For a guy so knowledgeable about all things audio, Mateo Fuentes was able to communicate a great deal without a single word.

‘Call me,’ Byrne whispered.

On the way back upstairs they saw Josh Bontrager on the phone. He held up a finger, finished his conversation, clicked off.

‘I’ve got someone who can translate your recording,’ Bontrager said.

‘That was fast,’ Jessica said.

‘It’s the goatee.’

Bontrager took out his notebook, scribbled in it, tore off the page and handed it to Jessica. ‘Her name is Elizabeth Troyer. She’s in the language department at Villanova.’

‘Does she know we’ll be contacting her?’ Byrne asked.

‘I just talked to her. I told her one of you will be there this afternoon.’

An hour later Byrne talked to the woman, who said she would be happy to help. He had a copy of the cassette sent over by what would have been a messenger if the PPD had any kind of budget. Instead, Byrne gave it to a detective who had business in Radnor Township.

Rachel had been a sophomore at college when she got the frantic call from her mother about Marielle running away. By then, her mother had slipped into raging alcoholism, and told Rachel that she was going to put all of Marielle’s belongings on the curb for trash pickup.

Rachel raced back home to find that she was too late. When she walked into her old room, a room she shared for many years with her sister, a room that held all her memories of childhood, everything was gone.

Rachel found her mother sitting in the kitchen that day, a half-empty bottle of bottom-shelf whiskey on the table. They argued for what seemed like an hour, her mother all but incoherent.

It would be their final fight.

Two hours later her mother – with a blood alcohol content of 0.16 – flipped her car on the westbound lane of the Vine Street Expressway, right near the turnoff onto I-76.

She was pronounced dead on the scene.

For years Rachel wondered if her mother was coming to see her. It was the route her mother always took when she came to Drexel University.

Rachel had spoken to her boss earlier in the day, and Diana told her that the offer on the house was for $350,000, which was at least $75,000 more than for any other house on the block.

The sale, of course, was contingent on an inspection.

Rachel stood in the doorway to Bean’s room. She wondered if the new owners had children, and if two new little girls would grow up in this space.

She would find out soon.

The buyer would be there in twenty-four hours.

Named for St Thomas of Villanova, and located in Radnor Township, northwest of Philadelphia, Villanova University was the oldest Catholic university in Pennsylvania.

Byrne met the woman Josh Bontrager had contacted, Elizabeth Troyer, in her small office near the language lab in Mendel Hall.

In her mid thirties, Elizabeth Troyer was an Associate Professor of English.

‘We appreciate you taking the time,’ Byrne said.

‘I’m happy to help, but I’m afraid I cannot say it has been a pleasure.’

‘Why is that?’

She picked up the notebook, held it for a moment. She did not open it. ‘As you requested, I did listen to this tape. Not all of it, mind you, but a fair sampling. I am not a linguist, nor an audiologist by any stretch of the imagination, but I can tell you that there are two distinct voices on these tapes.’

‘Only two?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It seems the recordings were made in a small room of sorts. There is no echo.’

‘Can you tell anything about who is speaking?’

‘Not much, I’m afraid. I can tell you that it is two men. I can also tell you that one of the men, the one asking the questions, seems to be quite educated. His grammar, syntax, vocabulary, all point to a university-level education.’

‘What about where they are from?’

‘The man who is asking questions is indeed speaking German. The other man is not so easy to pin down. I believe it is one of the Uralic languages.’

The look on Byrne’s face must have conveyed a question. Before he could ask it, she answered.

‘The Uralic languages are a family of about three dozen tongues, mostly called Finno-Ugric today. The name derives from people who lived in or near the Ural Mountains. A number of languages are loosely associated with the Uralics – Hungarian, Finnish, others.’

‘And you’re saying that the other speaker on this recording, the one not speaking German, is speaking one of these languages?’

‘Yes, I believe so,’ she said. ‘Although I think it is more Finnic. Balto Finnic, perhaps.’

She stopped the recording, rewound it to the beginning. She then reached into a drawer in her desk, took out a pair of headphones, plugged it into her tape player. ‘Do you have a few moments?’

‘Absolutely,’ Byrne said.

She rose from her desk, walked across the room to the bookcase. She ran her finger along the spines of the books on the top shelf, stopped, and removed one of the volumes. She stepped back to her desk, put the headphones back on, and started the recording.

Byrne could no longer hear it.

On the other hand, hearing it the first few times had not helped. Once again, as he had many times before, he promised himself that as soon as he had some free time he would try to learn a foreign language.

The woman closed her eyes as she was listening. After a minute or so she restarted the recording, played it again. She stopped it one more time, flipped through the book on her lap. She came to a page, read for a few moments, then restarted the recording. A minute later she took the headphones off. She hit the eject button, took out the tape, and handed it to Byrne.

‘It’s Estonian.’

‘Estonian?’

‘Yes. One of the men is speaking German, the other is speaking Estonian. I am sure of it.’

Byrne made a few notes. ‘What about context?’

‘You want to know what they’re talking about?’

‘Whatever you can tell me would be of great help.’

At this, the woman sat down in one of the chairs by the window. She reached into her bag and took out a small silver case. She opened the case, extracted a small white pill, placed it on her tongue. She poured herself a half glass of water, drank it. Whatever she was about to say, it appeared it was going to have some negative effect on her.

When she reached into her bag, and took out a pack of cigarettes, Byrne realized it was going to be worse than that.

‘Do you mind?’ she asked, holding up the pack.

‘Not at all,’ Byrne said. It wasn’t entirely true, but this was her patch.

The woman tapped a pair of cigarettes halfway out of the pack, offered one to Byrne. He shook his head. She then opened the window, extracted a lighter from her purse, lit the cigarette, drew deeply, and blew the smoke out the window.

‘I could probably lose tenure over this,’ she said, holding up her cigarette. ‘Sometimes I think it would be worth it.’

Although Byrne had never been much of a smoker, he was always amazed at the effect a cigarette could have on someone. Along with the smoke, it appeared, the woman had released at least some of the anxiety she anticipated in relating the details of what she heard on the recording.

Ritual now complete, the woman opened her notebook.

‘As I stated, I only listened to portions of the tape, but I heard more than enough to understand the structure of these conversations, if not their exact nature. Once again, I can only understand half of it, and not even close to every word at that.’

‘I understand.’

‘What I determined from the German speaker was something – how shall I put this? – something
disturbing
.’

‘Disturbing? How so?’

‘I’m not exactly sure,’ she said. ‘You said this was, in some way, related to an investigation? A homicide investigation?’

‘Yes.’

She nodded. ‘I don’t want to mislead you about something that really amounts to what is probably no more than a feeling on my part. As I said I am not fluent in German. I am conversational, but not fluent.’

‘Okay.’

‘I do feel confident in telling you that the German speaker in this recording seems to be coercing thoughts from the other person.’

Coercing
, Byrne thought. ‘Are you saying that this might be a tape recording of some type of interrogation?’

She was silent for a moment. ‘Maybe coercing is the wrong word.’ The woman took another hit on her cigarette. She then reached in the drawer of her desk, took out a small travel ashtray. She carefully butted the cigarette into the ashtray enclosed with swivel top. She opened the window more fully. Byrne had to admit the fresh air helped.

‘Maybe I’m completely wrong about this,’ she said. ‘There are as many nuances in German as there are in English. There are a number of instructors here at the university who can give you a precise translation of this material.’

The woman was retreating. Byrne said nothing.

‘I’m afraid we don’t have anyone here at the university who speaks or teaches Estonian or any of the Finno-Baltic languages. There isn’t that much call for it. At least at a college this size.’

‘I understand.’

‘I am, however, a member of one or two national and international organizations. I could send out a few feelers. I’m sure I could find someone in very short order who could help you with the translation of the Estonian side of this conversation.’

Byrne thought about it. He considered the woman’s statement that the questions being asked in German were ‘disturbing’. There was now no doubt that this recording was evidentiary in a homicide, perhaps a series of homicides. He’d had some reluctance about even bringing it to the university, and now that he knew that the tone, if not the context, of what was being said on the tape was dark in nature, it would probably not be the best thing to bring more people into the fold.

‘That’s very kind of you,’ Byrne said. ‘I’m not sure where this recording fits into the investigation just yet. And I think you can understand the need for confidentiality here.’

‘Of course.’

‘So I’ll let you know whether or not we need you to contact any of your colleagues.’

The woman looked a little relieved. ‘Do let me know, then. I’d be more than happy to help.’

‘Did you make a copy of this?’

‘No.’

Byrne glanced at his notepad. ‘I’m wondering about the first thing said on the tape,’ he said. ‘After the date and time. That
Träumen
…’

‘It’s a German expression.
Träumen Sie
.’

‘Do you know what that means?’

‘I do. I believe it was phrased as a question. It translates as “Do you dream?”.’

‘“Do you dream?”’ Byrne repeated.

‘Yes.’

Byrne stood up. The woman followed suit. They shook hands. ‘Thanks so much for your time and your help. It’s much appreciated.’

‘Any time.’

‘And if you could keep this to yourself, it would probably be best for the time being.’

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘On one condition.’

‘And what is that?’

‘You don’t tell anybody about the smoking.’

Byrne smiled. ‘Trust me. Nobody is better at keeping secrets than the police.’

The woman returned the smile. She opened the door to her office. ‘Even under oath?’

‘Especially under oath.’

Byrne sat in the parking lot. He watched the students scurry across campus in the freezing rain, wondering if he was ever that young. When he was their age he was already a police officer. He wondered about their choices, his choices.

His mind soon returned the recording.

Träumen Sie
, he thought.

Do you dream?
 

He considered the book in Robert Freitag’s house, and its inscription:
Perchance to dream
.

They were all about dreaming in the Big Place, Lenny Pintar had said.

Die Traumkaufleute
.

The Dream Merchants.

Byrne looked at the clock, saw that it was after one a.m., hit the speed-dial number before he could stop himself. Jessica answered in two rings.

‘Hey.’

‘Were you sleeping?’ Byrne asked.

‘I don’t sleep,’ Jessica said. ‘I work, I study, and I make sandwiches without crust.’

‘What were you doing just now?’

‘Okay, I nodded off. What’s up?’

Byrne told her about his visit to Villanova.

‘That’s what she said? Disturbing?’

‘Yeah. Her word.’

Jessica was silent for a moment. ‘What do you think she meant?’

‘She didn’t want to say too much, probably thinking it would be misleading without context. She’s probably right. She said she thinks it sounds like a Q and A, and the questioner, the one speaking German, is coercing answers out of the other speaker.’

‘Do we know what language that is?’

‘Estonian.’

‘Wow. Okay. What’s our next step with this?’

Byrne told her that the woman offered to track down someone who could translate the Estonian part of the recording.

‘I think we should take her up on it,’ Jessica said.

‘Yeah. You’re probably right.’

‘Oh, by the way, I checked the obituary on Dr Kirsch. Kirsch died in a fire in the basement of G10, along with two administrators from the hospital.’

‘Does it sound like Kirsch might have been involved in nefarious activities?’

Jessica laughed. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to go to law school?’

‘Maybe I will. It’s got to be easier than this.’

‘I’ll read the obit again tomorrow when I’m not cross-eyed with exhaustion.’

‘Okay,’ Byrne said. ‘See you in the morning.’

‘It is morning.’

‘See you later.’

Byrne poured himself another few inches of Bushmills. He walked over to the dining-room table, took the cassette tape out of his bag. He turned off the music he was listening to – Rory Gallagher’s
Irish Tour ’74
– then opened the cassette deck. Before he inserted the tape he took out his pen and made sure he took up the slack on the left side of the reel, Mateo Fuentes’ stern brow in his mind’s eye. He popped in the cassette, pressed
PLAY
, turned off the lights, sat in the chair by the window. As he did this it occurred to him that he might be turning into Old Tony Giordano.

There were probably worse fates.

After a few seconds the recording started. After the time stamp, he heard the question again, the one he now knew meant: ‘Do you dream?’

Byrne closed his eyes. He tried to imagine the room in which this recording was made. There were clearly two men, one more or less interviewing the other.

Were they sitting in chairs, facing each other? And, if so, what kind of chairs? Were they comfortable, upholstered chairs? Were they utilitarian, folding metal chairs? Byrne tried to listen for some kind of echo, some audible reflection of sound off metal. He heard none.

He took a sip of the Bushmills, put his feet up on the windowsill. Was this recording made at Cold River? Was this part of the secretive research Miriam Gale had alluded to?

When the second man began to speak, Byrne –

–
is on a long road, unpaved, winding through green hills, the near distance dotted with farmhouses, idyllic, the sound of footsteps on hardpan, now accented with the sound of rain pelting through tall trees, the smell of –

– sack cloth and wet straw.

At three a.m. Byrne surrendered to his insomnia. He got out of bed, walked over to the bathroom, all but drowned himself in cold water. He glanced out the bathroom window. The street was quiet, still. He walked back into the living room, eyed the bottle of Bushmills. It eyed him back. There was only an inch left. Was there anything sadder? Maybe. But not at the moment.

He resigned himself to the fact that it was in fact today, not last night, not any more. He put some coffee on and tried to will himself alert.

Fifteen minutes later, a pot of strong coffee at his side, he sat down at his dining-room table, opened his laptop. It took about twenty seconds for him to dump the last inch of whiskey into his cup, justifying it, as always, that he was Irish, and now his coffee was, too.

The only thing he knew about Estonia was that it was a Baltic country, along with Lithuania and Latvia. It was not as if he was scholarly about Germany, not by any means, but Estonia was a blank slate.

Within minutes he learned the basics. Estonia was approximately the size of Vermont and New Hampshire combined, with a population of about 1.3 million people. The capital was Tallinn, a seaport on the Gulf of Finland, about fifty miles south of Helsinki. Their form of government was a parliamentary democracy, but it had not always been so.