The Stolen Ones Read Free Page B

opened the day the investigation began, and by the time the investigation was closed, if it was closed, every piece of paper – summaries, witness statements, autopsies and toxicology reports, ballistics, crime scene and collateral photographs, even the handwritten notes from the investigating detective’s work – was contained between its covers. Sure, there were backup systems in place, forensic data recorded onto hard drives in various laboratories, but the most referred to set of documents in a murder investigation were in the binder.
    ‘We’ve got an open unsolved,’ Westbrook said. ‘About a month old.’
    ‘You want me to be lead on this?’ Jessica asked.
    Westbrook nodded.
    ‘What’s the new information?’
    When a fresh homicide is investigated there is a great push, not only from detectives and brass in the homicide unit, but also from the crime scene unit, and all collateral laboratory divisions. The concept of the first forty-eight hours being critical in a homicide investigation was no cliché. Witnesses got amnesia, nature began to take back its evidence, suspects found the wind. The sad truth was, if solid leads were not generated in the first week or so, a case began to cool. Within a month it was cold.
    ‘There isn’t really a new lead,’ Westbrook said. ‘Nothing solid anyway. After the lead investigator visited the crime scene, and made an initial report, the victim’s house was sealed.’
    Jessica didn’t understand. Crime scenes were always sealed. At least until it was cleared by the investigators.
    ‘I’m not sure I follow,’ Jessica said.
    ‘When I say sealed, I mean the property was sealed by court order, by the victim’s lawyer. It seems the victim had only one living relative, a distant cousin living in New York, a cousin he apparently didn’t exactly get along with. The victim died intestate, which means the cousin would get whatever money and possessions he had. She had her lawyer meet the investigator at the crime scene on the day of the murder. When they left the apartment was sealed.’
    ‘So the victim was not killed in his residence.’
    ‘No,’ Westbrook said. ‘The body was found in a park in the Northeast.’
    ‘So why now?’
    ‘The DA’s office was able to get the victim’s apartment unsealed.’ Westbrook put down a small envelope. ‘Here’s the address and a key to the front door.’ She held up the binder. ‘Everything else is in here.’ Dana Westbrook put the binder down on the desk. What should have been about an inch thick appeared to contain no more than three or four documents.
    ‘It looks a little thin, Sarge,’ Jessica said.
    Westbrook looked at the floor for a moment, then back up. ‘There are a few missing files,’ she said. ‘Most of them, in fact.’
    ‘I don’t understand. Why are they missing?’
    Westbrook smoothed the front of her sweater. ‘This was one of John Garcia’s last cases,’ she said.
    And Jessica understood.

4
    The dead man’s name was Robert August Freitag. On the day of his murder he was unmarried, had no children, and was five days shy of his fifty-seventh birthday. He was five foot seven, weighed 166 pounds. He had brown hair, brown eyes.
    When Jessica opened the binder, the first thing she saw was a picture of the victim, an executive-type headshot most likely taken for an annual report or a company website. Robert Freitag was a pleasant-looking middle-aged man, just sprouting gray around the temples. In the photograph he wore a blue sport coat, white shirt and a green and white striped tie, as well as aviator-style bifocals.
    According to the summary, on the evening of 20 February 2013 Robert Freitag – who worked as a logistics manager for a company called CycleLife – walked from his home on Almond Street, in the Port Richmond section of the city, to a small convenience store on Allegheny Avenue. While there he purchased a loaf of wholewheat bread, two cans of candied yams, a package of votive candles