“Because the victims’ identities were probably sealed by the court to protect their privacy. That’s why their names won’t turn up on any Google search or media reports. But since you’ve got an active homicide investigation, I’ve given you access to all the records you need.” Dana surveyed the boxes, then slid one across to Jane. “Here, this is probably what you want. It contains the pretrial interviews of the children. But, remember, their identities remain sealed.”
“Absolutely,” said Jane.
“Nothing leaves this room, okay? Take notes if you need to, and ask the clerk if you want photocopies. But the originals stay here.” Dana went to the door, where she paused and looked back. “Just so you know, this office really doesn’t want the case dragged back into the public eye. From what I’ve heard, it was a painful time for everyone involved. No one wants to revisit the Apple Tree.”
“We don’t have a choice.”
“Are you certain this is relevant to your investigation? That trial was a long time ago, and I guarantee, Erica Shay is not going to be happy if it gets splashed across the front pages again.”
“Is there some reason why she didn’t want to share this information with us?”
“What do you mean? The boxes are right there.”
“But we had to call the governor’s office to access these files. We’ve never had to do that before during a homicide investigation.”
Dana said nothing for a moment, just looked at the boxes lined up on the table. “I really can’t comment.”
“Did someone ask you not to?”
“Look, all I can tell you is, the trial was very sensitive. For weeks it was front-page news, and no wonder. A missing nine-year-old girl. A daycare operated by a family of pedophiles. Charges of murder and satanic-ritual abuse. Erica scored guilty verdicts for the abuse charges, but she couldn’t convince the jury on the murder charge. So you can understand why she’s not happy about this being dredged up again.”
“We need to interview Ms. Shay. When will she be available?”
“As I said, she’s out of town, and I don’t know when she’ll be able to talk to you.” Dana turned to the door again. “Better get started. Office closes in two hours.”
Jane regarded the boxes and sighed. “We’re going to need a lot more than two hours.”
“More like a month,” grumbled Frost as he lifted an armload of files from the pretrial box.
Jane grabbed her own stack of folders and sat down across from him. Shuffling through the labels, she saw that they contained interviews, medical reports, and psychologists’ evaluations.
The first folder she opened was labeled Devine, H.
She and Frost had earlier read the Boston Globe coverage of the trial, so they were already familiar with the basic facts of the case. The Apple Tree Daycare Center in Brookline, operated by Irena and Konrad Stanek and their twenty-two-year-old son, Martin, provided after-school supervision for children aged five to eleven. It also offered afternoon bus transportation straight from the local elementary school, a much-valued service for busy working parents. Apple Tree called itself a place where both minds and souls are nurtured. The Staneks were well-regarded members of the local Catholic church, where Irena and Konrad taught catechism classes. Martin had recently begun driving the Apple Tree school bus, and he liked to entertain the children with his magic tricks and balloon animals. For five years, Apple Tree Daycare operated without a single notable complaint.
Then nine-year-old Lizzie DiPalma vanished.
On a Saturday afternoon in October, Lizzie walked out of her house wearing a knit cap decorated with silver bugle beads, rode away on her bike, and was never seen again. Two days later, Lizzie’s beaded hat was found on Martin Stanek’s bus by one of the children. Since Martin was the only driver of that bus, he instantly became the prime suspect in Lizzie’s disappearance. The case against him solidified when ten-year-old Holly Devine revealed a shocking secret.
Jane opened Holly Devine’s file and read the psychologist’s interview of the girl.
Subject is a ten-year-old female who lives with her parents, Elizabeth and Earl Devine, in Brookline, MA. She has no siblings. For two years she has attended the Apple Tree Daycare Center as an after-school student. On October 29, she reported to her mother that “bad things happened at Apple Tree,” and she did not want to return. When pressed for more details, she said, “Martin and his mommy and daddy touched me where they’re not supposed to.”
With growing horror, Jane read what the Stanek family had done to Holly Devine. The slapping, the fondling, the bruising. The penetration. She had to close the file and take a few deep breaths to calm herself. What she could not do was rid herself of the images of those three predators and their ten-year-old victim. Nor could she avoid thinking about her own daughter, Regina, who was only three years old. She thought of how she would react if she ever caught such monsters abusing her child. She thought of how little would be left of them after she finished exacting her revenge. If ever Jane broke the law, it would be for doing what mother bears do to anyone who threatens their cubs.
“Timothy McDougal was only five years old,” said Frost. He looked up from the file he was reading with an expression of disgust. “His parents didn’t even realize he was molested until the police called and said their son might be a victim.”
“They had no idea he was being abused?”
“None at all. Same with Sarah Byrne. She was only six years old. It took half a dozen interviews by therapists before Sarah finally told them what happened.”
Reluctantly, Jane refocused on Holly Devine’s file.
…put his fingers inside me and it hurt. Then Irena did it to me, and the old man did it. Billy and I were screaming, but no one could hear us, because we were in the secret room. Sarah and Timmy and Cassie too. We were all locked up in the room, and they wouldn’t stop…
She set aside the file, flipped open her laptop, and searched online for the name Holly Devine. She found Facebook pages for two Holly Devines. One was forty-eight years old and lived in Denver. The other was a thirty-six-year-old in Seattle. There was no Holly Devine in Boston, or any who matched the age of the Holly Devine who’d been abused at Apple Tree. Perhaps she’d married and now had a different last name. Perhaps she simply had no online presence.
At least her name had not turned up in any obituaries.
In the psychologist’s report, she found the phone number listed for Holly’s family. Twenty years later, did the girl’s parents still live at the same Brookline address, have the same phone number? She pulled out her cell phone and dialed.
Three rings later, a man answered: “Hello?” Deep-voiced and gruff.
“I’m Detective Jane Rizzoli, Boston PD. I’m trying to locate Holly Devine. Would you happen to know—”
“She doesn’t live here.”
“Can you tell me where she is?”
“No.”
“Are you Mr. Devine? Hello?”
There was no response. The man had hung up.
Well, that was weird.
“Jesus,” said Frost, staring at his laptop.
“What is it?”
“I’m looking at the file for Bill Sullivan, eleven years old. He’s one of the kids who was abused by the Staneks.”
Bill. Billy. She opened Holly Devine’s folder again and spotted the name.
Billy and I were screaming, but no one could hear us, because we were in the secret room….
“I googled the name,” said Frost. “A young man named Bill Sullivan has just gone missing in Brookline.”
“What? When?”
“Two days ago. This missing man is the same age, so he could be the same Bill Sullivan.” He spun his laptop around for Jane to see.
Displayed on the screen was a brief article from The Boston Globe.
Detectives Probe Disappearance of Brookline Man
The vehicle owned by a missing Brookline man was found abandoned near the Putterham Meadow Golf Course
early Tuesday morning. Thirty-one-year-old Bill Sullivan vanished Monday night and was reported missing by his mother, Susan, the next morning. He was last seen on surveillance camera leaving his office at Cornwell Investments. Bloodstains were found inside the vehicle, a late-model BMW, and police classify the disappearance as suspicious.
Mr. Sullivan, an investment adviser, is described as six foot one and approximately 170 pounds, with blond hair and blue eyes.
“Same name. Same age,” said Jane.
“And the mother’s name in the boy’s file is also Susan. It’s got to be the same kid.”
“But this isn’t a homicide; it’s a missing-persons case. That doesn’t fit the pattern.” She looked at Frost. “What’s the boy’s birthday?”
Frost glanced at Bill Sullivan’s file. “April twenty-eighth.”
She pulled up the liturgical calendar on her laptop. “On April twenty-eighth, they honor Saint Vitalis of Milan,” she said.
“Was he a martyr?”
Jane stared at the screen. “Yes. Saint Vitalis was buried alive.”
That’s why Bill Sullivan’s body hasn’t been found.
She jumped to her feet. Frost was right behind her as she walked out of the room and headed down the hall, straight to Dana Strout’s office. The attorney was on the phone and she swiveled around, startled, as Jane and Frost invaded her space.
“The Staneks,” said Jane. “Are they still in prison?”
“Do you mind if I finish this phone call first?”
“We need answers now.”
Dana said into the phone, “They’re standing in my office right this minute. I’ll call you back.” She hung up and looked at Jane. “What is this all about?”
“Where are the Staneks?”
“Really, I don’t understand the urgency.”
“The Staneks went to prison because the children at their daycare center accused them of abuse. Three of those children are now dead. One has just gone missing. I’ll ask you again. Where are the Staneks?”
For a moment Dana tapped a pen against her desk. “Konrad Stanek died in prison soon after the trial,” she said. “His wife, Irena, passed away about four years ago, also while in prison.”
“And their son, Martin? Where is he?”
“I just got off the phone with Erica Shay, the prosecutor. She says Martin Stanek served out his sentence. He’s been released.”
“When?”
“Three months ago. October.”
DADDY IS ON THE PHONE, his voice quiet and urgent.
“A woman’s been calling here, asking about you,” he says.
“Is it the same woman who called before?” I ask.
“No, this is a different woman. Claims she’s a detective with Boston PD. Says it’s urgent you get in touch with her because she’s worried about your safety.”
“Do you believe her?”
“I checked around. Found out Boston PD does have a Detective Rizzoli who works in homicide. But you never know. You can never be too careful, baby. I didn’t tell her a thing.”
“Thank you, Daddy. If she calls again, don’t talk to her.”
Over the phone I hear him coughing, the same stubborn cough he’s had for months. I used to tell him that the damn cigarettes would kill him someday, and to stop me from nagging about it, he finally quit smoking, but the cough hasn’t gone away. It’s settled into his chest, and I hear the rattle of wet mucus. It’s been far too long since I’ve visited. We both agreed I should stay away, because someone might be watching his house, but this cough worries me. He’s the only one I really trust, and I don’t know what I’ll do without him.
“Daddy?”
“I’m all right, kitten,” he wheezes. “I just want to keep my baby safe. Something has to be done about him.”
“There’s nothing I can do.”
“But I can,” he says quietly.
I pause, listening to my father’s noisy breathing, and I consider what it is he’s offering. My father does not make idle promises. He says exactly what he means.
“You know I’d do anything for you, Holly. Anything.”
“I know, Daddy. We just have to be careful, and everything will be fine.”
But everything is not fine, I think, as I hang up. Detective Rizzoli is looking for me, and I’m astonished by the speed with which she’s connected me to the others. But she can’t possibly know the whole story, and she never will.
Because I will never tell.
And neither will he.
IT WAS THE SHABBIEST APARTMENT building on the street, a three-story walk-up in Revere that was just a few rotten boards short of being condemned. Most of the paint had long since flaked off, and as Jane and Frost climbed the outside staircase to the third-floor unit, she felt the handrail wobble and imagined the whole rickety structure peeling away from the building and collapsing like a Tinkertoy ladder.
Frost knocked on the door and they waited, shivering and exposed, for someone to answer. They knew he was inside; Jane could hear the TV, and through the frayed curtains she glimpsed movement. At last the door opened and Martin Stanek stood glowering at them.
The photos of Martin taken at the time of his arrest two decades earlier showed a bespectacled young man with wheat-colored hair and a face that was still round and cherubic at the age of twenty-two. If Jane had seen young Martin on the street, she would have dismissed him as harmless, a man too meek to look her straight in the eye. She’d expected to see an older version of that man in the photograph, perhaps balder and flabbier, so she was taken aback by the man who now stood in the doorway. Two decades in prison had transformed him into a muscular machine with a gladiator’s shoulders. His head was shaved, and there was no trace of softness left in that face, which now had the flattened nose of a boxer. A scar ran like an ugly railroad track above his left eyebrow, and his cheek was misshapen, as if the bone had been shattered and left to heal distorted.
“Martin Stanek?” said Jane.
“Who wants to know?”
“I’m Detective Rizzoli, Boston PD. This is my partner, Detective Frost. We need to ask you some questions.”
“Aren’t you about twenty years too late?”
“May we come in?”
“I served my time. I don’t need to answer any more questions.” He started to close the door in their faces.
Jane put out a hand to stop it. “You don’t want to do that, sir.”
“I’m within my rights.”
“We can talk here and now, or we can talk at Boston PD. Which would you prefer?”
For a moment he considered his options, which he realized amounted to no choice at all. Without a word, he left the door open and turned back in to his apartment.
Jane and Frost followed him inside and shut the door against the cold.
Scanning the apartment, she focused on a painting of the Madonna and child, framed in gilt and hanging in a prominent place on the wall. Displayed on a table beneath it were half a dozen family photos: A smiling man and woman posing with a young boy. The same couple, middle-aged now, arms around each other’s waists. The trio sitting around a campfire. All the photos were of the Staneks, before prison tore them apart.
Martin shut off the TV, and in the sudden silence they could hear the traffic through the thin walls, the rumble of the refrigerator in the kitchen. Although the stove and countertops were wiped clean and the dishes were washed and stacked on the drainboard, the apartment smelled like mold and rancid grease, an odor that probably came with the building itself, the legacy of tenants long gone.
“It’s the only place I could rent,” said Martin, reading the distaste in Jane’s face. “Can’t go back to my house in Brookline, even though it’s still in my name. I’m a convicted sex offender, and the house is near a playground. I can’t live anyplace where children might go. Had to put the house on the market just to pay the taxes. So this is it now. Home sweet home.” He waved at the stained carpet, the threadbare sofa, and looked at them. “Wh
y are you here?”
“We want to ask about your activities, Mr. Stanek. Where you were on certain days.”
“Why should I cooperate? After what was done to me?”
“Done to you?” said Jane. “You think you’re the victim?”
“Do you have any idea what happens to convicted pedophiles in prison? You think the guards try to keep you safe? No one gives a fuck if you live or die. They just stitch you up and throw you back to the wolves.” His voice cracked. He turned away and sank into a chair at the kitchen table.
After a moment, Frost pulled out a chair and sat down as well. Quietly, he asked, “What happened to you in prison, Mr. Stanek?”
“What happened?” Martin raised his head and pointed at his own scarred face. “You can see what happened. The first night they knocked out three of my teeth. The next week they blew out my cheekbone. Then they smashed the fingers in my right hand. Then it was my left testicle.”
“I’m sorry to hear about that, sir,” Frost said. He did sound sorry. In the game of Good Cop, Bad Cop, Frost was always cast as Good Cop because the role was so natural to him. He was known as the Boy Scout of the homicide unit, friend to dogs and cats, kids and old ladies. The man you couldn’t corrupt, so no one ever tried to.
Even Martin seemed to realize this was not an act. Frost’s quiet note of sympathy made Martin suddenly look away, a sheen in his eyes. “What do you want from me?” he asked.
“Where were you on November tenth?” asked Jane, the Bad Cop. This time it was not merely an act; since becoming a mother, any crime against a child was a trigger point for her. Giving birth to Regina had made Jane feel vulnerable to all the Martin Staneks in this world.
Martin scowled at her. “I don’t know where I was on November tenth. Do you remember where you were two months ago?”
“What about December sixteenth?”
“Ditto. No idea. Probably sitting right here.”
“And December twenty-fourth?”
“Christmas Eve? That I do know. I was at St. Clare’s Church, eating dinner. They have a special holiday meal every year for people like me. People with no friends or families. Roast turkey and cornbread stuffing and mashed potatoes. Pumpkin pie for dessert. Ask them. They probably remember I was there. I’m ugly enough to be memorable.”