Chapter 14

OF all the women Joel Rifkin killed, Jenny Soto fought for life the hardest. She kicked and scratched. She dug her nails into his face. When a coroner examined the body, all of Jenny’s nails had been broken. Bits of Rifkin’s skin were buried underneath.

During his interrogation, Rifkin mentioned Jenny by name several times. He remembered her well. She’d taken a long time to die. Finally, he’d had to snap her neck.

*   *   *

When Jenny never showed at her parents’ house, her family was not overly concerned. Jessy had explained that Jenny’s ex-boy-friend, Albert, had beeped her. Jenny must have gone to see him.

The family decided that Jenny was probably worried that her mother would be angry. Jenny knew Margarita Gonzalez wasn’t crazy about Albert. Jenny’s boyfriend, Popcorn, would also be upset. Jenny had probably decided to wait a little while until things settled down. Then she’d come home. She always did.

Police believe Jenny Soto was killed at about 2:00 A.M., a little more than two hours after she called home to see that Jessy was safe. Joel Rifkin told investigators that after he killed Jenny Soto he drove up the East River Drive into the Bronx. He pulled over at the side and dragged Jenny’s body from the truck. At the edge of a rocky hill, he dropped it.

The body tumbled down the hill, landing at the edge of the Harlem River, at the foot of Lincoln Avenue. It was discovered at 8:00 A.M. wearing only a red and orange striped shirt, pushed up. Jenny’s large gold shell earrings and her wallet, filled with pictures of Popcorn, were missing.

*   *   *

In the days following Jenny’s disappearance, Jessy frequently called her sister’s beeper. She punched in their home phone number, and then her special code: 13. Jessy couldn’t understand why Jenny wasn’t calling back.

She’s with Albert, and she doesn’t want Mom to know, Jessy kept thinking. But it’s so weird. She always calls me back.

Jessy decided to wait for Thanksgiving. Jenny never missed a family gathering. Surely she would be there. If not, at least she’d call.

On Thanksgiving, Jenny’s family ate in silence. When the dishes were done and leftovers put away, Jessy turned to her mother.

“I have a bad feeling, Mom,” Jessy told her mother. “I’ve been beeping her and she doesn’t call me back. Popcorn’s been beeping her too. It doesn’t make sense. I’m her little sister. I’m her best friend. Why wouldn’t she call back? And Popcorn. If she loves him, why wouldn’t she call?”

Margarita Gonzalez tried to dismiss the nagging fear that was growing inside her too.

“We’ll see,” was all she said. “We’ll wait and see.”

On December 1 Margarita Gonzalez decided she’d waited long enough. She told her daughters, Margie and Jessy, that she was planning to go to the police station that day and report Jenny missing.

She never got the chance. By midmorning, a police car had pulled up to the house. In the weeks since Jenny’s body was discovered, police had checked fingerprints against thousands on file in the computer. Jenny’s prints were on file because of her prior arrest for prostitution. When they matched, a team of detectives showed up at Margarita Gonzalez’s town house.

Margie answered the knock at the door.

“Does Jenny Soto live here?” the detective asked.

Margie said she did. She told the detectives that her sister had been missing for several weeks. As she spoke, her mother slowly walked into the hall.

The detective looked at Margarita Gonzalez. “Are you her mother?” he asked.

Margarita nodded. She motioned to the men to come inside. They all stood, awkwardly, in the living room.

“We found a body with a tattoo on her right hip,” the detective said.

Margie took a deep breath. “My sister had a tattoo,” she said slowly.

“It says ‘Albert’ on it, with a little heart.”

Margarita Gonzalez broke down. She began to weep hysterically.

The detectives told her to try to be calm; they couldn’t be 100 percent positive the body they found was her daughter’s. “It does fit the description,” one said gently. “But someone has to go to the medical examiner’s office and identify the body.”

“What’s going on?” a voice rang out from the hallway. It was Jessy. She’d been visiting her cousin down the block. Her uncle had noticed the police car and told her to hurry home. “Jessy,” he’d said. “There are cops at your house.”

Jessy didn’t hesitate. She ran home and rushed into the living room. She pushed past the detectives and dropped to her knees beside her mother, sitting on the couch, rocking. Margarita Gonzalez was sobbing.

“What’s going on? What’s going on?” Jessy kept saying.

“Oh, my God,” her mother wept. “I think Jenny’s dead.”

*   *   *

The next day, Margie and two cousins, Magdalia and Jerry, went to Bellevue Hospital in Manhattan to identify Jenny’s body. Margarita Gonzalez was too distraught to go. Jessy was by now six months pregnant. She, too, stayed home.

When the others saw the body they barely recognized Jenny. Her face was blue, her lips and nose swollen, her mouth agape. Black marks covered her neck.

The medical examiner told Margie Gonzalez that cocaine was found in Jenny’s system. He said that she had been strangled, but not beaten—the body appeared that way because it had been thrown down a rocky hill.

The broken nails, he explained, were because Jenny had savagely fought her attacker.

*   *   *

In the months that followed, Jenny’s family tried to find out what happened the night she was killed. At first, their suspicions turned to Albert. A week before Jenny was strangled he’d shown up at the house, trying to cajole her into going back to him. Jenny was resolute. She loved Popcorn. She wouldn’t leave him. Not ever.

They quarreled, and Albert stormed out of the house. Jenny’s family recalled his parting words: “If you ain’t going to be with me, you ain’t going to be with anyone else,” he’d shouted.

Detectives spoke to Albert. But his alibi was solid. Besides, Albert had never been violent with Jenny in the past.

At the funeral, he wept uncontrollably. He leaned over the casket, kissing Jenny’s hands and face. Her mother had dressed her in a turtleneck, to hide the marks on her neck.

Margarita Gonzalez pushed Albert aside. “Stop kissing her,” she snapped. “If you had loved her, you wouldn’t have fought with her the way you did. I think you killed my daughter.”

Albert shook his head, crying. “I loved her,” he kept saying. “I loved her.”

“You threatened her,” Margarita Gonzalez said. “If you did it, I’m going to find out. And you’re going to pay.”

In time, though, Jenny’s family was less convinced that Albert was the killer. He seemed truly distraught over Jenny’s death. He dropped by the house frequently, wanting to talk about her.

“If you ever find out who did it,” he always said, “tell me. I’ll kill him.”

Maybe Albert wasn’t her daughter’s killer, Margarita Gonzalez thought. But then who was?

The family became wary of Jenny’s friends. They even wondered about Popcorn. Sometimes, Jessy acted cold to him when he stopped by to visit.

“What’s the matter with you?” he’d say.

“Nothing, just leave,” Jessy would snap.

Later she often felt badly about the way she’d acted. She’d always liked Popcorn. But her mother kept reminding her that anyone could be Jenny’s killer. “We can’t trust anybody,” Margarita Gonzalez would say. And Jessy would nod silently.

*   *   *

The family didn’t feel the police took Jenny’s murder seriously. Two days after the body was identified, one of the detectives assigned to the case went on vacation. In the weeks that followed, Margie Gonzalez called the precinct frequently, asking if there was any news. Detectives never took the calls. She left messages. No one ever called back.

“They think she was a prostitute, and they don’t care,” Jessy told her sister bitterly. “Even if she was, that has nothing to do with it.”

Finally, Margie and a cousin, Alma, took the subway to the Bronx. They went to the police station and asked for the homicide detectives. At first, the officer on duty said no one was available to speak to them. Then Alma pulled out a badge. She, too, was a cop.

At last Margie met with the detectives handling Jenny’s murder. They told her that Jenny might have been killed by a serial killer because police had found several other bodies of women dumped in area waters. But so far they had nothing new to report. But, they assured her, the death of Jenny Soto was an ongoing investigation.

*   *   *

On March 21, 1993, Jessy gave birth to a boy. At first she thought of naming him John. That was pretty close to Jenny. But her family didn’t like the name. Someone suggested Jeremiah. Jessy liked it. She thought Jenny would have too.

When she rocked her baby, Jessy often thought of all the old plans. Jenny was going to be there. Jenny had always been there for her.

Once, not long after Jenny’s funeral, Jessy called her sister’s old beeper number. She punched in her home number and waited. She wanted to know who, if anyone, had Jenny’s beeper. She wanted to ask how the person had gotten it.

Within minutes, a woman with a thick Asian accent called back.

“Who’s this?” the woman asked.

“Who’s this?” Jessy answered.

The woman hung up. When Jessy beeped again, the woman did not return the call.

*   *   *

Not knowing who killed Jenny Soto tore her family apart. For months, Margarita Gonzalez had been going to church daily, lighting candles and praying for strength.

In May, she prayed for an answer.

She went to church and lit candles to the Virgin Mary and St. Anthony. Then she went to her daughter’s grave. She arranged flowers atop the gravestone. She got on her knees and touched the ground gently.

In the stillness of the cemetery, through her tears, Margarita Gonzalez spoke to her daughter. “Let it be for your birthday or my birthday that I find out who did this,” she said aloud. Jenny’s twenty-fourth birthday would have been June 6. Margarita’s fiftieth was July 1.

*   *   *

On June 29, a few minutes past noon, the phone rang. It was Margarita’s sister.

“Put on the news,” she said. “Some man was strangling girls. Maybe he’s the one who killed Jenny.”

Margarita switched the channel. She watched the report. She saw Joel Rifkin as he emerged from state police headquarters in the white jumpsuit. Then she called her daughter Margie.

“Did you see the news?” she asked.

Margie said she had. In the background, Margie’s four-year-old son, Matthew, was yelling.

“He’s the killer, Mommy,” the little boy kept repeating, pointing to the television. “That man killed Jenny. I know he’s the one. Mommy, he killed Jenny.”

After Margarita hung up she lay down on the couch and thought about Jenny. She wondered about this man, this Joel Rifkin. How could he have killed so many young girls? Could Jenny be one of his victims?

The phone rang. Jessy stepped into the kitchen and picked it up. She had been upstairs taking care of Jeremiah and hadn’t seen the news. She had never heard of Joel Rifkin.

“Is Jenny Soto at home?” a man asked.

Jessy tightened. “Why are you calling for Jenny Soto?” she asked sharply. “She passed away.”

“This is Investigator Patrick Caffrey of the New York State Police,” he said. “We are investigating the serial killer Joel Rifkin.”

“Joel Rifkin?”

“Do you mind if I ask you how Jenny Soto was killed?”

“She got strangled.”

“We called because Joel Rifkin mentioned the last name Soto.”

In the next room, Margarita Gonzalez couldn’t understand what was going on. Something about Jenny. Something about her killer. Margarita panicked. She began yelling at Jessy to hang up. “It could be the killer trying to get information!” she screamed.

Jessy tried to calm her mother. She covered the receiver with her hand.

“It’s the police,” she said. She asked the detective if he wanted to talk to Jenny Soto’s mother. Jessy explained that her mother did not understand English fluently. The detective said that wasn’t a problem—they would supply a translator.

In Spanish, the translator told Margarita Gonzalez about Joel Rifkin. He said that during his conversation with police Rifkin had described Jenny’s tattoo. Later, investigators had found Jenny’s wallet and jewelry in his bedroom. He asked if the family could identify Jenny’s earrings. Margarita said they could. She hung up the phone and began to sob uncontrollably.

*   *   *

By the end of the day, reporters filled Margarita Gonzalez’s living room. Most of the journalists had already been to María Alonso’s apartment a few miles away.

Margarita Gonzalez tried to talk about her daughter, to express her feelings about Joel Rifkin. But she was distraught. The pressure was too much.

Jessy took over. Holding Jeremiah, she talked about Jenny and how the family was coping with the news. “It’s a relief to know that they caught my sister’s killer,” she said, “but it still hurts because we were getting over it and now all the feelings are back. I still feel like she’s going to come home. I can’t believe she’s gone. She was a great big part of my life.”

*   *   *

Two days later, Margarita Gonzalez turned fifty. She cried all day. But she thought about her prayer—how she had pleaded with God to give her an answer. And He had. Just when she’d asked for it—between her daughter’s birthday and her own.

That night, Jessy put her arms around her mother. “God must have seen that you are a good lady and that Jenny didn’t deserve this,” she said. “He answered your prayer.”