75

Byrne looked at the contents of the envelope—a handful of photographs, each with a notation scrawled along the bottom in ballpoint pen—but had no idea what any of it meant. He glanced again at the envelope itself. It was addressed to him, c/o the Police Department. Hand lettered, blocky style, black ink, no return, Philly postmark.

Byrne was at a desk in the duty room at the Roundhouse. The room was all but deserted. Anyone with anything to do on New Year’s Eve was out getting ready to do it.

There were six photographs: small Polaroid prints. Written along the bottom of each print was a series of numbers. The numbers looked familiar—they appeared to be those of PPD case files. It was the pictures themselves he could not understand. They were not official department photos.

One was a snapshot of a small lavender plush toy. It looked like a bear. Another was a picture of a girl’s barrette, also lavender. Yet another was a photograph of a small pair of socks. It has hard to tell the exact color, due to the slight overexposure of the print, but they looked to be lavender as well. There were three more photos, all of unrecognized objects that were each a shade of lavender.

Byrne scrutinized each photograph again. They were mostly closeups, so there was little context. Three of the objects were on carpeting, two on a hardwood floor, one on what appeared to be concrete. Byrne was writing down the numbers as Josh Bontrager came in, holding his coat.

“Just wanted to say Happy New Year, Kevin.” Bontrager crossed the room, shook Byrne’s hand. Josh Bontrager was a hand-shaker. In the past week or so, Byrne had probably shaken the young man’s hand thirty times.

“Same to you, Josh.”

“We’ll catch this guy next year. You’ll see.”

It was a little bit of country wit, Byrne supposed, but it came from the right place. “No doubt.” Byrne picked up the sheet with the case numbers on it. “Could you do me a favor before you leave?”

“Sure.”

“Could you get these files for me?”

Bontrager put down his coat. “I’m on it.”

Byrne turned back to the photographs. Each showed a lavender item, he saw again. A girl’s item. A barrette, a bear, a pair of socks with a small ribbon at the top.

What did it mean? Did the photos represent six victims? Were they killed because of the color lavender? Was it the signature of a serial killer?

Byrne glanced out the window. The storm was picking up. Soon the city would come to a halt. For the most part, police welcomed snowstorms. They tended to slow things down, smooth out arguments that often led to assaults, to homicides.

He looked back at the pictures in his hand. Whatever they represented had already happened. The fact that a child was involved—probably a young girl—did not bode well.

Byrne got up from his desk, walked through the corridors to the elevators, and waited for Josh.