news, she had a public defender.
‘I’ll see what I can find out,’ Barbara added.
‘Thanks, Barb.’
‘You know how to thank me.’
Byrne laughed. ‘I have my cargo shorts and flip-flops already packed.’
He had never owned either cargo shorts or flip-flops. Barbara probably knew this.
‘Flip-flops you might need,’ she said. ‘Leave the cargo shorts at home.’
They sparred for a little while longer. Barbara Louise Wagner promised to call in a day or two.
Byrne turned back to the newspaper item. The photograph was the same one the Inquirer ran next to the original news item that chronicled Valerie Beckert’s sentencing. It was a head shot of the woman, her eyes looking slightly left of the camera, appearing nothing like she must’ve looked when she had taken the life from Thomas Rule. In the newspapers she would be forever nineteen.
In the past ten years Byrne had thought of the woman often. At the time of her arrest he had compiled a list of a dozen missing children, twelve boys and girls who lived within five miles of Valerie’s home in northwest Philadelphia. Every so often, during the last ten years, Byrne took out the list and made inquiries to see if the children had been returned to their families or, worst case scenario, their remains had been found.
The good news was that, over the past decade, six of the children had been reunited with their parents.
The bad news was that six of them had not.
Byrne took out his wallet, opened the much-folded index card with the six remaining names, as he had so many times before.
He knew that, when it came to finding missing children, investigators spoke in terms of months, sometimes weeks, more often in days. The more time that passed, the less likely it would be that the children would be located alive and well.
No one spoke in terms of years.
Byrne thought about asking his captain to once again put in a request with the FBI to reopen these missing persons cases. The cases were not technically closed, but over the past ten years, sadly, thousands more children had gone missing.
While the profile of men who kidnapped children was defined by a very narrow age and type for the child, the instance of women doing this – while much rarer by far – did not have such a distinct profile.
Perhaps this was the reason that Valerie Beckert had been able to get away with it for as long as she did. The Special Victims Unit had been looking for a man.
The children still missing were Nancy Brisbane, Jason Telich, Cassandra and Martin White, Thaddeus Woodman, and Aaron Petroff. Byrne had mapped the homes of the missing children – four of the twelve had been living in foster care – and Valerie’s house was dead-center in the circle.
Byrne put away the list, made a mental note to run the names through the system again.
As he prepared to leave the Roundhouse, he thought about how, in his time in the homicide unit, he had interrogated thousands of suspects, hundreds of people who had committed murder. In that time he had become quite adept at rooting out those who were trying to work the system, trying to cop an insanity plea. He had never been wrong. Not once.
But when he interviewed Valerie Beckert on the night of her arrest he saw an icy tranquility in her eyes, even as she described stalking the little boy, luring him into her car, and strangling him.
Was she insane? Byrne had no doubt.
Was it fair or just that the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania was about to put an insane person to death?
This was not for him to decide.
The attempt made by Valerie Beckert’s lawyer to reduce her sentence – or, her lawyer had hoped, to take the death penalty off the table – backfired. Valerie was declared competent, stood trial, and was convicted of first degree murder.
Byrne gathered his belongings, tried to push all thoughts of Valerie Beckert from his head.
Easier said.
In all, it had been a good day. The good guys took a bad guy – and two guns – off the
‘I’ll see what I can find out,’ Barbara added.
‘Thanks, Barb.’
‘You know how to thank me.’
Byrne laughed. ‘I have my cargo shorts and flip-flops already packed.’
He had never owned either cargo shorts or flip-flops. Barbara probably knew this.
‘Flip-flops you might need,’ she said. ‘Leave the cargo shorts at home.’
They sparred for a little while longer. Barbara Louise Wagner promised to call in a day or two.
Byrne turned back to the newspaper item. The photograph was the same one the Inquirer ran next to the original news item that chronicled Valerie Beckert’s sentencing. It was a head shot of the woman, her eyes looking slightly left of the camera, appearing nothing like she must’ve looked when she had taken the life from Thomas Rule. In the newspapers she would be forever nineteen.
In the past ten years Byrne had thought of the woman often. At the time of her arrest he had compiled a list of a dozen missing children, twelve boys and girls who lived within five miles of Valerie’s home in northwest Philadelphia. Every so often, during the last ten years, Byrne took out the list and made inquiries to see if the children had been returned to their families or, worst case scenario, their remains had been found.
The good news was that, over the past decade, six of the children had been reunited with their parents.
The bad news was that six of them had not.
Byrne took out his wallet, opened the much-folded index card with the six remaining names, as he had so many times before.
He knew that, when it came to finding missing children, investigators spoke in terms of months, sometimes weeks, more often in days. The more time that passed, the less likely it would be that the children would be located alive and well.
No one spoke in terms of years.
Byrne thought about asking his captain to once again put in a request with the FBI to reopen these missing persons cases. The cases were not technically closed, but over the past ten years, sadly, thousands more children had gone missing.
While the profile of men who kidnapped children was defined by a very narrow age and type for the child, the instance of women doing this – while much rarer by far – did not have such a distinct profile.
Perhaps this was the reason that Valerie Beckert had been able to get away with it for as long as she did. The Special Victims Unit had been looking for a man.
The children still missing were Nancy Brisbane, Jason Telich, Cassandra and Martin White, Thaddeus Woodman, and Aaron Petroff. Byrne had mapped the homes of the missing children – four of the twelve had been living in foster care – and Valerie’s house was dead-center in the circle.
Byrne put away the list, made a mental note to run the names through the system again.
As he prepared to leave the Roundhouse, he thought about how, in his time in the homicide unit, he had interrogated thousands of suspects, hundreds of people who had committed murder. In that time he had become quite adept at rooting out those who were trying to work the system, trying to cop an insanity plea. He had never been wrong. Not once.
But when he interviewed Valerie Beckert on the night of her arrest he saw an icy tranquility in her eyes, even as she described stalking the little boy, luring him into her car, and strangling him.
Was she insane? Byrne had no doubt.
Was it fair or just that the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania was about to put an insane person to death?
This was not for him to decide.
The attempt made by Valerie Beckert’s lawyer to reduce her sentence – or, her lawyer had hoped, to take the death penalty off the table – backfired. Valerie was declared competent, stood trial, and was convicted of first degree murder.
Byrne gathered his belongings, tried to push all thoughts of Valerie Beckert from his head.
Easier said.
In all, it had been a good day. The good guys took a bad guy – and two guns – off the
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