the devastated streets of Red Rock. Neighborhoods of single-story woodframe houses and two-story brownstone row houses. Churches, soup kitchens. Public housing projects by the river. Human habitations in clusters surroundedby empty lots, acres of abandoned and derelict buildings. Along the riverfront, miles of desolate old factories, mills. And one of these Jersey Foods where the girl had been found.
Iglesias had studied photographs of the scene: the cellar, the stairs leading down to the cellar, the exterior of the building covered in graffiti to a height of about ten feet. As in much of Red Rock there was an exhilaration of violence enacted against what you could see: walls of buildings, broken windows, fences.
It seemed fitting, the badly beaten, sexually abused black girl had been found in the cellar of one of these condemned buildings. Left to die was the refrain heard on the street.
White cops, kept her tied up, raped, left to die . This was the refrain of the street.
It hadn’t been clear, from Sybilla Frye’s fragmented statement, how long she’d been “hog-tied” in the cellar. There was evidence that the girl had wet herself but minimally on the tarpaulin which suggested that she hadn’t been in the cellar more than a few hours. Countless footprints in the cellar’s soft sinking floor both human and animal, and much evidence of human activity over a period of time, but nothing that suggested recent activity except in the specific area where the girl had been found lying on the tarpaulin. Here there were seemingly fresh footprints belonging to just two individuals and these were not likely prints made by adult men. Scattered throughout the cellar were the desiccated remains of small animals. Bones to which mummified tufts of fur accrued. Despite rumors on the street there’d been no human bones discovered in any area of the factory.
The filthy tarpaulin upon which the girl had lain, clothesline allegedly used to bind the girl’s wrists and ankles, dish towels allegedly wrapped around the girl’s head and shoved into her mouthto gag her—these had been examined by Pascayne PD forensics team, and had yielded “inconclusive” evidence. On the tarpaulin were badly smudged fingerprints and encrustrations of mud and dog excrement. Iglesias had requested that the department forensics team examine virtually everything in the cellar, but this wasn’t possible—there was just too much, and resources were limited.
Of the debris accumulated in the cellar over a period of years it was possible that there was an item—for instance a soft-drink bottle or can tossed into a corner—bearing the prints of Sybilla Frye, that would suggest the girl having come or having been brought to the cellar voluntarily, to stage the scene.
Her story is a lie. Yet, no story is entirely a lie.
She is telling us—she was badly hurt, and her life was threatened. That’s real—isn’t it?
Yes. That is real.
“Off’cer, I’m telling you Sybilla not here . She stayin in some safe place to convalesce. The doctor say she had a ‘severe trauma’—she ‘anemic’ from all that blood she lose.”
Iglesias had come with a warrant to search the premises for Sybilla Frye. With two patrol officers she gained access to the household at 939 Third Street in which Sybilla Frye lived with her mother, a younger sister and brother, and the mother’s common-law husband Anis Schutt. But as Mrs. Frye had angrily insisted, the girl wasn’t there.
“Go ahead, Off’cer, look! Nothin to see!”
Iglesias stood in the doorway of the girl’s closet-sized room. A narrow bed over which a soiled comforter had been drawn. Bare floorboards, chenille throw-rugs. A chest of drawers. A single windowwith a cracked blind. Stuffed animals, a limp Raggedy Ann doll with a sallow face. Photos of smiling black faces, predominantly young, Scotch-taped to a dingy wall—Sybilla’s relatives and friends.
The rest of the wall space was covered with
Iglesias had studied photographs of the scene: the cellar, the stairs leading down to the cellar, the exterior of the building covered in graffiti to a height of about ten feet. As in much of Red Rock there was an exhilaration of violence enacted against what you could see: walls of buildings, broken windows, fences.
It seemed fitting, the badly beaten, sexually abused black girl had been found in the cellar of one of these condemned buildings. Left to die was the refrain heard on the street.
White cops, kept her tied up, raped, left to die . This was the refrain of the street.
It hadn’t been clear, from Sybilla Frye’s fragmented statement, how long she’d been “hog-tied” in the cellar. There was evidence that the girl had wet herself but minimally on the tarpaulin which suggested that she hadn’t been in the cellar more than a few hours. Countless footprints in the cellar’s soft sinking floor both human and animal, and much evidence of human activity over a period of time, but nothing that suggested recent activity except in the specific area where the girl had been found lying on the tarpaulin. Here there were seemingly fresh footprints belonging to just two individuals and these were not likely prints made by adult men. Scattered throughout the cellar were the desiccated remains of small animals. Bones to which mummified tufts of fur accrued. Despite rumors on the street there’d been no human bones discovered in any area of the factory.
The filthy tarpaulin upon which the girl had lain, clothesline allegedly used to bind the girl’s wrists and ankles, dish towels allegedly wrapped around the girl’s head and shoved into her mouthto gag her—these had been examined by Pascayne PD forensics team, and had yielded “inconclusive” evidence. On the tarpaulin were badly smudged fingerprints and encrustrations of mud and dog excrement. Iglesias had requested that the department forensics team examine virtually everything in the cellar, but this wasn’t possible—there was just too much, and resources were limited.
Of the debris accumulated in the cellar over a period of years it was possible that there was an item—for instance a soft-drink bottle or can tossed into a corner—bearing the prints of Sybilla Frye, that would suggest the girl having come or having been brought to the cellar voluntarily, to stage the scene.
Her story is a lie. Yet, no story is entirely a lie.
She is telling us—she was badly hurt, and her life was threatened. That’s real—isn’t it?
Yes. That is real.
“Off’cer, I’m telling you Sybilla not here . She stayin in some safe place to convalesce. The doctor say she had a ‘severe trauma’—she ‘anemic’ from all that blood she lose.”
Iglesias had come with a warrant to search the premises for Sybilla Frye. With two patrol officers she gained access to the household at 939 Third Street in which Sybilla Frye lived with her mother, a younger sister and brother, and the mother’s common-law husband Anis Schutt. But as Mrs. Frye had angrily insisted, the girl wasn’t there.
“Go ahead, Off’cer, look! Nothin to see!”
Iglesias stood in the doorway of the girl’s closet-sized room. A narrow bed over which a soiled comforter had been drawn. Bare floorboards, chenille throw-rugs. A chest of drawers. A single windowwith a cracked blind. Stuffed animals, a limp Raggedy Ann doll with a sallow face. Photos of smiling black faces, predominantly young, Scotch-taped to a dingy wall—Sybilla’s relatives and friends.
The rest of the wall space was covered with
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