by The Echo Man
Byrne was just about to give up on the experiment when he heard something that sounded different. He hit Stop, then Play.
'You know? came his voice from the recorder.
What?
Rewind.
'You know.'
He let it run. Soon there was another noise, the sound of the lamp clicking on, and his voice saying, clear as a bell:
'2:52.'
Then there was the snap of the lamp being turned off, more rustling, then silence for the rest of the recording. Although he had no memory of it, he must have awakened, turned on the light, looked at the clock, spoken the time aloud, and gone back to sleep.
Except there was no clock in his bedroom. And his watch and cellphone were always on the dresser.
So how did he know what time it was?
Byrne played it all back, one last time, just to be certain that he was not imagining all of it. He was not.
2:52.
You know.
As Byrne waited in the park, he thought about another moment in this place, a time when his heart had been intact. His daughter Colleen had been four years old, and was trying desperately to get a kite in the air. She ran in circles, back and forth, her blonde hair trailing, arms raised high, repeatedly getting tangled in the string. She stamped her feet, shook a fist at the sky, untangled herself, tried again and again. But she never asked him for help. Not once.
It seemed as if it were just a few weeks ago. But it was not. It was a long time ago. Somehow, Colleen, who had been deaf since birth, the result of a condition called Mondini Dysplasia, was going to Gallaudet University, the country's first and most preeminent college for deaf and hard-of-hearing undergraduate students.
Today she was off on an overnighter to the Gallaudet campus in Washington D.C. with her friend Lauren, ostensibly to scope out the campus and the possibilities for living quarters, but quite possibly to scope out the nightlife and the young men. Byrne knew the tuition fees were steep, but he had been saving and investing for a long time, and Colleen had a partial scholarship.
Byrne had wanted Colleen to stay nearer to Philadelphia, but it had been ages since he had been able to talk her out of anything once she set her mind to it.
He had never met Lauren, but Colleen had good taste in friends. He hoped Lauren was sensible too, and that he wouldn't be getting a phone call from the D.C. police telling him that the two of them had been picked up at some out-of-control frat kegger.
Byrne sensed someone approaching on his right. He looked around to see his daughter walking across the square, dressed in a navy blue suit. She didn't look like a college student, she looked like a businesswoman. Had he missed something? Had he been asleep for four years?
She looked heart-stoppingly beautiful, but something was wrong. She was holding hands with a guy who had to be at least thirty. And they weren't just holding hands, they were doing that wrap-around- at-the-wrist thing, and brushing up against each other as they walked.
When they got closer Byrne saw that the kid was younger than he had first thought, perhaps around twenty-two, which was still far too old and worldly for his taste.
Unfortunately, in matters such as these Kevin Byrne's taste didn't matter in the least.
Colleen let go of the guy and kissed Byrne on the cheek. She was wearing perfume. This was getting worse by the second.
'Dad, I'd like you to meet my friend Laurent,' Colleen signed.
Of course, Byrne thought. It wasn't Lauren. It wasn't even a girl. It was Laurent. His daughter was going on an overnighter with a man.
'How are you?' Byrne asked, not meaning it or caring, extending his hand. The kid shook his hand. Good grip, not too firm. Byrne thought about taking the kid to the ground and cuffing him, arresting him for daring to touch Colleen Byrne right in front of him, for daring to think of his only daughter as a woman. He put the impulse on hold for the moment.
'I'm quite well, sir. It's a pleasure to meet you.'
Not only was Laurent a guy, he had an accent.
'You're French?' Byrne asked.
'French Canadian,' Laurent said.
Close enough, Byrne thought. His daughter was being romanced by a foreigner.
They chatted about nothing at all for a while, the sorts of things young men talk about while on the one hand trying to impress a girl's father and on the other trying not to embarrass the girl. As
Byrne recalled, it was always a delicate balancing act. The kid was doing all right, Byrne thought, seeing as the routine was complicated by his having to speak out loud to Byrne, and sign everything to Colleen.
When the small talk was exhausted, Laurent said: 'Well, I know you two have things to talk about. I'll leave you to it.'
Laurent wandered a few feet off. Byrne could see the young man's shoulders relax, heard a loud sigh of relief.
Byrne understood. Maybe the kid was okay.
Colleen looked at her father, both eyebrows raised. What do you think?
Byrne butterflied a hand, smiled. Eh.
Colleen gave him a pretty good shot on the upper arm.
Byrne reached into his pocket, handed Colleen the check that was discreetly contained in a small envelope. Colleen spirited it away in her purse.
'Thanks, Dad. A couple of weeks, tops.'
Byrne waved another hand. 'How many times have I told you that you don't have to pay me back?'
'And yet I will.'
Byrne glanced at Laurent, then back. 'Can I ask you something?' he signed. He had learned to sign when Colleen was about seven and had taken to it surprisingly well, considering what a lousy student he had been in school. As Colleen got older and a lot of their communication became nonverbal, relying on body language and expression, he stopped studying. He could hold his own, but found himself completely lost around two or more deaf people blazing away.
'Sure,' Colleen signed. 'What is it?'
'Are you in love with this guy?'
Colleen gave him the look. Her mother's look. The one that said you just encountered a wall, and if you have any thoughts or dreams or hopes of getting over it you better have a ladder, a rope, and rappeling hooks.
She touched his cheek, and the battle was over. 'I'm in love with you,' she signed.
How did she manage to do this? Her mother had done the same thing to him two decades earlier. In his time on the job he had been shot on two different occasions. The impact of those two incidents was nothing compared to a single look from his ex-wife or daughter.
'Why don't you just ask me the question you're dying to ask?' she signed.
Byrne did his best to look confused. 'I don't know what you're talking about.'
Colleen rolled her eyes. 'I'll just go ahead and answer the question anyway. The one you were not going to ask me.'
Byrne shrugged. Whatever.
'No, we're not staying in the same room, Dad. Okay? Laurent's aunt has a big house in Stanton Park, and there are a million extra bedrooms. That's where I'll be sleeping. Locks on the door, guard dogs around the bed, honor and virtue intact.'
Byrne smiled.
Suddenly, the world was once again a wonderful place.
Byrne stopped at the Starbuck's on Walnut Street. As he was paying, his cellphone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out, checked the screen. It was a text message from Michael Drummond, the assistant district attorney handling the Eduardo Robles grand jury investigation.
Where are you?
Byrne texted Drummond his location. A few seconds later he received a reply.
Meet me at Marathon.
Ten minutes later Byrne stood in front of the restaurant at 18th and Walnut. He looked up the street, saw Drummond approaching, talking on his cellphone. Michael Drummond was in his mid-thirties, trim and athletic, well-dressed. He looked like the archetypal Philadelphia defense attorney, yet he had somehow stayed in the prosecutor's office for almost ten years. That was about to change. After being courted for years by every high-powered defense firm in the city, he was finall
y moving on. There was a going-away party scheduled for him at Finnigan's Wake in a few days, a soiree at which Drummond would announce which white-shoe firm he had chosen.
'Counselor,' Byrne said. They shook hands.
'Good morning, detective.'
'How does it look today?'
Drummond smiled. 'Do you remember the tiger scene in Gladiator?'
'Sure.'
'Something along those lines.'
'I'm just a flatfoot,' Byrne said. 'You might have to explain that one to me.'
Drummond looked over Byrne's shoulder, then over his own. He turned back. 'Eddie Robles is missing.'
Byrne just stared at Drummond, trying to keep all expression from his face. 'Is that a fact?'
'Facts are my life,' Drummomd said. 'I called over there this morning, and Robles's mother said Robles didn't come home last night. She said his bed is still made.'
'This guy has two bodies on him and he lives with his mother?'
'That does have a little bit of a Norman Bates vibe to it, now that you mention it.'
'We don't really need him to indict him, do we?' The question was rhetorical. The DA, as the saying went, could indict a ham sandwich. The sandwich did not need to be present.
'No,' Drummond said. 'But the jury is hearing another case today. That triple at the Fontana.'
The Fontana was a recently opened luxury condominium in Northern Liberties, a 100-million-dollar renovation project that had taken more than four years to complete. Three people had been shot, gangland style, in one of the units. It turned out that one of the victims was a former debutante who'd had a secret life that involved exotic dancing, drug dealing, and trysts with local sports celebrities. It was about as lurid as it got, which meant the story went viral within hours.
As of that morning, police had seven suspects in custody. The singing at the Roundhouse would commence shortly. Which meant that players for the Sixers, Eagles, Phillies, and Flyers were all sweating big time.
'I've got some serious time on this,' Byrne said. He knew that he had to play the game, and he was as good as anybody at it. Probably better.
'I know, Kevin. And I apologize. The Fontana case is high priority, and you know how things go. People forget, people run, people mysteriously disappear. Especially with a drug-homicide case.'
Byrne understood. The passions on a shocking and bloody case such as the Fontana ran high.
'What are we looking at?' he asked.
Drummond checked his BlackBerry. 'The jury will be back on Robles in three days when they meet again. I promise.'
It might not matter. Byrne knew that Philadelphia had a way of solving its own problems.
'Thanks for meeting with me, Michael.'
'Not a problem. Are you coming to my party?'
'Wouldn't miss it.'
They shook hands again. 'Don't worry about a thing, Kevin. Not a thing. Eddie Robles is history.'
Byrne just stared, impassive. 'Keep me posted.'
Byrne thought about heading to the Roundhouse, but he wasn't expected for a while. He had to think. He drove to York Street, parked across from the alley down which Eduardo Robles had walked.
Eddie Robles is missing.
Byrne got out of the car, looked up and down the street. A half- block away he found what he was looking for, something that he had not noticed before.
There, high above the sidewalk, glancing indifferently down at the street, was a police camera.
Chapter 8
The Homicide Unit at the Roundhouse was a study in controlled bedlam. There were ninety detectives in the unit, working three shifts, seven days a week. The first floor was a winding labyrinthine warren of half-round rooms which made it a real challenge to place desks, file cabinets, computer tables - in other words, everything that might be needed in an office. Not that anyone went out of their way to give even a simple nod to the concept of decor in this place.
But there was a system, and that system worked. Philly Homicide had one of the highest solve rates of any homicide division in the country.
At noon, with most of the detectives at lunch or on the street, Jessica looked up to see Dana Westbrook crossing the room.
Sergeant Dana Westbrook was the new day-work supervisor, taking over for the retired Ike Buchanan. In her late forties, Westbrook was the daughter of a retired police inspector, and had been raised in Kensington. She was a Marine veteran of Desert Storm.
At first glance she was not the most intimidating figure. With her bobbed cut, just turning gray, and measuring in at just over five-four, she towered over no one. But she was in great physical shape, still adhered to the Marine circuit-workout four days a week, and could outrun and outperform women on the force half her age, as well as many of the men.
Being a woman in what was still and would probably always be a boys' club, her military training came in handy.
As in all police departments, indeed any paramilitary organization, there was a chain of command. From the commissioner to deputy commissioner, from chief inspector to staff inspector to captain, all the way to lieutenant and sergeant, then detective, officer, and recruit, it was a highly regimented institution. And shit, as they say in the military, doesn't flow uphill.
From day one, Dana Westbrook took a lot of shit.
When a call came in during day work - the eight a.m. to four p.m. shift - the desk detective took the information and brought it to the supervisor on duty. It was then the supervisor's job to initiate and coordinate the first crucial hours of the investigation. A lot of this involved telling men - some of whom had been in homicide for more than twenty years, all of whom had their own way of doing things, certainly their own pace and rhythms - where to go, who to talk to, when to come back. It involved judging their fieldwork, sometimes calling them on the carpet.
For male homicide detectives, who felt as if they were the Chosen, having someone tell them what to do was not an easy pill to swallow. To be told by a woman? This made the medicine bitter indeed.
Westbrook sat next to Jessica, opened a new file, clicked her pen. Jessica gave her the basic details, starting with the anonymous 911 call. Westbrook made her notes.
'Any sign of forced entry to the building?' Westbrook asked.
'Not sure. The place has probably been broken into many times, but there was no new splintering on the jamb.'
'What about vehicles parked near the scene?'
Jessica noticed for the first time that, besides her modest earrings, Dana Westbrook had four empty piercings in her right ear. 'We're running plates in a two-block radius, along with the vehicles parked in the school parking lot, cross-referencing the owners with wants and warrants. Nothing so far.'
Westbrook nodded, made a note of it.
'And we could also take a look at some of the footage our budding
Oscar winner took. I saw Albrecht getting some shots of the crowd across the street.'
'Good idea,' Westbrook said.
Sometimes a criminal, especially one guilty of murder, returned to the scene. Police were always aware that a crowd at a crime scene, or one gathered at a funeral, might contain the person they sought.
'And speaking of Albrecht, how much access does this kid get?' Jessica asked.
'Within reason,' Westbrook replied. 'He doesn't get inside the ME's office, of course. Or a hospital.'
'And why are we doing this, again?'
'He's the deputy commissioner's wife's cousin's son. Or something like that. He's plugged in, let's just put it that way. The deputy commissioner is a Penn State grad, you know.'
'Is Albrecht allowed to film a crime scene?'
'Well, word is, the brass is going to see a rough cut of this film and has final approval over it all. If anything compromises an ongoing investigation or is blatantly disrespectful to a victim or a victim's family it won't see the light of day. You can count on that.'
'So, we have the right to chuck him off a scene?'
'Absolutely,' Westbrook said. 'Just ma
ke sure Kevin doesn't do it when you're going seventy on 1-95.'
Jessica smiled. It hadn't taken long for Sergeant Dana Westbrook to get up to speed. 'I'll make a note.'
Westbrook stood. 'Keep me in the loop.'
'You got it, boss.'
Until they got an ID on the victim there wasn't too much they could do. The faster you got an ID, the faster you could get information such as where the victim lived, worked, went to school, played, and the faster you could begin to collect witness statements. Once identification was made, a person was also run through the various databases, specifically the National Crime Information Center and its local version, the Philadelphia Crime Information Center.
The victim was fingerprinted as soon as the body got to the morgue, but all you could do before identification was canvass the area around the crime scene, process any forensic material, and hope for the best. If they couldn't ID the victim, the best hope was that by the next day someone would have heard the news about the body and would start making calls about their husband, brother, son.
After finishing her initial report, Jessica would head back to the scene. People working early shifts would be getting home soon and just might have something to tell her.
She made a note to ask Kevin to reach out to a friend of his, a detective who worked out of South Detectives. The more eyes and ears on a homicide, especially at this stage, the better. Divisional detectives knew their turf and their criminals better than anyone.
Before she could do that she sensed someone nearby. She turned. Dennis Stansfield stood behind her. He was like a virus that she couldn't seem to shake.
'Can I help you with something, detective?' Jessica asked.
Stansfield pointed to the notepad on the desk. 'I didn't mean to look over your shoulder.'
'And yet?'
'Well, lately I've heard some things about him.'
'Him?'
'Yeah. Detective Byrne.'
Jessica closed the folder on her desk, closed her notebook. She spun her chair around, stood up. She was not going to talk to this guy while she was sitting down. 'Like what sort of things?'
Stansfield glanced around the duty room, looked back, lowered his voice. 'Well, like maybe his heart's not in it anymore.'
