by The Echo Man
'This is a real voyeur's delight,' Byrne said.
'Wait until you see the bathroom cams,' Shepherd said, with a wink.
Jessica and Byrne had done a lot of work with the Audio-Visual Unit of the PPD, as well as the communications unit, which monitored the PPD street cams, for which Philadelphia was getting more and more funding.
Shepherd brought up the Crystal Room on a split screen. There was a man at the lectern, clearly an employee of whatever company was providing the PA and sound systems for the event. He performed a sound check.
'So the people in this society used to be either cops or prosecutors?' Jessica asked.
'Not at all,' Shepherd said. 'Some were in forensics, some worked for medical examiners' offices, some of them were never on the job at all. There are pretty tight membership rules and dues, which are kind of steep, so they keep out the lowlifes and the thrill seekers.'
'There goes my shot at membership,' Byrne said.
'Believe it.'
'Are they any good at what they do?' Jessica asked.
Shepherd nodded. 'That's my understanding. Every case they take on has to be formally presented to them by a bona fide agency. They don't work with the FBI or the NYPD, but just about everyone else of note has presented something.'
The three of them watched the monitors for a while, the constant rotation of views from within and without the hotel. It was a relentless flow: staff, guests, visitors, deliveries.
Was one of them their killer? Jessica wondered. Would she know him if she saw him?
When Jessica and Byrne returned to the Roundhouse, Jessica checked her messages. Nothing case-breaking. She checked the fax basket. There was a five-page fax from Frederic Duchesne, as promised. It was a detailed description of Carnival of the Animals. She brought it to her desk.
Jessica got onto the Société Poursuite website. In addition to a brief history, its mission statement, and an explanation of what the group was about, there were lists of its members, officers, past officers, and sub-chapters around the world. It was clear that the group chose its cases carefully, perhaps with an eye on choosing only those that had a chance of resolution.
The menu at the bottom offered links to other sites and to message boards.
'Check the message boards,' Byrne said. Jessica clicked over. There were a few dozen ongoing topics. One was a discussion of current trends in forensics. Another was a discussion of the disposition of homicide cases around the world. There was a discussion of ideas for cases for the group to tackle. This board had more than four thousand entries. Jessica clicked over, and as she scrolled through the posts her skin began to crawl.
One by one the entries appeared. They were all there. All the original homicides had been suggested as cases in which the group might be interested. Melina Laskaris, Marcellus Palmer, Antoinette Chan, Margaret Van Tassel. And they were all suggested by one user. The user name was cssl835.
Jessica got on the phone to John Shepherd, asking him to talk to someone from the group about the criteria for posting. A few minutes later, Shepherd called back.
'I talked to the president of the group,' Shepherd said. 'He says you don't have to log in or be a member to post something on that board. He says that it would discourage people from coming forward.'
'So they have no record of who this "cssl835" might be?'
'No,' Shepherd said. 'Sorry.'
Jessica thanked him, hung up. She looked back at the screen. Whoever was doing this was connected to, or had an interest in, Société Poursuite. Was it George Archer? Was George Archer css1835?
Jessica looked at the material she had received from Frederic Duchesne.
Camille Saint-Saens - css - had been born in 1835.
At six-thirty Dana Westbrook stepped out of her office, into the duty room. 'Kevin?'
Byrne turned to look at her. 'Yeah?'
'Could I see you for a minute?'
Byrne crossed the room, dropped his weapon in his file drawer, and walked into Dana Westbrook's office.
Chapter 68
When Byrne walked into the office he was more than a little surprised to see that, in addition to Sergeant Westbrook, there were Michael Drummond from the DA's office and Inspector Ted Mostow. In the corner, arms crossed, smug look in place, was Dennis Stansfield. Russell Diaz held down the other chair.
'Inspector,' Byrne said. 'Good to see you, sir.'
'How've you been, Kevin?'
'Better days.'
'How's the baby?'
Byrne shrugged, more or less on cue. 'Ten fingers, ten toes.'
It was an old expression, one that meant all was well with whatever case you were working on. In homicide you responded that way whether the case was going well or not.
Byrne nodded at Michael Drummond. 'Mike.' Drummond smiled, but there was no warmth in it. Something was wrong.
'Please, have a seat,' Westbrook said. Byrne took a chair near the windows.
'As you know, Detective Stansfield is working the Eduardo Robles homicide,' Drummond began.
Byrne just listened. Drummond continued.
'In the course of his investigation he discovered the existence of a surveillance camera on the opposite side of the street, just across
from the Chinese restaurant. After watching footage from the time frame in question, and running the plates on the six vehicles parked on the street, he contacted and interviewed the owners. All but one checked out, and had solid alibis for where they were that night at that time.'
Byrne said nothing.
'The sixth vehicle, a black Kia Sedona, belongs to a man named Patrick Connolly.' Drummond fixed him with a stare. 'Do you know a Patrick Connolly?'
Byrne knew that Drummond, along with everyone else in the room, knew the answer to that question, along with most of the questions he had not yet heard. Byrne had been on the other side of the table too many times not to know the game. 'Yes,' he said. 'He's my cousin.'
'When Detective Stansfield interviewed Mr. Connolly, Connolly told him that he had loaned the minivan out, that he had loaned the vehicle to you. Is that true?'
'Yes,' Byrne said. 'I borrowed the van six days ago.'
'Were you driving it the night in question?'
'I was.'
'Were you in Fishtown that night?'
Again, Byrne knew that everyone knew the answer to this question. No doubt they had spoken to patrons of The Well, people who had put him in the bar that night. 'Yes.'
'Do you recall seeing Mr. Robles that night?'
'Yes.'
'Did you have a conversation or interact in any way with Mr. Robles on that night?'
Byrne had begun to answer the question when Inspector Mostow interrupted. 'Kevin, do you want your PBA representative in here?'
The Police Benevolent Association provided legal advice and representation for police officers.
'Is this on the record?' Byrne knew the answer to that question - there was no court reporter, he had not been sworn in, and no one was writing anything down. He could confess to the Lindbergh kidnapping in this room, and it could not be used against him.
'No,' Drummond said.
Byrne looked over at Stansfield. He knew what the man was trying to do. This was payback. The two men locked eyes, matching wills. Stansfield looked away 'Then let's put it on the record,' Byrne said.
Drummond took a few seconds, looked at Inspector Mostow. Mostow nodded.
Drummond gathered a few papers, spirited them into his briefcase. 'Okay, we'll meet back here in the morning,' Drummond said. 'Eight o'clock sharp.'
Stansfield piped in. 'Inspector, I really think that we should-—'
Mostow shot him a look. 'In the morning, detective,' he said. 'Are we clear?'
For a moment, Stansfield didn't answer. Then, 'Yes, sir.'
Byrne was out of Westbrook's office first. Every detective in the duty room had their eyes on him.
As Byrne crossed the room to get a cup of coffee, Stansfield followed him.
&n
bsp; 'Not so much fun, is it?' Stansfield said.
Byrne stopped, spun around. 'You don't want to talk to me right now.'
'Oh, now you don't want to talk? It seems you couldn't keep your mouth shut the past few days about me.' Stansfield got a little too close. 'What were you doing in Fishtown that night, detective?'
'Step away,' Byrne said.
'Doing a little cleanup work?'
'Last time. Step away.'
Stansfield put a hand on Byrne's arm. Byrne pivoted, lashed out with a perfectly leveraged left hook, his entire body behind it. It caught Stansfield square on the chin. The impact sounded like two rams butting heads, echoing off the walls of the duty room. Detective Dennis Stansfield spun in place, went down.
And out.
'Ah, fuck,' Byrne said.
The whole room shut down for a moment, drawing a collective breath. Stansfield didn't move. Nobody moved.
After a few moments Nick Palladino and Josh Bontrager slowly crossed the room to see if Stansfield was all right. Nobody really cared all that much - no one in the room would have denied that he'd had it coming - but it didn't serve the department too well to have one of its own sprawled spread-eagle on the floor in the middle of the homicide unit duty room. Witnesses, suspects, prosecutors, and defense attorneys came through this room day and night.
Jessica glanced at Byrne. He rubbed his knuckles, picked up his coat, grabbed his keys off the desk. When he got to the door, he turned, looked at Jessica, and said: 'Call me if he's dead.'
Chapter 69
The row house on 19th Street, near Callowhill, was immaculate. Beneath the front window was a pine flower-box. In the window was a candle.
Byrne rang the bell. A few seconds later the door opened. Anna Laskaris stood there, apron on, spoon in hand, a look of confusion and expectation on her face.
'Mrs. Laskaris, I don't know if you remember me. I'm—'
'God may have taken my looks and my ability to walk more than three blocks. He didn't take away my brain. Not yet, anyway. I remember you.'
Byrne nodded.
'Come, come.'
She held the door open for him. Byrne stepped inside. If the outside of the row house was immaculate, the inside was surgically precise. On every surface was some sort of knitted item: afghans, doilies, throws. The air was suffused with three different aromas, all of them tantalizing.
She sat him at a small table in the kitchen. In seconds there was a cup of strong coffee in front of him.
Byrne took a minute or so, adding sugar, stirring, stalling. He finally got to the point. 'There's no easy way to say this, ma'am. Eduardo Robles is dead.'
Anna Laskaris looked at him, unblinking. Then she made the sign of the cross. A few seconds later she got up and walked to the stove. 'We'll eat.'
Byrne wasn't all that hungry, but it wasn't a question. In an instant he had a bowl of lamb stew in front of him. A basket of fresh bread seemed to appear out of nowhere. He ate.
'This is fantastic.'
Anna Laskaris mugged, as if this was in any doubt. She sat across from him, watched him eat.
'You married?' she asked. 'You wear no ring, but these days . . .'
'No,' Byrne said. 'I'm divorced.'
'Girlfriend?'
'Not right now.'
'What size sweater you wear?'
'Ma'am?'
'Sweater. Like a cardigan, a pullover, a V-neck. Sweater.'
Byrne had to think about it. 'I don't really buy a lot of sweaters, to be honest with you.'
'Okay. I try another door. When you buy a suit, like this beautiful suit you wear today, what size?'
'A 46, usually,' Byrne said. 'A 46 long.'
Anna Laskaris nodded. 'So then, an extra large. Maybe extra-extra.'
'Maybe.'
'What's your favorite color?'
Byrne didn't really have a favorite color. It wasn't something that crossed his mind that much. He did, however, have least favorites. 'Well, anything but pink, I guess. Or yellow.'
'Purple?'
'Or purple.'
Anna Laskaris glanced at her huge knitting basket, back at Byrne. 'Green, I think. You're Irish, right?'
Byrne nodded.
'A nice green.'
Byrne ate his stew. It occurred to him that this was the first time in a long while he was not eating in a restaurant or out of a Styrofoam container. While he ate, Anna stared off in the distance, her mind perhaps returning to other times in this house, other times at this table, times before people like Byrne brought heartache to the door like UPS. After a while, she stood slowly. She nodded at Byrne's empty bowl. 'You have some more, yes?'
'Oh God, no. I'm stuffed. It was wonderful.'
She rounded the table, picked up his bowl, brought it to the sink. Byrne could see the pain in her eyes.
'The recipe was my grandmother's. Then her grandmother's. Of the many things I miss, it's teaching Lina these things.'
She sat back down.
'My Melina was beautiful, but not so smart always. Especially about the men. Like me. I never did too well in this area. Three husbands, all bums.'
She looked out the window, then back at Byrne.
'It's a sad job what you do?'
'Sometimes,' Byrne said.
'A lot of times you come to people like me, give us bad news?'
Byrne nodded.
'Sometimes good news?'
'Sometimes.'
Anna looked at the wall next to the stove. There were three pictures of Lina - at three, ten, and sixteen.
'Sometimes I am at the market, I think I see her. But not like a grown-up girl, not like a young woman. A little girl. You know how little girls sometimes go off on their own, in their minds? Like maybe when they play with their dolls? The dolls to them are like real people?'
Byrne knew this well.
'My Lina was like this. She had a friend who was not there.'
Anna drifted away for a moment, then threw her hands up. 'We have a saying in Greece. The heart that loves is always young. She was my only grandchild. I will never have another. I have no one left to love.'
At the door Anna Laskaris held Byrne for a moment. Today she smelled of lemons and honey. It seemed to Byrne that she was getting smaller. Grief will do that, he thought. Grief needs room.
'It does not make me happy this man is dead,' Anna Laskaris said.
'God will find a place for him, a place he deserves. This is not up to you or me.'
Byrne walked to the van, slipped inside. He looked back at the house. There was already a fresh candle in the window.
He had grown up in the mist of the Delaware, and always did his best thinking there. As he drove to the river Kevin Francis Byrne considered the things he had done, the good and the bad.
You know.
He thought about Christa-Marie, about the night he met her. He thought about what she had said to him. He thought about his dreams, about waking in the night at 2:52, the moment he placed Christa- Marie under arrest, the moment everything changed forever.
You know.
But it wasn't you know. He had played back the recording he'd made of himself sleeping, listened carefully, and it suddenly became obvious.
He was saying blue notes.
It was about the silences between the notes, the time it takes for the music to echo. It was Christa-Marie telling him something for the past twenty years. Byrne knew in his heart that it all began with her. It would all end with her.
He looked at his watch. It was just after midnight.
It was Halloween.
Chapter 70
Sunday, October 31
I listen to the city coming to the day, the roar of buses, the hiss of coffee machines, the clang of church bells. I watch as leaves eddy from the trees, cascading to the ground, feeling an autumn chill in the air, the shy soubrette of winter.
I stand in the center of City Hall, at the nexus of Broad and Market streets, the shortest line between the two rivers, the beating heart
of Philadelphia. I turn in place, look down the two great thoroughfares that cross my city. On each I will be known today.
The dead are getting louder. This is their day. It has always been their day.
I put up my collar, step into the maelstrom, the killing instruments a comfortable weight at my back.
What a saraband.
Zig, zig, zag.
Chapter 71
The massive stone buildings sat atop the rise like enormous birds of prey. The central structure, perhaps five stories tall, one hundred feet wide, gave way at either end to a pair of great wings, each of which bore a series of towers that fingered high into the morning sky.
The grounds surrounding the complex, at one time finely manicured, boasting Eastern Hemlock, Red Pine, and Box Elder, had fallen fallow decades earlier. Now the trees and shrubs were tortured and diseased, ravaged by wind and lightning. A once impressive arched stone bridge over the man-made creek that ringed the property had long ago crumbled.
In 1891 the archdiocese authorized and built a cloister on top of a hill, about forty miles northwest of Philadelphia, establishing a convent. The main building was completed in 1893, providing residence to more than four dozen sisters. In addition to the vegetables grown on the nearby fifteen acres of farmland, and grain for the artisan breads baked in the stone ovens, the fertile land around the facility provided food for shelters throughout Montgomery, Bucks, and Berks counties. The sisters' blackberry preserves won awards statewide.
In 1907 four of the sisters hanged themselves from a beam in the bell tower. The church, having trouble attracting novitiates to the nunnery, sold the buildings and property to the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania.
Five years later, with four new wings built onto the original building - including two tiered lecture halls, a pair of autopsy theaters, a state- of-the-art surgery, and a non-denominational chapel built into one of the apple groves - the Convent Hill Mental Health Facility opened its doors. With its two hundred beds, sprawling grounds, and expert staff, it soon gained a reputation as a thoroughly up-to-date hospital throughout the eastern United States.
