‘I’ve been baptized, Mr Hannah,’ Jessica said.
‘Praise His name. What is your chosen path?’
Jessica had the feeling he would try to engage her in this discussion. As little as she wanted to accommodate him, she knew it was necessary. ‘I’m Catholic.’
Roland nodded. He turned his face to the meager gray light sifting through the high windows, then back toward Jessica and Byrne. ‘I have a special affinity for the Catholics, you know.’
‘Is that right?’ Jessica asked.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Roland said. ‘From the time I was twelve or thirteen I had the notion I was going to become a Catholic priest. Mama was a Baptist, of course, but every chance I got I would sneak off to a Catholic mass. Took to hanging around the rectories, helping out at the CYO functions, generally being a nuisance. Even made myself a Roman collar once out of my mama’s sewing basket.’
Jessica wasn’t interested in the man’s story, but she wanted to keep him talking. ‘So, what happened?’
‘Well, they told me I was too old to be an altar boy, and too young for the seminary, not to mention my lack of formal education. So, when tragedy touched my life, I chose another path. I was ordained a Pentecostal minister when I was just fifteen.’
‘This was here in Philadelphia?’ Jessica asked, although she already knew the answer.
‘No, ma’am. I went back down to Appalachia, where I’m from.’
Roland took a moment, continued. ‘My first ministry was in Kentucky. I was raised there, and my bishop felt I had a deeper understanding of the people. I got a small roadside church in Letcher County.’
Roland Hannah shifted his weight in the chair. The shackles on his feet made a clinking sound that echoed off the old stone walls.
‘You have to understand that these people are very poor,’ he said. ‘Their land — their very lives — had been raped by the coal companies, the logging companies, the government. First they took the trees, then the coal, then the mountaintops themselves. These folks are skeptical of any organization, be it religious or secular.
‘I did the best I could with what I had, which was very little. It is impossible to feed hungry children with just the Word. In time I became much more than just a minister to them.’
I’ll bet, Jessica thought. She recalled Ida-Rae Munson’s words:
He used to hand them missals out like candy. Used to hand out a lot more than that, if you was young and fair.
Roland leaned forward, continued. ‘There was a woman of sixty who came to me one Sunday. She’d had a child at fifty-three, born out of wedlock, and believed the boy to be possessed by demons. And by this I do not mean the boy was violent or out of control in any earthly ways. She believed the boy was the devil himself.’
Both Jessica and Byrne remained silent.
‘I observed the boy for three days in his home, and was both astounded and horrified by what I saw. I brought it to my bishop, who counseled prayer for the boy, but nothing more.’
‘What did you do?’ Jessica asked.
Roland leaned back, shifted his weight again. ‘I returned to my ministry and told the woman there was nothing to be done. She fell to her knees and begged me to come back to her home one last time. She said that things had gotten worse.
‘Of course I went. Once there, I found the child in swaddling, even though he was seven years old. The room was lit with oil lamps, and smelled of dead flowers and sulfur. She handed me the boy, and directed my hand to feel beneath the boy’s thick, curly hair. I did as she asked.’
Jessica saw Roland run his hand along the scarred metal table top, perhaps searching for some sense memory. His fingers found the deep ruts in the surface.
‘Do you know what I felt?’ Roland asked.
‘No,’ Jessica said.
‘Horns, detective. The boy had two small horns growing from his head.’
Roland Hannah bowed his head for a moment, mouthed what looked to be a silent prayer. When he finished he retuned to his tale.
‘I performed the ritual, against the counsel of my bishop. It was a long, draining process, one that threatened my faith, as well as my life. But I believe something entered me that day, detective, something that exited that boy, who was just fine when I left him.’ Roland Hannah knitted his fingers. ‘Word spread over the county of this divine event. News was made in heaven, as they say. And even though I was just a boy myself, people knew I was possessed of the fire of the Spirit. The Holy Thunder Caravan was born that day.’
The room fell quiet for nearly a full minute. Jessica finally broke the silence.
‘That’s a very interesting story, Roland.’
‘Praise Jesus.’
‘Very interesting. But I’d like to talk about a different time in your life, if you don’t mind.’
‘Not at all,’ Roland said. ‘As you might imagine, I have nothing but time.’
‘Let’s talk about that tragedy to which you alluded before. Let’s talk about the day your stepsister Charlotte and her friend Annemarie were murdered.’
The word murdered hovered in the air. Jessica remembered the case well. The two girls were brutally killed in Fairmount Park. Years later a great cop named Walter Brigham was destroyed by the investigation.
‘Charlotte,’ Roland said softly. ‘If it’s all the same to you, ma’am, I won’t be talking about her.’
Jessica thought she detected a slight waver in the man’s voice. It was maddening that she could not read his eyes, but it seemed she was rattling him. ‘What would you like to discuss?’ Jessica asked.
Roland Hannah smiled. ‘You asked to see me, detective.’
Jessica shuffled a few papers, purely for Roland Hannah’s benefit. ‘Fair enough.’ She pushed back her chair. The screech of metal on concrete was like a shout in the confined space. ‘Let’s talk about what happened five years ago, then. Let’s talk about a string of very nasty murders in Philadelphia.’
Roland Hannah said nothing. His smile slowly disappeared.
‘Let’s start with a man named Edgar Luna, a man named Basil Spencer, and a man named Joseph Barber,’ Jessica said. Edgar Luna, Basil Spencer, and Joseph Barber were three of Hannah’s victims.
The blind man was silent for a long time. Outside a gust of wintry wind rattled a loose pane of glass. Finally, calmly, Roland Hannah spoke.
‘I did not commit those vigilante murders of pedophiles years ago. I was framed for them, as I am being framed now.’ He gestured to the room around them, a room he could not see. ‘I am a blind man in prison. How could I be doing any of this?’
Jessica and Byrne both knew how this would play in court. It was not good for them.
‘Then why did you confess?’ Jessica asked.
‘I was under a great deal of stress. I wanted it to be over. As you might imagine, I was traumatized over my affliction.’
Roland Hannah meant his blinding at the hands of another madman. Years after Charlotte’s death Hannah had haunted the dark alleys of Philadelphia, looking for the man who had killed his stepsister. In the end, investigators believed Hannah thought himself an avenging angel, murdering anyone and everyone who was even suspected of pedophilia.
‘I wonder if she still holds the rose,’ Roland said.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Tell me about these killings.’
Jessica glanced at Byrne, and back at the prisoner. She knew Roland Hannah was trying to bait her, and she wasn’t going to bite. As calmly as she could, she said: ‘They are murders, not killings, Mr Hannah. Cold-blooded, pre-meditated murders.’
Roland Hannah nodded gravely, as if saddened by the news of violence. Jessica knew him to be a man without conscience, a killer who preyed on criminals, acting as judge, jury, and executioner.
When Hannah had confessed to three murders, investigators went to the burial sites. They found the bodies. As a matter of routine they collected hair and fiber evidence, as well as fingerprint and blood evidence, even though this material was n
ever going to be used in court. With the possibility of a new trial on the horizon, the lab was now attempting to match forensic evidence found at those scenes with material collected at the current crime sites.
‘From what I understand, the people being killed in your city — under your watch, I might add — are not the most savory characters,’ Roland said. ‘The people killed five years ago were just the same. Children of disobedience. Have you not considered that whoever committed those murders, framing me then, is doing the same thing now? Ridding the world of further sinners?’
‘A baby was killed,’ Jessica said. ‘Are you saying she was a sinner?’
‘Perhaps she had not yet been baptized.’
Jessica wanted to jump across the table. She calmed herself. For a few long moments she stared at Roland Hannah. All she saw was her own reflection in the dark lenses that masked his eyes.
‘There is a lot of evil in the world, detective,’ Roland added.
Spoken by a true expert, Jessica thought. ‘Evil is pretty much my business, Roland.’
‘As a man of the cloth, it is mine, too,’ he countered. ‘You may not know it, but I am pastor to many in here.’
‘So, what are you saying? That this phantom killer is God’s swift sword?’
No response.
‘Do you want to tell me how you knew where those bodies were buried five years ago?’ Jessica asked.
At this the door slammed open and James Tolliver entered.
‘My client agreed to this interview as a courtesy to the district attorney of Philadelphia,’ Tolliver said. ‘Reverend Hannah felt it was his civic duty. Having done this duty, this interview is now over.’
A few moments later, without another word, a corrections officer entered the room, helped Roland Hannah to his feet, and the man was led from the room.
When he was gone Tolliver turned his attention back to Jessica and Byrne.
‘I expect my client to be released into the custody of the Philadelphia County Sheriff later today. He will be held under house arrest, and undergo a psychiatric evaluation. If deemed competent, he will stand trial for the crimes he allegedly committed five years ago.’
‘And the current crimes?’ Byrne asked.
‘I’m sorry,’ Tolliver said. ‘Have I missed something? Has my client been charged with new crimes?’
Byrne stepped forward. ‘I know you don’t come cheap, Mr Tolliver.’
Tolliver smiled as he buttoned his expensive coat. ‘It’s all relative, detective. I’ve never known a homicide cop to refuse overtime.’
‘Roland Hannah doesn’t have a penny.’
The lawyer said nothing.
‘So who’s paying you?’ Byrne asked.
The lawyer smiled. ‘There are two reasons I won’t be answering that question.’
‘And they are?’
‘The first reason is that it is none of your business who is paying for my services. If, indeed, I am not here pro bono.’
‘And the second reason?’
Tolliver opened the door, turned, and said, ‘Now that you know the first, does it really matter?’
The corrections officer brought out the box of personal effects. Until Roland Hannah was released, these materials were considered property of the Commonwealth, and therefore Jessica had jurisdiction, and the right, to examine them.
These were the things Roland Hannah had in his possession when he was arrested.
While Byrne made phone calls, alerting the bosses to what transpired, Jessica signed for the box, then took it to a small room next to the warden’s office. There wasn’t much to look through: dirty comb, a pair of used bus tickets, a battered wallet, a small wooden crucifix. Jessica opened the wallet. Inside was sixteen dollars, along with a page torn from the Bible. The 23rd Psalm.
Jessica opened the center of the wallet, lifted up the flap. Inside was a faded color photograph of a slender young girl, perhaps twelve or so. Behind the girl was a large truck. All Jessica could see was the beginning of the words painted on the side of the van, which looked to be HOLY and CARA. The girl held a flower in her hand.
Jessica flipped over the picture. On the back was a handwritten message.
DEAR MOMMA,
I’VE SEED SO MANY THINGS. THE OHIO RIVER IS BIG. I KNOW DADDY DIED OF HIS LUNGS, BUT HE WERENT GOING TO HURT ME. NOT REALLY. I KNOW THAT. I AM HAPPY NOW WITH THE PREACHER. I HAVE THE SPIRIT IN ME, AND I HOPE EVERYONE IS DOING GAYLY. LOVE ALL WAYS,
RUBY LONGSTREET
I wonder if she still holds the rose, Roland Hannah had said.
He was talking about the girl in the photograph. Ruby. This was the red-haired girl Ida-Rae Munson had spoken of, the one who had taken up with a preacher.
A preacher named Roland Hannah.
She had a devil-child.
FORTY-THREE
Byrne parked his car in front of St Gedeon’s. The posters announcing the upcoming demolition were affixed to the building itself, on the light poles, on the chain link fence that cordoned off the site. The building would be torn down in two days.
The knowledge filled Byrne with a deep sorrow. This had been the church of his youth. So much so that, in the neighborhood, they never called it St Gedeon’s. It was just church. Byrne had been baptized here, confirmed here, had made his first holy communion here.
He remembered Father Leone standing on the steps on Sunday mornings, on the hottest days of August and the frigid days of February, saying goodbye to his flock, as well as noticing — and cataloguing — who didn’t come to mass.
Byrne also remembered the call he had gotten that morning, the day Father Leone discovered The Boy in the Red Coat sitting in the last pew.
*
Byrne half-ran to the front doors of Villa Maria. The wind was bitterly cold and he had not brought a hat or a scarf or gloves with him.
As soon as the automatic doors opened he was greeted by the institutional smells of disinfectant and cafeteria foods — most notably, creamed corn and applesauce. He was also welcomed by a blast of warm, humid air.
He walked to the front desk, blowing into his hands. The woman standing guard was not the same one he and Jessica had talked to. This woman was older. She had a round, pleasant face, bright henna-treated hair. Her plastic nametag read SANDI.
‘Still cold out there?’ she asked.
‘Brutal.’
‘How can I help you?’
‘I’m here to see Father Leone. He’s in 303.’
The woman just stared at him. She said nothing.
‘Father Leone?’ Byrne repeated. ‘Father Thomas Leone?’
Still nothing, but now the woman began to worry the edge of the envelope in her hands.
‘Old guy?’ Byrne continued. ‘Kind of a Spencer Tracy meets Dracula?’
‘Are you a member of his family?’
Odd question, Byrne thought. But one fraught with peril. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Just a friend.’
‘Father Leone passed away last night.’
The words hit Byrne like a roundhouse punch. Yes, the man was in his nineties, in frail health, took a dozen medications a day, and was plugged into an oxygen tank. Still, Byrne was surprised. Father Leone was supposed to live forever. All priests were.
‘I was just here. He seemed …’ Old and frail, if the truth be told. But Byrne said it anyway. ‘He seemed fine.’
‘It happened during the night. I came on at six, and he had already passed,’ the woman said. ‘As to cause, I’m afraid I don’t know. He didn’t have any living brothers or sisters, so I don’t think anyone is going to order an autopsy.’
Byrne suddenly felt hollowed out, as if his entire childhood had been torn away and discarded. The memories of his time at St Gedeon’s came flooding back, the good and the bad, all of it shadowed by the recent, indelible image of Father Thomas Leone’s slight shoulders in that cheap cardigan.
‘If you want, you can call the morgue,’ the woman said, taking a pen out of a cup on the desk, grabbing a scratch pad. �
�The medical examiner’s office is there, and when his body is transferred later today you could probably — ’
‘I’m a police officer,’ Byrne said with a little more vitriol than he intended. He instantly regretted it. He backed off on his tone. ‘I’m a city detective.’
The woman stopped writing on the pad. ‘Your name wouldn’t be Byrne, would it?’
‘It would.’
‘Detective Kevin Byrne?’
‘Yes.’ Byrne had no idea why she was asking. All he wanted to do was run as fast as he could out of this place of sickness, old age, and crippling illness, to put miles between himself and these thoughts of slow, lingering death.
‘He left a package for you.’
‘Father Leone did?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It was on his nightstand. It was addressed to you.’
‘Do you have it?’
‘I’m sorry,’ the woman said. ‘One of the volunteers here had an appointment near the Roundhouse. I sent it along with her. I didn’t know you were coming.’
‘Do you know what is in the package?’
Now the woman looked offended. She took a half-step back, started to cross her arms, stopped. She smoothed the front of her colorful floral smock, looked Byrne straight in the eyes. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I didn’t open it. It wasn’t addressed to me.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Byrne said. ‘That was rude of me.’
The woman’s expression softened.
‘Did you say he has not yet been transferred?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Would it be okay if I saw him?’ Byrne asked. ‘Just to …’
For some reason, the words say goodbye could not come out. It had been a long time since emotion stole his ability to speak.
‘Sure,’ Sandi said, picking up a phone. ‘I’ll have an attendant bring you down.’
‘Thanks,’ Byrne said. ‘I won’t be long.’
‘You take your time. You just take your time.’
The room was on the ground floor, near the back. Byrne walked in, closed the door behind him. The walls were bare, with a simple wooden crucifix over the bed.
The body beneath the sheet looked so small. How was this possible? Father Thomas Angelo Leone was a man who put the fear and grace of God into hundreds, if not thousands, of South Philly kids, a man who not only taught you to fight your battles inside the ring — with rules — but sometimes slipped on the 16-ounce gloves himself. Byrne recalled that there were a couple of pictures in the priest’s house at St Gedeon’s of ‘Battling’ Tommy Leone in his late teens, clad in just-pressed satin trunks, sleek and muscular, the way only young men can be, giving his best John Garfield to the lens.
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