28
When Jessica and Byrne arrived on the scene on Lincoln Drive-a section of Fairmount Park near the Wissahickon Creek-there were two CSU vans, three sector cars, and five detectives already there. Crime- scene tape spanned the road. Traffic was being routed to two slow- moving lanes.
For the police, the site was charged with anger, determination, and a singular kind of rage. This was one of their own.
The sight of the body was beyond revolting.
Walt Brigham lay on the ground in front of his car, on the shoulder of the road. He was on his back, his arms were spread out to his sides, his palms were upturned in supplication. He had been burned to death. The smell of immolated flesh and crisped skin and flash-fried bone filled the air. His corpse was a blackened husk. His gold detective's badge had been delicately placed on his forehead.
Jessica nearly gagged. She had to turn away from the appalling spectacle. She thought back to the previous night, the way Walt had looked. She had only met him once before, but he had a stellar reputation in the department, and many friends.
Now he was dead.
Detectives Nicci Malone and Eric Chavez would be working the case.
Nicci Malone, thirty-one, was one of the newest detectives in the homicide unit, the only other female besides Jessica. Nicci had spent four years in narcotics. At just under five four, 110 pounds-blond, blue-eyed, and fair on top of it-she had a lot to prove, in addition to all the gender issues. Nicci and Jessica had worked a detail a year earlier and had instantly bonded. They had even worked out together a few times. Nicci practiced tae kwon do.
Eric Chavez was a veteran detective, and the unit's fashion plate. Chavez had never successfully passed a mirror without looking into it. His file drawers were stacked with GQ, Esquire, and Vitals magazines. A fashion trend did not emerge without his knowledge, but, that same attention to detail made him a good investigator.
Byrne's role would be that of a witness-having been one of the last people to talk to Walt Brigham at Finnigan's Wake-although no one expected him to sit on the sidelines during the investigation. Whenever a police officer is murdered, there were about 6,500 men and women on the case.
Every cop in Philly.
Marjorie Brigham was a slight woman in her late fifties. She had small, crisp features, close-cropped silvery hair, the raw clean hands of a middle-class woman who had never delegated a single household chore. She wore tan slacks and a chocolate cable-knit sweater, a simple gold band on her left hand.
Her living room was decorated in an Early American style, the wallpaper a cheerful beige gingham. In front of the window overlooking the street was a maple table bearing an assortment of healthy houseplants. In the corner of the dining room was an aluminum Christmas tree with white lights and red ornaments.
When Byrne and Jessica arrived, Marjorie was sitting on a wingback chair across from the TV. In her hand was a black Teflon spatula. She held it as she might a dead flower. This day, for the first time in decades, there was no one to cook for. She seemed unable to put the utensil down. Putting it down meant that Walt wasn't coming back. If you were married to a police officer, you were afraid every day. You were afraid of the telephone, the knock on the door, the sound of a car pulling into your driveway. You were afraid every time there was a "special report" on television. Then one day the unthinkable happened, and there was no longer anything to fear. You suddenly realized that, all that time, for all those years, fear had been your friend. Fear meant that there was life. Fear was hope.
Kevin Byrne was not there in an official capacity. He was there as a friend, a brother officer. Still, it was impossible not to ask the questions. He sat on the arm of the couch, took one of Marjorie's hands in his.
"Are you up for a few questions?" Byrne asked, as softly and gently as possible.
Marjorie nodded.
"Did Walt have any debts? Anyone he might have been having problems with?"
Marjorie thought for a few seconds. "No," she said. "Nothing like that."
"Did he ever mention any specific threats? Anyone who might have had a vendetta against him?"
Marjorie shook her head. Byrne had to try this line of inquiry, even though it was unlikely that Walt Brigham would have shared something like that with his wife. For a fleeting moment, the voice of Matthew Clarke echoed in Byrne's mind.
This is not over.
"Is this your case?" Marjorie asked.
"No," Byrne said. "Detective Malone and Detective Chavez are investigating. They'll come by a little later today."
"Are they good?"
"Very good," Byrne replied. "Now, you know they'll want to go through some of Walt's things. Are you all right with that?"
Marjorie Brigham just nodded, numb.
"Now remember, if there are any problems or questions, or if you just want to talk, you call me first, okay? Anytime. Day or night. I'll come right over."
"Thanks, Kevin."
Byrne rose, buttoned his coat. Marjorie stood up. Finally she put the spatula down, then hugged the big man in front of her, burying her face in his broad chest.
The story was already all over the city, the region. News crews were setting up shop on Lincoln Drive. They had a potentially sensational story. Fifty or sixty cops convene at a tavern, and one of them leaves and is murdered along a remote section of Lincoln Drive. What was he doing there? Drugs? Sex? A payoff? For a police department that was constantly under scrutiny from every civil-rights group, every review board, every citizen-action committee, not to mention the local and often national media, it didn't look good. The pressure from the big bosses to solve this and solve it fast was already enormous, and growing by the hour.
29
"What time did Walt leave the bar?" Nicci asked. They were gathered around the assignment desk in the homicide unit, Nicci Malone, Eric Chavez, Kevin Byrne, Jessica Balzano, and Ike Buchanan.
"Not sure," Byrne said. "Maybe two."
"I've talked to a dozen detectives already. No one seems to have seen him leave. It was his party. Does that really sound right to you?" Nicci asked.
It didn't. But Byrne shrugged. "It is what it is. We were all pretty loaded. Especially Walt."
"Okay," Nicci said. She flipped a few pages back in her notebook. "Walt Brigham shows up at Finnigan's Wake at about 8 PM last night, where he proceeds to drink half the top shelf. Did you know him as a drinker?"
"He was a homicide cop. And this was his retirement party."
"Point taken," Nicci said. "Did you see him argue with anybody?"
"No," Byrne said.
"Did you see him leave for a while, come back?"
"I did not," Byrne replied.
"Did you see him make any phone calls?"
"No."
"Did you recognize most of the people at the party?" Nicci asked.
"Just about everybody," Byrne said. "I came up with a lot of those guys."
"Any long-standing feuds, anything that goes back?"
"Nothing I know of."
"So, you talked to the victim at the bar around one thirty, and you didn't see him after that?"
Byrne shook his head. He thought about all the times he had done exactly what Nicci Malone was doing, how many times he had used the word "victim" instead of the person's name. He had never really realized how it sounded. Until now. "No," Byrne said, suddenly feeling completely useless. This was a new experience for him-that of being a witness-and he didn't like it much. He didn't like it at all.
"Anything to add, Jess?" Nicci asked.
"Not really," Jessica said. "I was out of there around midnight."
"Where did you park?"
"On Third."
"Near the lot?"
Jessica shook her head. "Closer to Green Street."
"Did you see anyone hanging around the lot behind Finnigan's?"
"No."
"Anyone walking up the street as you were leaving?"
"No one."
A canvass had been conducted in a t
wo-block radius. No one had seen Walt Brigham leave the bar, walk up Third Street, enter the lot, or drive away.
Jessica and Byrne had an early dinner at the Standard Tap at Second and Poplar. They ate in a stunned silence over the news of Walt Brigham's murder. The first report had come in. Brigham had suffered blunt-force trauma to the back of the head, and had then been doused with gasoline and set ablaze. A gas can was found in the woods near the crime scene, an ordinary two-gallon plastic model, available everywhere, no prints. The ME's office would consult with a forensic odon- tologist, perform a dental ID on the body, but there was little doubt in anyone's mind that the charred corpse was that of Walter Brigham.
"So, what's up for Christmas Eve?" Byrne finally asked, trying to lighten the mood.
"My father's coming over," Jessica said. "It'll just be him, me, Vincent, and Sophie. Christmas Day we're going to my aunt's house. Been that way forever. How about you?"
"I'm going to stop at my father's, help him start to pack."
"How's your father doing?" Jessica had been meaning to ask. When Byrne had been shot, and was lying in an induced coma, she had visited the hospital every day for weeks. Sometimes she couldn't make it until well after midnight, but as a rule, when a police officer was hurt in the line of duty, there were no formal visiting hours. Regardless of the time, Padraig Byrne had been there. He had not been emotionally able to sit in the ICU with his son, so they had put a chair in the hallway for him, where he sat vigil-plaid Thermos at his side, newspaper in hand- around the clock. Jessica had never spoken to the man at length, but the ritual of her rounding the corner, seeing him sitting there with his rosary, nodding a good morning, good afternoon, or good evening, had been a constant she came to look forward to during those shaky weeks, the bedrock on which she built the foundation of her hopes.
"He's good," Byrne said. "I told you that he's moving to the Northeast, right?"
"Yeah," Jessica said. "Can't believe he's leaving South Philly."
"Neither can he. Later in the evening I'm having dinner with Colleen. Victoria was going to join us, but she's still in Meadville. Her mother's not well."
"You know, you and Colleen are welcome to come over after dinner," Jessica said. "I make one hell of a tiramisu. Fresh mascarpone from Di- Bruno's. Trust me, it's been known to make grown men weep uncontrollably. Plus, my Uncle Vittorio always sends a case of his homemade vino di tavola. We play the Bing Crosby Christmas album. It's a wild time."
"Thanks," Byrne said. "Let me see what's up."
Kevin Byrne was as gracious at accepting invitations as he was at avoiding them. Jessica decided not to push. They fell silent again as their thoughts, like those of everyone else in the PPD this day, went to Walt Brigham.
"Thirty-eight years on the job," Byrne said. "Walt put a lot of people away."
"You think it was someone he sent up?" Jessica asked.
"That's where I'd start."
"When you talked to him before you left, did he give you any indication that something was wrong?"
"Not at all. I mean, I got the sense that he was a little depressed about retirement. But he seemed upbeat about the fact that he was going for his license."
"License?"
"PI license," Byrne said. "He said he was going to look into Richie DiCillo's daughter's case."
"Richie DiCillo's daughter? I don't know what you mean."
Byrne gave Jessica a quick rundown on the 1995 murder of Anne- marie DiCillo. The story gave Jessica chills. She'd had no idea. As they drove across town, Jessica thought about how small Marjorie Brigham had looked in Byrne's embrace. She wondered how many times Kevin Byrne had found himself in that position. He was intimidating as hell if you were on the wrong side of things. But when he brought you into his orbit, when he looked at you with those deep emerald eyes, he made you feel like you were the only other person in the world, and that your problems had just become his problems.
The hard reality was, the job went on.
There was a dead woman named Kristina Jakos to think about.
30
Moon stands naked in the moonlight. It is late. It is his favorite time.
When he was seven, and his grandfather was taken ill for the first time, he thought he would never see the man again. He had cried for days, until his grandmother relented and took him to the hospital for a visit. On that long and confusing night, Moon stole a glass vial of his grandfather's blood. He sealed it tightly and hid it in the basement of his house.
On his eighth birthday, his grandfather died. It was the worst thing that ever happened to him. His grandfather had taught him many things, reading to him in the evenings, telling him stories of ogres and fairies and kings. Moon remembers long summer days when families would visit. Real families. Music played, and children laughed.
Then the children stopped coming.
His grandmother lived in silence after that, until the day she took Moon to the forest, where he watched the girls play. With their long necks and smooth white skin they were like the swans in the story. That day there was a terrible storm, thunder and lightning crashed over the forest, filling the world. Moon tried to protect the swans. He built them a nest.
When his grandmother learned of what he had done in the forest she took him to a dark and frightening place, a place where other children like himself lived.
Moon looked out the window for many years. The moon came to him every night, telling him of its travels. Moon learned of Paris and Munich and Upsala. He learned of the Deluge and the Street of Tombs.
When his grandmother took ill, they let him come home. He returned to a quiet and empty place. A place of ghosts.
His grandmother is gone now. Soon the king will tear everything down.
Moon makes his seed in the soft blue light of the moon. He thinks about his nightingale. She sits in the boathouse, waiting, her voice stilled for the moment. He mixes his seed with a single drop of blood. He arranges his brushes.
Later he will dress in his finery, cut a length of rope, and make his way to the boathouse.
He will show the nightingale his world.
31
Byrne sat in his car on Eleventh Street, near Walnut. He'd had every intention of making it an early night, but his car had brought him here.
He was restless, and he knew why.
All he could think about was Walt Brigham. He thought about Brigham's face as he talked about the Annemarie DiCillo case. There had been real passion there.
Pine needles. Smoke.
Byrne got out of his car. He was going to head into Moriarty's for a quick one. Halfway to the door he decided against it. He walked back to his car in a sort of fugue state. He had always been a man of instant decision, of lightning reaction, but now he seemed to be walking in circles. Maybe the murder of Walt Brigham had gotten to him more than he realized.
As he opened the car he heard someone approaching. He turned around. It was Matthew Clarke. Clarke looked agitated, red-eyed, on edge. Byrne watched the man's hands.
"What are you doing here, Mr. Clarke?"
Clarke shrugged his shoulders. "This is a free country. I can go where I want."
"Yes, you can," Byrne said. "However, I'd prefer it if those places were not around me."
Clarke reached slowly into his pocket, pulled out a camera phone. He turned the screen toward Byrne. "I can even go to the twelve hundred block of Spruce Street if I feel like it."
At first Byrne thought he had heard wrong. Then he looked closely at the picture on the cell phone's small screen. His heart sank. The photograph was of his wife's house. The house where his daughter slept.
Byrne slapped the phone from Clarke's hand, grabbed the man by his lapels, slammed him into the bricks of the wall behind him. "Listen to me," he said. "Can you hear me?"
Clarke just stared, his lips trembling. He had planned for this moment, but now that it had arrived he was completely unprepared for the immediacy, the violence of it.
"I'm going to say t
his once," Byrne said. "If you ever go near that house again I will hunt you down and I will put a fucking bullet in your head. Do you understand?"
"I guess you don't-"
"Don't talk. Listen. If you have a problem with me, it is with me, not with my family. You do not fuck with my family. You want to settle this now? Tonight? We settle it."
Byrne let go of the man's coat. He backed up. He tried to control himself. That would be all he needed: a citizen complaint against him.
The truth was Matthew Clarke was not a criminal. Not yet. For the moment Clarke was just an ordinary man riding a terrible, soul-shredding wave of grief. He was lashing out at Byrne, at the system, at the injustice of it all. As misplaced as it was, Byrne understood.
"Walk away," Byrne said. "Now."
Clarke straightened his clothes, made an attempt to restore his dignity. "You can't tell me what to do."
"Walk away, Mr. Clarke. Get help."
"It's not that easy."
"What do you want?"
"I want you to own up to what you've done," Clarke said.
"What I've done?" Byrne took a deep breath, tried to calm down. "You don't know anything about me. When you've seen the things I've seen, and been the places I've been, we'll talk."
Clarke glared at him. He wasn't going to let it go.
"Look, I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. Clarke. I truly am. But there isn't-"
"You didn't know her."
"Yes I did."
Clarke looked stunned. "What are you talking about?"
"You think I didn't know who she was? You think I don't see it every day of my life? The man who walks into the bank during a robbery? The elderly woman walking home from church? The kid on a North Philly playground? The girl whose only crime was being Catholic? You think I don't understand innocence?"
Clarke continued to stare at Byrne, speechless.
"It makes me sick," Byrne said. "But there's nothing you or I or anybody else can do about it. Innocent people get hurt. You have my condolences, but as callous as it may sound, that's all I'm going to give you. That's all I can give you."
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