What—did he vanish into the early-morning rain?
Doesn’t make sense.
People ask Jim all the time, how do you stay professional and dispassionate at a murder scene? Jim usually smiles, says it’s not about that.
Homicide, he tells them, is a story.
That story begins with someone’s death. Homicide detectives simply ask the who, the what, the why, the where, the how.
But seeing someone all dead, just laying there, I don’t know how you handle it.
At which point Jim just says something about it being part of the job. Most people don’t want to dwell on the topic. They’re usually looking for a lurid detail or two, maybe a grisly story they can share with their friends.
Which is why Jim doesn’t tell them the whole story.
Truth is, if you are killed in Philadelphia, and the police don’t solve it within a week, then chances are your killer will get away with it. This is thanks to sheer volume—in a city the size of Philadelphia, with bodies dropping on a daily basis, the homicide department will have other dead bodies demanding their attention.
The other truth is, it depends what kind of person you were.
Every homicide cop says the same thing in private. When they see your body on the ground, they ask themselves: Are you a good guy, or a bad guy?
Do you have a record? You just get out of prison? You steal from your dealer? You beat your wife, your kids? You kill other people?
In which case, yeah, homicide cops will do their jobs. But that’s just going through the motions. It’s not about you, scumbag, it’s about clearing jobs.
But if you’re a good guy, then nothing gets the adrenaline pumping quicker. You deserve the full-court press.
Jim’s at his best when there’s an innocent victim whose story demands to be told.
Just like this woman, who was out minding her own business, jogging in Center City early in the morning, because everyone told her it was safe to do so.
Jim imagines Audrey twenty years from now, living downtown, going for a run, then some scumbag lunges at her…
By noon the 5292 is identified.
The staff at a local magazine called Metropolitan heard about the dead girl, said one of their employees matching her description (blond, pretty) hadn’t shown up for work.
Her name is Kelly Anne Farrace. Twenty-five years old, fact-checker, new to the city, moved here in the spring from Ohio.
Jim and Aisha head over to 1919 Market Street, thirty-sixth floor, to look at her employment records, the company head shot. Yeah, it’s definitely her.
Jim’s familiar with the magazine, though not a fan. It’s allegedly a city magazine, but more concerned with rich people out in the suburbs. What to wear, where to eat. When they write about cops, they’re usually condescending and focusing on the bad, never the good. As usual.
Jim gathers the staff in a conference room to get a general sense of Kelly Anne. At this point he’s not worried about one-on-ones with close friends. That will come next. What Jim’s looking for now is a quick overview—learn as much as possible, then plot their next moves.
Aisha, meanwhile, volunteers to call Kelly Anne’s parents. They usually take turns, unless they get the idea that the awful news would be better coming from a white man or a black woman. In this case, they’re meeting with an all-white magazine staff, so they don’t bother having the conversation. Aisha will call the parents, Jim will get the ball rolling here.
Outwardly, Jim aims to be friendly, patient, calm, and easygoing. He’s your priest. He’s your rabbi. He’s here to set things right.
“Tell me about Kelly Anne,” Jim says, then leans back to listen.
“She was a sweetheart,” the editor-in-chief says, “with a tremendous future ahead of her.”
“Funny, sweet”—the same words are repeated over and over. “Clearly, she’s not from around here,” one copy editor says, trying to lighten the mood. But Jim knows what they mean. Philadelphians have this protective shell you have to work to get past. (If you ever get past it.) Apparently Kelly Anne didn’t have the same kind of armor.
Jim gives a polite laugh. “So her job here was…?”
“Research editor. She goes through every article and makes sure they’re factually accurate.”
Jim nods, writes this down. He’s surprised the mag has such a thing, considering the amount of bullshit it publishes.
“Was she working on any stories of her own?”
The editor-in-chief’s eyes fall to the man on his right. Blow-dried hair, handsome, roughly Jim’s age, maybe a little younger, a lot more slender.
“Uh, yeah. Kelly Anne was part of the reporting team for our next ‘Thirty Under Thirty’ package,” Blow-Dry Guy says.
“And what’s that?”
“You know, where we profile thirty up-and-coming Philadelphians under the age of thirty.”
Jim nods as if he’s familiar with the feature. He’s never heard of it. Metropolitan is not really his choice of reading material.
Jim continues to pick away at them. The entire staff seems to be in shock; some cry. But some of the editors and writers fire back questions. They can’t help it. It’s in their blood. This is a tragedy, but it’s also potentially the biggest story in the magazine’s history. Why would someone assault and strangle their fact-checker? Or was it just coincidence?
Jim asks the coworkers about boyfriends, and the younger staffers tell him Kelly was single and dated around a little, no one specific. He hates talking to journalists because they read into everything, come up with stories on their own with little regard to fact.
What is Kelly Farrace’s story going to be? Random attack, or someone she knew? Those are the only two options.
Jim’s beeper goes off again. Same unknown number. 215-744-5655. Who the hell is this? Who cares. Not now.
Aisha returns, her eyes puffy. Parents are never an easy call to make. Looks like it didn’t go too well.
“You okay?” Jim asks when they’re alone in the lobby.
“Yeah, I’ll be fine. They’re going to come out here late tonight. I scheduled a time for us to meet with them tomorrow morning.”
“Sounds good. Okay, let’s wrap up here and get to her place.”
Now that Aisha is back they divide and conquer: she talks to the women, Jim handles the men. But in the end they have very little that’s new. Kelly Anne Farrace was a very sweet girl from out of state who worked long hours as a fact-checker, dated around a little, nothing serious, and kept to herself a lot.
Nobody even knew she jogged.
Now that they know her name, it’s time to visit her place. The magazine’s human resources person gives them the address. Luckily, it’s not far—close enough to walk, in fact. They drive anyway.
Kelly Anne’s apartment is small, expensive, and cluttered. The price is thanks to the location, Sixteenth and Spruce, just a few blocks away from Metropolitan’s office. Jim guesses she preferred to stay within a certain radius of her new magazine job. That meant taking a claustrophobic studio apartment that cost her $500 a month when she was bringing home no more than $650 every two weeks.
The rest of her paycheck apparently went to clothes, which are scattered everywhere. It reminds him of Audrey’s disaster area of a bedroom. Kelly Anne probably treated this studio apartment as one big walk-in closet, and the rest of Center City as her living room.
Maybe that’s why she felt comfortable jogging at 5 a.m. She considered the streets outside her streets.
Jim scans the apartment, trying to run the narrative, visualizing her final few hours in this place. Aisha follows behind. She’s only been with homicide for a year; Jim is her senior by far. She’s also the only black woman in the department.
“So she wakes up early, decides to go for a run,” Jim says.
“But there’s no bed,” Aisha says.
Turns out Kelly Anne has a pullout sleeper sofa, one of the early-1980s variety, probably a hand-me-down from her parent
s. Jim thinks about his boy Staś, crashing out in their living room on the pullout every night. All over this couch are a bunch of multicolored clothes—skirts, bras, blouses. As if her closet got drunk one night and threw up all over the place.
“Looks like she was trying things on and not liking anything,” Aisha says.
“You don’t get up in the morning, push your bed back into a couch, and then scatter your clothes all over it, do you?”
“I don’t. So maybe she slept somewhere else. Like a boyfriend’s place.”
“I don’t know,” Jim says. “Her coworkers don’t seem to think she was seeing anyone steady.”
“Maybe someone new.”
“Maybe.”
Jim moves through the apartment, careful not to step on anything or touch anything that would taint the scene. He’s been to thousands of crime scenes over the past twenty years and his careful movements are hardwired into his body. Aisha, meanwhile, hangs back. The crime-scene unit tore her a new one a few months ago, and the scolding is still fresh in her head.
Was Kelly Anne this messy? Jim wonders. Or is this staged? Was someone else in this tiny apartment?
Over on a dresser drawer that doubles as a desk, Jim spots a weekly minder book, open to the current week. There are initials penciled in for last night: MS next to the 9 p.m. line, and then JDH at the 11 p.m. line.
There are more initials set for today, and tomorrow, but clearly Kelly Anne won’t be making those appointments.
Jim taps yesterday’s space. Aisha looks over his shoulder.
“We need to put some names to these initials,” he says.
Back at the Roundhouse, Jim has a visitor making herself at home in his cubicle.
“Hello, handsome,” she says.
Aisha shoots him a look: This somebody I need to know about? She’s been in the department long enough to know you cover up a partner’s infidelities. But Jim gives a quick shake of his head to tell her no, then narrows his eyes to follow up with You’re an asshole for even thinking it.
“Aisha, this is Sonya Kaminski. Sonya, this is my partner, Aisha Mothers.”
Sonya seems to float out of her chair and extends a hand. “Pleasure to meet you. I’m with the mayor’s office.”
Aisha’s eyebrows levitate. Mayor’s office. Well, la-dee-dah.
Sonya is probably close to Jim’s age, though he’d never say such a thing out loud. When guessing a woman’s age, always shave off at least a decade. Or better yet—shut the fuck up entirely.
Jim should have known the mayor would send someone. After all, a pretty white girl in her twenties has been raped and murdered in Center City.
What surprises Jim is that he sent Sonya Kaminski.
Jim met her two years ago when he caught her smoking pot with a bunch of journalists on a Green Street rooftop. She charmed him into forgetting about it (not that he was going to bust the fifth estate over a few joints), said they should have drinks sometime soon, she’d heard a lot of great things about him, practically sitting in his lap. (“She’s fresh off a divorce and holding open auditions for the next one,” police pals said.) She saw Jim’s nameplate and made a Polish joke. Sto lat! Hundred years. Polish Mafia, in da house.
Later, he realized who she was—and was doubly glad he hadn’t busted her. Sonya’s father is wheelchair-bound union boss Sonny Kaminski, the King of Queen Village, who reportedly made millions when they razed whole blocks to build I-95. Never make enemies who can bury you in cash.
“How are the boys?” she asks now.
“Crazy as ever.”
“And your little girl, Audrey?”
“Great, just great,” he says, making it a point to smile. “What’s up, Sonya?”
“I’m thrilled you caught this one, Jimmy,” she says. “If anyone’s going to catch this monster, it’s you. Along with Detective Mothers, of course. We need this resolved as soon as possible.”
“Resolved.”
“You know what I mean.”
Any crime that happens to people in the imaginary safe zone that is Center City Philadelphia needs to be resolved as quickly as possible. Philadelphia has spent a lot of time and effort convincing people there is at least one neighborhood within the city limits where you probably won’t be beaten, raped, and strangled to death. Part of Sonya’s job, best as Jim can figure, is maintaining this illusion.
“I understand the parents are flying in first thing tomorrow,” Sonya says. “The mayor would like to meet with them personally.”
“That’s a good idea. After we talk to them, of course.”
Sonya smiles. “Of course. So I want to be able to tell the mayor something. Whatcha got so far?”
Jim spreads his hands. “We’re doing everything we can to catch this guy.”
“So you think it’s one guy?”
“I don’t think anything yet, Sonya. What do you want me to say? You know how this works.”
“I want something specific that I can give the mayor. I want to be able to tell him that a rapist-killer isn’t stalking the streets right now, prowling for his next victim.”
“You’ll be the first to know when I have something, I promise.”
Jim remembers: next Tuesday is Election Day. The mayor, running for his second term, doesn’t want this lingering in people’s minds. Never mind that the challenger is no threat whatsoever—this town hasn’t put a Republican in room 215 for nearly fifty years. But the mayor wants to be America’s mayor. There’s already talk about a run for the governor’s office, maybe even the White House in 2000.
So that’s what this is about. A pretty blonde turns up dead in the worst possible way, in what is allegedly the safest part of the city.
Sonya turns to appraise Aisha. “You’re new to the homicide unit, aren’t you?”
“New enough, I guess.”
“You’re in good hands with Detective Walczak here.”
Aisha just stares at her.
What Sonya means to say, Jim thinks, is you’re the perfect partner for our white male detective here. Black female. Balances it out perfectly. Especially if it’s the worst-case scenario and it turns out that a black male had something to do with Kelly Anne Farrace’s death. Considering all that racial shit in the Thirty-Ninth this past summer.
Sonya reaches out and lays her hand on Jim’s tie. “Drinks soon?”
“Sure, Sonya. Drinks soon. On the mayor’s office, right?”
She pulls his tie once—a playful little snap that loosens the knot a bit.
The drinks will never happen, he thinks. But she’ll be riding his ass right up until Election Day, that’s for sure.
They work into the late hours. Jim calls home to update Claire. Thankfully, she doesn’t mention last night. She knows what a case like this means for his hours and mental state. Jim asks about the boys. No surprise, Staś and Cary almost came to blows during dinner. Over what? Who knows.
“Audrey says she misses you.”
“Tell the little animal I miss her, too.”
“Someone called the house looking for you. Wouldn’t leave his name.”
“Oh yeah? What was the number?”
Claire checks the caller ID, tells him it was 215-744-5655. Right. Same number that’s been beeping him all day. Calling his home now, too, huh? Cops’ homes are supposed to be sacred, but people have all kinds of ways of glomming numbers and addresses. Jim should call the guy back, but he’s pissed at the intrusion. Let him wait. There’s real work to be done.
Jim begins assembling the murder book while Aisha puts together an interview list. Close to eleven, Aisha decides she’s had it—she needs to go home, freshen up, tackle this one with clear eyes first thing in the morning. This is the cue for Jim to go home, too. But he’s too wired. “Gonna stay and work at this a little while longer,” he says.
“Whatever, man, you’re the mayor’s best friend.”
“Very funny.”
But after a while it all becomes a blur. He needs rest but heads over to
the Palm for a nightcap—Stoli martini, dry. The bartender slides it across the wood and says, “You ever leave last night?” Jim nods and smiles, takes the drink, downs half of it in a single go. Pulls the green olives from the toothpick with his teeth, one by one. Chews them, thinking about Kelly Anne. Imagining her down in the concrete stairwell, neck twisted up like that. Jim orders another martini. The bartender nods, sets about pouring the ingredients into the silver shaker. Just two. A respectable nightcap. Any more and we start getting into should I really be driving territory. But twenty minutes later, Jim orders one more anyway. Thinking about all those clothes on Kelly Anne Farrace’s couch.
Jim arrives home at Unruh Avenue well after midnight to find a black man sitting on his stoop.
A second later he’s going to hate himself for reaching for his gun. The guy must see the tension in the moment because he immediately throws up his hands and says,
“Hey, man—it’s me!”
Jim pauses.
Jesus Christ, it’s George Wildey, Jr.
Jim hasn’t seen him since this past May, outside that bar at Seventeenth and Fairmount, looking all shivery and cracked out.
“George,” Jim finally says. “Sorry. You kind of startled me there. How’s it going? You been out here long?”
Jim looks up to see if the front bedroom light is still on, but no. Claire’s gone to sleep. Good thing Junior here had the good sense not to knock.
“You got a minute?” George Junior asks. “I didn’t mean to scare you, but I’ve been trying you on that beeper all day.”
Ah, so this is 215-744-5655. Jim remembers slipping George Junior here his professional courtesy card back in May. So maybe the guy is in real trouble. Again. Why else would he be sitting out here on a front stoop on a cold November night?
“You want to come inside?” Jim asks.
George Junior blinks. “Naw, I know it’s late. I just wanted to make sure you saw this.” He reaches under his jacket and for a strange moment Jim thinks, He’s got a piece under there.
Revolver Page 6
