‘Hi,’ she said. Her full name was Danica Evelyn Dooley. Twenty-six, five-nine, 120 give or take. Mostly give lately. She’d been putting away a few bags of Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies a week. She worked at Progressive Insurance, drove a Ford Focus, had two brothers named William and Thaddeus. She liked Versace Crystal Noir perfume. She was wearing it tonight. ‘I know you from somewhere.’
Shane smiled even more broadly. ‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘I’d certainly remember you.’
She blushed. ‘My name is Danica. This is my friend –’
Arlene, Shane wanted to blurt out, just to keep things moving. He did not.
‘– Arlene,’ Danica said.
‘My name is Shane.’ He reached out, shook hands with both women, lingering a split second longer with Danica’s hand. The gesture was not lost on anyone. ‘Delighted to meet you both.’
Not entirely true.
Danica pointed at Shane’s book. ‘I can’t believe you’re reading that. I just finished it. It has to be one of my favorite books of all time.’
Shane put his earbuds away, committing to the conversation, then held up the new paperback. ‘Well, I’m on my third read,’ he said. ‘Had to buy a new copy. I lent mine out, never got it back.’ He had read all the amazon.com reviews of the book before leaving the house, of course, and with his nearly eidetic memory, remembered them word for word. If pressed, he could more than hold his own in a book discussion with Danica. ‘Every time I read it I find something new.’
The waiter approached the table. ‘What can I get you, sir?’
Shane looked at the wine list, even though he didn’t have to. He had this memorized, too. ‘I think I’ll have a glass of the Barolo.’
‘This is amazing,’ Danica said. ‘Barolo is my favorite.’
‘Anything else for the ladies?’ the waiter asked.
Danica and her friend made instant eye contact, the way friends do at a moment like this, and Arlene got the message. She looked at her watch.
‘Nothing for me, thanks,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to get going.’
The waiter turned to Danica. She tapped the rim of her wine glass. ‘I’ll have the same.’
Perfect.
Danica and Arlene made their goodbyes. Shane politely shook the other woman’s hand. When she was gone, he took up position on the other side of the table, opposite Danica Dooley. She really was beautiful. A symmetrical face, soft features, a minimal amount of makeup and jewelry.
When the waiter left, they clinked glasses, sniffed, swirled, sipped. A few seconds later Shane found Danica staring at him, smiling. ‘Now I know who you are,’ she said. ‘You’re on the news.’
‘Yes.’
She fluffed her hair, smoothed a cheek. She seemed a little star-struck, or maybe it was the second glass of Barolo. Shane preferred star-struck.
Danica pointed to the wine and the copy of The Good Mother.
‘I can’t believe we have exactly the same tastes.’
You have no idea, Shane thought.
He left Danica’s apartment around 3 a.m. When he got home he showered again, prepared everything he needed for the morning, a day that was going to begin in just three hours.
Before crawling into bed, he opened the database, put the red X in the field next to Danica’s name, looked at the next few entries on the list. It was a list that had grown to seventy entries.
Shane fell asleep to the sound of the intermittent crackling of the police scanner he kept next to his bed. He had gone to sleep this way for many years. Although Shane might be loath to admit it to anyone outside the business, he could no longer sleep without it.
Soon he drifted off, the sound of swirling water filling his dreams, as it had every night since he was five years old, the sound of the baptismal waters engulfing him, filling his mind.
Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you. Before you were born, I set you apart, came the phantasm of his mother’s voice.
On the good nights the sound of the waters lulled him to sleep.
On the bad nights he drowned.
ELEVEN
In the days following the discovery of Daniel Palumbo’s body in the basement of the North Philadelphia building that once housed St Adelaide’s, the Homicide Unit interviewed more than three dozen people who either knew Palumbo, or had been in the neighborhood at the time.
Ultimately, they learned nothing about Danny Palumbo’s movements the day he either voluntarily went, or was led, to the abandoned church where ten days later he would die.
The medical examiner performed an autopsy on the victim, and the official cause of death was ruled exsanguination, meaning Palumbo had bled to death. A toxicology report was also filed, and concluded that, in addition to small traces of heroin and Ativan, an anti-anxiety drug, there was also trace of a drug called Pavulon.
Jessica had run into the drug Pavulon once before. It was a neuromuscular blocking agent, essentially a paralytic. It was used for general anesthesia during surgery as an aid to intubation or ventilation. In higher doses it would completely paralyze the muscles, though have no pain-numbing effect.
Jessica considered Danny Palumbo in that chair, unable to move, the barbed wire wrapped around his body and neck. When he finally could move, his head fell forward from fatigue, and the sharpened barb cut into his carotid.
As to the crime scene, there were enough partial prints in that building to keep the latent print division busy for months, and that was not going to happen. In a building that old, the number of people who had passed through the space, touching those surfaces most likely to retain full prints – doors and jambs, handrails, window panes – numbered in the hundreds. In time, dust and soot formed a layer on everything, reducing the viability of the surfaces to yield clean, identifiable prints.
A half-dozen partial exemplars had been run, yielding no hits. The only good prints belonged to the victim, fingerprints in blood on the back of the wooden chair in which he was bound.
There were no eyewitnesses, and no other blood types were found on the victim or at the scene. They had not found anyone in the PCIC system named Boise.
The barbed wire used to wrap Danny Palumbo’s body – essentially, the murder weapon, their only lead at this point – was unremarkable in every way. The firearms unit determined that the wire was anywhere from five to fifteen years old. It was made of galvanized mild steel, a type used primarily in agriculture, and would not, if left unaltered, be sharp enough to accomplish what their killer so clearly wanted to accomplish. That was why one of the barbs had been honed to a razor-sharp tip and carefully placed against Daniel Palumbo’s carotid artery.
Finding where the barbed wire was acquired was nearly impossible. If a length of concertina wire had been stolen from a Philadelphia business, and reported to police, they would have something to go on. Because the wire used to wrap the victim was agricultural, it left only a million acres of Pennsylvania farmland to investigate.
Ligature marks were found on the victim’s cheeks, as were cotton fibers, indicating Danny Palumbo had probably been gagged the whole time.
CSU found trace evidence of metal filings on Danny’s right shoulder.
On the final night of Danny Palumbo’s life, had the hooded figure they had seen on the street returned, and shaved down that barb to make it sharper? Had that person backed off on the paralytic drug so that Danny Palumbo could move his head, and thereby deliver the fatal wound?
The thought gave Jessica a chill.
But, if this were the case, why had the killer left Danny in there for ten days? Why not just do it and have done with it? Was the amount of time significant?
It had to be.
Jessica had put in a call to the Archdiocese of Philadelphia, and received a rather terse fax in reply, stating the obvious and expected: that since the building had not housed a Catholic church in more than seventy years, they had no information relevant to the recent crime. The fax referred Jessica and the PPD to Licenses and Inspections, which,
of course, was where Jessica’s inquiries began.
The Crime Scene Unit had collected its physical evidence and removed the tape. A secure padlock had been put on the door and, for all intents and purposes, to anyone walking or driving by, nothing bad had ever happened at that address.
The crime lab was a state-of-the-art facility at Eighth and Poplar Streets, often shorthanded as the FSB – Forensic Science Bureau. It housed many of the department’s scientific divisions, including the fingerprint lab, the drug lab, the Firearms Unit, the DNA lab, and the document section.
The head of the document section was a man named Sergeant Helmut Rohmer. Jessica and Byrne had worked with Rohmer – who preferred to be called Hell – on a number of cases.
A giant of a man at six-four, Hell was a sight to behold, with his spiky white-blond hair and huge, but gentle hands. Since getting married to another one of the techs at the lab, a young criminalist named Irina Kohl, he had put on an extra twenty or so pounds. Despite the extra girth, it seemed that married life agreed with him. He was a bit calmer than he had been, but no less thorough. At least he was eating well.
Hell Rohmer was also known for his collection of black T-shirts, although he was probably up to the Big and Tall 3X size by now. Today’s gem read:
SILENCE IS GOLDEN.
DUCT TAPE IS SILVER.
They got their chitchat out of the way.
‘I’ve good news and bad news,’ Hell said. It appeared that he was about to continue, when he suddenly stopped. For a few long moments he stared into space.
‘What is it, Hell?’ Jessica asked.
‘It just occurred to me that I’ve never said that before.’
‘What, ever?’
‘Ever,’ Hell said. ‘And it also occurred to me that it always bugs the shit out of me when anyone says it to me. So I don’t think I’ll ever say it again.’
Silence.
‘Hell?’
‘Right, okay,’ he said. ‘Well, I’m not going to say “which do you want first” now, am I?’
‘Can I pick?’ Jessica asked.
‘Of course.’
‘I’ll take the good news.’
Hell sprang into action. ‘Okay. I have a fix on the little prayer book. It took a number of methods to dry it out, seeing as it was soaked in blood, but that’s why I get dental and two weeks a year in Biloxi.’
Jessica glanced at Byrne. They decided not to ask.
‘There were a few pages I could not separate without destroying them – yet – but I think we have a pretty good start.’
He pinned a half-dozen photographs on the wall.
‘The text is pretty standard issue. It has excerpts from the King James version, with selections from Genesis, Hebrews, Matthew, Numbers, and Revelation. There was no red ribbon like you used to get in books like these. Remember those?’
Jessica did. She said so.
‘I always liked those,’ Hell said. ‘Anyway, there was a red ribbon once, but it was torn out.’ He tapped a close-up photograph of the top of the book where the stub of the red ribbon was once attached. ‘Savages.’
Jessica almost smiled. The case was a brutal homicide where a man was wrapped in barb wire for ten days, and Hell Rohmer had harsh words for someone who ripped a ribbon out of a missal. Lab rats were a breed apart.
‘The print section had it before I did, and they dusted the exterior cover,’ Hell continued. ‘It has a pebbled surface, so no dice there. However, the inside of the book cover is a smooth plastic, so that holds some promise, print-wise. They’ll get this back in the afternoon.’
Hell then opened a drawer, reached in, pulled out a manila envelope. ‘And now the pièce de whatever it is.’
‘There’s more good news?’ Jessica asked.
‘I kind of grouped the good news together into one big sundae,’ Hell said. ‘I hope that’s okay.’
‘Sundaes are good.’
‘Cool.’
Hell reached into the envelope, held up a small plastic evidence bag. He put it under his lighted, swing-arm magnifier. ‘I found a hair between one of the pages. Root and all. Not sure if it belonged to the vic or not. Either way, if we ever get the order to run DNA, there’s plenty here to work with.’
‘Awesome,’ Jessica said. She knew there was only so much a microscopic examination of a follicle of hair could determine – race, gender, sometimes approximate age. Everything else came from DNA testing.
‘Well done, big man,’ Byrne added.
Hell beamed. He loved being called ‘big man,’ especially by a guy like Kevin Byrne, who was pretty big himself.
As Hell basked in the glow of his accomplishments, the moment lingered.
‘And what about, you know, the other stuff?’ Jessica asked, trying to avoid the phrase ‘bad news.’
‘Oh, yeah. That.’
Hell pinned up another photograph, an enlarged image of the missal’s copyright page.
‘These missals were printed in a small town in West Texas, by a company called Mighty Word, Inc. Unfortunately, the book was printed in 1958, and the company has been out of business since 1961. There is no way to trace where or when this was purchased, unless you guys do some serious digging and can find someone who once worked there, or if they got bought out by another company and the records still exist.’ Hell shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘I’m afraid that stuff is out of my area of expertise.’
‘Can we take that page with us?’ Byrne asked.
‘Captain, my captain.’ Hell produced a pair of printouts.
On the way out Jessica turned, looked back. Hell stood, hands on his hips, proudly looking at the photos, Pablo Picasso in front of a half-completed Guernica.
The service for Danny Palumbo was held at All Souls Cemetery in Chester County. In all, there were twenty or so officers from the PPD. After the interment ceremony, Jessica and Byrne stood near the entrance to the parking lot. A young officer approached them. His nametag identified him as G. Hyland. He was in his early twenties – trim, blond, muscular.
Byrne had put in a call to the commander of Danny Palumbo’s old district. As a favor the commander had freed Officer Hyland from duty for as long as they needed him.
‘Greg Hyland,’ the young man said.
‘Good to meet you,’ Byrne said. ‘Kevin Byrne. My partner, Jessica Balzano.’
They all shook hands.
‘Just trying to get a handle on what happened,’ Byrne said. They had the official version of why Daniel Palumbo had quit the force. They were hoping to get the real reasons now. ‘We appreciate your time.’
Hyland nodded.
‘You came up with Danny?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Hyland said. ‘Same class at the academy.’
‘What can you tell us about why he quit?’
‘It was probably a number of things,’ Hyland said. ‘But there was one thing that was probably the tipping point for Danny.’
Jessica and Byrne just listened. The pained expression on Hyland’s face spoke of the friendship the young man had once shared with Danny Palumbo, a fellow officer
‘We were working day-work,’ Hyland said. ‘Summertime. Hot as hell. There was a BOLO on a guy who had been seen touching girls around the parking lot behind Holy Spirit.’
‘Over on Hartranft?’ Byrne asked.
‘Yes, sir. We made it a point to check on the school more than usual, making a few extra passes. This one morning we came around the corner, saw this guy kneeling down in front of this little girl. The girl looked really scared. The guy fit the general description so we parked, got out. Danny approached the guy, asked him to move away from the girl, asked for ID. The guy stood up, all squirrelly, like he was ready to bolt. Danny put a hand on him, and that’s when the guy took a swing. He punched Danny in the shoulder … no damage really. Nonetheless we took him to the ground, booked him, made out the report, got back on the street.’
Hyland turned his cap a few times in his hands.
‘Two days later the
real perp gets caught in the act. Had a little girl with her pants down behind those apartments on Eighteenth. That night our guy, who didn’t make bail on the assault on a police officer charge, hangs himself in his cell. Turns out he was a little challenged – developmentally challenged – and used to play with a lot of the kids in the playground.’
A true nightmare for a cop, Jessica thought. One of the worst.
‘Danny took it hard,’ Hyland said. ‘He was never the same after that. It wasn’t his fault, of course, but that didn’t seem to matter. Media hounded the guy – especially this one piece-of-shit reporter who wouldn’t get off his case. Danny started drinking, showing up late for his tour. Eventually he just quit. Then he got popped for possession. All downhill from there.’
‘Did you know he was using?’ Byrne asked.
‘I never saw him using.’
Jessica knew, like Byrne and Greg Hyland knew, that the question asked had not been answered. But that was okay. For now.
Hyland continued. ‘You want to know if he was using when he was a cop? Here’s what I know. Danny wouldn’t have disgraced the uniform that way. He was a good man. He was a good officer.’
‘Did you stay in touch after he left the force?’ Jessica asked.
Hyland looked at the ground, perhaps a bit ashamed. ‘Not as much as I could have. Not as much as I should have. You know how it is. Life takes over. The job takes over.’
‘When was the last time you saw him?’
‘Maybe six months ago. He was standing on the corner of Broad and C. B. Moore. I passed him in my sector car, had to do a double take. I barely recognized him. I pulled over, sat there for maybe five minutes, thought about going up and talking to him, but I didn’t. I think it would have done more harm than good. I think he would have been humiliated.’ Hyland slipped his patrolman’s cap back on, squared it. ‘I wish I had now. Maybe I could have done something.’
‘You do what you think is right at the time,’ Byrne said. ‘We all do.’
Hyland shrugged, remained silent.
Byrne stuck out his hand. ‘Thanks for talking to us, Officer.’
‘Not at all.’ Hyland shook Byrne’s hand, looked at Jessica, touched a finger to the brim of his cap. ‘Ma’am.’
The Killing Room Page 9
