The Killing Room

by Richard Montanari

  ‘Have a safe tour,’ Byrne added.

  ‘You, too.’

  As they watched P/O Hyland return to his car, Jessica thought about what a fine line there was between making the right call and the wrong call, how police officers were expected to be perfect in their judgment every time out. Lives were always at stake.

  As they headed to the car, Jessica spotted Loretta Palumbo in the parking lot. She was standing by herself. She looked lost. Jessica got Byrne’s attention. They walked across the lot. As they approached, Loretta looked up. At first it appeared that she did not recognize them, then recollection lit her face.

  ‘Oh. Hi,’ she said. ‘Thank you for coming.’

  This woman looked five years older than the one Jessica had met only a few days earlier, despite her hastily applied makeup. Jessica could tell that Loretta Palumbo was a woman who generally eschewed vanities like lipstick and blush. She wore an old camel hair calf-length coat, sixties or seventies vintage, perhaps her mother’s. Jessica noticed there was a button missing.

  You wear your best to a family member’s funeral, Jessica thought. Especially the funeral of a child. The thought that this was Loretta Palumbo’s best coat broke Jessica’s heart a little more. This woman deserved better.

  When everyone was out of earshot Byrne said, ‘I’m sorry to say there has been no progress in the investigation.’

  Loretta Palumbo nodded. She put her hand on the door handle of her car, hesitated, took her hand back. ‘You don’t expect to bury your children,’ she said. ‘My husband was ten years older than me, you know. He had a bad heart. But Danny … You shouldn’t have to bury your son.’

  Jessica felt another flush of sorrow. She thought about Sophie and Carlos, and was suddenly filled with an unnamable dread about their future. Parents burying their children happened all too often in a city like Philadelphia. ‘No, ma’am,’ was all Jessica could think of to say.

  Loretta Palumbo looked out over the cemetery, at the just-turned earth of her son’s plot.

  The wind suddenly picked up, slicing across the grounds. Neither Jessica nor Byrne was going to cut this meeting short. They would give this woman all the time she needed.

  ‘His father’s suit,’ Loretta said softly. ‘The blue one.’ She smoothed the front of her coat, pulled her gloves a little tighter to her wrists.

  They stood this way for a long time.

  ‘Did you ever talk to Danny’s friend?’ Loretta finally asked.

  ‘His friend?’ Jessica replied.

  ‘He didn’t come today. I thought maybe he would.’

  The question brought the two detectives back to the moment. ‘You mean the man you mentioned? The man named Boise?’ Byrne asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No, ma’am. We weren’t able to locate him.’

  Loretta Palumbo bunched her collar around her neck, warding off the wind. ‘Danny told me once that they used to get meals down at St John’s.’

  ‘St John’s Hospice?’ Jessica asked. ‘Over on Race?’

  The woman nodded. ‘Do you know it?’

  Jessica knew it well. It was just a few blocks from the Roundhouse. ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s a soup kitchen, you know.’

  It wasn’t a question. Jessica heard the shame and sadness and defeat in the woman’s voice. This proud woman had her own kitchen, one in which her son was always welcome. Before Jessica could respond, Loretta Palumbo continued.

  ‘You might find him there,’ she said. ‘Unless …’

  She did not have to finish the sentence. Both Jessica and Byrne knew what she meant.

  Unless he’s dead, too.

  TWELVE

  Located on Race Street, between Twelfth and Thirteenth, St John’s Hospice was established in the early 1960s as a ministry to address the needs of the Center City homeless. Next door was the Good Shepherd mission, a live-in program for medically fragile men.

  Called ‘Father John’s’ on the streets, St John’s Hospice provided food, clothing, shelter, and in winter was often the only lifeline to Center City homeless men in need. And while most homeless men were penniless, some did have money coming in – military benefits, pension benefits, welfare benefits – so St John’s also operated as a mail drop.

  When Jessica and Byrne parked on the corner of Twelfth and Race Streets there were men lined up halfway down the block, reaching almost to the corner of Thirteenth Street, perhaps fifty in all. They were of all races, sizes, and builds, different in many ways, but they all carried the same weight on their shoulders, the same yoke of despair. They huddled close to each other to deflect the biting wind, cupping cigarettes in hands. In the time it took for Jessica and Byrne to get out of the car and lock it, three more men queued up.

  Jessica slipped on her gloves, considering that there were two different ways to go about finding out if any of these men were, or knew of, a man named Boise. They could split up, with Jessica taking one end of the line, Byrne taking the other, interviewing each man separately, gathering and collating a ton of information that would probably be completely useless and, to an almost certainty, incoherent.

  The other way was the preferred way, even though it was a bit less scientific, and a lot less by the book.

  ‘Hey, Boise!’ Byrne yelled.

  A few of the men in line looked over, but Jessica noticed that only one of them nervously looked around, signaling that he might be the guy they were looking for. Oily hair, ratty jacket, stained Levi’s, somewhere in his twenties, although with the homeless it was always wise to deduct ten to twenty percent, considering what life on the streets did to one’s appearance. When the man saw Jessica and Byrne standing across the street he instantly made them as cops. He stamped from one foot to the other, eyes shifting from the man in front of him to the entrance to the mission, and back. He butted his cigarette against the wall, pocketed it.

  Jessica caught Byrne’s eye, and directed his gaze to the jumpy guy at the back of the line. Byrne slowly worked his way around a parked delivery truck. When he emerged at the other side, now standing about twenty feet from the man in line, the man noticed. When Byrne stepped off the curb, the man turned and bolted down Race Street, full stride, rounded the corner onto Thirteenth. As Byrne took after the man, Jessica cut up North Carmac Street.

  In the end, it was a good thing she was chasing after two men with virtually no aerobic conditioning. She came around the corner and saw Byrne at the end of a dead end alley. The man was there too, leaning against the wall, as was Byrne. Both were out of breath. The guy looked like a junkie, so his being out of shape was understandable.

  Jessica approached, gave Byrne her when-are-you-gonna-start-hitting-the-gym look, but remained silent on that matter.

  When the two men had somewhat recovered, Jessica sidled up to the homeless man, asked, ‘How ya doing?’

  ‘Never better.’

  ‘Why did you run?’

  The man stood up straight, caught the last of his breath, or all that he was going to catch. ‘I’m a health nut,’ he said. ‘I like to get my ten miles in before lunch.’

  Jessica believed the nut part. Byrne stared at the man until he realized he had to answer the question.

  ‘Why did I run? Look at me. I’m like a chew toy to you guys.’

  He had a point. ‘What’s your name?’ Jessica asked.

  The man shook his head. ‘Look, officer, I don’t want no trouble.’

  ‘Did you kill someone?’ Jessica asked.

  The man recoiled. ‘Kill someone? I didn’t do nothin’.’

  ‘Then you’re not in any trouble,’ Jessica said. ‘What’s your name?’

  The man stared at the ground, remained silent.

  ‘Trust me on this, these are the easy questions,’ Jessica said. ‘I keep the hard ones down at the Roundhouse. Right next to the holding cells in the basement. I have the feeling you know the place I’m talking about. Question is, ever see a guy like you after seventy-two hours in the box? Like Dawn of the fuckin
g Dead.’

  The man continued to look at his feet, which Jessica noticed were clad in two different brands of old running shoes. One Reebok. One Nike.

  ‘My name’s Boyce,’ he said. ‘Thomas L. Boyce.’

  Jessica glanced at Byrne. That’s why there was no ‘Boise’ in PCIC. His nickname was Boycie.

  ‘Do you know a man named Daniel Palumbo?’ Jessica asked.

  Boyce looked up, a light in his eyes. Maybe this wasn’t about him. ‘Danny? Yeah, I know Danny. Good dude, man. But I ain’t seen him in a while. What did he do now?’

  ‘Mr Palumbo is dead.’

  The light went out. ‘Dead?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ Jessica said. ‘Was he a friend of yours?’

  ‘Friend?’

  Jessica was getting impatient with Mr Thomas L. Boyce. And she knew that if she was getting impatient, Byrne was about to blow. ‘Do I need to speak louder?’

  ‘No. I can hear okay. I’m just, you know, a little freaked out. Danny’s dead? Can’t believe it.’

  ‘How did you know Danny Palumbo?’

  Another pause. ‘Let’s just say we have mutual acquaintances.’

  ‘Let’s just say a lot more than that.’ Jessica said. ‘Did you know Mr Palumbo when he was a police officer?’

  Boyce looked pummeled. ‘What are you talking about? Danny was a cop?’

  ‘He used to be, yes.’

  ‘Wow.’

  Jessica believed Boyce had not known this. ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘Two weeks. Right around there.’

  ‘Can you be more specific?’

  ‘I lost my BlackBerry, okay? Things kinda blend together for me.’

  ‘Where did you last see him?’

  ‘Around, you know? On the street.’

  Jessica just stared.

  ‘Okay. We scored. Then we hit this gallery over on Venango. But that’s the last I saw of him. Swear to God.’

  ‘Did Mr Palumbo have any kind of problems with a dealer?’ Jessica asked. ‘Someone who might have wanted to do him harm? Maybe someone he owed money to?’

  ‘We don’t get a lot of shit on credit, if you know what I mean. It’s pretty much cash on the barrel head for me and guys like Danny.’

  ‘What about other people on the street? Is there someone Danny had trouble with?’

  ‘Not really. Danny pretty much kept to himself. I mean, if he got pushed around he would push back, but he didn’t go looking for trouble. Not Danny. He was a floater.’ Boyce looked down the alley, back at them. ‘He gave me something.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Jessica asked.

  ‘Last time I seen him, Danny gave me something.’ Boyce pointed to the bulging plastic bag on the ground at his feet. ‘Do you want to see it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jessica said.

  Boyce knelt down, opened the plastic bag, which was really three plastic bags, one inside the other. The bags had been twisted and knotted so many times they had begun to rip. After moving some things around inside, Boyce slowly dug to the bottom. He finally pulled out a grease-stained burgundy nylon knapsack. One of the straps was torn, and had been rather inexpertly mended with a bright orange thread. Boyce put the knapsack on the ground, then tied the plastic bags together again. He picked up the knapsack, but did not unzip it.

  ‘This bag belonged to Mr Palumbo?’ Jessica asked.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And why is it in your possession?’

  Boyce went twitchy, perhaps anticipating something bad, something he hadn’t considered. Like a robbery charge. ‘He told me he wanted me to, you know, watch it for a while.’

  ‘Did he say why?’

  ‘He didn’t. I just figured he was going somewhere where his stuff might be, you know, at risk.’

  Jessica looked at the battered and stained bag. She couldn’t imagine it or its contents warranting any heightened measures of security. But one man’s treasure, right? ‘Did he say where he was going?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he say when he might be coming back for this?’

  ‘No. He didn’t say.’

  ‘Did he ever ask you to watch his things before?’

  Boyce shrugged. ‘Can’t say that he did. I mean, not a whole lot of people trust people out here, you know? Danny and me were tight and all, so I guess he thought his stuff was safe with me.’

  ‘Did you open the bag since he gave it to you?’

  ‘What? No, man. It ain’t my stuff. I got no business going in there.’

  Jessica didn’t fully buy into the code of the street, but for some reason she believed Thomas Boyce.

  ‘We’re going to need to take this with us,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah,’ Boyce said. ‘Sure. I mean, I figured.’

  He handed the bag to Jessica, who took it with a gloved hand, held it by the end of one of the straps.

  ‘Do you remember what Danny said to you?’ Byrne asked. ‘The very last thing he said?’

  Boyce thought about this for a few moments. ‘When he was walking away, up Tenth Street, he turned and yelled something to me. I was a little high at the time, and I remember it was kind of weird. But that was Danny, you know. He was always on about the devil this, the devil that.’

  ‘The devil?’

  ‘Yeah. He was a believer.’

  ‘He believed in the devil?’

  ‘Well, you believe in God, you believe in the devil, right?’

  ‘What about you, Mr Boyce?’ Byrne asked. ‘Do you believe in the devil?’

  Boyce laughed, but it was a nervous sound. ‘Shit, man. I got plenty of my own demons, right? I don’t need someone else’s, church or no.’

  ‘We may need to talk to you again,’ Jessica said. ‘Where can we get hold of you?’

  ‘Have your people call my people. We’ll do lunch.’ Boyce shook his head. ‘I’m homeless, man.’

  ‘Do you stay at shelters a lot?’

  ‘When there’s a bed. There ain’t always a bed. Plus, them places are dangerous. You might want to mention that to the mayor the next time you see him.’

  Jessica knew that a lot of homeless men did not like going to shelters, which they considered, rightfully so, to be risky. Especially the city-operated shelters. Not to mention that most shelters wanted their men to get into some kind of recovery program. The combination of these two things made most homeless men prefer to be out on the street. But some nights, code-blue nights – when the temperatures dropped below freezing – there wasn’t much choice.

  ‘I’ll tell him next time we play tennis,’ Jessica said. Boyce smiled. It wasn’t pretty. She handed the man her notebook and pen. ‘Write down the places you stay.’

  Boyce hesitated, then took the pad and pen. ‘Sometimes I stay at St Francis Inn,’ he said.

  Jessica knew the place. Located in Kensington, it was run by Franciscans on a fully volunteer basis. They also operated a thrift store and an urban center.

  Boyce wrote down the name and general addresses of three shelters in North Philly. Jessica looked at the list. Surprisingly, the man’s penmanship was legible, almost elegant.

  While Jessica put her notebook away, Byrne took out his camera phone.

  ‘Mr Boyce,’ Byrne said.

  Boyce turned to face Byrne. Byrne took the man’s picture.

  ‘Oh, now, that’s got to be some kind of violation of my civil rights,’ Boyce said.

  Jessica took out a business card, handed it to him. ‘Have your attorney contact me. In the meantime, if you think of something else, or you remember what Danny said to you on the last day you saw him, please give me a call.’

  Boyce took the card, looked into Jessica’s eyes. He fashioned what he probably figured was a charming expression. ‘Do you think there might be like a reward or something?’

  Jessica was suddenly downwind from Thomas Boyce. She wanted to move on. ‘There may be something in it for you. But that offer is only good for a few days.’

  This, of course, was n
ot true. There was no statute of limitations on homicide, and a tip that came in ten or twenty years after a murder would be followed up on. Boyce did not need to know this.

  The man perked at the possibility of a cash stipend. ‘I’ll ask around. I have an erudite and learned circle of acquaintances. You never know.’

  ‘You never know,’ Jessica echoed.

  With that, Thomas L. Boyce picked up his plastic swag bag, backed away from Jessica and Byrne a few paces – just to make sure it was okay to leave – then turned and walked up the alley.

  ‘You meet the most interesting people on this job,’ Jessica said.

  When Boyce was gone, Jessica and Byrne returned to the car. The line into St John’s had disappeared, reduced to just a few men in the small courtyard. The rest were now inside.

  Jessica unzipped the knapsack, and gently deposited the contents onto the hood of the Taurus. What she and Byrne saw were the sad remnants of a discarded life – a dirty pair of Levi’s, a ball of sweaters and T-shirts. It all had that monkey-house smell of body odor and disinfectant. There was a gray-bristle toothbrush with a broken handle, a small bar of soap wrapped in a paper towel, a few pamphlets for local shelters and free clinics. What they did not find was a reason that put Daniel Palumbo in the basement of that church. While Jessica went through the pockets of the Levi’s – all empty – she glanced at Byrne. He was standing at the back of the car, his distant stare in place. Of course, with Byrne, it was probably an inward glance.

  Byrne took out his phone, dialed, put it on speaker. Soon there was a click.

  ‘Hey, Kevin,’ Bontrager said over the speaker.

  ‘Where are you, Josh?’ Byrne asked.

  ‘I’m over at St Adelaide’s. We’re just wrapping up.’

  ‘You’ve searched the whole place?’

  ‘Everywhere.’

  ‘Did you go up in that bell tower?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Bontrager said. ‘Nothing up there.’

  ‘Could you check it again?’

  Pause. No detective liked to be told they had not done a thorough job, but Josh Bontrager held Byrne in such high esteem, he wasn’t about to question why. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘What am I looking for?’