The Killing Room

by Richard Montanari

  ‘A peccatis tuis.’

  Michelle felt a fingertip at the base of her throat. The touch was gentle, probing, almost sensual. Try as she wanted, Michelle could not recoil from its touch.

  ‘In nomine Patris.’

  The finger was replaced by something else. Something cold.

  ‘Et Filii.’

  In the last second of her life, in the hollow place between two breaths, Michelle Calvin knew what it was.

  ‘Et Spiritus Sancti.’

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Byrne walked into the office, a converted rowhouse on Thirteenth Street, at just before 10 a.m. The waiting room was standard issue – rugged loveseat and two chairs, all upholstered in a non-threatening navy blue fabric. Two cheap mall prints on the wall, also non-threatening. The woman behind the reception desk was mousy but efficient-looking, with dull brown hair, freshly scrubbed skin. She wore a twenty-year-old Timex. Her nametag identified her as Antonia.

  Byrne put on his best new-patient, not in the least bit crazy smile. Antonia looked up, returned a half-smile of her own.

  ‘Hi,’ Byrne said.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘I have a ten o’clock appointment with Dr Goodwin.’

  ‘Okay.’ She turned to her computer. ‘And your name?’

  And just how many people have a ten o’clock appointment with Dr Goodwin today? ‘Byrne,’ he said. ‘Kevin Byrne.’

  The woman typed for twenty seconds. Byrne couldn’t imagine that the appointment calendar was ten folders deep on the computer, but he waited patiently.

  ‘Here we are,’ the woman said. ‘Could you verify your full address and home phone number, please?’

  Deep breath. Calm, Kevin. He gave her his street address, and home number, which really wasn’t a phone at all, but rather a wire connected to an answering machine. He really didn’t want to get calls on that line, and Antonia reinforced the notion.

  ‘Could I get your full address, please?’ she asked. ‘Including the city and zip code?’

  Ah, Byrne thought. This was a test. They were testing his patience – his anger threshold – in the outer office. The session had already begun!

  ‘That would be Philadelphia, 19147.’

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘That’s in Pennsylvania.’

  The woman flicked him a chilly glance. ‘I assumed the Pennsylvania part.’

  Yet the 215 area code didn’t clue you in to the Philadelphia part. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well, then. Just have a seat. I’ll let Dr Goodwin know you’re here.’

  ‘Thanks, Antonia.’

  The woman bristled at the familiarity, but that was the effect Byrne was going for.

  He picked one of the chairs, cruised the rack of magazines. Harper’s, Real Simple, Web MD. All his favorites. Then again, keeping copies of Guns and Ammo probably wouldn’t be prudent, considering the number of psycho cops that came through here.

  After a surprisingly short period of time, Antonia came around her desk, opened the door to the inner office. ‘You can go right in.’

  Dr Sarah Goodwin was younger than Byrne expected. That was happening to him a lot lately. When you’re in your twenties, all the people who matter – doctors, lawyers, judges – are older. You want them to be older. Once you hit forty and the great beyonds the paradigm began to shift.

  Dr Goodwin was petite and graceful, with deep chestnut hair to her shoulders. She wore a smart black suit, white blouse.

  They introduced themselves, shook hands. All very clinical and professional.

  The inner office was small but comfortable, lacking any real warmth: de rigueur couch with roll arms, a pair of stern-looking chairs facing an uncluttered desk, a browning ficus in the corner. Byrne picked a chair. Dr Goodwin sat at the desk, turned the flat screen monitor to face her, out of Byrne’s line of sight.

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘How are you?’

  ‘You mean today, or in general?’

  ‘Let’s start with today.’

  ‘Today, not bad,’ Byrne lied. ‘I’d rather be at work, all things considered. No offense.’

  ‘None taken.’

  Byrne tried to settle in the chair. It was too small. ‘I’ve done this before, by the way,’ he said. ‘Twice.’

  ‘I know.’

  Of course, Byrne thought. Medical records last forever.

  ‘I’m not sure I got too much out of it either of those times,’ he added.

  ‘That’s okay. We’ll consider this a fresh start.’

  Fair enough, Byrne thought. ‘What would you like to talk about?’

  Dr Goodwin leaned back in her chair. ‘We can talk about anything you like.’

  ‘Well, I’d like to make our sessions worthwhile, but we both know this is a mandate. So maybe we should talk about the things that put me in this chair to begin with.’

  ‘Fine.’

  Byrne searched for the right words, found them. ‘Well, it seems there are some people in the department who think I have anger-management issues.’

  ‘Do you think you have problems with anger?’

  ‘Not at all. I get angry just fine. I think it comes naturally.’

  Dr Goodwin smiled. She was used to this kind of sparring. ‘Would you like to talk about the incident that precipitated this episode?’

  Episode. ‘Sure. What would you like to know?’

  ‘Why not tell me how the day began?’

  Byrne had to think about this. He knew, of course, that everything said in this room was confidential, but he also knew that this woman was going to make a recommendation to his bosses. He had to play this right. ‘I can’t really say too much about the case. It’s an ongoing investigation.’

  ‘I understand.’

  Byrne suddenly realized he was trying to play this woman, who was a lot better at this stuff than he was. ‘Okay. Confession time,’ he said. ‘The case involves the death of a child and I guess I do have issues when it comes to the murder of children.’

  ‘This is understandable, detective,’ Dr Goodwin said. ‘In your line of work, it has to come up quite often.’

  ‘It does. Too often, I’m sorry to say.’

  Byrne went on to describe his day, about his phone call to Gabriel and how he came to be in the same hallway with DeRon Wilson.

  ‘Did you feel threatened by Mr Wilson?’

  ‘Not at that moment, no. But he has a history of violence.’

  ‘How did you react?’

  Byrne decided to say it out loud. ‘I lost my temper. I accosted Mr Wilson, pinning him to the wall.’

  ‘Did you draw your weapon?’

  Byrne knew that she knew the answer to the question. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Even though Mr Wilson had not produced a weapon of his own.’

  ‘Yes. I felt the situation had the potential to escalate. There were a lot of people in that hallway, and I didn’t know what was coming.’

  ‘But you do feel that you lost your temper? That you reacted out of anger?’

  Fuck it, Byrne thought. Bring it on, Sarah Goodwin, MD.

  ‘Yeah. I did. The man is a slaver, a drug dealer. He’s done time for both. If, right now, someone was putting a bullet in his head, I’d have a nice dinner and sleep like a baby. Sorry, but true.’

  ‘Never be sorry for your feelings.’

  Dr Goodwin typed a few lines. Byrne was grateful for the pause. He wasn’t sure he had a lot more to say on the subject.

  ‘I understand that there have been a lot of retirements in the Homicide Unit of late,’ she said. ‘Has this had any effect on you that you’re aware of?’

  Byrne thought: This woman is good. ‘I don’t know. Maybe it has. I know I’m one of the older detectives still on the line.’

  ‘Does that bother you?’

  ‘Not really. See, I don’t think of myself as a man my age. But now that I’ve passed my twenty-five, maybe I am looking for a reason to stay. Maybe that reason, for me, is a kid like Gabriel. I may never see him again. He may go righ
t, he may go wrong. But I know he got dealt a shitty hand.’

  And then it happened. Byrne told her everything about Gabriel. The real reasons. The who, the why, the when. The doctor wrote it all down.

  ‘This is very commendable,’ she said.

  Byrne wasn’t sure what it was. ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I know you can’t tell me anything specific, or betray any confidences, but you see a lot of cops in here. What do they talk about? In general, I mean.’

  ‘Well, like a lot of people, they talk about fear.’

  Byrne nodded. ‘I think just the opposite.’

  ‘And what would that be?’

  ‘I’m not afraid anymore.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I think I am blessed,’ Byrne said. ‘By all rights, I shouldn’t even be here. I’ve been shot twice. I’ve been stabbed. I’ve been punched more times than I can count, sometimes even for good reasons. I’ve been given last rites. Twice. And yet I’m here. I have a job I love, a partner I love – a woman in whose hands I place my life everyday without hesitation. I have a father – who probably needs your services more than I do – who is healthy. I have a daughter who is bright and smart and beautiful and in possession of the biggest and most generous heart of anyone I have ever met. Dr Goodwin, you are looking at a man who lives in a state of grace.’

  ‘Do you believe in God, detective?’

  ‘I believe in God.’

  Dr Goodwin waited a few seconds, then typed the new information. When she was done she glanced at her watch. ‘I’m afraid our time is up for today.’

  ‘And I was just getting into it.’

  ‘Isn’t that the way?’ she said with a smile. Her entire demeanor changed when she smiled. ‘We need to see each other one more time before I submit my report. Would you like to make the appointment now?’

  Byrne pointed to the outer office. ‘You mean with my BFF Antonia out there?’

  Another smile. ‘You don’t have to make the appointment now.’

  Byrne thought about it. He really had no idea where the next few days would take him. ‘Can I call tomorrow when I have my calendar in front of me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Byrne sat in his car, wondering how he had done with the shrink. He had wanted to talk to her about Father Leone, about the passing of an era, about the long winter in his soul. He decided to keep all of that for next time. It had probably been a mistake to open up about Gabriel, but there was nothing he could do about that now.

  Maybe it was not a bad thing, Byrne thought as he pulled out into traffic. If something happened, at least someone would know the truth.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Sergeant Mateo Fuentes considered the Audio Visual Unit to be his own private fiefdom, a place with its own rules, its own methods and procedures, its own language. In his mid-thirties, Mateo Fuentes was precise in his manner and speech and dress, and considered visits by investigators and brass alike to be a personal affront. Nobody knew more about electronic surveillance than Mateo Fuentes. His personal library on the subject filled an entire wall in the unit.

  At just after noon Jessica and Byrne ventured into Mateo’s lair. He greeted them with stiff formality, and got right down to business. They stepped into an editing bay where two laptops sat on a table.

  ‘You see the most interesting things in the basement,’ Mateo said.

  Neither Jessica or Byrne had an argument for this. ‘What do we have?’ Jessica asked.

  Mateo held up a disc. ‘I got this from Detective Bontrager. He’s on the street now, but he wanted you to see it.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s surveillance footage from the night before the St Adelaide’s victim was found.’

  Mateo was talking about Danny Palumbo.

  ‘If you’re talking about the pole-cam footage, we’ve seen it,’ Byrne said.

  ‘We are not,’ Mateo said in his terse manner, apparently using the royal we. ‘This is new.’

  ‘Where did we get new footage?’ Byrne asked.

  ‘It seems Detective Caruso wielded her not inconsiderable charms on the owner of an auto-repair shop around the corner from St Adelaide’s. He let her see some of his equipment, as it were.’

  Mateo took the compact disc out of the paper sleeve and slipped it into the optical drive on one of the laptops. A few seconds later he cued up the video image.

  ‘According to Detective Caruso, the auto-body shop has four video surveillance cameras on the property. One of them is on a light pole diagonally across the street from the PPD pole cam.’

  ‘And this footage is from around ten o’clock on the night before Danny Palumbo’s body was found?’ Jessica asked.

  ‘It is.’ Mateo clicked on the image. It was grainy, and the light level was very low, but it looked usable. Mateo fast-forwarded through passing cars and people until he got to the mark he sought. He stopped the recording. ‘Now, if you check the time code here, it coincides with the pole-cam recording.’ Mateo opened a second laptop which displayed the footage taken by the police camera. ‘I synched up the two recordings to be within just a fraction of a second of each other.’

  Mateo started both recordings in slow motion. On the police-cam footage, with which Jessica and Byrne were familiar, they saw the hooded figure emerge from the alleyway, stand in front of St Adelaide’s, and mark the X on the lamppost, before exiting frame right. In the other footage the figure was not visible but its shadow was. Mateo rewound both recordings and played them again. As Jessica watched, she kept looking at the time codes, something nagging at her.

  After the third viewing she knew what it was.

  ‘You know what’s missing here?’ Jessica asked.

  ‘The woman you interviewed that day while I was in the bell tower,’ Byrne said.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Run it one more time,’ Byrne asked. Mateo ran both recordings again. When the image of the hooded figure reached the front of St Adelaide’s, Mateo stopped both recordings.

  The area where Mara Reuben said she was standing, in front of her mother’s house, was deserted. For her to have seen the figure in front of the church, she would’ve had to have been standing across the street, in front of that address, at that moment.

  There was no one there.

  ‘You want a copy of this?’ Mateo asked.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Jessica said. ‘It would –’

  With a flick of the wrist Mateo produced a disc.

  ‘You know me too well,’ Jessica said. She kissed him on the top of his head.

  Mateo lifted one corner of his mouth in an expression that, for anyone else, would be considered a smile. ‘Be careful,’ he said. ‘Once you go AV you never go back.’

  Jessica and Byrne thanked Mateo, walked up the steps, back to the homicide unit duty room.

  Jessica checked her notes, found Mara Reuben’s phone number, dialed it. It was out of order. There was no such number.

  ‘Let’s take a ride,’ Byrne said.

  Fifteen minutes later they stood on the corner, across the street from St Adelaide’s. They approached the house Mara Reuben said belonged to her mother. Byrne knocked on the door. An elderly black woman answered.

  ‘Yes?’ the woman asked. ‘Are you selling something?’

  ‘No, ma’am,’ Byrne said. ‘Do you know a woman named Mara Reuben?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Wrong address,’ Byrne said. ‘Sorry for the intrusion.’

  The woman looked at both of them suspiciously, and shut the door. Jessica heard three separate deadbolts turn. They walked back to the car.

  ‘She got my attention that day,’ Jessica said. ‘You were inside the church. She was standing right in front of that rowhouse and I thought she wanted to talk.’

  ‘And nothing about her story sounded shaky?’

  ‘Not a thing,’ Jessica said. ‘But now we know she lied about her phone number, and she lied about her mothe
r’s house. Not to mention being there in the first place.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Makes you wonder what else she lied about.’

  ‘Yes, detective. It does.’

  They headed back to the Roundhouse in silence. The investigations that comprised the task force – including detectives, CSU officers and laboratory technicians, working around the clock – probably involved close to one hundred people. Jessica thought about how one deranged person, one person with a deep and disturbing pathology, could manage to stay one step ahead of the collective wisdom and experience of so many people.

  In the parking lot at Eighth and Race Jessica’s cell phone rang. It was Hell Rohmer.

  ‘Hell, I’m going to put you on speaker,’ Jessica said.

  ‘Who am I on with?’

  ‘Just me and Detective Byrne.’

  ‘I have a break on that stone,’ Hell said. ‘The writing on it anyway.’

  ‘What do we have?’

  ‘Well, it took awhile – long for me, anyway – but the writing is Greek. It’s not particularly well written.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I don’t mean contextually. It’s only the one word, after all. What I mean is that, at this size, with the tool that was used, it’s not all that clear.’

  ‘Do we know what kind of tool?’

  ‘Not exactly. If there was trace evidence left by the tool, it was washed away with blood and saliva. Firearms are getting it back in a minute.’

  The Firearms Unit, also located at the lab, handled evidence related to tools and tool marks.

  ‘Anyway, because the characters were so primitively cut into the stone, it seemed like it matched a number of different words.’

  Hell stopped. Jessica figured he was going through his notes. When he didn’t continue, she realized he just wanted some sort of overture to his findings.

  ‘And what does the word say, Hell?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s a name. Ignatios.’

  ‘Could you spell that?’ Jessica asked.

  Hell did. ‘It’s Greek for Ignatius.’

  ‘Do you know anything else about it?’

  ‘Well, I can tell you that he was born in 1491 at the castle of Loyola, and died in Rome in 1556, and that –’