The Killing Room

by Richard Montanari

  Byrne suddenly felt hollowed out, as if his entire childhood had been torn away and discarded. The memories of his time at St Gedeon’s came flooding back, the good and the bad, all of it shadowed by the recent, indelible image of Father Thomas Leone’s slight shoulders in that cheap cardigan.

  ‘If you want, you can call the morgue,’ the woman said, taking a pen out of a cup on the desk, grabbing a scratch pad. ‘The medical examiner’s office is there, and when his body is transferred later today you could probably –’

  ‘I’m a police officer,’ Byrne said with a little more vitriol than he intended. He instantly regretted it. He backed off on his tone. ‘I’m a city detective.’

  The woman stopped writing on the pad. ‘Your name wouldn’t be Byrne, would it?’

  ‘It would.’

  ‘Detective Kevin Byrne?’

  ‘Yes.’ Byrne had no idea why she was asking. All he wanted to do was run as fast as he could out of this place of sickness, old age, and crippling illness, to put miles between himself and these thoughts of slow, lingering death.

  ‘He left a package for you.’

  ‘Father Leone did?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It was on his nightstand. It was addressed to you.’

  ‘Do you have it?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the woman said. ‘One of the volunteers here had an appointment near the Roundhouse. I sent it along with her. I didn’t know you were coming.’

  ‘Do you know what is in the package?’

  Now the woman looked offended. She took a half-step back, started to cross her arms, stopped. She smoothed the front of her colorful floral smock, looked Byrne straight in the eyes. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I didn’t open it. It wasn’t addressed to me.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Byrne said. ‘That was rude of me.’

  The woman’s expression softened.

  ‘Did you say he has not yet been transferred?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Would it be okay if I saw him?’ Byrne asked. ‘Just to …’

  For some reason, the words say goodbye could not come out. It had been a long time since emotion stole his ability to speak.

  ‘Sure,’ Sandi said, picking up a phone. ‘I’ll have an attendant bring you down.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Byrne said. ‘I won’t be long.’

  ‘You take your time. You just take your time.’

  The room was on the ground floor, near the back. Byrne walked in, closed the door behind him. The walls were bare, with a simple wooden crucifix over the bed.

  The body beneath the sheet looked so small. How was this possible? Father Thomas Angelo Leone was a man who put the fear and grace of God into hundreds, if not thousands, of South Philly kids, a man who not only taught you to fight your battles inside the ring – with rules – but sometimes slipped on the 16-ounce gloves himself. Byrne recalled that there were a couple of pictures in the priest’s house at St Gedeon’s of ‘Battling’ Tommy Leone in his late teens, clad in just-pressed satin trunks, sleek and muscular, the way only young men can be, giving his best John Garfield to the lens.

  Now he was a small body under a sheet that had been washed so many times it was almost translucent. Byrne wondered if it had originally been blue or green. There was no way to tell.

  Byrne steeled himself, took a deep breath, pulled back the sheet. It was an action he had performed many times in his career in homicide, but this was different. This was personal.

  He looked down. Father Leone’s old and weather-worn face was at peace, he thought.

  Byrne closed his eyes for a moment, remembered his first confession. It had not occurred to him at the time – or to any of them for that matter, any of the rough-and-tumble kids in his class – that Father Leone knew them all by their voices, would forever know them by their sins.

  Byrne opened his eyes, wondered what Father Leone’s sins were, if the old man had gotten his last rites.

  He took the old man’s hand and –

  – saw the darkness rise up in front of him, a tidal wave of blackness so large it dwarfed the city of his birth, a wave given rise by –

  – The Boy in the Red Coat.

  Byrne shook off the feeling, bent over, kissed the old man gently on his forehead. He covered the body, stepped into the hallway, closed the door. He put his hand on the glass pane. ‘Rest well, Father,’ he said. ‘Rest well.’

  By the time Byrne stepped back outside the temperature had dropped another few degrees. He looked up. Overhead, dark clouds gathered. That was okay with Byrne. The sun shouldn’t shine on a day such as this.

  In the parking lot Byrne called in, got an update. The Crime Scene Unit had scoured every inch of St Ignatius’s, checking for loose stones, unscrewing switch plates, overturning tiles. Bontrager said the team had found nothing that might point to the next crime scene, the next victim.

  It had to be there, Byrne thought. He was sure of it.

  He stood in the cold of the parking lot, letting the frigid air numb the grief he felt over the death of his old friend. It was still hard to believe.

  What was in the package Father Leone had left him?

  Byrne was just about to head back to the Roundhouse when his cell phone beeped. He took it out. It was an SMS message.

  The message took a few moments to download, but when it did Byrne had to look twice to make sure he was seeing it right.

  The text line read:

  HOW U LIK ME NOW???!!!

  Beneath the subject line was a photograph, a picture of a young boy tied to a chair. The boy’s eyes were wide with fear. It was someone Byrne knew.

  The message was from DeRon Wilson.

  The boy in the chair was Gabriel Hightower.

  FORTY-FOUR

  Jessica knew she would be pulling a double tour, and since she didn’t have time for even a power nap, she decided the next best thing was a workout.

  By the time she gloved up she had put in thirty hard minutes on the treadmill and weights. She would be doing two rounds of sparring with her pal Valentine Rhames, who had consented to come in after her classes at Temple. Or kindergarten. Or whatever the hell it was she did during the day. As Jessica stepped into the ring she noticed that the skin of the young woman across from her was bone dry.

  Oh, the arrogance of youth, Jessica thought.

  The thought of youth brought Jessica’s mind to Cecilia Rollins, and everything that the little girl would never know. She would never know her first kiss. She would never know her first heartbreak.

  The fact that Roland Hannah would be walking out of Graterford any minute – granted, in the custody of a county detective – made Jessica even angrier.

  The sound of the bell brought her back. Jessica moved to center ring, dropped her left shoulder. The feint drew the kid in, seeing the opportunity to launch a lead right hand. Jessica was perfectly positioned. She shifted her weight and threw a monstrous left hook. When she made contact she knew. It was like when baseball players hit the ball on the sweet spot. They don’t even have to watch it go sailing over the fence. They knew.

  Valentine Rhames dropped to the canvas.

  Down. And. Out.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Jess,’ Joe Hand said, stepping into the ring. ‘It’s supposed to be a workout.’

  Jessica walked to a neutral corner. A minute later Valentine’s trainer had the girl seated on the stool, headgear off. Valentine was sweating, puffing hard, but fine.

  Jessica bounced across the ring, looked into the young woman’s dazed eyes, bumped gloves and said, ‘Thanks for the workout, ma’am.’

  Philadelphia, Jessica thought as she pulled off the gloves and headed for the shower, don’t fuck with me tonight.

  She stood at the counter at Starbucks, fixing her coffee, her mind a deadfall of thoughts about the case. It was one of the reasons she did not see the person who came up next to her. This was not good. She was distracted.

  ‘All the best-looking women read the Daily News.’

  She turned to t
he voice. It was a young man, twenties, well dressed, nice looking. He was pointing at Jessica’s folded copy of the News on the counter.

  ‘Oh, I don’t read it,’ Jessica said. ‘I just use it to sneak my handguns onto the bus. Easier than using the Inquirer.’

  The young man laughed. He put his coffee down, took off the lid, added two sugars. ‘I have a little bit of a problem. Would it be terribly rude of me to ask your advice on something?’

  ‘Not terribly,’ Jessica said. ‘Only somewhat.’

  Another smile. ‘Okay. Well. It’s my daughter’s birthday today. I have to get her something, and I’m totally clueless.’ He took out his wallet, removed a picture. It was a photograph of a girl of about eight standing in front of Sacred Heart of Jesus school.

  ‘She goes to Sacred Heart?’ Jessica asked.

  ‘Yes. It’s the school over on –’

  ‘Moyamensing. I know where it is.’

  The young man looked at the photograph for a few more moments, put it away. ‘Anyway, I’ve got to get her something. Any idea what she might like? Since the divorce she’s been living with her mother and I’m a bit out of the loop.’

  Jessica glanced at her watch. ‘You know, I’d love to stay and chat, but I’ve got about ten minutes to get to Eighth and Race.’

  ‘I could give you a ride, if you like.’

  Jessica turned to face him fully. ‘Could you now?’

  He smiled, pointed to a car parked at a meter a few doors down the street. ‘I’d be happy to. My car is right there. We could talk on the way.’

  Jessica put the lid back on her coffee. ‘You know, I usually don’t ride with strange men, but I think I’ll take you up on that offer.’

  ‘I’m really not that strange,’ he said. ‘Promise.’

  ‘I just need to hit the ATM next door. I’ll be right back.’

  ‘I’ll be right here.’

  Jessica hesitated. ‘Damn.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I was going to get a scone, but I forgot.’ She fished around her jeans pocket. ‘Could you get one for me?’

  The young man held up a hand. ‘I would be happy to. My treat.’

  ‘You’re a doll.’

  Jessica grabbed her coffee and her copy of the Daily News. She walked out of the Starbucks, made a right turn, skirting pedestrian traffic. By the time she reached the ATM machine she had the knife in her hand.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Shane Adams stood on the sidewalk, hands on his hips. His right front tire was flat. Not low, flat. Even from a few feet away he could see the neat slice in the side.

  On the way to examine the tire situation a little more closely he looked at the windshield. Underneath one of the wipers was what appeared to be a business card. Shane picked it up, looked at it. The front of the card read:

  DETECTIVE JESSICA BALZANO

  PHILADELPHIA POLICE DEPARTMENT, HOMICIDE DIVISION

  He flipped the card over. There was a message written on the back in blue ink:

  Shane: Your meter’s expired. I called PPA. Don’t worry, the ticket shouldn’t be more than $40. Enjoy the scone! P.S.: She might like a subscription to Muse.

  Shane Adams looked both ways, up and down Walnut Street. Jessica Balzano was, of course, gone. He was just about to walk around his car to the trunk, and his spare, when he sensed a presence to his left. He spun around. There, standing at the back of his car, was a Philadelphia Parking Authority officer.

  Jessica Balzano wasn’t kidding. In addition to the flat tire, he was getting a ticket.

  Fucking bitch.

  FORTY-SIX

  When Jessica arrived at the Roundhouse the desk officer pointed to a woman standing on the other side of the lobby holding a large white envelope in her hands. The woman, Jessica was told, had asked for Kevin, who no one, including Jessica, seemed to be able to reach. The duty officer said she told the woman that she could just leave the package, that it would be safe, but the woman was adamant, and insisted on waiting for Kevin.

  Jessica crossed the room, introduced herself.

  ‘I’m Detective Byrne’s partner. How can I help you?’

  The woman was clearly distraught about something. ‘They said he wasn’t here.’

  ‘No,’ Jessica said. ‘He’s on assignment. But maybe I can help you.’

  The woman turned the nine by twelve envelope over in her hands. She remained silent.

  ‘If you have something for Detective Byrne, I’d be happy to pass it along to him.’

  ‘Well, I guess it would be okay to give it to you.’

  Jessica took the envelope from the woman, glanced at it. It was addressed to Detective Kevin Byrne in a very shaky hand. The logo in the upper left hand corner was familiar. It belonged to Villa Maria.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Jessica said. ‘Who is this from exactly?’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  This was getting stranger by the second, Jessica thought. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean. Sorry about what?’

  ‘About Father Leone.’

  ‘What about him?’

  The woman started to tear up. ‘He passed away. I thought you knew.’

  Jessica felt the air leave the room. The sweet old man she had just met, the man who had occupied such an important part of Kevin Byrne’s past, was now gone. ‘May I ask what happened?’

  The woman reached into her tote bag, brought out a lace handkerchief. She dabbed her eyes. ‘He passed away in the night. He wanted Detective Byrne to have whatever is in the envelope. I mean, I know he was old, and in poor health, but it’s still a shock to me. Especially after Detective Byrne’s visit. I’ve never seen Father Leone so happy, so energized. Whatever Detective Byrne said to him meant a lot.’

  On the way upstairs Jessica tried calling Byrne again. She got his voicemail. Sometimes it was absolutely infuriating the way he would turn off his phone when he was on duty. She texted him a call me immediately message, then paged him for good measure.

  Jessica sat at her desk, still reeling from the encounter in the lobby. Sometimes it seemed like she was constantly surrounded by death. She sifted through her message slips. Nothing pressing. Before she could return a call her cell phone rang in her hand. It was Maria Caruso.

  ‘Hi, Maria.’

  ‘Looks like we’ll be working together tonight.’

  ‘You talked to the boss?’

  ‘Yeah. Dana said Kevin called in sick. I’ll lay it out when I see you. We’re on surveillance duty.’

  Sick? Jessica didn’t buy it. Something was up. She decided to try Byrne again as soon as she hung up with Maria. ‘Where are you?’

  Maria told her.

  ‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’

  Their first assignment was staking out St Barnabas’s, a closed church in North Philly. The building had a recessed central pavilion flanked by a pair of tall, arched windows. It was a smaller version of St Augustine’s, the historic church designed by Nicholas Fagan.

  When Jessica and Maria arrived they parked on Fourth Street, did a quick visual inspection of the exterior and the grounds. The doors were locked and chained, the windows intact. By the time they returned to the car, and settled in, it was dark.

  The temptation during a stakeout, especially at night, was to drink a gallon of coffee, but that always meant being near a bathroom. It was one thing for male detectives, quite another for females. For now Jessica and Maria set up with high-sugar treats, small binoculars, and plenty of time.

  Josh Bontrager, Dre Curtis, and Bobby Tate were all within a seven block radius, along with another dozen detectives from both the Fugitive and Special Investigation Unit squads. All sector cars, city-wide, were on alert to double up their patrols in and around the closed churches.

  ‘You guys have been partners a long time,’ Maria said. ‘You and Kevin.’

  Although homicides were assigned to a single detective, and there were no departmental rules that said you had to work with a specific partn
er – or any partner at all, Jessica could name a half-dozen detectives who were so ornery or sloppy in their work habits that they worked mostly alone – most detectives found another one in the unit and gravitated toward that person.

  ‘Yeah,’ Jessica said. ‘About seven years now.’

  As soon as she said seven years it hit her that time was really passing. Her first case was the Rosary Killer, and now she was on another case to which the underpinnings and tenets of the Catholic Church were undeniably connected.

  ‘I never really thought I would get here,’ Maria said.

  ‘You mean the Homicide Unit?’

  ‘Yeah. The clock never stops, does it?’

  Jessica thought back to her first harrowing days in the unit. If it hadn’t been for Byrne she probably wouldn’t have lasted six months. Who was she kidding? More like six weeks. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It really doesn’t.’

  ‘I worked a case, three months ago. The kid on that playground in Point Breeze.’

  Jessica knew the case. A nine-year-old boy was the victim of a drive-by shooting. ‘I remember,’ she said. ‘That was a bad one.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. I had to do the notification. It was my first. I was a total wreck.’

  Jessica recalled her first notification as a homicide detective. The victim’s name was Tessa Ann Wells. ‘I’m sure you did just fine.’

  ‘I don’t know about that. The mother went absolutely crazy. I mean, it’s understandable and everything – she’d just lost her boy. But I kept thinking that if I had worded it a little differently, or taken another approach, maybe it would have gone a little better.’

  ‘There are only so many words,’ Jessica said. ‘All you can do is be there for them.’

  Maria looked out the window for a few moments. ‘I wasn’t there when they arrested the kid who did the shooting. Fugitive squad took him down.’ Maria toyed with the string that hung from her hoodie. ‘I heard they had to draw their weapons. Not sure how I would have handled that.’