The Killing Room (34 page)

‘There is a lot of evil in the world, detective,’ Roland added.

Spoken by a true expert
, Jessica thought. ‘Evil is pretty much my business, Roland.’

‘As a man of the cloth, it is mine, too,’ he countered. ‘You may not know it, but I am pastor to many in here.’

‘So, what are you saying? That this phantom killer is God’s swift sword?’

No response.

‘Do you want to tell me how you knew where those bodies were buried five years ago?’ Jessica asked.

At this the door slammed open and James Tolliver entered.

‘My client agreed to this interview as a courtesy to the district attorney of Philadelphia,’ Tolliver said. ‘Reverend Hannah felt it was his civic duty. Having done this duty, this interview is now over.’

A few moments later, without another word, a corrections officer entered the room, helped Roland Hannah to his feet, and the man was led from the room.

When he was gone Tolliver turned his attention back to Jessica and Byrne.

‘I expect my client to be released into the custody of the Philadelphia County Sheriff later today. He will be held under house arrest, and undergo a psychiatric evaluation. If deemed competent, he will stand trial for the crimes he allegedly committed five years ago.’

‘And the current crimes?’ Byrne asked.

‘I’m sorry,’ Tolliver said. ‘Have I missed something? Has my client been charged with new crimes?’

Byrne stepped forward. ‘I know you don’t come cheap, Mr Tolliver.’

Tolliver smiled as he buttoned his expensive coat. ‘It’s all relative, detective. I’ve never known a homicide cop to refuse overtime.’

‘Roland Hannah doesn’t have a penny.’

The lawyer said nothing.

‘So who’s paying you?’ Byrne asked.

The lawyer smiled. ‘There are two reasons I won’t be answering that question.’

‘And they are?’

‘The first reason is that it is none of your business who is paying for my services. If, indeed, I am not here
pro bono
.’

‘And the second reason?’

Tolliver opened the door, turned, and said, ‘Now that you know the first, does it really matter?’

The corrections officer brought out the box of personal effects. Until Roland Hannah was released, these materials were
considered property of the Commonwealth, and therefore Jessica had jurisdiction, and the right, to examine them.

These were the things Roland Hannah had in his possession when he was arrested.

While Byrne made phone calls, alerting the bosses to what transpired, Jessica signed for the box, then took it to a small room next to the warden’s office. There wasn’t much to look through: dirty comb, a pair of used bus tickets, a battered wallet, a small wooden crucifix. Jessica opened the wallet. Inside was sixteen dollars, along with a page torn from the Bible. The 23rd Psalm.

Jessica opened the center of the wallet, lifted up the flap. Inside was a faded color photograph of a slender young girl, perhaps twelve or so. Behind the girl was a large truck. All Jessica could see was the beginning of the words painted on the side of the van, which looked to be HOLY and CARA. The girl held a flower in her hand.

Jessica flipped over the picture. On the back was a handwritten message.

DEAR MOMMA
,

I’VE SEED SO MANY THINGS. THE OHIO RIVER IS BIG. I KNOW DADDY DIED OF HIS LUNGS, BUT HE WERENT GOING TO HURT ME. NOT REALLY. I KNOW THAT. I AM HAPPY NOW WITH THE PREACHER. I HAVE THE SPIRIT IN ME, AND I HOPE EVERYONE IS DOING GAYLY. LOVE ALL WAYS
,

RUBY LONGSTREET

I wonder if she still holds the rose
, Roland Hannah had said.

He was talking about the girl in the photograph. Ruby. This
was the red-haired girl Ida-Rae Munson had spoken of, the one who had taken up with a preacher.

A preacher named Roland Hannah.

She had a devil-child.

FORTY-THREE

Byrne parked his car in front of St Gedeon’s. The posters announcing the upcoming demolition were affixed to the building itself, on the light poles, on the chain link fence that cordoned off the site. The building would be torn down in two days.

The knowledge filled Byrne with a deep sorrow. This had been the church of his youth. So much so that, in the neighborhood, they never called it St Gedeon’s. It was just
church
. Byrne had been baptized here, confirmed here, had made his first holy communion here.

He remembered Father Leone standing on the steps on Sunday mornings, on the hottest days of August and the frigid days of February, saying goodbye to his flock, as well as noticing – and cataloguing – who didn’t come to mass.

Byrne also remembered the call he had gotten that morning, the day Father Leone discovered The Boy in the Red Coat sitting in the last pew.

*

Byrne half-ran to the front doors of Villa Maria. The wind was bitterly cold and he had not brought a hat or a scarf or gloves with him.

As soon as the automatic doors opened he was greeted by the institutional smells of disinfectant and cafeteria foods – most notably, creamed corn and applesauce. He was also welcomed by a blast of warm, humid air.

He walked to the front desk, blowing into his hands. The woman standing guard was not the same one he and Jessica had talked to. This woman was older. She had a round, pleasant face, bright henna-treated hair. Her plastic nametag read
SANDI
.

‘Still cold out there?’ she asked.

‘Brutal.’

‘How can I help you?’

‘I’m here to see Father Leone. He’s in 303.’

The woman just stared at him. She said nothing.

‘Father Leone?’ Byrne repeated. ‘Father
Thomas
Leone?’

Still nothing, but now the woman began to worry the edge of the envelope in her hands.

‘Old guy?’ Byrne continued. ‘Kind of a Spencer Tracy meets Dracula?’

‘Are you a member of his family?’

Odd question, Byrne thought. But one fraught with peril. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Just a friend.’

‘Father Leone passed away last night.’

The words hit Byrne like a roundhouse punch. Yes, the man was in his nineties, in frail health, took a dozen medications a day, and was plugged into an oxygen tank. Still, Byrne was surprised. Father Leone was supposed to live forever. All priests were.

‘I was just here. He seemed …’
Old and frail
, if the truth be told. But Byrne said it anyway. ‘He seemed fine.’

‘It happened during the night. I came on at six, and he had already passed,’ the woman said. ‘As to cause, I’m afraid I don’t know. He didn’t have any living brothers or sisters, so I don’t think anyone is going to order an autopsy.’

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.