The Killing Room Read online

  Finally Cochrane emerged, a manila file folder in hand. He took Jessica to the side, extracted two photos from the folder. One was a close-up of the back of an infant’s leg.

  ‘This is Ceci,’ Cochrane said. The photograph showed a deep purple bruise, just at the top of the right calf. ‘That’s her nickname, of course. Her full name is Cecilia.’

  ‘This is Adria Rollins’s baby?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Jessica studied the photograph. ‘And this bruise is the result of abuse?’

  ‘Hard to tell,’ Cochrane said. ‘If a baby comes back with other evidence, we’ll have this record, then we make the call to Children’s Services. As I’m sure you know, unless the abuse is flagrant – which this is not – there has to be a pattern of abuse before a case can be made.’

  With this Cochrane took out the other photograph, turned it over.

  The plummeting feeling in Jessica’s stomach was instant, and debilitating. It took every ounce of her strength, and every moment of her training, not to break down in tears. The photograph in front of her was of the baby they had found frozen to death in that shuttered church.

  There was no doubt in her mind.

  She now had a name to go with the face that she was sure would live in a dark corner of her mind for a very long time, long after this case was closed.

  The dead little girl’s name was Cecilia.

  SIXTEEN

  They sat at a table at the Subway on Frankford Avenue, near Cottman. It was between the lunch and dinner hours, and the regulars had not yet descended on the place. At this hour, the restaurant was nearly empty.

  Byrne found himself covertly checking his pager every few minutes, hoping he wasn’t being obvious about it. The cases weighed heavily on his mind, but there was a team on it, and he knew if something broke he would get a phone call. He had his phone on vibrate, but it was on. When he decided to become Gabriel Hightower’s Philly Brother he knew there were going to be times like this, times when he should be chasing shadows instead of taking the days off he had coming. On the other hand, they had no hot leads at the moment, and the dead stay dead.

  Gabriel was alive.

  ‘What did you think of the movie?’ Byrne asked. Gabriel had lobbied for every R-rated film on the roster, regardless of subject matter. In the end, Byrne picked a PG-13 action film, hoping that the action, and the sex, were muted. They were, as were much of the plot, characterization, and wit.

  Gabriel shrugged. This time, Byrne noticed, it was only a one-shoulder shrug. Maybe they were making progress.

  ‘It was okay,’ Gabriel said.

  ‘Just okay? Is that better than a’ight?’

  Gabriel smiled, his first bona fide grin. ‘I liked the part where that old guy wasted that kid. That was cold, man.’

  They sat in silence for a few moments, sipping their sodas through straws. Gabriel made bubbles. A pair of teenaged girls sat at the next table. Gabriel tried to make eyes without making eyes. Byrne remembered that stage very well.

  ‘So, you never told me how you got that nickname G-Flash,’ Byrne said. ‘Are you a photographer or something?’

  Another smile. ‘Nah, it’s because I’m fast, man.’

  ‘Are you now.’

  ‘For real. But my brother, Terrell, he was real fast. Like lightning fast. He got medals and everything.’ Gabriel began to fold and unfold the wax paper his sandwich came in. Byrne just listened. ‘I remember this one time, when I was just little, maybe five or six or something, we had this dog. Real ratty-lookin’ thing. Called it Bitley.’

  Byrne smiled. ‘Bitley? Where’d the dog get a name like that?’

  Another one-shoulder shrug. This time the left. ‘Wasn’t my idea. Came with the dog, I guess.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘But this dog was fast. When he got out the door, he would be all the way up the street to the Boulevard before you knew it, right? Come home in a hour all dirty and shit.’

  Gabriel looked up, realizing he swore. Byrne took no notice.

  ‘So this one time … time when Terrell was training for the state finals? He’s in the front, and I come out and leave the door open by accident? Bitley come outta the house like a bullet, man. Well, Terrell he ran after it, and caught it. Can you believe that? Outran a dog, man.’ Gabriel finished his Coke with a loud flourish, rattled the ice. ‘You gotta be fast to do that.’

  There was a lot Byrne wanted to ask the kid about his brother, about life. For now he was content to listen. The kid was talking, and that was a good thing.

  After a few more moments of silence, Gabriel asked, ‘So how come you became a cop?’

  Byrne had a very long, convoluted answer to this, so he had to think of a short version. ‘Well, it was a different time when I came up. I guess I looked at it as a way to do something for the city, you know? Do something to make it a better place.’

  Byrne realized this sounded like a recruitment pamphlet, but when Gabriel just nodded, he realized it was probably adequate for the time being.

  ‘What about you?’ Byrne asked. ‘Ever think about what you want to do for a living someday?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘What do you think you might want to do?’

  ‘I don’t know. Architect or something. I like to draw. I like to build things.’

  ‘An architect, huh?’ Byrne said, thinking to himself how expensive the tuitions for that were. The kid didn’t have much of a shot at it. Maybe with a full scholarship it would happen. ‘That’s great.’

  Byrne heard the door open, turned to look. A pair of young priests entered the restaurant. Byrne glanced over at Gabriel. He sat a little straighter. Byrne thought it odd. He decided to ask, in a roundabout way.

  ‘So are the folks at the foster home religious?’

  ‘Nah,’ Gabriel said. ‘Not really.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘A little bit. I remember Terrell used to pray before every track meet. He prayed to St Sebastian.’

  ‘Why St Sebastian?’

  ‘Said he was the saint of athletes or something.’

  You learn something new every day, Byrne thought. ‘You’re Catholic?’

  ‘My real mom was,’ Gabriel said. ‘I don’t remember her too good, though. I was just little when she passed. I don’t know what I am.’

  Byrne had been in his late thirties when his mother died. He still missed her every day. He wondered what his teenaged years would have been like without her. Would he be a different man today? There was little doubt of that.

  ‘How ’bout you? You Catholic?’ Gabriel asked.

  ‘Oh, yeah. I went to Catholic school and everything.’

  Gabriel nodded. At his age, where you went to school meant everything. Along with what sneaks you wore, what labels were sewn into your clothes, and which cell phone you used. It pretty much told the world everything they needed to know about you.

  ‘Do you go to church?’ Gabriel asked.

  Now it was Byrne’s turn to shrug. He suddenly felt as if he had to defend himself. Maybe he did. Maybe he should have to defend himself, not that he had a valid argument in his arsenal. ‘Not as often as I’d like.’

  Gabriel smiled. ‘Somethin’ stopping you?’

  Damn, Byrne thought. Nothing gets by this kid. ‘You’re right. Nothing’s stopping me.’ Byrne balled up the wax paper on the table, tossed it expertly into a nearby can. ‘Tell you what, I’ll go if you go.’

  ‘Okay.’

  The kid put out a fist to bump. They were making progress.

  This time Byrne dropped Gabriel at the foster home. Pulled right up out front, large as life. Byrne got out, walked around the car. He knew he was being watched. There were two runners on the corner. He turned and looked at the apartment building across the street. He saw a shadow in the window on the third floor. By the time Byrne opened the door for Gabriel he saw the kid on the corner move out of his sight, taking out his cell phone. If there was one thing an unmarked detective sedan wa
s in this part of the city, it was a clearly marked police car.

  Byrne and Gabriel walked up the steps to the front door.

  ‘So, I’ll call you in the next couple days or something?’ Byrne asked.

  ‘Cool.’

  By the time Byrne got back down to the street he saw one of the thugs from the corner standing behind his car. The kid was trying to look casual, invisible. But Byrne could see that he had his cell phone in hand, and that the front of the phone was pointed at the rear end of the department-issue Taurus. The kid was trying to take a picture of Byrne’s license plate.

  ‘Something I can help you with?’

  The kid seemed surprised at Byrne’s speed at getting down the steps and across the sidewalk. Before he could stop himself, the kid flicked a glance to the third-floor window across the street, then back at Byrne.

  ‘Just crossing the street, man,’ the kid said.

  ‘You mean jay walking across the street. Now that’s illegal. You wouldn’t want to break the law, would you?’

  Byrne pulled back the hem of his coat, revealing the badge on his belt. He knew the kid already knew he was a cop, but it never hurt to show your hand. The kid tried to hold Byrne’s gaze, but gave up after a second. He backed onto the curb slowly, then turned and strolled to the corner. Before getting back in the car, Byrne checked the window across the street. The shade was now down.

  Byrne then glanced at the foster home. Gabriel was in the front-room window. He had seen the whole exchange. Byrne lifted a hand to wave. To Byrne’s relief, Gabriel waved back.

  Byrne slipped into the car, waited to pull out into traffic. He looked down at the passenger seat. There he saw a small white object, and had to smile.

  It was an origami eagle.

  Byrne drove to St Damian’s, parked across the street. The building was still a crime scene, still ringed with bright yellow tape.

  I will give thee a crown of life.

  These words had come to him the day they found the prayer card at St Adelaide’s. How had he known the crown referred to the bell tower? How had he known to send Josh to look there?

  The truth was, he had not. Not with any certainty. It was a feeling he’d had, and it had been right.

  But no feeling like this had come to him about St Damian’s. Not yet. For some reason he could not shake the notion that there was another clue inside this old stone church, a calling card telling them where to look next. He would come back to this place soon, he thought. Or maybe he would find himself here.

  By the time Byrne reached Eighth Street, his pager vibrated for the fourth time. It was Jessica. He flipped his phone, speed-dialed her number. She answered in half a ring.

  ‘What’s up?’ Byrne asked.

  ‘We found the baby’s mother.’

  ‘How did you track her down?’

  Jessica filled him in on her visit to the clinic.

  ‘Where are you?’ Byrne asked.

  ‘Twelfth and Lehigh.’

  ‘I’ll pick you up.’

  As Byrne approached the corner of Twelfth and Lehigh he saw that Jessica was pacing. She only paced when she was upset. For Jessica it was like opening a steam valve. Byrne pulled over, Jessica got in.

  Byrne pointed to the ramshackle building.

  ‘That’s the clinic?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ Jessica said. She told him about Ted Cochrane, and the rest of the details she had learned at the clinic.

  ‘This LPN treated the baby?’

  ‘He said that they suspected some kind of abuse, but they couldn’t be sure.’

  ‘What kind of abuse?’

  ‘The baby had a bruise on the back of one of her legs. It was hard to tell from the photograph.’

  As they drove toward Fifth Street Jessica found that she had tightened her hands into fists. It had not gone unnoticed to Byrne. He put a hand on her forearm for a moment. She knew what he was trying to communicate. You go into an interview with anger and you come out with nothing.

  ‘When I got the mother’s name I called it in,’ Jessica said, trying to calm down. ‘Maria ran it.’

  ‘The mother’s got a sheet?’

  ‘No criminal record. But she has been institutionalized a few times for mental disorders.’

  ‘How bad?’

  ‘One time it was for more than a month.’

  ‘In other words …’

  ‘Yeah,’ Jessica said. ‘Bad.’

  ‘Why do you think it’s our baby?’

  Jessica reached into her portfolio, took out the color photograph Ted Cochrane had given her. At a red light Byrne took it, studied it.

  ‘That’s her, isn’t it?’ Jessica asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ Byrne said. ‘That’s her.’

  SEVENTEEN

  The apartment building was a low-rise, brown-brick building on Fifth Street. Jessica and Byrne parked the car, entered. There was no security door through which they needed to be buzzed in. Jessica noted that many of the mailboxes in the lobby were pried and dented. An old Dymo label identified the Rollins apartment as number six.

  As they rounded the corner on the second floor, heading to the last apartment on the left, they smelled it. It was unmistakable. The stench of death filled the hallway.

  ‘I’ll get the super,’ Byrne said.

  Jessica bunched the collar of her coat over her nose and mouth and eased herself to the door of apartment number six. She knocked, listened. Nothing. She knocked again, announced herself.

  No one came to the door.

  Jessica again put her ear against the door and listened. From inside, faintly, she heard music. It was a child’s song, one that she remembered from her own childhood. Because it was so faint she could not quite put a name to it, even though it was familiar. She doubted that it was the radio. The sound was scratchy, like an old record from another era.

  Other than this sound she heard nothing – no voices, no television, no footsteps moving around the apartment. She eased her hand onto the doorknob, gave it a slight turn. The door was locked. There were no deadbolts on the door, just the old skeleton-type key hole.

  She glanced down the hallway. She was alone. Keeping the collar of her coat over her mouth and nose, she got down onto one knee and looked through the keyhole. She couldn’t see much, but putting her face this close to the small opening gave her a much stronger smell of decomposing flesh.

  There was a dead body in this apartment.

  A few seconds later Byrne came down the hallway with an older man whom Jessica assumed was the superintendent of the building. He wore a heavy coat and pilled woolen mittens. On his head was a filthy ball cap.

  Jessica walked halfway down the hall to meet them.

  ‘Edward Turchek, this is my partner, Detective Balzano.’

  The man grunted a greeting.

  ‘Can you tell us who lives in apartment number six?’ Jessica asked.

  ‘Just old Duke Rollins,’ Turchek said.

  ‘Alone?’

  He shook his head. ‘Sometimes his granddaughter lives with him. When she’s not … you know.’

  ‘No, we don’t know,’ Jessica said. ‘Why don’t you tell us?’

  ‘Well, it’s just that she’s a little bit … you know.’ The man made a twirling motion by the temple on the right side of his head, the universal hand gesture meaning crazy.

  ‘This is Adria you’re talking about? Adria Rollins?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Turchek said. ‘That’s her name. Adria.’

  ‘And you’re saying she has some mental health issues?’ Jessica asked.

  The man snorted a laugh. No one joined him. He cleared his throat. ‘Yeah. You could say that.’

  ‘And you say she is the man’s granddaughter? Not his great-granddaughter?’ Jessica asked.

  ‘Granddaughter, great-granddaughter, I don’t know. Duke is pretty old.’

  ‘Have any of the neighbors complained about the smell?’

  Turchek pulled a face. ‘What smell?’

  Jes
sica looked at Byrne, back. ‘When was the last time you saw anyone go in or out of this apartment?’

  ‘Not for a while, I guess. I pretty much mind my own business here.’

  Jessica looked up at the peeling paint on the walls, the cracked and taped window at the end of the hall, the bootlegged electric and cable TV wires stapled to the ceiling, the uneven floorboards in the hallway.

  I bet you do, Jessica thought.

  ‘Do you know if Mr Rollins or Adria are home now?’ Jessica asked.

  ‘No idea,’ the man said. ‘Did you knock?’

  Jessica’s eyes burned a hole in the man’s forehead until he looked away.

  ‘We’re going to need to get into this apartment,’ she said. ‘Do you have a master key?’

  The man ran a hand over his stubbled chin. ‘I don’t know if I’m allowed to do that.’

  Byrne took a step toward the man, backing him to the wall.

  ‘I’m looking at a half-dozen building code violations, and that’s just the shit I can see from here,’ Byrne said. ‘Now, just based on the odor you don’t seem to be able to smell, we can take down that door. That’s plenty of probable cause. If you want to spend the rest of the day repairing the damage, then deal with L & I, who I’m going to contact right now, you are welcome to it. Your call.’

  ‘I got the key right here,’ the man said. But he didn’t move.

  When Byrne stepped to the side the man all but ran down to the end of the hall. He put the key in the lock, turned it. He opened the door a few inches, slipped to the side.

  Jessica and Byrne stepped up to the doorway. Jessica knocked again, this time on the jamb. No footsteps. Just the children’s song, which had started over again.

  Byrne pushed the door. ‘Philadelphia Police!’ he said.

  No answer.

  Ahead of them, against the far wall, was an old cranberry red sofa. On it were three or four dirty gray bed sheets, a pair of flat bed pillows with large grease stains in the center. In front of the sofa was a chipped maple coffee table with stacked plastic trays from a few dozen microwave dinners. To the left was a 1970s vintage console television, tuned to a game show, sound all the way down.