ELEVEN
In the days following the discovery of Daniel Palumbo’s body in the basement of the North Philadelphia building that once housed St Adelaide’s, the Homicide Unit interviewed more than three dozen people who either knew Palumbo, or had been in the neighborhood at the time.
Ultimately, they learned nothing about Danny Palumbo’s movements the day he either voluntarily went, or was led, to the abandoned church where ten days later he would die.
The medical examiner performed an autopsy on the victim, and the official cause of death was ruled exsanguination, meaning Palumbo had bled to death. A toxicology report was also filed, and concluded that, in addition to small traces of heroin and Ativan, an anti-anxiety drug, there was also trace of a drug called Pavulon.
Jessica had run into the drug Pavulon once before. It was a neuromuscular blocking agent, essentially a paralytic. It was used for general anesthesia during surgery as an aid to intubation or ventilation. In higher doses it would completely paralyze the muscles, though have no pain-numbing effect.
Jessica considered Danny Palumbo in that chair, unable to move, the barbed wire wrapped around his body and neck. When he finally could move, his head fell forward from fatigue, and the sharpened barb cut into his carotid.
As to the crime scene, there were enough partial prints in that building to keep the latent print division busy for months, and that was not going to happen. In a building that old, the number of people who had passed through the space, touching those surfaces most likely to retain full prints – doors and jambs, handrails, window panes – numbered in the hundreds. In time, dust and soot formed a layer on everything, reducing the viability of the surfaces to yield clean, identifiable prints.
A half-dozen partial exemplars had been run, yielding no hits. The only good prints belonged to the victim, fingerprints in blood on the back of the wooden chair in which he was bound.
There were no eyewitnesses, and no other blood types were found on the victim or at the scene. They had not found anyone in the PCIC system named Boise.
The barbed wire used to wrap Danny Palumbo’s body – essentially, the murder weapon, their only lead at this point – was unremarkable in every way. The firearms unit determined that the wire was anywhere from five to fifteen years old. It was made of galvanized mild steel, a type used primarily in agriculture, and would not, if left unaltered, be sharp enough to accomplish what their killer so clearly wanted to accomplish. That was why one of the barbs had been honed to a razor-sharp tip and carefully placed against Daniel Palumbo’s carotid artery.
Finding where the barbed wire was acquired was nearly impossible. If a length of concertina wire had been stolen from a Philadelphia business, and reported to police, they would have something to go on. Because the wire used to wrap the victim was agricultural, it left only a million acres of Pennsylvania farmland to investigate.
Ligature marks were found on the victim’s cheeks, as were cotton fibers, indicating Danny Palumbo had probably been gagged the whole time.
CSU found trace evidence of metal filings on Danny’s right shoulder.
On the final night of Danny Palumbo’s life, had the hooded figure they had seen on the street returned, and shaved down that barb to make it sharper? Had that person backed off on the paralytic drug so that Danny Palumbo could move his head, and thereby deliver the fatal wound?
The thought gave Jessica a chill.
But, if this were the case, why had the killer left Danny in there for ten days? Why not just do it and have done with it? Was the amount of time significant?
It had to be.
Jessica had put in a call to the Archdiocese of Philadelphia, and received a rather terse fax in reply, stating the obvious and expected: that since the building had not housed a Catholic church in more than seventy years, they had no information relevant to the recent crime. The fax referred Jessica and the PPD to Licenses and Inspections, which, of course, was where Jessica’s inquiries began.
The Crime Scene Unit had collected its physical evidence and removed the tape. A secure padlock had been put on the door and, for all intents and purposes, to anyone walking or driving by, nothing bad had ever happened at that address.
The crime lab was a state-of-the-art facility at Eighth and Poplar Streets, often shorthanded as the FSB – Forensic Science Bureau. It housed many of the department’s scientific divisions, including the fingerprint lab, the drug lab, the Firearms Unit, the DNA lab, and the document section.
The head of the document section was a man named Sergeant Helmut Rohmer. Jessica and Byrne had worked with Rohmer – who preferred to be called Hell – on a number of cases.
A giant of a man at six-four, Hell was a sight to behold, with his spiky white-blond hair and huge, but gentle hands. Since getting married to another one of the techs at the lab, a young criminalist named Irina Kohl, he had put on an extra twenty or so pounds. Despite the extra girth, it seemed that married life agreed with him. He was a bit calmer than he had been, but no less thorough. At least he was eating well.
Hell Rohmer was also known for his collection of black T-shirts, although he was probably up to the Big and Tall 3X size by now. Today’s gem read:
SILENCE IS GOLDEN.
DUCT TAPE IS SILVER.
They got their chitchat out of the way.
‘I’ve good news and bad news,’ Hell said. It appeared that he was about to continue, when he suddenly stopped. For a few long moments he stared into space.
‘What is it, Hell?’ Jessica asked.
‘It just occurred to me that I’ve never said that before.’
‘What, ever?’
‘Ever,’ Hell said. ‘And it also occurred to me that it always bugs the shit out of me when anyone says it to me. So I don’t think I’ll ever say it again.’
Silence.
‘Hell?’
‘Right, okay,’ he said. ‘Well, I’m not going to say “which do you want first” now, am I?’
‘Can I pick?’ Jessica asked.
‘Of course.’
‘I’ll take the good news.’
Hell sprang into action. ‘Okay. I have a fix on the little prayer book. It took a number of methods to dry it out, seeing as it was soaked in blood, but that’s why I get dental and two weeks a year in Biloxi.’
Jessica glanced at Byrne. They decided not to ask.
‘There were a few pages I could not separate without destroying them – yet – but I think we have a pretty good start.’
He pinned a half-dozen photographs on the wall.
‘The text is pretty standard issue. It has excerpts from the King James version, with selections from Genesis, Hebrews, Matthew, Numbers, and Revelation. There was no red ribbon like you used to get in books like these. Remember those?’
Jessica did. She said so.
‘I always liked those,’ Hell said. ‘Anyway, there was a red ribbon once, but it was torn out.’ He tapped a close-up photograph of the top of the book where the stub of the red ribbon was once attached. ‘Savages.’
Jessica almost smiled. The case was a brutal homicide where a man was wrapped in barb wire for ten days, and Hell Rohmer had harsh words for someone who ripped a ribbon out of a missal. Lab rats were a breed apart.
‘The print section had it before I did, and they dusted the exterior cover,’ Hell continued. ‘It has a pebbled surface, so no dice there. However, the inside of the book cover is a smooth plastic, so that holds some promise, print-wise. They’ll get this back in the afternoon.’
Hell then opened a drawer, reached in, pulled out a manila envelope. ‘And now the pièce de whatever it is.’
‘There’s more good news?’ Jessica asked.
‘I kind of grouped the good news together into one big sundae,’ Hell said. ‘I hope that’s okay.’
‘Sundaes are good.’
‘Cool.’
Hell reached into the envelope, held up a small plastic evidence bag. He put it under his lighted, swing-arm magnifier. ‘I found a hair between one of the pages. Root and all. Not sure if it belonged to the vic or not. Either way, if we ever get the order to run DNA, there’s plenty here to work with.’
‘Awesome,’ Jessica said. She knew there was only so much a microscopic examination of a follicle of hair could determine – race, gender, sometimes approximate age. Everything else came from DNA testing.
‘Well done, big man,’ Byrne added.
Hell beamed. He loved being called ‘big man,’ especially by a guy like Kevin Byrne, who was pretty big himself.
As Hell basked in the glow of his accomplishments, the moment lingered.
‘And what about, you know, the other stuff?’ Jessica asked, trying to avoid the phrase ‘bad news.’
‘Oh, yeah. That.’
Hell pinned up another photograph, an enlarged image of the missal’s copyright page.
‘These missals were printed in a small town in West Texas, by a company called Mighty Word, Inc. Unfortunately, the book was printed in 1958, and the company has been out of business since 1961. There is no way to trace where or when this was purchased, unless you guys do some serious digging and can find someone who once worked there, or if they got bought out by another company and the records still exist.’ Hell shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘I’m afraid that stuff is out of my area of expertise.’
‘Can we take that page with us?’ Byrne asked.
‘Captain, my captain.’ Hell produced a pair of printouts.
On the way out Jessica turned, looked back. Hell stood, hands on his hips, proudly looking at the photos, Pablo Picasso in front of a half-completed Guernica.
The service for Danny Palumbo was held at All Souls Cemetery in Chester County. In all, there were twenty or so officers from the PPD. After the interment ceremony, Jessica and Byrne stood near the entrance to the parking lot. A young officer approached them. His nametag identified him as G. Hyland. He was in his early twenties – trim, blond, muscular.
Byrne had put in a call to the commander of Danny Palumbo’s old district. As a favor the commander had freed Officer Hyland from duty for as long as they needed him.
‘Greg Hyland,’ the young man said.
‘Good to meet you,’ Byrne said. ‘Kevin Byrne. My partner, Jessica Balzano.’
They all shook hands.
‘Just trying to get a handle on what happened,’ Byrne said. They had the official version of why Daniel Palumbo had quit the force. They were hoping to get the real reasons now. ‘We appreciate your time.’
Hyland nodded.
‘You came up with Danny?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Hyland said. ‘Same class at the academy.’
‘What can you tell us about why he quit?’
‘It was probably a number of things,’ Hyland said. ‘But there was one thing that was probably the tipping point for Danny.’
Jessica and Byrne just listened. The pained expression on Hyland’s face spoke of the friendship the young man had once shared with Danny Palumbo, a fellow officer
‘We were working day-work,’ Hyland said. ‘Summertime. Hot as hell. There was a BOLO on a guy who had been seen touching girls around the parking lot behind Holy Spirit.’
‘Over on Hartranft?’ Byrne asked.
‘Yes, sir. We made it a point to check on the school more than usual, making a few extra passes. This one morning we came around the corner, saw this guy kneeling down in front of this little girl. The girl looked really scared. The guy fit the general description so we parked, got out. Danny approached the guy, asked him to move away from the girl, asked for ID. The guy stood up, all squirrelly, like he was ready to bolt. Danny put a hand on him, and that’s when the guy took a swing. He punched Danny in the shoulder … no damage really. Nonetheless we took him to the ground, booked him, made out the report, got back on the street.’
Hyland turned his cap a few times in his hands.
‘Two days later the real perp gets caught in the act. Had a little girl with her pants down behind those apartments on Eighteenth. That night our guy, who didn’t make bail on the assault on a police officer charge, hangs himself in his cell. Turns out he was a little challenged – developmentally challenged – and used to play with a lot of the kids in the playground.’
A true nightmare for a cop, Jessica thought. One of the worst.
‘Danny took it hard,’ Hyland said. ‘He was never the same after that. It wasn’t his fault, of course, but that didn’t seem to matter. Media hounded the guy – especially this one piece-of-shit reporter who wouldn’t get off his case. Danny started drinking, showing up late for his tour. Eventually he just quit. Then he got popped for possession. All downhill from there.’
‘Did you know he was using?’ Byrne asked.
‘I never saw him using.’
Jessica knew, like Byrne and Greg Hyland knew, that the question asked had not been answered. But that was okay. For now.
Hyland continued. ‘You want to know if he was using when he was a cop? Here’s what I know. Danny wouldn’t have disgraced the uniform that way. He was a good man. He was a good officer.’
‘Did you stay in touch after he left the force?’ Jessica asked.
Hyland looked at the ground, perhaps a bit ashamed. ‘Not as much as I could have. Not as much as I should have. You know how it is. Life takes over. The job takes over.’
‘When was the last time you saw him?’
‘Maybe six months ago. He was standing on the corner of Broad and C. B. Moore. I passed him in my sector car, had to do a double take. I barely recognized him. I pulled over, sat there for maybe five minutes, thought about going up and talking to him, but I didn’t. I think it would have done more harm than good. I think he would have been humiliated.’ Hyland slipped his patrolman’s cap back on, squared it. ‘I wish I had now. Maybe I could have done something.’
‘You do what you think is right at the time,’ Byrne said. ‘We all do.’
Hyland shrugged, remained silent.
Byrne stuck out his hand. ‘Thanks for talking to us, Officer.’
‘Not at all.’ Hyland shook Byrne’s hand, looked at Jessica, touched a finger to the brim of his cap. ‘Ma’am.’
‘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.