Richard Montanari

by The Echo Man

  She made her way cautiously down the hallway, watched by the eyes of dead ancestors peering down from huge oil paintings overhead. In the dim candlelight, objects waxed and waned - the occasional sideboard, end table, armoire. Each held danger. Jessica drew her weapon, held it at her side.

  She approached a room, its door ajar. There was only darkness within. She edged up to the room, slowly inched the door open with her foot.

  In borrowed candlelight she saw shapes in the room. A pair of bookcases, a sewing machine, a chair. There were two other doors. She could not clear them. There was no time. She had to take the chance.

  She moved deliberately, right shoulder to the wall, sweat trickling from her shoulders, down her back.

  Before she turned the corner, into what she was certain was the main hall, she stopped, tuned her ears to every sound. The music continued: a string quartet. Beneath it she heard a woman's voice, humming the melody.

  Jessica took a deep breath, rolled the corner, her weapon held low.

  Someone stood at the foot of the grand staircase, not fifteen feet away from her. It took Jessica a moment to adjust her eyes.

  Kevin Byrne.

  He was at the base of the steps, splendid in a dark suit, white shirt and deep burgundy tie. Above him was an enormous crystal chandelier. Jessica looked at Byrne's hands. He held a single white rose.

  No, Kevin.

  Please, no.

  Before she could speak, Jessica looked up to see Christa-Marie at the top of the stairs. She wore a long black dress and a simple strand of pearls. Her hair was soft and luminous, a brilliant silver. She was radiant. She descended slowly, her slight hand on the railing, never once taking her stare from the man at the foot of the staircase.

  When she reached the final step Christa-Marie paused.

  Kevin Byrne handed her the white rose.

  Chapter 93

  There is beauty so rare and ephemeral that it has confounded the poets for centuries. Byron, Shakespeare, Keats, Wordsworth - all failures. This is the beauty that is Christa-Marie. From the first moment I saw her she has owned my heart, taking it around the world, then into the deepest confines of hell.

  I have never asked for it back.

  I've always known that we would have this one last moment together, this moment when our hearts would once again be joined.

  Chapter 94

  Christa-Marie stood face to face with Byrne. Jessica watched, mesmerized by the tableau as Byrne took Christa-Marie by the hand and led her to the center of the hall, beneath the exquisite chandelier.

  A new song began, a waltz. They danced.

  As the strings played, Kevin Byrne and Christa-Marie Schönburg moved in beautiful, fluid lines, as if they had danced together all their lives. When they were finished, Byrne took Christa-Marie in his arms and kissed her.

  The scene was so surreal, so unexpected, that Jessica found she had been holding her breath the entire time. She snapped out of it. She had a job to do.

  She opened her mouth to speak.

  She didn't get the chance.

  The front door burst open, the sound of the battering ram echoing through the cavernous space. A pair of SWAT officers rolled into the foyer, their AR-15 assault rifles high. They were followed by Russell Diaz and two of his men, all three of them with weapons drawn. They ran down the main hall toward Byrne and Christa-Marie.

  Diaz reached the couple first, stopping a few feet away. He pointed his weapon at Kevin Byrne.

  'Down on the ground!' Diaz shouted.

  Byrne edged slowly away from Christa-Marie, his hands out to his sides.

  'Get down ... on the fucking . . . ground!' Diaz repeated.

  Christa-Marie stepped back, a look of horror and confusion on her face. The house was suddenly filled with silence. Byrne eased himself to the floor, put his arms out to the side. Two uniformed officers pinned him down and pulled his hands behind his back. They handcuffed him.

  Seconds later, more people streamed through the door - Michael Drummond and Dana Westbrook among them. A dozen more officers spilled into the house.

  Byrne was read his Miranda rights. As they took him into custody, Jessica put her weapon on the floor. She stepped into the foyer, her hands held high.

  Chapter 95

  Lucy felt her way back to the long bench. She had stopped a few moments earlier, having heard muffled shouts from somewhere far away. Or had she? She didn't know. But all was silent now, and she had to get on with her business.

  There were two drawers. She opened them, felt around, discovered some sandpaper, an oily rag, book matches, a pair of short screwdrivers. She felt the tips. One slot head, one Phillip's.

  On top of the bench were a few more rags, along with a small stack of papers, some dried-out magazines. There was also an old lantern. Lucy picked it up, gave it a shake. There was liquid inside - she immediately caught a whiff of old kerosene.

  She went back to the drawer, found the matches, opened one pack. They were damp. She tried them anyway. One by one, they smeared on the flint strip. Not even a spark. She found another pack, felt the matches. The top row seemed damp, the back row less so. She peeled off the top row of matches. She picked up one of the old magazines, tore off a page, rolled it up.

  She tried the first match, got a spark, but the paper didn't light. On her third try she got a flame. She held the lit match to the rolled-up paper, got a torch going. She then pushed down the lift lever on the lantern. The wick caught, and the room was suddenly bathed in a warm glow. Lucy had never been more grateful for anything in her life.

  Chapter 96

  There is a moment, almost sexual in its feeling of release, when a police detail winds down. Most of the time during this period of deceleration, in the minutes and hours after an arrest, there is a lot of handshaking and backslapping and fist-pumping in the air; never a shortage of gallows humor. But not this time. The personnel who made their way through this enormous Chestnut Hill mansion found no joy or happiness in this arrest. This was one of their own.

  Kevin Byrne was in custody and en route to the Roundhouse. Christa- Marie Schönburg had been taken to Mercyhurst Hospital as a precaution. Her private nurse, Adele Hancock, had been at the opera. She was contacted and was on her way to meet Christa-Marie.

  Before long it was Jessica, Dana Westbrook, and Michael Drummond, along with a few officers, searching and securing the house. Soon it would be November 1, All Saints' Day, twenty years to the day when Christa-Marie had been arrested in this very place.

  Westbrook took Jessica aside. They stood in silence for a full minute, neither of them finding the right words to say. 'We'll sort this out,' Westbrook said. 'There's a hell of a lot about this I don't understand.'

  Jessica just nodded.

  'Kevin's arrest warrant came from on high,' Westbrook added. 'I had no choice but to serve it. You know that, right?'

  Jessica said nothing. She could not get the image of Kevin Byrne in handcuffs out of her mind. The two of them had made so many arrests over the years, hunted down and brought to justice so many bad people, that she could not fathom Byrne being on that side of it all. The thought was beyond nauseating.

  'So, I'll see you at the Roundhouse?' Westbrook asked.

  Jessica looked at her watch. 'Give me an hour.'

  'You got it.'

  Westbrook took a few more moments, placed a hand on Jessica's shoulder and, perhaps trying and failing to find words, crossed the large atrium, stepped through the front doors and left.

  Jessica glanced across the hall, at the steps which she had seen Christa- Marie descend earlier. She had to clear her mind. She had to think.

  'Do you want me to drop you somewhere?'

  Jessica turned around. It was Michael Drummond.

  'Josh has my car,' Jessica said.

  'Okay,' Drummond said. 'As soon as that scene is clear I'll send him back.'

  Drummond stepped away, made a quick phone call. When he was finished he made his way over to where Jes
sica stood.

  'I'm sorry it came down this way,' he said.

  'I don't have much to say to you.'

  'What are you talking about?'

  'I just needed a little time, Michael. That's all. A little time.'

  'I didn't make the call, Jessica.'

  Jessica looked up sharply. 'You didn't? Then how did the fucking cavalry just happen to show up?'

  'Police work, detective.'

  'What are you talking about?'

  'Russ Diaz followed up with Kevin's cousin Patrick. It turns out that Mr. Connolly's van had a Lojack installed.'

  The Lojack was a recovery system that allowed police to track and recover a stolen vehicle.

  'Russ called it in as a routine stolen vehicle, and got this location,' Drummond continued. 'I had nothing to do with it.'

  Jessica's anger and rage did battle with her embarrassment for assuming that Drummond had dropped a dime.

  'And just so you know, I talked to Detective Diaz,' Drummond said. 'Kevin is going to be handled with respect. I won't stand for any cowboy shit.'

  Jessica had so much to say that nothing would come out. What she really wanted to do was scream.

  'We're going to need your full statement tonight,' Drummond added.

  Jessica nodded. She picked up her service weapon, slipped it into her holster.

  'I know this is hard for you, detective, but the good news, for the people of Philadelphia anyway, is that this nightmare is over.'

  The feelings inside Jessica began to swell. The one feeling missing from all of it was doubt. She had no doubts about her partner. Her work, the task of proving Kevin Byrne's innocence, started right now. Before she could make a move she noticed someone standing to her left.

  'Ma'am?'

  Jessica turned. Standing there were two patrol officers from the Fourteenth District. The one talking to her was a big kid, twenty- three or so. He was pale as a ghost, but his hands were steady. 'The house is clear, ma'am.'

  Jessica looked overhead, at the high ceiling, the large rooms. 'Are you sure? It's a big house, officer.'

  The kid looked a little unnerved, then turned to look behind him. Four more officers stood there, and a pair of detectives from North that Jessica recognized. The kid was saying that a total of eight police officers had searched the house and that it was empty.

  'I'm sorry,' Jessica said. 'It's not a good night.'

  'No, ma'am,' the kid said. 'There are two locked doors - one in the attic, one in the cellar. Other than that, the structure is clear.'

  He waited a few moments, perhaps to see if there was anything else. Jessica shook her head. The officer touched the brim of his cap, and together, single file, the eight cops walked out.

  As the sound of the sector cars disappeared down the driveway, Michael Drummond put on his coat. He looked at Jessica, but remained silent. He walked through the door, closed it behind him.

  The house was still.

  Jessica was alone.

  Chapter 97

  Lucy put the lantern on the bench and got her first real look at the room. It was smaller than she'd thought. There was no window. It had been bricked in a long time ago. Dust and cobwebs were everywhere. There were mouse droppings along the wall.

  Peggy.

  Lucy closed her eyes, tried to blot it all out.

  She looked at the doorknob. It too was caked with dust. She picked up an old rag, cleaned it off. It was an old-fashioned white porcelain knob, set into a cast-metal plate. She felt along the neck behind the knob, and found the set screw. She angled the screwdriver behind the knob found the slot, gently turned. A few seconds later the set screw fell out. She carefully pulled off the knob, holding the spindle tightly. She didn't need the knob on the other side falling to the floor and making a racket. Then she went to work removing the plate. Four screws. Although she could not see that well, it looked like the screws in the plate were nearly stripped. She'd have one chance to get them out.

  She looked at the head on the screwdriver, which was also rounded, dull with age and use. She put the screwdriver into the slot, put all of her weight behind it, doing her best to keep the tool perpendicular to the door.

  She took a deep breath and tried to turn it. Nothing. She backed off, tried again. This time she felt purchase.

  The screw turned. Not much, but it turned. Yes, Lucy thought.

  A lock was just a device with moving parts, right? If there were moving parts, Lucy Doucette could handle it.

  She set about her task.

  Chapter 98

  The house was silent in a way that no small space could ever be; silent like a presence. Every so often its tranquillity was broken by rain hitting the huge windows in the great room or a branch scraping a gutter.

  Jessica had lived most of her life in a place too small, a place where the extra closet or tiny room was a premium. This was a fact of life in a Philadelphia row house. But this place - with its high ceilings, tall doorways and cavernous rooms - was too much. She didn't think she could ever live somewhere like this, although the likelihood of that happening was somewhere between never and absolutely never.

  As she peered out of the front windows, anxious to get back to the Roundhouse, her phone rang. She jumped at the sound. She hoped it was going to be Josh telling her he was on the way. It was not. It was a number she did not recognize. She answered.

  'Hello?'

  'I'm calling for Detective Byrne.'

  It was a man's voice.

  'Who am I speaking to?' Jessica asked.

  'My name is Robert Cole. I'm trying to reach Kevin Byrne. He gave me this number as a backup.'

  'I'm his partner, Detective Balzano. Is there something I can help you with?'

  'I have that report he wanted.'

  'The report?'

  'He had me red-ball a DNA test. Cold case.'

  'I'm sorry,' Jessica said. 'What agency are you with?'

  Cole went on to tell her that he ran a private, independent lab, and the work he had done for Byrne was off the record. He also told her that the job was the twenty-year-old homicide case of Gabriel Thorne.

  'How much of the file do you have?' Jessica asked.

  'I have copies of everything.'

  'The crime-scene photos?'

  'Yes.'

  'Can you send me the DNA summary and the photos of the crime scene?'

  'Sure,' Cole said. 'I can send the photos now, but it will take a few minutes to scan the DNA summary. It's on another computer.'

  Jessica gave him her email address. Thirty seconds later the file arrived on her iPhone. Jessica tapped the file, opened it.

  Cole had sent her four photographs. The first photograph was of the hallway in which she now stood. The fact that it had been taken twenty years earlier, in the precise space she now occupied, gave her a chill.

  The second photo was of the kitchen. And it was a horror show. Gabriel Thorne's body was supine on the white tile floor, lying next to the kitchen island, a pool of blood beneath him, his chest butchered.

  Jessica walked down the main hall, stopped at the kitchen, turned on the light. The room had not changed. Same island, same white tile, same light fixtures. She scanned the photo and the real room, item by item. They were eerily identical, right down to the color of the kitchen towels on the rack next to the sink.

  The other two photos were of the floor leading into the pantry, which was just off the kitchen, and the music room just off the pantry. The music room too was identical, except that now the cello in the corner did not have blood on it.

  According to the brief summary attached to the photographs, it was believed that Christa-Marie Schönburg had stabbed Gabriel

  Thorne in the music room, then followed him into the kitchen. When he collapsed, she had continued to stab him in the chest.

  Jessica tried to imagine the scene that night. She could not. But she knew what she had to do. If she was leaving shortly, locking the house behind her, she had better snuff out the candles in th
e music room. One by one she blew out the dozen or so candles, the scent of burned paraffin filling her head.

  When the room was dark, lit only by the gas lamps on the deck at the rear of the house, she walked back into the hall, checked her watch. Where the hell is Josh? She called him, got his voicemail.

  Jessica's phone rang again. She answered, but the call began to drop out. She ran down the hall toward the front door, but was still unable to get a signal. By the time she made it across the great room, she was able to hear. It was Robert Cole.

  'Did you get the photos?' he asked. 'I did.'

  'I'm having some trouble scanning the DNA report. I could keep trying, or I could just read it to you. Which do you prefer?'

  'Read it to me.'

  Cole read her the report. As he did, Jessica felt a cold finger run up her spine. It turned out that, in addition to Gabriel Thorne's and Christa-Marie's blood on the murder weapon and the floor of the kitchen, there were two other distinct DNA profiles found.

  In other words, two other people had been present on the night of the murder.

  What did it mean to the case? What did it mean to Christa-Marie's guilt on that night so long ago?

  Jessica felt gooseflesh break out on her arms as she listened to the rest of the report.

  She thanked Cole, hung up, her mind spinning.

  This changed everything.

  She stepped back to the front doors, opened them, fully expecting to see a sector car from the Fourteenth District at the gate. There was none. This was strange. The house would not be searched for evidence and cleared for at least twenty-four hours, and a police presence was standard procedure.

  She keyed her two-way handset, spoke into it. No response.

  What is going on?

  She closed the doors, walked back into the main hall.

  That was when Jessica Balzano heard the music.