Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense: The Rosary Girls, the Skin Gods, Merciless, Badlands

by Richard Montanari

  “One more time.”

  Byrne seemed transfixed by the sound. Mateo looked to him before continuing with the video portion. “Okay,” Byrne finally said.

  “I think we have something here,” Mateo said. He clicked through a number of still images. He stopped on one, enlarged it. “This is just over two seconds in. It’s an image right before the camera tilts downward.” Mateo tightened the focus slightly. The image was all but indecipherable. A splash of white against a reddish brown background. Rounded geometric shapes. Low contrast.

  “I don’t see anything,” Jessica said.

  “Hang on.” Mateo ran the image through the digital enhancer. On screen, the image moved closer. After a few seconds, it became slightly clearer, but not clear enough to read. He zoomed and clarified one more time. Now the image was unmistakable.

  Six block letters. All white. Three on top, three on the bottom. The image appeared to be:

  ADI

  ION

  “What does it mean?” Jessica asked.

  “I don’t know,” Mateo replied.

  “Kevin?”

  Byrne shook his head, stared at the screen.

  “Guys?” Jessica asked the other detectives in the room. Shrugs all around.

  Nick Palladino and Eric Chavez each got on a terminal and began to search for possibilities. Soon they both had hits. They found something called the ADI 2018 Process Ion Analyzer. It rang no bells.

  “Keep looking,” Jessica said.

  BYRNE STARED AT the letters. They meant something to him, but he had no idea what. Not yet. Then, suddenly, the images touched the edge of his memory. ADI. ION. The vision came back on a long ribbon of remembrance, a vague recollection of his youth. He closed his eyes and—

  —heard the sound of steel on steel … eight years old now … running with Joey Principe from Reed Street … Joey was fast … hard to keep up … felt the rush of wind, spiked with diesel fumes … ADI … breathed the dust of a July afternoon … ION … heard the compressors fill the main reservoirs with high-pressure air—

  He opened his eyes.

  “Play the audio again,” Byrne said.

  Mateo brought the file up, clicked PLAY. The sound of the hissing air filled the small room. All eyes turned to Kevin Byrne.

  “I know where he is,” Byrne said.

  THE SOUTH PHILADELPHIA train yards were a huge, foreboding parcel of land at the southeastern end of the city, bounded by the Delaware River and I-95, along with the navy shipyards to the west and League Island to the south. The yards handled the bulk of the city’s freight and cargo, while Amtrak and SEPTA handled the commuter lines out of the Thirtieth Street station across town.

  Byrne knew the South Philly yards well. When he was growing up, he and his buddies would meet at the Greenwich Playground and ride their bikes down to the yards, usually sneaking onto League Island along Kitty Hawk Avenue, then onto the yards. They’d spend the day there, watching the trains come and go, counting boxcars, throwing things into the river. In his youth, the South Philly rail yards were Kevin Byrne’s Omaha Beach, his Martian landscape, his Dodge City, a place he believed to be magic, a place he believed to be inhabited by Wyatt Earp, Sergeant Rock, Tom Sawyer, Eliot Ness.

  Today he believed it to be a burial ground.

  THE K-9 UNIT of the Philadelphia Police Department worked out of the training academy on State Road, and had more than three dozen dogs under its command. The dogs—all male, all German shepherds—were trained in three disciplines, that being the detection of cadavers, narcotics, and explosives. At one time there were well over one hundred animals in the unit, but a shifting of jurisdictions had reduced the force to a tightly knit, highly trained squad of fewer than forty men and dogs.

  Officer Bryant Paulson was a twenty-year veteran of the unit. His dog, a seven-year-old shepherd named Clarence, was trained as a cadaver dog, but also worked patrol. Cadaver dogs were attuned to any and all human smells, not just that of the deceased. Like all police dogs, Clarence was a specialist. If you put a pound of marijuana in the middle of a field, Clarence would walk right by it. If the quarry was human—dead or alive—he would work all day and all night to find it.

  At nine o’clock, a dozen detectives and more than twenty uniformed officers gathered at the western end of the rail yard, near the corner of Broad Street and League Island Boulevard.

  Jessica gave Officer Paulson the nod. Clarence began to work the area. Paulson kept him on a fifteen-foot lead. The detectives hung back, in order to not disturb the animal. Air scenting is different from tracking, a method by which a dog follows a trail, head close to the ground, searching for human smells. It was also more difficult. Any shift in the wind could redirect a dog’s effort, and any ground covered might have to be re-covered. The K-9 Unit of the PPD trained its dogs in what was called the “disturbed earth theory.” In addition to any human smells, the dogs were trained to respond to any recently turned soil.

  If the baby was buried here, the earth would be disturbed. There was no dog better at this than Clarence.

  For now, all that the detectives could do was watch.

  And wait.

  BYRNE SURVEYED THE huge parcel of land. He was wrong. The baby wasn’t here. A second dog and officer had joined the search, and together they had nearly covered the entire plot with no results. Byrne glanced at his watch. If Tom Weyrich’s assessment had been accurate, the baby was already dead. Byrne walked alone toward the eastern end of the yard, toward the river. His heart was heavy with the image of that baby in the pine box, his memory now alive with the thousand adventures he had played out on these grounds. He stepped down into a shallow culvert, and up the other side, an incline that was—

  —Pork Chop Hill … the last few meters to the summit of Everest … the mound at Veterans Stadium … the Canadian border, protected by—

  Mounties.

  He knew. ADI. ION.

  “Over here!” Byrne yelled into his two-way.

  He ran toward the tracks near Pattison Avenue. Within moments his lungs were on fire, his back and legs a network of raw nerve endings and searing pain. He scanned the ground as he ran, running the beam of the Maglite a few feet ahead. Nothing looked fresh. Nothing overturned.

  He stopped, his lungs now spent, hands on his knees. He couldn’t run anymore. He was going to let the baby down like he had let Angelika Butler down.

  He opened his eyes.

  And saw it.

  At his feet was a square of recently overturned gravel. Even in the gathered dusk, he could see that it was darker than the surrounding earth. He glanced up to see a dozen cops racing his way, led by Bryant Paulson and Clarence. By the time the dog came within twenty feet, he began to bark and paw the ground, indicating that he had located his quarry.

  Byrne fell to his knees, tearing the dirt and gravel away with his hands. Within seconds he came across loose, damp soil. Soil that had recently been turned over.

  “Kevin.” Jessica came over, helped him to his feet. Byrne backed off, breathing heavily, his fingers already raw from the sharp stones.

  Three uniformed officers stepped in with shovels. They began to dig. A few seconds later they were joined by a pair of detectives. Suddenly they hit something solid.

  Jessica looked up. There, less than thirty feet away, in the dim light thrown from the sodium lamps on I-95, she saw a rusted freight car. The two words were stacked, one atop the other, broken into three segments, separated by the battens on the steel boxcar.

  CANADIAN

  NATIONAL

  On the center of the three sections were the letters ADI over the letters ION.

  THE PARAMEDICS RUSHED over to the hole. They pulled out the small casket and began to pry it open. All eyes were on them. Except Kevin Byrne’s. He couldn’t bring himself to look. He closed his eyes, waited. It seemed like minutes. All he could hear was the sound of the nearby freight train, its drone a somnolent hum in the evening air.

  In that moment between life an
d death Byrne recalled the day Colleen was born. She was about a week early, even then a force of nature. He recalled her tiny pink fingers curled against the white of Donna’s hospital gown. So small …

  When Kevin Byrne was absolutely certain they had been too late, that they had failed Declan Whitestone, he opened his eyes and heard the most beautiful noise. A little cough, then a thin cry that soon grew to a loud throaty wail.

  The baby was alive.

  The paramedics rushed Declan Whitestone to the EMS rescue. Byrne looked over at Jessica. They had won. They had trumped evil this time. But they both knew that this lead came from somewhere other than databases and spreadsheets, or psychological profiles, or even the highly attuned senses of the dogs. This came from a place about which they would never speak.

  THEY SPENT THE rest of the night investigating the crime scene, writing out their reports, catching a few minutes’ sleep as they could. As of 10:00 AM, the detectives had been on for twenty-six hours straight.

  Jessica sat at a desk, wrapping up her report. As primary detective on the case, it was her responsibility. She had never been so exhausted in her life. She looked forward to a long bath and a full day and night’s sleep. She hoped that sleep would not be invaded by dreams of a small baby buried in a pine box. She had called Paula Farinacci, her babysitter, twice. Sophie was fine. Both times.

  Stephanie Chandler, Erin Halliwell, Julian Matisse, Darryl Porter, Seth Goldman, Nigel Butler.

  And then there was Angelika.

  Would they ever get to the bottom of what happened on the set of Philadelphia Skin? There was one man who could tell them, and there was a very good chance that Ian Whitestone would take that knowledge to his grave.

  At ten thirty, while Byrne was in the bathroom, someone put a small box of Milk-Bones on his desk. When he returned, he saw it and began to laugh.

  No one in this room had heard Kevin Byrne laugh in a long time.

  77

  LOGAN CIRCLE IS one of William Penn’s original five squares. Situated on Benjamin Franklin Parkway, it is surrounded by some of the city’s most impressive institutions: the Franklin Institute, the Academy of Natural Sciences, the Free Library, the art museum.

  The three figures of Swann Fountain, at the center of the circle, represent the main waterways of Philadelphia: the Delaware, the Schuylkill, and the Wissahickon rivers. The area beneath the square was once a burial ground.

  Talk about your subtext.

  Today the area around the fountain is packed with summertime revelers and cyclists and tourists. The water sparkles: diamonds against a cerulean sky. Children chase each other in lazy figure eights. Vendors hawk their wares. Students read their textbooks, listen to their MP3 players.

  I come upon the young woman. She is sitting on a bench, reading a book by Nora Roberts. She looks up. Recognition dawns on her pretty face.

  “Oh, hi,” she says.

  “Hi.”

  “Nice to see you again.”

  “Mind if I sit down?” I ask, wondering if I’ve expressed myself correctly.

  She brightens. She understood me after all. “Not at all,” she replies. She bookmarks her book, closes it, slips it into her bag. She smooths the hem of her dress. She is a very precise and proper young lady. Well mannered and raised.

  “I promise I won’t talk about the heat,” I say.

  She smiles, looked at me quizzically. “The what?”

  “Heat?”

  She smiles. The fact that the two of us are speaking another language draws the attention of people nearby.

  I study her for a moment, sifting her features, her soft hair, her demeanor. She notices.

  “What?” she asks.

  “Has anyone ever told you that you look like a movie star?”

  There is a momentary flicker of concern on her face, but when I smile at her the apprehension dissipates.

  “A movie star? I don’t think so.”

  “Oh, I don’t mean a current movie star. I’m thinking of an older star.”

  She screws up her face.

  “Oh, that’s not what I meant!” I say, laughing. She laughs with me. “I didn’t mean old. What I meant was, there is a certain … understated glamour about you that reminds me of a movie star from the forties. Jennifer Jones. Do you know Jennifer Jones?” I ask.

  She shakes her head.

  “That’s okay,” I say. “I’m sorry. I’ve embarrassed you.”

  “Not at all,” she says. But I can tell that she is just being polite. She glances at her watch. “I’m afraid I have to get going.”

  She stands, looks at all the items she had to carry. She glances toward the Market Street subway station.

  “I’m going that way,” I say. “I’d be happy to give you a hand.”

  She scrutinizes me again. It seems at first she is going to decline, but when I smile again, she asks: “Are you sure it wouldn’t be out of your way?”

  “Not at all.”

  I pick up her two large shopping bags, and slip her canvas tote over my shoulder. “I’m an actor myself,” I say.

  She nods. “I’m not surprised.”

  When we reach the crosswalk, we stop. I place my hand on her forearm, just for a moment. Her skin is pale and smooth and soft.

  “You know, you’ve gotten a lot better.” When she signs, she makes her handshapes slowly, deliberately, just for my benefit.

  I sign back: “I’ve had inspiration.”

  The girl blushes. She is an Angel.

  From some angles, in certain lights, she looks just like her father.

  78

  AT JUST AFTER noon a uniformed officer walked into the duty room of the Homicide Unit, a FedEx envelope in hand. Kevin Byrne was at a desk, feet up, eyes closed. In his mind, he found himself at the train yards of his youth, garbed in a strange hybrid costume of pearl-handled six-guns, army helmet liner, and silver space suit. He smelled the deep brine of the river, the lush redolence of axle grease. The smell of safety. In this world there were no serial killers, no psychopaths who would cut a man in half with a chain saw or bury a baby alive. The only danger that lurked was your old man’s belt if you showed up late for dinner.

  “Detective Byrne?” the uniformed officer asked, shattering the dream.

  Byrne opened his eyes. “Yes?”

  “This just came for you.”

  Byrne took the envelope, looked at the return address. It was from a Center City law firm. He opened it. Inside was another envelope. Attached was a letter from the law firm explaining that the sealed envelope was from the estate of Phillip Kessler, to be sent on the occasion of his death. Byrne opened the inner envelope. As he read the letter, a whole new set of questions was asked, the answers to which were lying in the morgue.

  “I don’t fucking believe this,” he said, drawing the attention of the handful of detectives in the room. Jessica walked over.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  Byrne read aloud the contents of the letter from Kessler’s lawyer. No one knew what to make of it.

  “Are you telling me that Phil Kessler was paid to get Julian Matisse out of prison?” Jessica asked.

  “That’s what the letter says. Phil wanted me to know it, but not until after his death.”

  “What are you talking about? Who paid him?” Palladino asked.

  “The letter doesn’t say. But what it does say is that Phil received ten grand to bring the charge against Jimmy Purify to get Julian Matisse out of prison pending his appeal.”

  Everyone in the room was appropriately stunned.

  “You think it was Butler?” Jessica asked.

  “Good question.”

  The good news was that Jimmy Purify could rest in peace. His name would be cleared. But now that Kessler and Matisse and Butler were all dead, it didn’t seem likely that they would ever get to the bottom of this.

  Eric Chavez, who had been on the phone the whole time, finally hung up. “For what it’s worth, the lab figured out what movie that sixt
h lobby card is from.”

  “What’s the movie?” Byrne asked.

  “Witness. The Harrison Ford movie.”

  Byrne glanced at the television. Channel 6 now had a live shot of the corner of Thirtieth and Market streets. They were interviewing people about how exciting it was that Will Parrish was making a movie at the train station.

  “My God,” Byrne said.

  “What?” Jessica asked.

  “This isn’t over.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Byrne quickly scanned the letter from Phil Kessler’s lawyer. “Think about it. Why would Butler take himself out before the big finale?”

  “With all due respect to the dead,” Palladino began, “who gives a shit? The psycho is dead and that’s that.”

  “We don’t know if that was Nigel Butler in the car.”

  It was true. Neither the DNA nor dental report was back yet. There had simply been no good reason to think it was anyone other than Butler in that car.

  Byrne was on his feet. “Maybe that fire was just a diversion. Maybe he did it because he needed more time.”

  “So who was in the car?” Jessica asked.

  “No idea,” Byrne said. “But why would he send us that movie of the baby being buried if he didn’t want us to find him in time? If he really wanted to punish Ian Whitestone that way, why not just let the baby die? Why not just leave his dead son on his doorstep?”

  No one had a good answer to this.

  “All the film murders were in bathrooms, right?” Byrne continued.

  “Right. What about it?” Jessica asked.

  “In Witness, the little Amish kid witnesses a murder,” Byrne replied.

  “I’m not following,” Jessica said.

  On the television monitor, Ian Whitestone was shown entering the train station. Byrne took out his weapon, checked the action. On the way to the door he said: “The victim in that movie has his throat cut in the bathroom of the Thirtieth Street station.”

  79

  THE THIRTIETH STREET station was on the National Register of Historic Places. The eight-story, concrete-framed structure was built in 1934, and covered two full city blocks.