The Echo Man
( Jessica Balzano and Kevin Byrne - 5 )
Richard Montanari
Richard Montanari
The Echo Man
Lie down and die.
— William Butler Yeats
Prologue
For every light there is shadow. For every sound, silence.
From the moment he got the call Detective Kevin Francis Byrne had a premonition this night would forever change his life, that he was headed to a place marked by a profound evil, leaving only darkness in its wake.
'You ready?'
Byrne glanced at Jimmy. Detective Jimmy Purify, sitting in the passenger seat of the bashed and battered department-issue Ford, was just a few years older than Byrne, but something in the man's eyes held deep wisdom, a hard-won experience that transcended time spent on the job and spoke instead of time earned. They'd known each other a long time, but this was their first full tour as partners.
'I'm ready,' Byrne said.
He wasn't.
They got out of the car and walked to the front entrance of the sprawling, well-tended Chestnut Hill mansion. Here, in this exclusive section of the northwest part of the city, there was history at every turn, a neighborhood designed at a time when Philadelphia was second only to London as the largest English-speaking city in the world.
The first officer on the scene, a rookie named Timothy Meehan, stood inside the foyer, cloistered by coats and hats and scarves perfumed with age, just beyond the reach of the cold autumn wind cutting across the grounds.
Byrne had been in Officer Meehan's shoes a handful of years earlier and remembered well how he'd felt when detectives arrived, the tangle of envy and relief and admiration. Chances were slight that Meehan would one day do the job Byrne was about to do. It took a certain breed to stay in the trenches, especially in a city like Philly, and most uniformed cops, at least the smart ones, moved on.
Byrne signed the crime-scene log and stepped into the warmth of the atrium, taking in the sights, the sounds, the smells. He would never again enter this scene for the first time, never again breathe an air so red with violence. Looking into the kitchen, he saw a blood-splattered killing room, scarlet murals on pebbled white tile, the torn flesh of the victim jigsawed on the floor.
While Jimmy called for the medical examiner and crime-scene unit, Byrne walked to the end of the entrance hall. The officer standing there was a veteran patrolman, a man of fifty, a man content to live without ambition. At that moment Byrne envied him. The cop nodded toward the room on the other side of the corridor.
And that was when Kevin Byrne heard the music.
She sat in a chair on the opposite side of the room. The walls were covered with a forest-green silk; the floor with an exquisite burgundy Persian. The furniture was sturdy, in the Queen Anne style. The air smelled of jasmine and leather.
Byrne knew the room had been cleared, but he scanned every inch of it anyway. In one corner stood an antique curio case with beveled glass doors, its shelves arrayed with small porcelain figurines. In another corner leaned a beautiful cello. Candlelight shimmered on its golden surface.
The woman was slender and elegant, in her late twenties. She had burnished russet hair down to her shoulders, eyes the color of soft copper. She wore a long black gown, sling-back heels, pearls. Her makeup was a bit garish — theatrical, some might say — but it flattered her delicate features, her lucent skin.
When Byrne stepped fully into the room the woman looked his way, as if she had been expecting him, as if he might be a guest for Thanksgiving dinner, some discomfited cousin just in from Allentown or Ashtabula. But he was neither. He was there to arrest her.
'Can you hear it?' the woman asked. Her voice was almost adolescent in its pitch and resonance.
Byrne glanced at the crystal CD case resting on a small wooden easel atop the expensive stereo component. Chopin: Nocturne in G Major. Then he looked more closely at the cello. There was fresh blood on the strings and fingerboard, as well as on the bow lying on the floor. Afterwards, she had played.
The woman closed her eyes. 'Listen,' she said. 'The blue notes.'
Byrne listened. He has never forgotten the melody, the way it both lifted and shattered his heart.
Moments later the music stopped. Byrne waited for the last note to feather into silence. 'I'm going to need you to stand up now, ma'am,' he said.
When the woman opened her eyes Byrne felt something flicker in his chest. In his time on the streets of Philadelphia he had met all types of people, from soulless drug dealers, to oily con men, to smash-and-grab artists, to hopped-up joyriding kids. But never before had he encountered anyone so detached from the crime they had just committed. In her light brown eyes Byrne saw demons caper from shadow to shadow.
The woman rose, turned to the side, put her hands behind her back. Byrne took out his handcuffs, slipped them over her slender white wrists, and clicked them shut.
She turned to face him. They stood in silence now, just a few inches apart, strangers not only to each other, but to this grim pageant and all that was to come.
'I'm scared,' she said.
Byrne wanted to tell her that he understood. He wanted to say that we all have moments of rage, moments when the walls of sanity tremble and crack. He wanted to tell her that she would pay for her crime, probably for the rest of her life — perhaps even — with her life — but that while she was in his care she would be treated with dignity and respect.
He did not say these things.
'My name is Detective Kevin Byrne,' he said. 'It's going to be all right.'
It was November 1, 1990. Nothing has been right since.
Chapter 1
Sunday, October 24
Can you hear it?
Listen closely. There, beneath the clatter of the lane, beneath the ceaseless hum of man and machine, you will hear the sound of the slaughter, the screaming of peasants in the moment before death, the plea of an emperor with a sword at his throat.
Can you hear it?
Step onto hallowed ground, where madness has made the soil luxuriant with blood, and you will hear it: Nanjing, Thessaloniki, Warsaw.
If you listen closely you will realize it is always there, never fully silenced, not by prayer, by law, by time. The history of the world, and its annals of crime, is the slow, sepulchral music of the dead.
There.
Can you hear it?
I hear it. I am the one who walks in shadow, ears tuned to the night. I am the one who hides in rooms where murder is done, rooms that will never again be quieted, each corner now and forever sheltering a whispering ghost. I hear fingernails scratching granite walls, the drip of blood onto scarred tile, the hiss of air drawn into a mortal chest wound. Sometimes it all becomes too much, too loud, and I must let it out.
I am the Echo Man.
I hear it all.
On Sunday morning I rise early, shower, take my breakfast at home. I step onto the street. It is a glorious fall day. The sky is clear and crystalline blue, the air holds the faint smell of decaying leaves.
As I walk down Pine Street I feel the weight of the three killing instruments at the small of my back. I study the eyes of passersby, or at least those who will meet my gaze. Every so often I pause, eavesdrop, gathering the sounds of the past. In Philadelphia Death has lingered in so many places. I collect its spectral sounds the way some men collect fine art, or war souvenirs, or lovers.
Like many who have toiled in the arts over the centuries my work has gone largely unnoticed. That is about to change. This will be my magnum opus, that by which all such works are judged forever. It has already begun.
I turn up my collar and continue down the lane.
Zig, zig, zig.
I rattle through the crowded streets like a white skeleton.
At just after eight a.m. I enter Fitler Square, finding the expected gathering — bikers, joggers, the homeless who have dragged themselves here from a nearby passageway. Some of these homeless creatures will not live through the winter. Soon I will hear their last breaths.
I stand near the ram sculpture at the eastern end of the square, watching, waiting. Within minutes I see them., mother and daughter.
They are just what I need.
I walk across the square, sit on a bench, take out my newspaper, halve and quarter it. The killing instruments are uncomfortable at my back. I shift my weight as the sounds amass: the flap and squawk of pigeons congregating around a man eating a bagel, a taxi's rude horn, the hard thump of a bass speaker. Looking at my watch, I see that time is short. Soon my mind will be full of screams and I will be unable to do what is necessary.
I glance at the young mother and her baby, catch the woman's eye, smile.
'Good morning,' I say.
The woman smiles back. 'Hi.'
The baby is in an expensive jogging stroller, the kind with a rainproof hood and mesh shopping basket beneath. I rise, cross the path, glance inside the pram. It's a girl, dressed in a pink flannel one-piece and matching hat, swaddled in a snow-white blanket. Bright plastic stars dangle overhead.
'And who is this little movie star?' I ask.
The woman beams. 'This is Ashley.'
'Ashley. She is beautiful.'
'Thank you.'
I am careful not to get too close. Not yet. 'How old is she?'
'She's four months.'
'Four months is a great age,' I reply with a wink. '
I may have peaked around four months.'
The woman laughs.
I'm in.
I glance at the stroller. The baby smiles at me. In her angelic face I see so much. But sight does not drive me. The world is crammed full of beautiful images, breathtaking vistas, all mostly forgotten by the time the next vista presents itself I have stood before the Taj Mahal, Westminster Abbey, the Grand Canyon. I once spent an afternoon in front of Picasso's Guernica. All these glorious images faded into the dim corners of memory within a relatively short period of time. Yet I recall with exquisite clarity the first time I heard someone scream in anguish, the yelp of a dog struck by a car, the dying breath of a young police officer bleeding out on a hot sidewalk.
'Is she sleeping through the night yet?'
'Not quite,' the woman says.
'My daughter slept through the night at two months. Never had a problem with her at all.'
'Lucky.'
I reach slowly into my right coat pocket, palm what I need, draw it out. The mother stands just a few feet away, on my left. She does not see what I have in my hand.
The baby kicks her feet, bunching her blanket. I wait. I am nothing if not patient. I need the little one to be tranquil and still. Soon she calms, her bright blue eyes scanning the sky.
With my right hand I reach out, slowly, not wanting to alarm the mother. I place a finger into the center of the baby's left palm. She closes her tiny fist around my finger and gurgles. Then, as I had hoped, she begins to coo.
All other sounds cease. In that moment it is just the baby, and this sacred respite from the dissonance that fills my waking hours.
I touch the Record button, keeping the microphone near the little girl's mouth for a few seconds, gathering the sounds, collecting a moment which would otherwise be gone in an instant.
Time slows, lengthens, like a lingering coda.
I withdraw my hand. I do not want to stay too long, nor alert the mother to any danger. I have a full day ahead of me, and cannot be deterred.
'She has your eyes,' I say.
The little girl does not, and it is obvious. But no mother ever refuses such a compliment.
'Thank you.'
I glance at the sky, at the buildings that surround Fitler Square. It is time. Well, it was lovely talking to you.'
You, too,' replies the woman. ''Enjoy your day.'
'Thank you,' I say. I'm sure I will.'
I reach out, take one of the baby's tiny hands in mine, give it a little shake. 'It was nice meeting you, little Ashley.'
Mother and daughter giggle.
I am safe.
A few moments later, as I walk up Twenty-third Street, toward Delancey, I pull out the digital recorder, insert the mini-plug for the earbuds, play back the recording. Good quality, a minimum of background noise. The baby's voice is precious and clear.
As I slip into the van and head to South Philadelphia I think about this morning, how everything is falling into place.
Harmony and melody live inside me, side by side, violent storms on a sun-blessed shore.
I have captured the beginning of life.
Now I will record its end.
Chapter 2
'My name is Paulette, and I'm an alcoholic.'
'Hi, Paulette.'
She looked out over the group. The meeting was larger than it had been the previous week, nearly doubled in size from the first time she attended the Second Verse group at the Trinity United Methodist Church nearly a month earlier. Before that she had been to three meetings at three different places — North Philly, West Philly, South Philly — but, as she soon learned, most people who attend AA meetings regularly find a group, and a vibe, with which they are comfortable, and stay with it.
There were twenty or so people sitting in a loose circle, equally divided between men and women, young and old, nervous and calm. The youngest person was a woman around twenty; the oldest, a man in his seventies, sitting in a wheelchair. It was also a diverse group — black, white, Hispanic, Asian. Addiction, of course, had no prejudice, no gender or age issues. The size of the group indicated that the holidays were rapidly approaching, and if anything pressed the glowing red buttons of inadequacy, resentment, and rage, it was the holidays.
The coffee, as always, was crap.
'Some of you have probably seen me here before,' she began, trying to affect a tone of lightness and cheer. 'Ah, who the hell am I kidding? Maybe I'm wrong about that. Maybe it's ego, right? Maybe I think I'm the shit, and no one else does. Maybe that's the problem.
Anyway, today is the first time I've really had the balls to speak. So, here I am, and you have me. At least for a little while. Lucky you.'
As she told her story, she scanned the faces. There was a kid in his mid-twenties on the right — killer blue eyes, ripped jeans, a multicolor Ed Hardy T-shirt, biceps of note. More than once she looked over at him and saw him scanning her body. He may have been an alcoholic but he was still most definitely on the make. Next to him was a woman in her fifties, a few decades of heavy use mapped in the broken veins on her face and neck. She rolled a sweaty cellphone over and over in her hands, tapped one foot to some long-silenced beat. A few chairs down from her was a petite blonde in a green Temple University sweatshirt, athletic and toned, the weight of the world just a snowflake on her shoulder. Next to her sat Nestor, the group leader. Nestor had opened the meeting with his own short and sad tale, then asked if there was anyone else who wanted to talk.
My name is Paulette.
When she finished her story everyone clapped politely. After that other people rose, talked, cried. More applause.
When all their stories were exhausted, every emotion wrung, Nestor reached out his hands to either side. 'Let's give thanks and praise.'
They joined hands, said a short prayer, and the meeting was over.
'It's not as easy as it looks, is it?'
She turned around. It was Killer Blue Eyes. At just after noon they stood outside the main church doors, between a pair of emaciated brown evergreens, already struggling through the season.
'I don't know,' she replied. 'It looked pretty hard to begin with.'
Killer Blue Eyes laughed. He had put on a short cognac leather jacket. A pair of amber Serengeti sunglasses were clipped to the n
eck of his T-shirt. He wore thick-soled black boots.
'Yeah. I guess you're right,' he said. He clasped his hands in front of him, rocked back slightly on his heels. His good-guy, not-to-worry pose. 'It's been a while since I've done it for the first time.' He held out his hand. 'Your name is Paulette, right?'
'And I'm an alcoholic.'
Killer Blue Eyes laughed again. 'I'm Danny. Me too.'
'Nice to meet you, Danny.' They shook hands.
'I can tell you this, though,' he continued, unasked. 'It gets easier.'
'The sobriety part?'
'I wish I could say that. What I meant was the talking part. Once you get comfortable with the group it gets a little easier to tell your stories.'
'Stories?' she asked. 'Plural? I thought I was done.'
'You're not done,' he said. 'It's a process. It goes on for a long time.'
'Okay. Like, how long?'
'Did you see that guy in the red flannel shirt?'
Danny was talking about the older man, the guy in his seventies, the guy in the wheelchair. 'What about him?'
'He's been coming to meetings for thirty-six years.'
'Jesus. He hasn't had a drink in thirty-six years?'
'That's what he says.'
'And he still wants one?'
'So he says.'
Danny looked at his watch, an oversized Fossil chronograph. The move looked just slightly less calculated and rehearsed than it probably was. 'You know, I don't have to be at work for a couple of hours. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?'
She looked appropriately suspicious. 'I don't know.'
Danny put up both hands. 'No strings. Just coffee.'
She smiled. 'Irish?'
'Bad Paulette. Bad, bad Paulette.'
She laughed. 'Let's go.'
They picked a place on Germantown Avenue, sat at a table near the window, small-talked — movies, fashion, the economy. She had a fruit salad. He had coffee and a cheeseburger. Neither would rate Zagat's.
After fifteen minutes or so she held up her iPhone, tapped the touch screen. She did not dial a number, did not send a text or an email, did not make an entry onto her contact list or schedule something in iCal. Instead, she took a picture of Killer Blue Eyes, having earlier in the day deselected the option that attached the sound of a clicking camera to the operation. When she was done she looked at the cellphone's screen in mock frustration, as if something was wrong. Nothing was wrong. The photograph, which the young man could not see, was perfect.
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