Richard Montanari - The Killing Room

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m out of position.’

‘Hang on,’ Mateo said. ‘I have more movement. Whoever it is is heading for the north side entrance to the church. I’m going to lose him in a few seconds.’

‘Is Sergeant Westbrook there?’ Jessica asked.

‘I’m here,’ Westbrook said. Mateo had the phone on speaker.

‘Do you want us to check it out?’ Jessica asked.

‘Yes,’ Westbrook said. ‘I’m sending backup. Stay on radio.’

Jessica kept her cell on silent, stuffed it in her jeans pocket. She and Maria got out of the car, circled back to the trunk. Jessica opened it, and both women slipped on Kevlar vests. Simultaneously they unsnapped their holsters, checked the action on their Glock 17s, reholstered.

Jessica looked both ways, up and down the street. There was an older compact car parked a half block away, but she saw no one in it.

She glanced at her watch. It was 10.20.

Detectives Jessica Balzano and Maria Caruso crossed the street, and headed to the alleyway behind St Simeon’s.

When Byrne arrived at the address he had gotten on Carter’s cell phone, he realized he had not formulated a plan on what he would do when he found DeRon Wilson.

His prayer was that nothing had happened to Gabriel. Byrne knew that, if not for his own involvement with the boy, none of this would be happening. No , he amended. If it wasn’t for Kevin Byrne’s temper , none of this would be happening. He knew it as he was walking down that hallway that night, knew it when Wilson gave him that defiant look — a look he had seen a million times before on the job — knew it when he stupidly drew his weapon. Granted, he didn’t expect it to be splashed all over the nightly news, but that was no excuse.

He had dealt with the DeRon Wilsons of the world for more than twenty-five years. Why did he lose it so completely this time?

Vincent had wanted to come with him, to see this thing through to the end, but Byrne had cut him loose. He had no idea how bad this would get, and there was a good chance things were about to escalate. Vincent Balzano had done him a solid, and Byrne didn’t want to thank him by putting Vincent’s career in jeopardy. There would come a moment — there always did in police work — when Byrne would be there for him.

Before he could enter the building he felt a phone vibrate, a call coming in. Byrne fished the phone out of his pocket. It was not his own cell phone, but rather the cell phone he had gotten from Carter Wilson.

Who else has this number?

Nobody. Just DeRon .

Byrne checked the screen. It was a voicemail. He hit the appropriate buttons.

After a few seconds, the message played. The whispering voice made Kevin Byrne’s blood run cold.

‘ One God, detective ,’ the disembodied voice on the other end of the line said. ‘ Seven churches .’

A second later he got a text on the same phone. It read:

IF YOU ENTER THE BUILDING THE BOY W ILL DIE .

For a few seconds Byrne could not move. He drew his weapon, glanced around, overhead. He could be observed from a hundred different vantage points.

He put the phone in his pocket, turned on his heels, and ran.

When Jessica and Maria rounded the corner, into the alleyway behind St Simeon’s, they saw no one. Weapons drawn, they found a door into the church, the glass in it broken, slightly ajar. Jessica kicked open the door.

The nave of the church was empty. It looked to have been recently cleaned. All the pews were gone, the altar had been dismantled, even the confessionals removed.

Jessica and Maria made their way slowly across the empty space. They passed through the church and found a doorway leading to stairs.

They still-hunted down the steps into the basement, their weapons over their Maglites, one tread at a time. If the killer was waiting for them, he would see the light. It was extremely risky, but there was no choice. The basement was pitch black.

‘Listen,’ Jessica whispered. The two detectives stopped, held their breath.

It was the sound of water dripping.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, there was a large empty room in front of them. Jessica scanned the walls to the right. There was only one other doorway. If there was a body in this basement, it would be in that room.

‘Jess,’ Maria said. She pointed to the floor. There in the dust were smudged footprints, as well as two long lines which appeared to have been made by someone or something being dragged.

Sirens rose in the distance. Jessica and Maria could not wait. They walked quickly over to the far wall. There was no choice but to announce themselves.

‘Philadelphia Police!’ Jessica yelled. The sound of her voice echoed off the stone. No reply. They inched closer and closer to the opening, weapons and flashlights held high, leveled.

When they got to the opening Jessica paused. She took a deep breath, exhaled. Her breath was silvery and vaporous in front of her.

The basement , she thought.

She spun into the doorway. In the other room she saw a body hanging from an I-beam in the center of the ceiling. The victim was a light-skinned black male. He was nude, awash with blood. On the floor beneath him, as with the other victims, was a pile of clothes. But what made this sight horrifying beyond Jessica’s grasp was what else lay on the floor beneath the victim.

Hands. The killer had cut off the victim’s hands. It wasn’t dripping water they had heard. It was dripping blood.

The two detectives stepped fully into the room, turned 360?. The room was clear.

Outside, they heard the sector cars arrive.

‘Set up a perimeter,’ Jessica said. ‘And get me two patrol officers down here.’

Without a word, Maria Caruso holstered her weapon and ran out of the room. As Jessica heard her footsteps heading up the steps, she walked forward. She put on a latex glove, gently lifted the victim’s chin and shone her light in his face.

‘Oh my God.’

The hanging man was DeRon Wilson, the drug dealer with whom Byrne had his run-in. Jessica’s phone vibrated in her pocket. She answered. It was Mateo Fuentes.

‘What’s up Mateo?’

‘Talk to me, detective.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Do you have the suspect?’

‘No,’ Jessica said. ‘We’re just setting up a perimeter. We couldn’t have missed him by much.’

‘Did Detective Byrne get a good look at him?’

At first, Jessica thought she’d heard wrong. She had not. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Who are you partnered with?’

‘Detective Caruso,’ Jessica said. ‘Why?’

‘I thought you were out with Kevin.’

‘Why would you think that?’

Another long pause. Way too long.

‘Mateo.’

‘Because I’m looking at footage from a minute ago. Footage taken from the north side of St Simeon’s.’

‘What about it?’

‘It’s Detective Byrne,’ Mateo said. ‘And he’s running away from the church.’

Byrne stood in his apartment. He knew it might be the last time he saw any of these things. He knew it was possible that this would be the last night of his life.

He had walked into so many apartments and houses in his time in homicide, places to which the victims had every intention of returning — five minutes, five hours, five days later.

The way victims left things always got to him. The bathrobe on the back of the chair, the steak defrosting in the sink, the unfolded laundry in the basket, the bookmarked book.

How would they look at his place? he wondered. Would it be Jessica? In so many ways, he hoped it would. She would understand.