Richard Montanari: The Killing Room

The services and funeral for the old priest, held a few days after the man’s death, had been well attended, with clergy and lay personnel coming from all over the tri-state area. The eulogy was given by the Archbishop of Philadelphia.

‘Hey, handsome.’

Byrne turned to see her. ‘Hey,’ he said softly. ‘What are you doing here?’

Jessica held up the bouquet of lilies, and offered a look that all but shouted: Where else would I be on such a day as this?

Byrne nodded.

For the next twenty minutes or so they watched the cemetery workers set the headstone. Byrne had paid a monument company to craft the old priest’s marker out of one of the keystones of St. Gedeon’s. The inscription read:

THOMAS ANGELO LEONE

DEO, OPTIMO, MAXIMO

When the workers left, Jessica and Byrne stood in silence for a few moments. The sun peeked out from behind the clouds and warmed their faces.

While Jessica had returned to duty, Byrne was still on medical leave. As much as he was missed, there was no pressure for him to return one minute before he was ready.

‘Don’t you have a shift?’ Byrne finally asked.

Jessica did, but she’d hoped Byrne wouldn’t notice. She was wrong, of course. She put a hand on his shoulder. ‘You gonna be okay?’

Byrne hesitated, then said: ‘I’m good, Jess.’

Jessica said a brief, silent prayer, placed the flowers on the grave, then walked slowly down the path to her parking spot on Baily Road.

When she reached her car she called the office, and told her boss she would be a little late. She put her phone away, leaned against the car, studied the tall man silhouetted against the green expanse of the cemetery.

Although he couldn’t see her, Jessica was certain Byrne knew she was there, just as she knew he would always be there for her.

They were partners.

This was the life they chose.

The kid looked happy.

Considering the hell that had been his life before his path intersected with Detective Kevin Francis Byrne, and the insanity that followed, it was quite remarkable.

Since that terrible night at St. Gedeon’s, Gabriel had attended six counseling sessions with a child psychologist. When Byrne pressed for information he was told that, all things considered, the boy was doing well.

They walked through the parking lot at the Wells Fargo Center, neither of them anxious for the evening to end. Byrne had called in a few markers, and finally got them courtside seats for the Sixers, as promised. On a historic night — the 50th anniversary of Wilt Chamberlain’s 100-point game — the Sixers won, beating the Golden State Warriors 105-83.

Still sore from his injury, Byrne had to exert a little extra effort to keep up with the boy. He would be damned if he would show it, though.

‘Think you might play ball one day?’ Byrne asked.

‘Nah,’ Gabriel said. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever be tall enough. My brother Terrell? He had a bomb diggity hook pass, man. You should have seen him.’

‘I would have liked that,’ Byrne said. ‘But keep in mind that being tall isn’t the whole game.’

‘It isn’t?’

‘Far from it. Look at A.I.,’ Byrne said, referencing Allen Iverson, the former Sixers point guard. ‘He’s only six feet or so.’

‘Even shorter than you,’ Gabriel said.

Byrne laughed. ‘Even shorter than me.’

They drove to North Philly in near silence, still feeling each other out in many ways. They never spoke of St. Gedeon’s. The cut on Gabriel’s forehead was treated at the scene that night, but did not require stitches. He would, however, have a small, crescent-shaped scar for the rest of his life.

Byrne pulled over in front of the foster home, put the car in park. Out of habit, he scanned the two side mirrors and rearview. No gangbangers on the corner. Maybe the word had gotten out.

‘I know it’s not your birthday for a few weeks, but in case I don’t see you, I wanted you to have this.’ Byrne reached into the back seat, brought forward the wrapped package. He handed it to Gabriel.

The boy beamed. ‘What is this?’

‘See, that’s kinda the point of the wrapping paper. You’re not supposed to know until you open it.’

Gabriel smiled, tore into the paper. Byrne watched the boy’s face as he turned the book over and saw the title:

FORGOTTEN PHILADELPHIA:

LOST ARCHITECTURE OF THE QUAKER CITY

Gabriel started thumbing through it. ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘This is really cool.’

Byrne was a bit worried about giving an eleven year old boy a book on architecture. He seemed to genuinely like it.

Gabriel stopped on a page with a photograph of the original Chestnut Street Theater. He turned the book so Byrne could see the picture.

‘Maybe I’ll do something like this some day,’ Gabriel said.

‘Maybe.’

‘I mean, you never know, right?’

‘No,’ Byrne said. ‘You never know.’

With Gabriel safely inside, Byrne thought about their time together, and what the future might hold. He wondered when Gabriel would learn of the scholarship fund that had been started for him, a trust that, coincidentally, was opened for the exact same amount recently taken from a North Philly drug dealer named Carter Wilson.

Allegedly taken, Byrne amended.

After sustaining his near fatal wounds, Byrne had been unconscious for eighteen hours, his mind misted with dark dreams, dreams that told him the visions — the premonitions and intuitions that had haunted him for more than two decades — were not quite done with him. Beneath it all he heard the echo of those five words, spoken by a madwoman.

You are the last saint .

Byrne eased into traffic, then turned onto Sixth Street, the glow of Center City before him like an armor of light, thinking:

No, Ruby Longstreet, I am not a saint, not by a long shot. Saints are blameless and pure. Saints are people like Father Thomas Leone.

I am just a man.

I am a guardian.