FORTY-THREE
Byrne parked his car in front of St Gedeon’s. The posters announcing the upcoming demolition were affixed to the building itself, on the light poles, on the chain link fence that cordoned off the site. The building would be torn down in two days.
The knowledge filled Byrne with a deep sorrow. This had been the church of his youth. So much so that, in the neighborhood, they never called it St Gedeon’s. It was just church. Byrne had been baptized here, confirmed here, had made his first holy communion here.
He remembered Father Leone standing on the steps on Sunday mornings, on the hottest days of August and the frigid days of February, saying goodbye to his flock, as well as noticing – and cataloguing – who didn’t come to mass.
Byrne also remembered the call he had gotten that morning, the day Father Leone discovered The Boy in the Red Coat sitting in the last pew.
*
Byrne half-ran to the front doors of Villa Maria. The wind was bitterly cold and he had not brought a hat or a scarf or gloves with him.
As soon as the automatic doors opened he was greeted by the institutional smells of disinfectant and cafeteria foods – most notably, creamed corn and applesauce. He was also welcomed by a blast of warm, humid air.
He walked to the front desk, blowing into his hands. The woman standing guard was not the same one he and Jessica had talked to. This woman was older. She had a round, pleasant face, bright henna-treated hair. Her plastic nametag read SANDI.
‘Still cold out there?’ she asked.
‘Brutal.’
‘How can I help you?’
‘I’m here to see Father Leone. He’s in 303.’
The woman just stared at him. She said nothing.
‘Father Leone?’ Byrne repeated. ‘Father Thomas Leone?’
Still nothing, but now the woman began to worry the edge of the envelope in her hands.
‘Old guy?’ Byrne continued. ‘Kind of a Spencer Tracy meets Dracula?’
‘Are you a member of his family?’
Odd question, Byrne thought. But one fraught with peril. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Just a friend.’
‘Father Leone passed away last night.’
The words hit Byrne like a roundhouse punch. Yes, the man was in his nineties, in frail health, took a dozen medications a day, and was plugged into an oxygen tank. Still, Byrne was surprised. Father Leone was supposed to live forever. All priests were.
‘I was just here. He seemed …’ Old and frail, if the truth be told. But Byrne said it anyway. ‘He seemed fine.’
‘It happened during the night. I came on at six, and he had already passed,’ the woman said. ‘As to cause, I’m afraid I don’t know. He didn’t have any living brothers or sisters, so I don’t think anyone is going to order an autopsy.’
Byrne suddenly felt hollowed out, as if his entire childhood had been torn away and discarded. The memories of his time at St Gedeon’s came flooding back, the good and the bad, all of it shadowed by the recent, indelible image of Father Thomas Leone’s slight shoulders in that cheap cardigan.
‘If you want, you can call the morgue,’ the woman said, taking a pen out of a cup on the desk, grabbing a scratch pad. ‘The medical examiner’s office is there, and when his body is transferred later today you could probably –’
‘I’m a police officer,’ Byrne said with a little more vitriol than he intended. He instantly regretted it. He backed off on his tone. ‘I’m a city detective.’
The woman stopped writing on the pad. ‘Your name wouldn’t be Byrne, would it?’
‘It would.’
‘Detective Kevin Byrne?’
‘Yes.’ Byrne had no idea why she was asking. All he wanted to do was run as fast as he could out of this place of sickness, old age, and crippling illness, to put miles between himself and these thoughts of slow, lingering death.
‘He left a package for you.’
‘Father Leone did?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It was on his nightstand. It was addressed to you.’
‘Do you have it?’
‘I’m sorry,’ the woman said. ‘One of the volunteers here had an appointment near the Roundhouse. I sent it along with her. I didn’t know you were coming.’
‘Do you know what is in the package?’
Now the woman looked offended. She took a half-step back, started to cross her arms, stopped. She smoothed the front of her colorful floral smock, looked Byrne straight in the eyes. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I didn’t open it. It wasn’t addressed to me.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Byrne said. ‘That was rude of me.’
The woman’s expression softened.
‘Did you say he has not yet been transferred?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Would it be okay if I saw him?’ Byrne asked. ‘Just to …’
For some reason, the words say goodbye could not come out. It had been a long time since emotion stole his ability to speak.
‘Sure,’ Sandi said, picking up a phone. ‘I’ll have an attendant bring you down.’
‘Thanks,’ Byrne said. ‘I won’t be long.’
‘You take your time. You just take your time.’
The room was on the ground floor, near the back. Byrne walked in, closed the door behind him. The walls were bare, with a simple wooden crucifix over the bed.
The body beneath the sheet looked so small. How was this possible? Father Thomas Angelo Leone was a man who put the fear and grace of God into hundreds, if not thousands, of South Philly kids, a man who not only taught you to fight your battles inside the ring – with rules – but sometimes slipped on the 16-ounce gloves himself. Byrne recalled that there were a couple of pictures in the priest’s house at St Gedeon’s of ‘Battling’ Tommy Leone in his late teens, clad in just-pressed satin trunks, sleek and muscular, the way only young men can be, giving his best John Garfield to the lens.
Now he was a small body under a sheet that had been washed so many times it was almost translucent. Byrne wondered if it had originally been blue or green. There was no way to tell.
Byrne steeled himself, took a deep breath, pulled back the sheet. It was an action he had performed many times in his career in homicide, but this was different. This was personal.
He looked down. Father Leone’s old and weather-worn face was at peace, he thought.
Byrne closed his eyes for a moment, remembered his first confession. It had not occurred to him at the time – or to any of them for that matter, any of the rough-and-tumble kids in his class – that Father Leone knew them all by their voices, would forever know them by their sins.
Byrne opened his eyes, wondered what Father Leone’s sins were, if the old man had gotten his last rites.
He took the old man’s hand and –
– saw the darkness rise up in front of him, a tidal wave of blackness so large it dwarfed the city of his birth, a wave given rise by –
– The Boy in the Red Coat.
Byrne shook off the feeling, bent over, kissed the old man gently on his forehead. He covered the body, stepped into the hallway, closed the door. He put his hand on the glass pane. ‘Rest well, Father,’ he said. ‘Rest well.’
By the time Byrne stepped back outside the temperature had dropped another few degrees. He looked up. Overhead, dark clouds gathered. That was okay with Byrne. The sun shouldn’t shine on a day such as this.
In the parking lot Byrne called in, got an update. The Crime Scene Unit had scoured every inch of St Ignatius’s, checking for loose stones, unscrewing switch plates, overturning tiles. Bontrager said the team had found nothing that might point to the next crime scene, the next victim.
It had to be there, Byrne thought. He was sure of it.
He stood in the cold of the parking lot, letting the frigid air numb the grief he felt over the death of his old friend. It was still hard to believe.
What was in the package Father Leone had left him?
Byrne was just about to head back to the Roundhouse when his cell phone beeped. He took it out. It was an SMS message.
The message took a few moments to download, but when it did Byrne had to look twice to make sure he was seeing it right.
The text line read:
HOW U LIK ME NOW???!!!
Beneath the subject line was a photograph, a picture of a young boy tied to a chair. The boy’s eyes were wide with fear. It was someone Byrne knew.
The message was from DeRon Wilson.
The boy in the chair was Gabriel Hightower.