The Killing Room by Richard Montanari Page B

‘Please.’
    Byrne crossed the room, picked up the phone, dialed. After a few seconds he hung up. ‘No answer.’
    As Byrne buttoned his coat, preparing to leave, he gestured to the walls, to the framed renderings of Christ. ‘I see you’re a God-fearing woman.’
    Loretta Palumbo stood a little straighter. ‘The Lord is my salvation.’
    ‘Was Danny a religious young man?’
    ‘He was. He was baptized, he was confirmed. He went to Catechism.’
    ‘Did he also make his first Holy Communion?’
    ‘Oh, yes.’ Loretta walked over to one of the end tables, populated with a dozen framed photographs. She lifted one from the back. In it an eight-year-old Daniel Palumbo sat posed for a professional photographer, wearing a long-sleeved shirt and thin white tie. ‘He was a very devout boy.’
    ‘Do you know if Danny owned a little white prayer book?’
    ‘A prayer book?’
    ‘Yes, ma’am. A book called My Missal ?’
    They had considered showing the woman the photograph they had of the book, the picture taken at the crime scene. Considering that it was covered in blood, they had decided it was not a good idea.
    ‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘He read the Bible all the time when he was small. I don’t know about now.’
    Byrne took out his card case, thumbed a business card. ‘Ma’am, once again, on behalf of the city of Philadelphia, we’re very sorry for your loss. We may have some more questions for you.’ He handed the card to the woman. ‘And we’re going toneed a member of the immediate family to make a positive identification.’
    Loretta nodded. ‘There’s just me now. No one else.’
    Byrne took her hand, held it for a moment. ‘I’ll let you know when we need you to be there. I’ll come and get you. You won’t be alone. And rest assured that the entire police department feels this loss. Danny was, and will always be, one of us.’
    The woman stepped forward, put her arms around Byrne. From where Jessica stood, it didn’t look like something this woman did often. It appeared that now that her son and husband were dead, it might be the last time she would have someone to embrace.
    Byrne seemed to sense this too, and gently put his big hands on the woman’s back. He let her break away first.
    When she did, Byrne squared himself in front of her. ‘You call me if you need anything. Anything at all.’
    ‘God bless you,’ she said.
    ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ Byrne said. ‘Thank you.’
    They walked back to the car in silence. It was still bitterly cold, but at least the wind had died down. As they reached the curb, waiting for traffic to pass, a cloud sifted by the sun, bathing the street in a watery winter light.
    ‘So, that was his baby cup that she took out of the cupboard, wasn’t it?’ Jessica asked.
    ‘Yeah. It probably was.’
    ‘He was twenty-three years old. She still has his little sippy cup. His Flintstones cup. It was the first thing she thought of.’
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘Jesus, Kevin.’
    There was no longer any traffic, but they didn’t cross. Neither of them wanted to get back into a police car at the moment.
    ‘You know, when I first came to the unit, I thought notifications were going to get easier over time,’ Jessica said. ‘They don’t, do they?’
    ‘No. Every one takes a little something from you.’
    ‘And you never get it back.’
    ‘No,’ Byrne said. ‘You don’t.’
    Jessica recalled coming home from the hospital when her mother died. She was only five years old at the time, but she remembered it as if it were yesterday. She recalled sitting in the small living room of their Catharine Street rowhouse with her father and brother, no one speaking. The mail came, the neighbors stopped by with food, cars passed. Other than that the only noise was when the furnace kicked on, and Jessica recalled being grateful for the sound, any sound, that would replace that roaring silence of anguish.
    Sometimes, when she visited her father – who still lived in that house