The Killing Room (Richard Montanari) - By Richard Montanari Page 0,35

scared. The guy fit the general description so we parked, got out. Danny approached the guy, asked him to move away from the girl, asked for ID. The guy stood up, all squirrelly, like he was ready to bolt. Danny put a hand on him, and that’s when the guy took a swing. He punched Danny in the shoulder … no damage really. Nonetheless we took him to the ground, booked him, made out the report, got back on the street.’

Hyland turned his cap a few times in his hands.

‘Two days later the real perp gets caught in the act. Had a little girl with her pants down behind those apartments on Eighteenth. That night our guy, who didn’t make bail on the assault on a police officer charge, hangs himself in his cell. Turns out he was a little challenged – developmentally challenged – and used to play with a lot of the kids in the playground.’

A true nightmare for a cop, Jessica thought. One of the worst.

‘Danny took it hard,’ Hyland said. ‘He was never the same after that. It wasn’t his fault, of course, but that didn’t seem to matter. Media hounded the guy – especially this one piece-of-shit reporter who wouldn’t get off his case. Danny started drinking, showing up late for his tour. Eventually he just quit. Then he got popped for possession. All downhill from there.’

‘Did you know he was using?’ Byrne asked.

‘I never saw him using.’

Jessica knew, like Byrne and Greg Hyland knew, that the question asked had not been answered. But that was okay. For now.

Hyland continued. ‘You want to know if he was using when he was a cop? Here’s what I know. Danny wouldn’t have disgraced the uniform that way. He was a good man. He was a good officer.’

‘Did you stay in touch after he left the force?’ Jessica asked.

Hyland looked at the ground, perhaps a bit ashamed. ‘Not as much as I could have. Not as much as I should have. You know how it is. Life takes over. The job takes over.’

‘When was the last time you saw him?’

‘Maybe six months ago. He was standing on the corner of Broad and C. B. Moore. I passed him in my sector car, had to do a double take. I barely recognized him. I pulled over, sat there for maybe five minutes, thought about going up and talking to him, but I didn’t. I think it would have done more harm than good. I think he would have been humiliated.’ Hyland slipped his patrolman’s cap back on, squared it. ‘I wish I had now. Maybe I could have done something.’

‘You do what you think is right at the time,’ Byrne said. ‘We all do.’

Hyland shrugged, remained silent.

Byrne stuck out his hand. ‘Thanks for talking to us, Officer.’

‘Not at all.’ Hyland shook Byrne’s hand, looked at Jessica, touched a finger to the brim of his cap. ‘Ma’am.’

‘Have a safe tour,’ Byrne added.

‘You, too.’

As they watched P/O Hyland return to his car, Jessica thought about what a fine line there was between making the right call and the wrong call, how police officers were expected to be perfect in their judgment every time out. Lives were always at stake.

As they headed to the car, Jessica spotted Loretta Palumbo in the parking lot. She was standing by herself. She looked lost. Jessica got Byrne’s attention. They walked across the lot. As they approached, Loretta looked up. At first it appeared that she did not recognize them, then recollection lit her face.

‘Oh. Hi,’ she said. ‘Thank you for coming.’

This woman looked five years older than the one Jessica had met only a few days earlier, despite her hastily applied makeup. Jessica could tell that Loretta Palumbo was a woman who generally eschewed vanities like lipstick and blush. She wore an old camel hair calf-length coat, sixties or seventies vintage, perhaps her mother’s. Jessica noticed there was a button missing.

You wear your best to a family member’s funeral, Jessica thought. Especially the funeral of a child. The thought that this was Loretta Palumbo’s best coat broke Jessica’s heart a little more. This woman deserved better.

When everyone was out of earshot Byrne said, ‘I’m sorry to say there has been no progress in the investigation.’

Loretta Palumbo nodded. She put her hand on the door handle of her car, hesitated, took her hand back. ‘You don’t expect to bury your children,’ she said. ‘My husband was ten years older than me, you know. He had a