The Killing Room (Richard Montanari) - By Richard Montanari Page 0,78

passenger door on the Taurus, held it open for Jessica. ‘I’m talking about something else.’

TWENTY-NINE

Villa Maria was a sprawling compound, located in a wooded setting in Chester County. The building had at one time been a long-term care facility owned by the county for indigent patients, but purchased and refitted by the archdiocese in the late 1980s. In all, there were sixty-one retired priests at the facility.

From a distance it looked like a fading old resort, something you would find in the Poconos or Catskills. The only hint that it was not was the large statue of the Blessed Mother in front of the main entrance.

The priest sat alone on the rear porch, a large fieldstone veranda overlooking the valley. The room looked like it had at one time been an open porch, but had been enclosed sometime in the seventies or eighties. There were two space heaters glowing in the corners.

The old man faced away from them. As Jessica and Byrne approached, Jessica was first struck by how small the man was. On the way up to Villa Maria, Byrne had told her stories about him, about how the priest had instilled fear and respect in not just the smaller kids in his parish, but the older boys as well.

‘Only one ring at the first genuflection, Mr Byrne,’ the old man in the wheelchair said.

Jessica and Byrne stopped in their tracks, looked at each other. Father Thomas Leone had not turned around. There were no mirrors in the room. It was a bright winter day so there were no night-reflections to be found in the windows. Byrne had not called ahead to make any kind of appointment to see the man. They were not expected.

Was the old man prescient?

‘How did you know it was me?’ Byrne asked.

Leone dabbed at his lips, gently put the napkin back into his lap. His hands were gnarled with arthritis. ‘I wish I could tell you that, at my age – as reward for more than sixty years in service of Our Lord – I have been imbued with the power of omniscience.’ He lifted a thin arm, pointed out the window. ‘The truth is, I saw you pull up in the parking lot.’

Byrne laughed, put his hand on the old man’s shoulder, leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.

Jessica walked around the other side. Byrne introduced her.

This close, Jessica could see not only the ravages of time, but the ravages of disease. Leone unhooked the oxygen cannula and let it dangle over the side of the chair.

‘Are you sure you should be doing that?’ Byrne asked.

Leone shrugged. ‘What are they going to do? Withhold my stewed tomatoes?’

The two men took a few minutes to catch up. Mostly they talked about who had died.

‘Have they torn it down yet?’ Leone asked.

‘Not yet,’ Byrne said. ‘In a few days.’

Jessica knew they were talking about St Gedeon’s, the church of Byrne’s youth, the massive stone cathedral on Second Street.

Leone looked out over the grounds, which were still covered with a thin layer of snow. ‘I married about five hundred couples at St Gedeon’s,’ he said. ‘Baptized around a thousand babies.’ He looked at Jessica, a twinkle in his eyes. ‘Do you think those numbers add up?’

Jessica thought for a few moments, doing the math. ‘Two babies each? Not for Italians and Irish,’ she said with a smile. ‘I think you must have missed a few.’

Leone smiled. ‘It’s possible.’

Byrne tucked the afghan back around the old man’s thin legs as a draft skittered across the large porch. Leone put a hand on Byrne’s hand.

‘Do you still think about him, Kevin?’

Jessica looked at Byrne, found no answers there, then back at the old man. Think about who?

‘Now and again,’ Byrne said.

Father Leone took a few seconds, adrift in time. ‘Do you remember how I found him?’

Jessica understood. They were talking about The Boy in the Red Coat.

‘I do,’ Byrne said. ‘I remember as if it were yesterday.’

‘Nothing seems like yesterday to me anymore.’

‘It was Monday morning,’ Byrne said. ‘You called at 6:15.’

Leone looked surprised. ‘Was it that early?’

‘It was.’

‘Were you awake?’

‘I was doing my best,’ Byrne said. ‘I was on last out in those days. I was trying to stay awake.’

‘You weren’t down at Platt Bridge, were you?’

Jessica laughed. She had no idea that spot was so well-known. At one time some PPD officers on last out – the midnight to eight shift – would drive down to the area beneath Platt Bridge during the last hour