at the Manayunk crime scene. Three dozen medium and close-up shots-the ligature, the crime scene itself, the building, the river, the victim.
Jessica grabbed the pictures and stuffed them into her shoulder bag. She would look at them later. She had seen enough for today. She needed a drink. Or six.
She glanced out the window. It was getting dark already. Jessica wondered if there would be a crescent moon this night.
17
There once lived a brave tin soldier, and he and all his brethren were cast from the same spoon. They dressed in blue. They marched in a line. They were feared and respected.
Moon stands across the street from the alehouse, waiting for his tin soldier, patient as ice. The lights of the city, the lights of the season, sparkle in the distance. Moon idles in darkness, watching the tin soldiers come and go from the alehouse, thinking of the fire that would reduce them to tinsel.
But this is not about the full box of soldiers-stacked and rigid and set at attention, tin bayonets fixed-just one. He is an aging warrior, still strong. It will not be easy.
At midnight this tin soldier will open the snuffbox and meet his goblin. At that time, in that concluding moment, there will be just be him and Moon. There will be no other soldiers to help, no paper lady to grieve. The fire will be terrible and he will shed his tin tears. Will it be the fire of love? Moon holds the matches in his hand. And waits.
18
The crowd on the second floor of Finnigan's Wake was fearsome. Assemble fifty or so cops in one room and you had the potential for serious mayhem. Finnigan's Wake was a venerable institution on Third and Spring Garden streets, a celebrated Irish pub that drew officers from all districts, all parts of town. When you retired from the PPD there was a good a chance that your party would be held there. As well as your wedding reception. The catering at Finnigan's Wake was as good as anywhere in the city.
This night it was a retirement party for Detective Walter Brigham. After nearly four decades in law enforcement, he was turning in his papers.
Jessica sipped her beer, glanced around the room. She had been a police officer for ten years, the daughter of one of the most renowned detectives in the past three decades, and the sound of dozens of cops swapping war stories in a bar had become a lullaby of sorts. More and more she was beginning to accept the fact that, regardless of what she thought, her friends were, and would probably always be, fellow officers.
Sure, she still talked to her old classmates from the Nazarene Academy, and sometimes some of the girls from her old South Philly neighborhood-at least, those who had moved to the Northeast like she had. But for the most part, everyone she relied upon carried a gun and a badge. Including her husband.
Even though it was a party for one of their own, there was not necessarily a sense of unity in the room. The space was dotted with clusters of officers talking amongst themselves, the largest being a faction of gold-badge detectives. And although Jessica had certainly paid her entrance fee into that group, she was not quite there yet. As in any other large organization there were always internal cliques, subgroups that banded together for a variety of reasons: race, gender, experience, discipline, neighborhood.
The detectives were gathered at the far end of the bar.
Byrne showed up at just after nine. And even though he knew just about every detective in the room, had come up the ranks with half of them, when he walked in the room he chose to stake the near end of the bar with Jessica. She appreciated it, but she still sensed that he would rather be in with that pack of wolves-old and young alike.
By midnight, Walt Brigham's party had entered the serious drinking stage. Which meant it had entered the serious storytelling stage. Twelve PPD detectives bunched around the end of the bar.
'Okay,' Richie DiCillo began. 'I'm in a sector car with Rocco Testa.' Richie was a lifer out of North Detectives. Now in his fifties, he had been one of Byrne's rabbis early on.
'This is 1979, right around the time those little battery-operated portable televisions came out. We're up in Kensington, Monday Night Football is on, Eagles and Falcons. Close game, back and forth. About eleven o'clock we get this knock on the window. I look up. Chubby transvestite, full regalia-wig, nails, false eyelashes, spangle dress, high heels. Name was Charlise, Chartreuse, Charmoose, something like that. Used to call him Charlie Rainbow on the street.'
'I remember him,' Ray Torrance said. 'He went about five seven, two-forty? Different wig for every night of the week?'
'That's him,' Richie said. 'You could tell what day it was by the color of his hair. Anyway, he has a busted lip, a black eye. Says his pimp beat the shit out of him, and he wants us to personally strap the asshole in the electric chair. After we cut off his nuts. Rocco and me look at each other, at the TV. The game is right at the two-minute warning. With the ads and shit we've got maybe three minutes, right? Rocco is out of the car like a shot. He brings Charlie around the back of the car, tells him we've got a brand-new system. Real high-tech. Says you can tell the judge your story, right from the street, and the judge will send a special squad to pick up the evildoer.'
Jessica glanced at Byrne, who shrugged, even though they both had a pretty good idea where this was going.
'Of course Charlie loves this idea,' Richie said. 'So Rocco takes the TV out of the car, finds a dead channel with just snow and wavy lines on it, puts it on the trunk. He tells Charlie to look right at the screen and talk. Charlie fixes his hair, makeup, like he's going on the Tonight Show, right? He gets up really close to the screen, tells all the sordid details. When he's done, he leans back, like all of a sudden a hundred sector cars are gonna come screaming down the street. Except, right at that second, the TV speaker crackles, like it's picking up another station. Which it is. Except there's a commercial on.'
'Uh-oh,' somebody said.
'A commercial for StarKist Tuna.'
'No,' somebody else said.
'Oh, yes,' Richie said. 'Outta nowhere the TV says, loud as hell, 'Sorry, Charlie.' '
Roars around the room.
'He thought it was the fuckin' judge. Off like a shot down Frank- ford. Wigs and high heels and sequins flying. Never saw him again.'
'I can top that story!' someone said, shouting over the laughter. 'We're running this sting in Glenwood…'
And so the stories ran.
Byrne glanced at Jessica. Jessica shook her head. She had a few stories of her own, but it was getting late. Byrne pointed at her nearly empty glass. 'One more?'
Jessica glanced at her watch. 'Nah. I'm out,' she said.
'Lightweight,' Byrne replied. He drained his glass, motioned to the barmaid.
'What can I say? A girl needs her beauty sleep.'
Byrne remained silent, rocked on his heels, bopped a bit to the music.
'Hey!' Jessica yelled. She rammed a fist into his shoulder.
Byrne jumped. Although he tried to mask the pain, his face betrayed him. Jessica knew how to throw a punch. ' What?'
'This is the part where you say, 'Beauty sleep? You don't need beauty sleep, Jess.' '
'Beauty sleep? You don't need beauty sleep, Jess.'
'Jesus.' Jessica slipped on her leather coat.
'I thought that was, you know, understood,' Byrne added, treading water, his expression a caricature of virtue. He rubbed his shoulder.
