Текст книги "The Echo Man"

Автор книги: Richard Montanari

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Chapter 51

    Chestnut Hill was an affluent neighborhood in the Northwest section of Philadelphia, originally part of the German Township laid out by Francis Daniel Pastorius. One of the original 'railroad suburbs,' the area contained a wide variety of nineteenth– and early-twentieth-century residences designed by many of the most prominent Philadelphia architects.

    Before leaving Center City, Byrne had called ahead to schedule a time to meet with Christa-Marie. He was directed to Christa-Marie's attorney, a man named Benjamin Curtin. Reluctant at first, Curtin arranged to meet Byrne at the estate at one p.m.

    As Byrne turned down St. Andrews Road he saw the house for the second time in his life. He had not been back since the night of the murder.

    It was a massive, sprawling Tudor building with a circular driveway accented with cobblestones, a large gabled entrance. To the right, partially hidden by trees, was a stable, next to a pair of tennis courts. A high wrought-iron fence encircled the property.

    Byrne parked his van and, even though he was wearing his best suit, suddenly felt underdressed. He also realized that he had been holding his breath. He got out of the vehicle, straightened his tie, smoothed the front of his overcoat, and rang the bell. A few moments later the door was opened by a woman in her sixties. Byrne announced himself, and the woman led him through the high, arched doorway. Ahead was a carved mahogany winding staircase; to the right were thick fluted pillars leading to a formal dining room. To the left was the great room, with a view of the pool and the manicured grounds beyond. Byrne's heels echoed in the massive space. The woman took his coat and led him into a study off the enormous foyer.

    The room was darkly paneled, clubby, with a pair of large bookcases built in and a vaulted open-trussed ceiling. A fire burned in the fireplace. The mantel was arrayed with pine cones and other autumn decorations. Above the mantel was a large portrait of Christa-Marie. In the painting she sat in a velvet chair. It had to have been painted right around the time Byrne met her, that dark night in 1990.

    A few moments later the door opened and a man entered.

    Benjamin Curtin was in his early fifties. He had thick gray hair, swept straight back, a strong jaw. His suit was tailored to perfection and might well have cost what Byrne made in a month. Curtin was probably twenty pounds heavier than he looked.

    Byrne introduced himself. He did not produce his identification. He was not there in any official capacity. Not yet.

    'It's a pleasure to meet you, detective,' Curtin said, perhaps to remind Byrne what he did for a living. Curtin had a Southern accent. Byrne pegged him as Mississippi money.

    'And you, counselor.'

    There, Byrne thought. Everyone knows their jobs.

    'Is Liam still keeping the peace down there?'

    Down there, Byrne thought. Curtin made it sound like the boondocks. He was referring to Judge Liam McManus, who everyone knew was going to run for the Philadelphia Supreme Court in a year.

    'We're lucky to have him,' Byrne said. 'Rumor is he won't be there for much longer. Next thing you know he'll be living in Chestnut Hill.'

    Curtin smiled. But Byrne knew it was his professional smile, not one that held any warmth. The attorney gestured to a chair on the other side of the desk. Both men sat down.

    'Can Charlotta get you anything? Coffee? Tea?'

    'I'm fine, thanks.'

    Curtin nodded. The door behind Byrne was closed.

    'So, what brings you here to visit Ms. Schönburg, detective?'

    'I'm afraid I can't really get into anything too specific, but I will say that she may have information about an open investigation being conducted by the Philadelphia Police Department.'

    Curtin looked slightly amused. 'I'm intrigued.'

    'How so?'

    'Well, as I'm sure you're aware, Ms. Schönburg no longer lives a public life. She is by no means a recluse, but, as I'm sure you can appreciate, she does not circulate in any of the social circles to which she once belonged.'

    'I understand.'

    'She has almost constant companionship here, so I'm afraid I don't see how she could possibly be involved in anything that has taken place recently in Philadelphia.'

    'That's what I'm here to determine, Mr. Curtin. But I have a few questions before I meet with her.'

    'Is she suspected of a crime?'

    'No,' Byrne said. 'Absolutely not.'

    Curtin stood, walked to the window, looked out. He continued to speak without turning around. 'I must tell you that in the few years she has been out of prison there have been no fewer than a hundred requests for interviews with her. She is still very much the object of fascination not only with people in the world of classical music but also with the basest denizens of the tabloid world.'

    'I'm not here to write something for the Enquirer,' Byrne said.

    Curtin smiled again. Practiced, mirthless, mechanical. 'I understand. What I'm saying is, all these requests have been presented to Christa-Marie and she has categorically turned them all down.'

    'She contacted me, Mr. Curtin.'

    Byrne saw Curtin's shoulders tense. It appeared that he had not known this. 'Of course.'

    'I need to ask her a few questions, and I want to know what her general mental state is. Is she lucid?'

    'Most of the time, yes.'

    'I'm not sure what that means.'

    'It means that much of the time she is rational and fully functional. She really would not have any problem living on her own, but she chooses to have a full-time psychiatric nurse on the premises.'

    Byrne nodded, remained silent.

    Curtin walked slowly back to the desk, eased himself into the sumptuous leather chair. He placed his forearms on the desk, leaned forward.

    'Christa-Marie has had a hard life, detective. From the outside, one might think she led a life of glamour and privilege and, up until the incident, she did enjoy the many rewards of her talent and success. But after that night, from the interrogations and subsequent allocution, to her eighteen months at Convent Hill, to her incarceration at Muncy, she—'

    The words dropped like a Scud missile. 'Excuse me?'

    Curtin stopped, looked at Byrne.

    'You said Convent Hill?' Byrne asked.

    'Yes.'

    Convent Hill Mental Health Facility was a massive state-run mental hospital in central Pennsylvania. It had been closed under a cloud of suspicion in the early 1990s after nearly one hundred years of operation.

    'When was Christa-Marie at Convent Hill?'

    'She was there from the time she was sentenced until it closed in 1992.'

    'Why was she sent there?'

    'She insisted on it.'

    Byrne's mind reeled. 'You're telling me that Christa-Marie insisted on being sent to Convent Hill? It was her choice?'

    'Yes. As her attorney I fought against it, of course. But she hired another firm and made it happen.'

    'And you say she was there for eighteen months?'

    'Yes. From there she went to Muncy.'

    Byrne had had no idea that Christa-Marie had spent time at the most notoriously brutal mental-health facility east of Chicago.

    While Byrne was absorbing this news a woman walked into the room. She was about forty and wore a smart navy blue suit, white blouse.

    'Detective, this is Adele Hancock,' Curtin said. 'She is Christa– Marie's nurse.'

    Byrne rose. They shook hands.

    Adele Hancock was trim and athletic, had a runner's body, close– cropped gray hair.

    'Miss Schönburg will see you now,' the woman said.

    Curtin stood, grabbed his coat, his briefcase. He rounded the desk, handed Byrne a linen business card. 'If there is anything else I can do for you, please do not hesitate to call me.'

    'I appreciate your time, sir.'

    'And give Liam my best.'

    Sure, Byrne thought. At the next curling match.

    Benjamin Curtin nodded to Adele Hancock and took his leave.

    Byrne was led down a long dark-paneled hallway past a room that held a grand piano. On that night twenty years ago he had not visited this wing of the house.

    'Is there anything I should know before I meet with her?' Byrne asked.

    'No,' Hancock said. 'But I can tell you that she has not spoken of anything else since your call.'

    When they reached the end of the hallway, the woman stopped, gestured to the room at the end. Byrne stepped inside. It was a solarium of sorts, an octagonal room walled by misted glass. There were scores of huge tropical plants. Music lilted from unseen speakers.

    Have you found them? The lion and the rooster and the swan?

    'Hello, detective.'

    Byrne turned to the sound of the voice. And saw Christa-Marie Schönburg for the first time in twenty years.

Chapter 52

    Jessica looked out at the throng of police gathered in the parking lot across from Joseph Novak's apartment. There were now two scenes to process – the murder scene, and the scene where a police detective had been assaulted. Out of the crowd walked Nick Palladino, notebook in hand. He spoke to Dana Westbrook for a few moments. Every so often they glanced over at Jessica. Dino did most of the talking. Westbrook did most of the nodding.

    Dino came over when they were done, asked after Jessica's well– being. Jessica told him that she was all right. But she could see by the look on his face that things had just gotten worse.

    'What's up?' Jessica asked.

    Dino told her.

    Jessica discovered that she was mistaken about there being two scenes to process. There were three.

    Lucas Anthony Thompson's body had been found dumped in another parking lot, three blocks away. His body was nude, roughly shaved clean, and there was a band of paper around his head. It appeared that he had been strangled. On one of the fingers of his right hand was a small tattoo of an elephant.

    It didn't take long to determine the significance of the crime scene.

    Lucas Anthony Thompson's body was found in the parking lot where Marcia Kimmelman's body had been found. It fitted the killer's pattern. Another murderer dumped at the scene of his crime.

    There were already two teams watching Thompson's family members. If one of them was an accomplice they would be targeted.

    Jessica looked across the lot to see someone trying to get through the police cordon. It was David Albrecht. He wanted to talk to Jessica. The uniformed officer held him back, glanced over.

    'Let him through,' Westbrook said.

    Albrecht came running up, out of breath.

    'What did you want to say?' Westbrook asked.

    'I was across the street, getting exterior shots of the building when I saw Detective Balzano come out of the front door.'

    Albrecht gasped for breath. He held up a finger.

    'Take your time,' Westbrook said. 'Would you like some water?'

    Albrecht shook his head, gathered his wind, continued. 'Okay, okay. So I saw Detective Balzano go into the diner, and a few minutes later she came out with a coffee, and walked over here.' He indicated the parking lot, which was now teeming with crime-scene personnel. 'At first, I didn't think there was a shot, you know? I mean, a parking lot is a parking lot, right? Not the most exciting backdrop. We're not talking Robert Flaherty here.'

    Albrecht looked at Jessica and Dana Westbrook, perhaps expecting a reply or a reaction. None was forthcoming. He continued.

    'So anyway, I'm looking at the way the trees back here sort of frame the lot, the way that half-wall sort of provides a horizon, and I saw Detective Balzano pacing back and forth, and I thought it looked pretty good.'

    He turned, pointed to his van across the street. 'I set the camera on my tripod, framed the shot, locked it down, then went into the back of the van for a filter. I wanted to use a Circular Polarizer because I wasn't getting much contrast. It took me a few minutes to find it, and when I came back around she was gone. Just papers blowing around in the wind. I looked and saw that her car was still down the block, so I knew she didn't leave. I figured she either went back into the diner or back into the apartment building. I figured I just missed her. Then I looked next to the building and . . . and I saw her lying there.' There was a slight hitch in Albrecht's voice.

    'And you didn't see the assailant?' Westbrook asked.

    'No, ma'am,' Albrecht said. 'I didn't. Not at first.'

    'What do you mean, not at first?'

    'I mean I didn't see him live.''

    Westbrook looked at Jessica, then back at Albrecht. 'I don't know what you mean.'

    'I didn't realize I was rolling.'

    'Rolling?' Westbrook asked, clearly getting a little agitated.

    'Yeah. When I put the camera on the tripod I started shooting. I have to admit, I'm just getting used to this camera. It's brand new. I hit the button by accident. It's a little embarrassing, but that's what happened.'

    'What are you saying?' Jessica asked.

    'What I'm saying is, I just watched the replay, and I think we have it.'

    'Have what?'

    David Albrecht held up the camera. 'I think we have footage of the killer.'

Chapter 53

    Christa-Marie Schönburg sat in a large burgundy leather chair, her pale white hands folded in her lap. Even from across the room, the first thing Byrne noticed were her eyes. Not only were they a strikingly deep amber – he had noticed the same thing twenty years earlier – but they had not changed. Two decades, two difficult decades of incarceration, psychiatric treatment and dealing with whatever demons had possessed her to begin with had not hardened her eyes in the least. They were a young woman's eyes, still as arresting as they'd been when she was the brightest star in the classical-music firmament.

    Her hair had turned a soft, shimmering silver.

    She was wearing a black silk pantsuit.

    On the table next to her was a pair of reading glasses and an open book.

    Byrne crossed the room and found that he was at a loss for words. What power did she have over him?

    Christa-Marie stood, still as slender as ever, but standing this close Byrne saw the faint lines that etched her face, her forehead, the papery skin on her hands. Still, with her cascade of silken hair, she was a beautiful woman. Perhaps even more elegant than before.

    He had not stood this close to her since the night he had put her in handcuffs.

    He took her hand. His first instinct was to lean forward and kiss her on the cheek. He realized at the last instant that this would have been inappropriate, to say the least. Still, the urge was present. She made the decision for him. On tiptoes, she leaned in and grazed his cheek with her lips.

    She had been twenty-eight the last time he had seen her. She was now almost fifty. She had escaped, or postponed, so many of the things that can happen to a man or woman in those years. Byrne found himself wondering what he looked like to her, what the landscaping of his face and body by his job and habits and life had done to the image she might have retained from that day in 1990.

    Without a word she gestured to the other chair by the windows, perhaps five feet away. Byrne sat down, but for some reason did not sit back. He leaned forward, the way one might do at a job interview. Music played softly in the background. It was a cello piece, with piano.

    After a few long minutes Christa-Marie spoke.

    'It was her last studio recording, you know.'

    'Who?'

    'Jackie du Pre,' she said. 'She toured in 1973, and they savaged her. I wonder what they would have said of me.'

    After she was sentenced in 1990, Byrne read a few books that had been written about Christa-Marie. The comparisons to Jacqueline du Pre were as specious as they were expected. It was said of Jacqueline du Pre that on her final concert tour, due to her illness, she could no longer feel the strings and had to play by sight. Byrne, having never played an instrument, having never been considered great at anything – he was only world-class at screwing up romantic relationships – could only imagine the horror and heartbreak of something like this happening to someone so gifted.

    In Christa-Marie Schönburg's case, her skills had not eroded in the least when she was sent to prison. She was still, at the moment of her incarceration, one of the most celebrated and revered cellists in the world. Here, looking at the woman so many years later, he wondered which fate was worse.

    'We came from the conservatories in those days,' she said. 'I went to Prentiss. My teacher was a childhood friend of Ormandy. They might never have found me if not for him.'

    Christa-Marie arranged herself on the chair, continued.

    'You know, there really weren't all that many women back then. It wasn't until much later that playing in a major orchestra, at least one of the Big Five – Boston, New York, Cleveland, Chicago, Philadelphia – was seen as a job, a full-time job that a woman could do. Gainful employment, as they used to say.'

    Byrne remained silent. While he was sitting there he felt his cellphone vibrate three separate times. He couldn't answer. Finally he just said it:

    'Christa-Marie, I need to ask you something.'

    She sat forward in her chair, expectant. In that instant she looked like a schoolgirl. Byrne held up the note card.

    'Why did you write me?'

    Instead of answering she looked out the window for a few moments. She looked back. 'Do you know those scrolls on the bottom front of the cello? The holes cut there?'

    Byrne glanced at the cello in the corner. He saw what she was talking about. He nodded.

    'Do you know what they call those?' she asked.

    'No.'

    'They're called the F-holes. Can you imagine a group of young students hearing this for the first time?'

    Christa-Marie's expression soon changed from one of joyful remembrance to one of longing.

    'My happiest years were at Prentiss, you know. There was no pressure. There was just the music. Bernstein once told me that the only thing that mattered was to love the music. It's true.'

    She smoothed her hair, ran a hand across her cheek. 'I was just nineteen that first night at the Academy. Nineteen. Can you imagine?'

    Byrne could not. He told her so.

    'It has been so many years since then,' she said.

    She fell silent again. Byrne had the feeling that if he did not move forward with his questions he would never again have the opportunity.

    'Christa-Marie, I need to talk to you about your letter.'

    She glanced at him. 'After all this time, you want to get to business.' She sighed dramatically. 'If we must.'

    Byrne held up the note card again. 'I need to know what you were talking about when you wrote me, and asked if I'd "found them." If I'd found the lion and the rooster and the swan.'

    She stared at him for a long second, then rose from her chair. She walked the short distance between them, knelt before him.

    'I can help you,' she said.

    Byrne did not answer immediately, hoping she would continue. She did not. 'Help me do what?'

    Christa-Marie looked out the window again. In this light, at this short distance, her skin was translucent, the result of a lifetime spent hiding from the sun.

    'Do you know the Suzuki method?' she asked.

    Byrne had heard of it, but he knew nothing about it. He told her so.

    'He focused on song-playing over technique. He allowed students to make music on the first day. It's no different from learning a language.' She leaned in. 'We two speak the language of death, do we not?'

    Christa-Marie leaned even closer, as if to share a secret.

    'I can help you stop the killings,' she said softly.

    The words echoed off the misted glass walls of the solarium.

    'The killings?'

    'Yes. There will be more, you know. Many more. Before Halloween night at midnight.'

    Her tone was flat, emotionless. She talked about murder in the same manner in which she had talked about music earlier.

    'Why Halloween midnight?'

    Before she answered, Byrne saw the fingers on her left hand move. At first he thought it might have just been some sort of twitch, an involuntary movement brought about by being in one position for an extended period of time. But out of the corner of his eye he saw her fingers curl around an imaginary thing and he realized she was recreating some passage she had once played on the cello. Then, just as suddenly as the movement began, it stopped. She dropped her hands to her lap.

    'It is not over until the coda, detective.'

    Byrne knew the word. A coda was a final section to a piece of music, generally played with some dramatic urgency – a flourish at the end of a symphony, perhaps. 'I'm not sure what you mean.'

    'George Szell would often stand in his office window and see which of his players took their instruments home with them.'

    Byrne said nothing, hoping she would return to the moment on her own.

    'Easy for the oboist, n'est-cepas? she added. 'Not so for the bassist.' She sat up on her heels. 'Did you know that the cellist and bassist must each purchase an extra airline ticket for their instruments?'

    Byrne hadn't known that.

    'The Cavani String Quartet always books for five.'

    'Christa-Marie,' Byrne said, hoping that his voice did not sound as if he were pleading. 'I need—'

    'Will you come back on Halloween?' she asked, interrupting him. 'I want to show you a special place in the country. We'll make a day of it. We'll have such fun.'

    Byrne had to find out what she meant in her note, the references to the animals. But he now knew that getting the information was not going to be easy. Before he could stop himself he said: 'Yes. I'll come back.'

    She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time, her expression darkening. 'I can help you stop the killings, Kevin. But first you must do something for me.'

    'What is it, Christa-Marie?' he asked. 'What can I do for you?'

    Of all the things he expected her to say, what she did say nearly took his breath away. They were probably the last two words he would have expected to hear, two words that would carry his thoughts well into the dark hours of the night.

    Christa-Marie Schönburg took his hand in hers, looked deep into his eyes, and said: 'Love me.'