Byrne stood behind her. To his right was Ike Buchanan. Behind him, in a loose semicircle, were seven other detectives, street faces in place, jaws firm, badges out front. The temperature was around fifteen degrees. They could have held the conference in the lobby of the Roundhouse. The decision to make a bunch of reporters wait around in the cold was not lost on anyone. The conference was mercifully winding down.
"We are confident that Detective Byrne followed procedure to the letter of the law on that terrible night," Churchill said.
"What is the procedure for a situation like that?" This from the Daily News.
"There are specific rules of engagement. The officer must consider the life of the hostage first."
"Was Detective Byrne on duty?"
"He was off duty at the time."
"Will there be charges filed against Detective Byrne?"
"As you know, this is up to the district attorney's office. But at this time they have informed us that there will be no charges."
Byrne knew exactly how it was going to go from here. The media had already begun the public rehabilitation of Anton Krotz-his terrible childhood, his mistreatment by the system. There had also been an article on Laura Clarke. Byrne was sure she was a fine woman, but the piece had made her out to be a saint. She worked at a local hospice, she helped save greyhounds, she had done a year in the peace corps.
"Is it true that Mr. Krotz was once in police custody and then let go?" a reporter for City Paper asked.
"Mr. Krotz was questioned by police two years ago in connection with a homicide, but was released due to insufficient evidence." Andrea Churchill glanced at her watch. "If there are no more questions at this time-"
"She didn't have to die." The words came from the back of the crowd. It was a plaintive voice, hoarse with exhaustion.
All heads turned. Cameras followed. Matthew Clarke stood at the back of the throng. His hair was unkempt, he sported a few days' growth of beard, he wore no overcoat, no gloves, just a suit in which it appeared he had slept. He looked pitiful. Or, more accurately, pitiable.
"He gets to go about his life as if nothing happened," Clarke pointed an accusatory finger at Kevin Byrne. "What do I get? What do my children get?"
For the press this was fresh chum in the water.
A reporter for The Report, a weekly tabloid rag with which Byrne had a not so amicable history yelled, "Detective Byrne, how do you feel about the fact that a woman was killed right in front of you?"
Byrne felt the Irish rise, his fists clench. Flashbulbs flashed. "How do I feel?" Byrne asked. Ike Buchanan put a hand on his arm. There was more Byrne wanted to say, much more, but Ike's grasp tightened, and he knew what it meant.
Be cool.
When Clarke moved to approach Byrne, a pair of uniformed officers grabbed him and hustled him away from the building. More flashbulbs.
"Tell us Detective! How do you feeeeeel?" Clarke shouted.
Clarke was drunk. Everyone knew it, but who could blame him? He had just lost his wife to violence. The officers took him to the corner of Eighth and Race and let him go. Clarke tried to smooth his hair, his clothing, find a little dignity in the moment. The officers-a pair of big kids in their twenties-blocked his path back.
A few seconds later Clarke disappeared around the corner. The last thing any of them heard was Matthew Clarke screaming "This… isn't… over!"
A stunned silence held the crowd for a moment, then the reporters and cameras all turned to Byrne. Beneath a blitzkrieg of flashing bulbs, the questions rang out.
"-could've prevented this?"
"-anything to say to the victim's daughters?"
"-would you do if you had to do it all over?"
Shielded by a wall of blue, Detective Kevin Byrne headed back into the building.
14
They met in the church basement every week. Some weeks there were as few as three people attending, other times there were upwards of a dozen. Some people came back over and over again. Some came once, unburdened their sorrows, and never returned. The New Page Ministry asked for no fee, no donations. The door was always open-sometimes a knock came in the middle of the night, often on holidays-and there were always pastries and coffee for all. Smoking was definitely permitted.
They would not be meeting in the church basement for much longer. Contributions had been coming in steadily for a bright, airy space on Second Street. They were currently renovating the building-in the dry- wall stage at the moment, paint next. With any luck they would be able to meet there around the first of the year.
For now the basement of the church was a refuge, as it had been for years, a familiar place where tears were shed, outlooks renewed, and lives mended. For Pastor Roland Hannah it was a portal to the souls of his flock, the source of a river running deep into their hearts.
They had all been victims of a violent crime. Or were related to someone who had. Robberies, assault, burglary, rape, murder. Kensington was a hard part of the city, and hardly anyone walking the streets was untouched by wrongdoing. These people were the ones who wanted to talk about it, the folks who had been altered by the experience, the ones whose souls cried out for answers, for sense, for salvation.
Today six people sat in a semicircle on unfolded chairs.
"I didn't hear him," Sadie said. "He was quiet. He come up behind me, hit me over the head, stole my pocketbook, and ran."
Sadie Pierce was in her mid-seventies. She was a slight, skeletal woman with hands long knotted by arthritis, a head full of henna-dyed hair. She always dressed in bright red, head to toe. She had once been a singer, working the Catskill circuit in the fifties, known as the Scarlet Thrush.
"Have they recovered your belongings?" Roland asked.
Sadie glared, all the answer anyone needed. Everyone knew the police were neither inclined nor motivated to track down some old lady's taped and patched and frayed pocketbook, regardless of its contents.
"How are you faring?" Roland asked.
"Just so," she said. "There wasn't much money, but it was the personal items, you know? Pictures of my Henry. And then all my papers. You can't hardly buy a cup of coffee without your ID these days."
"Tell Charles what you need and we'll make sure you get bus fare to the appropriate agencies."
"Thank you, Pastor," Sadie said. "Bless you."
The meetings of the New Page Ministry were informal, but they always moved forward in a clockwise direction. If you wanted to speak, but needed the time to organize your thoughts, you sat to Pastor Roland's right. And so it went. Next to Sadie Pierce sat a man they all knew only by his first name, Sean.
In his twenties, quiet and respectful and unassuming, Sean had drifted into the group a year or so earlier, attending more than ten times. At first, not unlike the actions of someone entering a twelve-step program like Alcoholics or Gamblers Anonymous-unsure of his need for the group or the group's usefulness-Sean had hung around the periphery, hugging the walls, staying some days for just a few minutes. Eventually he got closer and closer. These days he sat with the group. He always left a small donation in the jar. He still had not told his story.
"Welcome back, Brother Sean," Roland said.
Sean reddened slightly, smiled. "Hi."
"How are you feeling?" Roland asked.
Sean cleared his throat. "Okay, I suppose."
Many months earlier Roland had given Sean a brochure for CBH, the Community Behavioral Health organization. He did not think Sean had made an appointment. Asking about it might make things worse, so Roland stayed his tongue.
"Is there anything you would like to share today?" Roland asked.
Sean hesitated. He wrung his hands. "No, I'm fine, thanks. I think I'll just listen."