TWELVE
Located on Race Street, between Twelfth and Thirteenth, St John’s Hospice was established in the early 1960s as a ministry to address the needs of the Center City homeless. Next door was the Good Shepherd mission, a live-in program for medically fragile men.
Called ‘Father John’s’ on the streets, St John’s Hospice provided food, clothing, shelter, and in winter was often the only lifeline to Center City homeless men in need. And while most homeless men were penniless, some did have money coming in — military benefits, pension benefits, welfare benefits — so St John’s also operated as a mail drop.
When Jessica and Byrne parked on the corner of Twelfth and Race Streets there were men lined up halfway down the block, reaching almost to the corner of Thirteenth Street, perhaps fifty in all. They were of all races, sizes, and builds, different in many ways, but they all carried the same weight on their shoulders, the same yoke of despair. They huddled close to each other to deflect the biting wind, cupping cigarettes in hands. In the time it took for Jessica and Byrne to get out of the car and lock it, three more men queued up.
Jessica slipped on her gloves, considering that there were two different ways to go about finding out if any of these men were, or knew of, a man named Boise. They could split up, with Jessica taking one end of the line, Byrne taking the other, interviewing each man separately, gathering and collating a ton of information that would probably be completely useless and, to an almost certainty, incoherent.
The other way was the preferred way, even though it was a bit less scientific, and a lot less by the book.
‘Hey, Boise!’ Byrne yelled.
A few of the men in line looked over, but Jessica noticed that only one of them nervously looked around, signaling that he might be the guy they were looking for. Oily hair, ratty jacket, stained Levi’s, somewhere in his twenties, although with the homeless it was always wise to deduct ten to twenty percent, considering what life on the streets did to one’s appearance. When the man saw Jessica and Byrne standing across the street he instantly made them as cops. He stamped from one foot to the other, eyes shifting from the man in front of him to the entrance to the mission, and back. He butted his cigarette against the wall, pocketed it.
Jessica caught Byrne’s eye, and directed his gaze to the jumpy guy at the back of the line. Byrne slowly worked his way around a parked delivery truck. When he emerged at the other side, now standing about twenty feet from the man in line, the man noticed. When Byrne stepped off the curb, the man turned and bolted down Race Street, full stride, rounded the corner onto Thirteenth. As Byrne took after the man, Jessica cut up North Carmac Street.
In the end, it was a good thing she was chasing after two men with virtually no aerobic conditioning. She came around the corner and saw Byrne at the end of a dead end alley. The man was there too, leaning against the wall, as was Byrne. Both were out of breath. The guy looked like a junkie, so his being out of shape was understandable.
Jessica approached, gave Byrne her when-are-you-gonna-start-hitting-the-gym look, but remained silent on that matter.
When the two men had somewhat recovered, Jessica sidled up to the homeless man, asked, ‘How ya doing?’
‘Never better.’
‘Why did you run?’
The man stood up straight, caught the last of his breath, or all that he was going to catch. ‘I’m a health nut,’ he said. ‘I like to get my ten miles in before lunch.’
Jessica believed the nut part. Byrne stared at the man until he realized he had to answer the question.
‘Why did I run? Look at me. I’m like a chew toy to you guys.’
He had a point. ‘What’s your name?’ Jessica asked.
The man shook his head. ‘Look, officer, I don’t want no trouble.’
‘Did you kill someone?’ Jessica asked.
The man recoiled. ‘Kill someone? I didn’t do nothin’.’
‘Then you’re not in any trouble,’ Jessica said. ‘What’s your name?’
The man stared at the ground, remained silent.
‘Trust me on this, these are the easy questions,’ Jessica said. ‘I keep the hard ones down at the Roundhouse. Right next to the holding cells in the basement. I have the feeling you know the place I’m talking about. Question is, ever see a guy like you after seventy-two hours in the box? Like Dawn of the fucking Dead.’
The man continued to look at his feet, which Jessica noticed were clad in two different brands of old running shoes. One Reebok. One Nike.
‘My name’s Boyce,’ he said. ‘Thomas L. Boyce.’
Jessica glanced at Byrne. That’s why there was no ‘Boise’ in PCIC. His nickname was Boycie.
‘Do you know a man named Daniel Palumbo?’ Jessica asked.
Boyce looked up, a light in his eyes. Maybe this wasn’t about him. ‘Danny? Yeah, I know Danny. Good dude, man. But I ain’t seen him in a while. What did he do now?’
‘Mr Palumbo is dead.’
The light went out. ‘Dead?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ Jessica said. ‘Was he a friend of yours?’
‘Friend?’
Jessica was getting impatient with Mr Thomas L. Boyce. And she knew that if she was getting impatient, Byrne was about to blow. ‘Do I need to speak louder?’
‘No. I can hear okay. I’m just, you know, a little freaked out. Danny’s dead? Can’t believe it.’
‘How did you know Danny Palumbo?’
Another pause. ‘Let’s just say we have mutual acquaintances.’
‘Let’s just say a lot more than that.’ Jessica said. ‘Did you know Mr Palumbo when he was a police officer?’
Boyce looked pummeled. ‘What are you talking about? Danny was a cop?’
‘He used to be, yes.’
‘Wow.’
Jessica believed Boyce had not known this. ‘When was the last time you saw him?’
‘Two weeks. Right around there.’
‘Can you be more specific?’
‘I lost my BlackBerry, okay? Things kinda blend together for me.’
‘Where did you last see him?’
‘Around, you know? On the street.’
Jessica just stared.
‘Okay. We scored. Then we hit this gallery over on Venango. But that’s the last I saw of him. Swear to God.’
‘Did Mr Palumbo have any kind of problems with a dealer?’ Jessica asked. ‘Someone who might have wanted to do him harm? Maybe someone he owed money to?’
‘We don’t get a lot of shit on credit, if you know what I mean. It’s pretty much cash on the barrel head for me and guys like Danny.’
‘What about other people on the street? Is there someone Danny had trouble with?’
‘Not really. Danny pretty much kept to himself. I mean, if he got pushed around he would push back, but he didn’t go looking for trouble. Not Danny. He was a floater.’ Boyce looked down the alley, back at them. ‘He gave me something.’
‘What do you mean?’ Jessica asked.
‘Last time I seen him, Danny gave me something.’ Boyce pointed to the bulging plastic bag on the ground at his feet. ‘Do you want to see it?’
‘Yes,’ Jessica said.
Boyce knelt down, opened the plastic bag, which was really three plastic bags, one inside the other. The bags had been twisted and knotted so many times they had begun to rip. After moving some things around inside, Boyce slowly dug to the bottom. He finally pulled out a grease-stained burgundy nylon knapsack. One of the straps was torn, and had been rather inexpertly mended with a bright orange thread. Boyce put the knapsack on the ground, then tied the plastic bags together again. He picked up the knapsack, but did not unzip it.
‘This bag belonged to Mr Palumbo?’ Jessica asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘And why is it in your possession?’
Boyce went twitchy, perhaps anticipating something bad, something he hadn’t considered. Like a robbery charge. ‘He told me he wanted me to, you know, watch it for a while.’