The finger was replaced by something else. Something cold.
‘Et Filii.’
In the last second of her life, in the hollow place between two breaths, Michelle Calvin knew what it was.
‘Et Spiritus Sancti.’
THIRTY-SEVEN
Byrne walked into the office, a converted rowhouse on Thirteenth Street, at just before 10 a.m. The waiting room was standard issue — rugged loveseat and two chairs, all upholstered in a non-threatening navy blue fabric. Two cheap mall prints on the wall, also non-threatening. The woman behind the reception desk was mousy but efficient-looking, with dull brown hair, freshly scrubbed skin. She wore a twenty-year-old Timex. Her nametag identified her as Antonia.
Byrne put on his best new-patient, not in the least bit crazy smile. Antonia looked up, returned a half-smile of her own.
‘Hi,’ Byrne said.
‘Hello.’
‘I have a ten o’clock appointment with Dr Goodwin.’
‘Okay.’ She turned to her computer. ‘And your name?’
And just how many people have a ten o’clock appointment with Dr Goodwin today? ‘Byrne,’ he said. ‘Kevin Byrne.’
The woman typed for twenty seconds. Byrne couldn’t imagine that the appointment calendar was ten folders deep on the computer, but he waited patiently.
‘Here we are,’ the woman said. ‘Could you verify your full address and home phone number, please?’
Deep breath. Calm, Kevin. He gave her his street address, and home number, which really wasn’t a phone at all, but rather a wire connected to an answering machine. He really didn’t want to get calls on that line, and Antonia reinforced the notion.
‘Could I get your full address, please?’ she asked. ‘Including the city and zip code?’
Ah, Byrne thought. This was a test. They were testing his patience — his anger threshold — in the outer office. The session had already begun!
‘That would be Philadelphia, 19147.’
‘Got it.’
‘That’s in Pennsylvania.’
The woman flicked him a chilly glance. ‘I assumed the Pennsylvania part.’
Yet the 215 area code didn’t clue you in to the Philadelphia part. ‘Of course.’
‘Well, then. Just have a seat. I’ll let Dr Goodwin know you’re here.’
‘Thanks, Antonia.’
The woman bristled at the familiarity, but that was the effect Byrne was going for.
He picked one of the chairs, cruised the rack of magazines. Harper’s, Real Simple, Web MD. All his favorites. Then again, keeping copies of Guns and Ammo probably wouldn’t be prudent, considering the number of psycho cops that came through here.
After a surprisingly short period of time, Antonia came around her desk, opened the door to the inner office. ‘You can go right in.’
Dr Sarah Goodwin was younger than Byrne expected. That was happening to him a lot lately. When you’re in your twenties, all the people who matter — doctors, lawyers, judges — are older. You want them to be older. Once you hit forty and the great beyonds the paradigm began to shift.
Dr Goodwin was petite and graceful, with deep chestnut hair to her shoulders. She wore a smart black suit, white blouse.
They introduced themselves, shook hands. All very clinical and professional.
The inner office was small but comfortable, lacking any real warmth: de rigueur couch with roll arms, a pair of stern-looking chairs facing an uncluttered desk, a browning ficus in the corner. Byrne picked a chair. Dr Goodwin sat at the desk, turned the flat screen monitor to face her, out of Byrne’s line of sight.
‘So,’ she said. ‘How are you?’
‘You mean today, or in general?’
‘Let’s start with today.’
‘Today, not bad,’ Byrne lied. ‘I’d rather be at work, all things considered. No offense.’
‘None taken.’
Byrne tried to settle in the chair. It was too small. ‘I’ve done this before, by the way,’ he said. ‘Twice.’
‘I know.’
Of course, Byrne thought. Medical records last forever.
‘I’m not sure I got too much out of it either of those times,’ he added.
‘That’s okay. We’ll consider this a fresh start.’
Fair enough, Byrne thought. ‘What would you like to talk about?’
Dr Goodwin leaned back in her chair. ‘We can talk about anything you like.’
‘Well, I’d like to make our sessions worthwhile, but we both know this is a mandate. So maybe we should talk about the things that put me in this chair to begin with.’
‘Fine.’
Byrne searched for the right words, found them. ‘Well, it seems there are some people in the department who think I have anger-management issues.’
‘Do you think you have problems with anger?’
‘Not at all. I get angry just fine. I think it comes naturally.’
Dr Goodwin smiled. She was used to this kind of sparring. ‘Would you like to talk about the incident that precipitated this episode?’
Episode. ‘Sure. What would you like to know?’
‘Why not tell me how the day began?’
Byrne had to think about this. He knew, of course, that everything said in this room was confidential, but he also knew that this woman was going to make a recommendation to his bosses. He had to play this right. ‘I can’t really say too much about the case. It’s an ongoing investigation.’
‘I understand.’
Byrne suddenly realized he was trying to play this woman, who was a lot better at this stuff than he was. ‘Okay. Confession time,’ he said. ‘The case involves the death of a child and I guess I do have issues when it comes to the murder of children.’
‘This is understandable, detective,’ Dr Goodwin said. ‘In your line of work, it has to come up quite often.’
‘It does. Too often, I’m sorry to say.’
Byrne went on to describe his day, about his phone call to Gabriel and how he came to be in the same hallway with DeRon Wilson.
‘Did you feel threatened by Mr Wilson?’
‘Not at that moment, no. But he has a history of violence.’
‘How did you react?’
Byrne decided to say it out loud. ‘I lost my temper. I accosted Mr Wilson, pinning him to the wall.’
‘Did you draw your weapon?’
Byrne knew that she knew the answer to the question. ‘Yes.’
‘Even though Mr Wilson had not produced a weapon of his own.’
‘Yes. I felt the situation had the potential to escalate. There were a lot of people in that hallway, and I didn’t know what was coming.’
‘But you do feel that you lost your temper? That you reacted out of anger?’
Fuck it, Byrne thought. Bring it on, Sarah Goodwin, MD.
‘Yeah. I did. The man is a slaver, a drug dealer. He’s done time for both. If, right now, someone was putting a bullet in his head, I’d have a nice dinner and sleep like a baby. Sorry, but true.’
‘Never be sorry for your feelings.’
Dr Goodwin typed a few lines. Byrne was grateful for the pause. He wasn’t sure he had a lot more to say on the subject.
‘I understand that there have been a lot of retirements in the Homicide Unit of late,’ she said. ‘Has this had any effect on you that you’re aware of?’
Byrne thought: This woman is good. ‘I don’t know. Maybe it has. I know I’m one of the older detectives still on the line.’
‘Does that bother you?’
‘Not really. See, I don’t think of myself as a man my age. But now that I’ve passed my twenty-five, maybe I am looking for a reason to stay. Maybe that reason, for me, is a kid like Gabriel. I may never see him again. He may go right, he may go wrong. But I know he got dealt a shitty hand.’
And then it happened. Byrne told her everything about Gabriel. The real reasons. The who, the why, the when. The doctor wrote it all down.