"This just came for you."
Byrne took the envelope, looked at the return address. It was from a Center City law firm. He opened it. Inside was another envelope. Attached was a letter from the law firm explaining that the sealed envelope was from the estate of Phillip Kessler, to be sent on the occasion of his death. Byrne opened the inner envelope. As he read the letter, a whole new set of questions was asked, the answers to which were lying in the morgue.
"I don't fucking believe this," he said, drawing the attention of the handful of detectives in the room. Jessica walked over.
"What is it?" she asked.
Byrne read aloud the contents of the letter from Kessler's lawyer. No one knew what to make of it.
"Are you telling me that Phil Kessler was paid to get Julian Matisse out of prison?" Jessica asked.
"That's what the letter says. Phil wanted me to know it, but not until after his death."
"What are you talking about? Who paid him?" Palladino asked.
"The letter doesn't say. But what it does say is that Phil received ten grand to bring the charge against Jimmy Purify to get Julian Matisse out of prison pending his appeal."
Everyone in the room was appropriately stunned.
"You think it was Butler?" Jessica asked.
"Good question."
The good news was that Jimmy Purify could rest in peace. His name would be cleared. But now that Kessler and Matisse and Butler were all dead, it didn't seem likely that they would ever get to the bottom of this.
Eric Chavez, who had been on the phone the whole time, finally hung up. "For what it's worth, the lab figured out what movie that sixth lobby card is from."
"What's the movie?" Byrne asked.
"Witness. The Harrison Ford movie."
Byrne glanced at the television. Channel 6 now had a live shot of the corner of Thirtieth and Market streets. They were interviewing people about how exciting it was that Will Parrish was making a movie at the train station.
"My God," Byrne said.
"What?" Jessica asked.
"This isn't over."
"What do you mean?"
Byrne quickly scanned the letter from Phil Kessler's lawyer. "Think about it. Why would Butler take himself out before the big finale?"
"With all due respect to the dead," Palladino began, "who gives a shit? The psycho is dead and that's that."
"We don't know if that was Nigel Butler in the car."
It was true. Neither the DNA nor dental report was back yet. There had simply been no good reason to think it was anyone other than Butler in that car.
Byrne was on his feet. "Maybe that fire was just a diversion. Maybe he did it because he needed more time."
"So who was in the car?" Jessica asked.
"No idea," Byrne said. "But why would he send us that movie of the baby being buried if he didn't want us to find him in time? If he really wanted to punish Ian Whitestone that way, why not just let the baby die? Why not just leave his dead son on his doorstep?"
No one had a good answer to this.
"All the film murders were in bathrooms, right?" Byrne continued.
"Right. What about it?" Jessica asked.
"In Witness, the little Amish kid witnesses a murder," Byrne replied.
"I'm not following," Jessica said.
On the television monitor, Ian Whitestone was shown entering the train station. Byrne took out his weapon, checked the action. On the way to the door he said: "The victim in that movie has his throat cut in the bathroom of the Thirtieth Street station."
79
The Thirtieth street station was on the national Register of Historic Places. The eight-story, concrete-framed structure was built in 1934, and covered two full city blocks.
On this day, it was even more crowded than usual. More than three hundred extras, in full makeup and costume, milled around the main room, waiting for the sequence that would be shot in the North Waiting Room. In addition, another seventy-five crew members were there, including sound recordists, lighting technicians, cameramen, gaffers, and various production assistants.
Although the train schedules had not been interrupted, the production did have the main terminal for two hours. Passengers were being routed along a narrow rope corridor along the south wall.
When the police arrived, the camera was on a large crane, blocking out the intricate shot, tracking through the crowd of extras in the main room, then through the huge archway into the North Waiting Room, where it would find Will Parrish, standing beneath the large Karl Bitter bas-relief Spirit of Transportation. Maddeningly, for the detectives, all the extras were dressed the same. It was some sort of dream sequence that had them wearing long red monks' robes and black face masks. When Jessica made her way to the North Waiting Room, she saw a stand-in for Will Parrish who wore a yellow rain slicker.
The detectives searched the men's and ladies' rooms, trying not to cause any undue alarm. They did not find Ian Whitestone. They did not find Nigel Butler.
Jessica called Terry Cahill on his cell phone, hoping he might be able to run interference with the production company. She got his voice mail. Byrne and Jessica stood in the center of the enormous main room of the train station, near the information booth, in the shadow of the bronze angel sculpture.
"What the hell do we do?" Jessica asked, knowing the question was rhetorical. Byrne deferred to her judgment. From the moment they first met, he had treated her as an equal, and now that she was heading this task force, he did not pull the rank of experience. It was her call, and the look in his eyes said that he was behind her decision, whatever it may be.
There was only one choice. She might catch hell from the mayor, from the Department of Transportation, from Amtrak, SEPTA, and everyone else, but she had to do it. She spoke into her two-way radio. "Shut it down," she said. "No one in or out."
Before they could make a move, Byrne's cell phone rang. It was Nick Palladino.
"What's up, Nick?"
"We heard from the ME's office. We've got dental on the body in the burning car."
"What do we have?" Byrne asked.
"Well, the dental records didn't match Nigel Butler's," Palladino said. "So Eric and I took a chance and rode up to Bala Cynwyd."
Byrne took this in, one domino striking the next. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"
"Yeah," Palladino said. "The body in the car was Adam Kaslov." THe assistaNt diRectoR of the film was a woman named Joanna Young. Jessica found her near the food court, a cell phone in her hand, another cell phone to her ear, a crackling two-way clipped to her belt, and a long line of anxious people waiting to speak with her. She was not a happy camper.
"What is this all about?" Young demanded.
"I'm not at liberty to discuss it at this time," Jessica said. "But we really need to speak with Mr. Whitestone."
"I'm afraid he left the set."
"When?"
"He walked out about ten minutes ago."
"Alone?"
"He left with one of the extras, and I really wish-"
"Which door?" Jessica asked.
"The Twenty-ninth Street entrance."
"And you haven't seen him since?"
"No," she said. "But I hope he gets back soon. We're losing about a thousand dollars a minute here."
Byrne came over the two-way. "Jess?"
"Yes?"
"I think you should see this." THE BIGGER OF the two men's rooms at the train station was a warren of large white-tiled rooms off the North Waiting Room. The sinks were in one room, the toilet stalls in another-a long row of stainless-steel doors with stalls on either side. What Byrne wanted Jessica to see was in the last stall on the left, inside the door. Scrawled at the bottom of the door was a series of numbers, separated by decimal points. And it looked to be written in blood.
"Did we get pictures of it?" Jessica asked.