Broken Angels

28

When Jessica and Byrne arrived on the scene on Lincoln Drive-a section of Fairmount Park near the Wissahickon Creek-there were two CSU vans, three sector cars, and five detectives already there. Crime- scene tape spanned the road. Traffic was being routed to two slow- moving lanes.

For the police, the site was charged with anger, determination, and a singular kind of rage. This was one of their own.

The sight of the body was beyond revolting.

Walt Brigham lay on the ground in front of his car, on the shoulder of the road. He was on his back, his arms were spread out to his sides, his palms were upturned in supplication. He had been burned to death. The smell of immolated flesh and crisped skin and flash-fried bone filled the air. His corpse was a blackened husk. His gold detective's badge had been delicately placed on his forehead.

Jessica nearly gagged. She had to turn away from the appalling spectacle. She thought back to the previous night, the way Walt had looked. She had only met him once before, but he had a stellar reputation in the department, and many friends.

Now he was dead.

Detectives Nicci Malone and Eric Chavez would be working the case.

Nicci Malone, thirty-one, was one of the newest detectives in the homicide unit, the only other female besides Jessica. Nicci had spent four years in narcotics. At just under five four, 110 pounds-blond, blue-eyed, and fair on top of it-she had a lot to prove, in addition to all the gender issues. Nicci and Jessica had worked a detail a year earlier and had instantly bonded. They had even worked out together a few times. Nicci practiced tae kwon do.

Eric Chavez was a veteran detective, and the unit's fashion plate. Chavez had never successfully passed a mirror without looking into it. His file drawers were stacked with GQ, Esquire, and Vitals magazines. A fashion trend did not emerge without his knowledge, but, that same attention to detail made him a good investigator.

Byrne's role would be that of a witness-having been one of the last people to talk to Walt Brigham at Finnigan's Wake-although no one expected him to sit on the sidelines during the investigation. Whenever a police officer is murdered, there were about 6,500 men and women on the case.

Every cop in Philly.

Marjorie Brigham was a slight woman in her late fifties. She had small, crisp features, close-cropped silvery hair, the raw clean hands of a middle-class woman who had never delegated a single household chore. She wore tan slacks and a chocolate cable-knit sweater, a simple gold band on her left hand.

Her living room was decorated in an Early American style, the wallpaper a cheerful beige gingham. In front of the window overlooking the street was a maple table bearing an assortment of healthy houseplants. In the corner of the dining room was an aluminum Christmas tree with white lights and red ornaments.

When Byrne and Jessica arrived, Marjorie was sitting on a wingback chair across from the TV. In her hand was a black Teflon spatula. She held it as she might a dead flower. This day, for the first time in decades, there was no one to cook for. She seemed unable to put the utensil down. Putting it down meant that Walt wasn't coming back. If you were married to a police officer, you were afraid every day. You were afraid of the telephone, the knock on the door, the sound of a car pulling into your driveway. You were afraid every time there was a "special report" on television. Then one day the unthinkable happened, and there was no longer anything to fear. You suddenly realized that, all that time, for all those years, fear had been your friend. Fear meant that there was life. Fear was hope.

Kevin Byrne was not there in an official capacity. He was there as a friend, a brother officer. Still, it was impossible not to ask the questions. He sat on the arm of the couch, took one of Marjorie's hands in his.

"Are you up for a few questions?" Byrne asked, as softly and gently as possible.

Marjorie nodded.

"Did Walt have any debts? Anyone he might have been having problems with?"

Marjorie thought for a few seconds. "No," she said. "Nothing like that."

"Did he ever mention any specific threats? Anyone who might have had a vendetta against him?"

Marjorie shook her head. Byrne had to try this line of inquiry, even though it was unlikely that Walt Brigham would have shared something like that with his wife. For a fleeting moment, the voice of Matthew Clarke echoed in Byrne's mind.

This is not over.

"Is this your case?" Marjorie asked.

"No," Byrne said. "Detective Malone and Detective Chavez are investigating. They'll come by a little later today."

"Are they good?"

"Very good," Byrne replied. "Now, you know they'll want to go through some of Walt's things. Are you all right with that?"

Marjorie Brigham just nodded, numb.

"Now remember, if there are any problems or questions, or if you just want to talk, you call me first, okay? Anytime. Day or night. I'll come right over."

"Thanks, Kevin."

Byrne rose, buttoned his coat. Marjorie stood up. Finally she put the spatula down, then hugged the big man in front of her, burying her face in his broad chest.

The story was already all over the city, the region. News crews were setting up shop on Lincoln Drive. They had a potentially sensational story. Fifty or sixty cops convene at a tavern, and one of them leaves and is murdered along a remote section of Lincoln Drive. What was he doing there? Drugs? Sex? A payoff? For a police department that was constantly under scrutiny from every civil-rights group, every review board, every citizen-action committee, not to mention the local and often national media, it didn't look good. The pressure from the big bosses to solve this and solve it fast was already enormous, and growing by the hour.