The Killing Room

FORTY-TWO

Detectives Jessica Balzano and Kevin Byrne sat in a department-issue Taurus on the rise overlooking Graterford State Correctional Facility.

In her years on the Philadelphia Police force Jessica had only been here a handful of times. The realm of correctional facilities — their inner workings, their politics, the very world they occupied — was beyond the experience of most city detectives. The majority of a homicide detective’s work took place at a different part of the continuum which began the moment one person lifted his or her hand in anger at another, and ended when a convicted suspect was led from a courtroom in shackles.

The Pennsylvania State Correctional Institution at Graterford was located in Skippack Township, Montgomery County, about thirty miles west of the city of Philadelphia. Built in 1929, it was Pennsylvania’s largest maximum-security prison, housing more than 3,500 inmates. In addition to its five major cell blocks, and small mental-health unit, the facility was surrounded by 1,700 acres of farmland.

There were nine manned towers sticking out above its high walls, ringed with concertina wire.

Overcrowding was a problem in many US prisons, and in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania it was no different. The prison population was currently at over 50,000 inmates, occupying space meant for just over 43,000.

In 2010 an inmate serving a ten-year sentence was released and went on to murder a Philadelphia police officer. A moratorium on paroles was instituted and, although that had eased, overcrowding was still an issue.

The crumbling facility was due to be mothballed when two new prisons opened near Philadelphia. Meanwhile Graterford was bursting at the seams.

The process by which a city detective arranged an interview with an inmate incarcerated at Graterford was a fairly complicated one, a process which had been smoothed over by the captain of the Homicide Unit and the district attorney’s office.

Roland Hannah had confessed to three homicides, but waived his right to allocution — the process by which an individual stands before the court and explains his actions. To this day the reasons for those crimes remained a mystery, but only in the legal sense. It was clear to everyone, especially police investigators, why Roland Hannah did what he did. As a result of his confession Hannah was spared the death penalty, and was sentenced to three life sentences, without the possibility of parole.

But all of that now had the potential to change. Jessica and Byrne had been briefed before visiting the prison that Hannah’s lawyer had already petitioned the court for his client’s release, pending a new trial, all on the basis that Hannah had been framed then, as he was now. The reason for his prior confession, it was now being alleged, was diminished capacity, and no small measure of police coercion.

There were many questions, not the least of which was who was bankrolling Roland Hannah’s new lawyer, James H. Tolliver, one of the priciest defense attorneys in Philadelphia.

They met James Tolliver just outside the meeting room. He was about fifty, well-tanned and well-dressed. He carried an expensive charcoal gray overcoat over one arm, and held a black leather Ferragamo briefcase.

Just where was Roland Hannah getting the funds? Jessica wondered. While it was true that many lawyers at white-shoe firms did pro bono work, this case didn’t seem to line up, politically speaking. Unless, of course, the ultimate strategy was that an overzealous police department and district attorney’s office had railroaded Roland Hannah’s conviction to close out a terrible run of unsolved murders.

They all introduced themselves. Polite, but stone cold.

‘Against my advice, Reverend Hannah has requested that I not be present in the room when you speak with him.’

Good, Jessica thought.

‘But rest assured that I will be listening to everything said in that room, detectives,’ Tolliver added. ‘If I feel you are moving into an area I think it unwise for my client to enter, I will be inside in a flash and this interview will be over.’

The room was painted an institutional green. It measured ten by fifteen feet. There were three small barred windows, set high on the wall, letting in enough light to see what sort of day it was outside, but not allowing inmates to see much else.

At the center of the room was a table bolted to the floor. On one side was a dented metal chair, also secured. The other side held a pair of folding chairs that did not look much more comfortable.

At just after 2 p.m. the door opened, and the prisoner was led in. Both his feet and his hands were shackled.

Jessica had not seen Roland Hannah in years, their last meeting occuring at the hearing during which he confessed to murder. In the intervening years his hair, which he now wore nearly to his shoulders, had turned a fog white. He had lost weight, and the orange jumpsuit hung loosely on what had already been a slender frame. His face looked as if it were carved from alabaster.

The corrections officer sat Roland Hannah down on the metal chair. He took the cuffs from his hands then stood behind the prisoner, looking to Jessica and Byrne for his cue. Jessica nodded and the officer left the room, shutting and bolting the door behind him.

The fresh silence was deep and protracted. For almost a full minute no one spoke. It was Roland Hannah who broke the calm.

‘Good afternoon, detectives,’ he said. ‘It has been a while. I hope you are well.’

In addition to his orange jumpsuit the man wore dark amber-tinted aviator glasses.

Roland Hannah was blind.

Jessica wondered how much Hannah had been told. She knew that he had met, at great length, with his lawyer, so she had to assume he knew everything — details of the current spate of murders, as well as the church connection.

‘Mr Hannah,’ Jessica said.

She saw the reaction on his face, the small tic of displeasure. He said nothing. Roland Hannah, at the time of the murders that put him in SCI Graterford, was an ordained minister. There was no way Jessica was going to call him Reverend Hannah. Not unless she needed to. Not unless there was fruit to be picked from this encounter.

‘I would say “It’s nice to see you again,” but I am not a fan of irony,’ Roland said.

‘Do you know why we’re here?’ Byrne asked.

Roland Hannah remained silent for a few moments. It was impossible to read his expression behind the tinted glasses. ‘Have you both come to accept Jesus Christ as your personal savior?’

‘Why do you ask that?’ Jessica asked.

‘Well, I like to think of myself as one of His more evangelical minions, but this seems like quite an effort on your part. If you wanted to be baptized there are plenty of churches you could have gone to.’

‘I’ve been baptized, Mr Hannah,’ Jessica said.

‘Praise His name. What is your chosen path?’

Jessica had the feeling he would try to engage her in this discussion. As little as she wanted to accommodate him, she knew it was necessary. ‘I’m Catholic.’

Roland nodded. He turned his face to the meager gray light sifting through the high windows, then back toward Jessica and Byrne. ‘I have a special affinity for the Catholics, you know.’

‘Is that right?’ Jessica asked.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Roland said. ‘From the time I was twelve or thirteen I had the notion I was going to become a Catholic priest. Mama was a Baptist, of course, but every chance I got I would sneak off to a Catholic mass. Took to hanging around the rectories, helping out at the CYO functions, generally being a nuisance. Even made myself a Roman collar once out of my mama’s sewing basket.’

Jessica wasn’t interested in the man’s story, but she wanted to keep him talking. ‘So, what happened?’

‘Well, they told me I was too old to be an altar boy, and too young for the seminary, not to mention my lack of formal education. So, when tragedy touched my life, I chose another path. I was ordained a Pentecostal minister when I was just fifteen.’

‘This was here in Philadelphia?’ Jessica asked, although she already knew the answer.

‘No, ma’am. I went back down to Appalachia, where I’m from.’

Roland took a moment, continued. ‘My first ministry was in Kentucky. I was raised there, and my bishop felt I had a deeper understanding of the people. I got a small roadside church in Letcher County.’

Roland Hannah shifted his weight in the chair. The shackles on his feet made a clinking sound that echoed off the old stone walls.

‘You have to understand that these people are very poor,’ he said. ‘Their land — their very lives — had been raped by the coal companies, the logging companies, the government. First they took the trees, then the coal, then the mountaintops themselves. These folks are skeptical of any organization, be it religious or secular.

‘I did the best I could with what I had, which was very little. It is impossible to feed hungry children with just the Word. In time I became much more than just a minister to them.’

I’ll bet, Jessica thought. She recalled Ida-Rae Munson’s words:

He used to hand them missals out like candy. Used to hand out a lot more than that, if you was young and fair.

Roland leaned forward, continued. ‘There was a woman of sixty who came to me one Sunday. She’d had a child at fifty-three, born out of wedlock, and believed the boy to be possessed by demons. And by this I do not mean the boy was violent or out of control in any earthly ways. She believed the boy was the devil himself.’

Both Jessica and Byrne remained silent.

‘I observed the boy for three days in his home, and was both astounded and horrified by what I saw. I brought it to my bishop, who counseled prayer for the boy, but nothing more.’

‘What did you do?’ Jessica asked.

Roland leaned back, shifted his weight again. ‘I returned to my ministry and told the woman there was nothing to be done. She fell to her knees and begged me to come back to her home one last time. She said that things had gotten worse.

‘Of course I went. Once there, I found the child in swaddling, even though he was seven years old. The room was lit with oil lamps, and smelled of dead flowers and sulfur. She handed me the boy, and directed my hand to feel beneath the boy’s thick, curly hair. I did as she asked.’

Jessica saw Roland run his hand along the scarred metal table top, perhaps searching for some sense memory. His fingers found the deep ruts in the surface.

‘Do you know what I felt?’ Roland asked.

‘No,’ Jessica said.

‘Horns, detective. The boy had two small horns growing from his head.’

Roland Hannah bowed his head for a moment, mouthed what looked to be a silent prayer. When he finished he retuned to his tale.

‘I performed the ritual, against the counsel of my bishop. It was a long, draining process, one that threatened my faith, as well as my life. But I believe something entered me that day, detective, something that exited that boy, who was just fine when I left him.’ Roland Hannah knitted his fingers. ‘Word spread over the county of this divine event. News was made in heaven, as they say. And even though I was just a boy myself, people knew I was possessed of the fire of the Spirit. The Holy Thunder Caravan was born that day.’

The room fell quiet for nearly a full minute. Jessica finally broke the silence.

‘That’s a very interesting story, Roland.’

‘Praise Jesus.’

‘Very interesting. But I’d like to talk about a different time in your life, if you don’t mind.’

‘Not at all,’ Roland said. ‘As you might imagine, I have nothing but time.’

‘Let’s talk about that tragedy to which you alluded before. Let’s talk about the day your stepsister Charlotte and her friend Annemarie were murdered.’

The word murdered hovered in the air. Jessica remembered the case well. The two girls were brutally killed in Fairmount Park. Years later a great cop named Walter Brigham was destroyed by the investigation.

‘Charlotte,’ Roland said softly. ‘If it’s all the same to you, ma’am, I won’t be talking about her.’

Jessica thought she detected a slight waver in the man’s voice. It was maddening that she could not read his eyes, but it seemed she was rattling him. ‘What would you like to discuss?’ Jessica asked.

Roland Hannah smiled. ‘You asked to see me, detective.’

Jessica shuffled a few papers, purely for Roland Hannah’s benefit. ‘Fair enough.’ She pushed back her chair. The screech of metal on concrete was like a shout in the confined space. ‘Let’s talk about what happened five years ago, then. Let’s talk about a string of very nasty murders in Philadelphia.’

Roland Hannah said nothing. His smile slowly disappeared.

‘Let’s start with a man named Edgar Luna, a man named Basil Spencer, and a man named Joseph Barber,’ Jessica said. Edgar Luna, Basil Spencer, and Joseph Barber were three of Hannah’s victims.

The blind man was silent for a long time. Outside a gust of wintry wind rattled a loose pane of glass. Finally, calmly, Roland Hannah spoke.

‘I did not commit those vigilante murders of pedophiles years ago. I was framed for them, as I am being framed now.’ He gestured to the room around them, a room he could not see. ‘I am a blind man in prison. How could I be doing any of this?’

Jessica and Byrne both knew how this would play in court. It was not good for them.

‘Then why did you confess?’ Jessica asked.

‘I was under a great deal of stress. I wanted it to be over. As you might imagine, I was traumatized over my affliction.’

Roland Hannah meant his blinding at the hands of another madman. Years after Charlotte’s death Hannah had haunted the dark alleys of Philadelphia, looking for the man who had killed his stepsister. In the end, investigators believed Hannah thought himself an avenging angel, murdering anyone and everyone who was even suspected of pedophilia.

‘I wonder if she still holds the rose,’ Roland said.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Tell me about these killings.’

Jessica glanced at Byrne, and back at the prisoner. She knew Roland Hannah was trying to bait her, and she wasn’t going to bite. As calmly as she could, she said: ‘They are murders, not killings, Mr Hannah. Cold-blooded, pre-meditated murders.’

Roland Hannah nodded gravely, as if saddened by the news of violence. Jessica knew him to be a man without conscience, a killer who preyed on criminals, acting as judge, jury, and executioner.

When Hannah had confessed to three murders, investigators went to the burial sites. They found the bodies. As a matter of routine they collected hair and fiber evidence, as well as fingerprint and blood evidence, even though this material was never going to be used in court. With the possibility of a new trial on the horizon, the lab was now attempting to match forensic evidence found at those scenes with material collected at the current crime sites.

‘From what I understand, the people being killed in your city — under your watch, I might add — are not the most savory characters,’ Roland said. ‘The people killed five years ago were just the same. Children of disobedience. Have you not considered that whoever committed those murders, framing me then, is doing the same thing now? Ridding the world of further sinners?’

‘A baby was killed,’ Jessica said. ‘Are you saying she was a sinner?’

‘Perhaps she had not yet been baptized.’

Jessica wanted to jump across the table. She calmed herself. For a few long moments she stared at Roland Hannah. All she saw was her own reflection in the dark lenses that masked his eyes.

‘There is a lot of evil in the world, detective,’ Roland added.

Spoken by a true expert, Jessica thought. ‘Evil is pretty much my business, Roland.’

‘As a man of the cloth, it is mine, too,’ he countered. ‘You may not know it, but I am pastor to many in here.’

‘So, what are you saying? That this phantom killer is God’s swift sword?’

No response.

‘Do you want to tell me how you knew where those bodies were buried five years ago?’ Jessica asked.

At this the door slammed open and James Tolliver entered.

‘My client agreed to this interview as a courtesy to the district attorney of Philadelphia,’ Tolliver said. ‘Reverend Hannah felt it was his civic duty. Having done this duty, this interview is now over.’

A few moments later, without another word, a corrections officer entered the room, helped Roland Hannah to his feet, and the man was led from the room.

When he was gone Tolliver turned his attention back to Jessica and Byrne.

‘I expect my client to be released into the custody of the Philadelphia County Sheriff later today. He will be held under house arrest, and undergo a psychiatric evaluation. If deemed competent, he will stand trial for the crimes he allegedly committed five years ago.’

‘And the current crimes?’ Byrne asked.

‘I’m sorry,’ Tolliver said. ‘Have I missed something? Has my client been charged with new crimes?’

Byrne stepped forward. ‘I know you don’t come cheap, Mr Tolliver.’

Tolliver smiled as he buttoned his expensive coat. ‘It’s all relative, detective. I’ve never known a homicide cop to refuse overtime.’

‘Roland Hannah doesn’t have a penny.’

The lawyer said nothing.

‘So who’s paying you?’ Byrne asked.

The lawyer smiled. ‘There are two reasons I won’t be answering that question.’

‘And they are?’

‘The first reason is that it is none of your business who is paying for my services. If, indeed, I am not here pro bono.’

‘And the second reason?’

Tolliver opened the door, turned, and said, ‘Now that you know the first, does it really matter?’

The corrections officer brought out the box of personal effects. Until Roland Hannah was released, these materials were considered property of the Commonwealth, and therefore Jessica had jurisdiction, and the right, to examine them.

These were the things Roland Hannah had in his possession when he was arrested.

While Byrne made phone calls, alerting the bosses to what transpired, Jessica signed for the box, then took it to a small room next to the warden’s office. There wasn’t much to look through: dirty comb, a pair of used bus tickets, a battered wallet, a small wooden crucifix. Jessica opened the wallet. Inside was sixteen dollars, along with a page torn from the Bible. The 23rd Psalm.

Jessica opened the center of the wallet, lifted up the flap. Inside was a faded color photograph of a slender young girl, perhaps twelve or so. Behind the girl was a large truck. All Jessica could see was the beginning of the words painted on the side of the van, which looked to be HOLY and CARA. The girl held a flower in her hand.

Jessica flipped over the picture. On the back was a handwritten message.

DEAR MOMMA,

I’VE SEED SO MANY THINGS. THE OHIO RIVER IS BIG. I KNOW DADDY DIED OF HIS LUNGS, BUT HE WERENT GOING TO HURT ME. NOT REALLY. I KNOW THAT. I AM HAPPY NOW WITH THE PREACHER. I HAVE THE SPIRIT IN ME, AND I HOPE EVERYONE IS DOING GAYLY. LOVE ALL WAYS,

RUBY LONGSTREET

I wonder if she still holds the rose, Roland Hannah had said.

He was talking about the girl in the photograph. Ruby. This was the red-haired girl Ida-Rae Munson had spoken of, the one who had taken up with a preacher.

A preacher named Roland Hannah.

She had a devil-child.