At just after noon a uniformed officer walked into the duty room of the Homicide Unit, a FedEx envelope in hand. Kevin Byrne was at a desk, feet up, eyes closed. In his mind, he found himself at the train yards of his youth, garbed in a strange hybrid costume of pearl- handled six-guns, army helmet liner, and silver space suit. He smelled the deep brine of the river, the lush redolence of axle grease. The smell of safety. In this world there were no serial killers, no psychopaths who would cut a man in half with a chain saw or bury a baby alive. The only danger that lurked was your old man's belt if you showed up late for dinner.
"Detective Byrne?" the uniformed officer asked, shattering the dream.
Byrne opened his eyes. "Yes?"
"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."