Authors: The Echo Man
Jessica
rolled to her right, worked the Glock from her holster, but she was too slow.
Thompson stepped forward, kicked the weapon from her hand.
'You
shoulda shot me when you had the fucking chance, bitch. Ain't gonna happen
today.'
When
Thompson took another step toward her, Jessica saw movement at the back of the
parking lot. A shadow slithered along the pavement.
Someone
was standing behind Thompson.
And
then everything went gray.
The Philadelphia
Orchestra began life in 1900. Over the next century it held many distinctions,
not the least of which was the 'Philadelphia Sound', a legacy that, under
conductor Eugene Ormandy, became known for its clarity and skilled execution,
its warm tonality and precise timing.
The
orchestra also had a unity of artistic leadership virtually unknown in the
world of great orchestras, with only seven musical directors in its entire
history. Two men, Leopold Stokowski and Eugene Ormandy, held the reins from
1912 to 1980.
It
was on the occasion of Ormandy's leaving that the Philadelphia Orchestra found
itself at a crossroads and, perhaps in an attempt to modernize its somewhat
staid image, turned to a young firebrand, Neapolitan Riccardo Muti, as its new
musical director. Darkly handsome, intensely serious to the point of almost
never smiling on stage, Muti ushered in a new era, an era dominated by a man
whose insistence on the letter of the musical law earned him the nickname - at
least around the opera houses of Italy - of
lo scerif,
the sheriff.
In
1981, in a move still discussed in some circles, the orchestra rattled the
classical musical world by hiring as its principal cellist a nineteen-year-old
named Christa-Marie Schönburg - a tempestuous wunderkind who was taking the
world of strings by storm. Within a year her name became as synonymous with the
Philadelphia Orchestra's
as
Muti's, and when the chamber orchestra toured Eastern Europe that summer
Christa-Marie Schönburg was the talk of the classical- music universe.
By
the time she was twenty-two there was no doubt in the minds of the
cognoscenti
that she would surpass, in technical skill, pure artistry and,
indeed, world-wide recognition, the only other woman to capture international fame
on the cello, the tragic Jacqueline du Pre, the brilliant cellist whose career
was cut short at the age of twenty-eight by multiple sclerosis.
And
while Jacqueline du Pre made her most memorable recording with Elgar's
Cello
Concerto in E Minor,
Christa-Marie put her imprimatur on the Bach suites.
For
nearly a decade, from Vienna's Konzerthaus to Rotterdam's Grote Zaal, from the
Royal Festival Hall in London to Avery Fisher Hall in New York City,
Christa-Marie Schönburg, with her tensile, passionate music, brought audiences
to their feet.
On a
cold autumn night in 1990 all of that changed.
Something
tragic happened on that night when Christa-Marie returned home after a
triumphant performance at the Academy of Music - a benefit attended by many of
Philadelphia's elite society, a fund-raiser for Philadelphia's homeless
children.
Although
details of the last two hours remain unknown, it was believed that
Christa-Marie returned to her Chestnut Hill house at approximately 11:45 p.m.,
delivered there by a car service. A few hours later, according to her
housekeeper, there were sounds of an argument in the kitchen, a struggle, then
a scream. The housekeeper called the police.
Police
arrived at around two-thirty. They found a man named Gabriel Thorne - a
psychiatrist who had treated Christa-Marie for many years - sprawled on the
kitchen floor, bleeding heavily from wounds to his abdomen and chest, the
bloodied knife at his side. He was still alive. They called EMS, who tried to
save him at the scene but failed. He was pronounced dead minutes after their
arrival. The ME's office would eventually rule that Thorne bled out as a result
of multiple stab wounds.
Christa-Marie
Schönburg never played another public concert.
Because
she confessed to the crime there was no show trial, much to the disappointment
of the burgeoning cable-TV court shows. Christa- Marie Schönburg was as
enigmatic as she was strikingly beautiful, and her relationship with Thorne
was, for many years, cause for gossip and speculation.
The
last time Byrne saw Christa-Marie Schönburg was at her allocution, when she
stood before a judge and admitted her guilt regarding the murder of Dr. Gabriel
Thorne.
As Byrne
drove north he thought of the Chestnut Hill house, how when people heard what
had happened they began to gather across the street early the next morning,
bringing with them flowers and stuffed animals, even sheet music. It was as if
Christa-Marie had been the victim, not the perpetrator.
Byrne
had thought of Christa-Marie often. It wasn't just that Christa-Marie Schönburg
had been his first case as the lead detective in a homicide. Something else
about the woman haunted him. What drew him to her had never been entirely clear
to him.
Maybe
he would discover what that was today.
'I'm
fine,' Jessica said.
It
was a lie, but she was sticking to it.
The
paramedic shone his light into her eyes for the third time, took her blood
pressure for the third time, took her pulse for the fifth time.
She
had been punched on many occasions in the past - when you box in the ring, it
kind of goes with the territory - and this had been a glancing blow, not really
that hard. But it had caught her off guard. In the ring, you brace yourself for
incoming blows, and the adrenalin that flows naturally at a moment like that
works as a sort of neural shock absorber. No one on Earth can be prepared for a
sucker punch, which, by definition, comes out of the blue. Her head throbbed a
little but her vision was clear, and her energy level was high. She wanted back
in the game but they were going to make her sit there like an invalid. She had
seen it many times in her years on the job, had even been the purveyor of the
unwelcome news to victims of assault.
Just
sit there for a moment.
Not
so for Vincent Balzano. When the sector cars showed up, she made the call,
found Vincent only a dozen blocks away, working an investigation of his own. He
broke every speed record getting to the scene. That was the easy part. Calming
him down was another matter. At the moment he was pacing like a caged animal.
Unfortunately for Vincent Balzano and his Italian temper, he was lacking a
convenient punching bag. For now, at least.
Jessica's
weapon had been recovered. It had not been fired.
All
Jessica remembered was hearing other footsteps but she did not know whose they
were. She did not mention the journal, which had not been recovered from the scene
'No
one said anything?' Westbrook asked.
Jessica
shook her head. It hurt. She stopped doing it. 'No. I heard footsteps
approaching. I got clocked twice. There was a scuffle. Then I faded out.'
'What
kind of scuffle?'
'Not
sure. I heard at least two people grunting. Then the ringing in my ears took
over.'
'And
you did not see the other person?'
'No,
but I—'
Jessica
suddenly looked at her watch, sprang to her feet. She felt dizzy for a moment, then
it passed. Her anger did not.
'What
is it?' Vincent asked.
'We
missed it. We fucking
missed
it.' 'What?'
'The
appointment at the Department of Human Services.'
'Jess.'
'Don't
Jess
me.'
'We'll
work it out,' Vincent said. 'Don't worry.'
'Don't
worry
? This is why they turn you down, Vincent. This is the first big test.
You don't show, you don't call, it's over.'
Vincent
held her close. 'I think you have a pretty good excuse, babe. I think they'll
understand.'
'They
won't,' Jessica said, wiggling loose. 'Plus, they're not going to place Carlos
in a home where his mother is in danger every day.'
'They
know we're both cops. They know what we do.'
It
all came out. The anger of this brutal case. The inability to conceive for two
years. The indignity of being assaulted. All of it.
'You
weren't
there
, Vincent. I was there. I saw how Carlos was living. I saw
the dog shit and the fucking hypodermic needles all over the place. I saw the
cockroaches and rats in the sink, the rotting food. I saw him hiding under a
fucking
garbage bag.
You don't know what a hell hole it was, how bad his
life was. They are
not
going to hand him over to us so we can make it
worse.'
She
tried to walk it off. The rage was a breathing thing within her.
Soon
Jessica calmed down and let the investigation begin. It was going to be a long
day - and it was just getting started.
Chestnut
Hill was an affluent neighborhood in the Northwest section of Philadelphia,
originally part of the German Township laid out by Francis Daniel Pastorius.
One of the original 'railroad suburbs,' the area contained a wide variety of
nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century residences designed by many of the most
prominent Philadelphia architects.
Before
leaving Center City, Byrne had called ahead to schedule a time to meet with
Christa-Marie. He was directed to Christa-Marie's attorney, a man named
Benjamin Curtin. Reluctant at first, Curtin arranged to meet Byrne at the
estate at one p.m.
As
Byrne turned down St. Andrews Road he saw the house for the second time in his
life. He had not been back since the night of the murder.
It
was a massive, sprawling Tudor building with a circular driveway accented with
cobblestones, a large gabled entrance. To the right, partially hidden by trees,
was a stable, next to a pair of tennis courts. A high wrought-iron fence
encircled the property.
Byrne
parked his van and, even though he was wearing his best suit, suddenly felt
underdressed. He also realized that he had been holding his breath. He got out
of the vehicle, straightened his tie, smoothed the front of his overcoat, and
rang the bell. A few moments later the door was opened by a woman in her sixties.
Byrne announced himself, and the woman led him through the high, arched
doorway. Ahead was a carved mahogany winding staircase; to the right were thick
fluted pillars leading to a formal dining room. To the left was the great room,
with a view of the pool and the manicured grounds beyond. Byrne's heels echoed
in the massive space. The woman took his coat and led him into a study off the
enormous foyer.
The
room was darkly paneled, clubby, with a pair of large bookcases built in and a
vaulted open-trussed ceiling. A fire burned in the fireplace. The mantel was
arrayed with pine cones and other autumn decorations. Above the mantel was a
large portrait of Christa-Marie. In the painting she sat in a velvet chair. It
had to have been painted right around the time Byrne met her, that dark night
in 1990.
A few
moments later the door opened and a man entered.
Benjamin
Curtin was in his early fifties. He had thick gray hair, swept straight back, a
strong jaw. His suit was tailored to perfection and might well have cost what
Byrne made in a month. Curtin was probably twenty pounds heavier than he
looked.
Byrne
introduced himself. He did not produce his identification. He was not there in
any official capacity. Not yet.
'It's
a pleasure to meet you, detective,' Curtin said, perhaps to remind Byrne what
he did for a living. Curtin had a Southern accent. Byrne pegged him as
Mississippi money.
'And
you, counselor.'
There,
Byrne thought. Everyone knows their jobs
.