The Killing Room (19 page)

Byrne pushed the door. ‘Philadelphia Police!’ he said.

No answer.

Ahead of them, against the far wall, was an old cranberry red sofa. On it were three or four dirty gray bed sheets, a pair of flat bed pillows with large grease stains in the center. In front of the sofa was a chipped maple coffee table with stacked plastic trays from a few dozen microwave dinners. To the left was a 1970s vintage console television, tuned to a game show, sound all the way down.

Still, from somewhere in the apartment, the children’s song played. Now that she was inside, Jessica identified the song as
‘A Smile and a Ribbon’, an old children’s song from the 1950s that she used to play. The sound seemed to be coming from a bedroom at the end of the hall.

Jessica turned to see the superintendent standing in the doorway. He had no reaction to the condition of the apartment, and still seemed unable to smell the appalling stench of decomposing flesh.

‘We’ll let you know if we need anything else,’ Jessica said.

The man looked up, shrugged, and walked down the hall.

To the left of the living room was the doorway to the kitchen. The overhead ceiling light was on and through the doorway Jessica could see the pile of dirty pans and dishes overflowing in the sink. The pans were at least fifty years old, and reminded Jessica of her grandmother’s cookware. With Byrne just behind her, she eased through the doorway and peered inside. The electric stove was on, all four burners radiating bright red. It was freezing in the apartment, so Jessica figured the stove was on for heat. It barely warmed the one corner of the tiny kitchen.

They walked across the living room, down the hallway. The first door on the left was the bathroom. There was no door. Jessica peered inside, and in the grim gray light coming through the translucent window she saw the bleak state of the room. There were piled rags and towels in the corner, an unflushed toilet, no shower curtain. The tub had not been washed in years.

The two doors at the end of the hallway were clearly the bedrooms. The horrible smell was coming from the bedroom on the left; the music from the bedroom on the right.

Jessica flanked the door on the right, while Byrne knocked on the door on the left.

‘Philly PD,’ he said. ‘We’re coming in.’

He looked at Jessica. Their eyes met. On a silent three Byrne reached out, eased the doorknob to the left. He threw the door open, stepped to the side.

Nobody came through.

In the room was a single bed by the windows, which were covered by an old army blanket. There were magazines, newspapers, fast-food trash, and dirty clothing everywhere. On the bed, under the sheets, was an old man. Based on the smell of decaying flesh he had been dead more than a week. The sheet over him was stained with urine and feces. Byrne stepped in, holding his tie over his nose and mouth. He flipped open the closet door. A pair of worn and shiny suits from the 1950s hung there. Beneath, a pair of dress shoes bearing a thick layer of dust.

Byrne closed the door, stepped out of the room. The two detectives addressed the other door. The song started again. The repetition was maddening. Jessica got on her two-way, called for backup and an EMS unit. They looked at each other again. It was time.

‘Philadelphia Police!’ Jessica said. ‘We’re coming in.’

Byrne turned the doorknob, slowly opened the door. Jessica put her hand on the grip of her weapon and peered around the jamb. What she saw would live in her mind forever.

The room was a jumble of boxes and brightly colored children’s furniture. There seemed to be a dozen old and broken bassinets, cribs, high chairs, and small plastic tables. One of the cribs sat near the window, which was wide open, which helped to explain why the apartment was freezing.

The music came from an old red-and-white portable record player in the center of the room.

In the clutter Jessica did not see the figure sitting in the chair for a few seconds. But when the young woman coughed, both detectives spun around and nearly drew their weapons.

There, in the corner, sitting on a threadbare almond-colored upholstered chair, was a young woman, no more than nineteen. She was thin and gaunt, and wore three bathrobes, all institutional – polka-dotted, floral, pastel. In her lap was a large doll. The doll, which was missing an arm, had knotted and haphazardly cut orange hair. The young woman was calmly combing the doll’s hair with a large, tarnished silver serving fork. She looked up at them.

‘Is it dinnertime?’ she asked.

While Jessica crossed the room, Byrne skirted the broken furniture, cleared the closet. It was empty.

‘Are you Adria?’ Jessica asked.

‘Yes!’ she said. ‘Adria! That’s me!’

‘My name is Jessica. We’re going to get you help.’

Adria nodded, smiled. ‘Help!’ she exclaimed. She hugged the doll. ‘Pretty baby.’ She put the doll back on her lap, continued to comb its hair.

Byrne crossed the room. The crib beneath the window was the cleanest thing in the room. It had a neat stack of newborn Pampers next to it.

Taking all of this in, Jessica knew the truth. Adria Rollins was not guilty of anything. The baby had been taken right from this room.

The force of Jessica’s emotional reaction rocked her. She got Byrne’s attention. When he saw her eyes he understood.

‘Go check on EMS. I’ve got this,’ he said.

Jessica ran out of the apartment, down the hall. She found
she could barely breathe. Her heart felt ready to pound from her chest.

And still, faintly, she heard the words of the song as it played.

By the time Jessica reached the lobby the tears came. She did nothing to stop them.

EIGHTEEN

In the world of broadcast television news there was one God, and His name was Nielsen. Stations lived and died by Nielsen ratings and, for reporters, you were judged not by your clothes or your face or your hair, not by your silky smooth delivery, your engaging and topical segues to sports and weather – although these things, more often than not, got you the on-air job to begin with, especially if you were a woman – but rather by one all-important number.

Your market.

Markets were determined by the number of television households in an area, and the deeper the penetration, the higher the market number, the higher the station could adjust its ad dollars.

At the yearly conventions most conversations were buoyed by the understanding (usually unspoken) of what market you were in. The top three tiers in the US were all but chiseled in stone, those being New York, Los Angeles, and Chicago. Philadelphia consistently ranked number four.

To say you were an on-air personality in one of these major markets carried a lot of weight because, in the strata of the Nielsen ratings, which ranked more than 200 markets, it was a constant challenge and struggle to reach bigger and bigger markets. If you were in a feeder market – so-called because it was a smaller market that fed a larger market – all you thought about was how you could eat your way up the food chain. Any reporter who claimed anything to the contrary was full of shit.

I decided to stay in my home town of Weehauken so I could be near my family.

I’ve gotten comfortable in this sized market. It’s about the people.

Bullshit, Shane thought. The truth is you’ve been sending out your reel for six straight years and even Wheeling turned you down. You’ve put on fifteen pounds, your crow’s feet are taking over your face, you’ve whitened your teeth, and it still ain’t happening. Save your boosterism for those idiotic station promos that show you flipping pancakes, hugging three-legged poodles, and wearing a hat shaped like a fucking radish.

In terms of the nation, these rankings were easy. But that’s just where the bloodshed began. The real battle, the in close knife fighting, was for ratings
within
a market.

Philadelphia, of course, had three network affiliates on the air, ABC, NBC, and CBS, in addition to the Fox affiliate and the stations for WB, PBS, and UPN.

Although a bit before his time, Shane knew that the game changer, as far as broadcast news went, was
Entertainment Tonight
and its hybrid of news and entertainment to which straight news had to respond. Instead of covering a dozen stories in a half hour, local news now was compelled to cover
thirty or more. And fast. In this day and age, more than ever, the headline
was
the story.

When it came time to pick a professional name, Shane gave it a lot of thought. It was not a decision to be made lightly. He studied the names of the giants in the business.

Most had two-syllable last names. Murrow. Cronkite. Huntley. Brinkley. Brokaw. Jennings. Rather.

Shane was his choice for a first name. A little bit of the outlaw, a little bit of the hero, though just about no one under the age of fifty was familiar with the Alan Ladd film, unless you were a film buff.

The last name was harder. It had to be two syllables, had to convey trust, had to roll off the tongue, and look good on the lower third of the TV screen. He considered a lot of names, but arrived at Adams. When he’d chosen it, he’d had no idea he would end up in a top ten market – no less a market than Philadelphia, where the name of a founding father would be perfect – but he figured a name like Shane Adams would carry him anywhere.

So far, so good.

And while the pioneers of broadcasting were iconic, there was one name that mattered, a man after whom Shane had patterned his career, if not his life – except for the part about being raised a Vanderbilt – the man whose face adorned the only poster in Shane’s tiny apartment.

Anderson Cooper.

Whenever Shane was faced with a decision, he asked himself: WWACD.

What Would Anderson Cooper Do?

When Cooper’s book
Dispatches from the Edge
was released,
Shane scoured the trades, hoping for a book signing tour, and was rewarded. He stood in line at the Borders on South Broad Street, waiting nervously. Every so often he’d sneak a peek at Cooper who was dressed casually in denim, his silver hair glowing under the fluorescents. Shane had practiced what he might say when he got up to the table, but instead of anything witty, urbane, or clever, he just said. ‘Hi. I’m a fan.’

Cooper smiled. He said: ‘I saw your report last night. Good work.’

Shane was flabbergasted. He floated on those words for the next week or so. Who was he kidding? He was
still
floating on those words.

What Shane revered most about the journalist was Cooper’s phrasing. Shane had studied with two voice coaches and an acting coach, trying to get the perfect TV voice. It was called
standard stage
, a mélange of upper-crust, Mayflower New England and midwestern housewife. Heightened language, some called it. A style of speaking with which you pronounce … each … syllable. Complete and unaccented.

It wasn’t
kah-fee
or
koh-fee
.

It was
coffee
.

Shane had spent thousands of hours reading newspaper articles aloud, ridding his inflection of any trace of his accent.

But as good as he got, there was always someone younger coming up behind him. And that person was usually female.

The new threat at Shane’s station was Dawn Reilly. Twenty-six, petite and perky, Dawn was the new face. Or, more accurately, the new boobs. She had just moved up market from the CBS affiliate in Cleveland (currently ranked #18).

From the moment they met sparks had flown. Dawn was
every bit as ambitious as Shane, but she had arrows in her quiver Shane had not. Although he couldn’t prove it – not yet anyway – he knew she was sleeping with the quite-married news director, and therefore getting the plum assignments. He had twice shadowed her to the clubs on a Friday night, and twice gone through her trash. He had nothing tangible, nothing he could use.

Yet.

Shane looked at the footage from outside St Damian’s. The place was right out of a gothic horror novel. Cyn had gotten some low angle stuff, the spire of the church against dark, moving clouds.

Last night I dreamed I went to Manderley again …

Shane had to laugh. He loved old movies, especially Hitchcock, especially
Rebecca
. He’d seen the film at least ten times with his mother. He often thought that one day, in his dotage, after retiring from CNN with a den full of Emmy Awards, he would like to write a gothic novel.

He brought himself back to the moment, turned to the short piece that had appeared in that morning’s
Inquirer.
His eye flew down the page, absorbing the details. He had long ago stopped believing anything he read anywhere was fact. Today’s media was all about
first
, not
accurate
. It was accurate until it was disproven, then an apology was issued and life went on.

Shane sensed someone nearby, turned around. Cyn was standing behind him. He pointed at the screen.

‘This is great stuff, Cyn.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘And I’m not buying you lunch.’

‘So, this church was abandoned?’

They had tried, unsuccessfully, as had every other station in town, to get inside St Damian’s, but were turned away. It was still an active crime scene.

‘Not abandoned,’ Cyn said. ‘I don’t think the archdiocese just walks away from a building, unless they sell it. It was closed. The parish merged with another parish.’

Shane had put in three calls to the archdiocese, and each time had been told that there was not, nor would there be, any comment.

‘So someone broke in and just left that baby?’ he asked.

‘Looks like it.’

‘And it froze to death?’

‘Looks like it,’ Cyn said. ‘And it’s a
her
, not an
it
.’

Whatever
, Shane thought.

‘Do we know if there was any trauma? Like if the baby was strangled or anything?’

‘You are one twisted fucker, you know that?’

‘That’s why you love me.’

‘I haven’t heard or read anything about that. So far, it’s just a baby who was found frozen inside an old aluminum washtub. That might have to be enough for you.’