'Canyou hear it?' the woman asked. Her voice was almost adolescent in its pitch andresonance.

    Byrneglanced at the crystal CD case resting on a small wooden easel atop theexpensive stereo component. Chopin: Nocturne in G Major. Then he lookedmore closely at the cello. There was fresh blood on the strings andfingerboard, as well as on the bow lying on the floor. Afterwards, she hadplayed.

    Thewoman closed her eyes. 'Listen,' she said. 'The blue notes.'

    Byrnelistened. He has never forgotten the melody, the way it both lifted andshattered his heart.

    Momentslater the music stopped. Byrne waited for the last note to feather intosilence. 'I'm going to need you to stand up now, ma'am,' he said.

    Whenthe woman opened her eyes Byrne felt something flicker in his chest. In histime on the streets of Philadelphia he had met all types of people, fromsoulless drug dealers, to oily con men, to smash-and-grab artists, to hopped-upjoyriding kids. But never before had he encountered anyone so detached from thecrime they had just committed. In her light brown eyes Byrne saw demons caperfrom shadow to shadow.

    Thewoman rose, turned to the side, put her hands behind her back. Byrne took outhis handcuffs, slipped them over her slender white wrists, and clicked themshut.

    Sheturned to face him. They stood in silence now, just a few inches apart,strangers not only to each other, but to this grim pageant and all that was tocome.

    'I'mscared,' she said.

    Byrnewanted to tell her that he understood. He wanted to say that we all havemoments of rage, moments when the walls of sanity tremble and crack. He wantedto tell her that she would pay for her crime, probably for the rest of her life- perhaps even -with her life - but that while she was in his care shewould be treated with dignity and respect.

    Hedid not say these things.

    'Myname is Detective Kevin Byrne,' he said. 'It's going to be all right.'

    Itwas November 1, 1990. Nothing has been right since.

Chapter 1

    Sunday,October 24

    Canyou hear it?

    Listenclosely. There, beneath the clatter of the lane, beneath the ceaseless hum ofman and machine, you will hear the sound of the slaughter, the screaming ofpeasants in the moment before death, the plea of an emperor with a sword at histhroat.

    Canyou hear it?

    Steponto hallowed ground, where madness has made the soil luxuriant with blood, andyou will hear it: Nanjing, Thessaloniki, Warsaw.

    Ifyou listen closely you will realize it is always there, never fully silenced,not by prayer, by law, by time. The history of the world, and its annals ofcrime, is the slow, sepulchral music of the dead.

    There.

    Canyou hear it?

    Ihear it. I am the one who walks in shadow, ears tuned to the night. I am theone who hides in rooms where murder is done, rooms that will never again bequieted, each corner now and forever sheltering a whispering ghost. I hearfingernails scratching granite walls, the drip of blood onto scarred tile, thehiss of air drawn into a mortal chest wound. Sometimes it all becomes too much,too loud, and I must let it out.

    Iam the Echo Man.

    Ihear it all.

    OnSunday morning I rise early, shower, take my breakfast at home. I step onto thestreet. It is a glorious fall day. The sky is clear and crystalline blue, theair holds the faint smell of decaying leaves.

    AsI walk down Pine Street I feel the weight of the three killing instruments atthe small of my back. I study the eyes of passersby, or at least those who willmeet my gaze. Every so often I pause, eavesdrop, gathering the sounds of thepast. In Philadelphia Death has lingered in so many places. I collect itsspectral sounds the way some men collect fine art, or war souvenirs, or lovers.

    Likemany who have toiled in the arts over the centuries my work has gone largelyunnoticed. That is about to change. This will be my magnum opus, that by whichall such works are judged forever. It has already begun.

    Iturn up my collar and continue down the lane.

    Zig,zig, zig.

    Irattle through the crowded streets like a white skeleton.

    Atjust after eight a.m. I enter Fitler Square, finding the expected gathering -bikers, joggers, the homeless who have dragged themselves here from a nearbypassageway. Some of these homeless creatures will not live through the winter.Soon I will hear their last breaths.

    Istand near the ram sculpture at the eastern end of the square, watching,waiting. Within minutes I see them., mother and daughter.

    Theyare just what I need.

Iwalk across thesquare, sit on a bench,take out my newspaper, halve and quarter it. The killing instruments areuncomfortable at my back. I shift my weight as the sounds amass: the flap andsquawk of pigeons congregating around a man eating a bagel, a taxi's rude horn,the hard thump of a bass speaker. Looking at my watch, I see that time isshort. Soon my mind will be full of screams and I will be unable to do what isnecessary.

    Iglance at the young mother and her baby, catch the woman's eye, smile.

    'Goodmorning,' I say.

    Thewoman smiles back. 'Hi.'

    Thebaby is in an expensive jogging stroller, the kind with a rainproof hood andmesh shopping basket beneath. I rise, cross the path, glance inside the pram.It's a girl, dressed in a pink flannel one-piece and matching hat, swaddled ina snow-white blanket. Bright plastic stars dangle overhead.

    'Andwho is this little movie star?' I ask.

    Thewoman beams. 'This is Ashley.'

    'Ashley.She is beautiful.'

    'Thankyou.'

    Iam careful not to get too close. Not yet. 'How old is she?'

    'She'sfour months.'

    'Fourmonths is a great age,' I reply with a wink. '

 I may have peaked aroundfour months.'

    Thewoman laughs.

    I'min.

    Iglance at the stroller. The baby smiles at me. In her angelic face I see somuch. But sight does not drive me. The world is crammed full of beautifulimages, breathtaking vistas, all mostly forgotten by the time the next vistapresents itself I have stood before the Taj Mahal, Westminster Abbey, the GrandCanyon. I once spent an afternoon in front of Picasso's Guernica. All theseglorious images faded into the dim corners of memory within a relatively shortperiod of time. Yet I recall with exquisite clarity the first time I heardsomeone scream in anguish, the yelp of a dog struck by a car, the dying breathof a young police officer bleeding out on a hot sidewalk.

    'Isshe sleeping through the night yet?'

    'Notquite,' the woman says.

    'Mydaughter slept through the night at two months. Never had a problem with her atall.'

    'Lucky.'

    I reachslowly into my right coat pocket, palm what I need, draw it out. The motherstands just a few feet away, on my left. She does not see what I have in myhand.

    The baby kicks her feet, bunching her blanket. I wait. I amnothing if not patient. I need the little one to be tranquil andstill. Soon she calms, her bright blue eyes scanning the sky.

    Withmy right hand I reach out, slowly, not wanting to alarm the mother. I place afinger into the center of the baby's left palm. She closes her tiny fist aroundmy finger and gurgles. Then, as I had hoped, she begins to coo.