Rosary girls jbakb-1

by Richard Montanari

  "I understand he works for the archdiocese?"

  It was a question and a statement. The sort of thing priests and shrinks were really good at.

  "Yes," Jessica said. "He counsels students from Nazarene, Regina, and a few others."

  "Do you think he is responsible for these…?"

  Father Corrio trailed off. He clearly had trouble saying the words.

  "I really don't know for sure," Jessica said.

  Father Corrio absorbed this. "This is such a terrible thing."

  Jessica just nodded.

  "When I hear of crimes such as these," Father Corrio continued, "I have to wonder just how civilized a place we live in. We like to think that we have become enlightened through the centuries. But this? It's barbaric."

  "I try not to think of it that way," Jessica said. "If I think about the horrors of it all, there's no way I can do my job." It sounded easy when she said it. It wasn't.

  "Have you ever heard of the RosariumVirginis Mariae?"

  "I think so," Jessica said. It sounded like something she had run across in her research at the library, but like most of the information it was lost in a bottomless chasm of data. "What about it?"

  Father Corrio smiled. "Don't worry. There won't be a pop quiz." He reached into his briefcase and produced an envelope. "I think you should read this." He handed her the envelope.

  "What is this?"

  "The Rosarium Virginis Mariae is an apostolic letter regarding the rosary of the Virgin Mary."

  "Does it have something to do with these murders?"

  "I don't know," he said.

  Jessica glanced at the folded papers inside. "Thanks," she said. "I'll read it tonight."

  Father Corrio drained his cup, looked at his watch.

  "Would you like some more coffee?" Jessica asked. "No thanks," Father Corrio said. "I really should get back." Before he could rise, the phone rang. "Excuse me," she said. Jessica answered. It was Eric Chavez.

  As she listened, she looked at her reflection in the night-black window. The night threatened to open up and swallow her whole. They had found another girl.

  38

  TUESDAY, 10:20 PM

  The Rodin Museum was a small museum dedicated to the French sculptor at Twenty-second Street and the Benjamin Franklin Parkway.

  When Jessica arrived, there were already a number of patrol cars on the scene. Two lanes of the parkway were blocked. A crowd was gathering.

  Kevin Byrne huddled with John Shepherd.

  The girl sat on the ground, her back against the bronze gates leading into the museum courtyard. She looked about sixteen. Her hands were bolted together, just like the others. She was heavyset, red-haired, pretty. She wore a Regina uniform.

  In her hands was a black rosary, with three decades of beads missing.

  On her head was a crown of thorns, fashioned out of concertina wire.

  Blood trickled down her face in a delicate crimson web.

  "Goddamn it," Byrne yelled, slamming his fist into the hood of the car.

  "I put out an all-points on Parkhurst," Buchanan said. "There's a BOLO on the van."

  Jessica had heard it go out on her way into the city, her third trip of the day.

  "A crown?" Byrne asked. "A fucking crown?"

  "Gets better," John Shepherd said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "You see the gates?" Shepherd pointed his flashlight toward the inner gates, the gates leading to the museum itself.

  "What about them?" Byrne asked.

  "Those gates are called The Gates of Hell," he said. "This fucker is a real piece of work."

  "The picture," Byrne said. "The Blake painting."

  "Yeah."

  "He's telling us where the next victim is going to be found."

  For a homicide detective, the only thing worse than having no leads was being played with. The collective rage at this crime scene was palpable.

  "The girl's name is Bethany Price," Tony Park said, consulting his notes. "Her mother reported her missing this afternoon. She was at the Sixth District station when the call came in. That's her over there."

  He pointed to a woman in her late thirties, dressed in a tan raincoat. She reminded Jessica of those shell-shocked people you see on foreign news footage, just after a car bomb has gone off. Lost, numb, hollowed out.

  "How long had she been missing?" Jessica asked.

  "She didn't make it home from school today. Everybody with a daughter in high school and junior high is pretty jumpy."

  "Thanks to the media," Shepherd said.

  Byrne began to pace.

  "What about the guy who called in the nine-one-one?" Shepherd asked.

  Park pointed to a man standing behind one of the patrol cars. He was about forty, well dressed in a three-button navy suit, club tie.

  "His name is Jeremy Darnton," Park said. "He said he was driving about forty miles an hour when he went by. All he saw was the victim being carried on a man's shoulder. By the time he could pull over and double back, the man was gone."

  "No description of the man?" Jessica asked.

  Park shook his head. "White shirt or jacket. Dark pants."

  "That's it?"

  "That's it."

  "That's every waiter in Philly," Byrne said. He went back to his pacing. "I want this guy. I want to put this fucker down."

  "We all do, Kevin," Shepherd said. "We'll get him."

  "Parkhurst played me." Jessica said. "He knew I wouldn't come alone. He knew I'd bring the cavalry. He tried to draw us off."

  "And he did," Shepherd said.

  A few minutes later, they all approached the victim as Tom Weyrich stepped in to do his preliminary exam.

  Weyrich searched for a pulse, pronounced her dead. He then looked at her wrists. On each wrist was a long-healed scar, a snaky gray ridge, crudely cut, laterally, about an inch below the heel of her palm.

  At some point in the last few years, Bethany Price had attempted suicide.

  As the lights from the half dozen patrol cars strobed against the statue of The Thinker, as the crowd continued to gather, as the rain picked up in intensity, washing away precious knowledge, one man in the crowd looked on, a man who carried a deep and secret knowledge of the horrors that were befalling the daughters of Philadelphia.

  39

  TUESDAY, 10:25 PM

  The lights on the face of the statue are beautiful.

  But not as beautiful as Bethany. Her delicate white features give her the appearance of a sad angel, as radiant as the winter moon.

  Why don't they cover her?

  Of course, if they only realized how tormented a soul Bethany was, they wouldn't be quite so upset.

  I have to admit that I get a deep chill of excitement standing among the good citizens of my city, watching it all.

  I've never seen so many police cars in my life. The flashing racks illuminate the parkway like a carnival midway. It is almost a festive atmosphere.There are about sixty or so people gathered. Death is always an attraction. Like a roller- coaster. Let's get close, but not too close.

  Unfortunately, we all get closer one day, whether we like it or not.

  What would they think if I opened my coat and showed them what I am carrying? I look to my right. There is a married couple standing next to me. They appear to be in their midforties, white, affluent, well dressed.

  "Doyou have any idea what happened here?" I ask the husband.

  He looks at me, a quick up and down. I do not offend. I do not threaten."I'm not sure,"he says."But I think they found another girl."

  "Another girl?"

  "Another victim of that… rosary psycho."

  I cover my mouth in horror."Seriously? Right here?"

  They nod solemnly, mostly out of a smug sense of pride in being the ones to tell me the news.They are the sort people who watch Entertainment Tonight and immediately race to the phone to be the first to tell their friends about the celebrity death du jour.

  "I do hope they catch
him soon,"I say.

  "They won't,"the wife says. She is wearing an expensive white wool cardigan. She carries an expensive umbrella. She has the tiniest teeth I've ever seen.

  "Why do you say that?" I ask.

  "Between you and me," she says, "the police are not always the sharpest knives in the drawer."

  I look at her jawline, the slightly sagging skin on her neck. Does she know that I could reach out, right now, take her face in my hands and snap her spinal cord in one second?

  I feel like it. I really do.

  Arrogant, self-righteous bitch.

  I should. But I won't.

  I have work to do.

  Perhaps I'll follow them home, and pay her a visit when this is all over.

  40

  TUESDAY, 10:30 PM

  The crime scene stretched fifty yards in all directions. The traffic on the parkway was now bottlenecked to a single lane. Two uniformed officers directed the flow.

  Byrne and Jessica watched Tony Park and John Shepherd instruct the Crime Scene Unit. They were the primary detectives on this case, although it was clear that the case would soon fall under the purview of the task force. Jessica leaned against one of the patrol cars, trying to sort out this nightmare. She glanced at Byrne. He was zoned, off on one of his mind jaunts.

  Just then a man stepped forward from the crowd. Jessica saw him approaching out of the corner of her eye. Before she could react, he was upon her. She turned, defensive.

  It was Patrick Farrell.

  "Hey there," Patrick said.

  At first his presence at the scene was so out of place that Jessica thought it was a man who looked like Patrick. It was one of those moments when someone who represents one part of your life steps into the other part of your life, and suddenly everything is a little off, a little skewed toward the unreal.

  "Hi," Jessica said, surprised at the sound of her voice. "What are you doing here?"

  Standing just a few feet away, Byrne gave Jessica a look of concern, as if to ask: Everything okay? At moments like this, considering what they were there for, everyone was a little on edge, a little less trustful of the strange face.

  "Patrick Farrell, my partner, Kevin Byrne," Jessica said a little stiffly.

  The two men shook hands. For an odd instant, Jessica was apprehensive about their meeting, although she had no idea why. This was compounded by a momentary flicker in Kevin Byrne's eyes as the two men shook hands, a fleeting misgiving that dissolved as quickly as it had appeared.

  "I was on my way to my sister's house in Manayunk. I saw flashing lights, I stopped," Patrick said. "It's Pavlovian, I'm afraid."

  "Patrick is an ER physician at St. Joseph's," Jessica said to Byrne.

  Byrne nodded, perhaps acknowledging the difficulties of a trauma room doctor, perhaps conceding their common ground as two men who patched the bloodied wounds of the city on a daily basis.

  "A few years ago I saw an EMS rescue on the Schuylkill Expressway. I stopped and did an emergency trach. Ever since, I've never been able to pass a strobing rack."

  Byrne stepped closer, lowered his voice. "When we catch this guy, and if he just happens to get seriously injured in the process, and he just happens to get sent to your ER, take your time fixing him up, okay?"

  Patrick smiled. "No problem."

  Buchanan approached. He looked like a man with the weight of a ten- ton mayor on his back. "Go home. Both of you," he said to Jessica and Byrne. "I don't want to see either of you until Thursday."

  He got no arguments from either detective.

  Byrne held up his cell phone, said to Jessica: "Sorry about this. I turned it off. It won't happen again."

  "Don't worry about it," Jessica said.

  "You want to talk, day or night, you call."

  "Thanks."

  Byrne turned to Patrick. "Nice to meet you, Doctor."

  "Pleasure," Patrick said.

  Byrne turned on his heels, ducked under the yellow tape, and walked to his car.

  "Look," Jessica said to Patrick. "I'm going to stick around here for a little while, in case they need a warm body to canvass."

  Patrick glanced at his watch. "That's cool. I'm off to my sister's house anyway."

  Jessica touched his arm. "Why don't you call me later? I shouldn't be too long."

  "You sure?"

  Absolutely not, Jessica thought.

  "Absolutely."

  Patrick had a bottle of Merlot in one hand, a box of Godiva chocolate truffles in the other.

  "No flowers?" Jessica asked with a wink. She opened her front door, let Patrick in.

  Patrick smiled. "I couldn't get over the fence at Morris Arboretum," he said. "But not for lack of effort."

  Jessica helped him take his dripping raincoat off. His black hair was mussed from the wind, glistening with droplets of rain. Even windblown and wet, Patrick was dangerously sexy. Jessica tried to derail the thought, although she had no idea why.

  "How's your sister?" she asked.

  Claudia Farrell Spencer was the cardiac surgeon Patrick was supposed to become, a force of nature that had fulfilled every one of Martin Farrell's ambitions. Except the part about being a boy.

  "Pregnant and bitchy as a pink poodle," Patrick said.

  "How far along is she?"

  "According to her, about three years," Patrick said. "In reality, eight months. She's about the size of a Humvee."

  "Gee, I hope you told her that. Pregnant women simply adore being told they're huge."

  Patrick laughed. Jessica took the wine and the chocolates and put them on the foyer table. "I'll get some glasses."

  As she turned to go, Patrick grabbed her hand. Jessica turned back, facing him. They found themselves face to face in the small foyer, a past between them, a present hanging in the balance, a moment drawing out in front of them.

  "Better watch it, Doc," Jessica said. "I'm packin' heat."

  Patrick smiled.

  Somebody better do something, Jessica thought.

  Patrick did.

  He slipped his hands around Jessica's waist and pulled her closer. The gesture was firm, but not forceful.

  The kiss was deep, slow, perfect. At first, Jessica found it hard to believe that she was kissing someone in her house other than her husband. But then she reconciled that Vincent hadn't had too much trouble getting over that hurdle with Michelle Brown.

  There was no point to wondering about the right or wrong of it.

  It felt right.

  When Patrick led her over to the couch in the living room, it felt even better.

  41

  WEDNESDAY, 1:40 AM

  Ocho Rlos, a small reggae spot in Northern Liberties, was winding down. The DJ was spinning music more as background at the moment. There were only a few couples on the dance floor.

  Byrne crossed the room and talked to one of the bartenders, who disappeared through a door behind the bar. After a short while, a man emerged from behind the plastic beads. When the man saw Byrne, his face lit up.

  Gauntlett Merriman was in his early forties. He had flown high with the Champagne Posse in the eighties, at one time owning a row house in Society Hill and a beach house on the Jersey shore. His long dreadlocks, streaked with white, even in his twenties, had been a staple on the club scene, as well as at the Roundhouse.

  Byrne recalled that Gauntlett had once owned a peach Jaguar XJS, a peach Mercedes 380 SE, and a peach BMW 635 CSi, all at the same time. He would park them all in front of his place on Delancey, resplendent in their gaudy chrome wheel covers and custom gold hood ornaments in the shape of a marijuana leaf, just to drive the white people crazy. It appeared he had not lost the taste for the color. This night he wore a peach linen suit and peach leather sandals.

  Byrne had heard the news, but he was not prepared for the specter that was Gauntlett Merriman.

  Gauntlett Merriman was a ghost.

  He had bought the whole package, it seemed. His face and hands were dotted with Kaposi's, his wrists emerged like k
notted twigs from the sleeves of his coat. His flashy Patek Phillipe watch looked as if it might fall off at any second.

  But, despite it all, he was still Gauntlett. Macho, stoic, rude bwoi Gauntlett. Even at this late date, he wanted the world to know he had ridden the needle to the virus. The second thing Byrne noticed, after the skeletal visage of the man crossing the room toward him, arms outstretched, was that Gauntlett Merriman wore a black T-shirt with big white letters proclaiming:

  I'M NOT FUCKING GAY!

  The two men embraced. Gauntlett felt brittle beneath Byrne's grasp. Like dry kindling, about to snap with the slightest pressure. They sat at a corner table. Gauntlett called over a waiter, who brought Byrne a bourbon and Gauntlett a Pellegrino.

  "You quit drinking?" Byrne asked.

  "Two years," Gauntlett said. "The meds, mon."

  Byrne smiled. He knew Gauntlett well enough. "Man," he said. "I remember when you could snort the fifty-yard line at the Vet."

  "Back in the day, I could fuck all night, too."

  "No, you couldn't."

  Gauntlett smiled. "Maybe an hour."

  The two men adjusted their clothing, felt out each other's company. It had been a while. The DJ spun into a song by Ghetto Priest.

  "How about all dis, eh?" Gauntlett asked, wanding his spindly hand in front of his face and sunken chest. "Some fuckery, dis."

  Byrne was at a loss for words. "I'm sorry."

  Gauntlett shook his head. "I had my time,"he said. "No regrets."

  They sipped their drinks. Gauntlett fell silent. He knew the drill. Cops were always cops. Robbers were always robbers. "So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Detective?"

  "I'm looking for someone."

  Gauntlett nodded again. This much he had figured.

  "Punk named Diablo," Byrne said. "Big fucker, tats all over his face," Byrne said. "You know him?"

  "I do."

  "Any idea where I can locate him?"

  Gauntlett Merriman knew enough not to ask why.

  "Is this in the light or the shadow?" Gauntlett asked.

  "Shadow."