Rosary girls jbakb-1

by Richard Montanari

  The man in the photograph was sitting in a chair, with duct tape wrapped around his chest. There was also duct tape around his forearms and wrists, securing him to the arms of the chair. The man had his eyes tightly closed, as if he might be anticipating a blow, or as if he were wishing very hard for something.

  Jessica blew up the picture to twice its size.

  And saw that the man didn't have his eyes closed at all.

  "Oh, Christ," she said.

  "What?" Byrne asked.

  Jessica turned the monitor to face him.

  The man in the chair was Simon Edward Close, star reporter for Philadelphia's leading shock tabloid, The Report. Someone had taped him to a dining room chair and sewn both of his eyes shut. When Byrne and Jessica approached the apartment on City Line, there was already a pair of homicide detectives on the scene. Bobby Lauria and Ted Campos.

  When they entered the apartment, Simon Close was in precisely the same position he was in the photograph.

  Bobby Lauria briefed Byrne and Jessica on what they knew.

  "Who found him?" Byrne asked.

  Lauria looked through his notes. "Friend of his. A guy named Chase. They were supposed to meet for breakfast at a Denny's on City Line. The victim didn't show. Chase called twice, then stopped over to see if something was wrong. Door was open, he called nine-one-one."

  "Did you check the phone records from the pay phone at Denny's?"

  "Didn't need to," Lauria said. "Both calls were on the vic's answering machine. The caller ID matched the phone at Denny's. He's legit."

  "This is the POS you had the problem with last year, right?" Campos asked.

  Byrne knew why he was asking, just like he knew what was coming. "Yeah."

  The digital camera that took the picture was still on the tripod in front of Close. A CSU officer was dusting the camera and the tripod.

  "Check this out," Campos said. He knelt next to the coffee table and, with his gloved hand, maneuvered the mouse attached to Close's laptop. He opened the iPhoto program. There were sixteen photographs, each of them titled, successively, KEVINBYRNEI.JPG, KEVINBYRNE2.JPG, and so forth. Except none of the photographs were comprehensible. It seemed as if each one had been run through a paint program and had been defaced with a drawing tool. A drawing tool colored red.

  Both Campos and Lauria looked at Byrne. "Gotta ask, Kevin," Campos said.

  "I know," Byrne said. They wanted his whereabouts for the past twenty-four. Neither of them suspected him of a thing, but they had to get it out of the way. Byrne, of course, knew the drill. "I'll lay it out in a statement back at the house."

  "No problem," Lauria said.

  "Got a cause yet?" Byrne asked, happy to change the subject.

  Campos stood up, walked behind the victim. There was a small hole at the base of Simon Close's neck. It was probably caused by a drill bit.

  As the CSU officers did their thing, it was clear that whoever had sewn Close's eyes shut-and there was little doubt as to who that was- had not gone for quality of workmanship. The thick black thread alternated from piercing the soft skin of the eyelid to an inch or so down the cheek. Thin rivulets of blood had trickled down the face, giving him a Christ-like visage.

  Both skin and flesh were pulled tight, in an upward direction, dragging up the soft tissue around Close's mouth, exposing his incisors.

  Close's upper lip was pulled up, but his teeth were together. From a few feet away, Byrne noticed that there was something black and shiny just behind the man's front teeth.

  Byrne took out a pencil, gestured to Campos.

  "Help yourself," Campos said.

  Byrne took the pencil and gently leveraged Simon Close's teeth slightly apart. For a moment, his mouth appeared empty, as if what Byrne thought he saw was a reflection in the man's bubbled saliva.

  Then a solitary item fell out, rolling down Close's chest, over his lap, and onto the floor.

  The sound it made was slight, a thin plastic click on the hardwood.

  Jessica and Byrne watched it roll to a stop.

  They looked at each other, the significance of what they were seeing registering at the same moment. A second later, the rest of the missing rosary beads tumbled out of the dead man's mouth like a slot machine paying off.

  Ten minutes later, they had counted the rosary beads, carefully avoiding contact with the surfaces, lest they disturb what might be a usable shred of forensic evidence, although the probability of the Rosary Killer tripping himself up at this point was low.

  They counted twice, just to be sure. The significance of the number of beads that had been stuffed into Simon Close's mouth was not lost on anyone in the room.

  There were fifty beads. All five decades.

  And that meant that the rosary for the last girl in this madman's passion play had already been prepared.

  61

  FRIDAY, 1:25 PM

  At noon, Brian Parkhurst's Ford Windstar was found parked at an indoor garage a few blocks from the building in which he was found hanged. The Crime Scene Unit had spent the early afternoon combing it for trace evidence. There was no blood evidence, nor any indication that any of the murder victims had been transported in the vehicle. The carpeting was a bronze in color and did not match the carpet fibers found on the first four victims.

  The glove compartment held the expected-registration, owner's manual, a pair of maps.

  It was the letter they found in the visor that was most interesting, a letter containing the typewritten names of ten girls. Four of the names were already familiar to police. Tessa Wells, Nicole Taylor, Bethany Price, and Kristi Hamilton.

  The envelope was addressed to Detective Jessica Balzano.

  There was little debate about whether the killer's next victim would come from the ranks of the remaining six names.

  There was much room for debate about why these names were in the late Dr. Parkhurst's possession, and what it all meant.

  62

  FRI DAY, 2:45 PM

  The white board was divided into five columns. At the top of each was a Sorrowful Mystery. AGONY, SCOURGE, CROWN, CARRY, CRUCIFIXION. Beneath each heading, except for the last, was a photograph of the respective victim.

  Jessica briefed the team on what she had learned from her research, from Eddie Kasalonis as well as what Father Corrio had told her and Byrne.

  "The Sorrowful Mysteries are the last week in Christ's life," Jessica said. "And, although the victims were discovered out of order, our doer seems to be following the strict order of the mysteries.

  "As I'm sure you all know, today is Good Friday, the day Christ was crucified. There is only one mystery left. The crucifixion."

  A sector car had been assigned to every Catholic church in the city. By three twenty-five, incident reports had come in from all corners. The three o'clock hour-noon to three were the hours it is believed that Christ hung upon the cross-had passed at all Catholic churches without episode.

  By four o'clock they had gotten in contact with all the families of the girls on the list found in Brian Parkhurst's car. All the remaining girls were accounted for and, without causing undue panic, the families were told to be on guard. A car was dispatched to each of the girls' houses for protection detail.

  Why these girls were on the list, and what they had in common to get on the list was still unknown. The task force had tried to cross-reference the girls based on the clubs they belonged to, the churches they attended, eye and hair color, ethnicity; nothing leapt off the page.

  Each of the six detectives on the task force would visit one of the six girls left on the list. The answer to the riddle of these horrors, they were certain, would be found with them.

  63

  FRIDAY, 4:15 PM

  The Semanski house sat between two vacant lots on a dying street in North Philly.

  Jessica spoke briefly to the two officers parked out front, then walked up the sagging steps. The inside door was open, the screen door unlatched. Jessica knocked. After a few seconds,
a woman approached. She was in her early sixties. She wore a pilled blue cardigan and well- worn black cotton slacks.

  "Mrs. Semanski? I'm Detective Balzano. We spoke on the phone."

  "Oh yes," the woman said. "I'm Bonnie. Please come in."

  Bonnie Semanski opened the screen door and let her in.

  The interior of the Semanski house seemed cast from another era. There were probably a few valuable antiques in here, Jessica thought, but to the Semanski family they were most likely seen as functioning articles of furniture that were still good, so why throw them away?

  To the right was a small living room with a worn sisal rug in the center and a grouping of old waterfall furniture. Sitting in a recliner was a gaunt man in his sixties. On a folding metal TV tray table next to him were a variety of amber pill bottles and a pitcher of iced tea. He was watching a hockey game, but it appeared as if he was looking near the television, not at it. He glanced over at Jessica. Jessica smiled, and the man lifted a slight arm to wave.

  Bonnie Semanski led Jessica to the kitchen. "LaureN ShOULd be номе any minute now. She's off school today, of course," Bonnie said. "She's visiting friends."

  They were sitting at a red-and-white chrome-and-Formica dinette set. Like everything else about the row house, the kitchen seemed a 1960s vintage. The only things that brought it into the present were a small white microwave and an electric can opener. It was clear that the Semanskis were Lauren's grandparents, not her parents.

  "Did Lauren call home at all today?"

  "No," Bonnie said. "I called her a little while ago on her cell phone, but all I got was her voice mail. She turns it off sometimes."

  "You said on the phone that she left the house around eight this morning?"

  "Yes. That's about right."

  "Do you know where she was headed?"

  "She went to visit with some friends," Bonnie repeated, as if this were her mantra of denial.

  "Do you know their names?"

  Bonnie just shook her head. It was obvious that, whoever these "friends" were, Bonnie Semanski did not approve.

  "Where are her mom and dad?" Jessica asked.

  "They were killed in a car accident last year."

  "I'm sorry," Jessica said.

  "Thank you."

  Bonnie Semanski looked out the window. The rain had eased to a steady drizzle. At first Jessica thought the woman might cry, but with a closer look she realized that this woman had probably shed all her tears a long time ago. The sorrow, it seemed, had settled to the bottom half of her heart, and could not be disturbed.

  "Can you tell me what happened to her parents?" Jessica asked.

  "A week before Christmas, last year, Nancy and Carl were coming home from Nancy's part-time job at the Home Depot. They were hiring for the holidays, you know. Not like now," she said. "It was late and really dark. Carl must have been going a little too fast around a turn and the car slid off the road and went down into a ravine. They say they didn't linger in death."

  Jessica was a bit surprised that this woman didn't tear up. She imagined that Bonnie Semanski had told this story to enough people, enough times, that she had gained some distance from it.

  "Did Lauren take it very hard?" Jessica asked.

  "Oh yes."

  Jessica scribbled a note, noting the time line.

  "Does Lauren have a boyfriend?"

  Bonnie gave the question a dismissive wave of her hand. "I can't keep up with them, there are so many."

  "What do you mean?"

  "They're always coming around. All hours. They look like homeless people."

  "Do you know if anyone has threatened Lauren lately?"

  "Threatened?"

  "Anyone she might have had a problem with. Someone who may have been bothering her."

  Bonnie thought for a moment. "No. I don't think so."

  Jessica jotted a few more notes. "Would it be okay if I took a quick look at Lauren's room?"

  "Sure." Lauren Semanskl's гоом was at the top of the stairs, at the back end of the house. On the door was a faded sticker that said BEWARE: SPUN MONKEY ZONE. Jessica knew enough drug terms to know that Lauren Semanski was probably not out "visiting friends" in order to organize a church picnic.

  Bonnie opened the door, and Jessica stepped into the room. The furniture was quality, French provincial in style, white with gold accents; a four-poster bed, matching nightstands, dresser, and desk. The room was painted a lemon yellow, long and narrow, with a sloped ceiling that met knee walls on either side, a window at the far end. On the right were built-in bookshelves, to the left, a pair of doors cut into the half wall, presumably a storage area. The walls were covered in posters for rock bands.

  Mercifully, Bonnie left Jessica alone in the room. Jessica didn't really want her looking over her shoulder when she went through Lauren's belongings.

  On the desk were a series of photographs in inexpensive frames. A school shot of Lauren at about nine or ten. One was of Lauren and a scruffy teenaged boy, standing in front of the art museum. One was a magazine shot of Russell Crowe.

  Jessica poked through the drawers in the dresser. Sweaters, socks, jeans, shorts. Nothing significant. Her closet yielded the same. Jessica closed the closet door, leaned against it, surveyed the room. Think. Why was Lauren Semanski on that list? Other than the fact that she attended a Catholic school, what was in this room that would fit into the puzzle of these bizarre deaths?

  Jessica sat down at Lauren's computer, checked the bookmarks on the web browser. There was one call hardradio.com, dedicated to heavy metal, one called snakenet. But the one that caught her attention was a site calledyellowribbon.org. At first, Jessica thought it might have been dedicated to POWs and MIAs. When she connected to the net, then clicked on the site, she saw it was about teen suicide.

  Was I this fascinated with death and despair when I was a teenager? Jessica thought.

  She imagined she was. It probably came with the hormones.

  Back in the kitchen, Jessica found that Bonnie had made a pot of coffee. She poured Jessica a cup, then sat down opposite her. There was also a plate of vanilla wafers on the table.

  "I need to ask you a few more questions about the accident last year," Jessica said.

  "Okay," Bonnie replied, but her downturned mouth told Jessica it was anything but okay.

  "I promise I won't keep you too long."

  Bonnie nodded.

  Jessica was organizing her thoughts when a look of gradually dawning horror came over Bonnie Semanski's face. It took Jessica a moment to realize that Bonnie wasn't looking directly at her. She was, instead, looking over her left shoulder. Jessica turned, slowly, following the woman's gaze.

  Lauren Semanski was standing on the back porch. Her clothes were ripped; her knuckles were bleeding and raw. There was a long contusion on her right leg, a pair of deep lacerations on her right arm. On the left side of her head, a large patch of scalp was missing. Her left wrist appeared to be broken, the bone protruding through the flesh. The skin on her right cheek was peeled back in a bloody flap.

  "Sweetheart?" Bonnie said, rising to her feet, a trembling hand to her lips. All the color had drained from her face. "My God, what… what happened, baby?"

  Lauren looked at her grandmother, at Jessica. Her eyes were bloodshot and burnished. A deep defiance shone through the trauma.

  "Motherfucker didn't know who he was dealing with," she said.

  Then Lauren Semanski collapsed. Before The ambulance arrived, Lauren Semanski slipped in and out of consciousness. Jessica did what she could to prevent her from going into shock. When she had determined that there were no spinal injuries, she wrapped her in a blanket, then slightly elevated her legs. Jessica knew that preventing shock was infinitely preferable to treating its effects.

  Jessica noticed that Lauren's right hand was clenched into a tight fist. Something was in her hand-something with a sharp edge, something plastic. Jessica tried gently to open the girl's fingers. Nothing doing. Jessica did
n't press the issue.

  As they waited, Lauren rambled. Jessica got a sketchy tale of what had happened to her. Phrases were unconnected. Words slipped between her teeth.

  Jeff's house.

  Tweakers.

  Fucker.

  Lauren's dried lips and ravaged nostrils, along with the brittle hair and the somewhat translucent look to her skin told Jessica she was probably a meth head.

  Needle.

  Fucker.

  Before Lauren was loaded onto the gurney, she opened her eyes for a moment, and said one word that caused the world to stop spinning for a moment.

  Rosary.

  The aMbULaNCe LeFT, taking Bonnie Semanski to the hospital with her granddaughter. Jessica called the station house and told them what had happened. A pair of detectives were on their way to St. Joseph's. Jessica had given the EMS strict instructions to preserve Lauren's clothing and, to any extent possible, any fibers or fluids. Specifically, she told them to safeguard the forensic integrity of whatever Lauren had clutched in her right hand.

  Jessica remained at the Semanski house. She walked into the living room and sat with George Semanski.

  "Your granddaughter is going to be all right," Jessica said, hoping she sounded convincing, wanting to believe it was true.

  George Semanski nodded. He continued to wring his hands. He ran through the cable channels as if it were some sort of physical therapy.

  "I need to ask you one more question, sir. If that's okay."

  After a few moments of silence, he nodded again. It appeared that the cornucopia of pharmaceuticals on the TV tray had him on a narcotically induced time delay.

  "Your wife told me that, last year, when Lauren's mom and dad were killed, Lauren took it pretty hard," Jessica said. "Can you tell me what she meant by that?"

  George Semanski reached for a bottle of pills. He took the bottle, turning it over and over in his hands, but not opening it. Jessica noted that it was clonazepam.

  "Well, after the funeral and all, after the burials, about a week or so later, she almost, well, she…"