“I’m afraid so.”
The human traffic picked up around the two men. It was an old trick—make the witness look for somewhere to sit down. The door to Interview Room A was wide open; all chairs in the common room were occupied. On purpose.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Byrne’s voice was dripping with concern and sincerity. He was good, too. “Why don’t we sit in here?”
BRIAN PARKHURST SAT IN THE UPHOLSTERED CHAIR across from Byrne in Interview Room A, the small, scruffy room where suspects and witnesses were questioned, made statements, provided information. Jessica observed through the two-way mirror. The door to the interview room remained open.
“Once again,” Byrne began, “we appreciate you taking the time.”
There were two chairs in the room. One was an upholstered desk chair; the other was a battered metal folding chair. Suspects never got the good chair. Witnesses did. Until they became suspects, that is.
“Not a problem,” Parkhurst said.
The murder of Nicole Taylor had led the noon news, with live break-ins on all the local TV stations. Camera crews were at Bartram Gardens. Kevin Byrne had not asked Dr. Parkhurst if he had heard the news.
“Are you any closer to finding the person who killed Tessa?” Parkhurst asked in a practiced, conversational manner. It was the sort of tone he might use to start a therapy session with a new patient.
“We have a few leads,” Byrne said. “It’s still early in the investigation.”
“Great,” Parkhurst said. The word sounded cold and somewhat strident, given the nature of the crime.
Byrne let the word circle the room a few times, then float to the floor. He sat down opposite Parkhurst, dropped a file folder on the battered metal table. “I promise not to keep you too long,” he said.
“I have all the time you need.”
Byrne picked up the folder, crossed his legs. He opened the folder, carefully shielding the contents from Parkhurst. Jessica could see it was a 229, a basic biographical report. Nothing threatening to Brian Parkhurst, but he didn’t have to know that. “Tell me a little more about your work at Nazarene.”
“Well, it’s mostly consultation in the areas of learning and behavior,” Parkhurst said.
“You counsel students on their behavior?”
“Yes.”
“How so?”
“All children and adolescents face problems from time to time, Detective. They have fears about starting at a new school, they feel depressed, they quite often lack self-discipline or self-esteem, they lack social skills. As a result, they often experiment with drugs or alcohol, or think about suicide. I let my girls know that my door is always open to them.”
My girls, Jessica thought.
“Do the students you counsel find it easy to open up to you?”
“I like to think so,” Parkhurst said.
Byrne nodded. “What else can you tell me?”
Parkhurst continued. “Part of what we do is attempt to isolate potential learning difficulties in students, as well as design programs for those who may be at risk of failure. Things like that.”
“Are there a lot of students who fall into that category at Nazarene?” Byrne asked.
“Which category?”
“Students who are at a risk for failure.”
“No more than any other parochial high school, I would imagine,” Parkhurst said. “Probably fewer.”
“Why is that?”
“There is a legacy of high academic achievement at Nazarene,” he said.
Byrne scribbled a few notes. Jessica saw Parkhurst’s eyes roam the notepad.
Parkhurst added: “We also try to provide parents and teachers with the skills to cope with disruptive behavior, encourage tolerance, understanding, appreciation of diversity.”
This was strictly brochure copy, Jessica thought. Byrne knew it. Parkhurst knew it. Byrne shifted gears, making no attempt to mask it. “Are you a Catholic, Dr. Parkhurst?”
“Of course.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, why do you work for the archdiocese?”
“Excuse me?”
“I would imagine you could make a lot more money in private practice.”
Jessica knew that to be true. She had made a call to an old schoolmate who worked in personnel at the archdiocese. She knew exactly what Brian Parkhurst made. He earned $71,400 per year.
“The church is a very important part of my life, Detective. I owe it a great deal.”
“By the way, what’s your favorite William Blake painting?”
Parkhurst leaned back, as if trying to focus on Byrne more clearly. “My favorite William Blake painting?”
“Yeah,” Byrne said. “Me, I like Dante and Virgil at the Gates of Hell.”
“I, well, I can’t say I know very much about Blake.”
“Tell me about Tessa Wells.”
It was a gut shot. Jessica watched Parkhurst closely. He was smooth. Not a tic.
“What would you like to know?”
“Did she ever mention someone who might have been bothering her? Someone she might have been afraid of?”
Parkhurst seemed to think about this for a moment. Jessica wasn’t buying. Neither was Byrne.
“Not that I can recall,” Parkhurst said.
“Did she seem particularly troubled of late?”
“No,” Parkhurst said. “There was a period last year when I saw her a little more often than some of the other students.”
“Did you ever see her outside of school?”
Like right around Thanksgiving? Jessica wondered.
“No.”
“Were you a little closer to Tessa than some of the other students?” Byrne asked.
“Not really.”
“But there was some sort of bond.”
“Yes.”
“Is that how it all started with Karen Hillkirk?”
Parkhurst’s face reddened, then cooled instantly. He was clearly expecting this. Karen Hillkirk was the student with whom Parkhurst had had the affair in Ohio.
“It wasn’t what you think, Detective.”
“Enlighten us,” Byrne said.
On the word us, Parkhurst threw a glance at the mirror. Jessica thought she saw the slightest smile. She wanted to slap it off his face.
Parkhurst then lowered his head for a moment, penitent now, as if this was a story he had told many times, if only to himself.
“It was a mistake,” he began. “I . . . I was young myself. Karen was mature for her age. It just . . . happened.”
“Were you her counselor?”
“Yes,” Parkhurst said.
“So then you can see how there are those who would say that you abused a position of power, can’t you?”
“Of course,” Parkhurst said. “I understand that.”
“Did you have the same sort of relationship with Tessa Wells?”
“Absolutely not,” Parkhurst said.
“Are you acquainted with a Regina student named Nicole Taylor?”
Parkhurst hesitated for a second. The rhythm of the interview was starting to pick up in tempo. It appeared that Parkhurst was trying to slow it down. “Yes, I know Nicole.”
Know, Jessica thought. Present tense.
“You’ve counseled her?” Byrne asked.
“Yes,” Parkhurst said. “I work with the students at five diocesan schools.”
“How well do you know Nicole?” Byrne asked.
“I’ve seen her a few times.”
“What can you tell me about her?”
“Nicole has some self-image issues. Some . . . troubles at home,” Parkhurst said.
“What sort of self-image issues?”
“Nicole is a loner. She’s really into the whole Goth scene and that has somewhat isolated her at Regina.”
“Goth?”
“The Goth scene is loosely made up of kids who, for one reason or another, are spurned by the ‘normal’ kids. They tend to dress differently, listen to their own kinds of music.”
&n
bsp; “Dress differently how?”
“Well, there are all kinds of Goth styles. The typical, or stereotypical Goth dresses in all black. Black fingernails, black lipstick, numerous piercings. But some kids dress in a Victorian manner, or an industrial style, if you will. They listen to everyone from Bauhaus to the old-school bands like the Cure and Siouxsie and the Banshees.”
Byrne just stared at Parkhurst for a few moments, fixing him in his chair. Parkhurst responded by rearranging his weight on the seat, straightening his clothes. He waited Byrne out. “You seem to know a lot about these things,” Byrne finally said.
“It’s my job, Detective,” Parkhurst said. “I can’t help my girls if I don’t know where they’re coming from.”
My girls again, Jessica noted.
“In fact,” Parkhurst continued, “I confess to owning a few Cure CDs myself.”
I’ll bet you do, Jessica mused.
“You mentioned Nicole had some troubles at home,” Byrne said. “What kind of troubles?”
“Well, for one, there is a history of alcohol abuse in her household,” Parkhurst said.
“Any violence?” Byrne asked.
Parkhurst paused. “Not that I recall. But even if I did, we’re getting into confidential matters here.”
“Is that the sort of thing students would necessarily share with you?”
“Yes,” Parkhurst said. “Those who are predisposed to do so.”
“Are many of the girls predisposed to discussing intimate details of their home lives with you?”
Byrne put a false emphasis on the word. Parkhurst caught it. “Yes. I like to think that I am good at putting young people at ease.”
Defensive now, Jessica thought.
“I don’t understand all these questions about Nicole. Has something happened to her?”
“She was found murdered this morning,” Byrne said.
“Oh my God.” Parkhurst’s face drained of color. “I saw the news . . . I had no . . .”
The news had not released the name of the victim.
“When was the last time you saw Nicole?”
Parkhurst thought for a few crucial moments. “It’s been a few weeks.”
“Where were you on Thursday and Friday mornings, Dr. Parkhurst?”
Jessica was certain that Parkhurst knew that the questioning had just crossed a barrier, the one that separated witness from suspect. He remained silent.
“It’s simply a routine question,” Byrne said. “We have to cover all bases.”
Before Parkhurst could answer, there was a soft rap on the open door.
It was Ike Buchanan.
“Detective?”
AS THEY APPROACHED BUCHANAN’S OFFICE, Jessica could see a man standing with his back to the door. He was about five eleven, wearing a black overcoat, a dark fedora in his right hand. He was athletically built, wide-shouldered. His shaved head glistened beneath the fluorescents. They stepped into the office.
“Jessica, this is Monsignor Terry Pacek,” Buchanan said.
Terry Pacek, by reputation, was a fierce defender of the Archdiocese of Philadelphia, a self-made man from the hardscrabble hills of Lackawanna County. Coal country. In an archdiocese where there were nearly one and a half million Catholics and close to three hundred parishes, no one was a more vocal or staunch advocate than Terry Pacek.
He had come into his own in 2002 during a brief sex scandal where six Philadelphia priests were dismissed, along with a few from Allentown. Granted, the scandal paled in comparison to what had taken place in Boston, but still, with its large Catholic population, Philadelphia reeled.
Terry Pacek had been front and center in the media during those few months, visiting every local talk show, every radio station, and showing up in every newspaper account. Jessica’s image of him, at the time, had been that of a well-spoken, well-educated pit bull. What she was not prepared for, now that she had met him in person, was the smile. At one moment, he looked like a compact version of a WWF wrestler ready to pounce. The next moment, his entire face changed, lighting up the room. She could see how he had charmed not only the media, but also the vicariate. She had the feeling that Terry Pacek could write his own future in the ranks of the church’s political hierarchy.
“Monsignor Pacek.” Jessica extended her hand.
“How is the investigation going?”
The question was directed at Jessica, but Byrne stepped forward. “It’s still early,” Byrne said.
“I understand that there has been a task force formed?”
Byrne knew that Pacek already knew the answer to this question. The look on Byrne’s face told Jessica—and, perhaps, Pacek himself—that he didn’t appreciate it.
“Yes,” Byrne said. Flat, succinct, tepid.
“Sergeant Buchanan tells me that you have brought in Dr. Brian Parkhurst?”
Here we go, Jessica thought.
“Dr. Parkhurst volunteered to help us with the investigation. It turns out that he was acquainted with both victims.”
Terry Pacek nodded. “So Dr. Parkhurst is not a suspect?”
“Absolutely not,” Byrne said. “He is here merely as a material witness.”
For now, Jessica thought.
Jessica knew that Terry Pacek was walking a tightrope. On one hand, if someone was killing the Catholic schoolgirls of Philadelphia, he had an obligation to stay on top of the situation, making sure that the investigation was given a high priority.
On the other hand, he could not stand idly by and have archdiocese personnel brought in for questioning without counsel, or at least a show of support from the church.
“As spokesperson for the archdiocese, you can certainly understand my concern over these tragic events,” Pacek said. “The archbishop himself has communicated with me directly and authorized me to put all of the diocese’s resources at your disposal.”
“That’s very generous,” Byrne said.
Pacek handed Byrne a card. “If there is anything my office can do, please don’t hesitate to call us.”
“I sure will,” Byrne said. “Just out of curiosity, Monsignor, how did you know Dr. Parkhurst had come in?”
“He called my office after you called him.”
Byrne nodded. If Parkhurst gave the archdiocese a heads-up about a witness interview, it was pretty clear that he knew the conversation might turn into an interrogation.
Jessica glanced at Ike Buchanan. She saw him look over her shoulder and make a subtle move with his head, the sort of gesture you would make to tell someone that whatever they were looking for was in the room on the right.
Jessica followed Buchanan’s gaze into the common room, just outside Ike’s door, and found Nick Palladino and Eric Chavez there. They headed to Interview Room A, and Jessica knew what the nod meant.
Cut Brian Parkhurst loose.
24
TUESDAY, 3:20 PM
THE MAIN BRANCH of the Free Library was the largest library in the city, located on Vine Street and the Benjamin Franklin Parkway.
Jessica sat in the fine arts section, poring over a huge collection of Christian art tomes, looking for something, anything, that resembled the tableaux they had uncovered at the two crime scenes, scenes to which they had no witnesses, no fingerprints, as well as two victims who, as far as they knew, were unrelated: Tessa Wells, sitting at the column in that filthy basement on North Eighth Street; Nicole Taylor reposing in the field of spring flowers.
With the assistance of one of the librarians, Jessica did a catalog search using various keywords. The results were overwhelming.
There were books on the iconography of the Virgin Mary, books on mysticism and the Catholic Church, books on relics, the Shroud of Turin, the Oxford Companion to Christian Art. There were countless guides to the Louvre, to the Uffizi, to the Tate. She skimmed books on the stigmata, on Roman history as it applied to crucifixion. There were pictorial Bibles, books on Franciscan, Jesuit, and Cistercian art, sacred heraldry, Byzantine icons. There were color plates
of oil paintings, watercolors, acrylics, woodcuts, pen-and-ink drawings, murals, frescoes, sculptures in bronze, marble, wood, stone.
Where to begin?
When she found herself thumbing through a coffee table book on ecclesiastical embroidery, she knew she was getting a little off course. She tried keywords like prayer and rosary, and got hundreds of hits. She learned some basics, including that the rosary is Marian in nature, centered on the Virgin Mary, and is meant to be said while contemplating the face of Christ. She took as many notes as she could.
She checked out a few of the circulating books—many she had looked at were reference—and headed back to the Roundhouse, her mind reeling with religious imagery. Something in these books pointed to the inspiration for the madness of these crimes. She just had no idea how to ferret it out.
For the first time in her life she wished she had paid more attention in religion class.
25
TUESDAY, 3:30 PM
THE BLACKNESS WAS COMPLETE, seamless, a perpetual night that ignored time. Beneath the darkness, very faint, was the sound of the world.
For Bethany Price, the veil of consciousness came and went like waves on the beach.
Cape May, she thought through the deep haze in her mind, the images fighting up from the depths of her memory. She hadn’t thought of Cape May in years. When she was small, her parents would take the family to Cape May, a few miles south of Atlantic City on the Jersey shore. She used to sit on the beach, her feet buried in the wet sand. Dad in his crazy Hawaiian trunks, Mom in her modest one-piece.
She remembered changing in the beach cabana, even then terribly self-conscious about her body, her weight. The thought made her touch herself. She was still fully clothed.
She knew she had ridden in a car for about fifteen minutes. It might have been longer. He had stuck her with a needle that had taken her to the grasp of sleep, but not quite into its arms. She had heard city sounds all around her. Buses, car horns, people walking and talking. She wanted to cry out to them, but she couldn’t.
It was quiet.
She was afraid.
The room was small, maybe five feet by three feet. Not a room at all, really. More like a closet. On the wall opposite the door she had felt a large crucifix. On the floor was a padded confessional kneeler. The carpeting on the floor was new; she smelled the petroleum scent of the new fiber. Beneath the door she could see a meager bar of yellow light. She was hungry and thirsty, but she dared not ask.
Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense: The Rosary Girls, the Skin Gods, Merciless, Badlands Page 16