“We are confident that Detective Byrne followed procedure to the letter of the law on that terrible night,” Churchill said.
“What is the procedure for a situation like that?” This from the Daily News.
“There are specific rules of engagement. The officer must consider the life of the hostage first.”
“Was Detective Byrne on duty?”
“He was off duty at the time.”
“Will there be charges filed against Detective Byrne?”
“As you know, this is up to the district attorney’s office. But at this time they have informed us that there will be no charges.”
Byrne knew exactly how it was going to go from here. The media had already begun the public rehabilitation of Anton Krotz—his terrible childhood, his mistreatment by the system. There had also been an article on Laura Clarke. Byrne was sure she was a fine woman, but the piece had made her out to be a saint. She worked at a local hospice, she helped save greyhounds, she had done a year in the peace corps.
“Is it true that Mr. Krotz was once in police custody and then let go?” a reporter for City Paper asked.
“Mr. Krotz was questioned by police two years ago in connection with a homicide, but was released due to insufficient evidence.” Andrea Churchill glanced at her watch. “If there are no more questions at this time—”
“She didn’t have to die.” The words came from the back of the crowd. It was a plaintive voice, hoarse with exhaustion.
All heads turned. Cameras followed. Matthew Clarke stood at the back of the throng. His hair was unkempt, he sported a few days’ growth of beard, he wore no overcoat, no gloves, just a suit in which it appeared he had slept. He looked pitiful. Or, more accurately, pitiable.
“He gets to go about his life as if nothing happened,” Clarke pointed an accusatory finger at Kevin Byrne. “What do I get? What do my children get?”
For the press this was fresh chum in the water.
A reporter for The Report, a weekly tabloid rag with which Byrne had a not so amicable history yelled, “Detective Byrne, how do you feel about the fact that a woman was killed right in front of you?”
Byrne felt the Irish rise, his fists clench. Flashbulbs flashed. “How do I feel?” Byrne asked. Ike Buchanan put a hand on his arm. There was more Byrne wanted to say, much more, but Ike’s grasp tightened, and he knew what it meant.
Be cool.
When Clarke moved to approach Byrne, a pair of uniformed officers grabbed him and hustled him away from the building. More flashbulbs.
“Tell us Detective! How do you feeeeeel?” Clarke shouted.
Clarke was drunk. Everyone knew it, but who could blame him? He had just lost his wife to violence. The officers took him to the corner of Eighth and Race and let him go. Clarke tried to smooth his hair, his clothing, find a little dignity in the moment. The officers—a pair of big kids in their twenties—blocked his path back.
A few seconds later Clarke disappeared around the corner. The last thing any of them heard was Matthew Clarke screaming “This … isn’t …over!”
A stunned silence held the crowd for a moment, then the reporters and cameras all turned to Byrne. Beneath a blitzkrieg of flashing bulbs, the questions rang out.
“—could’ve prevented this?”
“—anything to say to the victim’s daughters?”
“—would you do if you had to do it all over?”
Shielded by a wall of blue, Detective Kevin Byrne headed back into the building.
14
They met in the church basement every week. Some weeks there were as few as three people attending, other times there were upwards of a dozen. Some people came back over and over again. Some came once, unburdened their sorrows, and never returned. The New Page Ministry asked for no fee, no donations. The door was always open—sometimes a knock came in the middle of the night, often on holidays—and there were always pastries and coffee for all. Smoking was definitely permitted.
They would not be meeting in the church basement for much longer. Contributions had been coming in steadily for a bright, airy space on Second Street. They were currently renovating the building—in the drywall stage at the moment, paint next. With any luck they would be able to meet there around the first of the year.
For now the basement of the church was a refuge, as it had been for years, a familiar place where tears were shed, outlooks renewed, and lives mended. For Pastor Roland Hannah it was a portal to the souls of his flock, the source of a river running deep into their hearts.
They had all been victims of a violent crime. Or were related to someone who had. Robberies, assault, burglary, rape, murder. Kensington was a hard part of the city, and hardly anyone walking the streets was untouched by wrongdoing. These people were the ones who wanted to talk about it, the folks who had been altered by the experience, the ones whose souls cried out for answers, for sense, for salvation.
Today six people sat in a semicircle on unfolded chairs.
“I didn’t hear him,” Sadie said. “He was quiet. He come up behind me, hit me over the head, stole my pocketbook, and ran.”
Sadie Pierce was in her mid-seventies. She was a slight, skeletal woman with hands long knotted by arthritis, a head full of henna-dyed hair. She always dressed in bright red, head to toe. She had once been a singer, working the Catskill circuit in the fifties, known as the Scarlet Thrush.
“Have they recovered your belongings?” Roland asked.
Sadie glared, all the answer anyone needed. Everyone knew the police were neither inclined nor motivated to track down some old lady’s taped and patched and frayed pocketbook, regardless of its contents.
“How are you faring?” Roland asked.
“Just so,” she said. “There wasn’t much money, but it was the personal items, you know? Pictures of my Henry. And then all my papers. You can’t hardly buy a cup of coffee without your ID these days.”
“Tell Charles what you need and we’ll make sure you get bus fare to the appropriate agencies.”
“Thank you, Pastor,” Sadie said. “Bless you.”
The meetings of the New Page Ministry were informal, but they always moved forward in a clockwise direction. If you wanted to speak, but needed the time to organize your thoughts, you sat to Pastor Roland’s right. And so it went. Next to Sadie Pierce sat a man they all knew only by his first name, Sean.
In his twenties, quiet and respectful and unassuming, Sean had drifted into the group a year or so earlier, attending more than ten times. At first, not unlike the actions of someone entering a twelve-step program like Alcoholics or Gamblers Anonymous—unsure of his need for the group or the group’s usefulness—Sean had hung around the periphery, hugging the walls, staying some days for just a few minutes. Eventually he got closer and closer. These days he sat with the group. He always left a small donation in the jar. He still had not told his story.
“Welcome back, Brother Sean,” Roland said.
Sean reddened slightly, smiled. “Hi.”
“How are you feeling?” Roland asked.
Sean cleared his throat. “Okay, I suppose.”
Many months earlier Roland had given Sean a brochure for CBH, the Community Behavioral Health organization. He did not think Sean had made an appointment. Asking about it might make things worse, so Roland stayed his tongue.
“Is there anything you would like to share today?” Roland asked.
Sean hesitated. He wrung his hands. “No, I’m fine, thanks. I think I’ll just listen.”
“The good Lord loves a listener,” Roland said. “Bless you, Brother Sean.”
Roland turned to the woman next to Sean. Her name was Evelyn Reyes. She was a large woman, in her late forties, a diabetic who walked with the aid of a cane most days. She had never spoken before. Roland could tell that it was time. “Let us all welcome back Sister Evelyn.”
“Welcome,” they all said.
Evelyn looked up, from face to face. “I don’t know if I can.”
“You are
in the house of the Lord, Sister Evelyn. You are among friends. Nothing can harm you here,” Roland said. “Do you believe this to be true?”
She nodded.
“Please unburden your sorrows. When you are ready.”
Tentatively, she began her story. “It started a long time ago.” Her eyes welled with tears. Charles brought over a box of Kleenex, retreated, sat in his chair by the door. Evelyn grabbed a tissue, dabbed her eyes, mouthed a thank you to Charles. She took another long moment, continued. “We were a large family back then,” she said. “Ten brothers and sisters. Twenty or so cousins. Over the years we all married, had children. We would have picnics every year, big family get-togethers.”
“Where did you meet?” Roland asked.
“Sometimes in spring and summer we would meet at Belmont Plateau. But mostly we would meet at my house. You know, over on Jasper Street?”
Roland nodded. “Please go on.”
“Well, my daughter Dina was just a little girl in those days. She had the biggest brown eyes. A shy smile. Kind of a tomboy, you know? Loved to play the boys’ games.”
Evelyn’s brow furrowed. She took a deep breath.
“We didn’t know it at the time,” she continued, “but at some of these family gatherings she had … trouble with someone.”
“With whom did she have trouble?” Roland asked.
“It was her uncle Edgar. Edgar Luna. My sister’s husband. Ex-husband now. They would play together. Or at least that was what we thought at the time. He was an adult, but we didn’t give it much mind. He was family, right?”
“Yes,” Roland said.
“Over the years Dina got quieter and quieter. All through her young teenage years she didn’t play much with friends, didn’t go to the movies or the mall. We all thought it was a shy phase she was going through. You know how children can be.”
“Oh my, yes,” Roland said.
“Well, time passed. Dina grew up. Then, just a few years ago, she had a breakdown. Like a nervous condition. She couldn’t work. She couldn’t do much of anything. We couldn’t afford any professional help for her, so we did the best we could.”
“Of course you did.”
“Then one day, not long ago, I found this. It was hidden on the top shelf of Dina’s closet.” Evelyn reached into her purse. She produced a letter written on bright pink paper, a child’s stationery with sculpted edges. At the top were festive, brightly colored balloons. She unfolded the letter, handed it to Roland. It was addressed to God.
“She wrote this when she was only eight years old,” Evelyn said.
Roland read the letter from start to finish. It was written in a child’s innocent hand. It told a horrifying tale of repeated sexual abuse. Paragraph after paragraph detailed what Uncle Edgar had done to Dina in the basement of her own house. Roland felt the rage rise within. He asked the Lord for calm.
“This went on for years,” Evelyn said.
“Which years were these?” Roland asked. He folded the letter, slipping it into his shirt pocket.
Evelyn thought for a moment. “Through the mid-nineties. Right until my daughter was thirteen. We never knew any of this. She had always been a quiet girl, even before the problems, you know? She kept her feelings to herself.”
“What happened to Edgar?”
“My sister divorced him. He moved back to Winterton, New Jersey, where he was originally from. His parents passed a few years back, but he still lives there.”
“You haven’t seen him since?”
“No.”
“Did Dina ever speak to you of these things?”
“No, Pastor. Never.”
“How is your daughter faring of late?”
Evelyn’s hands began to tremble. For a moment, the words seemed locked in her throat. Then: “My baby is dead, Pastor Roland. Last week she took pills. She took her life, as if it were hers to take. We put her in the ground over in York, where I’m from.”
The shock that went around the room was tangible. No one spoke.
Roland reached out, held the woman, putting his arms around her big shoulders, embracing her as she unabashedly wept. Charles stood and left the room. In addition to the possibility of his emotions overcoming him, there was much to do now, much to prepare.
Roland sat back in his chair, gathered his thoughts. He held out his hands and they all linked together in a circle. “Let us entreat the Lord for the soul of Dina Reyes, and the souls of all who loved her,” Roland said.
Everyone closed their eyes, began to silently pray.
When they were finished, Roland stood. “He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted.”
“Amen,” someone said.
Charles returned, stood in the doorway. Roland met his gaze. Of the many things with which Charles had trouble in this life—some of them simple tasks, many of them things most take for granted—working on a computer was not among them. The Lord had blessed Charles with the ability to navigate the deep mysteries of the Internet, an ability with which Roland had not been graced. Roland could tell that Charles had already found Winterton, New Jersey and printed out a map.
They would leave soon.
15
Jessica and Byrne spent the afternoon canvassing the Laundromats that were either in walking distance or within reasonable SEPTA distance from Kristina Jakos’s house on North Lawrence. In all, there were five coin-op laundries on their list; only two of which were open past 11 PM. As they approached a twenty-four hour laundry called the All-City Launderette, unable to resist any longer, Jessica asked the question.
“Was the press conference as bad as it looked on TV?” After leaving St. Seraphim she had stopped for a take-out coffee at a mom-and-pop on Fourth Street. She had caught the replay of the press conference on the TV behind the counter.
“Nah,” Byrne said. “It was much, much worse.”
Jessica should have figured. “Are we ever going to talk about it?”
“We’ll talk.”
As frustrating as it was, Jessica let it go. Sometimes Kevin Byrne put up walls impossible to scale.
“By the way, where is our boy detective?” Byrne asked.
“Josh is shuttling witnesses for Ted Campos. He’s going to hook up with us later.”
“What did we get from the church?”
“Only that Kristina was a wonderful person. That the kids all loved her. That she was dedicated. That she was working on the Christmas play.”
“Of course,” Byrne said. “There are ten thousand gangbangers going to bed tonight perfectly healthy, and a well-loved young woman who worked with kids at her church is on the marble.”
Jessica knew what he meant. Life was far from fair. It was up to them to exact whatever justice was available. And that was all they could ever do.
“I think she had a secret life,” Jessica said.
This got Byrne’s undivided attention. “A secret life? What do you mean?”
Jessica lowered her voice. There was no reason to. She just seemed to do it out of habit. “Not sure, but her sister hinted at it, her roommate almost came out and said so, and the priest at St. Seraphim mentioned that she had a sadness about her.”
“Sadness?”
“His word.”
“Hell, everybody’s sad, Jess. That doesn’t mean they’re up to something illegal. Or even unsavory.”
“No, but I’m going to take another run at the roommate. Maybe poke around Kristina’s things a little more closely.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
THE ALL-CITY LAUNDERETTE was the third establishment they visited. The managers of the first two laundries had no recollection of ever seeing the pretty, slender blond woman in their place of business before.
All-City had forty washers, twenty dryers. Plastic plants hung from the rust-stained acoustic tile ceiling. At the front was a pair of laundry-detergent vending machines—SUDS N SUCH! Between them was a sign that made an interesting request: PLEASE DO NOT VANDALIZE MACHINES. Jessica wondered ho
w many vandals would see that sign, follow the rules, and simply move on. Probably about the same percentage of people who obeyed the speed limit. Along the back wall were a pair of soda machines, and a change dispenser. On either side of the center row of back-to-back washers were a line of salmon-colored plastic chairs and tables.
It had been a while since Jessica had been in a coin-op laundry. The experience took her back to her college days. The boredom, the five-year-old magazines, the smell of powdered soaps and bleach and fabric softeners, the clank of the loose change in the dryers. She hadn’t missed it all that much.
Behind the counter was a Vietnamese woman in her sixties. She was petite and bristly, wore a flower-print change vest, along with what looked like five or six different brightly colored nylon fanny packs. On the floor of her small alcove was a pair of toddlers working on coloring books. The television on the shelf showed a Vietnamese action film. Behind the woman sat an Asian man who might have been anywhere from eighty to a hundred years old. It was impossible to tell.
A sign next to the register proclaimed MRS. V. TRAN, PROP. Jessica showed the woman her ID. She introduced herself and Byrne. Jessica then held up the photograph they had gotten from Natalya Jakos, the glamour shot of Kristina. “Do you recognize this woman?” Jessica asked.
The Vietnamese woman slipped on a pair of glasses, glanced at the photograph. She held it at arm’s length, brought it closer. “Yes,” she said. “She’s been in here a few times.”
Jessica glanced at Byrne. They shared that charge of adrenaline that always trails the first lead.
“Do you remember the last time you saw her?” Jessica asked.
The woman looked at the back of the photograph, as if there might be a date there to help her answer the question. She then showed it to the old man. He answered her in Vietnamese.
“My father says five days ago.”
“Does he recall what time?”
The woman turned again to the old man. He answered, at length, seemingly annoyed at having his movie interrupted.
“It was after eleven PM,” the woman said. She hooked a thumb at the old man. “My father. He can’t hear too well, but he remembers everything. He says he stopped here after eleven to empty the change machines. While he was doing it, she came in.”
Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense: The Rosary Girls, the Skin Gods, Merciless, Badlands Page 80