57

THURSDAY, 8:05 AM

THE PARADE OF POLICE CARS, both marked and unmarked, that snaked their way up the rain-glassed street in West Philadelphia where Jimmy Purify’s widow made her home seemed endless.

Byrne had gotten the call from Ike Buchanan at just after six.

Jimmy Purify was dead. He had coded at three that morning.

As he walked toward the house, Byrne fielded hugs from other detectives. Most people thought it was tough for cops to show emotion—some said the lack of sentiment was a prerequisite for the job—but every cop knew better. At a time like this, nothing came easier.

When Byrne entered the living room he considered the woman standing in front of him, frozen in time and space in her own house. Darlene Purify stood at the window, her thousand-yard stare reaching far beyond the gray horizon. The TV babbled in the background, a talk show. Byrne thought about turning it off, but realized that the silence would be far worse. The TV indicated that life, somewhere, went on.

“Where do you want me, Darlene? You tell me, I go there.”

Darlene Purify was just over forty, a former R&B singer in the 1980s, having even cut a few records with an all-girl group called La Rouge. Now her hair was platinum, her once slight figure given to time. “I stopped loving him a long time ago, Kevin. I don’t even remember when. It’s just . . . the idea of him that’s missing. Jimmy. Gone. Shit.”

Byrne walked across the room, held her. He stroked her hair, searching for words. He found some. “He was the best cop I ever knew. The best.”

Darlene dabbed her eyes. Grief was such a heartless sculptor, Byrne thought. At that moment, Darlene looked a dozen years older than she was. He thought about the first time they had met, in such happy times. Jimmy had brought her to a Police Athletic League dance. Byrne had watched Darlene shake it up with Jimmy, wondering how a player like him ever landed a woman like her.

“He loved it, you know,” Darlene said.

“The job?”

“Yeah. The job,” Darlene said. “He loved it more than he ever loved me. Or even the kids, I think.”

“That’s not true. It’s different, you know? Loving the job is . . . well . . . different. I spent every day with him after the divorce. A lot of nights, too. Believe me, he missed you more than you’ll ever know.”

Darlene looked at him, as if this were the most incredible thing she had ever heard. “He did?”

“You kidding? You remember that monogrammed hankie? The little one of yours with the flowers in the corner? The one you gave him on your first date?”

“What . . . what about it?”

“He never went out on a tour without it. In fact, we were halfway to Fishtown one night, heading to a stakeout, and we had to head back to the Roundhouse because he forgot it. And believe me, you didn’t give him lip about it.”

Darlene laughed, then covered her mouth and began to cry again. Byrne didn’t know if he was making it better or worse. He put his hand on her shoulder until her sobbing began to subside. He searched his memory for a story, any story. For some reason, he wanted to keep Darlene talking. He didn’t know why, but he felt that, if she was talking, she wouldn’t grieve.

“Did I ever tell you about the time Jimmy went undercover as a gay prostitute?”

“Many times.” Darlene smiled now, through the salt. “Tell me again, Kevin.”

“Well, we were working a reverse sting, right? Middle of summer. Five detectives on the detail, and Jimmy’s number was up to be the bait. We laughed about it for a week beforehand, right? Like, who the hell was ever gonna believe that big slab of pork was sellin’ it? Forget sellin’ it, who the hell was gonna buy?”

Byrne told her the rest of the story by rote. Darlene smiled at all the right places, laughed her sad laugh at the end. Then she melted into Byrne’s big arms and he held her for what seemed like minutes, waving off a few cops who had shown up to pay their respects. Finally he asked: “Do the boys know?”

Darlene wiped her eyes. “Yeah. They’ll be in tomorrow.”

Byrne squared himself in front of her. “If you need anything, anything at all, you pick up the phone. Don’t even look at the clock.”

“Thanks, Kevin.”

“And don’t worry about the arrangements. The association’s all over it. It’s gonna be a procession like the pope.”

Byrne looked at Darlene. The tears came again. Kevin Byrne held her close, felt her heart racing. Darlene was tough, having survived both her parents’ slow deaths from lingering illness. It was the boys he worried about. None of them had their mother’s backbone. They were sensitive kids, very close to each other, and Byrne knew that one of his jobs, in the next few weeks, would be shoring up the Purify family.

 

WHEN BYRNE WALKED out of Darlene’s house, he had to look both ways on the street. He couldn’t remember where he had parked the car. The headache was a sharp dagger between his eyes. He tapped his pocket. He still had full scrip of Vicodin.

You’ve got a full plate, Kevin, he thought. Shape the hell up.

He lit a cigarette, took a few moments, got his bearings. He looked at his pager. There were still three calls from Jimmy that he’d never returned.

There will be time.

He finally remembered that he had parked on a side street. By the time he reached the corner, the rain began again. Why not, he thought. Jimmy was gone. The sun dared not show its face. Not today.

All over the city—in diners and cabs and beauty parlors and boardrooms and church basements—people were talking about the Rosary Killer, about how a madman was feasting on the young girls of Philadelphia, and how the police couldn’t stop him. For the first time in his career, Byrne felt impotent, thoroughly inadequate, an impostor, as if he couldn’t look at his paycheck with any sense of pride or dignity.

He stepped into the Crystal Coffee Shop, a twenty-four-hour spoon he had frequented many mornings with Jimmy. There was a pall over the regulars. They’d heard the news. He grabbed a paper and a large coffee, wondering if he’d ever be back. When he exited, he saw that someone was leaning against his car.

It was Jessica.

The emotion almost took his legs.

This kid, he thought. This kid is something.

“Hey there,” she said.

“Hey.”

“I was sorry to hear about your partner.”

“Thanks,” Byrne said, trying to keep it all in check. “He was . . . he was one of a kind. You would’ve liked him.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

She had a way about her, Byrne thought. A way that made questions like that sound sincere, not like the bullshit that people say just to go on record.

“No,” Byrne said. “Everything’s under control.”

“If you want to take the day . . .”

Byrne shook his head. “I’m good.”

“You sure?” Jessica asked.

“Hundred percent.”

Jessica held up the Rosarium letter.

“What’s that?” Byrne asked.

“I think it’s the key to our guy’s mind.”

Jessica briefed him on what she had learned, along with details of her meeting with Eddie Kasalonis. As she talked, she saw a number of things crawl across Kevin Byrne’s face. Two of them mattered most.

Respect for her as a detective.

And, more importantly, determination.

“There’s somebody we should talk to before we brief the team,” Jessica said. “Somebody who could put this all in perspective.”

Byrne turned and looked once, briefly, toward Jimmy Purify’s house. He turned back and said: “Let’s rock.”

 

THEY SAT WITH FATHER CORRIO at a small table near the front window of Anthony’s, a coffeehouse on Ninth Street in South Philly.

“There are twenty mysteries of the rosary in all,” Father Corrio said. “They are grouped into four groups. The Joyful, The Sorrowful, The Glorious, and the Luminous.”

The notion that their doer was planning twenty murders was not lost on anyone at that table. Father Corrio didn’t seem to think that was the case.

“Strictly speaking,” he continued, “the mysteries are assigned days of the week. The Glorious Mysteries are observed on Sunday and Wednesday, the Joyful Mysteries on Monday and Saturday. The Luminous Mysteries, which are relatively new, are observed on Thursday.”

“What about the Sorrowful?” Byrne asked.

“The Sorrowful Mysteries are observed on Tuesday and Friday. Sundays during Lent.”

Jessica did the math in her head, counting back the days from the discovery of Bethany Price. It didn’t fit the pattern of observance.

“The majority of the mysteries are celebratory,” Father Corrio said. “They include the Annunciation, the baptism of Jesus, the Assumption, the resurrection of Christ. It is only the Sorrowful Mysteries that deal with suffering and death.”

“And there are only five Sorrowful Mysteries, right?” Jessica asked.

“Yes,” Father Corrio said. “But keep in mind that the rosary is not universally accepted. There are objectors.”

“How so?” Jessica asked.

“Well, there are those who find the rosary unecumenical.”

“Not sure what you mean,” Byrne said.

“The rosary celebrates Mary,” Father Corrio said. “It venerates the mother of God, and some believe that the Marian character of the prayer does not glorify Christ.”

“How does that apply to what we’re facing here?”

Father Corrio shrugged. “Perhaps the man you seek does not believe in the virginal state of Mary. Perhaps he is, in his own sick way, trying to return these girls to God in such a state.”

The thought sent a shudder through Jessica. If that was his motive, then when, and why, would he ever stop?

Jessica reached into her folio, held up the photographs of the insides of Bethany Price’s palms, the numbers 7 and 16.

“Do these numbers mean anything to you?” Jessica asked.

Father Corrio slipped on his bifocals, looked at the photos. It was apparent that the wounds caused by the drill through the young girl’s hands were disturbing to him.

“It could be many things,” Father Corrio said. “Nothing comes immediately to mind.”

“I checked page seven hundred sixteen in the Oxford Annotated Bible,” Jessica said. “It was in the middle of the book of Psalms. I read the text, but nothing jumped out.”

Father Corrio nodded, but remained silent. It was clear that the book of Psalms, in this context, didn’t strike a chord within him.

“What about a year? Does the year seven sixteen have any significance in the church that you know of?” Jessica asked.

Father Corrio smiled. “I minored in English, Jessica,” he said. “I’m afraid that history was not my best subject. Outside of knowing that Vatican One was convened in 1869, I’m not much good on dates.”

Jessica went through the scribbled notes she had taken the night before. She was running out of ideas.

“Did you happen to find a scapular on this girl by any chance?” Father Corrio asked.

Byrne went through his notes. A scapular was essentially two small, square pieces of woolen cloth connected to each other by two strings or bands. It was worn in such a way that, when the bands rested on the shoulders, one segment rested in the front, while the other rested in the back. Usually, scapulars were given as a gift for the first communion—a gift set that often included a rosary, a chalice-and-host pin, and a satin bag.

“Yes,” Byrne said. “She had a scapular around her neck when she was found.”

“Is it a brown scapular?”

Byrne scanned his notes again. “Yes.”

“You might want to look closely at it,” Father Corrio said.

Quite often, scapulars were encased in clear plastic to protect them, as was the one found on Bethany Price. Her scapular had already been dusted for prints. None had been found. “Why is that, Father?”

“Every year there is a feast of the Scapular, a day devoted to Our Lady of Mount Carmel. It is the anniversary of the day the Blessed Virgin appeared to Saint Simon Stock and presented him with a monk’s scapular. She told him that whoever wore it would not suffer eternal fire.”

“I don’t understand,” Byrne said. “Why is that relevant?”

Father Corrio said: “The Feast of the Scapular is celebrated on July 16th.”

 

THE SCAPULAR FOUND ON BETHANY PRICE was indeed a brown scapular, dedicated to Our Lady of Mount Carmel. Byrne phoned the lab and asked if they had opened the clear plastic case. They had not.

Byrne and Jessica headed back to the Roundhouse.

“You know, the possibility exists that we might not catch this guy,” Byrne said. “He might get to his fifth victim, then crawl back into the slime forever.”

The notion had crossed Jessica’s mind. She had been trying not to think about it. “You think that might happen?”

“I hope not,” Byrne said. “But I’ve been at this a while. I just want you to be prepared for the possibility.”

The possibility did not sit well with her. If this man was not caught, she knew that, for the rest of her career in the Homicide Unit, for the rest of her time in law enforcement, she would judge every case by what she would consider a failure.

Before Jessica could respond, Byrne’s cell phone rang. He answered. Within seconds, he closed the phone, reached into the backseat for the deck strobe light. He put it on the dash and lighted it.

“What’s up?” Jessica asked.

“They opened the scapular and dusted the inside,” he said. He slammed the gas pedal to the floor. “We’ve got a print.”

 

THEY WAITED ON A BENCH outside the print lab.

There are all kinds of waiting in police work. There’s the stakeout variety, the verdict variety. There’s the type of waiting when you show up in a municipal courtroom to testify in some bullshit DUI case at nine in the morning, only to get on the stand for two minutes at three in the afternoon, just in time to start your tour at four.

But waiting for a print to come up was the best and the worst waiting. You had evidence, but the longer it took, the more likely it was that you would not get a usable match.

Byrne and Jessica tried to get comfortable. There were a number of other things they could be doing in the meantime, but they were bound and determined to do none of them. Their main objective, at the moment, was to keep both blood pressure and pulse rate down.

“Can I ask you something?” Jessica asked.

“Sure.”

“If you don’t want to talk about it, I totally understand.”

Byrne looked at her, his green eyes nearly black. She had never seen a man look quite so exhausted.

“You want to know about Luther White,” he said.

“Well. Yeah,” Jessica said. Was she that transparent? “Kinda.”

Jessica had asked around. Detectives were protective of their own. The bits and pieces she had heard added up to a pretty crazy story. She figured she’d just ask.

“What do you want to know?” Byrne asked.

Every last detail. “Whatever you want to tell me.”

Byrne slid down on the bench a little, arranged his weight. “I had been on the job about five years or so, in plain clothes for about two. There had been a series of rapes in West Philly. The doer’s MO was to hang out in the parking lots of places like motels, hospitals, office buildings. He’d strike in the middle of the night, usually between three and four in the morning.”

Jessica vaguely remembered. She was in ninth grade, and the story scared the hell out of her and her friends.

“The doer wore a nylon stocking over his face, rubber gloves, and he always wore a condom. Never left a hair, a fiber. Not a drop of fluid. We had nothing. Eight women over a three-month period and we had zero. The only description we had, other than the guy was white and somewhere between thirty and fifty, was that he had a tattoo on the front of his neck. An elaborate tattoo of an eagle that went all the way up to the base of his jaw. We interviewed every tat parlor between Pittsburgh and Atlantic City. Nothing.

“So one night I’m out with Jimmy. We had just taken down a suspect in Old City and were still suited up. We stopped for a quick one at this place called Deuces, out by Pier Eighty-four. We were just getting ready to leave when I see that a guy at one of the tables by the door is wearing a white turtleneck, pulled high. I don’t think anything of it right away, but as I walk out the door I turn around for some reason, and I see it. The tip of a tattoo peeking out over the top of the turtleneck. An eagle’s beak. Couldn’t have been more than a half-inch, right? It was him.”

“Did he see you?”

“Oh yeah,” Byrne said. “So me and Jimmy just leave. We huddle outside, right by this low stone wall that’s right next to the river, figuring we’d call it in, seeing as we just had a few and we didn’t want anything to get in the way of us putting this fucker away. This is before cell phones, so Jimmy heads to the car to call for backup. I decide I’m going to go stand next to the door, figuring, if this guy tries to leave, I’ll get the drop on him. But as soon as I turn around, there he is. And he’s got this twenty-two pointed right at my heart.”

“How did he make you?”

“No idea. But without a word, without hesitation, he unloads. Fired three shots, rapid succession. I took them all in the vest, but they knocked the wind out of me. His fourth shot grazed my forehead.” At this, Byrne fingered the scar over his right eye. “I went back, over the wall, into the river. I couldn’t breathe. The slugs had cracked two ribs, so I couldn’t even try to swim. I just started to sink to the bottom, like I was paralyzed. The water was cold as hell.”

“What happened to White?”

“Jimmy took him down. Two to the chest.”

Jessica tried to wrap her mind around the images, the nightmare every cop has of facing down a two-time loser with a weapon.

“As I was sinking, I saw White hit the surface above me. I swear, before I went unconscious, we had a moment when were face-to-face under the water. Inches apart. It was dark, and it was freezing, but we locked eyes. We were both dying, and we knew it.”

“What happened next?”

“They fished me out, did CPR, the whole routine.”

“I heard that you . . .” For some reason Jessica found it hard to say the word.

“Drowned?”

“Well, yeah. That. Did you?”

“So they tell me.”

“Wow. How long were you, um . . .”

Byrne laughed. “Dead?”

“Sorry,” Jessica said. “I can safely say that I’ve never asked that question before.”

“Sixty seconds,” Byrne replied.

“Wow.”

Byrne looked over at Jessica. Her face was a press conference of questions.

Byrne smiled, asked: “You want to know if there were bright white lights and angels and golden trumpets and Roma Downey floating overhead, right?”

Jessica laughed. “I guess I do.”

“Well, there was no Roma Downey. But there was a long hallway with a door at the end. I just knew that I shouldn’t open the door. If I opened the door, I was never coming back.”

“You just knew?”

“I just knew. And for a long time, after I got back, whenever I got to a crime scene, especially the scene of a homicide, I got a . . . feeling. The day after we found Deirdre Pettigrew’s body, I went back to Fairmount Park. I touched the bench in front of the bushes where she was found. I saw Pratt. I didn’t know his name, I couldn’t see his face clearly, but I knew it was him. I saw how she saw him.”

“You saw him?”

“Not in the visual sense. I just . . . knew.” It was clear that none of this was easy for him. “It happened a lot for a long time,” he said. “There was no explaining it. No predicting it. In fact, I did a lot of things I shouldn’t have to try and get it to stop.”

“How long were you IOD?”

“I was out for almost five months. Lots of rehab. That’s where I met my wife.”

“She was a physical therapist?”

“No, no. She was recovering from a torn Achilles tendon. I had actually met her years earlier in the old neighborhood, but we got reacquainted in the hospital. We hobbled up and down the hallways together. I’d say it was love at first Vicodin if it wasn’t such a bad joke.”

Jessica laughed anyway. “Did you ever get any kind of professional psychiatric help?”

“Oh, yeah. I did two years with the department shrink, on and off. Went through dream analysis. Even went to a few IANDS meetings.”

“IANDS?”

“International Association for Near Death Studies. Wasn’t for me.”

Jessica tried to take all this in. It was a lot. “So what’s it like now?”

“It doesn’t happen all that often these days. Kind of like a faraway TV signal. Morris Blanchard is proof that I can’t be sure anymore.”

Jessica could see that there was more to the story, but she felt as if she had pushed him enough.

“And, to answer your next question,” Byrne continued. “I can’t read minds, I can’t tell fortunes, I can’t see the future. No Dead Zone here. If I could see the future, believe me, I’d be at Philadelphia Park right now.”

Jessica laughed again. She was glad she had asked, but she was still a little spooked by it all. She had always been a little spooked by stories of clairvoyance and the like. When she read The Shining she slept with the lights on for a week.

She was just about to try one of her clumsy segues to another topic when Ike Buchanan came blasting out of the door to the print lab. His face was flushed, the veins on his neck pulsed. For the moment, his limp was gone.

“Got him,” Buchanan said, waving a computer readout.

Byrne and Jessica shot to their feet, fell into step beside him.

“Who is he?” Byrne asked.

“His name is Wilhelm Kreuz,” Buchanan said.