So far their victims had been found holding a sheep bone and a reproduction of a William Blake painting. The information, although helpful, shed no light into any corner of the investigation.
"We've also got matching carpet fibers from both victims," Tracy McGovern said. Tracy was the deputy director of the lab.
All across the room, fists clenched, pumping the air. They had evidence. Synthetic fibers could be traced.
"Both girls had the same nylon fibers along the hem of their skirts," Tracy said. "Tessa Wells had more than a dozen. Nicole Taylor's skirt yielded only a few, due to the fact that she had been out in the rain, but they were there."
"Is it residential? Commercial? Automotive?" Jessica asked.
"Probably not automotive. I'd say midrange residential carpeting. Dark blue. But the pattern of the fibers was spread out along the very bottom of the hem. It wasn't anywhere else on their clothing."
"So they weren't lying down on the carpet?" Byrne asked. "Or sitting on it?"
"No,"Tracy said. "For this kind of pattern, I'd say they were-"
"Kneeling," Jessica said.
"Kneeling," Tracy echoed.
At six o'clock Jessica sat at a desk, spinning a cup of cold coffee, thumbing through her books on Christian art. There were some promising leads, but nothing that duplicated the postures of the victims at the crime scenes.
Eric Chavez had a dinner date. He stood in front of the small two-way mirror in Interview Room A, tying and retying his tie, searching for the perfect double Windsor. Nick Palladino was finishing up the calls to the remaining few Windstar owners.
Kevin Byrne stared at the wall of photographs like Easter Island statuary. He seemed rapt, consumed by the minutiae, replaying the time line over and over in his mind. Images of Tessa Wells, images of Nicole Taylor, snapshots of the death house on Eighth Street, pictures of the daffodil garden at Bartram. Hands, feet, eyes, arms, legs. Pictures with rulers to provide scale. Pictures with grids to provide context.
The answers to all Byrne's questions were directly in front of him, and to Jessica he looked like a man in a catatonic state. She would have given a month's salary to be privy to Kevin Byrne's private thoughts at that moment.
Late afternoon slogged toward evening. And yet Kevin Byrne stood motionless, scanning the board, left to right, top to bottom.
Suddenly he removed a close-up photograph of Nicole Taylor's left palm. He took it over to the window and held it up to the graying light. He looked at Jessica, but it appeared he was looking right through her. She was just an object in the path of his thousand-yard stare. He removed a magnifying glass from a desk and turned back to the photo.
"Christ," he finally said, drawing the attention of the handful of detectives in the room. "I can't believe we didn't see it."
"See what?" Jessica asked. She was glad Byrne was finally talking. She had been beginning to worry about him.
Byrne pointed to the indentations in the fleshy part of the palm, the marks that Tom Weyrich said were caused by pressure from Nicole's fingernails.
"These marks." He picked up the ME's report on Nicole Taylor. "Look," he continued. "There was trace evidence of burgundy fingernail polish in the grooves on her left hand."
"What about it?" Buchanan asked.
"The polish was green on her left hand," Byrne said.
Byrne pointed to the close-up of the fingernails on Nicole Taylor's left hand. The color was a forest green. He held up a photograph of her right hand.
"The polish on her right hand was burgundy."
The remaining three detectives looked at each other, shrugged.
"Don't you see it? She didn't make those grooves by clenching her left fist. She made them with her opposite hand."
Jessica tried to see something in the photograph, as if examining the positive and negative elements in an M. C. Escher print. She saw nothing. "I don't understand," she said.
Byrne grabbed his coat and headed for the door. "You will."
Byrne and Jessica stood in the small digital imaging room in the crime lab.
The imaging specialist was working on enhancing the photographs of Nicole Taylor's left hand. Most crime scene photographs were still taken on thirty-five-millimeter film and then transferred to digital format, after which they could then be enhanced, enlarged, and, if needed, prepared for trial. The area of interest in this photograph was the small, crescent-shaped indentations in the lower left portion of Nicole's palm. The technician enlarged and clarified the area, and when the image became clear, there was a collective gasp in the small room.
Nicole Taylor had sent them a message.
The slight cuts were not random at all.
"Oh my God," Jessica said, her first adrenaline rush as a homicide detective beginning to hum in her ears.
Before she died, Nicole Taylor had used the fingernails on her right hand to begin spelling a word on her left palm, a dying girl's plea in the final, desperate moments of her life. There could be no debate. The cuts spelled P A R.
Byrne flipped open his cell phone, called Ike Buchanan. Within twenty minutes, an affidavit of probable cause would be typed and submitted to the chief of the Homicide Unit at the district attorney's office. Within an hour, with any luck, they'd have a search warrant for the premises of Brian Allan Parkhurst.
27
TUESDAY, 6:30 PM
Simon close stared at the front page of The Report, sitting proudly on the screen of his Apple PowerBook.
WHO IS KILLING THE ROSARY GIRLS?
Is there anything better than seeing your byline beneath a screamingly provocative headline?
Maybe one or two things, tops, Simon thought. And both of those things cost him money, rather than lining his pocket with it.
The Rosary Girls.
His idea.
He had kicked around a few others. This one kicked back.
Simon loved this part of the night. The preen before the prowl. Although he dressed well for work-always in a shirt and tie, usually a blazer and slacks-it was at night that his tastes ran to the European cut, the Italian craftsmanship, the exquisite cloths. If it was Chaps during the day, it was Ralph Lauren proper at night.
He tried on Dolce amp; Gabbana and Prada, but he bought Armani and Pal Zileri. Thank God for that semiannual sale at Boyds.
He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. What woman could resist? While there were a lot of well-dressed men in Philadelphia, few really carried off the European style with any panache.
And then there were the women.
When Simon had struck out on his own, after Aunt Iris's death, he had spent some time in Los Angeles, Miami, Chicago, and NewYork City. He had even considered living in New York-albeit fleetingly-but within a few months he was back in Philadelphia. NewYork was too fast, too crazy. And while he believed that Philly girls were every bit as sexy as Manhattan girls, Philly girls had something going for them that NewYork girls never would.
You had a shot at Philly girls.
He had just gotten the perfect dimple in his tie when there was a knock at the door. He crossed the small flat, opened the door.
It was Andy Chase. Perfectly happy, terribly disheveled Andy.
Andy wore a backward, soiled Phillies cap and a royal blue Members Only jacket-do they still make Members Only? Simon mused-complete with epaulets and zippered pockets.
Simon gestured to his burgundy jacquard tie. "Does this make me look too gay?" he asked.
"No."Andy flopped onto the couch, hoisting a copy of Macworld magazine, chomping a Fuji apple. "Just gay enough."
"Piss off."
Andy shrugged. "I don't know how you can spend so much money on clothes. I mean, you can only wear one suit at a time. What's the point?"
Simon spun and walked across the living room, runway style. He pivoted, posed, vogued. "You can look upon me and still ask that question? Style is its own reward, monfrere."
Andy affected a huge, mock yawn, then took another gnaw of his apple.
Simon poured himself a few ounces of Courvoisier. He opened a can of Miller Lite for Andy. "Sorry. No Beer Nuts."
Andy shook his head. "Mock me all you want. Beer Nuts are a lot better than thatfwa gra shit you eat."
Simon made a grand gesture of covering his ears. Andy Chase offended at the cellular level.
They caught up on the day's events. For Simon, these chats were part of the overhead of doing business with Andy. Penance given and said, it was time to go.
"So how is Kitty?" Simon asked, perfunctorily, with as much enthusiasm as he could fake. The wee cow, he thought. Kitty Bramlett had been a petite, nearly pretty cashier at Wal-Mart when Andy fell for her. That was seventy pounds and three chins ago. Kitty and Andy had settled into that childless, early-middle-age nightmare of marriage built on habit. Microwave dinners, birthdays at the Olive Garden, and rutting twice a month in front of Jay Leno.
Kill me first, Lord, Simon thought.
"She is exactly the same." Andy tossed the magazine and stretched. Simon caught a glimpse of the top of Andy's trousers. They were safety- pinned together. "For some reason she still thinks you should try to get together with her sister. As if she would have anything to do with you."
Kitty's sister Rhonda looked like a distaff vision of Willard Scott, but not nearly as feminine.
"I'll be sure to give her a call soon," Simon replied.
"Whatever."
It was still raining. Simon would have to ruin the entire look with his tasteful, yet drearily functional London Fog raincoat. It was the one piece that sorely needed updating. Still, it was better than rain spotting the Zileri.
"No mood for your shite," Simon said, making exit gestures. Andy got the hint, stood up, headed toward the door. He had left his apple core on the couch.
"You can't harsh my vibe tonight," Simon added. "I look good, I smell great, I have a cover story in the oven, and life is dolce."
Andy pulled a face: Dolce?
"Good lord," Simon said. He reached into his pocket, removed the hundred-dollar bill, and handed it to Andy. "Thanks for the tip," he said. "Keep them coming."
"Anytime, bro,"Andy said. He pocketed the bill, walked out the door, and headed down the stairs.
Bro, Simon thought. If this is Purgatory, I truly fear Hell.
He gave himself one last look in the full-length mirror inside the coat closet.
Perfect.
The city was his.
28
TUESDAY, 7:00 PM
Brian Parkhurst wasn't home. Nor was his Ford Windstar.
The six detectives fanned out in the three-story Garden Court row house. The first floor held a small living room and dining room, kitchen at the back. Between the dining room and the kitchen, a steep set of stairs led to the second floor, which had a bathroom and a bedroom converted to office space. The third floor, which had once been two small bedrooms, had been renovated into a master suite. None of the rooms had dark blue nylon carpeting.
The furnishings were modern for the most part: leather sofa and chair, teak hutch and dining table. The office desk was older, probably pickled oak. His bookshelves spoke of an eclectic taste. Philip Roth, Jackie Collins, Dave Barry, Dan Simmons. The detectives noted the presence of William Blake: The Complete Illuminated Books.
I can't say I know very much about Blake, Parkhurst had said during his interview.
A quick riffling through the Blake book showed that nothing had been cut out of it.
A scan of the refrigerator, freezer, and kitchen garbage produced no evidence of leg of lamb. The Joy of Cooking in the kitchen was bookmarked on caramel flan.
There was nothing unusual in his closets. Three suits, a pair of tweed blazers, half a dozen pairs of dress shoes, a dozen dress shirts. All conservative and of good quality.
The walls of his office boasted his three certificates of higher education: one from John Carroll University and two from the University of Pennsylvania. There was also a well-framed poster for the Broadway production of The Crucible.
Jessica took the second floor. She went through the closet in the office, which seemed to be dedicated to Parkhurst's sporting endeavors. It appeared that he played tennis and racquetball, as well as engaging in a little sailboarding. There was also an expensive wet suit.
She went through his desk drawers, finding all the expected supplies. Rubber bands, pens, paper clips, Tic Tacs. Another drawer held LaserJet toner cartridges and a spare keyboard. All the drawers opened with no problem, except for the file drawer.
The file drawer was locked.
Odd, for a man who lived alone, Jessica thought.
A quick but thorough scan of the top drawer yielded no key.
Jessica looked out of the office door, listened to the chatter. All the other detectives were busy. She returned to the desk, quickly took out her pick set. You don't work in the Auto Unit for three years without picking up some locksmithing skills. Within seconds, she was in.
Most of the files were for household and personal business. Tax records, business receipts, personal receipts, insurance policies. There was also a stack of paid Visa bills. Jessica wrote down the card number. A quick perusal of purchases yielded nothing suspicious. There was no charge to a religious supply house.
She was just about to close and lock the drawer when she saw the tip of a small manila envelope peeking out from behind the drawer. She reached back as far as she could and pulled the envelope out. It had been taped out of sight, but never properly sealed.
Inside the envelope were five photographs. They had been taken in Fairmount Park during the fall. Three of the pictures were of a fully clothed young woman, shyly posing in a faux-glamour pose. Two of them were the same young woman posing with a smiling Brian Parkhurst. The young woman sat on his lap. The pictures were dated October of the previous year.
The young woman was Tessa Wells.
"Kevin!" Jessica yelled down the stairs.
Byrne was up in a flash, taking four steps at a time. Jessica showed him the photographs.
"Son of a bitch," Byrne said. "We had him and we let him go."
"Don't worry. We'll get him again."They had found a complete set of luggage beneath the stairs. He wasn't on a trip.
Jessica summed up the evidence. Parkhurst was a doctor. He knew both victims. He claimed to have known Tessa Wells in a professional sense, only as her counselor, and yet he had personal photographs of her. He had a history of sexual involvement with students. One of the victims had begun to spell his last name on her palm, just before her death.
Byrne got on Parkhurst's desk phone and called Ike Buchanan. He put the phone on speakerphone and briefed Buchanan on what they had found.
Buchanan listened, then uttered the three words for which Byrne and Jessica were hoping and waiting: "Pick him up."
29
TUESDAY, 8:15 PM
If Sophie Balzano was the most beautiful little girl in the world when she was wide awake, she was positively angelic in that moment when day became night, in that sweet twilight of half sleep.
Jessica had volunteered to take the first watch on Brian Parkhurst's home in Garden Court. She was told to go home, get some rest. As was Kevin Byrne. There were two detectives on the house.
Jessica sat on the edge of Sophie's bed, watching her.
They had taken a bubble bath together. Sophie had washed and conditioned her own hair. No help needed, thank you very much. They had dried off, shared a pizza in the living room. It was breaking a rule-they were supposed to eat at the table-but now that Vincent wasn't around, a lot of rules seemed to be slipping by the wayside.
No more of that, Jessica thought.
As she got Sophie ready for bed, Jessica found herself hugging her daughter a little more closely, a little more often. Even Sophie had given her the fish eye, as if to say: What's up, Mom? But Jessica knew what was up. The way Sophie felt at these times was her salvation.
And now that Sophie was tucked in, Jessica allowed herself to rel
ax, to start to unwind from the horrors of the day.
A little.
"Story?" Sophie asked, her tiny voice riding on the wings of a big yawn.
"You want me to read a story?"
Sophie nodded.
"Okay," Jessica said.
"Not the Hoke," Sophie said.
Jessica had to laugh. The Hoke was Sophie's bogeyman du jour. It all began with a trip to the King of Prussia mall, about a year earlier, and the presence of the fifteen-foot-tall inflatable green Hulk they had erected to promote the release of the DVD. One look at the giant figure and Sophie had immediately taken trembling refuge behind Jessica's legs.
"What's that?" Sophie had asked, lips aquiver, fingers clutching Jessica's skirt.
"It's only the Hulk," Jessica had said. "It's not real."
"I don't like the Hoke."
It had gotten to the point where anything green and more than four feet tall inspired panic these days.
"We don't have any Hoke stories, honey," Jessica said. She'd figured that Sophie had forgotten about the Hoke. Some monsters died hard, it seemed.
Sophie smiled and scrunched down under the covers, ready for a Hoke-free dream.
Jessica went to the closet, got out the book box. She perused the current slate of toddler lit. The Runaway Bunny; You're the Boss, Baby Duck!; Curious George.
Jessica sat down on the bed, looked at the spines of the books. They were all for children two and under. Sophie was nearly three. She was actually too mature for The Runaway Bunny. Dear God, Jessica thought, she's growing up way too fast.
The book on the bottom was How Do I Put It On? a primer on getting dressed. Sophie could easily dress herself, and had been able to do so for months. It had been a long time since she had put her shoes on the wrong feet, or slipped her OshKosh overalls on backward.
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