"She what, Mr. Semanski?"
George Semanski paused. He stopped fidgeting with the pill vial. "She tried to kill herself."
"How?"
"She, well, she went out to the car one night. She ran a hose from the exhaust into one of the windows. She tried to breathe in the carbon monoxide, I guess."
"What happened?"
"She passed out on the car horn. It woke up Bonnie and she went out there."
"Did Lauren have to go to the hospital?" "Oh yes," George said. "She was in there for almost a week." Jessica's pulse quickened. She felt the puzzle piece click into place. Bethany Price had tried to slash her wrists. Tessa Wells had a Sylvia Plath reference in her diary. Lauren Semanski tried monoxide poisoning. Suicide, Jessica thought. All of these girls tried to commit suicide. "Mr. WeLLS? This is Detective Balzano." Jessica was on her cell phone, standing on the sidewalk in front of the Semanski house. Pacing was more like it. "Have you caught somebody?" Wells asked.
"Well, we're working on it, sir. I have a question for you about Tessa. It's about last year, around Thanksgiving." "Last year?"
"Yes," Jessica said. "This might be a little hard to talk about but, believe me, it won't be any harder for you to answer than it will be for me to ask."
Jessica recalled the junk drawer in Tessa's room. There were hospital bracelets in there.
"What about Thanksgiving?" Wells asked. "By any chance, was Tessa hospitalized around that time?" Jessica listened, waited. She found that she was clenching her fist around her cell phone. It felt as if she might break it. She eased up. "Yes," he said. "Could you tell me why she was in the hospital?" She closed her eyes. Frank Wells took a rattling, painful breath. And told her. "Tessa Wells took a handful of pills last November. Lauren Semanski locked herself in the garage and started the car. Nicole Taylor slashed her wrists," Jessica said. "At least three of the girls on this list attempted suicide." They were back at the Roundhouse. Byrne smiled. Jessica felt a charge of electricity shoot through her body. Lauren Semanski was still heavily sedated. Until they were able to talk to her, they would have to fly with what they had.
There was not yet any word on what was clasped in her hand. According to the detectives at the hospital, Lauren Semanski had not yet given it up. The doctors told them they'd have to wait.
Byrne had a photocopy of Brian Parkhurst's list in his hand. He tore it in half, handed one piece to Jessica, kept the other. He pulled out his cell phone.
Soon, they had their answer. All ten girls on the list had tried to commit suicide within the past year. Jessica now believed that Brian Park- hurst, perhaps as penance, was trying to tell the police that he knew why these girls were being targeted. As part of his counseling, these girls had all confided in him that they had attempted to take their own lives.
There are things you need to know about these girls.
Perhaps, by some twisted sense of logic, their doer was trying to finish the job these girls had started. They would worry about the why of it all when they had him in irons.
What was obvious was this: Their doer had abducted Lauren Semanski and drugged her with midazolam. What he had not counted on was that she was full of methamphetamine. The speed had counteracted the midazolam. In addition, she was also full of piss and vinegar, a fighter. He definitely picked the wrong girl.
For the first time in her life, Jessica was glad that a teenager did drugs.
But if the killer's inspiration was the five Sorrowful Mysteries of the rosary, why were there ten girls on Parkhurst's list? Besides attempting suicide, what did five of them have in common? Was he really going to stop at five?
They compared their notes.
Four of the girls overdosed on pills. Three of them tried to cut their wrists. Two of the girls tried to commit suicide by carbon monoxide poisoning. One girl drove her car through a guardrail and over a ravine. She was saved by the airbag.
It wasn't method that tied any five together.
What about school? Four of the girls went to Regina, four went to Nazarene, one went to Marie Goretti and one to Neumann.
As to age: four were sixteen, two were seventeen, three were fifteen, one eighteen.
Was it neighborhood?
No.
Clubs or extracurricular activities?
No.
Gang affiliations?
Hardly.
What was it?
Ask and ye shall receive, Jessica thought. The answer was right in front of them.
It was the hospital.
St.Joseph's was what they had in common.
"Look at this," Jessica said.
On the day they had tried to kill themselves, the five girls treated at St. Joseph's were Nicole Taylor, Tessa Wells, Bethany Price, Kristi Hamilton, and Lauren Semanski.
The rest were treated elsewhere, at five different hospitals.
"My God," Byrne said. "That's it."
It was the break they were looking for.
But the fact that all of these girls were treated at one hospital was not what made Jessica shaky. The fact that they all tried to commit suicide wasn't it, either.
The fact that made the room lose all of its air was this:
The same doctor had treated them all: Dr. Patrick Farrell.
64
FRIDAY, 6:15 PM
Patrick sat in Interview Room A. Eric Chavez and John Shepherd handled the interview while Byrne and Jessica observed. The interview was being videotaped.
As far as Patrick knew, he was merely a material witness in the case.
He had a recent scratch on his right hand.
When they could, they would scrape beneath Lauren Semanski's fingernails, looking for DNA evidence. Unfortunately, according to the CSU, it probably wouldn't yield much. Lauren was lucky to even have fingernails.
They had gone over Patrick's schedule for the previous week, and, to Jessica's chagrin, they had learned that there wasn't a single day that would have prevented Patrick from abducting the victims, nor dumping their bodies.
The thought made Jessica physically ill. Was she really considering the notion that Patrick had something to do with these murders? With each passing minute, the answer was getting closer to yes. The next minute dissuaded her. She really didn't know what to think.
Nick Palladino and Tony Park were on their way to the Wilhelm Kreuz crime scene with a photograph of Patrick. It was unlikely that old Agnes Pinsky would remember him-even if she did pick him out of a photo lineup, her credibility would be torn to shreds by even a public defender. Nick and Tony would canvass up and down the street nonetheless. "I hadn't been keeping up with the news, I'm afraid," Patrick said.
"I can understand that," Shepherd replied. He was sitting on the edge of the battered metal table. Eric Chavez leaned against the door. "I'm sure you see enough of the ugly side of life where you work."
"We have our triumphs," Patrick said.
"So, you're saying that you were not aware that any of these girls had at one time been a patient of yours?"
"An ER physician, especially in an inner-city trauma center, works triage, Detective. The patient needing the most immediate care is treated first. After patients are patched up and sent home, or admitted, they are always referred to their primary care physician. The concept of patient doesn't really apply. People who come to an emergency room may only be a patient of any given doctor for an hour. Sometimes less. Quite often less. Thousands of people pass through St. Joseph's ER every year."
Shepherd listened, nodding at all the appropriate cues, absently straightening the already perfect creases in his pants. Explaining the concept of triage to a veteran homicide detective was wholly unnecessary. Everyone in Interview Room A knew that.
"That doesn't really answer my question, though, Dr. Farrell."
"It seemed that I knew the name Tessa Wells when I heard it on the news. I didn't, however, make any immediate connection to whether or not St. Joseph's had provided her with emergency care."
Bullshit,
Jessica thought, her anger growing. They had discussed Tessa Wells the night they had a drink at Finnigan's Wake.
"You say St. Joseph's as if it was the institution that treated her that day," Shepherd said. "It'syour name on the file."
Shepherd held up the file for Patrick to see.
"The record doesn't lie, Detective," Patrick said. "I must have treated her."
Shepherd held up a second file. "And you treated Nicole Taylor."
"Again, I really don't recall."
A third file. "And Bethany Price."
Patrick stared.
Two more files in his face now. "Kristi Hamilton spent four hours in your care. Lauren Semanski five."
"I defer to the record, Detective," Patrick said.
"All five of these girls were abducted and four of them were brutally murdered this week, Doctor. This week. Five female, teenaged victims who just happened to pass through your office within the past ten months."
Patrick shrugged.
John Shepherd asked, "You can certainly understand our interest in you at this point, can't you?"
"Oh, absolutely," Patrick said. "As long as your interest in me is in the nature of material witness. As long as that's the case, I'll be happy to help in any way I can."
"By the way, how did you get that scratch on your hand?"
It was clear that Patrick had an answer well prepared for this. He wasn't, however, going to blurt anything out. "It's a long story."
Shepherd looked at his watch. "I've got all night." He looked at Chavez. "How about you, Detective?"
"I cleared my schedule just in case."
They both turned their attention back to Patrick.
"Let's just say that one should always beware of a wet cat," Patrick said. Jessica saw the charm shine through. Unfortunately for Patrick, these two detectives were immune.At the moment, so was Jessica.
Shepherd and Chavez exchanged a glance. "Have truer words ever been spoken?" Chavez asked.
"You're saying a cat did that?" Shepherd asked.
"Yes," Patrick replied. "She was outside all day in the rain. When I got home tonight, I saw her shivering in the bushes. I tried to pick her up. Bad idea."
"What's her name?"
It was an old interrogation trick. Someone mentions an alibi-related person, you slam them immediately with a question regarding the name. This time, it was a pet. Patrick was not prepared.
"Her name?" he asked.
It was a stall. Shepherd had him. Shepherd then got closer, looking at the scratch. "What is it, a pet bobcat?"
Excuse me?
Shepherd stood up, leaned against the wall. Friendly, now. "See, Dr. Farrell, I have four daughters. They absolutely love cats. Love 'em. In fact, we have three of them. Coltrane, Dizzy, and Snickers. That's their names. I've been scratched, oh, at least a dozen times in the last few years. None of the scratches looked anything like yours."
Patrick looked at the floor for a few moments. "She's not a bobcat, Detective. Just a big old tabby."
"Huh," Shepherd said. He rolled on. "By the way, what sort of vehicle do you drive?" John Shepherd, of course, already knew the answer to this question.
"I have a few different vehicles. I mostly drive a Lexus."
"LS? GS? ES? SportCross?" Shepherd asked.
Patrick smiled. "I see you know your luxury cars."
Shepherd returned the smile. Half of it, anyway. "I can tell a Rolex from a TAG Heuer, too," he said. "Can't afford one of them, either." "I drive a 2004 LX."
"That's the SUV, right?"
"I guess you could call it that."
"What would you call it?"
"I would call it an LUV," Patrick said.
"As in Luxury Utility Vehicle, right?"
Patrick nodded.
"Gotcha," Shepherd said. "Where is that vehicle right now?"
Patrick hesitated. "It's in the back parking lot here. Why?"
"Just curious," Shepherd said. "It's a high-end vehicle. I just wanted to make sure it was safe."
"I appreciate it."
"And the other vehicles?"
"I have a 1969 Alfa Romeo and a Chevy Venture."
"That's a van?"
"Yes."
Shepherd wrote this down.
"Now, on Tuesday morning, according to records at St. Joseph's, you didn't go on duty until nine o'clock in the morning," Shepherd said. "Is that accurate?"
Patrick thought about it. "I believe it is."
"Yet your shift began at eight. Why were you late?"
"Actually, it was because I had to take the Lexus in for service."
"Where did you take it?"
There was a slight rap on the door, then the door swung open.
In the doorway Ike Buchanan stood next to a tall, imposing man in an elegant Brioni pin-striped suit. The man had perfectly layered silver hair, a Cancun tan. His briefcase cost more than either detective made in a month.
Abraham Gold had represented Patrick's father, Martin, in a high- profile malpractice suit in the late 1990s. Abraham Gold was as expensive as they come. And as good as they come. As far as Jessica knew, Abraham Gold had never lost a case.
"Gentlemen," he began, using his best courtroom baritone. "This conversation is over."
"What do you think?" Buchanan asked.
The entire task force looked at her. She searched her mind for not only the right thing to say, but the right words to say it. She truly was at a loss. From the moment that Patrick had walked into the Roundhouse an hour or so earlier, she knew this moment would arrive. Now that it was here, she had no idea how to deal with it. The notion that someone she knew might be responsible for such horror was bad enough. The notion that it was someone she knew intimately-or thought she did-seemed to immobilize her brain.
If the unthinkable was true, that Patrick Farrell was indeed the Rosary Killer, from a purely a professional standpoint, what would it say about her as a judge of character?
"I think it's possible."There. It was said out loud.
They had, of course, run a background check on Patrick Farrell. Except for a pot misdemeanor in his sophomore year in college, and a penchant for driving well above the speed limit, his record was clean.
Now that Patrick had retained counsel, they would have to step up the investigation. Agnes Pinsky had said that he could've been the man she saw knocking on Wilhelm Kreuz's door. A man who worked at a shoe repair shop across from Kreuz's apartment building thought he recalled a cream- colored Lexus SUV parked out front two days earlier. He wasn't sure.
Regardless, there would now be a pair of detectives on Patrick Far- rell 24/7.
65
FRIDAY, 8:00 PM
The pain was exquisite, a slow rolling wave that inched up the back of his neck, then down. He popped a Vicodin, chased it with rancid water from the tap in the men's room of a gas station in North Philly.
It was Good Friday. The day of the crucifixion.
Byrne knew that, one way or another, this was all probably coming to an end soon, probably tonight; and with it, he knew he would face something inside himself that had been there for fifteen years, something dark and violent and troubling.
He wanted everything to be in order.
He needed symmetry.
He had one stop to make first. The cars were parked two deep on both sides of the street. In this part of the city, if the street was blocked, you didn't call the police or knock on doors.You definitely didn't want to blow your horn. Instead, you quietly put your car in reverse, and found another way.
The storm door of the ramshackle Point Breeze row house was open, all the lights burning inside. Byrne stood across the street, sheltered from the rain beneath the tattered awning of a shuttered bakery. Through the bay window across the street he could see the three pictures that graced the wall over the strawberry velvet Spanish modern sofa. Martin Luther King, Jesus, Muhammad Ali.
Right in front of him, in the rusted Pontiac, the kid sat alone in the backseat, completely
oblivious to Byrne, smoking a blunt, rocking gently to whatever was coming through his headphones. After a few minutes he butted the blunt, opened the car door, and got out.
He stretched, flipped up the hood of his sweatshirt, straightened his baggies.
"Hey," Byrne said. The pain in his head had settled into a dull metronome of agony, clicking loud and rhythmically at either temple. Still, it felt as if the mother of all migraines was just a car horn or flashbulb away.
The kid turned, surprised but not scared. He was about fifteen, tall and rangy, with the kind of body that would serve him pretty well in playground hoops, but take him no further. He wore the full Sean John uniform-full-cut jeans, quilted leather jacket, fleece hoodie.
The kid sized up Byrne, assessed the danger, the opportunity. Byrne kept his hands in plain sight.
"Yo," the kid finally offered.
"Did you know Marius?" Byrne asked.
The kid gave him the twice-over. Byrne was way too big to mess with.
"MG was my boy,"the kid finally said. He flashed a JBM sign.
Byrne nodded. This kid could still go either way, he thought. There was a simmering intelligence behind his now bloodshot eyes. But Byrne got the feeling the kid was too busy fulfilling the world's expectations of him.
Byrne reached slowly inside his coat-slowly enough to let this kid know there was nothing coming. He removed the envelope. The envelope was of a size and shape and heft that could only be one thing.
"His mother's name is Delilah Watts?" Byrne asked. It was more like a statement of fact.
The kid glanced at the row house, at the bright bay window. A thin, dark-skinned black woman in oversized gradient sunglasses and a deep auburn wig dabbed at her eyes as she received mourners. She was no more than thirty-five.
The kid turned back to Byrne. "Yeah."
Byrne absently thumbed the rubber band around the fat envelope. He had never counted the contents. When he had taken it from Gideon Pratt that night, he had no reason to think it was a penny less than the five thousand dollars they had agreed upon. There was no reason to count it now.
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