"Here's what I will do for you," Roland said. "I will speak to the girl. If indeed she was a willing participant, I'll come back and get you, and you will take with you from this experience the greatest lesson of your life. If not, well, perhaps you can work your way out. Perhaps not."
Roland reached into his gym bag, held forth a long hose made of PVC. The plastic tube was corrugated, of the gooseneck variety, one inch in diameter and four feet in length. On one end was a fitted mouthpiece like those used for pulmonary testing. Roland held the tube over Basil Spencer's face. "Grip it between your teeth."
Spencer turned his head, the reality of the moment too great to bear.
"Suit yourself," Roland said. He took the hose away.
"No!" Spencer screamed. "I want it!"
Roland hesitated, then dangled the hose over Spencer's face again. This time Spencer gripped the mouthpiece tightly between his teeth.
Roland nodded at Charles, who placed the lavender gloves on the man's chest, then began to shovel the dirt into the hole. When he was finished, the conduit was sticking out of the ground about five or six inches. Roland could hear the frantic, wet inhale and exhale of air through the narrow pipe, the sound not unlike that of a suction tube at a dentist's office. Charles tamped the dirt. He and Roland walked over to the van.
A few minutes later, Roland backed the vehicle over to the grave and left the motor running. He got out, retrieved a long rubber hose from the back, this one of a greater diameter than the gooseneck plastic tube. He walked around to the back of the van and fitted one end over the exhaust. He put the other end over the pipe sticking out of the ground.
Roland listened, waited until the sucking sounds began to fade, his mind traveling, for the moment, to a place where two young girls had skipped along the banks of the Wissahickon, many years ago, the eye of God a golden sun above them.
The Congregation was dressed in its finest: eighty-one people sar- dined into the small storefront church on Allegheny Avenue. The air was thick with the smells of floral perfume, tobacco, and no small amount of boardinghouse whiskey.
The pastor came out of the back room to the strains of "This Is the Day That the Lord Hath Made" from the five-member choir. His deacon soon followed. Wilma Goodloe took the lead vocal; her big voice a true blessing from above.
At the sight of the pastor, the congregation leapt to its feet. The good Lord reigned.
After a few moments the pastor stepped to the rostrum, held up a hand. He waited until the music subsided, until his flock was seated, until the spirit moved him. As always, it did. He began slowly. He constructed his message as a builder might erect a house-an excavation of sin, a foundation of scripture, rigid walls of praise, topped by a crowning roof of glorious tribute. After twenty minutes, he brought it home.
"But make no mistake about it, there is much darkness in the world," the pastor said.
"Darkness," someone echoed.
"Oh yes," the pastor continued. "Oh my, yes. This is a dark and terrible time."
"Yes sir."
"But the darkness is not darkness to the Lord."
"No sir."
"Not darkness at all."
"No."
The pastor came around the pulpit. He clasped his hands in prayer. Some of the congregation stood. "Ephesians 5:11 sayeth: 'Do not participate in the fruitless doings of darkness but rather expose them.' "
"Yes sir."
"Paul sayeth: 'Everything that is exposed by the light is made visible, and where everything is visible there is light.' "
"Light."
Moments later, by the time the sermon was over, the congregation had worked itself into a tumult. Tambourines sang.
Pastor Roland Hannah and Deacon Charles Waite were on fire. News was made in heaven this day, and the New Page Church of the Divine Flame was the story.
The pastor considered his assembly. He thought about Basil Spencer, about how he had learned of Spencer's terrible deeds. People will tell their pastor many things. Including children. He had heard many truths from the mouths of children. And he would address them all. In time. But there was a matter that had been a stagnant black water in his soul for more than a decade, something that consumed every ounce of joy in his life, something that woke with him, walked with him, slept with him, and prayed with him. There was a man out there who had stolen his spirit. Roland was getting close to him. He could feel it. Soon he would find the right one. Until then, as he had in the past, he would do God's work.
The voices of the choir rose in united praise. The rafters shook with homage. Brimstone would spark and flash on this day, Roland Hannah thought.
Oh my, yes.
A day that the Lord indeed hath made.
12
St. Seraphim was a tall, narrow structure on Sixth Street in North Philadelphia. With its cream stucco front, tall turrets, and golden onion domes above, the church-founded in 1897-was an imposing edifice, one of the oldest Russian Orthodox churches in Philadelphia. Jessica, having been raised Roman Catholic, didn't know much about the Orthodox Christian religions. She knew there were similarities in the practices of confession and communion, but that was about it.
Byrne was attending a review board and press conference regarding the incident in the diner. The review board was mandatory; the press conference was not. But Jessica had never known Byrne to shy away from his actions. He would be there, front and center, badge polished, shoes shined. It seemed that the families of both Laura Clarke and Anton Krotz felt the police should have handled the fraught situation differently. The press was all over it. Jessica had wanted to be there as a show of support, but her orders were to continue the investigation. Kristina Jakos deserved a timely inquiry. To say nothing of the very real concern that her killer was still on the loose.
Jessica and Byrne would meet up later in the day and she would brief him on any developments. If it got late they would meet at Finnigan's Wake. There was going to be a retirement party for a detective that night. Cops never miss a retirement party.
Jessica had called the church and made an appointment with Father Gregory Panov. While Jessica conducted the interview, Josh Bontrager canvassed the immediate area surrounding the church.
Jessica pegged the young priest at twenty-five or so. He was jovial, clean-shaven, dressed in black slacks and black shirt. She handed him a card, introduced herself. They shook hands. He had a sparkle in his eyes, suggesting a bit of the mischief.
"What should I call you?" Jessica asked.
"Father Greg will be fine."
Ever since she could remember, Jessica had been fawningly reverential around men of the cloth. Priests, rabbis, ministers. In her line of work it was a hazard-the clergy could certainly be as guilty of a crime as anyone-but she couldn't seem to help it. The Catholic school mentality had been implanted deeply. More like hammered in.
Jessica took out her notebook.
"I understand Kristina Jakos was a volunteer here," Jessica said.
"Yes. I believe she still is." Father Greg had dark, intelligent eyes, slight laugh lines. His expression told Jessica that the tense of her verb was not lost on him. He crossed the room to the door, opened it. He called out to someone. A few seconds later, a pretty, light-haired girl of fourteen or so arrived, spoke to him softly in Ukrainian. Jessica heard Kristina's name mentioned. The girl left. Father Greg returned.
"Kristina is not here today."
Jessica summoned her courage to say what she had to say. It was tougher to say it in a church. "I'm afraid I have bad news, Father. Kristina was killed."
Father Greg paled. He was an inner-city priest, in a tough area of North Philly, and thus probably braced for such news, but that didn't mean it ever came easy. He looked down at Jessica's business card. "You are with the homicide division."
"Yes."
"Are you saying she was murdered?"
"Yes."
Father Greg glanced at the floor for a moment, closed his eyes. He brought a hand to his heart. Afte
r a deep breath he looked up and asked, "How can I help?"
Jessica held up her notebook. "I just have a few questions."
"Whatever you need." He gestured to a pair of chairs. "Please." They sat.
"What can you tell me about Kristina?" Jessica asked.
Father Greg took a few moments. "I did not know her that well, but I can tell you she was very outgoing," he said. "Very giving. The children here really liked her."
"What did she do here exactly?"
"She helped out at the Sunday-school classes. Mostly in the role of assistant. But she was willing to do just about anything."
"For instance."
"Well, in preparation for our Christmas concert, like many volunteers, she painted backdrops, sewed costumes, helped nail together the sets."
"A Christmas concert?"
"Yes."
"And that concert is this week?"
Father Greg shook his head. "No. Our Holy Day Divine Liturgies are celebrated according to the Julian calendar."
The Julian calendar sort of rang a bell for Jessica, but she couldn't remember what it was. "I'm afraid I'm not familiar with that."
"The Julian calendar was begun by Julius Caesar in 46 BC. It is sometimes designated by OS, meaning Old Style. Unfortunately, for many of our younger parishioners, OS means Operating System. I'm afraid the Julian calendar is woefully outdated in a world of computers, cell phones, and DirecTV."
"So you don't celebrate Christmas on December twenty-fifth?"
"No," he said. "I'm not a scholar in these matters, but it is my understanding that, as opposed to the Gregorian calendar, due to solstices and equinoxes, the Julian calendar has picked up a full day every 134 years or so. Thus we celebrate Christmas January seventh."
"Ah," Jessica said. "Good way to pick up on the after-Christmas sales." She was trying to lighten the mood. She hoped she wasn't being disrespectful.
Father Greg's smile lit up his face. He really was a handsome young man. "And Easter candy, as well."
"Can you find out when Kristina was last here?" Jessica asked.
"Certainly." He stood, walked over to a huge calendar tacked to the wall behind his desk. He scanned the dates. "It would have been a week ago today."
"And you haven't seen her since?"
"I have not."
Jessica had to get to the hard part. She wasn't sure how to go about it, so she dove right in. "Do you know of anyone who may have wanted to harm her? A spurned suitor, ex-boyfriend, something like that? Perhaps someone here at the church?"
Father Greg narrowed his brow. It was clear that he did not want to think of anyone in his flock as a potential killer. But there seemed to be an air of ancient wisdom about him, tempered by a strong sense of the street. Jessica was sure he was wise to the ways of the city, the dark motives of the heart. He circled the far side of his desk, sat back down. "I did not know her all that well, but people talk, yes?"
"Of course."
"I understand that, as fun loving as she may have been, there was a sadness about her."
"How so?"
"It seemed as if she might have been a penitent. Perhaps there was something in her life that filled her with guilt."
It was as if she was doing something about which she was ashamed, Sonja had said.
"Any idea what that might be?" Jessica asked.
"No," he said. "I am sorry. But I must tell you that sadness is a common thing among Ukrainians. We are a gregarious people, but we've had a hard history."
"Are you saying she may have had the potential to harm herself?"
Father Greg shook his head. "I cannot say for sure, but I don't think so."
"Do you think she was the sort of person to intentionally put herself in harm's way? To take chances?"
"Again, I do not know. It's just that she-"
He stopped himself abruptly, ran a hand over his jaw. Jessica gave him an opportunity to continue. He did not.
"What were you about to say?" she asked.
"Do you have a few moments?"
"Absolutely."
"There is something you should see."
Father Greg rose from his chair, crossed the small room. In one corner was a metal cart holding a nineteen-inch television. Beneath it was a VHS machine. Father Greg flipped on the TV, then walked over to a glass-front cabinet full of books and tapes. He searched for a moment, extracted a VHS tape. He inserted the tape into the VCR, hit PLAY.
A few moments later an image appeared. It was handheld footage, sparsely lit. The image on the screen quickly resolved to Father Greg. He had shorter hair, wore a plain white shirt. He was seated on a chair, surrounded by young children. He was reading them some sort of fable, a story regarding an old couple and their granddaughter, a little girl who was able to fly. Behind him stood Kristina Jakos.
Onscreen Kristina wore faded jeans and a black Temple University sweatshirt. When Father Greg was finished with the story, he stood, removed his chair. The children gathered around Kristina. It appeared that she was teaching them a folk dance. Her students were about a dozen five- and six-year-old girls, adorable in their red and green Christmas outfits. Some wore traditional Ukrainian costumes. The girls all looked at Kristina as if she were a fairy princess. The camera panned left, found Father Greg at a battered spinet piano. He began to play. The camera turned back to Kristina and the children.
Jessica glanced at the priest. Father Greg watched the videotape, rapt. Jessica could see that his eyes were getting shiny.
On the videotape the children all followed Kristina's slow, deliberate movements, miming her actions. Jessica didn't know all that much about dance, but Kristina Jakos seemed to move with a gentle grace. Jessica couldn't help but see Sophie in that little group. She thought about the way Sophie often followed Jessica around the house, mimicking her movements.
Onscreen, when the music finally stopped, the little girls ran around in a circle, eventually crashing into each other and falling into a giggling, brightly colored pile. Kristina Jakos laughed as she helped them to their feet.
Father Greg hit PAUSE, freezing Kristina's smiling, slightly blurred image on the screen. He turned back to Jessica. His face was a collage of joy and confusion and bereavement. "As you can see, she will be missed."
Jessica nodded, at a loss for words. She had just recently seen Kristina Jakos, posed in death, horribly mutilated. Now the young woman was smiling at her. Father Greg broke the awkward silence.
"You were raised Catholic," he said.
It seemed to be a statement, not a question. "What makes you think that?"
He held up her card. "Detective Balzano."
"It's my married name."
"Ah," he said.
"But yes, I was. Am." She laughed. "What I mean is, I'm still Catholic."
"Practicing?"
Jessica was right in her assumptions. Orthodox priests and Catholic priests do have a lot in common. They both had a way of making you feel like a heathen. "I try."
"As do we all."
Jessica scanned her notes. "Is there anything else you can think of that might help us?"
"Nothing comes readily to mind. But I will ask among the people here who knew Kristina better," Father Greg said. "Perhaps someone will know something."
"I'd appreciate it." Jessica said. "Thank you for your time."
"You are most welcome. I am sorry it had to be on such a tragic day."
As Jessica put her coat on at the door, she glanced back into the small office. A somber gray light sifted through the leaded glass windows. Her last image from St. Seraphim was of Father Greg; his arms crossed, his face brooding, watching the freeze-framed image of Kristina Jakos.
13
The press conference was a zoo. It was held in front of the Roundhouse, near the statue of the police officer holding the child. This entrance was closed to the public.
Today there were twenty or so reporters-print, radio, and television. On the tabloid menu: roasted police officer. The media was a
slavering horde.
Whenever a police officer was involved in a controversial shooting- or a shooting made controversial by a special interest group, a reporter with a dull axe, or for any number of headline-generating reasons-it was incumbent upon the police department to respond. Depending on the circumstances, a variety of respondents might take on the task. Sometimes it was Internal Affairs, sometimes the commanding officer of a particular district, sometimes even the commissioner himself if the situation, and the city politics, warranted. Press conferences were as necessary as they were annoying. It was a time for the department to pull together for one of their own.
This conference was run by Andrea Churchill, the Public Affairs Inspector. In her mid-forties, a former patrol officer in the Twenty-sixth District, Andrea Churchill was a scrapper, and more than once Byrne had seen her shut down an inappropriate line of questioning with a stare from her ice blue eyes. In her time on the street she had received sixteen merit awards, fifteen citations, six Fraternal Order of Police awards and the Danny Boyle Award. To Andrea Churchill, a pack of clamoring, bloodthirsty reporters was a Tastykake for breakfast.
Byrne stood behind her. To his right was Ike Buchanan. Behind him, in a loose semicircle, were seven other detectives, street faces in place, jaws firm, badges out front. The temperature was around fifteen degrees. They could have held the conference in the lobby of the Roundhouse. The decision to make a bunch of reporters wait around in the cold was not lost on anyone. The conference was mercifully winding down.
"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."
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