Jessica took a deep breath, centering herself. 'Okay,' she said, hoping she didn't sound as wobbly as she felt. She had anticipated this moment for months, but now that it was here, she found herself unprepared. Putting on a pair of latex gloves, she carefully approached the girl's body.
She had, of course, seen a number of corpses in her time on the street and in the Auto Unit. One time she had babysat a dead body in the backseat of a stolen Lexus on a ninety-five-degree day on the Schuylkill Expressway, trying not to watch the body, which seemed to bloat by the minute in the stifling car.
In all those instances, she knew she was handing the investigation off.
Now it was her turn.
Someone was asking her for help.
In front of her was a dead young girl whose hands were bolted together in eternal prayer. Jessica knew that the victim's body, at this stage, had much to offer, by way of clues. She would never again be this close to the murderer: to his method, his pathology, his mind-set. Jessica opened her eyes wide, her senses on high alert.
In the girl's hands was a rosary. In Roman Catholicism, the rosary is a string of beads forming the shape of a circle, with a pendent crucifix, usually consisting of five sets of beads called decades, each composed of one large and ten smaller beads. On the large beads, the Lord's Prayer is said. On the smaller beads, the Hail Mary.
As Jessica approached, she saw that this rosary was made of black carved wood oval beads, with what appeared to be a Madonna of Lourdes center. The rosary was looped around the girl's knuckles. It appeared to be a standard, inexpensive rosary, but on closer inspection Jessica noted that two of the five decades were missing.
She gently examined the girl's hands. Her nails were short and clean, exhibiting no evidence of a struggle. No breakage, no blood. There appeared to be no material beneath her nails, although they would bag her hands anyway. The bolt that passed through her hands entered and exited at the center of the palms, and was made of galvanized steel. The bolt appeared to be new, and was about four inches in length.
Jessica looked closely at the mark on the girl's forehead. The smudge formed a blue cruciform, as the ashes did on Ash Wednesday. Although Jessica was far from devout, she still knew and observed the major Catholic holy days. It had been nearly six weeks since Ash Wednesday, but this mark was fresh. It seemed to be made of a chalky substance.
Lastly, Jessica looked at the label at the back of the girl's sweater. Sometimes dry cleaners left a tag with all or part of the patron's name. There was none.
She stood up a little shakily, but confident she had done a competent examination. At least for a preliminary look.
'Any ID?' Byrne stayed along the wall, his clever eyes scanning the scene, observing, absorbing.
'No,' Jessica replied.
Byrne grimaced. Whenever a victim was not identified at the scene, it tacked hours, sometimes even days onto the investigation. Precious time that could never be recovered.
Jessica stepped away from the body as the CSU officers began their ceremony. They would slip on their Tyvek suits and make a grid of the space, taking detailed photographs of the scene, as well as a video. This place was a petri dish of subhumanity. There were probably prints of every derelict in North Philly here. The CSU team would be here all day. Probably well into the night.
Jessica headed up the steps, but Byrne stayed behind. She waited for him at the top of the stairs, partly because she wanted to see if there was anything else he wanted her to do, partly because she really didn't want to have to direct the investigation out front.
After a short while, she walked a few treads back down, peering into the basement. Kevin Byrne stood over the young girl's body, head down, eyes closed. He fingered the scar over his right eye, then dropped his hands to his waist, knit his fingers.
After a few moments, he opened his eyes, made the sign of the cross, and started toward the steps. On THE STREET more people had gathered, rubbernecking, drawn to the strobing police lights like moths to flame. Crime came often to this part of North Philly, but it never ceased to beguile and fascinate its residents.
Emerging from the crime scene house, Byrne and Jessica approached the witness who had found the body. Although the day was overcast, Jessica gulped the daylight like a starving woman, grateful to be out of that clammy tomb.
DeJohn Withers might have been forty or sixty; it was impossible to tell. He had no lower teeth, and only a few up top. He wore five or six flannel shirts and a pair of filthy cargo pants, each pocket bulging with some mysterious urban swag.
'How long I gotta stay here?' Withers asked.
'Got some pressing engagements, do you?' Byrne replied.
'I ain't gotta talk to you. I did the right thing by doing my civic duty and now I get treated like some criminal.'
'Is this your house, sir?' Byrne asked, pointing to the crime scene house.
'No,' Withers said. 'It is not.'
'Then you are guilty of breaking and entering.'
'I didn't break nothin'.'
'But you entered.'
Withers tried to wrap his mind around the concept, as if breaking and entering, like country and western, were somehow inseparable. He remained silent.
'Now, I'm willing to overlook this serious crime if you answer a few questions for me,' Byrne said.
Withers looked at his shoes, defeated. Jessica noted that he had a ripped black high-top on his left foot and an Air Nike on his right.
'When did you find her?' Byrne asked.
Withers screwed up his face. He pushed up the sleeves of his multitude of shirts, revealing thin, scabby arms. 'It look like I got a watch?' 'Was it light out, or was it dark out?' Byrne asked. 'Light.'
'Did you touch her?'
'What?' Withers barked with true outrage. 'I ain't no goddamn pervert.'
'Just answer the question, Mr. Withers.'
Withers crossed his arms, waited a moment. 'No. I didn't.'
'Was anyone with you when you found her?'
'No.'
'Did you see anyone else around here?'
Withers laughed, and Jessica caught a full blast of his breath. If you blended rotten mayonnaise and week-old egg salad, then tossed it with lighter fluid vinaigrette, it would have smelled a little bit better. 'Who comes down here?'
It was a good question.
'Where do you live?' Byrne asked.
'I'm currently at The Four Seasons,' Withers replied.
Byrne suppressed a smile. He kept his pen an inch over the pad.
'I stay at My Brother's House,' Withers added. 'When they got room.'
'We may need to talk to you again.'
'I know, I know. Don't leave town.'
'We'd appreciate it.'
'There a reward?'
'Only in heaven,' Byrne said.
'I ain't goin' to heaven,' Withers said.
'Look into a transfer when you get to Purgatory,' Byrne said.
Withers scowled.
'When you bring him in to get his statement, I want him tossed and all of his things logged,' Byrne said to Davis. Interviews and witness statements were taken at the Roundhouse. Interviews of homeless folks were generally brief, due to the lice factor and the shoe-box proportions of the interview rooms.
Accordingly, Officer J. Davis looked Withers up and down. The frown on her face fairly screamed: I have to touch this bag of disease?
