It was Father Corrio.
Father Mark Corrio was the pastor of St. Paul's when Jessica was growing up. He was newly installed as pastor when Jessica was around nine, and she remembered how all the women swooned over his dark good looks at the time, how they all commented on what a waste it was that he had entered the priesthood. The dark hair had gone ice gray, but he was still a good-looking man.
On her porch, in the dark, in the rain, however, he was Freddie Krueger.
What happened was, one of the gutters over the porch was perched precariously overhead, about to break off under the weight of a waterlogged branch that had fallen from a nearby tree. Father Corrio had grabbed Jessica to get her out of harm's way. A few seconds later, the gutter had ripped free of the gutter board and crashed to the ground.
Divine intervention? Perhaps. But that didn't prevent Jessica from being scared shitless for a few seconds.
'I'm sorry if I frightened you,' he said.
Jessica almost said, I'm sorry I almost punched your freakin' lights out, Padre.
'Come on inside,' she offered instead.
Dried off, coffee made, they sat in the living room and got the pleasantries out of the way. Jessica called Paula and told her she'd be there shortly.
'How is your father?' the priest asked.
'He's great, thanks.'
'I haven't seen him at St. Paul's lately.'
'He's kind of short,' Jessica said. 'He might be in the back.'
Father Corrio smiled. 'How do you like living in the Northeast?'
When Father Corrio said it, it sounded like this part of Philadelphia was a foreign country. On the other hand, Jessica thought, to the cloistered world of South Philly, it probably was. 'Can't get any good bread,' she said.
Father Corrio laughed. 'I wish I had known. I would have stopped at Sarcone's.'
Jessica remembered eating warm Sarcone's bread as a little girl. Cheese from DiBruno's, pastries from Isgro's. These thoughts, along with the proximity of Father Corrio, filled her with a deep sadness.
What the hell was she doing in the 'burbs?
More important, what was her old parish priest doing up here?
'I saw you on television yesterday,' he said.
For a moment, Jessica almost told him that he must be mistaken. She was a police officer. Then, of course, she remembered. The press conference.
Jessica wasn't sure what to say. Somehow she knew Father Corrio had stopped by because of the murders. She just wasn't sure if she was ready for a homily.
'Is that young man a suspect?' he asked.
He was referring to the circus surrounding Brian Parkhurst's departure from the Roundhouse. He had walked out with Monsignor Pacek, and-perhaps as an opening salvo in the PR wars to come-Pacek had deliberately and dramatically declined comment. Jessica had seen the constant replay of the scene at Eighth and Race. The media managed to get Parkhurst's name and plaster it all over the screen.
'Not exactly,' Jessica lied. To her priest, yet. 'We'd sure like to talk to him again, though.'
'I understand he works for the archdiocese?'
It was a question and a statement. The sort of thing priests and shrinks were really good at.
'Yes,' Jessica said. 'He counsels students from Nazarene, Regina, and a few others.'
'Do you think he is responsible for these…?'
Father Corrio trailed off. He clearly had trouble saying the words.
'I really don't know for sure,' Jessica said.
Father Corrio absorbed this. 'This is such a terrible thing.'
Jessica just nodded.
'When I hear of crimes such as these,' Father Corrio continued, 'I have to wonder just how civilized a place we live in. We like to think that we have become enlightened through the centuries. But this? It's barbaric.'
'I try not to think of it that way,' Jessica said. 'If I think about the horrors of it all, there's no way I can do my job.' It sounded easy when she said it. It wasn't.
'Have you ever heard of the RosariumVirginis Mariae?'
'I think so,' Jessica said. It sounded like something she had run across in her research at the library, but like most of the information it was lost in a bottomless chasm of data. 'What about it?'
Father Corrio smiled. 'Don't worry. There won't be a pop quiz.' He reached into his briefcase and produced an envelope. 'I think you should read this.' He handed her the envelope.
'What is this?'
'The Rosarium Virginis Mariae is an apostolic letter regarding the rosary of the Virgin Mary.'
'Does it have something to do with these murders?'
'I don't know,' he said.
Jessica glanced at the folded papers inside. 'Thanks,' she said. 'I'll read it tonight.'
Father Corrio drained his cup, looked at his watch.
'Would you like some more coffee?' Jessica asked. 'No thanks,' Father Corrio said. 'I really should get back.' Before he could rise, the phone rang. 'Excuse me,' she said. Jessica answered. It was Eric Chavez.
As she listened, she looked at her reflection in the night-black window. The night threatened to open up and swallow her whole. They had found another girl.
38
TUESDAY, 10:20 PM
The Rodin Museum was a small museum dedicated to the French sculptor at Twenty-second Street and the Benjamin Franklin Parkway.
When Jessica arrived, there were already a number of patrol cars on the scene. Two lanes of the parkway were blocked. A crowd was gathering.
Kevin Byrne huddled with John Shepherd.
The girl sat on the ground, her back against the bronze gates leading into the museum courtyard. She looked about sixteen. Her hands were bolted together, just like the others. She was heavyset, red-haired, pretty. She wore a Regina uniform.
In her hands was a black rosary, with three decades of beads missing.
On her head was a crown of thorns, fashioned out of concertina wire.
Blood trickled down her face in a delicate crimson web.
'Goddamn it,' Byrne yelled, slamming his fist into the hood of the car.
'I put out an all-points on Parkhurst,' Buchanan said. 'There's a BOLO on the van.'
Jessica had heard it go out on her way into the city, her third trip of the day.
'A crown?' Byrne asked. 'A fucking crown?'
'Gets better,' John Shepherd said.
'What do you mean?'
'You see the gates?' Shepherd pointed his flashlight toward the inner gates, the gates leading to the museum itself.
'What about them?' Byrne asked.
'Those gates are called The Gates of Hell,' he said. 'This fucker is a real piece of work.'
'The picture,' Byrne said. 'The Blake painting.'
'Yeah.'
'He's telling us where the next victim is going to be found.'
