For a homicide detective, the only thing worse than having no leads was being played with. The collective rage at this crime scene was palpable.
'The girl's name is Bethany Price,' Tony Park said, consulting his notes. 'Her mother reported her missing this afternoon. She was at the Sixth District station when the call came in. That's her over there.'
He pointed to a woman in her late thirties, dressed in a tan raincoat. She reminded Jessica of those shell- shocked people you see on foreign news footage, just after a car bomb has gone off. Lost, numb, hollowed out.
'How long had she been missing?' Jessica asked.
'She didn't make it home from school today. Everybody with a daughter in high school and junior high is pretty jumpy.'
'Thanks to the media,' Shepherd said.
Byrne began to pace.
'What about the guy who called in the nine-one-one?' Shepherd asked.
Park pointed to a man standing behind one of the patrol cars. He was about forty, well dressed in a three- button navy suit, club tie.
'His name is Jeremy Darnton,' Park said. 'He said he was driving about forty miles an hour when he went by. All he saw was the victim being carried on a man's shoulder. By the time he could pull over and double back, the man was gone.'
'No description of the man?' Jessica asked.
Park shook his head. 'White shirt or jacket. Dark pants.'
'That's it?'
'That's it.'
'That's every waiter in Philly,' Byrne said. He went back to his pacing. 'I want this guy. I want to put this fucker down.'
'We all do, Kevin,' Shepherd said. 'We'll get him.'
'Parkhurst played me.' Jessica said. 'He knew I wouldn't come alone. He knew I'd bring the cavalry. He tried to draw us off.'
'And he did,' Shepherd said.
A few minutes later, they all approached the victim as Tom Weyrich stepped in to do his preliminary exam.
Weyrich searched for a pulse, pronounced her dead. He then looked at her wrists. On each wrist was a long- healed scar, a snaky gray ridge, crudely cut, laterally, about an inch below the heel of her palm.
At some point in the last few years, Bethany Price had attempted suicide.
As the lights from the half dozen patrol cars strobed against the statue of The Thinker, as the crowd continued to gather, as the rain picked up in intensity, washing away precious knowledge, one man in the crowd looked on, a man who carried a deep and secret knowledge of the horrors that were befalling the daughters of Philadelphia.
39
TUESDAY, 10:25 PM
The lights on the face of the statue are beautiful.
But not as beautiful as Bethany. Her delicate white features give her the appearance of a sad angel, as radiant as the winter moon.
Why don't they cover her?
Of course, if they only realized how tormented a soul Bethany was, they wouldn't be quite so upset.
I have to admit that I get a deep chill of excitement standing among the good citizens of my city, watching it all.
I've never seen so many police cars in my life. The flashing racks illuminate the parkway like a carnival midway. It is almost a festive atmosphere.There are about sixty or so people gathered. Death is always an attraction. Like a roller- coaster. Let's get close, but not too close.
Unfortunately, we all get closer one day, whether we like it or not.
What would they think if I opened my coat and showed them what I am carrying? I look to my right. There is a married couple standing next to me. They appear to be in their midforties, white, affluent, well dressed.
'Doyou have any idea what happened here?' I ask the husband.
He looks at me, a quick up and down. I do not offend. I do not threaten.'I'm not sure,'he says.'But I think they found another girl.'
'Another girl?'
'Another victim of that… rosary psycho.'
I cover my mouth in horror.'Seriously? Right here?'
They nod solemnly, mostly out of a smug sense of pride in being the ones to tell me the news.They are the sort people who watch Entertainment Tonight and immediately race to the phone to be the first to tell their friends about the celebrity death du jour.
'I do hope they catch him soon,'I say.
'They won't,'the wife says. She is wearing an expensive white wool cardigan. She carries an expensive umbrella. She has the tiniest teeth I've ever seen.
'Why do you say that?' I ask.
'Between you and me,' she says, 'the police are not always the sharpest knives in the drawer.'
I look at her jawline, the slightly sagging skin on her neck. Does she know that I could reach out, right now, take her face in my hands and snap her spinal cord in one second?
I feel like it. I really do.
Arrogant, self-righteous bitch.
I should. But I won't.
I have work to do.
Perhaps I'll follow them home, and pay her a visit when this is all over.
40
TUESDAY, 10:30 PM
The crime scene stretched fifty yards in all directions. The traffic on the parkway was now bottlenecked to a single lane. Two uniformed officers directed the flow.
Byrne and Jessica watched Tony Park and John Shepherd instruct the Crime Scene Unit. They were the primary detectives on this case, although it was clear that the case would soon fall under the purview of the task force. Jessica leaned against one of the patrol cars, trying to sort out this nightmare. She glanced at Byrne. He was zoned, off on one of his mind jaunts.
Just then a man stepped forward from the crowd. Jessica saw him approaching out of the corner of her eye. Before she could react, he was upon her. She turned, defensive.
It was Patrick Farrell.
'Hey there,' Patrick said.
At first his presence at the scene was so out of place that Jessica thought it was a man who looked like Patrick. It was one of those moments when someone who represents one part of your life steps into the other part of your life, and suddenly everything is a little off, a little skewed toward the unreal.
'Hi,' Jessica said, surprised at the sound of her voice. 'What are you doing here?'
