'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.'
Byrne knew exactly how it was going to go from here. The media had already begun the public rehabilitation of Anton Krotz-his terrible childhood, his mistreatment by the system. There had also been an article on Laura Clarke. Byrne was sure she was a fine woman, but the piece had made her out to be a saint. She worked at a local hospice, she helped save greyhounds, she had done a year in the peace corps.
'Is it true that Mr. Krotz was once in police custody and then let go?' a reporter for City Paper asked.
'Mr. Krotz was questioned by police two years ago in connection with a homicide, but was released due to insufficient evidence.' Andrea Churchill glanced at her watch. 'If there are no more questions at this time-'
'She didn't have to die.' The words came from the back of the crowd. It was a plaintive voice, hoarse with exhaustion.
All heads turned. Cameras followed. Matthew Clarke stood at the back of the throng. His hair was unkempt, he sported a few days' growth of beard, he wore no overcoat, no gloves, just a suit in which it appeared he had slept. He looked pitiful. Or, more accurately, pitiable.
'He gets to go about his life as if nothing happened,' Clarke pointed an accusatory finger at Kevin Byrne. 'What do I get? What do my children get?'
For the press this was fresh chum in the water.
A reporter for The Report, a weekly tabloid rag with which Byrne had a not so amicable history yelled, 'Detective Byrne, how do you feel about the fact that a woman was killed right in front of you?'
Byrne felt the Irish rise, his fists clench. Flashbulbs flashed. 'How do I feel?' Byrne asked. Ike Buchanan put a hand on his arm. There was more Byrne wanted to say, much more, but Ike's grasp tightened, and he knew what it
