Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense (43 page)

And that meant that the rosary for the last girl in this madman’s passion play had already been prepared.

61

FRIDAY, 1:25 PM

A
T NOON, Brian Parkhurst’s Ford Windstar was found parked at an indoor garage a few blocks from the building in which he was found hanged. The Crime Scene Unit had spent the early afternoon combing it for trace evidence. There was no blood evidence, nor any indication that any of the murder victims had been transported in the vehicle. The carpeting was a bronze in color and did not match the carpet fibers found on the first four victims.

The glove compartment held the expected—registration, owner’s manual, a pair of maps.

It was the letter they found in the visor that was most interesting, a letter containing the typewritten names of ten girls. Four of the names were already familiar to police. Tessa Wells, Nicole Taylor, Bethany Price, and Kristi Hamilton.

The envelope was addressed to Detective Jessica Balzano.

There was little debate about whether the killer’s next victim would come from the ranks of the remaining six names.

There was much room for debate about why these names were in the late Dr. Parkhurst’s possession, and what it all meant.

62

FRIDAY, 2:45 PM

T
HE WHITE BOARD was divided into five columns. At the top of each was a Sorrowful Mystery.
AGONY, SCOURGE, CROWN, CARRY, CRUCIFIXION.
Beneath each heading, except for the last, was a photograph of the respective victim.

Jessica briefed the team on what she had learned from her research, from Eddie Kasalonis as well as what Father Corrio had told her and Byrne.

“The Sorrowful Mysteries are the last week in Christ’s life,” Jessica said. “And, although the victims were discovered out of order, our doer seems to be following the strict order of the mysteries.

“As I’m sure you all know, today is Good Friday, the day Christ was crucified. There is only one mystery left. The crucifixion.”

A sector car had been assigned to every Catholic church in the city. By three twenty-five, incident reports had come in from all corners. The three o’clock hour—noon to three were the hours it is believed that Christ hung upon the cross—had passed at all Catholic churches without episode.

By four o’clock they had gotten in contact with all the families of the girls on the list found in Brian Parkhurst’s car. All the remaining girls were accounted for and, without causing undue panic, the families were told to be on guard. A car was dispatched to each of the girls’ houses for protection detail.

Why these girls were on the list, and what they had in common to get on the list was still unknown. The task force had tried to cross-reference the girls based on the clubs they belonged to, the churches they attended, eye and hair color, ethnicity; nothing leapt off the page.

Each of the six detectives on the task force would visit one of the six girls left on the list. The answer to the riddle of these horrors, they were certain, would be found with them.

63

FRIDAY, 4:15 PM

T
HE SEMANSKI HOUSE sat between two vacant lots on a dying street in North Philly.

Jessica spoke briefly to the two officers parked out front, then walked up the sagging steps. The inside door was open, the screen door unlatched. Jessica knocked. After a few seconds, a woman approached. She was in her early sixties. She wore a pilled blue cardigan and well-worn black cotton slacks.

“Mrs. Semanski? I’m Detective Balzano. We spoke on the phone.”

“Oh yes,” the woman said. “I’m Bonnie. Please come in.”

Bonnie Semanski opened the screen door and let her in.

The interior of the Semanski house seemed cast from another era. There were probably a few valuable antiques in here, Jessica thought, but to the Semanski family they were most likely seen as functioning articles of furniture that were still good, so why throw them away?

To the right was a small living room with a worn sisal rug in the center and a grouping of old waterfall furniture. Sitting in a recliner was a gaunt man in his sixties. On a folding metal TV tray table next to him were a variety of amber pill bottles and a pitcher of iced tea. He was watching a hockey game, but it appeared as if he was looking near the television, not at it. He glanced over at Jessica. Jessica smiled, and the man lifted a slight arm to wave.

Bonnie Semanski led Jessica to the kitchen.

“L
AUREN SHOULD BE HOME any minute now. She’s off school today, of course,” Bonnie said. “She’s visiting friends.”

They were sitting at a red-and-white chrome-and-Formica dinette set. Like everything else about the row house, the kitchen seemed a 1960s vintage. The only things that brought it into the present were a small white microwave and an electric can opener. It was clear that the Semanskis were Lauren’s grandparents, not her parents.

“Did Lauren call home at all today?”

“No,” Bonnie said. “I called her a little while ago on her cell phone, but all I got was her voice mail. She turns it off sometimes.”

“You said on the phone that she left the house around eight this morning?”

“Yes. That’s about right.”

“Do you know where she was headed?”

“She went to visit with some friends,” Bonnie repeated, as if this were her mantra of denial.

“Do you know their names?”

Bonnie just shook her head. It was obvious that, whoever these “friends” were, Bonnie Semanski did not approve.

“Where are her mom and dad?” Jessica asked.

“They were killed in a car accident last year.”

“I’m sorry,” Jessica said.

“Thank you.”

Bonnie Semanski looked out the window. The rain had eased to a steady drizzle. At first Jessica thought the woman might cry, but with a closer look she realized that this woman had probably shed all her tears a long time ago. The sorrow, it seemed, had settled to the bottom half of her heart, and could not be disturbed.

“Can you tell me what happened to her parents?” Jessica asked.

“A week before Christmas, last year, Nancy and Carl were coming home from Nancy’s part-time job at the Home Depot. They were hiring for the holidays, you know. Not like now,” she said. “It was late and really dark. Carl must have been going a little too fast around a turn and the car slid off the road and went down into a ravine. They say they didn’t linger in death.”

Jessica was a bit surprised that this woman didn’t tear up. She imagined that Bonnie Semanski had told this story to enough people, enough times, that she had gained some distance from it.

“Did Lauren take it very hard?” Jessica asked.

“Oh yes.”

Jessica scribbled a note, noting the time line.

“Does Lauren have a boyfriend?”

Bonnie gave the question a dismissive wave of her hand. “I can’t keep up with them, there are so many.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re always coming around. All hours. They look like homeless people.”

“Do you know if anyone has threatened Lauren lately?”

“Threatened?”

“Anyone she might have had a problem with. Someone who may have been bothering her.”

Bonnie thought for a moment. “No. I don’t think so.”

Jessica jotted a few more notes. “Would it be okay if I took a quick look at Lauren’s room?”

“Sure.”

L
AUREN SEMANSKI’S ROOM was at the top of the stairs, at the back end of the house. On the door was a faded sticker that said
BEWARE: SPUN MONKEY ZONE
. Jessica knew enough drug terms to know that Lauren Semanski was probably not out “visiting friends” in order to organize a church picnic.

Bonnie opened the door, and Jessica stepped into the room. The furniture was quality, French provincial in style, white with gold accents; a four-poster bed, matching nightstands, dresser, and desk. The room was painted a lemon yellow, long and narrow, with a sloped ceiling that met knee walls on either side, a window at the far end. On the right were built-in bookshelves, to the left, a pair of doors cut into the half wall, presumably a storage area. The walls were covered in posters for rock bands.

Mercifully, Bonnie left Jessica alone in the room. Jessica didn’t really want her looking over her shoulder when she went through Lauren’s belongings.

On the desk were a series of photographs in inexpensive frames. A school shot of Lauren at about nine or ten. One was of Lauren and a scruffy teenaged boy, standing in front of the art museum. One was a magazine shot of Russell Crowe.

Jessica poked through the drawers in the dresser. Sweaters, socks, jeans, shorts. Nothing significant. Her closet yielded the same. Jessica closed the closet door, leaned against it, surveyed the room.
Think.
Why was Lauren Semanski on that list? Other than the fact that she attended a Catholic school, what was in this room that would fit into the puzzle of these bizarre deaths?

Jessica sat down at Lauren’s computer, checked the bookmarks on the web browser. There was one call
hardradio.com,
dedicated to heavy metal, one called
snakenet
. But the one that caught her attention was a site called
yellowribbon.org.
At first, Jessica thought it might have been dedicated to POWs and MIAs. When she connected to the net, then clicked on the site, she saw it was about teen suicide.

Was I this fascinated with death and despair when I was a teenager?
Jessica thought.

She imagined she was. It probably came with the hormones.

Back in the kitchen, Jessica found that Bonnie had made a pot of coffee. She poured Jessica a cup, then sat down opposite her. There was also a plate of vanilla wafers on the table.

“I need to ask you a few more questions about the accident last year,” Jessica said.

“Okay,” Bonnie replied, but her downturned mouth told Jessica it was anything but okay.

“I promise I won’t keep you too long.”

Bonnie nodded.

Jessica was organizing her thoughts when a look of gradually dawning horror came over Bonnie Semanski’s face. It took Jessica a moment to realize that Bonnie wasn’t looking directly at her. She was, instead, looking over her left shoulder. Jessica turned, slowly, following the woman’s gaze.

Lauren Semanski was standing on the back porch. Her clothes were ripped; her knuckles were bleeding and raw. There was a long contusion on her right leg, a pair of deep lacerations on her right arm. On the left side of her head, a large patch of scalp was missing. Her left wrist appeared to be broken, the bone protruding through the flesh. The skin on her right cheek was peeled back in a bloody flap.

“Sweetheart?” Bonnie said, rising to her feet, a trembling hand to her lips. All the color had drained from her face. “My God, what . . . what
happened,
baby?”

Lauren looked at her grandmother, at Jessica. Her eyes were bloodshot and burnished. A deep defiance shone through the trauma.

“Motherfucker didn’t know who he was
dealing
with,” she said.

Then Lauren Semanski collapsed.

B
EFORE THE AMBULANCE ARRIVED, Lauren Semanski slipped in and out of consciousness. Jessica did what she could to prevent her from going into shock. When she had determined that there were no spinal injuries, she wrapped her in a blanket, then slightly elevated her legs. Jessica knew that preventing shock was infinitely preferable to treating its effects.