The Rosary Girls (14 page)

“What do we get from the location of the crime scenes?” Jessica asked.
“At this point, I have no idea, I’m afraid,” Summers said. “The Eighth Street house and Bartram Gardens are about as disparate a pair of sites as one could imagine.”
“Then you believe they are random?” Jessica asked.
“I don’t believe they are. In both instances, it appears the victim is carefully posed. I don’t believe our unknown subject does anything in a haphazard manner. Tessa Wells was chained to that column for a reason. Nicole Taylor was not randomly dumped in that field. These locations are definitely significant.
“At first there may have been the temptation to think that Tessa Wells was put in that row house on Eighth Street to hide her body, but I don’t believe this to be the case. Nicole Taylor was carefully placed in the open a few days earlier. There was no attempt to hide the body. This guy is operating in daylight. He wants us to find his victims. He is arrogant and he wants us to think he’s smarter than we are. The fact that he placed objects between their hands furthers this theory. He is clearly challenging us to understand what he’s doing.
“As far as we can tell at this time, these girls did not know each other. They moved in different social circles. Tessa Wells liked classical music; Nicole Taylor was into the Goth rock scene. They attended different schools, had different interests.”
Jessica looked at the photos of the two girls, side by side, on the board. She recalled how cliquish things were when she went to Nazarene. The cheerleader types would have nothing to do with the rock and rollers, and vice versa. There were the nerds who spent their free time hovering over the few computers in the library, the fashion queens who were always buried in the current issue of
Vogue
or
Marie Clare
or
Elle
. Then there was her crowd, the South Philly contingent.
On the surface, what connected Tessa Wells and Nicole Taylor was that they were Catholic and they went to Catholic schools.
“I want every corner of these girls’ lives turned inside out,” Byrne said. “Who they hung around with, where they went on weekends, their boyfriends, relatives, acquaintances, what clubs they belonged to, what movies they’ve gone to, what churches they belong to. Somebody knows something. Somebody saw something.”
“Can we keep the mutilation and the found items from the press?” Tony Park asked.
“Maybe for twenty-four hours,” Byrne said. “After that, I doubt it.”
Chavez spoke up. “I spoke to the school psychiatrist who handles the counseling at Regina. He works out of the offices at the Nazarene Academy in the Northeast. Nazarene is the administrative office for five diocesan schools, including Regina. The diocese employs one psychiatrist for all five schools, who rotates on a weekly basis. He might be able to help.”
At this, Jessica felt her stomach fall. There
was
a connection between Regina and Nazarene, and she now knew what that connection was.
“They only have one psychiatrist for that many kids?” Tony Park asked.
“They have half a dozen counselors,” Chavez said. “But only one psychiatrist for the five schools.”
“Who is that?”
While Eric Chavez looked through his notes, Byrne found Jessica’s eyes. By the time Chavez located the name, Byrne was already out of the room and on the phone.

23

TUESDAY, 2:00 PM

“I really appreciate you coming in,” Byrne said to Brian Parkhurst. They were standing in the middle of the wide, semicircular room that housed the Homicide Unit.

“Anything I can do to help.” Parkhurst was dressed in a black-and-gray nylon jogging outfit and what looked like brand-new Reeboks. If he was at all nervous about being called in to talk to the police on this matter, it didn’t show. Then again, Jessica thought, he was a psychiatrist. If he could read anxiety, he could write composure. “Needless to say, we’re all devastated at Nazarene.”

“Are the students taking it hard?”
“I’m afraid so.”
The human traffic picked up around the two men. It was an old

trick—make the witness look for somewhere to sit down. The door to Interview Room A was wide open; all chairs in the common room were occupied. On purpose.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Byrne’s voice was dripping with concern and sincerity. He was good, too. “Why don’t we sit in here?”
...

Brian Parkhurst sat in the upholstered chair across from Byrne in Interview Room A, the small, scruffy room where suspects and witnesses were questioned, made statements, provided information. Jessica observed through the two-way mirror. The door to the interview room remained open.

“Once again,” Byrne began, “we appreciate you taking the time.”

There were two chairs in the room. One was an upholstered desk chair; the other was a battered metal folding chair. Suspects never got the good chair. Witnesses did. Until they
became
suspects, that is.

“Not a problem,” Parkhurst said.

The murder of Nicole Taylor had led the noon news, with live breakins on all the local TV stations. Camera crews were at Bartram Gardens. Kevin Byrne had not asked Dr. Parkhurst if he had heard the news.

“Are you any closer to finding the person who killed Tessa?” Parkhurst asked in a practiced, conversational manner. It was the sort of tone he might use to start a therapy session with a new patient.

“We have a few leads,” Byrne said. “It’s still early in the investigation.”

“Great,” Parkhurst said. The word sounded cold and somewhat strident, given the nature of the crime.
Byrne let the word circle the room a few times, then float to the floor. He sat down opposite Parkhurst, dropped a file folder on the battered metal table. “I promise not to keep you too long,” he said.
“I have all the time you need.”
Byrne picked up the folder, crossed his legs. He opened the folder, carefully shielding the contents from Parkhurst. Jessica could see it was a 229, a basic biographical report. Nothing threatening to Brian Parkhurst, but he didn’t have to know that. “Tell me a little more about your work at Nazarene.”
“Well, it’s mostly consultation in the areas of learning and behavior,” Parkhurst said.
“You counsel students on their behavior?”
“Yes.”
“How so?”
“All children and adolescents face problems from time to time, Detective. They have fears about starting at a new school, they feel depressed, they quite often lack self-discipline or self-esteem, they lack social skills. As a result, they often experiment with drugs or alcohol, or think about suicide. I let my girls know that my door is always open to them.”
My girls,
Jessica thought.
“Do the students you counsel find it easy to open up to you?”
“I like to think so,” Parkhurst said.
Byrne nodded. “What else can you tell me?”
Parkhurst continued. “Part of what we do is attempt to isolate potential learning difficulties in students, as well as design programs for those who may be at risk of failure. Things like that.”
“Are there a lot of students who fall into that category at Nazarene?” Byrne asked.
“Which category?”
“Students who are at a risk for failure.”
“No more than any other parochial high school, I would imagine,” Parkhurst said. “Probably fewer.”
“Why is that?”
“There is a legacy of high academic achievement at Nazarene,” he said.
Byrne scribbled a few notes. Jessica saw Parkhurst’s eyes roam the notepad.
Parkhurst added: “We also try to provide parents and teachers with the skills to cope with disruptive behavior, encourage tolerance, understanding, appreciation of diversity.”
This was strictly brochure copy, Jessica thought. Byrne knew it. Parkhurst knew it. Byrne shifted gears, making no attempt to mask it. “Are you a Catholic, Dr. Parkhurst?”
“Of course.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, why do you work for the archdiocese?”
“Excuse me?”
“I would imagine you could make a lot more money in private practice.”
Jessica knew that to be true. She had made a call to an old schoolmate who worked in personnel at the archdiocese. She knew exactly what Brian Parkhurst made. He earned $71,400 per year.
“The church is a very important part of my life, Detective. I owe it a great deal.”
“By the way, what’s your favorite William Blake painting?”
Parkhurst leaned back, as if trying to focus on Byrne more clearly. “My favorite William Blake painting?”
“Yeah,” Byrne said. “Me, I like
Dante andVirgil at the Gates of Hell
.”
“I, well, I can’t say I know very much about Blake.”
“Tell me about Tessa Wells.”
It was a gut shot. Jessica watched Parkhurst closely. He was smooth. Not a tic.
“What would you like to know?”
“Did she ever mention someone who might have been bothering her? Someone she might have been afraid of?”
Parkhurst seemed to think about this for a moment. Jessica wasn’t buying. Neither was Byrne.
“Not that I can recall,” Parkhurst said.
“Did she seem particularly troubled of late?”
“No,” Parkhurst said. “There was a period last year when I saw her a little more often than some of the other students.”
“Did you ever see her outside of school?”
Like right around Thanksgiving?
Jessica wondered.
“No.”
“Were you a little closer to Tessa than some of the other students?” Byrne asked.
“Not really.”
“But there was some sort of bond.”
“Yes.”
“Is that how it all started with Karen Hillkirk?”
Parkhurst’s face reddened, then cooled instantly. He was clearly expecting this. Karen Hillkirk was the student with whom Parkhurst had had the affair in Ohio.
“It wasn’t what you think, Detective.”
“Enlighten us,” Byrne said.
On the word
us,
Parkhurst threw a glance at the mirror. Jessica thought she saw the slightest smile. She wanted to slap it off his face.
Parkhurst then lowered his head for a moment, penitent now, as if this was a story he had told many times, if only to himself.
“It was a mistake,” he began. “I...I was young myself. Karen was mature for her age. It just... happened.”
“Were you her counselor?”
“Yes,” Parkhurst said.
“So then you can see how there are those who would say that you abused a position of power, can’t you?”
“Of course,” Parkhurst said. “I understand that.”
“Did you have the same sort of relationship with Tessa Wells?”
“Absolutely not,” Parkhurst said.
“Are you acquainted with a Regina student named Nicole Taylor?”
Parkhurst hesitated for a second. The rhythm of the interview was starting to pick up in tempo. It appeared that Parkhurst was trying to slow it down. “Yes, I know Nicole.”
Know,
Jessica thought. Present tense.
“You’ve counseled her?” Byrne asked.
“Yes,” Parkhurst said. “I work with the students at five diocesan schools.”
“How well do you know Nicole?” Byrne asked.
“I’ve seen her a few times.”
“What can you tell me about her?”
“Nicole has some self-image issues. Some...troubles at home,” Parkhurst said.
“What sort of self-image issues?”
“Nicole is a loner. She’s really into the whole Goth scene and that has somewhat isolated her at Regina.”
“Goth?”
“The Goth scene is loosely made up of kids who, for one reason or another, are spurned by the ‘normal’ kids. They tend to dress differently, listen to their own kinds of music.”
“Dress differently how?”
“Well, there are all kinds of Goth styles. The typical, or stereotypical Goth dresses in all black. Black fingernails, black lipstick, numerous piercings. But some kids dress in a Victorian manner, or an industrial style, if you will. They listen to everyone from Bauhaus to the old-school bands like the Cure and Siouxsie and the Banshees.”
Byrne just stared at Parkhurst for a few moments, fixing him in his chair. Parkhurst responded by rearranging his weight on the seat, straightening his clothes. He waited Byrne out. “You seem to know a lot about these things,” Byrne finally said.
“It’s my job, Detective,” Parkhurst said. “I can’t help my girls if I don’t know where they’re coming from.”
My girls
again, Jessica noted.
“In fact,” Parkhurst continued, “I confess to owning a few Cure CDs myself.”
I’ll bet you do,
Jessica mused.
“You mentioned Nicole had some troubles at home,” Byrne said. “What kind of troubles?”
“Well, for one, there is a history of alcohol abuse in her household,” Parkhurst said.
“Any violence?” Byrne asked.
Parkhurst paused. “Not that I recall. But even if I did, we’re getting into confidential matters here.”
“Is that the sort of thing students would necessarily share with you?”
“Yes,” Parkhurst said. “Those who are predisposed to do so.”
“Are many of the girls
predisposed
to discussing intimate details of their home lives with you?”
Byrne put a false emphasis on the word. Parkhurst caught it. “Yes. I like to think that I am good at putting young people at ease.”
Defensive now, Jessica thought.
“I don’t understand all these questions about Nicole. Has something happened to her?”
“She was found murdered this morning,” Byrne said.
“Oh my God.” Parkhurst’s face drained of color. “I saw the news...I had no...”
The news had not released the name of the victim.
“When was the last time you saw Nicole?”
Parkhurst thought for a few crucial moments. “It’s been a few weeks.”
“Where were you on Thursday and Friday mornings, Dr. Parkhurst?”
Jessica was certain that Parkhurst knew that the questioning had just crossed a barrier, the one that separated witness from suspect. He remained silent.
“It’s simply a routine question,” Byrne said. “We have to cover all bases.”
Before Parkhurst could answer, there was a soft rap on the open door.
It was Ike Buchanan.
“Detective?”

As they approached Buchanan’s office, Jessica could see a man standing with his back to the door. He was about five eleven, wearing a black overcoat, a dark fedora in his right hand. He was athletically built, wide-shouldered. His shaved head glistened beneath the fluorescents. They stepped into the office.

“Jessica, this is Monsignor Terry Pacek,” Buchanan said.

Terry Pacek, by reputation, was a fierce defender of the Archdiocese of Philadelphia, a self-made man from the hardscrabble hills of Lackawanna County. Coal country. In an archdiocese where there were nearly one and a half million Catholics and close to three hundred parishes, no one was a more vocal or staunch advocate than Terry Pacek.

He had come into his own in 2002 during a brief sex scandal where six Philadelphia priests were dismissed, along with a few from Allentown. Granted, the scandal paled in comparison to what had taken place in Boston, but still, with its large Catholic population, Philadelphia reeled.

Terry Pacek had been front and center in the media during those few months, visiting every local talk show, every radio station, and showing up in every newspaper account. Jessica’s image of him, at the time, had been that of a well-spoken, well-educated pit bull. What she was not prepared for, now that she had met him in person, was the smile. At one moment, he looked like a compact version of a WWF wrestler ready to pounce. The next moment, his entire face changed, lighting up the room. She could see how he had charmed not only the media, but also the vicariate. She had the feeling that Terry Pacek could write his own future in the ranks of the church’s political hierarchy.

“Monsignor Pacek.” Jessica extended her hand.
“How is the investigation going?”
The question was directed at Jessica, but Byrne stepped forward. “It’s

still early,” Byrne said.
“I understand that there has been a task force formed?” Byrne knew that Pacek already knew the answer to this question. The

look on Byrne’s face told Jessica—and, perhaps, Pacek himself—that he didn’t appreciate it.
“Yes,” Byrne said. Flat, succinct, tepid.
“Sergeant Buchanan tells me that you have brought in Dr. Brian Parkhurst?”
Here we go,
Jessica thought.
“Dr. Parkhurst volunteered to help us with the investigation. It turns out that he was acquainted with both victims.”
Terry Pacek nodded. “So Dr. Parkhurst is not a suspect?” “Absolutely not,” Byrne said. “He is here merely as a material witness.”
For now,
Jessica thought.
Jessica knew that Terry Pacek was walking a tightrope. On one hand, if someone was killing the Catholic schoolgirls of Philadelphia, he had an obligation to stay on top of the situation, making sure that the investigation was given a high priority.
On the other hand, he could not stand idly by and have archdiocese personnel brought in for questioning without counsel, or at least a show of support from the church.
“As spokesperson for the archdiocese, you can certainly understand my concern over these tragic events,” Pacek said. “The archbishop himself has communicated with me directly and authorized me to put all of the diocese’s resources at your disposal.”
“That’s very generous,” Byrne said.
Pacek handed Byrne a card. “If there is anything my office can do, please don’t hesitate to call us.”
“I sure will,” Byrne said. “Just out of curiosity, Monsignor, how did you know Dr. Parkhurst had come in?”
“He called my office after you called him.”
Byrne nodded. If Parkhurst gave the archdiocese a heads-up about a witness interview, it was pretty clear that he knew the conversation might turn into an interrogation.
Jessica glanced at Ike Buchanan. She saw him look over her shoulder and make a subtle move with his head, the sort of gesture you would make to tell someone that whatever they were looking for was in the room on the right.
Jessica followed Buchanan’s gaze into the common room, just outside Ike’s door, and found Nick Palladino and Eric Chavez there. They headed to Interview Room A, and Jessica knew what the nod meant.
Cut Brian Parkhurst loose.