Rosary girls

2 8

Brian Parkhurst wasn't home. Nor was his Ford Windstar.

The six detectives fanned out in the three-story Garden Court row house. The first floor held a small living room and dining room, kitchen at the back. Between the dining room and the kitchen, a steep set of stairs led to the second floor, which had a bathroom and a bedroom converted to office space. The third floor, which had once been two small bedrooms, had been renovated into a master suite. None of the rooms had dark blue nylon carpeting.

The furnishings were modern for the most part: leather sofa and chair, teak hutch and dining table. The office desk was older, probably pickled oak. His bookshelves spoke of an eclectic taste. Philip Roth, Jackie Collins, Dave Barry, Dan Simmons. The detectives noted the presence of William Blake:The Complete Illuminated Books.

I can't say I know very much about Blake, Parkhurst had said during his interview.

A quick riffling through the Blake book showed that nothing had been cut out of it.

A scan of the refrigerator, freezer, and kitchen garbage produced no evidence of leg of lamb. The Joy of Cooking in the kitchen was bookmarked on caramel flan.

There was nothing unusual in his closets. Three suits, a pair of tweed blazers, half a dozen pairs of dress shoes, a dozen dress shirts. All conservative and of good quality.

The walls of his office boasted his three certificates of higher education: one from John Carroll University and two from the University of Pennsylvania. There was also a well-framed poster for the Broadway production of The Crucible.

Jessica took the second floor. She went through the closet in the office, which seemed to be dedicated to Parkhurst's sporting endeavors. It appeared that he played tennis and racquetball, as well as engaging in a little sailboarding. There was also an expensive wet suit.

She went through his desk drawers, finding all the expected supplies. Rubber bands, pens, paper clips, Tic Tacs. Another drawer held LaserJet toner cartridges and a spare keyboard. All the drawers opened with no problem, except for the file drawer.

The file drawer was locked.

Odd, for a man who lived alone, Jessica thought.

A quick but thorough scan of the top drawer yielded no key.

Jessica looked out of the office door, listened to the chatter. All the other detectives were busy. She returned to the desk, quickly took out her pick set. You don't work in the Auto Unit for three years without picking up some locksmithing skills. Within seconds, she was in.

Most of the files were for household and personal business. Tax records, business receipts, personal receipts, insurance policies. There was also a stack of paid Visa bills. Jessica wrote down the card number. A quick perusal of purchases yielded nothing suspicious. There was no charge to a religious supply house.

She was just about to close and lock the drawer when she saw the tip of a small manila envelope peeking out from behind the drawer. She reached back as far as she could and pulled the envelope out. It had been taped out of sight, but never properly sealed.

Inside the envelope were five photographs. They had been taken in Fairmount Park during the fall. Three of the pictures were of a fully clothed young woman, shyly posing in a faux-glamour pose. Two of them were the same young woman posing with a smiling Brian Parkhurst. The young woman sat on his lap. The pictures were dated October of the previous year.

The young woman was Tessa Wells.

"Kevin!" Jessica yelled down the stairs.

Byrne was up in a flash, taking four steps at a time. Jessica showed him the photographs.

"Son of a bitch," Byrne said. "We had him and we let him go."

"Don't worry. We'll get him again."They had found a complete set of luggage beneath the stairs. He wasn't on a trip.

Jessica summed up the evidence. Parkhurst was a doctor. He knew both victims. He claimed to have known Tessa Wells in a professional sense, only as her counselor, and yet he had personal photographs of her. He had a history of sexual involvement with students. One of the victims had begun to spell his last name on her palm, just before her death.

Byrne got on Parkhurst's desk phone and called Ike Buchanan. He put the phone on speakerphone and briefed Buchanan on what they had found.

Buchanan listened, then uttered the three words for which Byrne and Jessica were hoping and waiting: "Pick him up."