Rosary girls

3 1

Byrne sat at the bar, oblivious to the music, the din of the pool table.All he heard, for the moment, was the roar in his head.

He was at a run-down corner tavern in Gray's Ferry called Shotz, the farthest thing from a cop bar he could imagine. He could've hit the hotel bars downtown, but he didn't like paying ten dollars a drink.

What he really wanted was a few more minutes with Brian Parkhurst. If only he could take another run at him, he would know for sure. He downed his bourbon, ordered one more.

Byrne had turned off his cell phone earlier, but he had left his pager on. He checked it, seeing the number of Mercy Hospital. Jimmy had called for the second time that day. Byrne checked his watch. He'd stop by Mercy and charm the cardiac nurses into a brief visit. There are never any visiting hours when a cop is in the hospital.

The other calls were from Jessica. He'd call her in a little while. He just needed a few minutes to himself.

For now, he just wanted the peace of the noisiest bar in Gray's Ferry.

Tessa Wells.

Nicole Taylor.

The public thinks that when a person is murdered, cops show up at the scene, make a few notes, then go home to their lives. Nothing could be further from the truth. Because the unavenged dead never stay dead. The unavenged dead watch you. They watch you when you go to the movies or have dinner with your family, or lift a few pints with the boys at the corner tavern. They watch you when you make love. They watch and they wait and they question. What are you doing for me? they whisper in your ear, softly, as your life unfolds, as your kids grow and prosper, as you laugh and cry and feel and believe. Why are you out having a good time? they ask. Why are you living it up while I'm laying here on the cold marble?

What are you doing for me?

Byrne's solve rate was one of the highest in the unit, partially, he knew, because of the synergy he'd had with Jimmy Purify, partially due to the waking dreams he'd begun having, courtesy of four slugs from Luther White's pistol and a trip beneath the surface of the Delaware.

The organized killer, by nature, believed himself superior to most people, but especially superior to the people tasked with finding him. It was this egotism that drove Kevin Byrne, and in this case, the Rosary Girl case, it was becoming an obsession. He knew that. He had probably known that the moment he had walked down those rotted steps on North Eighth Street and seen the brutal humiliation that had befallen Tessa Wells.

But he knew it was as much a sense of duty as it was the horror of Morris Blanchard. He had been wrong many times earlier in his career, but it had never led to the death of an innocent. Byrne wasn't sure if the arrest and conviction of the Rosary Girl killer would expiate the guilt, or if it would square him once again with the city of Philadelphia, but he hoped it would fill an emptiness inside.

And then he could retire with his head held high.

Some detectives follow the money. Some follow the science. Some follow the motive. Kevin Byrne trusted the door at the end of his mind. No, he couldn't predict the future, nor divine the identity of a killer just by laying hands. But sometimes it felt like he could, and maybe that was what made the difference. The nuance detected, the intention discovered, the path chosen, the thread followed. In the past fifteen years, ever since he had drowned, he had only been wrong once.

He needed sleep. He paid his tab, said goodbye to a few of the regulars, stepped out into the endless rain. Gray's Ferry smelled clean.

Byrne buttoned his raincoat, assessed his driving ability, considering the five bourbons. He pronounced himself fit. More or less. When he approached his car, he knew that something didn't look right, but the image didn't register immediately.

Then it did.

The driver's window was smashed in, broken glass shimmering on the front seat. He looked inside. His CD player and CD wallet were gone.

"Motherfucker," he said. "This fucking city."

He walked around the car a few times, a rabid dog chasing his tail in the rain. He sat down on the hood, actually considering the folly of calling this in. He knew better.You'd have as much chance of recovering a stolen radio in Gray's Ferry as Michael Jackson had of getting a job at a day care center.

The stolen CD player didn't bother him as much as the stolen CDs. He had a choice collection of classic blues in there. Three years in the making.

He was just about to leave when he noticed someone watching him from the vacant lot across the street. Byrne couldn't see who it was, but there was something about the posture that told him all he needed to know.

"Hey!" Byrne yelled.

The man took off, rabbiting behind the buildings on the other side of the street.

Byrne took off after him.

The clock felt heavy in his hand, like a deadweight.

By the time Byrne got across the street, the man was lost in the miasma of pouring rain. Byrne still-hunted through the debris-strewn lot, then up to the alley that ran behind the row houses that spanned the length of the block.

He did not see the thief.

Where the hell did he go?

Byrne holstered his Glock, sidled up to the alleyway, peered to the left.

Dead end. A Dumpster, a pile of garbage bags, broken wooden crates. He eased into the alley. Was someone standing behind the Dump- ster? A crack of thunder made Byrne spin, his heart trip-hammering in his chest.

Alone.

He continued, minding every night-shadow. The machine gun of raindrops on the plastic garbage bags obscured every other sound for a moment.

Then, beneath the rain, he heard a whimper, a rustling of plastic.

Byrne looked behind the Dumpster. It was a black kid, maybe eighteen or so. In the moonlight Byrne could see the nylon cap, Flyers jersey, a gang tat on his right arm that identified him as a member of JBM: Junior Black Mafia. He had tats of prison sparrows on his left arm. He was kneeling, bound, and gagged. There were bruises on his face from a recent beating. His eyes were ablaze with fear.

What the hell is going on here?

Byrne sensed movement to his left. Before he could turn, a huge arm reached around him from behind. Byrne felt the ice of a razor-sharp knife blade at his throat.

Then, in his ear: "Don't fuckin' move."