Текст книги "The Rosary Girls"

Автор книги: Richard Montanari

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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

“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.”

Lauren 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.

Before 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.

Jessica noticed that Lauren’s right hand was clenched into a tight fist. Something was in her hand—something with a sharp edge, something plastic. Jessica tried gently to open the girl’s fingers. Nothing doing. Jessica didn’t press the issue.

As they waited, Lauren rambled. Jessica got a sketchy tale of what had happened to her. Phrases were unconnected. Words slipped between her teeth.

Jeff’s house.

Tweakers.

Fucker.

Lauren’s dried lips and ravaged nostrils, along with the brittle hair

and the somewhat translucent look to her skin told Jessica she was probably a meth head.

Needle.

Fucker.

Before Lauren was loaded onto the gurney, she opened her eyes for a moment, and said one word that caused the world to stop spinning for a moment.

Rosary.

...

The ambulance left, taking Bonnie Semanski to the hospital with her granddaughter. Jessica called the station house and told them what had happened. A pair of detectives were on their way to St. Joseph’s. Jessica had given the EMS strict instructions to preserve Lauren’s clothing and, to any extent possible, any fibers or fluids. Specifically, she told them to safeguard the forensic integrity of whatever Lauren had clutched in her right hand.

Jessica remained at the Semanski house. She walked into the living room and sat with George Semanski.

“Your granddaughter is going to be all right,” Jessica said, hoping she sounded convincing, wanting to believe it was true.

George Semanski nodded. He continued to wring his hands. He ran through the cable channels as if it were some sort of physical therapy.

“I need to ask you one more question, sir. If that’s okay.”

After a few moments of silence, he nodded again. It appeared that the cornucopia of pharmaceuticals on the TV tray had him on a narcotically induced time delay.

“Your wife told me that, last year, when Lauren’s mom and dad were killed, Lauren took it pretty hard,” Jessica said. “Can you tell me what she meant by that?”

George Semanski reached for a bottle of pills. He took the bottle, turning it over and over in his hands, but not opening it. Jessica noted that it was clonazepam.

“Well, after the funeral and all, after the burials, about a week or so later, she almost, well, she...”

“She what, Mr. Semanski?”

George Semanski paused. He stopped fidgeting with the pill vial. “She tried to kill herself.”

“How?”

“She, well, she went out to the car one night. She ran a hose from the exhaust into one of the windows. She tried to breathe in the carbon monoxide, I guess.”

“What happened?”

“She passed out on the car horn. It woke up Bonnie and she went out there.”

“Did Lauren have to go to the hospital?”

“Oh yes,” George said. “She was in there for almost a week.” Jessica’s pulse quickened. She felt the puzzle piece click into place. Bethany Price had tried to slash her wrists.

Tessa Wells had a Sylvia Plath reference in her diary.

Lauren Semanski tried monoxide poisoning.

Suicide, Jessica thought.

All of these girls tried to commit suicide.

“Mr. Wells? This is Detective Balzano.” Jessica was on her cell phone, standing on the sidewalk in front of the Semanski house. Pacing was more like it.

“Have you caught somebody?” Wells asked.

“Well, we’re working on it, sir. I have a question for you about Tessa.

It’s about last year, around Thanksgiving.”

“Last year?”

“Yes,” Jessica said. “This might be a little hard to talk about but,

believe me, it won’t be any harder for you to answer than it will be for me to ask.”

Jessica recalled the junk drawer in Tessa’s room. There were hospital bracelets in there.

“What about Thanksgiving?” Wells asked.

“By any chance, was Tessa hospitalized around that time?”

Jessica listened, waited. She found that she was clenching her fist around her cell phone. It felt as if she might break it. She eased up.

“Yes,” he said.

“Could you tell me why she was in the hospital?”

She closed her eyes.

Frank Wells took a rattling, painful breath.

And told her.

“Tessa Wells took a handful of pills last November. Lauren Semanski locked herself in the garage and started the car. Nicole Taylor slashed her wrists,” Jessica said. “At least three of the girls on this list attempted suicide.”

They were back at the Roundhouse.

Byrne smiled. Jessica felt a charge of electricity shoot through her body. Lauren Semanski was still heavily sedated. Until they were able to talk to her, they would have to fly with what they had.

There was not yet any word on what was clasped in her hand. According to the detectives at the hospital, Lauren Semanski had not yet given it up. The doctors told them they’d have to wait.

Byrne had a photocopy of Brian Parkhurst’s list in his hand. He tore it in half, handed one piece to Jessica, kept the other. He pulled out his cell phone.

Soon, they had their answer.All ten girls on the list had tried to commit suicide within the past year. Jessica now believed that Brian Parkhurst, perhaps as penance, was trying to tell the police that he knew why these girls were being targeted. As part of his counseling, these girls had all confided in him that they had attempted to take their own lives.

There are things you need to know about these girls.

Perhaps, by some twisted sense of logic, their doer was trying to finish the job these girls had started. They would worry about the why of it all when they had him in irons.

What was obvious was this: Their doer had abducted Lauren Semanski and drugged her with midazolam. What he had not counted on was that she was full of methamphetamine. The speed had counteracted the midazolam. In addition, she was also full of piss and vinegar, a fighter. He definitely picked the wrong girl.

For the first time in her life, Jessica was glad that a teenager did drugs.

But if the killer’s inspiration was the five Sorrowful Mysteries of the rosary, why were there ten girls on Parkhurst’s list? Besides attempting suicide, what did five of them have in common? Was he really going to stop at five?

They compared their notes.

Four of the girls overdosed on pills. Three of them tried to cut their wrists. Two of the girls tried to commit suicide by carbon monoxide poisoning. One girl drove her car through a guardrail and over a ravine. She was saved by the airbag.

It wasn’t method that tied any five together.

What about school? Four of the girls went to Regina, four went to Nazarene, one went to Marie Goretti and one to Neumann.

As to age: four were sixteen, two were seventeen, three were fifteen, one eighteen.

Was it neighborhood?

No.

Clubs or extracurricular activities?

No.

Gang affiliations?

Hardly.

What was it?

Ask and ye shall receive, Jessica thought. The answer was right in front of them.

It was the hospital.

St. Joseph’s was what they had in common.

“Look at this,” Jessica said.

On the day they had tried to kill themselves, the five girls treated at St. Joseph’s were Nicole Taylor, Tessa Wells, Bethany Price, Kristi Hamilton, and Lauren Semanski.

The rest were treated elsewhere, at five different hospitals.

“My God,” Byrne said. “That’s it.”

It was the break they were looking for.

But the fact that all of these girls were treated at one hospital was not what made Jessica shaky. The fact that they all tried to commit suicide wasn’t it, either.

The fact that made the room lose all of its air was this:

The same doctor had treated them all: Dr. Patrick Farrell.

64

FRIDAY, 6:15 PM

Patrick sat in Interview Room A. Eric Chavez and John Shepherd handled the interview while Byrne and Jessica observed. The interview was being videotaped.

As far as Patrick knew, he was merely a material witness in the case. He had a recent scratch on his right hand.

When they could, they would scrape beneath Lauren Semanski’s fingernails, looking for DNA evidence. Unfortunately, according to the CSU, it probably wouldn’t yield much. Lauren was lucky to even have fingernails.

They had gone over Patrick’s schedule for the previous week, and, to Jessica’s chagrin, they had learned that there wasn’t a single day that would have prevented Patrick from abducting the victims, nor dumping their bodies.

The thought made Jessica physically ill. Was she really considering the notion that Patrick had something to do with these murders? With each passing minute, the answer was getting closer to yes. The next minute dissuaded her. She really didn’t know what to think.

Nick Palladino and Tony Park were on their way to the Wilhelm Kreuz crime scene with a photograph of Patrick. It was unlikely that old Agnes Pinsky would remember him—even if she did pick him out of a photo lineup, her credibility would be torn to shreds by even a public defender. Nick and Tony would canvass up and down the street nonetheless.

“I hadn’t been keeping up with the news, I’m afraid,” Patrick said. “I can understand that,” Shepherd replied. He was sitting on the edge

of the battered metal table. Eric Chavez leaned against the door. “I’m sure

you see enough of the ugly side of life where you work.”

“We have our triumphs,” Patrick said.

“So, you’re saying that you were not aware that any of these girls had

at one time been a patient of yours?”

“An ER physician, especially in an inner-city trauma center, works

triage, Detective. The patient needing the most immediate care is treated

first. After patients are patched up and sent home, or admitted, they are

always referred to their primary care physician. The concept of patient

doesn’t really apply. People who come to an emergency room may only

be a patient of any given doctor for an hour. Sometimes less. Quite often

less. Thousands of people pass through St. Joseph’s ER every year.” Shepherd listened, nodding at all the appropriate cues, absently

straightening the already perfect creases in his pants. Explaining the concept of triage to a veteran homicide detective was wholly unnecessary.

Everyone in Interview Room A knew that.

“That doesn’t really answer my question, though, Dr. Farrell.” “It seemed that I knew the name Tessa Wells when I heard it on the

news. I didn’t, however, make any immediate connection to whether or

not St. Joseph’s had provided her with emergency care.”

Bullshit, Jessica thought, her anger growing. They had discussed Tessa

Wells the night they had a drink at Finnigan’s Wake.

“You say St. Joseph’s as if it was the institution that treated her that

day,” Shepherd said. “It’s your name on the file.”

Shepherd held up the file for Patrick to see.

“The record doesn’t lie, Detective,” Patrick said. “I must have treated

her.”

Shepherd held up a second file. “And you treated Nicole Taylor.” “Again, I really don’t recall.”

A third file. “And Bethany Price.”

Patrick stared.

Two more files in his face now. “Kristi Hamilton spent four hours in

your care. Lauren Semanski five.”

“I defer to the record, Detective,” Patrick said.

“All five of these girls were abducted and four of them were brutally

murdered this week, Doctor. This week. Five female, teenaged victims

who just happened to pass through your office within the past ten

months.”

Patrick shrugged.

John Shepherd asked, “You can certainly understand our interest in

you at this point, can’t you?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Patrick said. “As long as your interest in me is in the

nature of material witness. As long as that’s the case, I’ll be happy to help

in any way I can.”

“By the way, how did you get that scratch on your hand?” It was clear that Patrick had an answer well prepared for this. He

wasn’t, however, going to blurt anything out. “It’s a long story.” Shepherd looked at his watch. “I’ve got all night.” He looked at

Chavez. “How about you, Detective?”

“I cleared my schedule just in case.”

They both turned their attention back to Patrick.

“Let’s just say that one should always beware of a wet cat,” Patrick

said. Jessica saw the charm shine through. Unfortunately for Patrick,

these two detectives were immune. At the moment, so was Jessica. Shepherd and Chavez exchanged a glance. “Have truer words ever

been spoken?” Chavez asked.

“You’re saying a cat did that?” Shepherd asked.

“Yes,” Patrick replied. “She was outside all day in the rain. When I got

home tonight, I saw her shivering in the bushes. I tried to pick her up. Bad

idea.”

“What’s her name?”

It was an old interrogation trick. Someone mentions an alibi-related

person, you slam them immediately with a question regarding the name.

This time, it was a pet. Patrick was not prepared.

“Her name?” he asked.

It was a stall. Shepherd had him. Shepherd then got closer, looking at

the scratch. “What is it, a pet bobcat?”

“Excuse me?”

Shepherd stood up, leaned against the wall. Friendly, now. “See,

Dr. Farrell, I have four daughters. They absolutely love cats. Love ’em. In

fact, we have three of them. Coltrane, Dizzy, and Snickers. That’s their

names. I’ve been scratched, oh, at least a dozen times in the last few

years. None of the scratches looked anything like yours.”

Patrick looked at the floor for a few moments. “She’s not a bobcat,

Detective. Just a big old tabby.”

“Huh,” Shepherd said. He rolled on. “By the way, what sort of vehicle

do you drive?” John Shepherd, of course, already knew the answer to this

question.

“I have a few different vehicles. I mostly drive a Lexus.” “LS? GS? ES? SportCross?” Shepherd asked.

Patrick smiled. “I see you know your luxury cars.”

Shepherd returned the smile. Half of it, anyway. “I can tell a Rolex

from a TAG Heuer, too,” he said. “Can’t afford one of them, either.” “I drive a 2004 LX.”

“That’s the SUV, right?”

“I guess you could call it that.”

“What would you call it?”

“I would call it an LUV,” Patrick said.

“As in Luxury Utility Vehicle, right?”

Patrick nodded.

“Gotcha,” Shepherd said. “Where is that vehicle right now?” Patrick hesitated. “It’s in the back parking lot here. Why?” “Just curious,” Shepherd said. “It’s a high-end vehicle. I just wanted to

make sure it was safe.”

“I appreciate it.”

“And the other vehicles?”

“I have a 1969 Alfa Romeo and a Chevy Venture.”

“That’s a van?”

“Yes.”

Shepherd wrote this down.

“Now, on Tuesday morning, according to records at St. Joseph’s, you

didn’t go on duty until nine o’clock in the morning,” Shepherd said. “Is

that accurate?”

Patrick thought about it. “I believe it is.”

“Yet your shift began at eight. Why were you late?”

“Actually, it was because I had to take the Lexus in for service.” “Where did you take it?”

There was a slight rap on the door, then the door swung open. In the doorway Ike Buchanan stood next to a tall, imposing man in an

elegant Brioni pin-striped suit. The man had perfectly layered silver hair,

a Cancún tan. His briefcase cost more than either detective made in a

month.

Abraham Gold had represented Patrick’s father, Martin, in a highprofile malpractice suit in the late 1990s.Abraham Gold was as expensive

as they come. And as good as they come. As far as Jessica knew, Abraham

Gold had never lost a case.

“Gentlemen,” he began, using his best courtroom baritone. “This

conversation is over.”

“What do you think?” Buchanan asked.

The entire task force looked at her. She searched her mind for not only the right thing to say, but the right words to say it. She truly was at a loss. From the moment that Patrick had walked into the Roundhouse an hour or so earlier, she knew this moment would arrive. Now that it was here, she had no idea how to deal with it. The notion that someone she knew might be responsible for such horror was bad enough. The notion that it was someone she knew intimately—or thought she did—seemed to immobilize her brain.

If the unthinkable was true, that Patrick Farrell was indeed the Rosary Killer, from a purely a professional standpoint, what would it say about her as a judge of character?

“I think it’s possible.” There. It was said out loud.

They had, of course, run a background check on Patrick Farrell. Except for a pot misdemeanor in his sophomore year in college, and a penchant for driving well above the speed limit, his record was clean.

Now that Patrick had retained counsel, they would have to step up the investigation. Agnes Pinsky had said that he could’ve been the man she saw knocking on Wilhelm Kreuz’s door. A man who worked at a shoe repair shop across from Kreuz’s apartment building thought he recalled a creamcolored Lexus SUV parked out front two days earlier. He wasn’t sure.

Regardless, there would now be a pair of detectives on Patrick Farrell 24/7.