Текст книги "The Rosary Girls"

Автор книги: Richard Montanari

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Текущая страница: 22 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

She checked behind the love seats, in the blind spot next to the armoire. She edged open the coat closet near the front door. All empty.

She crossed the room to the armoire that held the television. If she wasn’t mistaken, Sophie had left her electronic walking puppy in one of the drawers. She eased it open. The bright plastic snout stared back.

Yes.

Jessica took the D-cell batteries out of the back, walked into the dining room. She slipped them into the flashlight. It blazed to life.

“Patrick. This is serious business.You’ve got to answer me.”

She didn’t expect a reply. She received none.

She took a deep breath, centered herself, then gradually descended the steps into the basement. The cellar was pitch black. Patrick had turned off the Maglite. Halfway down, Jessica stopped, ran the flashlight beam across the width of the room, cross-handed with her weapon. What was ordinarily so benign—the washer and dryer, the utility sink, the furnace and water softener, the golf clubs and summer furniture and all the other jumble of their lives—was now fraught with peril, etched out of long shadows.

Everything was exactly where she expected it to be.

Except Patrick.

She continued down the steps. She had a blind alcove to her right, the recess that held the circuit breakers and electrical panel. She ran the light as far into the niche as she could, and saw something that made her breath catch in her throat.

The telephone junction box.

The telephone had not gone out due to the storm.

The wires dangling from the junction box told her that the line had been cut.

She eased her foot onto the concrete floor of the basement. She ran her light around the room again. She began to back up, toward the front wall, when she nearly tripped over something. Something heavy. Metallic. She spun around to see that it was one of her free weights, the tenpound barbell.

And that’s when she saw Patrick. He was lying facedown, on the concrete. Near his feet was the other ten-pound weight. It appeared that he had fallen over it as he was backing up from the telephone box.

He was not moving.

“Get up,” she said. Her voice sounded raspy and weak. She pulled the hammer back on the Glock. The click echoed off the block walls. “Get... the fuck... up.”

He didn’t move.

Jessica stepped closer, nudged him with her foot. Nothing. No response at all. She eased the hammer back down, kept it pointed at Patrick. She bent down, slipped her hand around his neck. She felt for a pulse. It was there, strong.

But there was also dampness.

Her hand pulled back blood.

Jessica recoiled.

It appeared that Patrick had cut the phone line and then tripped over the barbell, knocking himself unconscious.

Jessica grabbed the Maglite on the floor next to Patrick, then ran upstairs and out the front door. She had to get to her cell phone. She stepped onto the porch. The rain continued to batter the awning overhead. She glanced up the street. The lights were out on the whole block. She could see branches lining the street like bones. The wind picked up in a fierce gust, drenching her in seconds. The street was deserted.

Except for the EMS van. The parking lights were off, but Jessica heard the engine, saw the exhaust. She holstered her weapon, ran across the street, through the torrent.

The medic was standing behind the van, just about to shut the doors. He turned to face Jessica as she approached.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Jessica could see the ID tag on his jacket. His name was Drew.

“Drew, I want you to listen to me,” Jessica said.

“Okay.”

“I’m a police officer. There is a wounded man in my house.”

“How bad?”

“I’m not sure, but I want you to listen to me. Don’t talk.”

“Okay.”

“My phone is out, the power is out. I need you to call in a nine-oneone. Tell them an officer needs assistance. I need every cop and his mother out here. Call it in, then get over to my house. He’s in the basement.”

A huge gust of wind blew a sheet of rain across the street. Leaves and debris swirled around her feet. Jessica found that she had to yell to be heard.

“Do you understand?” Jessica shouted.

Drew grabbed his bag, shut the back doors on the EMS van, held up his handheld radio. “Let’s go.”

Traffic crawled up Cottman Avenue. Byrne was less than half a mile from Jessica’s house. He approached a few of the side streets, found them blocked by branches and electrical wires, or too flooded to pass.

Cars were cautiously approaching inundated sections of the road, all but idling through. As Byrne approached Jessica’s street, the migraine bloomed fully. A car horn made him grip the wheel tightly, realizing he had been driving with his eyes closed.

He had to get to Jessica.

He parked the car, checked his weapon, and got out.

He was just a few blocks away.

The migraine surged as he turned his collar up against the wind. As he fought the gusts of rain, he knew that...

He is in the house.

Close.

He has not expected her to invite someone else inside. He wants her all to himself. He has plans for her and her daughter.

When the other man walked in the front door, his plans became . . . . . . altered, but not changed.

Even Christ had his obstacles this week.The Pharisees tried to trap Him into uttering blasphemy. Judas had, of course, betrayed Him to the chief priests, telling them where Christ could be found.

Christ was not deterred.

I will not be deterred, either.

I will deal with the intruder, this Iscariot.

In this dark cellar I will make this intruder pay with his life.

When they entered the house, Jessica pointed Drew to the basement.

“He’s at the bottom of the stairs, and to the right,” she said.

“Can you tell me anything about his injuries?” Drew asked.

“I don’t know,” Jessica said. “He’s unconscious.”

As the paramedic descended the stairs into the basement, Jessica heard him call in the 911 emergency.

She mounted the stairs to Sophie’s room. She unlocked the closet door. Sophie was awake and sitting up, lost in a forest of coats and slacks.

“You okay, baby?” she asked.

Sophie remained unresponsive.

“Mommy’s here, sweetie. Mommy’s here.”

She picked Sophie up. Sophie put her little arms around her neck. They were safe now. Jessica could feel Sophie’s heart beating against her.

Jessica crossed the bedroom to the front windows. The street was only partially flooded. She watched for backup.

“Ma’am?”

the Rosary girls 357

Drew was calling her.

Jessica walked to the top of the stairs. “What’s wrong?” “Uh, well, I don’t know how to tell you this.” “Tell me what?”

Drew said, “There’s no one in the basement.” Byrne turned the corner onto the pitch-black street. Fighting the wind, he had to walk around the huge tree limbs lying across the sidewalk and the road. He could see flickering lights in some windows, capering shadows dancing on the blinds. In the distance he saw a sparking electrical wire across a car.

There were no patrol cars from the Eighth. He tried his cell again. Nothing. No signal at all.

He had only been to Jessica’s house once. He had to look closely to see if he remembered which house it was. He did not.

This was, of course, one of the worst parts of living in Philadelphia. Even Northeast Philadelphia. At times, everything looked alike.

He stood in front of a twin that looked familiar. With the streetlights out, it was difficult to tell. He closed his eyes and tried to recall. The images of the Rosary Killer obscured everything else, like the hammers falling on an old manual typewriter, soft lead on bright white paper, smeary black ink. But he was too close to see the words.

Drew waited at the bottom of the basement stairs. Jessica lit the candles in the kitchen, then sat Sophie on one of the dinette chairs. She put her weapon on top of the fridge.

She descended the steps. The bloodstain on the concrete was still there. But Patrick was not.

“Dispatch said there’s a pair of patrol cars on the way,” he said. “But I’m afraid there’s no one down here.”

“Are you sure?”

Drew flashed his light around the basement. “Uh, well, unless you have a secret way out of here, he must have gone up the steps.”

Drew aimed his flashlight up the stairs. There were no bloody footprints on the treads. Wearing latex gloves, he knelt down and touched the blood on the floor. He slicked two fingers together.

“You’re saying he was just here?” he asked.

“Yes,” Jessica said. “Two minutes ago. As soon as I saw him, I ran upstairs and down the driveway.”

“How did he receive his injury?” he asked.

“I have no idea.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“Well, the police will be here any second. They can give the place a good going over.” He stood up. “Until then, we’ll probably be safe down here.”

What? Jessica thought.

We’ll probably be safe down here?

“Is your little girl okay?” he asked.

Jessica stared at the man. A cold hand squeezed her heart. “I never told you I had a little girl.”

Drew peeled off the gloves, tossed them into his bag.

In the flashlight beam, Jessica saw the blue chalk stains on his fingers and the deep scratch on the back of his right hand, at the same moment she noticed Patrick’s feet emerging from beneath the stairs.

And she knew. This man had never called in the 911. No one was coming. Jessica turned to run. To the stairs. To Sophie. To safety. But before she could move a hand shot out of the darkness.

Andrew Chase was upon her.

FRIDAY, 10:05 PM

It wasn’t Patrick Farrell. When Byrne had gone through the files at the hospital, it had all fallen into place.

Besides being treated by Patrick Farrell in the St. Joseph’s emergency room, the one thing that all five girls had in common was the ambulance service. They all lived in North Philly. They all used Glenwood Ambulance Group.

They were all treated first by Andrew Chase.

Chase had known Simon Close, and Simon had paid for that proximity with his life.

On the day she died, Nicole Taylor was not trying to write p-a-r-kh-u-r-s-t on her palm. She was trying to write p-a-r-a-m-e-d-i-c.

Byrne flipped open his cell phone, tried 911 one final time. Nothing. He checked the status. No bars. He wasn’t getting a signal. The patrol cars were not going to make it in time.

He’d have to go it alone.

Byrne stood in front of a twin, trying to shield his eyes from the rain.

Was this the house?

Think, Kevin. What were the landmarks he had seen the day he had picked her up? He could not remember.

He turned and looked behind him.

The van parked out front. Glenwood Ambulance Group.

This was the house.

He drew his weapon, chambered a round, and hurried up the driveway.

FRIDAY, 10:10 PM

Jessica struggled up from the bottom of the impenetrable fog. She was sitting on the floor in her own basement. It was nearly dark. She tried to enter both of these facts into an equation, and got no acceptable results.

And then reality came roaring back.

Sophie.

She tried to get to her feet, but her legs would not respond. She was

not bound in any way. Then she remembered. She had been injected with something. She touched her neck where the needle had penetrated, pulled back a dot of blood on her finger. In the faint light thrown by the flashlight behind her, the dot began to blur. She now understood the terror that the five girls had experienced.

But she was not a girl. She was a woman. A police officer.

Her hand went instinctively to her hip. Nothing there. Where was her weapon?

Upstairs. On top of the refrigerator.

Shit.

She felt nauseated for a moment, the world swimming, the floor seeming to undulate beneath her.

“It didn’t have to come to this you know,” he said. “But she fought it. She tried to throw it away herself once, but then she fought it. I’ve seen it over and over.”

The voice came from behind her. The sound was low, measured, edged with the melancholy of deep personal loss. He still held the flashlight. The beam danced and played about the room.

Jessica wanted to respond, to move, to lash out. Her spirit was willing. Her flesh was unable.

She was alone with the Rosary Killer. She had thought that backup was on the way, but it wasn’t. No one knew they were there together. Images of his victims flashed through her mind. Kristi Hamilton soaked in all that blood. The barbed-wire crown on Bethany Price’s head.

She had to keep him talking. “What...what do you mean?”

“They had every opportunity in life,” Andrew Chase said. “All of them. But they didn’t want it, did they? They were bright, healthy, whole. It wasn’t enough for them.”

Jessica managed to look to the top of the stairs, praying that she would not see Sophie’s little form there.

“These girls had it all, but they decided to throw it all away,” Chase said. “And for what?”

The wind howled outside the basement windows. Andrew Chase began to pace, the beam of his flashlight bouncing in the blackness.

“What chance did my little girl have?” he asked.

He has a child, Jessica thought. This is good.

“You have a little girl?” she asked.

Her voice sounded distant, as if she were talking through a metal pipe.

“I had a little girl,” he said. “She didn’t even get out of the gate.”

“What happened?” It was getting harder to form her words. Jessica didn’t know if she should make this man relive some tragedy, but she didn’t know what else to do.

“You were there.”

I was there? Jessica thought. What the hell is he talking about?

“I don’t know what you mean,” Jessica said.

“It’s okay,” he said. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“My...fault?”

“But the world went mad that night, didn’t it? Oh, yes. Evil was unleashed on the streets of this city and a great storm descended. My little girl was sacrificed. The righteous reaped reward.” His voice was rising in pitch and cadence. “Tonight I settle all debts.”

Oh my God, Jessica thought, the memory of that brutal Christmas Eve rushing back on a wave of nausea.

He was talking about Katherine Chase. The woman who miscarried in her squad car.Andrew and Katherine Chase.

“At the hospital they said things like ‘Oh don’t you worry, you can always have another baby.’ They don’t know. It was never the same for Kitty and me. With all the so-called miracles of modern medicine, they couldn’t save my little girl, and the Lord denied us another child.”

“It...it was nobody’s fault that night,” Jessica said. “It was a horrible storm.You remember.”

Chase nodded. “I remember all right. It took me nearly two hours to get to St. Katherine. I prayed to my wife’s patron saint. I offered a sacrifice of my own. But my little girl never came back.”

St. Katherine, Jessica thought. She’d been right.

Chase grabbed the nylon bag he had brought with him. He dropped it to the floor next to Jessica. “And do you really think that society is going to miss a man like Willy Kreuz? He was a pederast. A barbarian. He was the lowest form of human life.”

He reached into his bag, and began to remove items. He put them on the floor next to Jessica’s right leg. She slowly lowered her eyes. There was a cordless drill. There was a spool of sail maker’s thread, a huge curved needle, another glass syringe.

“It’s amazing what some men will tell you as if they were proud of it,” Chase said. “A few pints of bourbon. A few Percocets. All their terrible secrets bubble over.”

He began threading the needle. Depite the anger and rage in his voice, his hands were steady. “And the late Dr. Parkhurst?” he continued. “A man who used his position of authority to prey on young girls? Please. He was no different. The only thing that separated him from men like Mr. Kreuz was the pedigree. Tessa told me all about Dr. Parkhurst.”

Jessica tried to talk, but couldn’t. All her fear bottlenecked. She felt herself fade in and out of consciousness.

“Soon you will understand,” Chase said. “Easter Sunday there will be a resurrection.”

He placed the threaded needle on the floor, got within inches of Jessica’s face. In the dim light, his eyes looked burgundy. “The Lord asked Abraham for his child. And now the Lord has asked me for yours.”

Please, no, Jessica thought.

“It is time,” he said.

Jessica tried to move.

She couldn’t.

Andrew Chase walked up the steps.

Sophie.

Jessica opened her eyes. How long had she been out? She tried again to move. She could feel her arms, but not her legs. She tried to roll onto her side, failed. She tried to drag herself to the base of the steps, but the effort was too great.

Was she alone?

Had he left?

There was now a single candle lit. It sat on top of the dryer and threw

long, shimmering shadows on the unfinished ceiling of the basement. She strained to hear.

She nodded off again, startling herself awake seconds later. Footfalls behind her. It was so hard to keep her eyes open. So hard.

Her limbs felt like stone.

She turned her head as far as she could. When she saw Sophie in the

arms of this monster, a freezing rain rinsed her insides.

No, she thought.

No!

Take me.

I’m right here. Take me!

Andrew Chase put Sophie down on the floor next to her. Sophie’s

eyes were closed, her body limp.

Inside Jessica’s veins, the adrenaline fought the drug he had given her.

If she could just get up and get one clear shot at him, she knew she could

hurt him. He was heavier than her, but just about the same height. One

blow. With the rage and anger roiling inside her, it was all she needed. When he turned away from her momentarily, she saw that he had

found her Glock. He now had it in the waistband of his pants. Out of his field of vision, Jessica moved an inch closer to Sophie. The

effort seemed to exhaust her completely. She had to rest.

She tried to see if Sophie was breathing. She couldn’t tell. Andrew Chase turned back to them, the drill now in his hand. “It is time to pray,” he said.

He reached into his pocket, removed a carriage bolt.

“Prepare her hands,” he said to Jessica. He knelt down, put the cordless drill in Jessica’s right hand. Jessica felt the bile rise in her throat. She

was going to be sick.

“What?”

“She is only sleeping. I’ve given her only a small amount of midazolam. Drill her hands and I’ll let her live.” He took a rubber band out of his

pocket and put it around Sophie’s wrists. He placed a rosary between her

fingers. A rosary with no decades. “If you don’t do it, I will. Then I will

send her to God right in front of you.”

“I...I can’t...”

“You have thirty seconds.” He leaned forward, depressed Jessica’s

right forefinger on the trigger of the drill, testing it. The battery was fully

charged. The sound of the steel twisting in the air was nauseating. “Do it

now and she will live.”

Sophie looked at Jessica.

“She’s my daughter,” Jessica managed.

Chase’s face remained implacable, unreadable. The dancing candlelight drew long shadows over his features. He took the Glock from his

waistband, drew back the hammer, and placed the gun to Sophie’s head.

“You have twenty seconds.”

“Wait!”

Jessica felt her strength recede, return. Her fingers trembled. “Think of Abraham,” Chase said. “Think of the determination that

compelled him to the altar.You can do it.”

“I...I can’t.”

“We all must sacrifice.”

Jessica had to stall.

Had to.

“Okay,” she said. “Okay.” She closed her hand around the grip of the

drill. It felt heavy and cold. She tested the trigger a few times. The drill

responded, the carbon bit whirring.

“Bring her closer,” Jessica said weakly. “I can’t reach her.” Chase walked over, lifted Sophie. He put her down just a few inches

from Jessica. With her wrists banded together, Sophie’s hands were

steepled in prayer.

Jessica lifted the drill, slowly, resting it for a moment on her lap. She recalled her first medicine-ball training session at the gym. After

two or three reps, she wanted to quit. She was on her back, on a mat, the

heavy ball in her hands, completely spent. She couldn’t do it. Not one

more rep. She would never be a boxer. But before she could give up, a

wizened old heavyweight who had been sitting there, watching her—a

longtime fixture in Frazier’s Gym, a man who had once taken Sonny Liston the distance—told her that most people who fail don’t lack strength,

they lack will.

She had never forgotten him.

As Andrew Chase turned to step away, Jessica summoned all of her

will, all of her resolve, all of her strength. She would have one chance to

save her daughter, and the time to take that chance was now. She pressed

the trigger, locking it in the on position, then thrust the drill upward,

hard and fast and strong. The long drill bit dug deep into the left side of

Chase’s groin, puncturing skin and muscle and flesh, roaring far into his

body, finding and shredding his femoral artery. A warm gush of arterial

blood erupted into Jessica’s face, blinding her momentarily, making her

gag. Chase shrieked in pain as he reeled back, spinning, his legs starting to

give, his left hand jammed against the tear in his trousers, trying to stanch

the flow. Blood pumped between his fingers, silken and black in the dim

light. Reflexively he fired the Glock into the ceiling, the roar of the

weapon huge in the confined space.

Jessica fought her way to her knees, her ears ringing, fueled now by

adrenaline. She had to get in between Chase and Sophie. Had to move.

Had to get to her feet somehow and plunge the drill into his heart. Through the scarlet film of blood over her eyes, she saw Chase slam

to the floor, dropping the gun. He was halfway across the basement. He

screamed as he removed his belt and slipped it around the top of his left

thigh, the blood now covering his legs, pooling on the floor. He tightened

the tourniquet with a shrill, feral howl.

Could she drag herself to the weapon?

Jessica tried to crawl toward him, her hands slipping in the blood,

fighting for each inch. But before she could close the distance, Chase picked up the blood-slicked Glock, and slowly rose to his feet. He stumbled forward, manic now, a mortally wounded animal. Just a few feet away. He waved the gun in front of him, his face a tortured death

mask of agony.

Jessica tried to rise. She couldn’t. She had to hope that Chase would

get closer. She raised the drill with two hands.

Chase stumbled in.

Stopped.

He was not close enough.

She couldn’t reach him. He would kill them both.

Chase looked heavenward in that moment and screamed, the

unearthly sound filling the room, the house, the world, just as that world

came back to life, a bright and raucous coil suddenly sprung. The power had returned.

Upstairs, the television blared. Next to them, the furnace clicked on.

Above them, the light fixtures blazed.

Time ceased.

Jessica wiped the blood from her eyes, found her attacker in the

miasma of crimson. Crazily, the effects of the drug played havoc with her

eyes, splitting Andrew Chase into two images, blurring them both. Jessica closed her eyes, opened them, adjusting to the sudden clarity. It wasn’t two images. It was two men. Somehow Kevin Byrne was

standing behind Chase.

Jessica had to blink twice, just to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating. She wasn’t.

FRIDAY, 10:15 PM

In all his years in law enforcement, Byrne was always surprised to finally see the size and shape and demeanor of the people he sought. Rarely were they as big or grotesque as their deeds. He had a theory that the volume of someone’s monstrousness was often inversely proportional to his or her physical size.

Without debate, Andrew Chase was the ugliest, blackest soul he had ever encountered.

And now, as the man stood in front of him, not five feet away, he looked small, inconsequential. But Byrne would not be lulled or fooled by this. Andrew Chase was certainly not inconsequential in the lives of the families he had destroyed.

Byrne knew that, even though Chase was severely wounded, he did not have the drop on the killer. He did not have the upper hand. Byrne’s vision was clouded; his mind was a mire of indecision and rage. Rage over his life. Rage over Morris Blanchard. Rage over the way the Diablo affair had played out, and how it had turned him into everything he fought against. Rage over the fact that, had he been a little better at this job, he might have saved the lives of a number of innocent girls.

Like an injured cobra, Andrew Chase sensed him.

Byrne flashed on the old Sonny Boy Williamson track “Collector Man Blues,” on how it was time to open the door, because the collector man was here.

The door opened wide. Byrne fashioned his left hand into a familiar shape, the first one he learned when he began studying sign language.

I love you.

Andrew Chase spun around, red eyes ablaze, the Glock held high.

Kevin Byrne saw them all in this monster’s eyes. Every innocent victim. He raised his weapon.

Both men fired.

And, as it had once before, the world fell white and silent.

For Jessica, the twin explosions were deafening, stealing the rest of her hearing. She folded to the cold basement floor. There was blood everywhere. She could not lift her head.As she fell into the clouds, she tried to find Sophie in the charnel house of torn human flesh. Her heart slowed, her eyesight failed.

Sophie, she thought, fading, fading.

My heart.

My life.

EASTER SUNDAY, 11:05 A M

Her mother sat on the swing, her favorite yellow sundress accentuating the deep violet flecks in her eyes. Her lips were claret, her hair a lush mahogany in the summer sun.

The aroma of just-lit charcoal briquettes filled the air, carrying with it the sound of a Phillies game. Beneath it all—the giggles of her cousins, the scent of Parodi cigars, the aroma of vino di tavola.

Softly came forth the scratchy voice of Dean Martin crooning “Come Back to Sorrento” on vinyl. Always on vinyl. The technology of CDs had not yet moved into the mansion of her memories.

“Mom?” Jessica said.

“No, honey,” Peter Giovanni said. Her father’s voice was different.

Older somehow.

“Dad?”

“I’m here, baby.”

A wave of relief washed over her. Her father was there, and everything was going to be fine. Wasn’t it? He’s a police officer, you know. She opened her eyes. She felt weak, fully spent. She was in a hospital room but, as far as she could tell, she was not hooked to machines, nor an IV drip. Memory plodded back. She remembered the roar of the gunfire in the confines of her basement. It did not appear that she had been shot.

Her father stood at the foot of the bed. Behind him stood her cousin Angela. She turned her head to the right to see John Shepherd and Nick Palladino.

“Sophie,” Jessica said.

The silence that followed exploded her heart into a million pieces, each one a burning comet of fear. She looked from face to face, slowly, dizzyingly. Eyes. She needed to see their eyes. In hospitals, people say things all the time; usually the things that people wanted to hear.

There’s a good chance that...

With proper therapy and medication . . .

He’s the best in his field . . .

If she could just see her father’s eyes, she would know.

“Sophie’s fine,” her father said.

His eyes did not lie.

“Vincent’s down in the cafeteria with her.”

She closed her eyes, the tears now flowing freely. She could survive

whatever news came her way. Bring it on.

Her throat was raw and dry. “Chase,” she managed.

The two detectives looked at her, at each other.

“What happened...to Chase?” she repeated.

“He’s here. In ICU. In custody,” Shepherd said. “He was in surgery for

four hours. The bad news is, he’s going to make it. The good news is, he’s going to stand trial, and we have all the evidence we need. His house was a petri dish.”

Jessica closed her eyes for a moment, absorbing the news. Were Andrew Chase’s eyes really burgundy? She had a feeling they would be in her nightmares.

“Your friend Patrick didn’t make it, though,” Shepherd said. “I’m sorry.”

The insanity of that night seeped into her consciousness slowly. She had actually suspected Patrick of these crimes. Maybe, if she had believed him, he wouldn’t have come to her house that night. And that meant he would still be alive.

An overwhelming sorrow ignited deep within her.

Angela picked up the plastic tumbler of ice water, brought the straw to Jessica’s lips. Angie’s eyes were red and puffy. She smoothed Jessica’s hair, kissed her on the forehead.

“How did I get here?” Jessica asked.

“Your friend Paula,” Angela said. “She came over to see if your power had come back on. The back door was wide open. She went downstairs and she... she saw everything.” Angela teared up.

And then Jessica remembered. She almost could not bring herself to say the name. The very real possibility that he had traded his life for hers tore at her from the inside, a hungry beast fighting to get out.And, in this big, sterile building, there would be neither pill nor procedure that could ever heal that wound.

“What about Kevin?” she asked.

Shepherd looked at the floor, then at Nick Palladino.

When they looked back at Jessica, their eyes were grim.

CHASE ENTERS PLEA, RECEIVES LIFE SENTENCE by Eleanor Marcus-DeChant,

The ReportStaff Writer

Andrew Todd Chase, the so-called Rosary Killer, pleaded guilty Thursday to eight counts of first-degree murder, bringing to a close one of the bloodiest crime sprees in the history of Philadelphia. He was immediately remanded to the State Correctional Institution in Greene County, Pennsylvania.

In a plea agreement with the Philadelphia District Attorney’s office, the 32-year-old Chase pleaded guilty to the murders of Nicole T. Taylor, 17; Tessa A. Wells, 17; Bethany R. Price, 15; Kristi A. Hamilton, 16; Patrick M. Farrell, 36; Brian A. Parkhurst, 35; Wilhelm Kreuz, 42; and Simon E. Close, 33, all of Philadelphia. Mr. Close was a staff reporter at this paper.

In exchange for the plea, numerous other counts, including kidnapping, aggravated assault, and attempted murder, were dropped, along with the death penalty provision. Chase was sentenced by Municipal Court Judge Liam McManus to a life sentence, without the possibility of parole.

Chase remained silent and impassive at the hearing, during which he was represented by Benjamin W. Priest, a public defender.

Priest said that, considering the horrific nature of the crimes, and the overwhelming evidence against his client, the agreement was the best thing for Chase, a paramedic with the Glenwood Ambulance Group.

“Mr. Chase will now be able to receive the treatment he so desperately needs.”