Why don’t they cover her?

Of course, if they only realized how tormented a soul Bethany was, they wouldn’t be quite so upset.

I have to admit that I get a deep chill of excitement standing among the good citizens of my city, watching it all.

I’ve never seen so many police cars in my life.The flashing racks illuminate the parkway like a carnival midway. It is almost a festive atmosphere.There are about sixty or so people gathered. Death is always an attraction. Like a rollercoaster. Let’s get close, but not too close.

Unfortunately, we all get closer one day, whether we like it or not. What would they think if I opened my coat and showed them what I am carrying? I look to my right.There is a married couple standing next to me. They appear to be in their midforties, white, affluent, well dressed. “Do you have any idea what happened here?” I ask the husband. He looks at me, a quick up and down. I do not offend. I do not threaten.“I’m

not sure,” he says.“But I think they found another girl.”

“Another girl?”

“Another victim of that . . . rosary psycho.”

I cover my mouth in horror.“Seriously? Right here?”

They nod solemnly, mostly out of a smug sense of pride in being the ones to

tell me the news.They are the sort people who watch Entertainment Tonight

and immediately race to the phone to be the first to tell their friends about the

celebrity death du jour.

“I do hope they catch him soon,” I say.

“They won’t,” the wife says. She is wearing an expensive white wool cardigan. She carries an expensive umbrella. She has the tiniest teeth I’ve ever seen. “Why do you say that?” I ask.

“Between you and me,” she says, “the police are not always the sharpest

knives in the drawer.”

I look at her jawline, the slightly sagging skin on her neck. Does she know

that I could reach out, right now, take her face in my hands and snap her spinal

cord in one second?

I feel like it. I really do.

Arrogant, self-righteous bitch.

I should. But I won’t.

I have work to do.

Perhaps I’ll follow them home, and pay her a visit when this is all over.

TUESDAY, 10:30 PM

The crime scene stretched fifty yards in all directions. The traffic on the parkway was now bottlenecked to a single lane. Two uniformed officers directed the flow.

Byrne and Jessica watched Tony Park and John Shepherd instruct the Crime Scene Unit. They were the primary detectives on this case, although it was clear that the case would soon fall under the purview of the task force. Jessica leaned against one of the patrol cars, trying to sort out this nightmare. She glanced at Byrne. He was zoned, off on one of his mind jaunts.

Just then a man stepped forward from the crowd. Jessica saw him approaching out of the corner of her eye. Before she could react, he was upon her. She turned, defensive.

It was Patrick Farrell.

“Hey there,” Patrick said.

At first his presence at the scene was so out of place that Jessica

thought it was a man who looked like Patrick. It was one of those moments when someone who represents one part of your life steps into the other part of your life, and suddenly everything is a little off, a little skewed toward the unreal.

“Hi,” Jessica said, surprised at the sound of her voice. “What are you doing here?”

Standing just a few feet away, Byrne gave Jessica a look of concern, as if to ask: Everything okay? At moments like this, considering what they were there for, everyone was a little on edge, a little less trustful of the strange face.

“Patrick Farrell, my partner, Kevin Byrne,” Jessica said a little stiffly.

The two men shook hands. For an odd instant, Jessica was apprehensive about their meeting, although she had no idea why. This was compounded by a momentary flicker in Kevin Byrne’s eyes as the two men shook hands, a fleeting misgiving that dissolved as quickly as it had appeared.

“I was on my way to my sister’s house in Manayunk. I saw flashing lights, I stopped,” Patrick said. “It’s Pavlovian, I’m afraid.”

“Patrick is an ER physician at St. Joseph’s,” Jessica said to Byrne.

Byrne nodded, perhaps acknowledging the difficulties of a trauma room doctor, perhaps conceding their common ground as two men who patched the bloodied wounds of the city on a daily basis.

“A few years ago I saw an EMS rescue on the Schuylkill Expressway. I stopped and did an emergency trach. Ever since, I’ve never been able to pass a strobing rack.”

Byrne stepped closer, lowered his voice. “When we catch this guy, and if he just happens to get seriously injured in the process, and he just happens to get sent to your ER, take your time fixing him up, okay?”

Patrick smiled. “No problem.”

Buchanan approached. He looked like a man with the weight of a tenton mayor on his back. “Go home. Both of you,” he said to Jessica and Byrne. “I don’t want to see either of you until Thursday.”

He got no arguments from either detective.

Byrne held up his cell phone, said to Jessica: “Sorry about this. I turned it off. It won’t happen again.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jessica said.

“You want to talk, day or night, you call.”

“Thanks.”

Byrne turned to Patrick. “Nice to meet you, Doctor.”

“Pleasure,” Patrick said.

214 Richard montanari

Byrne turned on his heels, ducked under the yellow tape, and walked to his car.

“Look,” Jessica said to Patrick. “I’m going to stick around here for a little while, in case they need a warm body to canvass.”

Patrick glanced at his watch. “That’s cool. I’m off to my sister’s house anyway.”

Jessica touched his arm. “Why don’t you call me later? I shouldn’t be too long.”

“You sure?”

Absolutely not, Jessica thought.

“Absolutely.”

Patrick had a bottle of Merlot in one hand, a box of Godiva chocolate truffles in the other.

“No flowers?” Jessica asked with a wink. She opened her front door, let Patrick in.