He stepped into the Crystal Coffee Shop, a twenty-four-hour spoon he had frequented many mornings with Jimmy. There was a pall over the regulars. They’d heard the news. He grabbed a paper and a large coffee, wondering if he’d ever be back. When he exited, he saw that someone was leaning against his car.

It was Jessica.

The emotion almost took his legs.

This kid, he thought. This kid is something.

“Hey there,” she said.

“Hey.”

“I was sorry to hear about your partner.”

“Thanks,” Byrne said, trying to keep it all in check. “He was...he was one of a kind.You would’ve liked him.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

She had a way about her, Byrne thought. A way that made questions like that sound sincere, not like the bullshit that people say just to go on record.

“No,” Byrne said. “Everything’s under control.”

“If you want to take the day...”

Byrne shook his head. “I’m good.”

“You sure?” Jessica asked.

“Hundred percent.”

Jessica held up the Rosarium letter.

“What’s that?” Byrne asked.

“I think it’s the key to our guy’s mind.”

Jessica briefed him on what she had learned, along with details of her meeting with Eddie Kasalonis. As she talked, she saw a number of things crawl across Kevin Byrne’s face. Two of them mattered most.

Respect for her as a detective.

And, more importantly, determination.

“There’s somebody we should talk to before we brief the team,” Jessica said. “Somebody who could put this all in perspective.”

Byrne turned and looked once, briefly, toward Jimmy Purify’s house. He turned back and said: “Let’s rock.”

They sat with Father Corrio at a small table near the front window of Anthony’s, a coffeehouse on Ninth Street in South Philly.

“There are twenty mysteries of the rosary in all,” Father Corrio said. “They are grouped into four groups. The Joyful, The Sorrowful, The Glorious, and the Luminous.”

The notion that their doer was planning twenty murders was not lost on anyone at that table. Father Corrio didn’t seem to think that was the case.

“Strictly speaking,” he continued, “the mysteries are assigned days of the week. The Glorious Mysteries are observed on Sunday and Wednesday, the Joyful Mysteries on Monday and Saturday. The Luminous Mysteries, which are relatively new, are observed on Thursday.”

“What about the Sorrowful?” Byrne asked.

“The Sorrowful Mysteries are observed on Tuesday and Friday. Sundays during Lent.”

Jessica did the math in her head, counting back the days from the discovery of Bethany Price. It didn’t fit the pattern of observance.

“The majority of the mysteries are celebratory,” Father Corrio said. “They include the Annunciation, the baptism of Jesus, the Assumption, the resurrection of Christ. It is only the Sorrowful Mysteries that deal with suffering and death.”

“And there are only five Sorrowful Mysteries, right?” Jessica asked.

“Yes,” Father Corrio said. “But keep in mind that the rosary is not universally accepted. There are objectors.”

“How so?” Jessica asked.

“Well, there are those who find the rosary unecumenical.”

“Not sure what you mean,” Byrne said.

“The rosary celebrates Mary,” Father Corrio said. “It venerates the mother of God, and some believe that the Marian character of the prayer does not glorify Christ.”

“How does that apply to what we’re facing here?”

Father Corrio shrugged. “Perhaps the man you seek does not believe in the virginal state of Mary. Perhaps he is, in his own sick way, trying to return these girls to God in such a state.”

The thought sent a shudder through Jessica. If that was his motive, then when, and why, would he ever stop?

Jessica reached into her folio, held up the photographs of the insides of Bethany Price’s palms, the numbers 7 and 16.

“Do these numbers mean anything to you?” Jessica asked.

Father Corrio slipped on his bifocals, looked at the photos. It was apparent that the wounds caused by the drill through the young girl’s hands were disturbing to him.

“It could be many things,” Father Corrio said. “Nothing comes immediately to mind.”

“I checked page seven hundred sixteen in the Oxford Annotated Bible,” Jessica said. “It was in the middle of the book of Psalms. I read the text, but nothing jumped out.”

Father Corrio nodded, but remained silent. It was clear that the book of Psalms, in this context, didn’t strike a chord within him.

“What about a year? Does the year seven sixteen have any significance in the church that you know of?” Jessica asked.

Father Corrio smiled. “I minored in English, Jessica,” he said. “I’m afraid that history was not my best subject. Outside of knowing that Vatican One was convened in 1869, I’m not much good on dates.”

Jessica went through the scribbled notes she had taken the night before. She was running out of ideas.

“Did you happen to find a scapular on this girl by any chance?” Father Corrio asked.

Byrne went through his notes. A scapular was essentially two small, square pieces of woolen cloth connected to each other by two strings or bands. It was worn in such a way that, when the bands rested on the shoulders, one segment rested in the front, while the other rested in the back. Usually, scapulars were given as a gift for the first communion—a gift set that often included a rosary, a chalice-and-host pin, and a satin bag.

“Yes,” Byrne said. “She had a scapular around her neck when she was found.”

“Is it a brown scapular?”

Byrne scanned his notes again. “Yes.”

“You might want to look closely at it,” Father Corrio said.

Quite often, scapulars were encased in clear plastic to protect them, as was the one found on Bethany Price. Her scapular had already been dusted for prints. None had been found. “Why is that, Father?”

“Every year there is a feast of the Scapular, a day devoted to Our Lady of Mount Carmel. It is the anniversary of the day the Blessed Virgin appeared to Saint Simon Stock and presented him with a monk’s scapular. She told him that whoever wore it would not suffer eternal fire.”