The level of violence was escalating. The sight of Wilhelm Kreuz’s eviscerated corpse told them that this would not end with a peaceful arrest. The Rosary Killer’s rampage was going to end in a bloody siege.

They stood in front of the apartment, leaned against the CSU van.

After a few moments, one of the uniformed officers leaned out the window in Kreuz’s bedroom.

“Detectives?”

“What’s up?” Jessica asked.

“You might want to get up here.”

The woman appeared to be in her late eighties. Her thick glasses prismed rainbows in the spare, incandescent light thrown by the two bare bulbs in the hallway ceiling. She stood just inside her door, leaning over an aluminum walker. She lived two doors down from Wilhelm Kreuz’s apartment. She smelled like cat litter, Bengay, and kosher salami. Her name was Agnes Pinsky.

The uniform said: “Tell this gentleman what you just told me,

ma’am.”

“Huh?”

Agnes wore a torn, sea-foam terry housecoat, buttoned a single button off. The left side hem was higher than the right, revealing knee-high support hose and a calf-length blue wool sock.

“When was the last time you saw Mr. Kreuz?” Byrne asked. “Willy? He’s always nice to me,” she said.

“That’s great,” Byrne said. “When did you see him last?” Agnes Pinsky looked from Jessica to Byrne, back. It seemed she just

realized she was talking to strangers. “How did you find me?” “We just knocked on your door, Mrs. Pinsky.”

“Is he sick?”

“Sick?” Byrne asked. “Why do you say that?”

“His doctor was here.”

“When was his doctor here?”

“Yesterday,” she said. “His doctor came to see him yesterday.” “How do you know it was a doctor?”

“How do I know? Hell’s a matter with you? I know what doctors look

like. I don’t have old timer’s.”

“Do you know what time the doctor came?”

Agnes Pinsky stared at Byrne for an uncomfortable amount of time.

Whatever she had been talking about had slid back into the murky recesses of her mind. She had the look of someone waiting impatiently for her change at the post office.

They would send up a sketch artist, but the chances of getting a workable image were slim.

Still, from what Jessica knew about Alzheimer’s and dementia, certain images were quite often razor sharp.

His doctor came to see him yesterday.

There was only one Sorrowful Mystery left, Jessica thought as she descended the steps.

Where would they go next? Into which neighborhood would they come with their guns and their battering rams? Northern Liberties? Glenwood? Tioga?

Into whose face would they peer, sullen and lost for words? If they were late again, there was no doubt in any of their minds. The last girl would be crucified.

Five of the six detectives gathered upstairs in the Lincoln Room at Finnigan’s Wake. The room was theirs, closed off for the time being from the public. Downstairs, the juke played the Corrs.

“So, what, we’re dealing with a fucking vampire now?” Nick Palladino asked. He stood at the tall windows overlooking Spring Garden Street. The Ben Franklin Bridge hummed in the distance. Palladino was a man who thought best on his feet, rocking on his heels, hands in pockets, jingling change.

“I mean, gimme a gangbanger,” Nick went on. “Gimme a homeboy and his Mac-Ten, lighting up some other asshole over turf, over a short bag, over honor, code, whatever. I understand that shit. This?”

Everyone knew what he meant. It was so much easier when the motives hung on the exterior of the crime like a shingle. Greed was the easiest. Follow the green footprints.

Palladino was on a roll. “Payne and Washington got the squeal on that JBM banger in Gray’s Ferry the other night, right?” he continued. “Now I hear they found the shooter dead over on Erie. That’s the way I like it, nice and neat.”

Byrne shut his eyes for a second, opened them to a brand-new day. John Shepherd came up the stairs. Byrne motioned to the waitress,

Margaret. She brought John a Jim Beam, neat.

“The blood was all Kreuz’s,” Shepherd said. “The girl died from a bro

ken neck. Just like the others.”

“And the blood in the cup?” Tony Park asked.

“That belonged to Kreuz. The ME thinks that, before he bled out, he

was fed the blood through the straw.”

“He was fed his own blood,” Chavez said on the tail of a full bodyshiver. It wasn’t a question; merely the stating of something too hard to

comprehend.

“Yeah,” Shepherd replied.

“It’s official,” Chavez said. “I’ve seen it all.”

The six detectives absorbed this. The attendant horrors of the Rosary

Killer case were growing exponentially.

“Drink of it, all of you; for this is my blood of covenant, which is

poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins,” Jessica said. Five sets of eyebrows raised. Everyone turned their head toward Jessica.

“I’ve been doing a lot of reading,” she said. “Holy Thursday was

known as Maundy Thursday. This is the day of the Last Supper.” “So this Kreuz was our doer’s Peter?” Palladino asked.

Jessica could only shrug. She had thought about it. The rest of the

night would probably be spent tearing apart Wilhelm Kreuz’s life, looking for any connection that might turn into a lead.

“Did she have anything in her hands?” Byrne asked.

Shepherd nodded. He held up a photocopy of a digital photograph.

The detectives gathered around the table. They took their turns examining the photo.

“What is it, a lottery ticket?” Jessica asked.

“Yeah,” Shepherd said.

“Oh, that’s fucking great,” Palladino said. He walked back to the window, hands in pocket.

“Prints?” Byrne asked.

Shepherd shook his head.

“Can we find out where this ticket was purchased?” Jessica asked. “Got a call into the commission already,” Shepherd said. “We should

hear from them anytime now.”

Jessica stared at the photo. Their killer had placed a Big 4 ticket into

the hands of his most recent victim. Chances were good that it was not

simply a taunt. Like the other objects, it was a clue as to where the next