Broken Angels (7 page)

12

St. Seraphim was a tall, narrow structure on Sixth Street in North Philadelphia. With its cream stucco front, tall turrets, and golden onion domes above, the church—founded in 1897—was an imposing edifice, one of the oldest Russian Orthodox churches in Philadelphia. Jessica, having been raised Roman Catholic, didn’t know much about the Orthodox Christian religions. She knew there were similarities in the practices of confession and communion, but that was about it.

Byrne was attending a review board and press conference regarding the incident in the diner. The review board was mandatory; the press conference was not. But Jessica had never known Byrne to shy away from his actions. He would be there, front and center, badge polished, shoes shined. It seemed that the families of both Laura Clarke and Anton Krotz felt the police should have handled the fraught situation differently. The press was all over it. Jessica had wanted to be there as a show of support, but her orders were to continue the investigation. Kristina Jakos deserved a timely inquiry. To say nothing of the very real concern that her killer was still on the loose.

Jessica and Byrne would meet up later in the day and she would brief him on any developments. If it got late they would meet at Finnigan’s Wake. There was going to be a retirement party for a detective that night. Cops never miss a retirement party.

Jessica had called the church and made an appointment with Father Gregory Panov. While Jessica conducted the interview, Josh Bontrager canvassed the immediate area surrounding the church.

jessica pegged the young priest at twenty-five or so. He was jovial, clean-shaven, dressed in black slacks and black shirt. She handed him a card, introduced herself. They shook hands. He had a sparkle in his eyes, suggesting a bit of the mischief.

“What should I call you?” Jessica asked.
“Father Greg will be fine.”
Ever since she could remember, Jessica had been fawningly reverential around men of the cloth. Priests, rabbis, ministers. In her line of work it was a hazard—the clergy could certainly be as guilty of a crime as anyone—but she couldn’t seem to help it. The Catholic school mentality had been implanted deeply. More like hammered in.

Jessica took out her notebook.
“I understand Kristina Jakos was a volunteer here,” Jessica said. “Yes. I believe she still is.” Father Greg had dark, intelligent eyes,

slight laugh lines. His expression told Jessica that the tense of her verb was not lost on him. He crossed the room to the door, opened it. He called out to someone. A few seconds later, a pretty, light-haired girl of fourteen or so arrived, spoke to him softly in Ukrainian. Jessica heard Kristina’s name mentioned. The girl left. Father Greg returned.

“Kristina is not here today.”

Jessica summoned her courage to say what she had to say. It was tougher to say it in a church. “I’m afraid I have bad news, Father. Kristina was killed.”

Father Greg paled. He was an inner-city priest, in a tough area of North Philly, and thus probably braced for such news, but that didn’t mean it ever came easy. He looked down at Jessica’s business card. “You are with the homicide division.”
“Yes.”
“Are you saying she was murdered?”
“Yes.”
Father Greg glanced at the floor for a moment, closed his eyes. He

brought a hand to his heart. After a deep breath he looked up and asked, “How can I help?”
Jessica held up her notebook. “I just have a few questions.”
“Whatever you need.” He gestured to a pair of chairs. “Please.” They sat.
“What can you tell me about Kristina?” Jessica asked.
Father Greg took a few moments. “I did not know her that well, but I can tell you she was very outgoing,” he said. “Very giving. The children here really liked her.”
“What did she do here exactly?”
“She helped out at the Sunday-school classes. Mostly in the role of assistant. But she was willing to do just about anything.”
“For instance.”
“Well, in preparation for our Christmas concert, like many volunteers, she painted backdrops, sewed costumes, helped nail together the sets.”
“A Christmas concert?”
“Yes.”
“And that concert is this week?”
Father Greg shook his head. “No. Our Holy Day Divine Liturgies are celebrated according to the Julian calendar.”
The Julian calendar sort of rang a bell for Jessica, but she couldn’t remember what it was. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with that.”
“The Julian calendar was begun by Julius Caesar in 46 BC. It is sometimes designated by OS, meaning Old Style. Unfortunately, for many of our younger parishioners, OS means Operating System. I’m afraid the Julian calendar is woefully outdated in a world of computers, cell phones, and DirecTV.”
“So you don’t celebrate Christmas on December twenty-fifth?”
“No,” he said. “I’m not a scholar in these matters, but it is my understanding that, as opposed to the Gregorian calendar, due to solstices and equinoxes, the Julian calendar has picked up a full day every 134 years or so. Thus we celebrate Christmas January seventh.”
“Ah,” Jessica said. “Good way to pick up on the after-Christmas sales.” She was trying to lighten the mood. She hoped she wasn’t being disrespectful.
Father Greg’s smile lit up his face. He really was a handsome young man. “And Easter candy, as well.”
“Can you find out when Kristina was last here?” Jessica asked.
“Certainly.” He stood, walked over to a huge calendar tacked to the wall behind his desk. He scanned the dates. “It would have been a week ago today.”
“And you haven’t seen her since?”
“I have not.”
Jessica had to get to the hard part. She wasn’t sure how to go about it, so she dove right in. “Do you know of anyone who may have wanted to harm her? A spurned suitor, ex-boyfriend, something like that? Perhaps someone here at the church?”
Father Greg narrowed his brow. It was clear that he did not want to think of anyone in his flock as a potential killer. But there seemed to be an air of ancient wisdom about him, tempered by a strong sense of the street. Jessica was sure he was wise to the ways of the city, the dark motives of the heart. He circled the far side of his desk, sat back down. “I did not know her all that well, but people talk, yes?”
“Of course.”
“I understand that, as fun loving as she may have been, there was a sadness about her.”
“How so?”
“It seemed as if she might have been a penitent. Perhaps there was something in her life that filled her with guilt.”
It was as if she was doing something about which she was ashamed,
Sonja had said.
“Any idea what that might be?” Jessica asked.
“No,” he said. “I am sorry. But I must tell you that sadness is a common thing among Ukrainians. We are a gregarious people, but we’ve had a hard history.”
“Are you saying she may have had the potential to harm herself?”
Father Greg shook his head. “I cannot say for sure, but I don’t think so.”
“Do you think she was the sort of person to intentionally put herself in harm’s way? To take chances?”
“Again, I do not know. It’s just that she—”
He stopped himself abruptly, ran a hand over his jaw. Jessica gave him an opportunity to continue. He did not.
“What were you about to say?” she asked.
“Do you have a few moments?”
“Absolutely.”
“There is something you should see.”
Father Greg rose from his chair, crossed the small room. In one corner was a metal cart holding a nineteen-inch television. Beneath it was a VHS machine. Father Greg flipped on the TV, then walked over to a glass-front cabinet full of books and tapes. He searched for a moment, extracted a VHS tape. He inserted the tape into the VCR, hit play.
A few moments later an image appeared. It was handheld footage, sparsely lit. The image on the screen quickly resolved to Father Greg. He had shorter hair, wore a plain white shirt. He was seated on a chair, surrounded by young children. He was reading them some sort of fable, a story regarding an old couple and their granddaughter, a little girl who was able to fly. Behind him stood Kristina Jakos.
Onscreen Kristina wore faded jeans and a black Temple University sweatshirt. When Father Greg was finished with the story, he stood, removed his chair. The children gathered around Kristina. It appeared that she was teaching them a folk dance. Her students were about a dozen five- and six-year-old girls, adorable in their red and green Christmas outfits. Some wore traditional Ukrainian costumes. The girls all looked at Kristina as if she were a fairy princess. The camera panned left, found Father Greg at a battered spinet piano. He began to play. The camera turned back to Kristina and the children.
Jessica glanced at the priest. Father Greg watched the videotape, rapt. Jessica could see that his eyes were getting shiny.
On the videotape the children all followed Kristina’s slow, deliberate movements, miming her actions. Jessica didn’t know all that much about dance, but Kristina Jakos seemed to move with a gentle grace. Jessica couldn’t help but see Sophie in that little group. She thought about the way Sophie often followed Jessica around the house, mimicking her movements.
Onscreen, when the music finally stopped, the little girls ran around in a circle, eventually crashing into each other and falling into a giggling, brightly colored pile. Kristina Jakos laughed as she helped them to their feet.
Father Greg hit pause, freezing Kristina’s smiling, slightly blurred image on the screen. He turned back to Jessica. His face was a collage of joy and confusion and bereavement. “As you can see, she will be missed.”
Jessica nodded, at a loss for words. She had just recently seen Kristina Jakos, posed in death, horribly mutilated. Now the young woman was smiling at her. Father Greg broke the awkward silence.
“You were raised Catholic,” he said.
It seemed to be a statement, not a question. “What makes you think that?”
He held up her card. “Detective Balzano.”
“It’s my married name.”
“Ah,” he said.
“But yes, I was.
Am.
” She laughed. “What I mean is, I’m still Catholic.”
“Practicing?”
Jessica was right in her assumptions. Orthodox priests and Catholic priests
do
have a lot in common. They both had a way of making you feel like a heathen. “I try.”
“As do we all.”
Jessica scanned her notes. “Is there anything else you can think of that might help us?”
“Nothing comes readily to mind. But I will ask among the people here who knew Kristina better,” Father Greg said. “Perhaps someone will know something.”
“I’d appreciate it.” Jessica said. “Thank you for your time.”
“You are most welcome. I am sorry it had to be on such a tragic day.”
As Jessica put her coat on at the door, she glanced back into the small office. A somber gray light sifted through the leaded glass windows. Her last image from St. Seraphim was of Father Greg; his arms crossed, his face brooding, watching the freeze-framed image of Kristina Jakos.

13

The press conference was a zoo. It was held in front of the Roundhouse, near the statue of the police officer holding the child. This entrance was closed to the public.

Today there were twenty or so reporters—print, radio, and television. On the tabloid menu: roasted police officer. The media was a slavering horde.

Whenever a police officer was involved in a controversial shooting— or a shooting made controversial by a special interest group, a reporter with a dull axe, or for any number of headline-generating reasons—it was incumbent upon the police department to respond. Depending on the circumstances, a variety of respondents might take on the task. Sometimes it was Internal Affairs, sometimes the commanding officer of a particular district, sometimes even the commissioner himself if the situation, and the city politics, warranted. Press conferences were as necessary as they were annoying. It was a time for the department to pull together for one of their own.

This conference was run by Andrea Churchill, the Public Affairs Inspector. In her mid-forties, a former patrol officer in the Twenty-sixth District, Andrea Churchill was a scrapper, and more than once Byrne had seen her shut down an inappropriate line of questioning with a stare from her ice blue eyes. In her time on the street she had received sixteen merit awards, fifteen citations, six Fraternal Order of Police awards and the Danny Boyle Award. To Andrea Churchill, a pack of clamoring, bloodthirsty reporters was a Tastykake for breakfast.

Byrne stood behind her. To his right was Ike Buchanan. Behind him, in a loose semicircle, were seven other detectives, street faces in place, jaws firm, badges out front. The temperature was around fifteen degrees. They could have held the conference in the lobby of the Roundhouse. The decision to make a bunch of reporters wait around in the cold was not lost on anyone. The conference was mercifully winding down.

“We are confident that Detective Byrne followed procedure to the letter of the law on that terrible night,” Churchill said.
“What
is
the procedure for a situation like that?” This from the
Daily News
.
“There are specific rules of engagement. The officer must consider the life of the hostage first.”
“Was Detective Byrne on duty?”
“He was off duty at the time.”
“Will there be charges filed against Detective Byrne?”
“As you know, this is up to the district attorney’s office. But at this time they have informed us that there will be no charges.”
Byrne knew exactly how it was going to go from here. The media had already begun the public rehabilitation of Anton Krotz—his terrible childhood, his mistreatment by the system. There had also been an article on Laura Clarke. Byrne was sure she was a fine woman, but the piece had made her out to be a saint. She worked at a local hospice, she helped save greyhounds, she had done a year in the peace corps.
“Is it true that Mr. Krotz was once in police custody and then let go?” a reporter for
City Paper
asked.
“Mr. Krotz was questioned by police two years ago in connection with a homicide, but was released due to insufficient evidence.” Andrea Churchill glanced at her watch. “If there are no more questions at this time—”
“She didn’t have to die.” The words came from the back of the crowd. It was a plaintive voice, hoarse with exhaustion.
All heads turned. Cameras followed. Matthew Clarke stood at the back of the throng. His hair was unkempt, he sported a few days’ growth of beard, he wore no overcoat, no gloves, just a suit in which it appeared he had slept. He looked pitiful. Or, more accurately,
pitiable
.
“He gets to go about his life as if nothing happened,” Clarke pointed an accusatory finger at Kevin Byrne. “What do
I
get? What do my
children
get?”
For the press this was fresh chum in the water.
A reporter for
The Report,
a weekly tabloid rag with which Byrne had a not so amicable history yelled, “Detective Byrne, how do you feel about the fact that a woman was killed right in front of you?”
Byrne felt the Irish rise, his fists clench. Flashbulbs flashed. “How do I
feel
?” Byrne asked. Ike Buchanan put a hand on his arm. There was more Byrne wanted to say, much more, but Ike’s grasp tightened, and he knew what it meant.
Be cool.
When Clarke moved to approach Byrne, a pair of uniformed officers grabbed him and hustled him away from the building. More flashbulbs.
“Tell us Detective! How do you
feeeeeel
?” Clarke shouted.
Clarke was drunk. Everyone knew it, but who could blame him? He had just lost his wife to violence. The officers took him to the corner of Eighth and Race and let him go. Clarke tried to smooth his hair, his clothing, find a little dignity in the moment. The officers—a pair of big kids in their twenties—blocked his path back.
A few seconds later Clarke disappeared around the corner. The last thing any of them heard was Matthew Clarke screaming “This... isn’t...
over
!”
A stunned silence held the crowd for a moment, then the reporters and cameras all turned to Byrne. Beneath a blitzkrieg of flashing bulbs, the questions rang out.
“—could’ve prevented this?”
“—anything to say to the victim’s daughters?”
“—would you do if you had to do it all over?”
Shielded by a wall of blue, Detective Kevin Byrne headed back into the building.