Broken Angels (8 page)

14

They met in the church basement every week. Some weeks there were as few as three people attending, other times there were upwards of a dozen. Some people came back over and over again. Some came once, unburdened their sorrows, and never returned. The New Page Ministry asked for no fee, no donations. The door was always open—sometimes a knock came in the middle of the night, often on holidays—and there were always pastries and coffee for all. Smoking was definitely permitted.

They would not be meeting in the church basement for much longer. Contributions had been coming in steadily for a bright, airy space on Second Street. They were currently renovating the building—in the drywall stage at the moment, paint next. With any luck they would be able to meet there around the first of the year.

For now the basement of the church was a refuge, as it had been for years, a familiar place where tears were shed, outlooks renewed, and lives mended. For Pastor Roland Hannah it was a portal to the souls of his flock, the source of a river running deep into their hearts. They had all been victims of a violent crime. Or were related to someone who had. Robberies, assault, burglary, rape, murder. Kensington was a hard part of the city, and hardly anyone walking the streets was untouched by wrongdoing. These people were the ones who wanted to talk about it, the folks who had been altered by the experience, the ones whose souls cried out for answers, for sense, for salvation.

Today six people sat in a semicircle on unfolded chairs.

“I didn’t hear him,” Sadie said. “He was quiet. He come up behind me, hit me over the head, stole my pocketbook, and ran.”
Sadie Pierce was in her mid-seventies. She was a slight, skeletal woman with hands long knotted by arthritis, a head full of henna-dyed hair. She always dressed in bright red, head to toe. She had once been a singer, working the Catskill circuit in the fifties, known as the Scarlet Thrush.
“Have they recovered your belongings?” Roland asked.
Sadie glared, all the answer anyone needed. Everyone knew the police were neither inclined nor motivated to track down some old lady’s taped and patched and frayed pocketbook, regardless of its contents.
“How are you faring?” Roland asked.
“Just so,” she said. “There wasn’t much money, but it was the personal items, you know? Pictures of my Henry. And then all my papers. You can’t hardly buy a cup of coffee without your ID these days.”
“Tell Charles what you need and we’ll make sure you get bus fare to the appropriate agencies.”
“Thank you, Pastor,” Sadie said. “Bless you.”
The meetings of the New Page Ministry were informal, but they always moved forward in a clockwise direction. If you wanted to speak, but needed the time to organize your thoughts, you sat to Pastor Roland’s right. And so it went. Next to Sadie Pierce sat a man they all knew only by his first name, Sean.
In his twenties, quiet and respectful and unassuming, Sean had drifted into the group a year or so earlier, attending more than ten times. At first, not unlike the actions of someone entering a twelve-step program like Alcoholics or Gamblers Anonymous—unsure of his need for the group or the group’s usefulness—Sean had hung around the periphery, hugging the walls, staying some days for just a few minutes. Eventually he got closer and closer. These days he sat with the group. He always left a small donation in the jar. He still had not told his story. “Welcome back, Brother Sean,” Roland said.
Sean reddened slightly, smiled. “Hi.”
“How are you feeling?” Roland asked.
Sean cleared his throat. “Okay, I suppose.”
Many months earlier Roland had given Sean a brochure for CBH, the Community Behavioral Health organization. He did not think Sean had made an appointment. Asking about it might make things worse, so Roland stayed his tongue.
“Is there anything you would like to share today?” Roland asked.
Sean hesitated. He wrung his hands. “No, I’m fine, thanks. I think I’ll just listen.”
“The good Lord loves a listener,” Roland said. “Bless you, Brother Sean.”
Roland turned to the woman next to Sean. Her name was Evelyn Reyes. She was a large woman, in her late forties, a diabetic who walked with the aid of a cane most days. She had never spoken before. Roland could tell that it was time. “Let us all welcome back Sister Evelyn.”
“Welcome,” they all said.
Evelyn looked up, from face to face. “I don’t know if I can.”
“You are in the house of the Lord, Sister Evelyn. You are among friends. Nothing can harm you here,” Roland said. “Do you believe this to be true?”
She nodded.
“Please unburden your sorrows. When you are ready.”
Tentatively, she began her story. “It started a long time ago.” Her eyes welled with tears. Charles brought over a box of Kleenex, retreated, sat in his chair by the door. Evelyn grabbed a tissue, dabbed her eyes, mouthed a thank you to Charles. She took another long moment, continued. “We were a large family back then,” she said. “Ten brothers and sisters. Twenty or so cousins. Over the years we all married, had children. We would have picnics every year, big family get-togethers.”
“Where did you meet?” Roland asked.
“Sometimes in spring and summer we would meet at Belmont Plateau. But mostly we would meet at my house. You know, over on Jasper Street?”
Roland nodded. “Please go on.”
“Well, my daughter Dina was just a little girl in those days. She had the biggest brown eyes. A shy smile. Kind of a tomboy, you know?
Loved
to play the boys’ games.”
Evelyn’s brow furrowed. She took a deep breath.
“We didn’t know it at the time,” she continued, “but at some of these family gatherings she had...trouble with someone.”
“With whom did she have trouble?” Roland asked.
“It was her uncle Edgar. Edgar Luna. My sister’s husband.
Ex
- husband now. They would play together. Or at least that was what we thought at the time. He was an adult, but we didn’t give it much mind. He was family, right?”
“Yes,” Roland said.
“Over the years Dina got quieter and quieter. All through her young teenage years she didn’t play much with friends, didn’t go to the movies or the mall. We all thought it was a shy phase she was going through. You know how children can be.”
“Oh my, yes,” Roland said.
“Well, time passed. Dina grew up. Then, just a few years ago, she had a breakdown. Like a nervous condition. She couldn’t work. She couldn’t do much of anything. We couldn’t afford any professional help for her, so we did the best we could.”
“Of course you did.”
“Then one day, not long ago, I found this. It was hidden on the top shelf of Dina’s closet.” Evelyn reached into her purse. She produced a letter written on bright pink paper, a child’s stationery with sculpted edges. At the top were festive, brightly colored balloons. She unfolded the letter, handed it to Roland. It was addressed to God.
“She wrote this when she was only eight years old,” Evelyn said.
Roland read the letter from start to finish. It was written in a child’s innocent hand. It told a horrifying tale of repeated sexual abuse. Paragraph after paragraph detailed what Uncle Edgar had done to Dina in the basement of her own house. Roland felt the rage rise within. He asked the Lord for calm.
“This went on for
years,
” Evelyn said.
“Which years were these?” Roland asked. He folded the letter, slipping it into his shirt pocket.
Evelyn thought for a moment. “Through the mid-nineties. Right until my daughter was thirteen. We never knew any of this. She had always been a quiet girl, even before the problems, you know? She kept her feelings to herself.”
“What happened to Edgar?”
“My sister divorced him. He moved back to Winterton, New Jersey, where he was originally from. His parents passed a few years back, but he still lives there.”
“You haven’t seen him since?”
“No.”
“Did Dina ever speak to you of these things?”
“No, Pastor. Never.”
“How is your daughter faring of late?”
Evelyn’s hands began to tremble. For a moment, the words seemed locked in her throat. Then: “My baby is dead, Pastor Roland. Last week she took pills. She took her life, as if it were hers to take. We put her in the ground over in York, where I’m from.”
The shock that went around the room was tangible. No one spoke.
Roland reached out, held the woman, putting his arms around her big shoulders, embracing her as she unabashedly wept. Charles stood and left the room. In addition to the possibility of his emotions overcoming him, there was much to do now, much to prepare.
Roland sat back in his chair, gathered his thoughts. He held out his hands and they all linked together in a circle. “Let us entreat the Lord for the soul of Dina Reyes, and the souls of all who loved her,” Roland said.
Everyone closed their eyes, began to silently pray.
When they were finished, Roland stood. “He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted.”
“Amen,” someone said.
Charles returned, stood in the doorway. Roland met his gaze. Of the many things with which Charles had trouble in this life—some of them simple tasks, many of them things most take for granted—working on a computer was not among them. The Lord had blessed Charles with the ability to navigate the deep mysteries of the Internet, an ability with which Roland had not been graced. Roland could tell that Charles had already found Winterton, New Jersey and printed out a map.
They would leave soon.

15

Jessica and Byrne spent the afternoon canvassing the Laundromats that were either in walking distance or within reasonable SEPTA distance from Kristina Jakos’s house on North Lawrence. In all, there were five coin-op laundries on their list; only two of which were open past 11 pm. As they approached a twenty-four hour laundry called the All-City Launderette, unable to resist any longer, Jessica asked the question.

“Was the press conference as bad as it looked on TV?” After leaving St. Seraphim she had stopped for a take-out coffee at a mom-and-pop on Fourth Street. She had caught the replay of the press conference on the TV behind the counter.

“Nah,” Byrne said. “It was much, much worse.”
Jessica should have figured. “Are we ever going to talk about it?” “We’ll talk.”
As frustrating as it was, Jessica let it go. Sometimes Kevin Byrne put

up walls impossible to scale.

“By the way, where is our boy detective?” Byrne asked.

“Josh is shuttling witnesses for Ted Campos. He’s going to hook up with us later.”
“What did we get from the church?”
“Only that Kristina was a wonderful person. That the kids all loved her. That she was dedicated. That she was working on the Christmas play.”
“Of course,” Byrne said. “There are ten thousand gangbangers going to bed tonight perfectly healthy, and a well-loved young woman who worked with kids at her church is on the marble.”
Jessica knew what he meant. Life was far from fair. It was up to them to exact whatever justice was available. And that was all they could ever do.
“I think she had a secret life,” Jessica said.
This got Byrne’s undivided attention. “A secret life? What do you mean?”
Jessica lowered her voice. There was no reason to. She just seemed to do it out of habit. “Not sure, but her sister hinted at it, her roommate almost came out and said so, and the priest at St. Seraphim mentioned that she had a sadness about her.”
“Sadness?”
“His word.”
“Hell, everybody’s sad, Jess. That doesn’t mean they’re up to something illegal. Or even unsavory.”
“No, but I’m going to take another run at the roommate. Maybe poke around Kristina’s things a little more closely.”
“Sounds like a plan.”

the all-city launderette was the third establishment they visited. The managers of the first two laundries had no recollection of ever seeing the pretty, slender blond woman in their place of business before.

All-City had forty washers, twenty dryers. Plastic plants hung from the rust-stained acoustic tile ceiling. At the front was a pair of laundrydetergent vending machines—Suds n Such! Between them was a sign that made an interesting request: Please Do Not Vandalize Machines. Jessica wondered how many vandals would see that sign, follow the rules, and simply move on. Probably about the same percentage of people who obeyed the speed limit. Along the back wall were a pair of soda machines, and a change dispenser. On either side of the center row of back-to-back washers were a line of salmon-colored plastic chairs and tables.

It had been a while since Jessica had been in a coin-op laundry. The experience took her back to her college days. The boredom, the fiveyear-old magazines, the smell of powdered soaps and bleach and fabric softeners, the clank of the loose change in the dryers. She hadn’t missed it all that much.

Behind the counter was a Vietnamese woman in her sixties. She was petite and bristly, wore a flower-print change vest, along with what looked like five or six different brightly colored nylon fanny packs. On the floor of her small alcove was a pair of toddlers working on coloring books. The television on the shelf showed a Vietnamese action film. Behind the woman sat an Asian man who might have been anywhere from eighty to a hundred years old. It was impossible to tell.

A sign next to the register proclaimed Mrs. V. Tran, Prop. Jessica showed the woman her ID. She introduced herself and Byrne. Jessica then held up the photograph they had gotten from Natalya Jakos, the glamour shot of Kristina. “Do you recognize this woman?” Jessica asked.

The Vietnamese woman slipped on a pair of glasses, glanced at the photograph. She held it at arm’s length, brought it closer. “Yes,” she said. “She’s been in here a few times.”

Jessica glanced at Byrne. They shared that charge of adrenaline that always trails the first lead.
“Do you remember the last time you saw her?” Jessica asked.
The woman looked at the back of the photograph, as if there might be a date there to help her answer the question. She then showed it to the old man. He answered her in Vietnamese.
“My father says five days ago.”
“Does he recall what time?”
The woman turned again to the old man. He answered, at length, seemingly annoyed at having his movie interrupted.
“It was after eleven pm,” the woman said. She hooked a thumb at the old man. “My father. He can’t hear too well, but he remembers everything. He says he stopped here after eleven to empty the change machines. While he was doing it, she came in.”
“Does he recall if anyone else was here at that time?”
She spoke to her father again. He answered, his response more like a bark. “He says no. No other customers at that time.”
“Does he recall if she came in with anyone?”
She asked her father the new question. The man shook his head. He was clearly ready to blow.
“No,” the woman said.
Jessica was almost afraid to ask. She glanced at Byrne. He was smiling, looking out the window. She wasn’t going to get any help from him.
Thanks, partner
. “I’m sorry. Does that mean he doesn’t recall, or that she didn’t come in with anyone?”
She spoke to the old man again. He answered with a burst of highdecibel, high-octave Vietnamese. Jessica didn’t speak Vietnamese, but she was willing to bet there was a few swear words in there. She figured the old man said Kristina came in alone, and that everyone should leave
him
alone.
Jessica handed the woman a card, along with the standard request to call if she remembered anything. She turned to face the room. There were currently twenty or so people in the Laundromat—washing, loading, fluffing, folding. The surfaces of the folding tables were covered with clothing, magazines, soft drinks, baby carriers. Trying to lift any fingerprints from any of the myriad surfaces would be a complete waste of time.
But they had their victim, alive, at a particular place and a particular time. From here they would begin a canvass of the immediate area, as well as determine the SEPTA route that stopped across the street. The laundry was a good ten blocks from Kristina Jakos’s new house, so there was no way she would have walked that distance in the cold, with her laundry. Unless she got a ride from someone, or took a cab, she would have taken the bus. Or would have intended to. Maybe the SEPTA driver would remember her.
It wasn’t much, but it was a start.
josh bontrager caught up with them across from the Laundromat.
The three detectives worked both sides of the street, showing Kristina’s picture to the street vendors, the shop owners, the local bike boys, the corner rats. The reaction, from both men and women alike, was the same.
Pretty girl
. Unfortunately, no one remembered seeing her coming out of the Laundromat a few days earlier, or any other day for that matter. By midafternoon they had spoken to everyone available— residents, store merchants, cabbies.
Directly across from the Laundromat was a pair of row houses. They had spoken to the woman who lived in the row house on the left. She had been out of town for two weeks, had seen nothing. They had knocked on the door of the other row house, had gotten no answer. On the way back to the car Jessica noticed the curtains part slightly, then immediately close. They returned.
Byrne knocked on the window. Hard. Eventually, a teenaged girl opened the door. Byrne showed her his ID.
The girl was thin and pale, about seventeen; very nervous, it seemed, about talking to the police. Her sandy hair was lifeless. She wore a pair of well-worn brown corduroy overalls and scuffed beige sandals, pilled white socks. Her fingernails were chewed raw.
“We’d like to ask you a few questions,” Byrne said. “We promise not to take up too much of your time.”
Nothing. No response whatsoever.
“Miss?”
The girl looked at her feet. Her lips trembled slightly, but she said nothing. The moment drew out into discomfort.
Josh Bontrager caught Byrne’s eye, lifted an eyebrow as if to ask if he could take a shot at this. Byrne nodded. Bontrager stepped forward.
“Hi,” Bontrager said to the girl.
The girl lifted her head slightly, but remained aloof and silent.
Bontrager glanced beyond the girl, into the front room of the row house, then back.
“Kannscht du Pennsilfaanisch Deitsch schwetzer?”
The girl appeared stunned for a moment. She looked Josh Bontrager up and down, then smiled a thin smile and nodded.
“English okay?” Bontrager asked.
The girl put her hair behind her ears, suddenly conscious of her appearance. She leaned on the doorjamb. “Okay.”
“What’s your name?”
“Emily,” she said softly. “Emily Miller.”
Bontrager held out a picture of Kristina Jakos. “Have you ever seen this lady, Emily?”
The girl scrutinized the picture for a few moments. “Yes. I’ve seen her.”
“Where have you seen her?”
Emily pointed. “She washes her clothes across the street. Sometimes she gets on the bus right here.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
Emily shrugged. She chewed on a fingernail.
Bontrager waited until the girl met his gaze once again. “It’s really important, Emily,” he said. “
Really
important. And there’s no rush here. You take your time.”
A few seconds later: “I think it was maybe four or five days ago.”
“At night?”
“Yes,” she said. “It was late.” She pointed toward the ceiling. “My room is right up there, overlooking the street.”
“Was she with anyone?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Did you see anyone else hanging around, see anyone watching her?”
Emily thought for a few more moments. “I did see somebody. A man.”
“Where was he?”
Emily gestured to the sidewalk just in front of her house. “He walked past the window a few times. Back and forth.”
“Did he wait right here at the bus stop?” Bontrager asked.
“No,” she said, pointing to her left. “I think he stood in the alley. I figured he was trying to stay out of the wind. A couple of buses came and went. I don’t think he was waiting for the bus.”
“Can you describe him?”
“White man,” she said. “At least, I think so.”
Bontrager waited. “You’re not sure?”
Emily Miller put her hands out, palms up. “It was in the dark. I couldn’t see too much.”
“Did you notice if there were any vehicles parked close to the bus stop?” Bontrager asked.
“There are always cars in the street. I didn’t notice.”
“That’s okay,” Bontrager said with his big farm-boy smile. It worked magic on the girl. “That’s all we need for now. You did great.”
Emily Miller colored slightly, remained silent. She wiggled her toes in her sandals.
“I may need to speak to you again,” Bontrager added. “Would that be okay?”
The girl nodded.
“On behalf of my colleagues, and the entire Philadelphia Police Department, I would like to thank you very much for your time,” Bontrager said.
Emily glanced from Jessica to Byrne, back to Bontrager. “You’re welcome.”
“Ich winsch dir en hallich, frehlich, glicklich Nei Yaahr,”
Bontrager said.
Emily smiled, smoothed her hair. To Jessica, she looked rather smitten with Detective Joshua Bontrager.
“Gott segen eich,”
Emily replied.
The girl closed the door. Bontrager put away his notebook, smoothed his tie. “Well,” he said. “Where to next?”
“What language was that?” Jessica asked.
“It was Pennsylvania Dutch. Which is mostly German.”
“Why did you speak to her in Pennsylvania Dutch?” Byrne asked.
“Well, for one thing, that girl was Amish.”
Jessica glanced up at the front window. Emily Miller was watching them through the parted curtains. Somehow she had managed to quickly run a brush through her hair. So she
was
smitten after all.
“How could you tell?” Byrne asked.
Bontrager thought about his answer for a moment. “You know how you can look at someone on the street and just
know
they’re wrong?”
Both Jessica and Byrne knew what he meant. It was a sixth sense wired into police officers worldwide. “Yeah.”
“Same thing with Amish folks. You just
know.
Besides, I saw a pineapple quilt on the couch in the living room. I know Amish quilting.”
“What is she doing in Philly?” Jessica asked.
“Hard to say. She was wearing English clothes. She’s either left the church, or she’s on
rumspringa
.”
“What is
rumspringa
?” Byrne asked.
“Long story,” Bontrager said. “We’ll get to it later. Maybe over a buttermilk colada.”
He winked and smiled. Jessica looked at Byrne.
Score one for the Amish kid.

as they walked back to the car, Jessica ran the questions. Besides the obvious—who killed Kristina Jakos and why, three others loomed. One: Where was she between the time she left the All-City Launderette and the time she was placed on that riverbank?
Two: Who called 911?

Three: Who was standing across the street from the Laundromat?