Broken Angels by Richard Montanari Page A

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