The Rosary Girls

The chilled rain slicks the black granite, joining my tears, flooding my heart full of storms.

I pick up the shovel, begin to dig the soft earth.

The Romans believed that there was significance to the hour that signaled the close of the business day, the ninth hour, the time when fasting began.

They called it the Hour of None.

For me, for my girls, the hour is finally near.

THURSDAY, 8:05 A M

The parade of police cars, both marked and unmarked, that snaked their way up the rain-glassed street in West Philadelphia where Jimmy Purify’s widow made her home seemed endless.

Byrne had gotten the call from Ike Buchanan at just after six. Jimmy Purify was dead. He had coded at three that morning. As he walked toward the house, Byrne fielded hugs from other detectives. Most people thought it was tough for cops to show emotion— some said the lack of sentiment was a prerequisite for the job—but every cop knew better. At a time like this, nothing came easier.

When Byrne entered the living room he considered the woman standing in front of him, frozen in time and space in her own house. Darlene Purify stood at the window, her thousand-yard stare reaching far beyond the gray horizon. The TV babbled in the background, a talk show. Byrne thought about turning it off, but realized that the silence would be far worse. The TV indicated that life, somewhere, went on.

“Where do you want me, Darlene? You tell me, I go there.”

Darlene Purify was just over forty, a former R&B singer in the 1980s, having even cut a few records with an all-girl group called La Rouge. Now her hair was platinum, her once slight figure given to time. “I stopped loving him a long time ago, Kevin. I don’t even remember when. It’s just... the idea of him that’s missing. Jimmy. Gone. Shit.”

Byrne walked across the room, held her. He stroked her hair, searching for words. He found some. “He was the best cop I ever knew. The best.”

Darlene dabbed her eyes. Grief was such a heartless sculptor, Byrne thought. At that moment, Darlene looked a dozen years older than she was. He thought about the first time they had met, in such happy times. Jimmy had brought her to a Police Athletic League dance. Byrne had watched Darlene shake it up with Jimmy, wondering how a player like him ever landed a woman like her.

“He loved it, you know,” Darlene said.

“The job?”

“Yeah. The job,” Darlene said. “He loved it more than he ever loved

me. Or even the kids, I think.”

“That’s not true. It’s different, you know? Loving the job is...

well... different. I spent every day with him after the divorce. A lot of

nights, too. Believe me, he missed you more than you’ll ever know.” Darlene looked at him, as if this were the most incredible thing she

had ever heard. “He did?”

“You kidding? You remember that monogrammed hankie? The little

one of yours with the flowers in the corner? The one you gave him on

your first date?”

“What...what about it?”

“He never went out on a tour without it. In fact, we were halfway to

Fishtown one night, heading to a stakeout, and we had to head back to the

Roundhouse because he forgot it.And believe me, you didn’t give him lip

about it.”

Darlene laughed, then covered her mouth and began to cry again.

Byrne didn’t know if he was making it better or worse. He put his hand

on her shoulder until her sobbing began to subside. He searched his

memory for a story, any story. For some reason, he wanted to keep Darlene talking. He didn’t know why, but he felt that, if she was talking, she

wouldn’t grieve.

“Did I ever tell you about the time Jimmy went undercover as a gay

prostitute?”

“Many times.” Darlene smiled now, through the salt. “Tell me again,

Kevin.”

“Well, we were working a reverse sting, right? Middle of summer.

Five detectives on the detail, and Jimmy’s number was up to be the bait.

We laughed about it for a week beforehand, right? Like, who the hell was

ever go

who the hell was go

Byrne told her the rest of the story by rote. Darlene smiled at all the

right places, laughed her sad laugh at the end. Then she melted into

Byrne’s big arms and he held her for what seemed like minutes, waving

off a few cops who had shown up to pay their respects. Finally he asked:

“Do the boys know?”

Darlene wiped her eyes. “Yeah. They’ll be in tomorrow.” Byrne squared himself in front of her. “If you need anything, anything

at all, you pick up the phone. Don’t even look at the clock.” “Thanks, Kevin.”

“And don’t worry about the arrangements. The association’s all over

it. It’s go

Byrne looked at Darlene. The tears came again. Kevin Byrne held her

close, felt her heart racing. Darlene was tough, having survived both her

parents’ slow deaths from lingering illness. It was the boys he worried

about. None of them had their mother’s backbone. They were sensitive

kids, very close to each other, and Byrne knew that one of his jobs, in the

next few weeks, would be shoring up the Purify family.

When Byrne walked out of Darlene’s house, he had to look both ways on the street. He couldn’t remember where he had parked the car. The headache was a sharp dagger between his eyes. He tapped his pocket. He still had full scrip of Vicodin.

You’ve got a full plate, Kevin, he thought. Shape the hell up. He lit a cigarette, took a few moments, got his bearings. He looked at his pager. There were still three calls from Jimmy that he’d never returned.

There will be time.

He finally remembered that he had parked on a side street. By the time he reached the corner, the rain began again. Why not, he thought. Jimmy was gone. The sun dared not show its face. Not today. All over the city—in diners and cabs and beauty parlors and boardrooms and church basements—people were talking about the Rosary Killer, about how a madman was feasting on the young girls of Philadelphia, and how the police couldn’t stop him. For the first time in his career, Byrne felt impotent, thoroughly inadequate, an impostor, as if he couldn’t look at his paycheck with any sense of pride or dignity.