Bonnie Semanski led Jessica to the kitchen. "LaureN ShOULd be номе any minute now. She's off school today, of course," Bonnie said. "She's visiting friends."
They were sitting at a red-and-white chrome-and-Formica dinette set. Like everything else about the row house, the kitchen seemed a 1960s vintage. The only things that brought it into the present were a small white microwave and an electric can opener. It was clear that the Semanskis were Lauren's grandparents, not her parents.
"Did Lauren call home at all today?"
"No," Bonnie said. "I called her a little while ago on her cell phone, but all I got was her voice mail. She turns it off sometimes."
"You said on the phone that she left the house around eight this morning?"
"Yes. That's about right."
"Do you know where she was headed?"
"She went to visit with some friends," Bonnie repeated, as if this were her mantra of denial.
"Do you know their names?"
Bonnie just shook her head. It was obvious that, whoever these "friends" were, Bonnie Semanski did not approve.
"Where are her mom and dad?" Jessica asked.
"They were killed in a car accident last year."
"I'm sorry," Jessica said.
"Thank you."
Bonnie Semanski looked out the window. The rain had eased to a steady drizzle. At first Jessica thought the woman might cry, but with a closer look she realized that this woman had probably shed all her tears a long time ago. The sorrow, it seemed, had settled to the bottom half of her heart, and could not be disturbed.
"Can you tell me what happened to her parents?" Jessica asked.
"A week before Christmas, last year, Nancy and Carl were coming home from Nancy's part-time job at the Home Depot. They were hiring for the holidays, you know. Not like now," she said. "It was late and really dark. Carl must have been going a little too fast around a turn and the car slid off the road and went down into a ravine. They say they didn't linger in death."
Jessica was a bit surprised that this woman didn't tear up. She imagined that Bonnie Semanski had told this story to enough people, enough times, that she had gained some distance from it.
"Did Lauren take it very hard?" Jessica asked.
"Oh yes."
Jessica scribbled a note, noting the time line.
"Does Lauren have a boyfriend?"
Bonnie gave the question a dismissive wave of her hand. "I can't keep up with them, there are so many."
"What do you mean?"
"They're always coming around. All hours. They look like homeless people."
"Do you know if anyone has threatened Lauren lately?"
"Threatened?"
"Anyone she might have had a problem with. Someone who may have been bothering her."
Bonnie thought for a moment. "No. I don't think so."
Jessica jotted a few more notes. "Would it be okay if I took a quick look at Lauren's room?"
"Sure." Lauren Semanskl's гоом was at the top of the stairs, at the back end of the house. On the door was a faded sticker that said BEWARE: SPUN MONKEY ZONE. Jessica knew enough drug terms to know that Lauren Semanski was probably not out "visiting friends" in order to organize a church picnic.
Bonnie opened the door, and Jessica stepped into the room. The furniture was quality, French provincial in style, white with gold accents; a four-poster bed, matching nightstands, dresser, and desk. The room was painted a lemon yellow, long and narrow, with a sloped ceiling that met knee walls on either side, a window at the far end. On the right were built-in bookshelves, to the left, a pair of doors cut into the half wall, presumably a storage area. The walls were covered in posters for rock bands.
Mercifully, Bonnie left Jessica alone in the room. Jessica didn't really want her looking over her shoulder when she went through Lauren's belongings.
On the desk were a series of photographs in inexpensive frames. A school shot of Lauren at about nine or ten. One was of Lauren and a scruffy teenaged boy, standing in front of the art museum. One was a magazine shot of Russell Crowe.
Jessica poked through the drawers in the dresser. Sweaters, socks, jeans, shorts. Nothing significant. Her closet yielded the same. Jessica closed the closet door, leaned against it, surveyed the room. Think. Why was Lauren Semanski on that list? Other than the fact that she attended a Catholic school, what was in this room that would fit into the puzzle of these bizarre deaths?
Jessica sat down at Lauren's computer, checked the bookmarks on the web browser. There was one call hardradio.com, dedicated to heavy metal, one called snakenet. But the one that caught her attention was a site calledyellowribbon.org. At first, Jessica thought it might have been dedicated to POWs and MIAs. When she connected to the net, then clicked on the site, she saw it was about teen suicide.
Was I this fascinated with death and despair when I was a teenager? Jessica thought.
She imagined she was. It probably came with the hormones.
Back in the kitchen, Jessica found that Bonnie had made a pot of coffee. She poured Jessica a cup, then sat down opposite her. There was also a plate of vanilla wafers on the table.
"I need to ask you a few more questions about the accident last year," Jessica said.
"Okay," Bonnie replied, but her downturned mouth told Jessica it was anything but okay.
"I promise I won't keep you too long."
Bonnie nodded.
Jessica was organizing her thoughts when a look of gradually dawning horror came over Bonnie Semanski's face. It took Jessica a moment to realize that Bonnie wasn't looking directly at her. She was, instead, looking over her left shoulder. Jessica turned, slowly, following the woman's gaze.
Lauren Semanski was standing on the back porch. Her clothes were ripped; her knuckles were bleeding and raw. There was a long contusion on her right leg, a pair of deep lacerations on her right arm. On the left side of her head, a large patch of scalp was missing. Her left wrist appeared to be broken, the bone protruding through the flesh. The skin on her right cheek was peeled back in a bloody flap.
"Sweetheart?" Bonnie said, rising to her feet, a trembling hand to her lips. All the color had drained from her face. "My God, what… what happened, baby?"
Lauren looked at her grandmother, at Jessica. Her eyes were bloodshot and burnished. A deep defiance shone through the trauma.
"Motherfucker didn't know who he was dealing with," she said.
Then Lauren Semanski collapsed. Before The ambulance arrived, Lauren Semanski slipped in and out of consciousness. Jessica did what she could to prevent her from going into shock. When she had determined that there were no spinal injuries, she wrapped her in a blanket, then slightly elevated her legs. Jessica knew that preventing shock was infinitely preferable to treating its effects.
Jessica noticed that Lauren's right hand was clenched into a tight fist. Something was in her hand-something with a sharp edge, something plastic. Jessica tried gently to open the girl's fingers. Nothing doing. Jessica didn't press the issue.
As they waited, Lauren rambled. Jessica got a sketchy tale of what had happened to her. Phrases were unconnected. Words slipped between her teeth.
Jeff's house.
Tweakers.
Fucker.
Lauren's dried lips and ravaged nostrils, along with the brittle hair and the somewhat translucent look to her skin told Jessica she was probably a meth head.
Needle.
Fucker.
Before Lauren was loaded onto the gurney, she opened her eyes for a moment, and said one word that caused the world to stop spinning for a moment.
Rosary.
The aMbULaNCe LeFT, taking Bonnie Semanski to the hospital with her granddaughter. Jessica called the station house and told them what had happened. A pair of detectives were on their way to St. Joseph's. Jessica had given the EMS strict instructions to preserve Lauren's clothing and, to any extent possible, any fibers or fluids. Specifically, she told them to safeguard the forensic integrity of whatever Lauren had clutched in her right hand.