Aiden headed back to the lab and the computer, but there were some things the Internet probably couldn't tell her. She would have to make some calls.
* * *
Mac sat at his desk. He had calls to make too.
He had reluctantly returned Rufus to the dog unit.
Now he sat in front of the screen of his computer, where he had read Danny's e-mail about Kyle Shelton's web site and blog. Mac was looking for what he could find on Shelton's blog. There had been no entry the day before.
It was too early to call the college, but he tried anyway and got through the recorded message to a human being in student housing. Her name was Tara Abbott. She sounded sprightly and asked Mac a few questions to verify who he was. She took his phone number and said she would call him back instantly. She did. She wanted to confirm that he was a police officer.
"How long do you keep housing records?" he asked.
"Forever," she said. "We've got them on disks now, going back to the founding of the college in 1934."
"Can you find a student named Kyle Shelton?" Mac asked. "Probably there about five years ago?"
"I can and will," she said.
* * *
Joshua looked dead to Flack, but there the man lay in bed, hands and feet bandaged, blood drained from his face. He was covered by a sheet and blanket, an IV pole and bag next to him.
"Can you hear me?" asked Flack.
No answer.
"Can you hear me?" he repeated, leaning closer to Joshua, whose thin breath touched Flack's face.
Flack was about to give up when Joshua's eyes fluttered and opened in a squint as if blinded by the light, but the light was dim and the window shade was down. A brownish muted light filtered through the shade.
Joshua blinked, looked around without moving his head and his eyes found the detective.
"Water," Joshua gasped.
Flack got the slightly dusty glass from the table. A straw protruded from the water. Joshua took a long sip and gagged. Flack put the water back on the table.
"You want a lawyer?" asked Flack.
"No. I want to die, wanted to die," rasped Joshua. "Only now, I'm afraid."
"Of who?"
"Of what. Of dying. Last night in that cell I lost my faith," said Joshua with a cough. "Is what I did in the newspapers? On the radio?"
"It will be," said Flack.
Joshua sighed.
"I've lost my faith, my congregation, what little reputation I had. Everyone will find out about my drinking. 'Messianic Jewish leader crucifies two Jews, caught while he was about to do the same to a Catholic priest. Attempts to crucify himself in prison.' That's a summary, not a headline."
"Did you kill those men?" Flack asked.
"No. I thought the priest had done it," Joshua said. "The phone call…"
His voice trailed off.
"Hispanic accent?" asked Flack, remembering the drawing by Sak Pyon of an Hispanic man.
Joshua tried to nod, but the movement caused pain that was clearly, instantly frozen on his face.
"More water?" asked Flack.
"No," said Joshua.
Flack said nothing as he sat looking at the man, who was breathing hard from the effort of talking.
Flack would not say it. His job wasn't to go on hunches and intuition, but to come up with evidence, find suspects. He thought Joshua was innocent of murder. He may have been guilty of many other things, but not these murders. Prejudice had crept in. Flack didn't like it.
His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Flack took it out, flipped it open.
"Yes?" said Flack.
"Is he going to pull through?" asked Stella.
"Looks that way," said Flack, looking at Joshua, whose eyes were again closed. "Says he didn't do the murders."
"Probably didn't," said Stella. "Step into the hall."
Flack assumed Stella had something private to say, something she did not want Joshua to hear Flack's response to. He moved to the door and stepped out. Stella stood there, closing her phone and putting it in her pocket.
Stella had spent the last two hours with Melvoy in a room on the floor below Joshua's. Melvoy was going to live, but there was a price to pay. His voice would forever be a rasp and his mouth would be almost painfully dry. He would have to carry a bottle of water everywhere he went. With Alzheimer's taking over his mind, he would almost certainly forget to drink the water.
"What am I being charged with?" Melvoy had whispered when he saw Stella. Talking hurt, whispering didn't, but he knew it was hard for Stella to hear him.
The list wasn't long. Attempted murder. Breaking and entering. Threatening the life of a police officer.
But Stella decided she wasn't going to press charges. Melvoy would walk out of the hospital a hero who had helped the police track down a murderer and prevent another killing.
"No more talk for now," Stella said, seeing the pain in his eyes.
"One thing," he whispered.
"Yes?"
"Why are you spending this time with me?"
"I like you," she said.
"Mutual," he managed with a smile.
Stella smiled back.
"Got to go," she said.
He nodded.
She had the number of Joshua's room. When she was outside of Joshua's room minutes later, she heard a familiar voice beyond the door, which was when she had called Flack.
* * *
Both Aiden and Danny had spent the better part of two morning hours making calls. Both eventually succeeded, but they weren't sure what their success meant.
Aiden made a call and arranged to meet Stella and Flack at a deli near the lab. Aiden gathered her information and headed for the door.
Danny went to Mac's office, file under his arm. He knocked and walked in. Mac was hunched over photographs of Jacob Vorhees taken in the hospital. He held up one photo toward Danny and said, "What do you see?"
Danny took the photo. Mac saw that the tremor was gone. The boy was sitting up, arms out, covered with deep, red bug bites. He was sitting with his legs straight out, bottoms of his feet facing the camera.
Danny handed the photo back to Mac, who waited for an answer.
"Bottoms of the feet," said Danny.
Mac nodded his agreement.
"He said he walked more than a mile through woods and yards," said Danny. "There's not a scratch or bruise on his feet."
"He lied," said Mac.
"You know why?"
"Maybe."
The computer on his desk indicated that a message was coming in. The name and number of the caller appeared on the telephone's screen.
Mac nodded for Danny to join him behind the desk.
"Kyle Shelton's parents live in California," said Mac. "He had a sister who died when she was twelve. I called Shelton's parents and left a message asking them to call back."
Mac pushed a button and put the call on speakerphone.
"Is this Detective Taylor?" a woman asked.
"Yes, ma'am," said Mac. "Could you tell me the names of any friends your son might have in New York?"
"Why?" asked Shelton's mother on the phone with concern.
"We're looking for him," Mac had said. "He's missing. We don't believe anything has happened to him."
"Lord God I hope you're right," she said. "Haven't heard from him in months. You'll let us know when you find him?"
"Yes," Mac had said. "His friends?"
"Not many," she said with a sigh. "He was a lonely boy, studious, paid his own way through college. Always gentle. And then he volunteered for Iraq. He didn't discuss it with us. When he came back, he had changed. He wasn't a boy anymore. He was a man, a man with great dignity and pain. He didn't smile anymore."
"Yes, ma'am," Mac said.
"Kyle's friends in New York," she said. "Well, if there were girls, he never said. In college he roomed with a nice boy, Scott Shuman. They were good friends. I think Scott's still in New York."
The information confirmed what Ma
c had already learned from the university. Kyle Shelton had roomed with Scott Shuman all through college, first two years in a dorm, last two in an apartment.
Danny had moved to the computer. On the screen was information on Shuman, including his address, phone number and place of employment.
"You'll call or have Kyle call?" the woman said.
"I will," said Mac. "Thank you."
He pushed a button, turning off the phone.
"You've got something?" Mac said.
While the information on Shuman was being printed, Danny handed the file he had brought to Mac, who read slowly and carefully.
Howard Vorhees had an arrest record, not in New York, but in Seattle, Minneapolis and Nashville. All of the arrests, which took place in the last five years, were for sexual advances to underage girls. All of the girls had been frightened, but hadn't been touched. The police had questioned Vorhees and then let him go with a warning. Soon after each reported sexual advance, the Vorhees family had moved to another city. They had only been in New York for two years.
"Probably more that didn't report him," said Danny.
Mac nodded.
"Want me to check?"
"No," said Mac.
"Wife also has two DUIs," Danny said. "Nothing on the daughter or the boy."
Mac nodded.
Danny knew better than to ask what this information meant, if anything, for their case. Mac would turn the question back on Danny.
Mac got up to go to Sheldon Hawkes' lab. Over his shoulder, he said to Danny, "Let's go get some answers."
* * *
Aiden drank green tea. The antioxidants were good for you. Problem was she didn't much like green tea, or any tea for that matter.
Flack was eating a fried egg sandwich with a slice of tomato and Stella had a large orange juice.
"Here it is," Aiden said, handing the file in her hand to Stella. "Want a summary?
"Item," Aiden said. "Asher Glick and Arvin Bloom were in grade school together. May mean nothing.
"Item," she went on, "Arvin Bloom died of brain cancer when he was ten years old. Death records show it."
"Different Arvin Bloom?" asked Flack.
"No," said Aiden. "Childhood address Bloom gave us in Hartford is the same as the one on the death certificate."
"We've got to prove it," said Stella," and even if we do, it doesn't prove he killed anyone. Just stole their identity."
"Look at the photocopy of the birth information," said Aiden.
Stella found it. There were two tiny clear footprints.
"So we get prints of the bottom of Bloom's feet and compare them," said Stella.
"Keep going through the folder," said Aiden.
Stella turned over pages as Flack looked over his shoulder. They came to a photograph of a footprint.
"Life size," said Aiden. "Ten and a half. I lifted the print from Bloom's bathroom floor. He was barefoot the last time we searched the shop."
"They don't match," said Stella, "even taking into account the fifty year difference in the ages of these two people." She knew Aiden had examined both prints under a microscope.
"He's going to claim the prints you found in the bathroom aren't his," said Aiden.
"Then we'll ask him nicely for new prints," said Aiden. "And if nicely doesn't work, we get another warrant."
"What else?" asked Stella.
"Had the small splinters of wood on Glick's jacket compared with the sawdust I got from Bloom's shop. Both bloodwood. Tannic acid levels are exact. Magnesium levels are the same. Even the arsenic levels are the same."
"He can talk his way around that," said Flack. "Claim he hugged Glick or something."
Aiden smiled and said, "Then we have the tote bag Joshua got behind the statue of Jesus in the church. Small specks of wood along the bag's inner lining."
"Bloodwood," said Stella.
"And it matches the other two samples. That bag was in Bloom's shop."
"Motive?" asked Flack.
Aiden nodded toward the folder on the table. Stella flipped through it to five sheets clipped together.
"Summary," said Aiden. "If this guy's our killer it wasn't because of the $40,000 he owed Glick. He has more than eighty thousand in his personal account, about the same amount in his business account and an investment portfolio worth at least $2 million."
"Who the hell is this guy?" said Flack.
"And did he murder two people?" said Stella. "And why?"
* * *
Kyle Shelton had been sitting at the window of Scott Shuman's apartment, watching the street. People were moving quickly in spite of the late-morning heat, the New York march.
He drank a can of ginger ale and ate some peanut butter and cheese crackers, deciding when to make his move and where to make it.
The phone on Scott's kitchen counter rang. Kyle didn't pick it up but Scott's answering machine did: "This is Scott Shuman, please leave a message."
When the message clicked off, Scott's voice came on, anxious, concerned: "Kyle, a cop named Taylor just left my office. He asked me if I'd seen you. I told him no. I think he believed me, but you might want to get out of the apartment for a while. Oh, erase this message as soon as you get it, buddy."
As Kyle erased the message, there was a knock at the door. He wondered if whoever was on the other side could hear the machine whirring as it erased. Kyle stood silently.
"Kyle," came a voice he recognized. "We can hear you in there. Open the door, keep your hands in front of you and back up."
It was time. It wasn't the way he had wanted it to come down, but it was one of the ways he had anticipated. He moved to the door, opened it and found himself facing Mac and Danny, both of whom had guns in their hands.
Kyle backed away, his hands showing palms up. Mac and Danny entered and closed the door.
"Your friend Scott is a terrible liar," said Mac.
"He's a good friend," answered Kyle. " 'The most I can do for my friend is to simply be his friend.' "
Kyle paused and said, "Thoreau."
Danny patted Kyle down and told him to sit. As he did, Mac and Danny holstered their weapons.
"He has a vein in his forehead," said Mac. "When he lies it expands."
"Never noticed," said Kyle. "What now?"
"We talk," said Mac.
"You found Jacob?"
"You left me good directions," said Mac.
"Is he okay?" asked Kyle, hand to his cheek.
His face was rough. He hadn't showered or shaved. He had meant to, but had found himself riveted to the chair near the window.
"He'll be fine," said Mac.
"Okay," said Kyle. "I killed them all. Becky, her mother, her father."
"No, you didn't," said Danny.
"What did Jacob tell you?"
"Lies," said Mac. "Lies you taught him."
"Evidence doesn't lie," said Danny.
"You want a lawyer?" asked Mac.
Kyle shook his head "no."
"Let's go over the evidence," said Mac.
The words came silently to Kyle before he could stop or control them. It was happening more often recently, in the last three days, though it had happened for years before.
This time it was the words of La Fontaine: "A person often meets his destiny on the road he took to avoid it."
* * *
Sak Pyon was sitting in the CSI lobby when Flack came out of his meeting with Stella and Aiden. Pyon looked anxious, guilty. He held a small brown paper bag and an envelope in his left hand.
Pyon rose as Flack approached him.
"They told me you were in a meeting," Pyon said. "I waited."
Flack nodded.
"You thought of something?" asked Flack.
It was Pyon's day for golf, but he knew from the moment he went to bed the night before that he would not be taking the train to the golf course, not practicing his strokes before placing his tee at the first hole. He would not be losing himself in concentration on the game. He woul
d probably be in jail.
"I did not tell the truth," said Pyon.
Flack didn't answer, so the shorter man continued, "The sketch I gave you did not resemble the man for whom you were looking."
"Why did you do it?"
"He threatened to kill me and my family. He was very convincing. Here."
Flack opened the envelope Pyon handed him and pulled out a pencil sketch that looked nothing like the Hispanic man the shopkeeper had drawn the day before. This sketch looked very much like Arvin Bloom.
"You may have to testify in court," said Flack.
Pyon nodded in understanding and handed Flack the paper bag.
"I was very careful with it," said Pyon.
Danny opened the bag, inside of which was a plastic bag containing what looked like a paper towel.
Flack looked up.
"That is the paper towel the man you are looking for used in my bathroom after he had threatened to kill my family," said Pyon. "I retrieved it when he was gone."
"Why?" asked Flack.
"You can get DNA from it, can you not? He…"
Pyon hesitated, looking for the right word. He mimed blowing his nose.
"He blew his nose on the paper towel?" asked Flack.
"Blew his nose on the paper towel. I heard him. Blew his nose, came out and walked past without looking at me. The man threatened my family," said Pyon. "I wanted to keep something that…"
Pyon hesitated.
"Something you could tell him would go to the police if anything happened to you or your family," said Flack.
"Yes," said Pyon with resignation. "Then I realized it would not stop him. I saw it happen in North Korea. He would torture my daughter, my wife in front of me till I gave him the paper towel."
"Thanks," said Flack, bag and sketch in his hand.
"I am free to go?" asked Pyon.
"Have a good day," said Flack.
Flack turned to head back to the room where Stella and Aiden were still meeting.
From behind him, Pyon said, "He spoke Korean to me. Perfect Korean."
Flack looked down at the sketch of Bloom and for the second time in the last hour, Flack asked himself, Who is this guy?
* * *
Blood On The Sun Page 16