Wounds

by Alton Gansky

  He nodded. “That’s why I can say this to you. People like you, but they don’t know how to deal with your . . . idiosyncrasies. You’ve never married. You live alone. You never hang with the crew. You do your job, then go home. People think you have a superiority complex.”

  “Wow, aloof, idiosyncrasies, and superiority complex. You been going to night school?”

  “And there it is, Carmen. First, I have a college degree, so don’t act like I just barely got out of high school, and second, stop sidestepping the topic. You brought it up.”

  She sighed. “I’m not a social butterfly, Bud. I never have been. You know that. We went out a few times. You know what I’m like.”

  “I do. I know you’re usually the smartest person in any room. I also know you have some dark ghosts haunting you. I’m not saying you need to change. I’m just trying to answer your question in a way that won’t get me beat up.”

  Carmen grinned. “I wouldn’t beat you, Bud. Not for long anyway.” She paused. “Thanks for the honesty. I doubt I will change anything. To quote the famous philosopher Popeye the Sailor, ‘I yam what I yam.’” She opened the notebook. “Okay, let’s go over this. What do we know?”

  Bud opened his own small notebook. It might be the twenty-first century, but note taking at a crime scene was still done faster and better with pen and paper. Besides, having to type the notes into the official report often opened doors to new thoughts.

  Bud read from his notes. “Vic is David Cohen, a thirty-three-year-old white male with a wife and three children. Identification was made by ID in his wallet. The wallet contained four credit cards, and eighty-two dollars in cash, indicating robbery was not a motive. Victim was found supine and clothed. No indication that his clothing had been removed or altered prior to or after his death.”

  “Meaning a sexual attack is doubtful at this point.” When Carmen joined the police department she had thought sexual attacks only occurred to women and children. The Academy changed that notion quickly.

  “Right, but we leave it on the table for now.” Bud flipped a page. “Vic was found in the front yard of Rabbi Joel Singer. We interviewed the rabbi, and he admitted to knowing the vic but had not seen him for a few days. Field exam suggests the vic is a victim of a severe beating, perhaps a crime of passion. Injuries visible to the naked eye indicate he has many broken bones. ME will provide the details on that.”

  Carmen nodded. “There is reason to doubt the primary crime scene is the initial scene, meaning the body was transported from the murder scene to the rabbi’s home. Why do that? Hate crime. The rabbi has an enemy?”

  Bud shrugged. “If the perp has more than two brain cells and any experience with cops, he’s gotta know that we’d dismiss the rabbi as a direct suspect from the get-go.”

  “What makes you think it was a guy. You don’t think a woman can do that?”

  “Sorry, no, I don’t. I suppose if she used a baseball bat, but I’ll bet my car that the vic was beat to death with fist and foot. Besides, a bruise on the side of the vic’s neck looks like a fist mark. A big fist. It’s too early to say it was a man or men, but this kind of physical violence by a woman would be rare. Women are far more crafty.”

  “You got that right.”

  She studied her notes, although she had already committed them to memory. It kept her from looking at Bud. She wouldn’t admit it, but the “Ice Queen” discussion stung. “ME estimates death occurred at two or three this morning. Interviews of homes in the area gave us zilch, and there are no security cameras directed at the rabbi’s house, driveway, or yard.”

  “Do you think the perp knew that?”

  “Yep, I do and that scares me.”

  Bud raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t think anything scared you.”

  “Plenty frightens me; I just don’t admit it often. Nothing scares me more than a smart killer. You know how it is: most murders are not planned; those that are, are planned badly.”

  “Contract killing?

  She shrugged. “Maybe, but you heard the guy’s wife. He didn’t have enemies, wasn’t involved in anything illegal.” One of the most difficult things Carmen faced in her work was extracting information from family members who had just learned their loved one was never coming home. It was one thing when a spouse keeled over from an aneurism or heart attack, or bought the farm in an auto accident. Knowing that someone went out of their way to murder their loved one conjured up all kinds of visuals and pain.

  To make matters worse she had to ask the grieving family upsetting questions like: “Was your husband involved in any illegal activity? Did your husband use drugs? Did he have a gambling problem? Has he always been faithful to you? Did he have enemies? Did he ever mention being threatened? How was your marriage? Was it happy?” On and on. They had to ask, but that didn’t mean it was easy. In most cases, anger at the killer was redirected to the investigating officer.

  “That doesn’t mean he wasn’t involved in something he shouldn’t be in. It wouldn’t be the first time a religious person had been doing irreligious things.”

  “I know. My gut tells me otherwise.” She tapped the table with her finger. “Let me ask this: Do you think the two murders are related?”

  “Doubtful. They’re very different, although I’ll admit two whacked-out killings in two days has alarms going off.”

  “I know what you’re saying, but let me float this across the table.” She held up a finger. “First, both vics are related to religious groups.” She held up a second finger. “Both were killed someplace then the body dumped somewhere else.” Another finger. “Both are men.” Finger four. “Both died in an unusual way—one as a pin cushion, the other by a vicious beating.”

  “We’ve seen other murders by beating.”

  “Like this? This guy was pounded on for some time. Okay, I’m guessing here, but I’m thinking the pounding took place over time, stretched out to make it worse. I can’t prove that yet.”

  “My turn. There are differences.” Bud held up a finger, mimicking Carmen. “One, there’s an age difference of nearly fifteen years; one is a Christian seminary student, the other is a Jewish cantor in a large synagogue; one was found in Balboa Park, the other in the front yard of a home in the College district.”

  “Yeah, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  Carmen pursed her lips. “I got nothing but a feeling.”

  “I don’t say you’re wrong, but it’s a tad early to be chasing what-ifs.”

  “I know. Okay, after lunch—or whatever this meal is—I say we go back and run traces on their cell phones. I also want to get permission to search their browser history. I’ll ask for a warrant if I need to.”

  “You want to stay teamed up on this or split the load?”

  “Let’s keep things as they are. You still have a few things to learn.”

  “I do? I think I’ve been at this longer than you.”

  Carmen grinned. “True, but men tend to be slow learners.”

  “Female chauvinist.”

  “Here we are.” Chen’s voice wafted across the room. It was something he did in the Vault. He knew the need for privacy so announced his arrival to give his patrons a chance to change the subject. He set the plates in front of the two.

  There were beans on Bud’s plate.

  10

  Ellis Poe’s drive from Glorietta Bay on Coronado and up the I-15 to Escondido took longer than usual. The distance wasn’t great, just about thirty-five miles, depending on which set of freeways he chose. The problem was the time and day. It was Good Friday, and workers whose day had just ended were jockeying for any position that might get them home—or to the bar or restaurant or party—five minutes faster.

  Driving in rush hour in a county of three million people could be daunting. For some drivers it was maddening, but n
ot for Ellis. He long ago learned to take such things in stride. No one won the traffic wars. All a person could do was inflict—or suffer—damage. Better to use the drive as an opportunity to think. As those around him lost their patience and expressed themselves with rude hand gestures and curses, Ellis chose the more noble position: the slow lane.

  The spring sun inched its way down the western sky, slowly approaching the horizon. It’d taken on that orange hue, the testimony to the smog and pollutants that hung in the moist ocean air. Overhead, what had been a pristine azure sky had darkened to a slate gray decorated with strips of salmon red clouds. Lights burned in business buildings and shops. It was twilight time in San Diego . . . the perfect match for twilight time in Ellis’s heart.

  Ellis was a man prone to depression, and he spent no time trying to convince himself otherwise. He accepted the disorder as part of his nature—and his penance. His depression came on its own schedule. Sometimes he woke with a love of life and a keen desire to be about his work. Then it would begin: the darkness, tangible, viscous like oil, percolated up from the center of his being. It spread slowly, leisurely. Over the years he had come to recognize the sensation that heralded the darkness. He knew its every whim, its every path. At times it settled on him like a black fog descending from the sky, filling first the room, then his mind, then his heart. There was little he could do about it, and he had long since given up trying. For a time he considered seeing a doctor. There was medication he could take, chemicals that would keep the ebony mists away, but he always dismissed the idea. His depression was part of him. It helped define him. He took no joy in it, but he accepted it. When it came, he simply acknowledged its existence and continued with his work.

  His work. His work was his anchor, his compass, his balm. It was the only medication he needed, the only one he wanted. He was a man of faith and prayer, but in his most honest hours, he had to admit that he needed more than prayer to keep himself sane.

  The traffic on the I-15 thinned as he put distance between himself and the heart of the city. Still, it coagulated at each of the major communities. Not one to listen to music, he made the trip in silence. At times he listened to an audio book. His brain was a ravenous beast that liked to be fed. Tonight though, it was well mannered, letting him think of spiritual things.

  Would he have been happier in a more High-Church environment, with its rituals and structure, its creeds and dictates? Such structure was enticing, and while it might fit his temperament, it didn’t match his doctrine. The gospel is simple and direct, and he tried to match his life to that pattern. He was intelligent, kind, and fractured. Centuries ago, he would have been a prime candidate for a monastery.

  The miles rolled beneath the wheels of his silver Honda Civic, past Kearney Mesa and on north. The clot of cars continued to thin, freeing the asphalt artery to higher speeds. Ellis didn’t care. He had plenty of time. He planned to arrive early and spend a half hour or so in his office. It was as much home to him as his condo in Escondido, or his small sailboat that seldom sailed. There were few places where Ellis felt whole and welcome. His office was one such place.

  When he pulled onto the property of San Diego Theological Seminary, he saw few cars. Only three. The Good Friday Service was still an hour away. Two of the cars belonged to members of the janitorial staff, who were no doubt cleaning up the worship center. The other belonged to seminary president Dr. Adam Bridger. Bridger was the closest thing Ellis had to a friend. A former pastor, like several of the faculty, Bridger was a man of letters. Unlike Ellis, he was also a man of the people. He loved to be in crowds, something that gave Ellis hives. Like Alan Dunne, the academic dean, his wife was a surgeon.

  As he parked, he thought about the difficult task facing Bridger. He had led a community-wide Good Friday service for the last ten years. Normally, it was a joyful time despite the somber remembrance. Today, though, he would have to address the death of Doug Lindsey. Ellis knew that both Dunn and Bridger had visited the family. That had to be rough. He tried not to feel grateful that the job hadn’t fallen to him.

  Ellis walked through the thickening twilight and made his way to his office.

  His depression followed on his heels.

  Carmen had spent very little time in the office. She had been called before her shift was to start, and now it was looking as if she would be digging into the overtime coffers of the SDPD’s budget. Good for her bank account. Not so good for her stiff neck and growing indigestion. After she and her partner had a three o’clock “lunch,” they returned to canvasing the area, speaking to neighbors. She and Bud interviewed Rabbi Singer again. They also ran background checks on Singer, the vic Cohen, and even members of the rabbi’s and cantor’s families. Not one appeared in the criminal database. Not one had had a traffic ticket in five years. Not even a parking ticket. Spooky.

  Based on that and her ability to judge a person by body language, eye contact, nervousness—none of which would be admissible in court—she held high confidence that these people were on the up and up. Just like young Doug Lindsey.

  Bud made good sense when he countered her suggestion that the two murders might be connected. She didn’t believe it when she brought the idea up, but sometimes thinking out of the homicide box yielded unexpected results. Maybe the thought of chasing one brutal killer was more acceptable than tracking down two.

  Her cell phone sounded and she answered. The caller ID revealed the caller. “Dr. Shuffler, did you call to ask me out for a Friday night dinner?”

  His chuckle was drenched in weariness. “You know, I would except for two things.”

  “Uh oh, here it comes.”

  “I’m having trouble getting away from work these days. It seems a certain homicide detective keeps sending dead bodies over.”

  She leaned back in her chair and rubbed her eyes with her free hand. “You prefer flowers maybe?”

  “A man of my sensitivity can appreciate flowers. They’re certainly better than this mess.” The hollowness of his tone told her he was calling from the autopsy area.

  “What’s the second reason for not treating your favorite detective to a steak?”

  “If I start dating again, my wife would put me on one of these slabs.”

  “That would be awkward. At least it would be an easy case to solve.” She paused to be polite, then, “You got something for me?”

  “Pretty straightforward. Mr. Cohen died from a severe beating. Obvious, I know, but I’m making it official . . . well, official in a preliminary way. There’s still toxicology, but that will take some time and I doubt it will change my opinion about COD.”

  Carmen straightened and grabbed a notepad and pen. “Let me have it.”

  “First the ugly part. The beating was protracted. Judging by the amount of bleeding into tissue, and the extent of bruising, the guy’s heart kept beating long after the attack began. All but two of his ribs were broken. Both arms were pulled out of joint and both sides of his pelvis—the iliac crests—were broken. I can see evidence of a boot print—and before you ask, I can’t get a great image of it. I’ve taken photos. Maybe you can run down the brand, but I doubt it. That’ll be your call. Both patellas have been crushed.”

  “His kneecaps?”

  “Yep, just like in those old gangster movies. Three fractures in the left leg, consistent with kicking; two in the right. When I opened him up, I found severe damage to both kidneys.”

  “And he was alive through all this?”

  “Yes, I haven’t got to the COD yet. Markings on his wrist and underlying tissue damage indicate his wrists were bound. The skin damage at the site indicates that the victim was strung up by his wrists. Probably explains the dislocated shoulders. It is logical to assume that he was beaten while hanging there.”

  “Someone used the guy as a punching bag?” The mental image made Carmen’s stomach constrict.

 
; “There might be more than one offender. My early examination doesn’t reveal that, and I doubt anything I do will tell us if you’re dealing with one nut job or several.” He exhaled. The man wasn’t young anymore, not that a younger man would have endured any better. “I do have a little something for you: the size of the killer’s fist. It’s big. Heavyweight-boxer big. Knock-a-train-off-the-tracks big. I don’t know who the guy is, but you may want to shoot him a few times before you question him.”

  “Gladly. So what do you think the cause of death is?”

  “Crushed larynx. I could be wrong, but I’m pretty sure. The last blow was a wicked punch to the throat, hard enough to crush the laryngeal prominence.”

  “The Adam’s Apple.”

  “Yes, ma’am. The blow was hard enough to crush the larynx.”

  Carmen searched for words but none came. Apparently, Shuffler ran low too. The image of a man hanging by his wrists while at least one person pounded on him before delivering a blow that would cause the man to suffocate unnerved her, and it took a lot to do that.

  “Bud there with you?” Bud was the first detective on the scene so he got to observe the autopsy.

  “Yes, he’s still here. Do you want to talk to him?”

  “Not unless he has something to add.” She heard Shuffler relay the question. “He says no. Frankly, he looks a little off his feed.”

  “I told him not to have the beans.” A second later: “Let me ask something, Doc. Do you think Cohen and Lindsey could have been killed by the same guy?”

  “Detective Tock said you were thinking along those lines. At first, I said the idea was ridiculous. Now, I’m not so sure. I have nothing to link them. Lindsey was killed by an anaphylactic response to latex, and an instrument of torture was used on him. I have no trace evidence to suggest that anything other than fists and booted feet were used on this guy.”

  “But certainly Cohen’s death involved torture.”

  “No arguing that. Still, I can’t link them. That being said, it doesn’t mean they’re not related.”