Wounds

by Alton Gansky

  “Okay, thanks, Doc. I look forward to your report and the photos.”

  “Detective, when you find who ever did this to Cohen, promise me . . . promise you’ll arrest him real hard.”

  “I’ll do it, Doc.” She hung up. The last time she had heard Shuffler say anything like that was about a brutal murder of a child, and Carmen solved the case and arrested the murderer hard—hospital hard.

  11

  Dr. Adam Bridger brought a simple but powerful message. He always did. He was the students’ favorite chapel speaker. Although it would be considered unprofessional to say so, Ellis knew the faculty felt the same way.

  Bridger, a man of average looks and height, and above-average intelligence, spoke in even tones, more teacher than preacher. He also spoke from personal conviction. He believed what he said; he lived what he taught. His text was drawn from Genesis. Those not familiar with the Bible might think it odd that the seminary president would preach from an Old Testament book instead of the New Testament. The record of Christ’s crucifixion was found in the Gospels, but prophecies and allusions to it could be found in several places in the thirty-nine books of the Old Testament.

  “Genesis 22 holds an account that makes me furious.” Bridger had let the statement land with force. “I cannot read it without a sense of outrage boiling in my gut. God asks for a human sacrifice. Not only that, He demands that His chosen man—Abraham—cut the throat of his only son, the son of divine promise. When I think of Abraham and Isaac crossing the distance from their home to Mount Moriah, the future site of Solomon’s temple, I ache for them. What thoughts ran through Abraham’s mind? What fears? Imagine the heartbreak. And what of the young man Isaac, who makes the journey with only one question: ‘Where is the sacrifice we are to make to the Lord?’ My anger grows when Abraham states that God will provide the sacrifice.”

  Bridger took hold of the pulpit as if he needed to be steadied. “There the scene unfolds. The kindling and wood are laid for the fire to burn the sacrifice. Who set up that altar? Isaac, the one who would be asked to crawl on the wood arranged to burn his flesh to ashes. My fury mounts. At some point Isaac realizes what is being asked of him and based on his father’s requests, lays himself on the mound of kindling.”

  Bridger took a step back, and the emotion in his voice moved Ellis. When Bridger stepped forward again, he leaned closer to the microphone. “Then it comes. The moment when the elderly Abraham lays the sharp edge of his knife to his own son’s throat. Did he let it linger? Did his hand shake? Did he close his eyes?

  “The muscles in his back and shoulders and arm tense, ready to draw the blade and split Isaac’s throat. Isaac, the son he longed for, prayed for, hoped for.” He straightened. “Isaac didn’t protest. We have no record of him begging for his life or making any attempt to escape. He could have gotten away. He was young; Abraham was old. If Isaac had chosen to fight, Abraham would not have had a chance. Isaac didn’t fight back. His father was a man who spoke to God and if this was what God demanded, then he would not resist.”

  Bridger inhaled deeply. “Then the knife began to move. Only then did God stop Abraham.” He nodded. “Furious. Angry. No other passage makes me want to shake my fist in God’s face. ‘How could you?’ I want to cry. `What kind of God does that?’”

  He let the questions float in the air. Ellis knew the answer, but the account never failed to move him.

  “I’ll tell you what kind of God does that: the kind of God who would ask the same thing of Himself. Except for Him, there was no one to stop His hand. Jesus is God the Father’s Isaac.

  “Do I have a right to feel angry over the passage?” He shrugged. “I think so, but I also have a responsibility to remember that it was God who made that kind of sacrifice for us. We are supposed to be angry about this injustice. We are supposed to be furious about the sacrifice Abraham was called on to make. It is the sacrifice of Good Friday. Jesus went to the cross willingly. He did so for us, and it was no easier for God to see than it was for Abraham. Our life came from Jesus’ death. We celebrate Easter—Resurrection Day—but we grieve on Good Friday. The cartoon character Charlie Brown used to say, ‘Good grief.’ There is a good grief if that grief achieves an eternal difference. We do not have Easter without Good Friday. Out of death came life . . .”

  The last phrase echoed in Ellis’s mind. Would any good come out of the murder of one of their students? Could anything good come out of the brutal killing of Shelly Rainmondi?

  If so, Ellis couldn’t see it.

  Carmen’s late lunch had worn off several hours before. Her head was beginning to ache and her stomach grumbled. She snagged a granola bar from the goody machine and a cup of black fluid she hoped was coffee. She had just taken a bite of the bar when Bud walked into the open detective’s area. He carried a polystyrene food container and placed it on her desk. He also set down a folder of material he had retrieved from the ME.

  “What’s this?”

  “A deli sandwich and some chips.”

  “What kinda sandwich?”

  Bud lifted an eyebrow. “What? Now you’re getting picky?”

  “No, but how do you know I haven’t gone out and had dinner?” She opened the container. Ham and turkey on rye. It looked wonderful.

  “Because I know you.” He pulled a chair close to her desk, a metal contraption that could double for a bomb shelter. “You are a creature of inertia.”

  “Inertia. You know I love it when you talk all sciency and stuff.” She batted her eyes.

  “I’m serious. Can’t get you out of the house, can’t get you to leave a crime scene, can’t pry you out of the office. You’re a difficult woman to move.”

  She bit into the sandwich. Perfect. Much better than a six-month old granola bar. “Took you longer to get back from the ME than I thought it would.”

  “He’s a little upset about the nature of the crime. You’d think a man who has seen what he has wouldn’t let such things bother him.”

  “It was especially brutal.” Carmen spoke around the food in her mouth.

  “That’s a fact. You just saw the outsides. His innards were a mess. Blood in the lungs, liver perforated, spleen damaged, broken bones . . . well, you heard that part.”

  Carmen opened the file and was greeted by a photo of the deceased with his chest cut open. More disturbing was the damage done to the face. Had the man lived, he would have had to endure a number of reconstructive surgeries. She hoped Jews believed in closed-casket funerals. She chewed her food and glanced at the other material in the folder.

  “I got copies of the X-rays because I wanted you to see this. I’ve been thinking about it on the drive back. This is a crime of passion. This man wasn’t killed in anger. Doc thinks it was a protracted beating. It was torture. Look.” He picked up a print of the digital X-ray.

  Carmen saw a rib cage that looked as if someone had taken a baseball bat to the man’s chest. “Any trace?”

  “Not on the body. We looked for wood fragments . . . we looked for everything. Doc is a thorough man. I was in the room when he called you, so I know he mentioned the fist imprint. A monster fist. We’re looking for a brute. King Kong’s little brother. Look at the ribs. See how they’re busted up? Doc thinks the perp strung the guy up and went all heavy weight on him.”

  “He told me that.”

  “What he didn’t tell you was the thought that went into the beating. You may want to put your sandwich down for this.”

  “I can take it.”

  “Suit yourself. Here’s what we think happened. Black Hat abducts the vic, subdues him, maybe knocks him out with a blow or maybe sedates him somehow. Tox will tell us that. Anyway, the guy is hanging by his wrists, arms over head, exposing the rib cage. Our guy starts his workout, first punching the torso in such a way that the ribs snap. There’s no indication that he used any blunt inst
rument other than his fist. But he’s not done, see. He then starts aiming at what are now free-floating ribs.”

  “Why would . . . oh.” Carmen set her sandwich down. “You’re telling me this guy was trying to drive rib fragments into the vic’s lungs?”

  “And liver. The guy flailed the chest. He pounded on the sternum so it cut into the liver. So the vic begins to hemorrhage.”

  “That’s sick.”

  “There’s more. Look at this.” Bud pulled another X-ray from the folder. This one showed two busted up legs. He then pulled photos of the victim’s bare legs. He pointed at several spots on the photo. “See these bruises?”

  “The short stripes? I see them.”

  “Notice the roundish bruise above it. Notice anything weird?”

  “No—wait. The skin is broken at one of the stripes.”

  “Look closer and you’ll see that’s true for two of the marks. Now, this is where you jump up and sing my praises. The short, rectangular strips are from the protruding sole of a work boot. The semi-round bruises are from the steel toe of the boot.”

  “You’re guessing.” Carmen was impressed. “But it’s a great guess.”

  “Great? It’s brilliant! We can’t prove it—yet, but I think it’s on the money.”

  “So the killer pounds the body with his fists then changes it up to break the victim’s legs by repeatedly kicking him?”

  “You got it. Leg bones are thick and tough. Aside from using a blunt instrument, they’re hard to break by a simple punch.”

  “Okay, this guy is sick. Really twisted. No wonder Doc is so put out.”

  “He’s a sensitive guy. The vic isn’t some gangster who gets beat to death for cheating on his drug delivery. Cohen is an average Joe. No criminal record. Family man. Religious. Well thought of. He didn’t deserve this, unless you found something in the background.”

  “No. I’ve looked at his cell phone records. Nothing is jumping off the page. In fact, he barely used the thing. I guess he’s one of those who carried a cell phone for emergencies or so his family can reach him. That’s it. It’s not even a smart phone. Can’t get bank records until tomorrow, but I doubt they’ll show anything. It’s possible he’s a white-collar criminal, but I won’t put any money on it.”

  “Me either. Anything new on the seminary kid?”

  “Nah. Same thing. Clean as bottled water. His phone records are boring. Haven’t traced every number yet, but the ones I’ve done all lead to family and a movie database. The kid liked the flicks.”

  “So what we have are two nobodies.”

  “That’s one more thing they have in common.”

  Bud chuckled.

  “Here we go again. I don’t see any connection. Innocent, nice people get off all the time. Just because these two murders happen within a day of each other means nothing.”

  “If we were talking gunshot deaths, or murders committed during a crime, then I’d be with you, but two bizarre murders in a row? I don’t know, Bud. It doesn’t seem right.”

  “Suspicious minds make for great detectives, but you’ve got a way to go to convince your good-looking partner.”

  “True, but have I convinced you?”

  “I just said—oh, I see. Having a little fun with ol’ Bud, eh? See if I ever bring you a sandwich again.”

  Carmen’s cell phone rang. She answered then said, “Where?” A second later: “Got it. On my way.” She stood. “Come on, Genius. They found a car that might be related to the Cohen case.”

  “Outstanding. This is much better than going home and being with the family.”

  “Is that sarcasm I hear? You know you love this.”

  Bud huffed. “I bet I’ll enjoy retirement better.”

  They started from the room, but Carmen stopped suddenly. “Wait.” She fast-stepped back to her desk and grabbed her sandwich.

  12

  Few outside the Force knew it, but many clues leading to the solving of a murder come from the beat cop—the guy or gal in uniform keeping peace on the streets. While the job of collecting and processing clues in a murder fell to the homicide detectives, much of the legwork was done by uniforms and techs. It might take a village to rear a child, but it took a team to solve a murder. Once again, a sharp-eyed patrol officer had found something that might prove helpful.

  Officer Joe Heywood was tall and thick and built like an old Ford truck. His brown hair was cut military short, a reminder that he had once been an Army Ranger. He was quick with a smile but had the reputation of being able to intimidate an approaching bullet. He was also a bit of an enigma. In his off time he liked to read popular books about theoretical physics. When Carmen first met him—her last year as a patrol officer and his first year in uniform—she had joked about it: “Having trouble sleeping?”

  It had been a mistake, one that forced her to endure fifteen minutes of “quantum entanglement” and “M-theory.” She still had no idea what Heywood had said, but he did teach her not to bring up the subject again.

  Carmen left the Crown Vic a dozen yards from the suspect car, ducked beneath crime tape, and approached. Heywood had cordoned off the alley. His patrol car served as a barricade on one side. Another officer stood near it, as did one on the opposite end.

  Heywood was doing everything right.

  As Carmen walked the narrow lane, she took in everything. They were in an alley behind a strip mall at the edge of Mission Valley. Yellow light from nearby high-pressure sodium street lamps, and the back-porch lights next to the rear doors of the shops in the center, cast eerie illumination on the scene.

  Carmen and Bud scanned the ground as they approached, looking for anything that might be important.

  “Hey, Joe.”

  “Detectives. You made good time.”

  Bud shrugged. “It’s nine o’clock. The sane people are home watching television.”

  He grinned. “What’s that make us?”

  “Protectors of all that is good and right,” Bud said. “Whatcha got?”

  “Doing routine patrol. There have been several break-ins at this complex. Some of the stores are still open, but some close at eight. I’ve had to run off kids before. They like to hang back here, smoke, and avoid responsibility.”

  “Don’t be bitter, Joe. They’re the future of our country.”

  “We’re doomed.” The corner of his mouth tipped up. “Anyway, I found the car here. You can see the ‘no parking’ signs. Delivery people can’t get their trucks down here if anyone parks in the alley. I also noticed the cargo door was popped. So I thought I’d take a look.”

  “And?” Carmen studied the vehicle. It was an old Dodge Caravan, blue, and had seen better days.

  “I approached. No driver. No passenger. Engine was cold. Since the back was partially open I had cause to look. Someone could have been sleeping or hurt back there.”

  Carmen nodded. It was as good a reason as any to look inside a car without a warrant.

  Heywood moved closer to the back of the car and, with a gloved hand, used a finger to lift the door, revealing the cargo area of the minivan. He then shone the beam of his MAGLITE on the carpet-like cover over the base of the area. It was blue with a large dark stain at one end and several smaller stains to the right. Carmen got a whiff of something sour and rank: fresh blood, urine, and feces. She added the beam of her small Streamlight flashlight, which she had removed from the SDPD windbreaker she wore.

  “I’ll get the kit.” Bud walked back to the Crown Vic. He returned a moment later and set the plastic kit, which looked like a fisherman’s tackle-box, on the ground. He removed a small spray bottle and a cotton swab on a long stick, dabbed at the largest stain, then took a step away from the vehicle. A spritz of Luminol and the business end of the swab began to glow blue. The chemical reacted to the iron in hemoglob
in. The glow faded within thirty seconds.

  “Yep, blood.”

  Carmen nodded at her partner, then leaned in closer. “There’s a dip in the deck. Looks like whatever left the blood was dropped in place, breaking the fiberboard beneath.”

  “I noticed that, too.” No arrogance in Heywood’s words. “I ran the plates, and they belong to a 2005 Caddy owned by an elderly couple in Rancho Bernardo. Their car was reported missing two weeks ago.”

  “I may not be the brightest crayon in the box, but I’m pretty sure this isn’t a Cadillac.” Bud bagged the swab and closed the kit.

  “No arguing about either statement,” Carmen said.

  “Hey!”

  Carmen smiled at Heywood. “Poor guy suffers from insecurity.”

  Heywood returned the smile with a courtesy grin that said he recognized the attempt at humor, but it didn’t deserve a real laugh. “The Caddy was recovered three days later in Otay Mesa. Obviously, the plates were missing.”

  “Obviously.” Carmen directed her light to the ground around the vehicle.

  “I found one boot print near the driver’s side door. There’s a good bit of dust there. After I saw the blood, I withdrew, cordoned off the alley, and called you.”

  “Good man.” Carmen continued to look around. “You used the same path for egress and ingress?”

  “Yes. The same one I led you down. No other officers have been within twenty feet of the vehicle.”

  “What about shop employees? Talk to any of them?” Bud stood with the kit in his hand.

  “Yes, sir. Most of the places are closed. There’s a small Italian hole-in-the-wall. After I had the alley secured and officers at each end, I chatted up the manager. He said the van had been here since he arrived at three this afternoon. He called the day manager, and she said she saw the vehicle when she opened.”

  “What time did she start work?” Carmen asked.

  “Ten. They open at eleven. She helps set up the kitchen for the lunch rush.”