Wounds

by Alton Gansky

  “Sounds logical. I don’t see a payment to a cell phone company. He has an AT&T account. I know that much.”

  “No doubt his parents pay some—probably most—of his bills. It looked to me like they made pretty good money.” She grabbed the computer mouse and gave it a click. “Okay, Cohen’s situation is a little more complex. There are three checking accounts and three savings accounts. First the checking accounts: one is the house account, one is a business account, and one looks like a small account for his wife. Her name is over his on the statements.”

  “Pin money.”

  “What?” Carmen turned. Bud had moved closer to the computer and therefore closer to her.

  “Pin money. It’s an old term. Men used to give money to their wives for pins, clothing, and woman stuff. Not done a lot these days.”

  “Wow, I wonder why.”

  “Don’t get snippy about it, Carmen. I didn’t invent the practice. I’m just saying that Mrs. Cohen may have had a mad money account. Anything interesting?”

  Carmen shook her head. “She wasn’t a big spender. She gave money to Jewish Family Services. The rest is money spent on the kids, books, and—lady things.”

  Bud ignored the dig. “What about the business account?”

  “No flags. He has some big deposits, but the man was a real-estate developer. He spent money like water then raked it in. The amounts are all different and unevenly spaced. I’ll need access to his books to know who was paying him for what, and I doubt I can get a search warrant for that. He’s the victim after all; no criminal record.”

  “Expenditures?”

  “All to reputable businesses, best I can tell. Of course, one of them could be dirty. Cash withdrawals are small both for home and business. They seemed to live a simple life.”

  “The savings accounts?”

  “One for vacations, one for taxes, and one for savings. The last one has almost $200,000. They’re not millionaires, but they’re not hurting.”

  Bud rubbed his chin. “His phone records look typical. The most frequently called numbers were his wife’s cell phone and the synagogue. There are a good number of calls to Rabbi Singer, but that’s to be expected.”

  “Bottom line: we got nuthin’ on nobody.” Carmen rubbed her face. The lack of sleep, the shocking nature of the killings, the lack of any real leads wore on her.

  “Hang in there, partner. We’ll get this guy.”

  Carmen stood suddenly, sending Bud backpedaling. “I need to get some fresh air. Let’s go for a drive.”

  “Where?”

  “Let’s roust the professor. I want to know if he knows David Cohen or Rabbi Singer. He might give us some info on religious hatred. This has something to do with religion. One Christian, one Jew. What’s next, a Buddhist?”

  16

  No need, Professor, we’ll come to you.”

  Carmen’s voice came over the cell phone calm, professional, polite. Nonetheless, a phone call from a homicide detective could upset anyone.

  It certainly did Ellis.

  “Well—”

  “We show that you live in Escondido.” She rattled off an address.

  So much for privacy. “That’s my home, but I’m not there. I’m in Coronado.” Ellis heard muttered curses, then a whispered, “Flip it around, Bud. We’re going the wrong way.”

  “Would you like me to meet you halfway?” Ellis had no idea where that would be.

  “No, Professor. Where are you in Coronado?”

  “Glorietta Bay. Do you know it?”

  “Yes. You have an apartment nearby?”

  “Um, no. There are several coffee shops and restaurants nearby. We could—”

  “We need something a little more private. Are you staying in one of the hotels or did you just drive over for the day?”

  “Neither, Detective. I have a boat here, but it’s not big enough for us to meet.” He paused. “I don’t think you want to talk while sitting on someone’s lap.” He meant it as a joke but no laugh came. She was probably thinking where to meet. “There’s a park here. Would that be private enough?”

  “Okay. Yes. We can try that. We’ll be there in . . .”

  Ellis heard a male voice mumble something.

  “We’ll be there in about twenty minutes.”

  The black Crown Vic pulled into the parking lot of Glorietta Bay Park. Carmen slipped from the passenger side of the car and searched the small park for Dr. Ellis Poe. The park was an expanse of grass with a copse of trees just off Mullinex Drive. A small, narrow beach abutted the bay. Just to the north of the circular parking lot were several round concrete tables with arched benches. At one of them, a man stood and waved.

  Ellis Poe.

  When she first met him in his office at the seminary, he wore a suit. Here he wore well-worn jeans and a plain T-shirt. Few people wore T-shirts that had no message or product emblazoned on them.

  As she approached, she could see the tan on the man’s thin arms. Apparently he traded his dark office for sunlight enough to fire up the melanin in his skin. His face was less tanned, perhaps protected by sunscreen. His thin frame was a testimony that the only working out he did was hoisting books now and again.

  “Detectives.”

  Ellis sounded nervous. Not all that unusual. The gun, the badge, the title “detective” tended to unsettle people—a fact she used to her advantage. A badge makes a person look bigger and badder than they are. Toss in a little attitude, and most people begin to feel guilty about things they’ve never done. “Sorry if you had to drive farther than you intended.”

  “No problem, Dr. Poe. Blue sky, ocean breeze, the smell of fresh-cut grass . . . Much better than the office.” Carmen unleashed her best “I’m-your-buddy” smile.

  “I think so,” Ellis said. “I like to spend my weekends here.”

  “You own a yacht? I didn’t know college professors made that kind of money.” Bud Tock, ever the bull in the China shop.

  Ellis motioned to the curved benches around the picnic table. The sound of children playing fifty yards away rode the salty air currents. On the water, sailboats plied the boating lanes. Across the bay, Carmen could see several moored navy vessels. This was the place to retire.

  Once seated, Ellis studied them. “We don’t—well, I don’t. I make enough to get by, but I couldn’t buy a boat without a mountain of debts.”

  “But . . .” Bud let the question hang.

  “First, I inherited it from an uncle. Second, calling it a yacht is like calling a shed a mansion. Two people can live on it if they really like each other. I live in a condo—well, I guess you know that. It’s okay and close to the seminary, but on weekends it can get a little noisy. I don’t like noise.”

  Carmen kept her smile in place. “It must be nice to have a boat you can bring friends to.”

  “No one else has been on the Blushing—”

  Carmen cocked her head. Why had Ellis stopped like that?

  Ellis started again. “Like I said, it’s very small. I don’t take guests out to it.” He turned and pointed at the small Sailcraft bobbing in the harbor among the larger, more majestic vessels. It looked out of place. “That’s it there. The one with the purple trim.”

  “I can’t make out the name on her hull.” Carmen said. Ellis had looked embarrassed when he started to share the name.

  Ellis face tinted pink. “My uncle christened her the Blushing Bride. I can’t bring myself to change the name, so I just live with it.”

  “But only on weekends,” Bud said.

  “And some holidays. It has a small galley, but I eat most of my meals in town. Coronado has some good places to eat. There’s also a Christian drama troupe. They have their own theater. Lamb’s Players. I go there sometimes.” He paused. “But you didn’t drive all t
he way down here to hear about my boat. How can I help you?”

  Carmen had brought a large black purse. She didn’t like purses, but this one was large enough to hold the two files containing information copied from the official documents. The files were thin and she used them for effect. They had SDPD Homicide printed on the cover, another useful intimidation tool, but she wasn’t here to intimidate. Just to uncover connections.

  “This won’t take long, Professor.” Carmen pulled a photo from the file but kept the image facing her. “I’m afraid there’s been another murder and it might be related to Doug Lindsey.” Carmen watched Ellis’s face for a reaction. He froze in place and his head dipped. The mention of Lindsey’s name hit him hard.

  “Another . . . murder?”

  “Yes, sir. It was especially vicious.” She hesitated, began to lay the photo on the picnic table, then waited one second longer, her eyes fixed on the professor’s expression. She could see him tense, fearful of what he was about to see: no joy at the prospect, no curiosity. She set the photo down, the image facing the azure sky. Ellis pulled back, then stopped.

  Clearly he had expected something horrible, which was what Carmen set him up to expect. Instead, the photo was of a middle-aged man in a suit and tie, a broad smile of even and near-perfect teeth.

  Carmen let a moment or two slip by. “Do you know this man?”

  Ellis exhaled slowly. He had been holding his breath. “No. I don’t think so. This is the victim?”

  Bud leaned over the table. “What do you mean, ‘I don’t think so’?”

  “I don’t recall ever meeting him, but I suppose I may have seen him at some seminary function. The seminary has fundraisers and family nights. I may have seen him at one of those.”

  “Not likely,” Carmen said. “He’s Jewish. A cantor at his synagogue. Or should I say, he was a cantor.”

  “That’s horrible. Family?”

  “Yes.” It was the kind of question an innocent man asked. Although Carmen doubted Ellis Poe could be a vicious killer, she had let her mind play with some doubt. “Wife, two teenagers.”

  Ellis shook his head. “I can’t imagine how they must feel.” He pulled the photo closer and studied it. “If I ever met this man, I don’t remember it.”

  “Would a Christian have any dealings with a Jewish man?” Bud relaxed his posture.

  Ellis smiled.

  “What’s so funny?” Bud didn’t sound amused.

  “I’m sorry, Detective. Your question is . . .” Ellis abandoned the sentence. “Jesus is Jewish, so yes, Christians have dealings with a Jewish man.” He raised a hand. “I know what you’re asking, and the answer is yes. Aside from a few crackpot groups, Christians respect Jews. Christianity was planted on Jewish soil and spread from Jerusalem to the world. There’s no reason for your victim to avoid Christians or Christians to avoid Jews. Some of our students visit synagogues to better understand Jewish values and worship. I have done it myself. For a year, I went to synagogue to learn the Jewish perspective on the Tanakh.”

  That was a new one on Carmen. “The what?”

  “The Old Testament,” Ellis explained.

  “I thought that was called the Torah?”

  Ellis seemed surprised she knew the term. “Torah refers to the first five books of what we call the Old Testament: Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy. Sometimes the word Pentateuch is used. It’s a Greek term. Of course, the Jews don’t believe in a New Covenant as Christians do, so calling their Scriptures the Old Testament doesn’t work.” He pushed the photo back to Carmen. “I’m sorry, Detective, I don’t know the man.”

  “His name is David Cohen. Ring any bells?” Carmen retrieved the picture and put it back in the folder.

  “Cohen is a very common name, as is David. Your man was named after Israel’s greatest king. Cohen means he is related to the priestly line of Jews. So he had the name of a king and a priest. Still, I don’t know a David Cohen.”

  “I have another question for you, Dr. Poe.” Carmen set the two folders on the table but left them closed, her hand resting on them as if fearful a gust of wind might send the contents flapping toward the bay or fall at the feet of some mother walking her children around the park. “Cohen was found in front of his rabbi’s home—in the front yard. The rabbi found him yesterday morning.”

  “That’s awful.” Ellis’s face showed his disgust.

  “Its worse than you imagine.” She opened the file and removed a crime-scene photo and set it on the top of the file.

  Ellis recoiled and looked away. “Why would you show that to me?”

  “Because, I want you to understand what we’re dealing with here. This man was beaten to death. Slowly. By hand. Then the killer, using a stolen vehicle, transported the victim to the rabbi’s home and dropped the body in the front yard. The rabbi and his wife have two small children. Why do that? Transporting a body is one way to leave more evidence behind. Most murderers kill and leave. Why kill the cantor and drive to his rabbi’s home and toss the body there?”

  “How should I know, Detective? I’m an academic, not an investigator.” He kept his eyes averted.

  “Try and follow me on this, Professor. Your student was in seminary to become a minister, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s killed and dumped in a public place. Cohen is a Jewish religious man. He is killed and dumped in a public place. Why?”

  “Again, Detective, I don’t have a clue. You tell me.” Defensiveness edged into Ellis’s tone.

  Carmen kept her gaze on him. “My partner and I have been talking. We think the killings are related—that they mean something besides the obvious, but we can’t figure out what. The fact that both victims were religious people can’t be overlooked.”

  “But Doug was found in Balboa Park, not in someone’s front yard.”

  “True. There are significant differences, but . . .” Carmen looked at Bud, then continued. “We have a very good reason to believe that Lindsey and Cohen are the first in a series of murders.”

  “How can you know that?”

  “The killer is taunting us. That’s all I can tell you, and that’s probably too much.” She shifted on the hard bench. “You know more about the religious world than we do. What ties a Jewish cantor and Christian seminary student together? Why those two?”

  Ellis shook his head. “I don’t have a clue, Detective. If both were Jews then you might wonder if some anti-Semite, or white supremacist, or a member of an extreme Islamic group did it. But I can’t think of any reason why any of those would go after Doug. If both victims were Christians, then you might suspect a few other groups.” He clenched and unclenched his hands. “I don’t see a connection. Maybe its just coincidence.”

  “Maybe,” Carmen said, “but that doesn’t feel right. Who hates Jews and Christians? Muslims?”

  Ellis shrugged. “There are extreme Muslim groups, especially in other countries. Most hate Israel. Christian pastors have been arrested. In some countries if a Muslim converts to Christianity, he or she can be arrested and tried. So that’s one possibility. Has anyone taken credit for the murders?”

  “No. And just for the record, I’m trusting your discretion in this matter.”

  “Understood. There’s a problem. I’m not an expert in terrorism, but usually a terrorist group wants credit for their actions. They don’t act and then hide.”

  “That crossed my mind,” Carmen said.

  “I’m at a loss, detectives. I don’t know Cohen, and I doubt I’ve ever met him. I have no memory of it if I have. I don’t doubt you when you say there’s a connection between the two murders, but I don’t see what it is.”

  Carmen put the graphic photo away and returned the files to her purse. “We appreciate your time, Dr. Poe.” Carmen rose. “If you come up with insights,
please give us a call. Enjoy the rest of your weekend.”

  Carmen walked back to the car more frustrated than when she arrived.

  Ellis watched Carmen walk away and wished he could avert his eyes. He didn’t gaze at her as most men gaze at a woman striding away. He didn’t think of her form, her posture, or the breeze in her hair. He thought of how much she looked like her younger sister, Shelly. She possessed the same crinkle of skin around the eyes, the same slope to her nose, the same intelligent gaze—except Carmen’s eyes revealed a festering hurt.

  Ellis knew why.

  17

  Carmen slipped into the front seat of the Crown Vic and buckled her belt before Bud could open his door. He noticed.

  “We in a hurry?”

  “No, but there’s no reason to hang around here.”

  “Boy, you got that right,” He slipped the key into the ignition. “Nothing here but clear skies, blue ocean, a warm breeze, fine restaurants, and the best view of the San Diego skyline. Who wants to put up with that?”

  “Want me to drive?”

  “Nah, I got it.”

  Bud directed the car from the parking lot, creeping along the asphalt, Carmen assumed, to add a little friendly irritation to the moment. As he turned the car, she caught sight of Ellis walking slowly along the concrete path that lined the grassy area: head down, shoulders slumped, hands in his pockets. He looked to be carrying an invisible, Atlas-sized load on his slight shoulders.

  “He’s hiding something.” Carmen stated it as fact, not supposition.

  “You think he’s involved in the murders?” Bud applied more pressure to the accelerator as they reached the street.

  “No. At least not that I can see. Did you see the way he reacted to the crime-scene photo?”

  “I did. I thought he was going to puke on the table. Not that I could blame him. Cohen was as messed up as a man can be. It almost put me off my food.”

  “Really, I don’t recall you missing a meal.”