Wounds

by Alton Gansky

  Alone.

  Some feared that word. Some would go to any extent to avoid being alone. Ellis hankered for it. For the most part, he had spent his adult life alone, interacting with people only when it was unavoidable. A few had grown from strangers to acquaintances. People like Adam Bridger, the president of the seminary, made inroads into Poe’s self-erected monastery, but he could count on one hand the number of those who found cracks in the walls.

  Since his last days of high school, Ellis had found a measure of comfort in empty rooms and books. Theological texts, ancient grammars, scholastic journals, and lesson plans. Even in his classes, he had erected an invisible barrier that spanned the width of the classroom: on the one side the students; on the other, Planet Ellis Poe.

  When teaching, he spoke with passion rooted in his love of the New Testament and the times of Christ. That was when he felt whole, complete, human. In those moments, his mind could only embrace the topic of the day.

  In his office, in his home, on his tiny boat . . . things were different. The demons rose unbidden; the dark clouds rolled overhead like a desert thunderstorm; the cold, lashing wind of regret tore at him. He let it. Not because he liked it. He didn’t. He did so because he deserved it.

  He was a coward.

  He was unprincipled.

  He had been faithless and timid.

  He deserved his isolation and so much more. So very much more.

  The Blushing Bride rocked in the water, and Ellis turned to see a cabin cruiser gliding across the blue waters of the bay—faster than it should. The voices of young men and women joined with loud music as it rolled across the waters. The weekend was beginning a day early for some. Not unusual. San Diego was many things, including a party city. There was always something to do somewhere, and the weekends were the most active of all.

  This was the last weekend before classes resumed at the seminary. Normally, the Easter break was one of relaxation and reflection, but Doug Lindsey’s murder had changed that. Learning Shelly’s sister was investigating Lindsey’s and other murders had made things worse. The sight of her, even the sound of her, brought back that night—a night he had tried so hard to forget but couldn’t.

  He let someone beat and kick Shelly Rainmondi to death.

  He had been attacked too, and at the time he thought it was the worst pain a human could feel. But it was nothing compared to what Shelly Rainmondi had experienced that late night. He used to rationalize his emotional pain away by telling himself that her pain lasted only a short time, while his lasted a lifetime.

  Nonsense. What kind of man thinks that way?

  He could come up with only one answer: a coward.

  When Detective Rainmondi asked him about knowing her sister, he skirted the issue the best he could. He couldn’t erase the subtle but real sound of pain in the detective’s voice. She was still hurting. Oh, she had hidden it well, but Ellis could hear it. Could see it in her eyes and the way her shoulders dipped when she said Shelly’s name.

  He should have told her everything then, but the decades had not given him any more courage than he had as a traumatized teenager.

  Gutless. Useless. Worthless.

  He closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and let the late-day sun touch his face and the salty breeze finger his hair. It was his therapy. His way of applying balm to the festering wound on his soul. The sound of small waves slapping the hull was a lullaby he had come to love—sometimes come to need. The Blushing Bride was his Fortress of Solitude. Even Superman needed a place to hide, to refresh.

  But tonight, it wasn’t working. The sounds, the smells, the gentle rocking motion of the craft brought no relief. It too had turned on him.

  Tears pressed free of his closed eyes and charted a course down hot cheeks. Mucus filled his nose. He tried to fight it, to think of other things. He began a technique he had created while a student in seminary in Texas: form a complex academic question, then argue both sides. It was what he did when he couldn’t sleep.

  Arguments for the Pauline authorship of Hebrews followed by counter arguments.

  The tears grew hotter.

  One, the simple lack of author attribution does not negate the traditionally held view of Pauline authorship.

  His breathing grew erratic. To open his eyes would be to open the floodgates.

  Two, the book argues for the supremacy of Christ over the law, a topic a rabbi like Paul would undertake.

  Something welled within him, like magma in a volcano seeking release.

  Three, the arguments in the book are deeply Jewish, requiring an expert knowledge of the Old . . . Testament.

  His stomach roiled, burned, and twisted. The car. The dark night. The late hour.

  Four, there are mentions of several of Paul’s companions, most significantly . . . Tim . . . Timothy, Paul’s son . . . in the ministry.

  Shelly would never have children. No son. No daughter.

  His heart began to beat as if trying to pummel him from the inside out. As if trying to punish him.

  Fifth . . . fifth . . . fifth . . .

  A sob escaped. Then a gasp. Then an uncontrolled wail. He could hear it roll across the water. He rose from the chair on the stern deck and slipped into the cabin before tenants on the other boats could identify him as the source of the gut-wrenching sound. Inside, he dropped to his knees.

  “God, I am so sorry. I shouldn’t have left her. I should have stood up. Should have been a man. Should have . . . Should have . . .”

  God didn’t seem interested.

  Carmen paced a side room of the homicide offices. She had set it up so the primary detectives could lay out material and talk without disturbing others around them. She was in the room alone, looking at the photos of the bodies and other items on the wall. She had arranged them in a time line starting with Doug Lindsey, Bob Wilton, then David Cohen, and the latest victim: Rolf Brady. She paced the room and, after a moment, moved the photo of Wilton’s bloated corpse a little lower than the others. His mode of death . . . the fact that his body was hidden . . . He didn’t fit the emerging pattern. It was like he was a bystander rather than a target.

  Above the unsettling photos of each corpse was an 8x10 picture of the victims taken under normal circumstances: family photo, business headshot, the kind of photos that reminded her that these people once walked, talked, laughed, and loved. She never knew where a clue would come from, and that included the appearance of the victims when alive. Some serial killers targeted only dark-haired prostitutes, or young boys, or college kids. Perhaps there was a similar connection. But if there was, she wasn’t seeing it.

  The photos formed columns. Beneath each was a photo of the primary crime scene, followed by detailed photos of the injuries. So far, there were no photos of murder sites, just those where the body had been found.

  There were notes about time of death, cause of death, age, family relationship, criminal record (those were cards that said, “None”). To the side of the grisly columns was a city map, with a pin identifying each location where a corpse was found: Balboa Park, Rabbi Singer’s home near College Avenue, Lake Murray, and the abandoned barracks near Miramar Naval Air Station.

  “It’s a mess.” Thank heaven no one was there to hear her despair.

  The door to the room opened, and her team entered, led by Bud. “It’s late. We’re hungry. So we’ve decided that you, great leader that you are, would naturally suggest we conduct our meeting at Jimmy Chen’s.”

  She looked at the men. “Is that what you decided?”

  “It’s what Bud decided.” Hector was the last to enter the room.

  “Coward,” Bud said.

  “Just so we’re clear, Bud: Carmen scares me more than you do.” Hector laughed, and a moment later Bud joined him.

  Jimmy Chen’s sounded pretty good to Ca
rmen. She had skipped breakfast and had a granola bar for lunch. About an hour ago her stomach began to feast on itself. “Sounds good to me, guys, especially since one of you is buying.”

  Bud started. “No one said—”

  “I’ll call and ask for the back room.” She started for the door.

  “Um, wait,” Bud said. “About that whole buying thing . . .”

  Carmen kept a straight face as she snapped open the door, then jumped back a foot. Someone was standing on the other side of the threshold. That alone was startling, but seeing the chief of police standing there was more staggering. She could count on one hand the number of times she had had a conversation with the head of the force.

  “Chief. You startled me.”

  He smiled. Chief Mark England was a tall man—six-four—broad shoulders, dark hair tinted with just the right amount of gray, and a lined face that indicated he was a man who was used to smiling—and a man who had seen the worst life could deliver. Carmen had always thought the man could stand in for Tom Selleck. They weren’t dead ringers, but in the right light they could pass for brothers.

  “I have that effect on people. Sorry.” He looked weary, most likely from his travels. “I know you and your team are busy, but I have to brief the mayor tomorrow morning. The poor guy is hunkering down for a media storm.”

  “There hasn’t been a media storm yet, sir.” She started. Was the weakness in her voice as apparent to them as it was to her?

  “There will be, Detective. Trust me, there will be. The media is putting it all together. Incorrectly, I assume, but all that means is that we’ll have to straighten them out. Am I interrupting?”

  Carmen glanced at the others. “We were just headed over to Jimmy Chen’s for dinner and a change of scenery. We were going to talk things over, but we can cancel that—”

  “Ah, Jimmy Chen’s.” The corners of the chief’s mouth inched up. “I haven’t been to Jimmy’s since I got kicked up stairs. Does he still serve that New Mexico-style green chili stew?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s still the best this side of Santa Fe.” A second passed. “Would you care to join us? Detective Tock is buying.”

  “Is he now?” England looked at Carmen’s partner.

  “I-I . . . Yes, sir. It would be an honor.” Bud looked a shade more pale than he had a moment ago.

  “I appreciate the invitation, and I’d love to join you, but I’m buying.” England grinned. “I make a little more than you guys.”

  Carmen saw Bud relax. This was going to be a story for the ages.

  As Chief England turned, he said, “I love their beans. Best in the city.”

  Bud didn’t have to speak.

  His grin said it all.

  26

  Jimmy’s was filled, as usual, with a mix of citizens and cops. The latter were easy to identify. They were the ones whose heads snapped up the minute Chief Mark England stepped into the place. Carmen and the others moved through the front dining space and headed for the back room. England glad-handed his way through the crowd, slapping cops of every rank on the shoulder and calling them by name. The man’s memory was impressive. The SDPD had more than twenty-seven hundred employees. She didn’t know if England knew them all by name, but watching him work the crowd made it appear so.

  The back room was empty, unusual for a Friday evening. They passed through a small crowd waiting for seats. Jimmy must have cleared the room for them. She wondered how many meals he had to comp for that.

  Two tables had been pushed together. Their number had grown by one, with the addition of Captain Darrel Simmons raising their number to six. The table was set with chips and salsa and glasses of water. Carmen’s fanny had barely touched the seat when Jimmy Chen appeared, his Asian face lit like a kid’s on Christmas morning.

  “This is an honor, Chief!” Jimmy looked ready to split at the seams. “We haven’t had the pleasure of your company for a long time.”

  “And I’ve missed this place, Jimmy. They tell me you’re still making that stomach-blistering green chili stew.”

  “Oh, yes, sir. We’ve hospitalized six just this week.”

  “That’s what I want to hear.”

  Jimmy took the orders by memory and disappeared, interrupting only once to bring sodas and teas. Carmen wanted a beer. She needed a beer, but they were on the clock. She settled for water with lemon. While they waited for their drinks, England filled them in on his latest trip to a police chief’s conference. “I used to patrol the streets; now I patrol conference centers.”

  “Do you miss the street, Chief?” Bud asked.

  “Some days, yes. There’s something about doing police work. When you go home, you feel like you really did something. My work is now all administration and politics. I thought I’d put in thirty or thirty-five years in uniform. Before I knew it, I was wearing a suit, which was fine when I worked Robbery and Gangs, but once you crawl up the ladder, you get a bigger office, more pay, and a sense that you’re losing touch with the work you signed up for. Other days, I’m glad I’m chief. I lead the best police force in the nation. We have a crime rate far below cities our size, and our close rate is the envy of every major metroplex in the world.”

  “I don’t want to sound like I’m brown nosing here,” Hector said, “but you get the credit for much of that.”

  “Not really. Some maybe, but we had good leadership long before I came along. Oh, we’ve had our problems, but in the end we came out stronger. Okay, enough of that. I need to elbow my way into your work.” He lifted a hand. “I’m not going to interfere. I have full confidence in you and your captain. Assistant Chief Claymore speaks highly of you.”

  “He does?” Carmen let the words slip before she realized they had formed in her mind. “I mean—”

  “No need to explain, Detective,” England said. “He comes off a little strong at times, but he’s a good cop. Okay, fill me in.” He looked at Carmen. “I understand you’re lead on this. Let’s start with you.”

  “Yes, sir.” Carmen took a moment to gather her thoughts then started from the beginning. By the time she had finished the explanation and related their approach, the meals had arrived.

  “If it’s all right with everyone, I’d like to continue our chat through the meal,” England said, but only after taking a moment to admire the large bowl of green chili and pork. He looked like a happy man. “I have some paperwork to deal with after this. The problem of being away from the office for a week.”

  No one objected. No one would. This was the chief, and he lived and worked in a ratified air.

  Carmen finished recounting all they knew. England listened, nodding from time to time as he shoveled food in his mouth with easy, precise movements. A man who wore expensive suits had to learn to eat carefully.

  When she finished, England set down his spoon and dabbed at his brow, removing the spice-induced perspiration. “Your man is smart. Methodical. Has a hidden purpose. Wants to be noticed. He might even want to be caught, but under his own terms. Does that sound right?”

  “Yes,” Carmen said. “He seems to avoid any place with a security camera. That means he scopes out his drop spots ahead of time.”

  “All the injuries occurred before death?”

  “The ME says so.”

  “So he’s sadistic. Smart and sadistic. That’s the worst. Stupid and sadistic is easy to solve. You’ve got nothing on video?”

  Heywood answered. “I’ve been working that with a couple of the techs, sir, and I’ve come up empty. Somehow he evaded cameras in Balboa Park. That was our best opportunity. Some of the museums have security cameras, but I came up with zilch. Since he stays on surface streets, the Cal Trans cameras have been of no use.”

  England shook his head and stared at his stew as if an answer would bubble to the surface. “What drives this guy? Any indica
tion of male rape or mutilation?”

  “None,” Bud said. “The ME was specific about that. None of the wounds were sexual in nature.”

  “And every death is different? Every body found in a different part of the city? Any idea how he’s abducting the victims?”

  “No, sir. With the Lindsey kid, we know a Taser-like device was used. We haven’t found that to be true on the other victims.”

  “The guy knows the system,” the chief said. “He kills in one place then dumps the body elsewhere, yet he’s careful enough to make sure there’s no trace on the body that can lead to his killing location. All the bodies were bound?”

  “Yes, and strung up by the wrists,” Carmen answered. “Well, all but Bob Wilton, who died from a GSW to the head.”

  The chief swore, then apologized to Carmen. He was an old-style gentleman. Clearly he’d never heard Carmen when she was angry. She could curse the leaves off a tree.

  “So he has a killing field. Were they gagged?”

  Carmen hadn’t thought of that. She had studied the photos of the bodies enough to be able to call them to mind in vivid detail. “No. I haven’t seen any indications of that, nor has the ME called it to our attention.” She looked at Hector.

  “No on my guy.”

  The chief sat silently for a moment. He was known to be a special kind of genius, the kind of smarts that allowed him to process information that would overwhelm lesser humans. “Ask the ME to check that. If he tortured his victims but didn’t gag them, then you’d have to assume he has some place in an outlying area where a scream wouldn’t draw attention.”

  How stupid could she be? England said it with such calm assurance that it seemed a fact before he had finished the statement. Of course, no one had an idea where that might be.