Wounds

by Alton Gansky

“There’s meaning in all of this, people. Serial killers usually kill in the same fashion. It’s what they practice; a skill they hone. Jack the Ripper didn’t use a knife one time and a gun the next. So why is the guy doing things the way he is? What does he want the world to see? To notice? No one goes through this much trouble unless he has a need to be noticed or a cause to promote. You say there is only the one note?”

  Carmen answered. “Yes, sir.”

  England pursed his lips. “The way he hides trace evidence . . . This guy has been working on this for a long time, planning, prepping, and if we don’t catch him soon, he’ll do it again and again until we figure out what his message is.”

  “If so, sir, then he’s bound to make a mistake somewhere along the line.”

  “Don’t bet on it, Detective. Even if what you say is true, he might not drop the ball until several more are dead. We can’t allow that.”

  “Yes, sir.” Carmen tried to imagine the pressure the man was under.

  “What about the bullet used to kill . . .”

  “Wilton, sir. Bob Wilton.”

  “Wilton.” He said it as if filing the name in his mind. “Any good news on the bullet front?”

  Carmen sighed. “Not much, sir. It was a small caliber and a head shot. It blew out the skull before expending its energy and lodged in the interior door panel. The slug is highly deformed. Based on weight we make it out to be .25 calibre. Ballistics was able to get enough information on striation to make us think it’s from an older Walther PP series. PPK maybe.”

  “James Bond special. Database match?”

  “No. We ran it, but it was pretty much munched. A soft tissue shot would have been better, but such a small bullet, at such close range and passing through bone then ricocheting around . . . Disappointing. We’re still working it.”

  The chief took another bite of his stew but did so as if in slow motion. He put his spoon down. “You told me you assume he’s a big man.”

  “Yes, sir. Based on the size of the bruising, the damage done by the beating, and the force necessary to kill a man by punching.”

  “Big man, small gun. Why?”

  No one answered, so England offered an idea. “Small bullets deform more easily. Also a small gun means what?”

  “The need for a close shot,” Carmen said.

  The chief nodded slowly. “So . . .”

  “He likes to be close when he kills,” Bud offered.

  “Yes, yes, I think that’s true.” England poked at his stew, seemingly lost in thought. “It fits, doesn’t it? The guy is smart. Did he know that Wilton would be with Lindsey? If he did but didn’t want Lindsey, then he knew he’d have to off the witness. He’d be worried about a traceable slug. A small round in the head would deform just as you described it. Did you find the shell or gun?”

  “No, sir.” Carmen’s mind was racing. “We had a team of divers search the lake. No gun there.”

  “Wise. No, he’d take it with him. Dispose of it later. Or keep it if he’s confident the slug can’t be traced. If it’s never been used in a crime, then the round won’t match any of the databases.”

  “That’s my thinking, Chief.” Carmen hated agreeing. Life was much easier when the murderer was stupid. A highly intelligent killer was a different ballgame.

  And not a good one.

  The chief folded his napkin and set it on the table. “Okay, I appreciate the challenge before you. Let me know how I can help. I need to let you know this: There’s a good chance I’ll be doing a press conference tomorrow. If I know our mayor, he’s going to insist on it. Think of it as a preventative media strike. I can’t give you an exact time yet, but think about midafternoon tomorrow. Captain Simmons, I want you there.”

  “Yes, sir,” the captain said.

  “You, too, Detective Rainmondi.”

  “Sir, I’m not all that great with the media.”

  “No problem, Detective. You have all night and a good hunk of tomorrow to become an expert.” He smiled.

  Carmen didn’t feel the humor. “Yes, sir.”

  “I want you to think about how the public might help.” He motioned to Jimmy Chen, who stood just outside the back room. He approached. “Yes, chief?”

  “I forgot to ask about your family. Everyone well?”

  “Yes, sir. Doing great.”

  “Wonderful. Good to hear. Could you bring me the check, Jimmy?”

  “What check?”

  “For the meal. I promised to pay.”

  Jimmy grinned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Chief? What meal?”

  England laughed. “Thanks, Jimmy. You’re the best.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Jimmy slipped away, and Chief England rose, removed his wallet, and withdrew a hundred that he tossed on the table.

  “The least I can do is leave a good tip.” England thanked them and walked away. Carmen could hear him chatting it up with the off-duty cops out front.

  Carmen looked around the table. “Did we just get schooled?”

  “Yep,” Bud said. “We got schooled big time.”

  The Blushing Bride shifted on its anchor, pushed by a breeze. Ellis Poe adjusted his cheap beach chair on the tiny front deck so he could stare east at the skyline of San Diego. Few things were as beautiful as the lights of buildings on the water of the bay. One America Plaza, Harbor Club West, Pinnacle Marina West and East Towers, the Marriott Hotel and Marina, with it’s curved buildings designed to look like sails, and a dozen or more other tall buildings cast white and colored lights onto the undulating water. At night, the already stunning skyline took on an eerie beauty.

  As was his custom when he stayed on the small boat, Poe had spent hours staring at the sight.

  Other cities had taller buildings, but all buildings in downtown San Diego had a 500-foot limit because of their proximity to the San Diego International Airport. The height restriction did nothing to stem the creativity of the architects and builders. No matter how many times he saw the sun surrender the night to the skyline, he was impressed and hoped he always would be.

  There was another building that could be seen in the skyline: the Metropolitan Correctional Center, a mid-rise prison run by the Department of Prisons. The joke in the city was that it was the only federal pen with an ocean view.

  He wondered what the view was like.

  If he followed the course he was considering taking, he just might find out.

  27

  Her cell phone buzzed and chimed. Carmen had been dreaming, and her dream incorporated the sound. She was a young teenager at home, trying to pick up the receiver of the family’s rotary-dial phone. No fancy push-button phones for them, her dad had decreed. “These work just fine.” Except this one didn’t work. Someone had glued the hand-piece to the body of the phone.

  Something else was wrong. Their phone rang when someone called. This phone was buzzing like an angry bee and emitting some kind of electronic tone.

  “Answer it, Carmen.” Shelly was always so impatient.

  “I can’t, stupid. It’s stuck.” Carmen tugged at the handset again. Nothing. Not only would it not come out of the cradle, but the body of the phone seemed attached to the table. If this was a joke, she didn’t like it.

  “You are so lame. Here, let me.”

  Carmen could feel Shelly step near to her back. A hand reached around her and took hold of the handset.

  A skeletal hand.

  Fleshless.

  Bright white bones.

  Carmen screamed and pulled away. She would have been better off had she not looked. Shelly looked at her as if her older sister had lost her mind. She smiled, but since she had only half a face, it didn’t work well. A half-smile was more a grimace.

  The receiver lifted easily in
the boney hand, and Shelly placed it to her skull. “Hello.” Another fifty-percent smile. “It’s for you, dumdum.”

  Carmen’s knees went hollow. Her heart scrabbled about in her chest like an animal that had gnawed its way to freedom. Her bladder felt ready to let go of its contents. She wobbled back a step.

  “It’s the police station,” Shelly said through the corner of her mouth that had lips. “Don’t you want to talk to them?” She held out the phone. A bit of flesh dangled from her wrist . . .

  Carmen was out of bed before she knew she had moved.

  A light on the nightstand thinned the darkness—the light from her smartphone. She snapped it up. “What?”

  A tentative voice. “Detective Rainmondi?”

  The words on the caller ID sank in. She was talking to someone from dispatch.

  “Yes. Sorry. I was sleeping. Dreaming. Never mind. What’s up?” She listened. Memorizing the information as she turned and sat on the edge of the bed. The sheets were wet. She had been sweating. “Understood. I need you to make a few calls . . .”

  She ended the call, set the phone down, and rubbed her face. “Someone make it stop.”

  Then she realized fate had made her the “someone.”

  The clock on the nightstand read 4:03.

  The clock in the Crown Vic read 4:27. The sun had yet to show for work. She moved slowly down Corona Oriente Road west of Crown Point Park. The park had a long stretch of sandy beach bordering Fiesta Bay, a popular boating place. The park was a popular destination for those who preferred the quiet waters of the bay over the crashing waves of Pacific Beach and La Jolla Shores. The trees and grass reminded Carmen of the park in Coronado, where she had interviewed Ellis Poe.

  The ocean park was well known to Carmen. She spent many hours here with her family. Old-style streetlights cast a glow along the side of the road bordered by houses built just after World War II and larger, newer executive homes. A fifty-year-old, 1,200-square-foot house could share a block with a much newer 5,000-square-footer. Her interest, however, lay elsewhere: the middle of three parking lots. She pulled to a stop on the apron leading to the large, empty expanse of asphalt. It was an easy spot to find. Four patrol cars were parked nearby, as were two other Crown Vics.

  Carmen exited her car and joined two men standing by the yellow barricade stretching around the entire lot. The responding officers must have run through a half-dozen rolls of the tape.

  She glanced at Bud and Hector. “You got here quick.”

  “I was just wasting the night by sleeping.” Bud looked as weary as Carmen felt. A field of stubble covered his cheeks and chin. He hadn’t bothered to shave. During the half-moment they spent as a couple years ago she learned that he was old-fashioned about shaving. Still used a double-edge safety razor. No cheap throwaway for him.

  Hector looked a little more refreshed. His chin was clear of stubble. Probably an electric-shaver man. Much easier to shave quickly.

  “Me, too.” Carmen fought a yawn. “Why sleep when we could be standing by the ocean on a breezy morning before sunrise?” A Hyundai pulled up, an older sedan. Joe Heywood exited. Since he wasn’t a detective, he hadn’t been issued a car, so had used his own vehicle to make his way here from home. They waited for him to walk to their location. When he arrived, Carmen took the lead.

  “Okay, who was here first?”

  “That’d be me.” Hector raised a hand. “But Bud arrived right after me.”

  “Have you looked at the body?” Carmen scanned the parking lot.

  “Yes. It definitely fits. Bizarre. This time—”

  Carmen cut him off. “Don’t destroy our first impressions.” She took a deep breath. She had a feeling that she’d rather read about this case than see it. “Lead on, Hector. Let’s see what the new trend in crazy is.”

  Tactical flashlights appeared and scanned the ground as Hector led the group over the lawn to a copse of three trees. The ground was firm, no doubt hard-packed by thousands of park visitors. Carmen saw no shoe impressions or anything else that might be associated with the murder. She didn’t expect to. The subject of their search was a meticulous man, which made him all the more dangerous.

  “And there he is.” Hector motioned to a tree.

  A nude male stood with his back to a tree. No, not stood. He was dead. He hung on the tree, his naked form tied to the trunk with long strips of cloth. Carmen trained her light on the corpse, starting at his head. Like some of the other victims, the man had been pummeled. His right eye was swollen closed, the lid of his left eye hung at half-mast. A piece of cloth was wrapped around the man’s throat. His hands were bound by the same material, and another strip was tied around his abdomen and the tree trunk and pulled tight with such force the belly fat puffed around it.

  “Lovely.” Carmen shook her head. “What is that? Purple silk?”

  “You asking a bunch of guys if it’s silk?” Bud moved closer and shone his small light on the material around the man’s throat. “It’s shiny. Maybe silk, maybe something similar.” He shone his light in the half-open eye. “Petechial hemorrhage consistent with strangulation.” He stepped back.

  Carmen continued to move her light from head to feet. Severe bruising, especially around the ribs. The light continued down. No trauma to below the waist. The man had voided his bladder and bowels. “Well, this is different.” She let the light linger on the waste.

  “Killed here.” Bud looked at Carmen. “That is a change.”

  The victim’s feet and hands were bound with the same purple material. This time Carmen moved the body and with gloved hands lifted the man’s bound wrists. “No rigor. Fresh kill.” She directed the beam of her flashlight at the man’s left rib cage, which had been covered by his arms. “Deep bruising.” She gently lowered the arms. “He was beaten before he was tied to the tree.” She wanted to untie his hand to see if the ligature marks matched the other victims, but the cloth was too wide. She would have to wait for the ME to tell her.

  “So the guy was beaten elsewhere, tied, and strangled here?” Hector shook his head. “Why?”

  “Part of the game. Part of the message.” A heavy wave of weariness washed over Carmen. She felt fifty feet below the surface and sinking fast. For the first time in her career she wanted to spin on her heels and walk away.

  She didn’t. “Okay, no clothes means no wallet, so for the moment we have a John Doe. Let’s spread out and survey the area. The wallet may be nearby.” She looked at Heywood. “Joe, I want you to get a few of your uniform buddies to check out the area around the park. Keep an eye out for blood spatter.” She directed the flashlight back to the man’s face—there were streaks of coagulated blood from his nose and mouth. “Also, see if there are any security cameras around. Doesn’t look like we have any in the park, but maybe one of the bigger houses has a camera trained on the street. Rich people have more to be paranoid about.”

  “Got it.” He turned and walked back the way they entered.

  Carmen continued. “Dispatch has notified the ME’s office and the crime-scene techs. They should be here soon.” She studied the scene once more. “Let’s assume he parked in the lot. Pulling a body from a car while parked on the street seems too stupid for this guy. Let’s move from the tree to the lot.”

  Hector rubbed the back of his neck. “This is gonna be a long day.”

  “Could be worse,” Bud said. “One of us has a press conference this afternoon.”

  Carmen swore. “I wonder who I have to shoot to get a cup of coffee.”

  On the street, a van with a retractable microwave tower mounted to the roof pulled to the curb. Carmen saw Joe Heywood head them off. It was to be expected. Captain Simmons’s short press conference the other day had become chum for the sharks. Some detectives liked the limelight.

  Carmen wasn’t one of them.

 
Carmen had gone to bed a little early the night before, but being jarred awake had left her feeling like she just came out of major surgery. The long hours of the last two weeks had worked her like a heavyweight worked a body bag. Every few minutes she wondered what it would be like to take a long nap and then take a leisurely drive up the coast. Instead she stood with Captain Simmons and Chief England. They were in the media room of the central station. Before them were several rows of seats, each filled with a reporter. At the back, several video cameras were set up on tripods. In the seats were representatives from every major radio station and newspaper—mainline and independent. To Carmen, they looked like a school of piranha eyeing a cow that had wandered into their river. The dinner bell was about to ring.

  Chief Mark England stepped to the lectern, the top of which sported a dozen microphones. “Thank you for coming in on a Saturday. I appreciate your dedication.” England wore his dress uniform, stood straight, head up, and displayed an expression of determination. “Normally we would wait until the work week, but we feel the public needs to hear from us sooner. Thank you for making that possible.”

  Some of the reporters nodded as if the praise were meant just for them. Several held digital recorders forward, as if the extra foot or two their outstretched arms provided would make the recording that much clearer. Maybe it did. What did Carmen know about reporting? She shifted in her seat, a padded folding chair that seemed unusually hard and uncomfortable.

  “A few days ago, the head of our homicide department—Captain Darrel Simmons—informed you of several murder cases the department has been investigating. These crimes are unusual and appear to be the work of one man. Since then there have been more cases. As it stands now five bodies have been found. All male. We want the good citizens of San Diego to know that we are on the job. A special team of detectives has been formed and is being led by Detective Carmen Rainmondi, who reports to Captain Simmons and to me. I’ve asked that Detective Rainmondi bring us up to date. I must inform you that there are many details she cannot reveal. This is, after all, an ongoing investigation.”