by Alton Gansky
“It’s important work. Not everyone can do it.” Ellis gazed out the side window at the passing scenery. Cars in front of them slowed, unsettled by the site of a black-and-white behind them. Several times, Heywood had to decelerate suddenly. He showed no irritation. Apparently he had grown used to such things.
A few moments of silence passed. “I was referring to your refusal to press charges against Detective Rainmondi for popping you one.”
Ellis rubbed his jaw. “I had it coming. That and more. I didn’t see any reason to ruin her career. I already ruined an important part of her life.”
“Not many men would see it that way.”
“I can’t see it any other way.” Ellis kept his gaze out the window as they transitioned to Broadway.
“It must be hard to live with. No doubt.”
Ellis didn’t respond, and they finished the drive in silence.
The white-and-blue building loomed before them. The headquarters station had come to represent things Ellis didn’t want to remember: the wall of death, the ceiling of the case room as seen from the floor, the inside of the homicide captain’s office, and most of all, the look on Carmen’s face when he came clean about Shelly.
“Detective Rainmondi said I should help you in any way I can.” Heywood parked the car.
“I don’t know what good I can do. How can I figure out the target? I’m no detective.”
Heywood killed the engine. “Look, Dr. Poe, this is gonna sound strange, but Carmen believes in you. True, she hates your guts, but she knows that you’re the one who put some of the pieces together. None of the trained detectives saw the connections. You did. Sometimes insight comes from unexpected places.”
“I appreciate the thought, Officer, but I don’t fool myself. I’m a seminary professor and nothing more.”
Heywood’s smile became a frown. “It’s not my job to cheer you up, Dr. Poe, but I must admit that you surprise me. I’ve been assuming you’re a spiritual man. I mean, you teach New Testament, right?”
Ellis finally faced him. “Yes.”
“Do you not believe what you teach?”
“Of course I do.” Ellis was surprised at the emotion in his own voice. “It’s not just academics with me.”
“Well, I’m sorry, Doc, but I don’t buy it.” Heywood slipped from the car. Ellis did the same. “I was brought up in church and was led to believe that spiritual men were men of prayer.”
“I pray more than you can imagine.” Ellis rounded the car, his anger growing.
“Let me guess, you spend your prayer time mewling and begging for forgiveness.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
Heywood stopped and faced Ellis. The man stood six inches taller and was at least fifty pounds heavier. Ellis heart stumbled to a stop. It was one thing to be slugged by Carmen, but if this guy hit him, Ellis would be hunting for his head beneath the parked cars in the lot.
“We’re talking murder here, Doc. Not a murder, a series of them, and it isn’t over yet. We don’t know how many people this guy plans to kill. If you’re right, there’s at least one more. Add to that the abduction of several women. Who knows what he’s been doing to them? Frankly, Doc, that’s what I’d be praying about.”
Ellis couldn’t decide if he was furious, chastised, convicted, depressed, or something entirely different. His emotions had become a mixed-up stew. He had no response, but he had a sense that Heywood was right.
Heywood started walking again. “Who knows, maybe this is God’s way of helping you make good, for your sake as well as others.”
The officer’s words smoldered in Ellis’s brain.
Twenty minutes later, Ellis was in the case room, surrounded by images and details he didn’t want to see or know. In front of him was a laptop computer that Heywood set up and entered a password allowing Ellis access to the Internet. He had no access to the police department servers, nor did he want them. If there were details he needed, Heywood would retrieve them, or so he said.
For the first ten minutes, Ellis stared at the screen. He was well acquainted with computers, often using them for detailed translation work and the reading of online theological journals. Still, he was a man who appreciated a blank sheet of paper. He asked for one.
“Sure. There are markers for the whiteboard. I’ll help you brainstorm.” Heywood stood.
“Okay.”
“I don’t know where to begin,” Ellis said.
“Let’s talk about what we know.” Heywood regurgitated the details of each death and the location of each body. He did so quickly. Those facts were already well known. Next he brought up the painful connection between Shelly’s murder and the message left by the killer for Carmen.
“He’s taunting her,” Ellis said. “I know, that’s obvious.”
“The first note was a general statement. No personal reference. The mirror message was directed at Carmen.” Heywood stood at the marker board, but had yet to write anything.
Ellis’s mind wasn’t cooperating. Too much emotion. Too much regret and self-loathing. He pressed the emotions back and tried to conjure up the academic in him. He had no success until he started praying. His mind relaxed and the gears began to roll again.
“In 1985, I saw the man—the teenager. I know he was big. Bigger than you. At the time, he seemed twice my size. I remember that clearly.”
“But he was a teenager? Older than you?”
“Maybe, but not by much. I was a senior. My guess is he was a senior, too.”
Heywood wrote teenager on the board. “So . . . eighteen?”
“Yes. That seems right. I don’t recall seeing him at Madison.”
Heywood turned. “That was your high school. Madison High. On Doliva?”
“Yes. The campus was full—fifteen hundred students or so—but I think I would remember someone like him. I remember he drove a yellow—”
“That won’t help. Carmen told me the car had been stolen and traced back to a car lot in Mission Beach.”
“Well, if he is about my age, then he must have attended high school somewhere. Clairemont High? Mission Bay High? Kearney?”
Heywood picked up the phone and dialed a number. “Hey, Cap. Heywood here. I’m working with Dr. Poe on a few things while Detective Rainmondi and the others are in the field. I need a few errands run. Can I call up a couple of unis for awhile?” He paused. “Thanks.” He turned his attention to Ellis. “Yearbooks.”
“School yearbooks is a good idea. Have them get year books for ’83 to ’87.”
“It will be at least an hour before we see any of them, so let’s stay on track. We’ve got a little mental momentum so let’s focus on who might be the ultimate victim. Are you sure the killer is planning to crucify someone?”
“Sure? I can’t be sure of anything. I have to believe that each murder reflects part of the physical abuse Jesus endured. It seems obvious now. Jesus went to Golgotha, where He was tied and nailed to a cross in front of His mother and a few others. The facts of the case all point to my conclusion.”
“Except that Jesus was one man. The killer did his torture to several people, not one. He killed them, so obviously he has someone else in mind.”
Ellis nodded. “That’s my conjecture.”
“Who?”
“I don’t see how we can . . .” He paused; an idea was inching forward in his mind. “So far the killer has been fairly close to the biblical account. Not completely accurate. I don’t think that’s his purpose. Still, he’s done some research on his victims.”
“More than that, he’s been able to avoid surveillance cameras, not leave behind trace evidence. The guy might not be an intellectual giant, but he is a thinker, at the very least, a schemer.”
Ellis stood and walked to the whiteboard, standing next to Heywood. “T
wo columns. Let’s start with the obvious.” Ellis wrote Jesus near the top left of the whiteboard with one of the markers.
Heywood got the idea and wrote Perp.
“No, not perp.” Ellis rolled the marker over in his hand. “The killer isn’t matching himself to Jesus . . . but he might be matching himself with the ultimate victim.”
“Got it.” Heywood erased his first title and replaced it with Target. The term made Ellis uncomfortable.
Ellis wrote, Jesus, Yeshua, Joshua in a line then pointed at each one. “Jesus is the New Testament name, His Greek name. Yeshua is His name in Hebrew. Joshua is the transliteration of Yeshua.”
Heywood wrote a question mark.
Ellis: Jewish. Heywood: another question mark.
It took a moment before Ellis continued. What they were doing . . . it didn’t feel right. Like they were headed down the wrong road. “Okay. I don’t think the killer is being that literal. Jesus was about thirty-three when he was executed, but it would be a mistake to think the target is the same age. We need to be more abstract.”
He stared at the whiteboard. Why couldn’t answers just appear? How was he supposed to figure this out? “Okay—” He wrote a list of items in a column. teacher/rabbi, peripatetic, preacher, healer, associated with sinners, critical of RLs, crowds . . .
“Hang on. Peripatetic?”
Ellis looked at the word. “It means traveling, wandering, itinerate.”
“And RLs?”
“Sorry,” Ellis said. “Religious leaders.”
“Got it.”
Ellis stepped back, stood for a moment, then began to pace. He reached the far end of the room and stared at the column. “In your column write ‘pastor’ in line with ‘teacher.’” Heywood did. He also wrote traveling across from peripatetic. “What about preacher?”
“Evangelist. That works with traveling—” He fell silent and lowered his head in prayerful thought. “Could that be it? An evangelist. There are hundreds of them.”
“Any well-known ones coming to town?” Heywood asked.
“I don’t know. I don’t follow that kind of news. I’m the ivory-tower type. However . . .” He sat at the computer. “I’m doing a search for evangelists and San Diego.” His heart sank. “Nothing. Best I can tell, there are no revivals or crusades in the city any time soon.”
“Outside the city?”
“Maybe. Checking. I’m going to try crusades and revivals, California.” He began typing. “There are three in the next thirty days: Fresno, San Francisco, and Los Angeles.”
“L.A. is close. Less that two hours.”
Ellis nodded. “But why do his killing in San Diego if the final target is in L.A.? I’m looking at the evangelist’s schedule. He’s busy. Six crusades in six months. That’s a lot. Still, L.A. is the closest, and it just might fit the pattern.” Ellis sighed. “We don’t even know if our supposition is valid.”
“It’s all we have at the moment. We’re looking for connections. So far, it’s all been connected to—”
“What?” Ellis straightened. Could it be . . .
Heywood frowned. “I said we’re looking for connections—”
Ellis stood, his mind spinning like the blade in a blender. “Connections. I wonder . . .”
He sat down again and pounded on the keyboard. “Daniel—a Jewish name; Templeton—Temple, the structure central to ancient Judaism. Here it is; he has a bio at his website: ‘Reverend Dr. Daniel Templeton started his ministry in a small church, where his speaking skills were immediately recognized. In just a few years he became a much sought-after speaker. Full-time evangelism was the natural outcome. For more than two decades he has traveled the world preaching a solid, uncompromising gospel in crusades that draw tens of thousands each night. His popularity continues to grow. He is the confidante of presidents and world leaders. Time magazine dubbed him, “The world’s chaplain.”’”
Ellis glanced through the evangelist’s Web site. There were photos of him in large churches and in stadiums, with movie stars and power politicos, in foreign countries.
Heywood sat at his computer and did a search of his own. “He’s in Wikipedia. ‘Dr. Daniel Joshua Templeton is an evangelical crusade preacher—’”
“His middle name is Joshua?”
“According to this it is.” Heywood looked at the whiteboard. “That part fits, but he’s not preaching in San Diego, right?”
Ellis clicked on a link. “They have his schedule posted. L.A., Topeka, Orlando, London. No San Diego . . . I wonder . . .” Ellis was on his feet again, pacing the room.
“What?”
“Let me think. Just give me a second.” He placed his hands behind his back and lowered his head. “Does the bio give a date of birth?”
“Yep, but not a place. He was born in 1966.”
“A year older than I am. Tell me you can access birth records.”
“Not directly, no, but . . . I think I see where you’re going. You think he’s from San Diego?”
“Yes.”
“Then where he was born doesn’t matter. My family moved here when I was three. I was born in Texas. What we want to know is, did he go to school here?”
Ellis closed his eyes, and ideas rolled in like the tide. “We can get phone numbers from school Web sites. They all have them. I’ll call Mission Bay High; you take Kearney. We’ll keep going until we find something.”
Ten minutes later, Heywood whooped. “Bingo, Doc! Clairemont High School. The school office there checked their files, and a Danny Templeton graduated in 1984.”
“Okay, okay . . . now what? Can you throw your badge around and find out what airline he’s flying in on?”
“Yes, but I have a better idea. Let’s just call his company. They’ll know. Besides, he might not be flying commercial.”
Ellis felt stupid. Of course, that was a better approach. Faster. More direct. He returned to the Templeton Web site and clicked on the “Contact” link, found a number, and read it to Heywood. A moment later:
“Good morning. This is Officer Joe Heywood of the San Diego Police Department.” He gave his badge number and asked to speak to someone about “the Reverend’s travel schedule.” There was a pause, then, “I understand your suspicion and commend you for being cautious. Are you able to put me on hold?” He listened. “Great. Please do so and call the San Diego Police Department Headquarters on Broadway. You’ll need to know its on Broadway, since we have quite a few stations. I can give you the number or you can look it up online if you wish.” Another pause. “Yes, I’ll hold.”
Heywood looked at Ellis. “She’s a cautious one.”
“That makes her smart in my book.”
Heywood nodded. Minutes passed, then Heywood signaled that the woman on the other end of the line was back on.
“When? Thank you. No ma’am. We think he might be able to help us with something. That’s all I can say.” He hung up. Before he could speak, the door to the case room opened. Captain Simmons walked in.
“I just got the strangest phone call from some lady in Chicago, and it was about you, Joe.”
“Sit down, Cap. We need to talk, and talk fast.” Heywood turned to Ellis. “He’s already landed. Came in yesterday.”
38
Doctor Norman Shuffler looked like a man who had just finished a quick walk across the country. His shoulders slumped; his back was bent; dark bands of flesh accented the space beneath his eyes. Carmen felt bad for him; she felt bad for herself. Her last look in the mirror told her she didn’t look much better.
It wasn’t death that bothered the ME. He had said as much. It was the manner of death. This from a guy who spent his days cutting open bodies. His eyes lingered on the twisted band of razor wire that rested on a small metal table next to the counter. Nasty, nasty stuff.
She spent ten minutes bringing Shuffler up to date, laying out Dr. Poe’s ideas. Shuffler nodded as if he had been thinking the same thing. He hadn’t; she was sure he would never sit on an idea. He never had in the past. When she told him about the lipstick connection, he seemed to deflate. “I can’t imagine how that has affected you.”
“It’s made me more determined to find this piece of trash, and I was fully committed before. Now it’s personal.” She wished she could retract the last sentence. It sounded like something from a movie trailer.
Once the body was removed from the body bag, Shuffler stepped close. An aide took photos with a digital camera. Shuffler gave the woman some room but couldn’t conceal his impatience. He bounced on the balls of his feet and gazed at the gruesome remains. The victim, unlike most “visitors” to the medical examiner’s theater, lay face down, his raw-hamburger-like back awash in light from overhead fixtures.
“He was found prone?”
“Yes.” Carmen stood a step back and to the right side of Shuffler. “We think the killer wanted to display his handiwork.”
“No clothing? No ID?”
“We searched the area. Nothing. We’re running his fingerprints.”
Shuffler nodded. “Did your professor have anything to say about that?”
“He said the display fits. Apparently, the Romans would strip the prisoner before breaking out the whip. He said ancient Jews found this especially embarrassing. He said rabbis wore sleeves that reached to their hands and a cloak that reached their ankles. Being stripped in public would be mortifying. He also said the fact the victim was found near roadways might be significant. I guess scourging was a public torture.”
“Unbelievable. I’ve heard of killers mimicking other murders, but never following biblical history. Sounds like your consultant is a smart man.”