"You found a handwritten letter? Usually, if this were a case of a serial killer, most often times the killer would puzzle letter pieces together or at best write the message themselves. I’ve never heard of a victim writing a note other than for a suicide and this is not one of them," Orinda said looking over to Mason. He was physically there, but his eyes told that he had checked out and that his mind was elsewhere. It could have been because of the excessive amount of Ativan that he had taken which she was sure wasn’t the prescribed dosage increments, but he was not there. She rubbed his back to see if she could snap him back. He only looked at her momentarily with a blank glare before he returned his gaze to the ground. Then she saw a warm teardrop land on the cold snow melting away a path on its way down.
"You have a good point, Ms. Costa, but we aren’t sure what we are dealing with here. Most serial killers want to be caught, but they also want to continue the torment of killings. It’s a thrill for them. They are usually caught when they are ready, when it’s time to claim their media glory. We don’t think that’s what we are working with here. It appears that way to me just from the wounds and the letter that maybe Petty Officer may have known what was coming."
"What-wh-what did the letter say?" Mason asked still looking at the ground.
"Finally, a good question is asked,” Lieutenant Gutiérrez said as she looked at Orinda. “I told you journalists are investigators, too. You ask questions of the living, as investigators try to gain answers from the dead. The letter didn’t say anything that any of us could understand. It said:
‘To himself everyone is immortal; he may know that he is going to die, but he can never know that he is dead. The winter breeze delivered death hidden in the wind.’"
"That do-does-d-d-doesn’t sound li-like the Stockton I knew at all. I can g-g-guarantee you that he didn’t write the letter," Mason said. The poetic tone of the letter was nothing of the brutal Marine who had a love affair with death. Mason recalled once while deployed in the jungle of Guatemala, Stockton dismantled a spider monkey with his bayonet for the sheer excitement of the screams and the warm blood that ran down his blade on top of his arm. He was no poet by any means.
"Those words conflict with each other, Ms. Investigator. I know this for a few reasons. In college, I was also interested in literature. Part of the letter was a quote from Samuel Butler, but the last line seems written out of place. It’s as if it was added to tell us something," Orinda said still trying to decipher the letter’s last line.
"Again, you both are here for a reason. So far I was correct with my expectations. I will pass the information regarding this Samuel Butler to my team back at base who are assisting with this investigation. As for the second part of the message, we all need to find out together what that means if it means anything at all."
"Has there been any DNA found? Is there s-some type of for-for-forensic fingerprint scan we ca-ca-can use to search a national database? Did anyone find the pen he used to supposedly write his own death note?" Mason asked.
"That is another good question. I don’t think anyone has found the pen used, at least not to my knowledge. We have a team headed to Petty Officer Stockton’s barracks room to see if there are clues."
"Why would you go to his barracks room for a pen miles away from the murder scene? There could be ten pens with his fingerprints there because it’s HIS room. Maybe you need to rethink your logic, Ms. Investigator," Orinda said with unmasked sarcasm.
"You do not like me, do you, Ms. Costa?" Lieutenant Gutiérrez asked already knowing the answer. If she could, she would dismiss Orinda from the investigation but she needed Orinda and they both knew it.
"I can’t say that I do, but I will deal with you until this is over. Remember, you recruited me for this, not the other way around. If it were up to me, I would be home back in Wilmington in front of a nice warm fire with a glass of wine, but instead I’m here freezing my ass off. Now, can you answer my question? Why go back to the barracks to find a pen? Wouldn’t it make sense to look where we are? ‘The winter breeze delivered death hidden in the wind’ sounds like a clue to me but who am I? I’m not a Junior Grade Lieutenant Investigator."
"How can we tell that’s a clue? Do you have a reason for thinking this?" Lieutenant Gutiérrez asked. That had always been her Achilles until this point in her career, but no one would dare to expose her flaws because she was known to be cutthroat. She was never able to collect information and troubleshoot issues herself. She didn’t have the eye to find the original issues. She had to collaborate with others and use their eyes to investigate underneath a case that she led. She had to do it again, but how long would that last? Orinda might not now help her because they did not get off on the right foot. The natural competition between Latina versus Latina may be even more vicious than a mongoose versus a habu.
"’But he can never know that he is dead.’ To me, that line means that Petty Officer Stockton knew that he was going to die. Everyone is afraid of death because out of life, it’s the only thing that is inevitable, that’s guaranteed. Nothing lives forever. Nothing," Orinda said.
Mason and Lieutenant Gutierrez looked on perplexed. Orinda had taken her personal philosophies of death and injected them into her theories and made it make sense.
"I-I-I’m-I’m with Orinda. We are missing somethi-thing. We need to come up with an order to this thinking. F-f-first we n-n-need to find out why Stockton was wearing his Marine C-C-Corps dress blues. We need to find the pen used, and we need to find out what the hell this Samuel Butler has to do with this whole thing."
While Orinda and Lieutenant Gutierrez wrote notes, Mason went down his list. The snow began to fall. The sky was only blue for a few short hours before the slate of night came. It was as if dusk was forgotten. The sound of officers and agents trying to save the crime scene from being erased and repaved with snow were mixed with the gas generators that provided the only light. The moon and stars were hidden behind a wall of snow clouds. The air had also gotten colder, and the wind chill added to the feel as it blew in their faces. It was time to leave now. There was nothing left that could be said.
"The winter breeze delivered death hidden in the wind."
Chapter 7
The snow was really coming down as Orinda approached Mason’s Penn Landings flat. The trek from New Jersey was scarier than life because they hit a patch of black ice on the Betsy Ross Bridge and almost caused a collision.
Orinda attempted to talk to him about the strange case they were recruited for, but Mason would rather not. It had been a long day, and he just wanted to be inside and alone. He hadn’t forgotten or forgiven her for the earlier interaction with Detective Griffin. Sure, they worked well together when it was required, but the warming minutes of bonding they experienced enroute to the murder scene were gone and since their exit from, it had turned as cold as the wintry weather.
"Here we are, Mason. This is your address, right? Despertar, Mason. (Wake up Mason)”.
After their hydroplane experience back over the bridge, Mason took another pill and closed his eyes. Visions of Stockton’s cold, pale, white and dark blue face were embedded in the back of his mind. He wasn’t asleep because he was still conscious, but he was drifting after the long day.
"Mason, we're here. You can open your eyes now," Orinda said giving him a slight nudge to wake him from his thoughts. The address was correct and he was home. Without a word, he grabbed his messenger bag with all of his belongings and then looked out the window to gauge whether he needed to put his cold weather gear on or would he be able to make a run for it?
"Thank y-you for the ride home," Mason said and then opened the door. The inside cabin light came on, and the door ajar alarm sounded, catching his ear. From the warm inside comforts of the car, the snow looked treacherous but once he opened the door, the serenity of the quiet storm took over allowing him to calm. It was probably safer out of the car than in it.
"It’s really not safe for me to drive to Delaware tonight,
Mason. Do you mind if I stay with you?" Orinda asked as she pulled up the emergency brake and turned the engine off. Mason had no intention of inviting her up, so she took the liberty of inviting herself.
"Um, I g-guess that sh-sh-should be fine. I have a pull-out sofa that you can crash on," he said without looking back at her. He couldn’t face her. His anxiety level had magnified 1000 fold. When he awoke this morning, the day started like all others, but that changed when they left the office. She was his dark-haired Latina fantasy but after the crime scene, he didn’t have the same romantic attraction for her. Never did he ever imagine that he would have her in his home at the end of the night. It was more than even his fantasies expected this morning.
"I don’t have to pull out the sofa bed. I can just sleep on top of it," she said.
"Orinda, I-I-I know you’re used to telling people what you want but that won’t work t-t-tonight. Y-y-you have invited yourself in my home; the least you can do is respect my belongings. My sofa is an expensive Italian leather. I would prefer you NOT sleep on the top of it."
She was stunned and had no idea that Mason saw her the way he did nor did she expect him to tell her. Pride made her change her mind about staying at his place, but pride also made her want to prove that she was not a control freak and could handle a little criticism and that she could even learn from it. Plus the snow was really falling.
"I’m sorry, Mason. I didn’t mean anything by it at all. I just wanted to keep things simple. I don’t want to ruin a welcome that I wasn’t invited to have. Forgive me, please," she said.
"S-s-sure thing, let’s get inside. I-I-I will show you where to put your things and let you get settled.”
Mason and Orinda exited the cold and entered the warmth of the loft’s foyer entrance. There was a small heap of mail piled on the dark wood floor that had been slid inside through the mail slot on the door. Mason picked up each piece after he placed his coat, scarf and hat on a coat rack in the corner; without invitation, Orinda did the same. When she reached to do so, her eyes caught a piece of mail from the Department of Veterans Affairs. She was curious about it, but it was none of her business, so she dared not ask.
They walked up a short flight of steps to where the entrances of the living area and den were. Orinda was surprised by the decor. Colored paintings on the wall paired with black and white framed photos along with the dark leather sofa set gave the place a bold, masculine feel. It felt almost like a museum; everything in it was very clean. There was not a hint of femininity anywhere.
"Can I get you any-any-thing to d-drink?" he asked her as she remained planted at the room’s entrance. She wasn’t sure if she should move freely and risk being reprimanded for being invasive.
"I would like that please. Thank you so much, Mason. You have a beautiful home," Orinda said. She hoped that he would give her free range to walk around and make herself at home.
"You have to excuse me. I’m not used to hav-hav-having company. Feel free to look around if you'd like. Are you hungry?" Mason asked. He gave her a glass and a bottle of water. Orinda walked over to the kitchen bar and sat down.
"Your home is really nice, Mason. I don’t know why I expected a bachelor pad full of empty pizza boxes, video games and titty magazines. You’re doing quite well for yourself on a journalist’s salary," Orinda said. She was attempting to find out how Mason would be able to afford such a place. The only reason she was ever really able to afford her home in Delaware was the insurance money that she claimed after her father’s death. How did he afford such living comforts?
"The VA diagnosed me with obsessive compulsive disorder in addition to a few other things after my service discharge. I was able to get a high percentage of disability for it. I get anxiety if there is a lot clutter, and I tend to freak out if there is."
"Oh, hell, that’s not what I mean. I hate clutter, too, but, this is different. You have style. It’s very classy, very masculine," Orinda said as she noticed Mason’s speech smooth and clear as ever as he sipped what appeared to be water.
"You can take off your investigative hat, Ms. Costa. I know you’re curious of how I’m able to afford a place like this. It’s okay. I know that’s why I offered it to you before you could ask. Yes, my place is masculine. Despite me being different, I’m still a man. Do you think it’s above my means? Isn’t that what you want to say?"
"I’m just trying to have conversation, Mason. I didn’t mean anything by it at all. I thought I was complimenting your taste. I wasn’t trying to pry. And will you PLEASE knock it off with the Ms. Costa crap? I said that I was sorry to you. What more can I do? Dios mío! (My god!)"
“I’m sorry. It was my way of trying to let it go and break the ice," Mason said. His passive-aggressive attempt at humor failed miserably. Orinda must have felt pretty bad to apologize, but she had no real reason to. They were still trying to figure each other outside of that one moment they shared. That moment didn’t make them anything except co-workers preparing for an iffy assignment that needed to take the edge off. That was why she joined him for a drink. She was nervous, too.
It had been a while since she was last with a man but despite his peculiar behavior, she felt that maybe she could have a romantic interest in Mason. Her sympathy for him was more than enough for her to get close to him. She could feel his attraction to her, and she liked it. She didn’t want to tell him that she caught him glance at her breasts a few times and she liked that, too. Her sexuality had always been her weakness, but this time her sympathy for him caused her arousal and that meant that she needed something else to take over her focus.
"It’s okay. I’m sorry, too. Can we just change the subject now please? I have to be here tonight, and I don’t want it to get awkward," she said.
"I told you I’m not used to company, especially the company of a woman so please bear with me. I’m usually a loner with a routine. I get home, I turn on some music, make dinner and then read depending on the night, but tonight I’m about to cook dinner for two, for a woman who works with me after seeing the dead body of a man I once knew. Today has not been an easy day."
"Don’t let me stop your routine. You can still listen to music while you make us dinner. Also I would love a glass of wine as well. I honestly wasn’t expecting you to offer me water especially after the elixir you gave me earlier today. By the way, what was that? You never said."
"This is what it was and it’s what I’m drinking now." Mason removed a bottle from the cupboard behind the bar and grabbed two shot glasses to pour them both a drink.
"What’s the name of the drink? It’s stronger than anything I’ve had before. I should have asked before I drank it earlier, but it’s too late for that now. I’m curious of what it is if you’re going to give me more," Orinda said as she adjusted on the bar stool and picked up the shot of clear liquid to sniff it and then examined the unlabeled bottle. Mason had already taken his shot and then put on a black and gray cooking apron before pouring another.
"It’s a drink that I found while I was deployed in Kosovo. It’s a clear whiskey made from plums called Slivovica. After the detail would return back to the base, we would drink a lot. We all would drink for our own reasons. Some drank to ease the pain of being away from family or to relieve themselves from the fear of dying. Some drank just because they felt like they had to only because other Marines did. I drank, too. I drank because it made me more like them. It made me normal."
Orinda sat and listened as she sipped her drink and chased it with the water that Mason gave her earlier. She listened as he spoke slowly but clearly while he prepared their meal. He really knew his way around his kitchen. He looked like the winner of Master Chef, the Gordon Ramsey cooking competition.
"I drank a lot because my normal was not everyone’s normal," he continued.
"In fact, I drank it so much, the guys even called me Slivovica. I was either Slivovica Mason or I was in a Slivovica Session. It was the only thing that helped with my anxiety and that actually calmed me. I
’m sure you’ve noticed the difference."
She noticed. She also noticed that, his words were very inviting. He was a great intoxicated orator. She was intoxicated as well, but she wasn’t sure if it was by him.
"That was life for me for a while. It was worth the hangovers in the morning because it helped me relax at night. Until I got in trouble."
"What happened for you to get in trouble, Mason?" she asked as he began to place minced garlic and coarse white pepper in the fryer with two pieces of halibut. This was the first time she had a man cook for her, and she hadn’t slept with him yet. It was new territory for her because the thought did not cross his mind.
"I’ve seen and done some things I’m not proud of, and it seems that these things are starting to manifest themselves. I think I’m next. I feel it." Mason began to sweat from his forehead. It wasn’t clear if he was sweating from the heat of the kitchen or the inferno of confession.
It was becoming too much of a burden not to tell her certain aspects missing from his affiliation with Stockton but with an open investigation going, it was a matter of time before either she or Lieutenant Gutiérrez found out.
Slivovica Mason Page 5