“Have you eaten anything?” Simon asked.
“Benjamin had mac and cheese,” Molly whispered.
“And you?”
She gave him a cold stare. “I lost my appetite.”
In the corner of the studio Simon had equipped a recreation area with enough playthings to amuse the most discriminating youngster: a television with an assortment of Nintendo games, coloring books and crayons, building blocks, stuffed animals—all the essentials to keep a child occupied while Simon had serious conversations with their mommies.
“Benjamin,” Simon said, “go into the play area.”
“I wanna stay with Mommy.” He hung his head and pouted.
Not wanting to antagonize her captor, Molly brushed the hair out of Benjamin’s eyes and gave him a reassuring smile. “It’s okay, honey. Do what he says.” He moseyed over to the play area and turned on the television. Simon sat on the bed next to Molly.
“Why are you holding us prisoners?”
Simon sipped his water. “Do you love your son?”
“That’s a ridiculous question.”
“How much?”
“You expect me to measure my love?”
Simon grabbed her knee and firmly squeezed it. “Indeed.”
The thirty-two-year-old blonde’s voice was unsteady. “What do you want from us?”
“Would you do anything for your son?”
She glared at him with contempt. “What are you getting at?”
“I want Benjamin to go upstairs with me.”
“You’re out of your mind.” Of course he’s out of his mind. Be careful, girl. “Don’t test me.”
“If you think for one minute…”
“You’re making me angry, Molly.” His voice remained calm “Do you want to feel the fury of God?”
She considered his threat. “Why upstairs?”
“I have my reasons.”
“I’ll bet you do.”
Simon’s eyes narrowed. “Would you rather I dragged him upstairs by his hair?”
She had no options. Perhaps if she cooperated…
Simon reached into the refrigerator, removed a carton of milk, and poured it into a tall glass. “You like chocolate milk, Benjamin?”
“I love it!”
After pouring Hershey’s Syrup into the milk-filled glass, Simon added a small quantity of powder. He stirred the mixture vigorously, making certain the mild sedative completely dissolved. He handed the glass to Benjamin. “Milk will make you grow tall.”
Benjamin grabbed the glass. “Will it make me tall like you?”
“Only if you drink it all.”
Molly hopelessly pounded on the steel door with both fists. “Where are you, you son of a bitch? Benjamin, can you hear me? Oh God, oh God, what have I done?” Simon had left with her son more than an hour ago. How stupid of her to trust him. But did she really have a choice? She had to keep telling herself she didn’t or else she’d lose her mind.
After screaming for over half an hour, her throat felt raw and on fire. Where could he have taken Benjamin? Why didn’t anyone hear her screaming and come to her rescue? Feeling faint and out-of-her-mind frantic, she collapsed on the bed, sucking air in quivering gasps, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Three days ago, when the tire had gone flat and she pulled her Grand Cherokee to the side of the road, she tried calling her husband on his cell phone, but she’d been unable to reach him. She’d left him a message, but Robert had never been one to check his voicemail regularly. She’d never changed a flat in her life and had no idea what to do. When the guy in the black pickup stopped and offered help, he seemed to be a godsend. Acting like a perfect gentleman, handsome, refined, he looked like an athlete. How naïve she’d been.
“Ma’am, I’m afraid your spare’s flat too. There’s a service station about a mile down the road. I’d be happy to give you a lift.”
Over the past three days she’d had plenty of time to think. Had it not been for Benjamin, she would have completely lost her mind. Simon’s conduct did not fit the mold of a madman. His quietness, his calm demeanor, almost schoolboy politeness puzzled Molly. Something wild brewed behind those ice-blue eyes. He had not behaved like a raving lunatic. Nonetheless, a demon lived inside him. Why would he kidnap them, lock them in this dungeon with all the basic amenities necessary to sustain life, and do nothing?
He hadn’t tried to assault her, he’d been kind to Benjamin, and strangely seemed to be genuinely concerned with their comfort. He had, no doubt, a hidden agenda not yet revealed. He hadn’t kidnapped them to treat them like guests. Then it occurred to her: a child molester.
She lay on the pillow, closed her eyes, and silently prayed. The thought was too much for her to bear.
Half asleep, Molly heard the key turn in the door. She stood up and felt a wave of dizziness. Wearing a carpenter’s apron with a hammer hanging from his hip, Simon entered the Room of Redemption. Under his arm were two long four-by-fours, one twice as long as the other. He dropped them on the concrete floor.
“Where’s my fucking son?”
“Watch your mouth.”
“I want to see him, now!”
“He’s fine.”
“You’re a liar!”
“And you are a sinner.”
“Don’t you dare judge me, you son of a bitch!”
“Only God can judge you.”
“Fuck you!”
Simon rushed toward her and Molly backpedaled, falling onto the bed. He stood over her and extended his hand. But she flinched, expecting him to strike her.
“It’s time, Molly.” His eyes were different. They glared at her with a penetrating intensity. It felt as if they were touching her skin. “Will you do anything to protect your son?”
Now she understood. She almost smiled. “That’s what this charade is all about. You want to fuck me, don’t you?”
He grabbed a fistful of her hair; his body trembling. “Remove your clothes, sinner.”
“You’ll have to kill me first.”
He turned and stomped toward the door. “Cherish your memories of Benjamin.” He turned the key in the lock. “You’re never going to see him again.”
“No! Please!” Molly clasped her hands as if in prayer. “I’ll do whatever you ask.”
Simon stopped just long enough to get a glimpse of the resignation in Molly’s eyes. To surrender unconditionally, without resistance, was the only way God would cleanse chosen ones’ souls. “I know you will.”
Waiting alone in the dimly lit Room of Redemption, her eyes focused on the soon-to-be-built crucifix, Molly felt utter agony. Not knowing what the monster had planned for her son served only to heighten her torment. At this very moment her captor could be doing the unspeakable to Benjamin. He’d always been such a fragile child. She began to sob, trying to suppress her emotions, fighting desperately to remove the vivid images from her mind, but she could not stop the visions or the flood of tears. For a breathless moment, Molly pressed her palms together and fell to her knees. She prayed to a God who had not been part of her life since childhood, a God who had taken her mother away when Molly was only seven years old. She had never been able to forgive her Creator for such a cruel misdeed. But now, at the threshold of death, an event grisly beyond anything she could imagine, she appealed to the only force in the universe with the power to rescue her.
“I don’t care what he does to me, dear Lord. But please, I beg you, protect my son.”
Strangely, a vision of Dorothy, from The Wizard of Oz, flashed through Molly’s mind. She could see the young girl staring at the rapidly draining hourglass, eyes wide with fear, waiting for the Wicked Witch to return. This was not a movie though. There were no Scarecrow, Tin Man, or Cowardly Lion to save her. Only a madman.
The metal door squeaked open. She looked into Simon’s eyes and knew for certain that the hourglass had drained.
Still sleepy from his sedative-induced nap, Benjamin asked, “Where we going?”
S
imon smiled and buckled the seat belt around the three-year-old. “For a ride.”
“Where’s my mommy?”
“She’s with God.”
The boy thought for a moment. “You mean the God up in heaven?”
“He’s the only God.”
“When she comin’ back?”
For a moment, Simon thought about lying. Under the circumstances God would surely forgive him this one sin. But to preserve the innocent child’s feelings was only a temporary solution. A lie would create false hope. “Never, Benjamin.”
The young boy twisted his knuckles in his eyes and started to whimper. Simon opened the center console and pulled out a Tootsie Roll Pop. “You like cherry?”
Benjamin nodded. Simon removed the wrapping and handed it to the boy.
The boy grabbed the sucker, licked it several times, and then took it out of his mouth. “I wanna see my mommy.”
“Some day you will.”
He drove west on Freeway 8 and exited on Mission Center Road. At eight-forty, almost closing time, he pulled into the entrance leading to Grossman’s Department Store. There were only a dozen cars in the parking lot. Simon stopped the truck in front of the main doors and turned on the emergency flashers. He adjusted his Padres baseball cap so the visor rested just above his eyes. He handed Benjamin a piece of paper.
“Do me a favor.”
The little boy looked at him curiously.
Simon unfastened Benjamin’s seat belt and opened the passenger’s door. “See that man standing inside the store.” He pointed to a security guard leaning against a pillar. “It’s very important that you give him that piece of paper. Your mommy wants you to. Can you do that?”
“For Mommy?”
“Yes.”
Benjamin balanced his unsteady legs on the aluminum running boards and struggled to the sidewalk. Simon pulled the door shut. Before walking through the entrance, Benjamin stopped and looked over his shoulder. A young man wearing a baseball cap backward, his jeans five sizes too big, held the door open for him. Benjamin shuffled inside. He jerked his head from side to side as if looking for something unknown to Simon. Then, with his arms outstretched and the piece of paper between his tiny fingers, he made a beeline for the security guard as if he were the boy’s favorite uncle. Simon watched the boy hand over the note. He stepped on the accelerator and sped toward the exit.
TWO
Homicide Investigator Sami Rizzo, the only woman to reach the rank of detective in the Major Offense Squad, marched over to her partner’s desk, sat on the corner, and dropped a manila folder, almost knocking over his cup of coffee. Her black shoulder-length hair, with just a few strands of gray, was pulled back and held with a tortoiseshell barrette. Her blue eyes were slightly bloodshot from her contact lenses.
“Take a look at these, Al. They’ll really make you want to finish that jelly donut.” She crossed her shapely legs and her skirt rode up just enough to catch her partner’s always-wandering eyes. “Look at the pictures, Al. The pictures.”
Alberto Diaz grinned and opened the folder. He took another bite of his half-eaten donut and examined the graphic photos of the woman’s mutilated body. By his impassive reaction, Sami felt like she’d just handed him a feature article in Food & Wine magazine.
“Where’d they find her?”
“On the front steps of Holy Redeemer Church in La Mesa.”
“Just like the other two?”
“This one was a blonde, but she has the same wounds.”
Diaz grabbed his lukewarm coffee and gulped it. Only thirty-two-years old, his attractive baby face, always clean shaven, was almost pretty. Taller than most Mexican-Americans, Alberto Diaz maintained a lean and muscular body. He had a thick head of jet-black hair and his dark eyes were as slick as oil. “Has she been identified?”
Sami shook her head.
After spending ten years as a patrol officer, working out of the toughest precinct in South San Diego, earning three commendations for outstanding service, Sami Rizzo vied for a promotion. Ferocious competition raged among uniformed officers pursuing a detective appointment in San Diego. And of course sexism, rampant within the law enforcement community, made her quest even more daunting. But Sami aced the written test, proving that her knowledge of the law, procedures, and the investigative process was unparalleled. Following the written test, a board of senior officers grilled Sami during what was called an interview but was more accurately an intense interrogation. Their goal: to test her resolve under pressure. Sami thought she’d done poorly in front of the board. Two weeks later she’d gotten a call from Chief of Detectives Larson, welcoming her to the homicide squad.
Diaz opened the folder again and removed one of the photographs. He stared at it intently. “What do you suppose he does with their hearts?”
“I’d rather not think about it.”
“Anything on the kid?”
“Not a word.”
“He doesn’t do the kids,” Diaz offered. “Think he’s changed his routine?”
“Let’s hope not.”
Captain Carl Davison, standing just outside his office, yelled across the room, “Diaz, Rizzo, in my office!”
The two homicide detectives hurried down the narrow aisle between rows of messy desks. Their fellow detectives were huddled in groups, talking about cases and sharing the sordid details of last night’s sexual escapades. As Sami negotiated her way past them, she could feel their eyes giving her the once-over. Normally, this wouldn’t bother her, but today she felt a bit self-conscious. John Russell, a particularly obnoxious colleague, grinning like a crazed chimpanzee, held out his hand. “Nice knowing you, Rizzo.”
“Wish I could say the same, asshole.”
The Major Offense Squad comprised six sections: arson, burglary, homicide, robbery, sex crimes, and a special investigative squad responsible for extraordinary situations involving government officials and other officers, or investigations with high media coverage. Sami and Diaz had been warned by Captain Davison that if they did not apprehend the killer soon, he would be forced to turn the case over to the special investigative squad.
They entered the captain’s office, and Sami noticed an unfamiliar woman seated opposite her boss. The woman eyeballed Sami curiously, as if to warn her that Diaz and she had better prepare themselves for a not-so-pleasant powwow.
Sami closed the door.
On occasion, Davison, a usually soft-spoken African-American, had the capacity to tear into the hides of overworked and underappreciated detectives. Sami studied his eyes and felt certain that today’s little get-together would not be much fun.
Never caring much about state ordinances, particularly when his frazzled nerves needed a soothing blast of nicotine, Davison grabbed the burning cigarette resting in the overfull ashtray and deeply inhaled. The captain, two years from retirement, tipped the scales at two-thirty-five, forty pounds over his ideal weight. To look at him he didn’t appear to be overstressed, and in spite of his usually calm demeanor his blood pressure recently hit a level that forced his doctor to insist he take medication to control it. You’d never know it to look at him, but he was a walking time bomb.
“I’d like you two to meet Sally Whitman,” Davison said. “She’s a profiler with the FBI.”
Sally stood up, pivoted gracefully, grasped Sami’s hand, and vigorously pumped the homicide detective’s arm. The willowy, middle-aged profiler had a grip like Wonder Woman. She wore her dark brown hair severely short, almost in a buzz cut. High cheek bones and a pointed chin punctuated her narrow face. Wearing a trendy outfit, she could easily be mistaken for a punk-rock groupie. A couple of plates of her mother’s lasagna, Sami thought, and Sally could gain just enough weight to have a figure.
Ever so slowly, her fingers lingering a little longer than Sami thought reasonable, Whitman let go of Sami’s hand. Something in Whitman’s eyes troubled Sami. Whitman gave Diaz an acknowledging nod but didn’t offer her hand.
“Considering the lack o
f progress in apprehending this lunatic,” Davison said, “I have enlisted the services of Ms. Whitman. Hopefully, she can offer some insights into the mind of a serial killer.”
Serial killer?
Although three women had been murdered—all presumably the same way—no one in the homicide squad dared to mouth the term serial killer. It was taboo, as if a curse would befall the first person to say the words. The possibility had been hinted at in the San Diego Chronicle. And one television newscaster’s overzealous commentary had caused widespread alarm among local residents, but no one had officially classified the three murders as serial.
To use this term so matter-of-factly struck a raw nerve in Sami. All her life she’d lived in San Diego, touted to be America’s Finest City, and to the best of her recollection the area had not been terrorized by a serial killer since 1932.
The captain crushed his cigarette in the ashtray. “Tell the detectives what we’re dealing with, Ms. Whitman.”
The FBI profiler sat, crossed her legs, and tucked her skirt under her thighs in a proper fashion, never taking her eyes off Sami. “The man we’re looking for is a religious fanatic. They’re the worst because most of them believe God has empowered them with absolute authority. When a murderer is driven by some perverse religious belief, his cruelty has no limits. With God’s endorsement each one believes he has his own set of twisted commandments. In this case we don’t know if the perpetrator is doing God’s work or Satan’s. Sometimes there’s really a fine line.”
Whitman pointed to one of the victim photographs. “There’s little doubt the women were crucified. The pathologist’s report indicates that tiny splinters of wood, along with traces of metal were found in the wrist and foot wounds. The wood is white pine and the metal is alloy steel, probably from whatever kind of spikes or nails he used. My guess is he’s either crucifying them as an offering to his God, emulating Jesus’ death on the cross, or belittling the foundation of Christianity by performing mock crucifixions.”
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