They Never Die Quietly

by D. M. Annechino

  After greeting her mom, gulping a cup of coffee, kissing Angelina goodbye, and withstanding yet another query into why she should care about people who were lazy leeches of society, Sami drove to South San Diego, an area of modest homes and people of restricted means.

  Katie’s Kitchen was in an old church that had been a vacant eyesore for more than a decade. Katie O’Leary, a seventyish woman of limited financial reserves, an ailing back, and a lifetime of good deeds credited to her résumé, began her crusade in a tiny home on Delta Street, three blocks away. With little assistance, she prepared huge pots of soup, chili, spaghetti sauce—anything she could afford—and went out into the streets searching for the homeless. It didn’t take long for word of her kindhearted generosity to spread among the close-knit society of less fortunate souls. In just a few weeks, Katie found more empty stomachs than she could fill. Jake Stevens, a young reporter for the San Diego Chronicle, a veteran of the Peace Corps and other humanitarian organizations, heard about Katie’s campaign. After he interviewed Katie and wrote a story about her contribution to the needy, a local philanthropist contacted the Chronicle and offered to fund Katie’s operation. Two months later, a crew of volunteers gave the old, worn-down church a major face-lift and named it Katie’s Kitchen.

  Sami could not find a parking place in the small lot adjacent to the building, so she parked on the street, two blocks away. As she briskly walked, gruesome thoughts lingered. If she weren’t careful, this investigation would own her soul and spill into every facet of her life. She had never dealt with a serial killer, hadn’t speculated how she’d react, and never fathomed encountering one as diabolical as this monster. She could not imagine a man so evil that he could crucify three young mothers.

  A group of raggedly dressed people, mostly skinny, unshaven men, with a few unkempt women scattered among them, gathered in a haphazard line snaking out of the main entrance and down the steps. Smiling, Sami walked past them and into the building. A frantic buzz of activity hung in the air as mobs of people impatiently waited, elbow to elbow, to fill their usually empty stomachs. On opposite sides of the packed-to-capacity room, two long tables, crowded with steaming chafing dishes of sliced turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, and corn, invited the hungry guests. At the back of the room, a table covered with an assortment of pies—apple, pumpkin, coconut cream—grew more popular by the minute.

  Sami gently elbowed her way to the kitchen.

  Katie O’Leary, hunched over, looking far too fragile to be participating in any demanding tasks, waved her hand at Sami. “Happy Thanksgiving, sweetie.”

  “Happy Thanksgiving to you.” Sami said. “How can I help?”

  “Sure could use a hand with these trays.” Katie pointed to three recently replenished chafing dishes. “Would you please put these out on the table and bring back the empty ones?”

  “Be happy to.”

  Two hours had passed, yet the crowds continued to pour into the dining room at a frenzied pace. It seemed to Sami that the homeless were spontaneously multiplying. Unaccustomed to bending and lifting, Sami’s back vehemently protested. But determined to hang in until two p.m., she endured. Her white apron, decorated with various stains and an assortment of colors denoting the holiday feast, attested to her earnest participation.

  Assigned to various duties requiring their undivided attention, the volunteers had little time for idle chitchat and for the most part worked separately. At a point when Sami’s back threatened to betray her, she tried to lift a tray full of turkey but groaned out loud and set it down.

  “Can I give you a hand?”

  When Sami turned, she discovered that the soft mellow voice belonged to an extraordinarily handsome man. He grinned at her.

  “You could really be my hero,” Sami said.

  “It seems that Katie must be a sexist,” the man said. The corners of his mouth turned up. “I’ve been washing dishes for over two hours while you ladies have been struggling with these heavy trays. I’d be happy to trade assignments.”

  And she thought chivalry was a lost art? She wiped her hands on the apron and extended her arm. “Sami Rizzo.”

  He firmly grasped Sami’s hand. His long narrow fingers felt as soft as a lambskin glove. “My name’s Simon. I’ll skip the last name. It’s one of those Polish handles with too many Z’s and K’s.”

  Amazing, she thought, tall, handsome, polite, and a sense of humor? “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you here.” She wouldn’t have forgotten someone like him.

  “It’s my maiden voyage.”

  “I’m a veteran. Sixth year.”

  “Admirable.” His blue eyes fixed on Sami’s just long enough to make her feel uneasy. “Too bad there aren’t more people like Katie. Sure would be a better world.”

  “No argument here.” Sami wanted some vital statistics but wasn’t sure how to ask. “So, when you’re not washing dishes how do you occupy yourself?”

  “I’m a physical therapist.” He dug in his back pocket and handed her a business card. “I might be able to get that kink out of your back.”

  What woman in her right mind would object to having his hands on her body? “I might have guessed a professional athlete.”

  “Wasn’t blessed with coordination or grace. Played a little basketball in junior college, but my trophy cabinet is pretty dusty.”

  A stocky woman charged into the tiny prep room as if the building were on fire. For a moment she stood silent, hands parked on her hips, out of breath. Finally, she gulped enough air to speak. “Sorry to interrupt, hon, but we really need that tray of turkey. Never saw such a hungry bunch. ’Fraid there’s gonna be a riot if we don’t keep the food comin’.”

  Without saying another word, Simon effortlessly lifted the tray and disappeared.

  After washing dishes until her hands were trembling, Sami decided that she had fulfilled her Thanksgiving good deed. She wiped her hands, said goodbye to Katie, and waved to other volunteers as she walked toward the door. The crowds finally thinned and the onslaught of homeless people started to subside. She surveyed the room but could not locate Simon. She thought they had made a connection; then again, she was often a victim of wishful thinking.

  On the Monday after Thanksgiving, Simon stood by the gold BMW and craned his neck to see if anyone was watching. Sure that he remained inconspicuous, he bent over, unscrewed the plastic cap on the tire valve stem and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. He removed the one-way safety valve with the special tool he’d purchased at Sears, and quickly—before too much air escaped—screwed on a plastic cap in which he had punched a tiny pinhole small enough for the air to leak slowly. In less than thirty seconds he completed the task. He stood and surveyed the parking lot again. People hustled in and out of the FoodMart and loaded groceries in their vehicles, but no one seemed overly curious about his activities.

  Dinnertime, when people hurried home from work and needed to make a quick pit stop, proved an ideal time for Simon to remain unnoticed. San Diegans, or possibly all Californians, at least based on Simon’s experience over the past ten years, pretty much kept to themselves. They weren’t unfriendly, just aloof and self-absorbed, which suited Simon perfectly. He didn’t need neighborly strangers jeopardizing his plans with gestures of goodwill and little let’s-get-to-know-each-other chats.

  Peggy McDonald, the big-breasted redhead he’d been observing for over two weeks, lived in La Jolla, about a twenty-minute drive from Pacific Beach. Her babysitter lived on Diamond Street—just around the corner—so every day, after picking up her daughter, Peggy would swing by the FoodMart before heading home.

  While parked, very little air would escape from the tampered-with rear tire. But Simon knew from prior experience and meticulous testing that once driven the tire would go flat in fifteen to eighteen minutes. He’d driven the route a dozen times and felt certain she’d break down close to the top of Soledad Mountain Road—not the most remote area, but dark enough for a good Samaritan to help an unfort
unate motorist without attracting much attention.

  As in the past, Peggy hustled through the automatic doors and jogged toward her car, plastic FoodMart bag swinging from one arm, her daughter securely held with the other. She secured her daughter in the child safety seat, tossed the bag of groceries on the passenger side and positioned herself behind the wheel. Driving a little too fast for a busy parking lot, she raced toward the south exit.

  Simon followed her.

  She turned on Garnet Avenue and headed east. Then, she turned left onto Soledad Mountain Road. Through a series of sharp curves the scenic road wound upward past gated communities and pricey apartment complexes. Simon, close behind, noticed that the BMW listed slightly to the right. The four-lane road narrowed to two, and Peggy’s red brake lights warned Simon that she was slowing.

  Just as Simon had estimated, Peggy’s BMW limped to a stop three blocks from the Soledad Natural Park. Not wanting to raise suspicions about his timely rescue, he pulled to the curb a safe distance behind her and turned off his headlights. After waiting three minutes, he continued ahead, parked about two car lengths behind her, and let the engine idle. He could feel the fever building but recognized that to be convincing and nonthreatening he had to maintain a calm, even-tempered demeanor. He didn’t want to spook her in any way. No doubt she had read about the other women, the common thread that each of their cars had been found abandoned with flat tires. If he sensed any unusual reaction, Simon was prepared to abort the plan.

  Peggy stepped out of her car and slammed the door. She perched her hands on her hips, vigorously shaking her head, gawking at the tire as if her cold stare could miraculously repair it. The dark surroundings, lit only by a half-moon struggling to burn through a misty haze, fit into Simon’s plan perfectly.

  As he sat quietly, a little anxious yet still in control, Simon could see the Soledad Mountain Monument, a pyramid-like brick structure built on a hill just off the road. On top of the structure stood a cross. A crucifix. There were no floodlights, but a silhouette of the cross stood out against the smoky-gray moonlit sky, creating an eerie image. How poignant, he thought, that he would capture this sinner only steps away from such a monument. He hadn’t planned it this way but truly felt as if it were a sacred message from God. For a moment, Simon fixed his eyes on the cross, as if drawn by some divine magnet. Sitting alone in his truck, Simon felt serenity, blessed contentment only God could bestow upon a mortal. Of all the sinners walking the earth, God had chosen Simon as His true disciple.

  Simon waited for her anger to subside before getting out of his truck. He watched her searching through what looked like an oversize purse. Not wanting to startle her, he called out as he ambled toward her. “Looks like you could use a hand.”

  She snapped her head toward him, obviously jarred by the strange voice piercing the quiet darkness of the night. “Geez, you scared the shit out of me.” Her voice projected a feisty attitude, a biting growl of independence, an I-don’t-take-shit-from-anyone tone. She would not be like the others.

  “Sorry, miss. Didn’t mean to frighten you.” He stood several feet away, hands stuffed in his jeans, looking like a shy teenager. His eyes drifted to the faulty tire. “I’d be happy to change it for you.”

  “I just had the friggin’ tires replaced two weeks ago. Eighty-thousand-mile warranty, my ass.” She kicked the tire. “Can I borrow your cell phone? I left mine at the office.”

  “Sorry, never had much need for one.”

  She looked at him in total awe, as if anyone on planet Earth without a cellular telephone had to be a complete moron. “You don’t have a cell phone?”

  “Only take me ten minutes to change the tire and you can be on your way.”

  She combed her fingers through her unruly hair, evaluating his offer. “Only ten minutes?”

  While Peggy sat in the backseat trying to console her daughter who was perturbed about the delayed dinner hour, Simon wiggled his fingers into cotton gloves—no need to leave fingerprints—opened the truck and went through his practiced routine. He removed the awl from his jacket pocket and carefully twisted the sharp point into the tread, puncturing the spare tire. Slowly, he eased the tool out. He leaned on the sidewall with both hands and could hear the air hissing out of the tire. In less than five minutes the tire deflated. He closed the trunk and peeked in the open rear door, shaking his head. “I’m afraid your spare won’t be much help, miss. It’s flatter than a pancake.”

  “How can it be flat? The goddamn thing’s never been used.”

  When Simon heard her curse, he had to control his anger. To use the Lord’s name so blasphemously infuriated him. But he had to focus on the more important objective.

  As a vehicle leaned around a severe curve about a hundred feet away, headlights illuminated the landscape, casting long shadows on the highway. The Pathfinder slowed and then stopped parallel to the BMW. Some do-gooder, asking questions, meddling with his plan could prove risky. Simon faced the bitter realization that he might be forced to terminate his plan. He wished it were that simple.

  Simon needed Peggy. Tonight. The decision to abduct her at this particular time was not a conscious objective. He had no choice. Driven by forces beyond his understanding, Simon could not easily postpone this epic event.

  The passenger’s window whined open and Simon stared at the pavement, not wanting the man to get a good look at his face.

  “You guys need some assistance?” The young man looked like an attorney or accountant. His blond hair hung in his eyes. Without the business suit he could pass for a surfer.

  “Got a cell phone I could use?” Peggy asked.

  The man stuck his hand out the window and handed her his Nokia. “Help yourself.”

  She eyeballed Simon as if to say, “See, dip-shit, even the punk’s got one.”

  Not wanting to get rear-ended, the man pulled the Nissan to the curb, in front of Peggy’s BMW. Simon could feel perspiration dotting his upper lip. He licked it away. Simon expected the man to get out of the sport utility vehicle. To engage in idle conversation with a nosy stranger, one who might remember his face, didn’t bode well with Simon. He couldn’t let that happen. Leaving a witness would not be an option.

  Quite to Simon’s surprise and relief, the young man seemed content to sit in the Pathfinder. He cranked up the volume on his radio and his head swayed to the beat of the music. A minor victory, Simon thought, but his plan could still be jeopardized.

  Peggy punched in a number and pressed the cellular to her ear. She paced while waiting for whomever she called to answer. Her daughter’s temper tantrum had quieted to sobs. After several seconds, Peggy said, “Come on, come on, where the hell are you?” She nervously tapped her foot on the pavement. “It’s me, hon. I’ve got a flat tire…”

  Simon could feel his anger rise. Her husband would surely rescue her. He’d never considered a contingency plan but now faced a serious wrinkle in his previously smooth operation.

  “…if you get this message before…” she twisted her wrist toward the light and looked at her watch, “…seven-thirty, I’m stuck on Soledad Mountain Road, just south of the park…” she looked at Simon as if she were appraising his character. “Forget it. I’ll make other arrangements.”

  Without saying a word to Simon, she turned away and headed for the Pathfinder. Simon could see her handing the young man his cellular. They talked for several minutes, Peggy’s arms waving like a traffic cop’s.

  “I knew it,” Simon whispered. She was asking the blond for a ride. He glanced at the cross, black against the hazy night sky. What to do. He closed his eyes.

  Are you going to let her get away, my son?

  “Do I have a choice, Mother?”

  Do whatever it takes.

  Simon slowly moved toward the Pathfinder. He didn’t have a plan but knew he had to get rid of the blond. One way or the other. Just as he approached the sport utility vehicle he saw the left rear signal blink red and the Pathfinder sped away.

&nb
sp; Simon leaned against the BMW. Peggy came over and stood in front of him, only two feet away. He could smell her floral perfume.

  “How’d you like to earn a good merit badge from the Boy Scouts?” Peggy said.

  Simon cocked his head. “Excuse me?”

  “Raise your right hand and promise that you’re not some weirdo.”

  Simon raised his right hand and placed his left hand over his still-pounding heart. “Scouts honor.”

  Peggy pointed north. “I live about ten minutes away. Maybe you’d be kind enough to give April and me a lift?”

  “What happened to the guy in the Pathfinder?”

  “Something about him creeped me out.”

  FOUR

  After wrestling with her pillow for more than two hours, Sami surrendered to the persuasive genius of name-brand advertising and swallowed an Excedrin PM, the only effective remedy for her frequent headaches. She never purchased medication. Except, of course, for her daughter. Wide-eyed and nowhere near sleep, she felt as if she’d drunk a pot of high-test espresso. In the ongoing battle between adrenalin and sedative, the stimulant kicked butt.

  Explicit details of what the three murdered women might have experienced played in her mind’s eye like a Saturday afternoon horror-film marathon. Sami could imagine the inconceivable pain as the executioner drove spikes through their wrists and feet. She could almost hear the guttural screams, the breathless pleas falling on the ears of a man without pity or human compassion. How had they endured this maniac having his way with them? What had they been thinking when he lay on top of them, penetrating their bodies, forcing his way inside them?

  Sami had broken the first commandment of homicide investigation. She emotionally involved herself and connected with three women whom she’d never met. She had seen brutal murders before, viewed dismembered bodies, eviscerated corpses, people so savagely murdered that positive identification required dental examination. Of course they had affected her. Terrifying nightmares often awakened her, but this felt different.