Perhaps, she thought, a womanly connection, a visceral kinship deeper than flesh and blood existed between them. Never before had she felt a victim’s pain so profoundly. Then, as she tried to rationalize and discern her feelings, it hit her: the children. Each victim had young children, all about the same age as her daughter. No one clearly knew what these children witnessed, what heinous images might be securely locked in their subconscious. Yes, the children had been delicately interviewed with the assistance of a qualified child psychologist. And they appeared to be unharmed. But could anyone know for certain that repressed memories of unspeakable acts did not remain in the darkest corners of their minds? As a mother herself, a woman who would do anything to protect Angelina, Sami now understood the abominable torment these women had endured.
Amid all the confusion and speculation, Detective Samantha Rizzo felt certain of one thing: If Captain Davison knew or even suspected that she lacked the ability to remain objective, he’d pull her off the case without the slightest consideration. No matter what her story, or how compelling her argument, the captain would act swiftly.
Sami couldn’t let that happen.
The telephone rang.
Hearing her partner’s voice eased her angst. “Did I wake you?”
“What makes you think I’d be sleeping at two a.m.?”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I was counting sheep.” She could hear Al breathing but he didn’t say a word. “So, partner, is this an obscene phone call or are you just lonely?” At a young age, Sami learned that a little lightheartedness tempered the tension and made it easier to cope with life. Or perhaps her attempt at humor represented hopeless self-preservation.
“A woman and her daughter have been reported missing.”
Sami felt her stomach tighten.
“We found her BMW abandoned on Soledad Mountain Road…with a flat tire.”
“Who filed the report?”
“Her husband claims that she’d left him a message on their answering machine.”
“What time?”
“Around seven-thirty.”
Sami stood and shuffled toward the bathroom. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear that she just swallowed a cup of Drano. “Anything else?”
“Only that her husband guessed from her message that someone had stopped to help her.”
If only she could say goodbye and crawl under the covers of her warm bed. Her voice was barely audible. “Thanks for sharing, Al.”
“You okay, partner?”
“Just…fucking…ducky.”
Sami’s clock radio clicked on at six-forty-five, and Tina Turner came screaming into the cranky detective’s morning. Remarkably alert, Sami could see the senior rock star strutting across the stage in an outfit only Turner dared to wear, singing: “What’s love gotta do, gotta do with it. What’s love but a secondhand emotion.” She tapped the snooze button a little harder than she’d intended and rolled onto her stomach. After the conversation with Al, she had drunk a generous glass of chardonnay, hoping it might knock her unconscious for a few hours. Instead, it gave her another throbbing headache.
When she sat up in bed, Sami felt a twinge in her lower back, one of those stabbing pains with great potential for long-term ferocity. One careless move and she’d be lying on the floor, twisted like a pretzel. She’d had back problems several years ago, spasms that could bring Hercules to his knees. And what had her husband, Tommy, done to help her? Not a thing. In fact, instead of bringing her an ice pack and a pillow (no way she could get off the floor), Tommy fetched a cold brew and watched a basketball game. Thanks to Doctor Alvarez, one of the few chiropractors willing to make house calls, her back had been almost completely rehabilitated. Almost. Doctor Alvarez had a theory: If you have a back and live long enough, eventually you’ll have a problem with it.
With painstaking precision, Sami swung her legs and eased off the bed. She slowly stood. Tightness lingered in her lower back, convincingly reminding her that the muscles were close to the edge. In addition to dealing with her back, her temples were pounding furiously. She shuffled to the bathroom, listing slightly to the right, opened the medicine cabinet, and took three Excedrins. She looked up and saw her reflection in the mirror. A face only a mother could love.
Just to put her mind at ease, she decided to call Doctor Alvarez later that morning. A little preventive maintenance might stave off a relapse. Again the clock radio beckoned her. When she went into the bedroom to turn it off she noticed the business card she’d left on her nightstand. Simon Kwosokowski, Licensed Physical Therapist. He’d been right, it was quite a handle. She picked up the card and stared at it for a moment, fondling the raised-letter printing. Something about this guy hypnotized her. In the past, she never considered making the first move. Sami liked to think of herself as a contemporary woman, but certain old-fashioned values were ingrained in her character. But if she did call him she wouldn’t really be compromising her values. After all, she had a back problem and Simon was a physical therapist.
Simon had just finished a hearty breakfast: eggs over easy, crispy home-fried potatoes with a hint of onion, rye toast, and a tall glass of tomato juice. Just as he had suspected, Peggy McDonald proved to be a different breed of woman. Like a wild filly that had never been saddled, she hadn’t taken kindly to being a guest in the Room of Redemption. Her foul mouth and bitter words served only to reinforce Simon’s conviction that her soul desperately needed to be cleansed and her heart purified. Had it not been for Peggy’s fear that Simon would hurt her daughter, April, he might have had to abort his plan and take drastic measures right in his truck. But, as he had learned, mothers, even those as ornery as Peggy, would never place their children in harm’s way.
Sitting at the kitchen table, he lifted the half-full glass of tomato juice and was about to finish it when a long-lost memory flashed through his mind.
Simon closed his eyes and could see a clear image of his mother’s face. It was Good Friday. Simon had just celebrated his tenth birthday. The Texas temperature was unseasonably cold; the young boy could see his own breath. His mother held a butcher knife that reflected light from the bare bulb above. In front of him was a lamb, hanging from the rafters in the garage, secured with twine around its hind legs. His eyes were glued to the squirming lamb. Its cry sounded almost human. At precisely three p.m., the time at which Jesus had died on the cross two millennia past, Ida Kwosokowski handed Simon the knife.
“You know what must be done.”
Simon stood motionless, one hand stuffed in his corduroy pants, the other loosely held the butcher knife.
“I can’t, Mother.”
Her look was too familiar. Simon took a step toward the lamb. Its tongue hung out of its mouth as it labored to breathe. Saliva dripped to the floor. The animal’s eyes were wide-open, almost pleading with Simon to show mercy.
Another step closer.
“Hold its head firmly, Simon. Cut swiftly. No need to make it suffer.”
Simon wanted desperately to drop the knife, run in the house and lock himself in the closet. But there was no escaping his duty as a good Christian.
“He must be sacrificed, my dear boy. Just as Our Savior died on the cross to redeem our sins, this lamb must be offered to Jesus in remembrance.”
Simon stood close enough to reach the lamb, but couldn’t move. The garage smelled like oily rags. His mother grasped the animal’s head and forced it back, exposing its neck. The animal let out a loud cry.
“Do it now, my son. Remember to cut the jugular, just like I showed you.”
Simon reached up and gently rested the blade of the butcher knife against the lamb’s shaved neck. He looked at his mother, then at the lamb. Closing his eyes, Simon pressed the blade against the lamb’s neck, and with a swiping motion deeply cut across the flesh. Blood squirted across the garage, splattering on the wall. As the lamb gasped for air, its body violently wriggling, Simon could hear the animal’s pathetic moans. Blood pumped from i
ts neck and collected in the aluminum bowl sitting on the concrete floor. Simon watched in terror as life drained from the lamb’s body.
When the animal stopped squirming, Ida Kwosokowski stood on a stepladder and cut the twine, allowing the sacrificed animal to fall to the floor. “On Easter Sunday, we will feast on this fine lamb.”
She lifted the aluminum bowl and carefully poured a good portion of blood into a gold-colored chalice. She handed it to Simon. “Drink, my son, so that your soul may be cleansed of mortal sins.”
He had thought that his only duty was to sacrifice the animal. Not in his wildest dreams did he believe he’d have to drink the animal’s blood. Simon grasped the cup and with a trembling hand pressed his lips to the chalice and let the lamb’s still-warm blood fill his mouth.
Before entering the Room of Redemption, Simon needed a moment to regain his composure. Just thinking about having drunk lamb’s blood nauseated him. He peeked through the one-way lens. Peggy lay on the bed, perhaps sleeping. He could not see April but guessed she occupied herself in the playroom. When he walked in the door, Peggy sprang to her feet.
Although terrified, Peggy’s feisty nature could not be suppressed. The minute she saw his face, unbridled rage gushed through her body. Peggy had always been strong willed. Often to a point beyond reason. “Well, if it isn’t Mister Limp-Dick himself. Back from an afternoon of molesting sheep?”
Have I completely lost my mind? He’s going to fucking kill me if I don’t shut my mouth!
That she could speak like this in front of her daughter mortified Simon. “You’re making it difficult for me to be nice.”
She let out a crazed laugh. “You call being locked up in this shit hole by a fucking lunatic nice?”
April sat quietly in front of the television, seemingly unaware of their conversation. “Why does your cursing persist, sinner?”
“Sinner? What gives you the right to judge anybody?”
“I do not wish to engage in harsh exchanges. All I ask is that you remain civil.”
Peggy’s wild eyes locked on Simon’s face. She wagged her finger at him. “I know who you are. Should have known when you so conveniently showed up to rescue me. I read about you. You’re not civil. You’re nothing but a pussy. A sick fuck. A man without a dick. A fucking murderer!”
Peggy stood frozen. She studied his face and knew she’d gone too far.
Bonnie Jean Oliver.
A familiar storm welled in Simon’s belly. When he looked at Peggy’s face, he saw Bonnie Jean. He walked toward the bed, not like a deranged man, but reserved, in control. Peggy, apparently not threatened by him, didn’t flinch. Before she could react to the impending danger, he doubled up his fist and punched her in the face. His knuckles collided with her left cheekbone and knocked her against the headboard. As if her body had no skeleton, she collapsed like a rag doll, unconscious.
When Peggy awoke, she felt like she’d been kicked by a mule. Her left eye was swollen almost shut. Her face, severely bruised, throbbed with pain. At first she hadn’t noticed, but now that the fogginess lifted from her thoughts she realized that he had handcuffed her right wrist to the wooden bedpost. Where does the asshole expect me to go? Suddenly, Peggy McDonald felt the eerie sensation of being alone in her prison. “April, where are you?”
No answer.
Maybe she was in the bathroom?
A quiet panic shivered through her.
“April, please come to Mommy.”
Nothing.
Chaotic thoughts raced through her mind, visions of unthinkable acts.
“God in heaven.”
FIVE
After meeting with Captain Davison and surviving one of the rare occasions when he browbeat his subordinates, Sami Rizzo and Alberto Diaz drove to La Jolla to interview Andrew McDonald, the husband of Peggy McDonald. Situated high on a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean, the McDonald’s two-million-dollar home sat among other jewels even more impressive. By San Diego standards, particularly in La Jolla, one of the more affluent communities, seven-figure properties were mainstream. In any suburb close enough to smell the ocean, starter homes—tiny matchboxes that in other parts of the country might sell for eighty thousand dollars—were priced at nearly a million.
Before the detectives made it to the top of the concrete stairway leading to the front entrance, Andrew McDonald opened the door. Wearing a Hard Rock Cafe T-shirt, khaki shorts, and sandals, an outfit unsuited to the sixty-degree day, he stood silent. His dirty-blond hair, cut short, looked unkempt. The puffy bags of flesh under his eyes seemed extreme for a man in his early thirties.
Sami offered her hand. Her lower back, slightly improved, still felt tight and achy. “I’m Detective Rizzo, and this is my partner, Detective Diaz.”
Declining a handshake, McDonald stepped to the side and motioned them in. They followed him to a small den decorated with Southwestern furnishings. McDonald sat on a leather chair. Still silent, he pointed to the brown sofa. To Sami, he appeared to be more composed than she expected. The other three husbands, men who’d been interviewed under similar circumstances, were frantic.
“Is she dead?”
The jaw-dropping question clobbered Sami. Diaz stared at his fingernails. “There’s no evidence to support that possibility, Mr. McDonald,” Sami said.
McDonald folded his hands as if in prayer. “He’s murdered them all and he’s going to kill Peggy.”
“Not if we have anything to say about it,” Diaz said.
“Based on your track record thus far, detective, it seems that you don’t have a fucking thing to say about it.”
“We’re doing everything in our power to rescue your wife and daughter,” Sami said.
McDonald’s face flushed with blood. “Like you did for the other three butchered women?”
Diaz sat forward and coughed into his hand. “I know this is difficult for you—”
“Difficult? You two haven’t a clue what I’m feeling right now.”
“Mr. McDonald,” Sami said, “you have a choice to make. We can sit here and listen to you berate us for our incompetence and waste valuable time—precious time—or you can cooperate and offer some information that may save your wife and daughter.”
McDonald fixed his eyes on Sami’s and sucked in a quivering breath. “I’m sorry. You can’t possibly imagine what it’s like waiting for the telephone call or knock at the door that’s going to change your life forever. All I can think about is how horribly she’s going to…” His eyes filled with tears. “Where do monsters like him come from?”
Sami could say nothing.
“When did you last hear from your wife, Mr. McDonald?” Al asked.
“Like I told the other detective when I reported her missing, she left me a message last night. She got a flat tire and was about to ask me to pick her up, but then told me to forget about it.”
“Have you erased the message?” Al asked.
He shook his head.
“May we listen to it?” Al said.
McDonald stood and pointed. “The answering machine’s in there.”
The detectives followed McDonald into a recently remodeled kitchen; it still smelled like cut wood and fresh varnish. Sami noticed the remains of a partially eaten frozen dinner sitting on the counter.
McDonald pushed the play button on the answering machine.
“—if you get this message before”—a long pause—“seven-thirty, I’m stuck on Soledad Mountain Road, just south of the park”—another pause—“Forget it. I’ll make other arrangements.” Her voice sounded anxious.
Other arrangements indeed, Sami thought.
McDonald folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the counter. “That’s it.”
There was, of course, the remote possibility that Peggy McDonald and her daughter, April, were not abducted by the suspected serial killer, which fostered a series of delicate questions.
“How long have Mrs. McDonald and you been married?” Sami asked.
“Our tenth anniversary is next month.”
“Everything okay with the marriage?”
McDonald’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell does that mean?”
“You and the Mrs. get along?”
“We have our moments.”
“Ever have any major disagreements?”
“Nothing worth talking about.”
Sami pondered for a moment. “How soon after you received the message from your wife did you become concerned?”
“I don’t know…maybe an hour or so.”
“You’re about five or ten minutes from where your wife’s car broke down, right, Mr. McDonald?”
“And your point is?”
“I’m just a little surprised that you weren’t tempted to hop in your car and check things out.”
“Look, detective, I don’t appreciate this interrogation. Maybe instead of breaking my balls you and your partner should be trying to save my family.”
“That’s exactly what we’re trying to do, Mr. McDonald,” Sami said. “Sometimes the slightest, seemingly insignificant detail can result in a clue. If I’ve offended you, I apologize.”
McDonald combed his fingers through his hair. “He’s going to butcher my wife, isn’t he?”
Sami, her throat knotted up, couldn’t answer.
Sami and Al sat in the car, reevaluating their conversation with Andrew McDonald. “So, what do you think, partner?” Sami asked.
“I think Mr. McDonald’s going to be a widower.”
Feeling a bit guilty about badgering McDonald, Sami asked, “Was I too rough on him?”
He lifted a shoulder. “You’re emotionally involved with this case, partner. You need to take a few deep breaths and regroup.”
Sami’s cell phone beeped.
They Never Die Quietly Page 5