“Sami Rizzo.”
“Are you prepared for an evening of sumptuous food and stimulating conversation?”
She’d all but forgotten about the tentative dinner. “Simon?”
“Just calling to confirm our dinner date for tomorrow evening.” His voice sounded strange.
Date? Sami had always recognized the fine distinction between a date and enjoying dinner with a male companion. Did he really consider it a date, or was he merely playing a game of semantics? The offer tempted her, but the week had been consuming, and as much as she needed and wanted a recreational break…“Can I ask for a rain check, Simon?”
“Do you really want to hear a grown man cry?”
“It’s been a hellish week and I’m afraid I wouldn’t be much company.”
“All work and no play makes for a dull life.”
“I really can’t, Simon.”
“Look, you have to eat dinner anyway, right? Why not with me?”
She thought about his logic for a moment. How terrible could it be eating dinner opposite a man she was attracted to? “What time would be good for you?”
“Seven-thirty okay?”
“Perfect.”
“Would I be less than chivalrous if I asked you to meet me at the restaurant?”
Maybe this wasn’t a date? In her little book of etiquette, an honorable man always picked up his date. “What did you have in mind?”
“You’re familiar with Pacific Beach, right?”
“Been there many times.”
“How about Romano’s Cafe, on the corner of Cass and Garnet?”
She’d never been there but heard about the quaint and romantic setting. “I’ll see you at seven-thirty.”
“Great. I’m looking forward to it, Sami.”
“Just in case something unexpected happens—you never know with police work—why don’t you give me your home or cell number.”
Silence. “How about I call you around seven, just to confirm.”
“Sure.”
He doesn’t want me to have his number.
That pang of doubt tweaked her subconscious.
When Sami walked into the precinct, Alberto Diaz was sitting on the corner of her desk, talking to Captain Davison. Diaz did a double take. Sami and Al had developed an esoteric communication system. Certain looks or nods or facial expressions represented signals. Al gave her a quick glance and his eyebrows twitched, warning her to be prepared for something unpleasant.
Davison pointed to his watch. “Your alarm clock broken?”
She hadn’t left the office until after seven yesterday and thought she’d been entitled to a little slack this morning. By the agitated look on Davison’s face, apparently not. “Worked late last night.”
The captain, Sami thought, must have bought his brown suit long before the birth of his beer gut. His pants were so tight he had to wear them below his belly. The bottom of his shirt pulled apart.
“I have some rather alarming news,” Davison said.
At first, Sami panicked, immediately concluding that the captain had decided to yank her off the case. But then she realized such an unpleasant conversation would most certainly take place behind closed doors where the rest of the detective squad would be insulated from the bitter yelling. “Should I sit?” Sami asked.
The captain let out a heavy sigh. “We found Peggy McDonald’s body.”
Sami felt as though she’d been punched in the stomach. “Where?”
“On the front steps of Saint Francis of Assisi’s Church in El Cajon.”
“When?”
“Early this morning. Just before sunrise.”
“And the little girl?”
Al stood up and stepped toward his partner. “Nothing on her. Yet.”
A lot of questions whirled through Sami’s mind, but suddenly she recognized that the captain hadn’t followed protocol. “Captain, why wasn’t I called?”
He folded his arms across his chest. “I didn’t get the call myself until almost eight. Thought you were en route.”
Sami felt that she needed to justify her tardy arrival. “The only reason I’m late—”
“Save it, Rizzo,” Davison said, his voice edgy. “If you didn’t bust your ass every day, you’d be wearing a blue uniform and walking a beat in South San Diego. Besides, we’ve got more important issues to discuss.” He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Why don’t you two step into my office?”
The moment Captain Davison sat behind his desk, he lit a cigarette. After witnessing this phenomenon dozens of times, Sami concluded that Davison’s habit was more reflexive than conscious. She wondered if he truly enjoyed smoking. Most of the time, halfway through a cigarette, he’d go through coughing episodes so severe that it sounded like he’d hack his lungs out all over the desk.
As always, Al looked as passive as a man getting his fingernails manicured. Sami felt anxious. Davison leaned back in his squeaky armchair, sucked on the unfiltered Camel, captured the smoke in his lungs for a few seconds, then exhaled a blue cloud. “You two got one week to find this guy. I’d take you off the investigation right now, but neither of you has ever let me down.” Directing his words to Sami, the captain fixed his eyes on her. “I’m going to stick my neck out and assure the chief you’ll make an arrest by next Friday. Don’t make me a liar.”
After digesting his words, Sami said, “Tell me about Peggy McDonald’s body.”
The captain sat forward and rested his elbows on the desk. “Find out for yourself.” He glanced at his watch. “Her autopsy begins in an hour.”
Autopsies were an integral function of the investigative process; the gory part that Sami loathed. Thus far, forensic medicine had uncovered little information that offered a lead in this case. Sami never had the stomach for blood and guts. In fact, she didn’t even like watching medical dramas on television. At times like this, when faced with an aspect of her job that she truly abhorred, Sami questioned why she’d kept her promise to her father. She’d been sucked into this career, seduced by the illusion of serving society. It felt like a one-way street with nowhere to turn around, no side streets to change directions.
Even if she’d decided to pursue another career, economics and her responsibility to Angelina made it impractical for her to consider furthering her education, which was the only possible way Sami could bid farewell to police work. Her mother, of course, was another issue. To rescind the promise she’d so thoughtlessly made to her dying father, a wish that bitterly portrayed her absolute love for her father, would surely give Josephine Rizzo yet another thorn with which to torture Sami.
But another, more compelling reason Sami could not abandon the life of law enforcement loomed heavy: Detective work was in her blood. It had nothing to do with earning a living, fringe benefits, prestige, or social status. Like a terminal illness that cannot be cured, police work was an affliction from which Sami could never be healed, one whose grip on Sami’s conscience tightened with each new investigation.
The medical examiner’s office was housed in the County Operations Center. The two-story structure, located in Kearny Mesa, a community of central San Diego, operated under county jurisdiction but still provided services to the city police department. Sami pulled the Taurus into the crowded parking lot and maneuvered the car toward an area reserved for law enforcement personnel. Al had just gobbled the last bite of his “breakfast” and a little confectionary sugar remained on his upper lip.
Sami eyeballed Al and let out a heavy sigh. “How can you eat donuts—jelly donuts no less—just before viewing a postmortem examination?”
Al licked his lips clean. “What’s the big deal? Donuts are one of the five major food groups.”
“Oh, really?”
“Never heard of them?”
“Not your version.”
Al grinned boyishly. “Pizza, burgers, carne asada, donuts, and pussy.”
Sami didn’t flinch. Al amused her more than he appalled her. Through their long re
lationship, she’d been conditioned to dismiss her partner’s foul mouth. “You’re a pervert.”
“Thank you.”
Sami worked in a world dominated by men. Crude, outspoken, self-absorbed men. Many still believed that women served only one useful purpose, and most men had few reservations about exhibiting their chauvinism. Having been a minority in a vocation saturated with egomaniacs, Sami had learned how to survive: laugh at their obscene jokes, smile when they make indecent proposals, massage their delicate egos, but never, ever get romantically involved with a fellow detective.
In many ways, Al fit the sordid profile of the other male detectives, but his banter had the ring of an innocent teenager’s. He never treated Sami in a malicious manner, nor would he ever betray her. As partners, they were somehow able to shift through the sexism and establish a meaningful kinship. In many ways their relationship thrived because it could not be defined in traditional terms. Mutual respect created a strong foundation on which to build a solid friendship.
As they walked toward the building, Al draped his arm around Sami’s shoulder. “You don’t have to go in there, partner. Davison will never know.”
“But I will.”
“Why don’t you let me observe while you wait in the car?”
“What would that accomplish?”
“It might help keep your Wheaties from decorating the autopsy room.”
“You’re in rare form this morning. Did you get handled last night?”
“Anticipation.” He glanced at his watch. “Got a date with an angel.”
“Oh, I’m sure you do. Bet she’s the Virgin Queen of the Nile.”
Sami trusted Al implicitly. He had helped her through rough times. When Tommy DiSalvo abandoned her, Al behaved like a mother hen caring for an ailing chick. Three times a week Al had spent his evenings with Sami, watching movies, playing backgammon, or just talking. Still pregnant when Tommy left, she’d considered asking Al to be her Lamaze coach, but when she realized that she might never be able to look into his eyes again, Sami decided to abandon the idea.
Sami had also fulfilled her role as an intimate friend to Al. More than three years ago she’d discovered that he was drinking excessively. At first, she tried not to get involved, hoping it was only temporary. But when he started coming to work with excessive mint breath and his performance as a detective seemed impaired, Sami could no longer ignore Al’s problem. A stubborn, proud man, it took a great deal of coaxing and even more patience to convince him to join AA. Sami had to bribe him, promising to attend the first five meetings right by his side. And she had. Sat next to him and held his hand.
“You’ll never change, will you, Al?”
“I certainly hope not.”
A peculiar hypocrisy existed in their relationship. Al’s primary objective was to exploit the delicate feelings of vulnerable women who took one look at him and instantly fell in love. A rogue of sorts, a heartless manipulator, he would say and do anything to seduce a woman. Sami usually despised men like Al, yet he was her most intimate friend. Of course, much of what she knew about Al’s sexual escapades was hearsay. In fact, of all the women Al supposedly dated, Sami had never met one. In spite of this, she believed that the sordid stories were mostly true.
Al, when he wasn’t overtly conscious of his machismo, often conducted himself like a true gentleman. He opened the steel door and held it, allowing Sami to enter the facility first. They walked down a long corridor to the back of the building and entered the medical examiner’s office. Immediately, Sami could smell that vile antiseptic odor. The air smelled clean yet as offensive as concentrated chlorine bleach. Her stomach, having been filled only with black coffee, protested vehemently.
There were four postmortem examination rooms, brightly lit sterile environments where cadavers, bloodless ash-colored figures, once vital human beings—mothers, wives, brothers, friends—were systematically dismantled with stainless steel instruments and a matter-of-fact attitude that might lead an onlooker to conclude that medical examiners had Freon coursing through their veins.
To Sami, the whole business of postmortem examinations, a necessary evil in the art of homicide investigation, was an act of unthinkable disrespect. The environment in the confines of the autopsy rooms was neither solemn nor mournful. It was almost like some bizarre recreation room where failed doctors got to work on patients they could no longer harm. Medical examiners approached autopsies with the casual indifference one might exhibit while carving a Thanksgiving turkey.
Al tapped Sami’s shoulder. “Should have asked you earlier in the week, but if you’re free tomorrow evening, my neighbor Rose is having her annual before-Christmas bash. Interested in joining me?”
“You mean Casanova himself doesn’t have a date?”
“I don’t date, Sami, I fornicate.”
“Thank you for clarifying that.” She hadn’t planned to share this with Al. He often acted like an overprotective father. “Actually, I have to pass. Unlike you, my dear friend, I do have a date.”
He looked at her with surprised eyes. “Anyone I know?”
“I doubt it. He’s a gentleman.”
“Aren’t we the witty one.” Al loosened his tie and unfastened his top button. “With all due respect to you and your heritage, please tell me he’s not a greaseball.”
“No, Al, he’s not Mexican.”
“Very funny. Is he the same breed as DiSalvo?
“He’s Polish.”
Al shook his head, giggling uncontrollably. “So when he takes it in the ass he thinks he’s getting a prostate exam?”
“Did your mother wash out your mouth with soap when you were a kid?”
“When I was a kid we didn’t have any soap.”
David Sherwood, sixty-two-year-old medical examiner, retired from the Navy, stepped out of his office and approached the detectives. The slight man—merely five-foot-five—had a severely receded hairline. What hair remained was unruly and pure silver. He wore reading glasses low on his nose and looked over them when he spoke. He could easily pass for a mad professor.
“We have to stop meeting like this,” Sherwood said. He smirked, obviously amused with his attempt at humor.
Sami had heard this canned line before. “Believe me, doctor, we’d rather be meeting you socially.”
Without ceremony Sherwood turned his back on the detectives and led them to autopsy room three.
Al elbowed Sami in the side. “Socially?”
The first thing Sami noticed as she trailed behind Al and followed him into the room was the cold air, almost frigid enough for her to see her breath. Her eyes surveyed the twenty-by-twenty-foot room, which was brightly illuminated by rows of fluorescent fixtures. Gray ceramic tiles covered the floors and the walls up to the ceiling. In the center of the room sat a rectangular stainless steel table. A white sheet covered a human-shaped figure on the table. Bluish feet with painted toenails stuck out from under the sheet. Attached to the cadaver’s big toe was a pale yellow tag. Adjacent to the autopsy table was another smaller table filled with instruments of the trade: scalpels, saws of various lengths and shapes, strange-looking hammers, multipurpose tweezers, an electric rotary saw, and other incidentals.
Sami gawked at what she knew was the lifeless body of Peggy McDonald and felt her knees buckle. She wasn’t going to make it. She now knew that the moment Doctor Sherwood unveiled the woman’s mutilated body, she would most certainly vomit. Regretting that she had not accepted Al’s invitation to wait in the car, she grabbed his arm to help steady her unstable legs.
“You okay?” Al asked.
“Never been better.”
The room was like an echo chamber. Every sound—footsteps, spoken words, any noise whatsoever—bounced around and contributed to the already-spooky setting. Sherwood slipped on rubber gloves and stood beside the autopsy table. His arms were poised in a position ready to expose the body, to begin cutting, slicing, and sawing. Al walked around to the other side of the table, facing Sh
erwood, and Sami stood in her partner’s shadow, positioning her body behind him with her head peeking around his shoulder.
The medical examiner grasped the sheet covering her body. “Are we ready to begin?”
Such a melodramatic performance, Sami thought.
“Let’s do it,” Al said.
David Sherwood removed the sheet with the fluidity of a matador.
Sami stood stone still, hypnotized by a sickening image that defined a world in which the levels of human madness were infinite. Peggy’s body was ash-colored with blotches of blue under her left eye, on both shoulders, under her left breast, and on the front of her right thigh. Sami’s misty eyes quickly scanned the victim’s body, then focused on her face.
“We will begin with a superficial examination,” Sherwood said.
Sami took a deep breath, knowing that Sherwood wouldn’t be using any of his shiny instruments. At least not for the moment.
“As you can see,” Sherwood began, “unlike the other three victims, this woman’s heart has not been excised.”
So preoccupied with the grisly remains of a crucified body, Sami hadn’t even noticed. She whispered in Al’s ear, “His methods have changed.”
Al pointed to the wrist and foot wounds. “Not all of them.”
Sherwood examined her face. “There is a plum-size contusion under the victim’s left eye, right at the temporal process, suggesting that her assailant struck her with his fist or maybe a blunt object.”
Sami said, “None of the other victim’s had injuries to their faces.”
“Maybe she really pissed him off,” Al said.
Sherwood lifted the woman’s limp left arm and tilted his head back so he could view the bloodstained wrist with the benefit of his glasses. “The left wrist has been punctured with a sharp object between the ulna and radius bones of the forearm, just above the lunate bone in the proximal region. The wound is approximately one-and-one-half millimeters in diameter.” He lifted her right arm. “This wound is almost identical in diameter and location.”
Sherwood slipped his hand under the victim’s right knee and slightly lifted the leg, so he could examine her foot. “The right foot has a wound approximately the same diameter as the wrist wounds. It is located at the transverse tarsal joint.”
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