They Never Die Quietly

by D. M. Annechino

  Alberto Diaz grinned. His ivory-white teeth were flawless. “Thought before we issued an APB, I’d knock on your front door.”

  “It’s been a rough day.”

  “Is it safe to come in?”

  “Enter at your own risk.”

  Sami sat on the sofa and Al seemed content pacing the floor.

  “You look like shit,” Al said.

  “Thanks, Al, I can always count on you to lift my spirits.”

  “It gets worse.” Al shook his head. “Davison yanked us off the investigation.”

  “Son of a bitch!”

  “Guess Chief Larson crawled up the captain’s ass.”

  “He didn’t have the courtesy to tell me himself?”

  “Have you checked your messages? He’s been trying to reach you all day.”

  Not only had she ignored incoming telephone calls, she’d turned down the volume on her answering machine. “But he said we had until next Friday before he’d pull the plug.”

  “There’s been another young woman murdered. It doesn’t fit the serial killer’s M.O., but there are enough similarities to make Davison panic. He’s yanking us and letting the special task force lead the investigation.”

  Sami wanted to scream, to pick up the crystal candy dish sitting on the corner of the cocktail table and heave it across the room. Oh, how she wanted to break something! “I don’t need this shit today, Al.”

  “I’m sorry, partner.” Al sat next to Sami and rubbed her back. “Hope you’re not pissed with me.”

  “It’s not your fault. You’re just the courier.”

  They sat quietly for several minutes. Al’s gentle hands massaged the taut muscles along the top of Sami’s shoulders. His hands felt soothing, yet unsettling, reminding her of the tender moments she’d had with Tommy, moments in their early relationship that had faded so quickly.

  “Davison wants us to investigate this most recent murder,” Al said.

  “And what happens if we find out that the woman was victim number five?”

  Al lifted a shoulder. “Don’t know.”

  Sami finally realized that Al had never seen her so slovenly. “So what do you think of my new hairdo?”

  Al made a yummy sound. “If I were into alien refugees, you’d be first on my list.”

  “You are the charmer, aren’t you?”

  He smiled briefly, but then his lips tightened. “I thought you might want to know that Davison assigned Anderson and McNeil to Tommy’s murder investigation.”

  Al’s announcement, somewhat nonchalant, struck Sami in a peculiar way. Investigating Tommy’s murder? It all seemed so unreal. “Tell them not to waste their time.”

  Al stopped rubbing her shoulders.

  “Unless our extradition agreement with Mexico has improved,” Sami said, “I doubt that they’ll ever find the murderers.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Tommy was a brainless gambler. A not-so-bright gambler. After burning every bookie from here to L.A., constantly hiding from those goons threatening to break his fingers, he found what he believed to be a windfall in Tijuana. He started placing bets with a group of Mexican hoodlums. Wannabe mafiosi. These guys were a lot more liberal than American bookies. They let Tommy get into their knickers for thousands without hassling him.”

  “Something must have happened for them to murder him.”

  “Tommy had no sense of fair play. His motto was, ‘You play ball with me, and I’ll stick the bat up your ass.’ When the Mexicans realized that Tommy had no intention of paying back the debt, they threatened to kill him.”

  Al grabbed Sami’s hand.

  Sami tried to swallow the lump in her throat. “I should have helped him.”

  “You weren’t his keeper, Sami. Besides, the last time you bailed out his sorry ass he promised to seek help through Gamblers Anonymous. And what did he do?”

  Sami didn’t say a word.

  “He blew you off, Sami. You can’t blame yourself. Even if you’d been crazy enough to borrow against your home and save his hide, how long before he got himself into another life-threatening jam? Let it go, Sami. He’s not worth it.”

  She didn’t need to hear it from Al to know that Tommy was a worthless liar. Still, she couldn’t help but feel that in some indirect way she’d betrayed Angelina. “Think you could find it in your heart to give this not-so-lovely woman a hug?”

  “You got it, partner.”

  Al’s loyal friendship was much-needed therapy for Sami. It warmed her to feel affection. It had been such a long time since Sami had felt so safe and secure. She didn’t want Al to let go.

  “I hate to break up this party,” Al whispered in Sami’s ear, “but we’ve got a witness to interview.”

  “You mean tonight?”

  Al glanced at his watch and nodded. “How fast can you shower and make yourself presentable?”

  “It’d be easier if the folks from Extreme Makeovers made house calls.” Sami’s mother was the only babysitter she could summon at a moment’s notice. She dreaded calling her but had no choice. “Why don’t you brew a pot of coffee while I make arrangements for Angelina and get ready as quickly as I can?”

  “Sure thing.” He winked at her. “Welcome back, partner.”

  Quite to Sami’s surprise, her mother agreed to babysit without comment or inquisition. Sami strongly suspected that her mother hadn’t yet figured out how to approach her on the subject of Tommy’s murder—a topic sure to be overanalyzed for decades to come. So Sami felt certain that instead of making small talk, her mother was quietly plotting. In due time, Josephine Rizzo would launch a relentless attack, and Sami would pay a painful price for this momentary pardon from hell.

  For the first time in months, Al drove and Sami navigated. Usually Sami took on both responsibilities, not by choice but necessity. On the many occasions Al had hopelessly tried to offer directions, he’d always found a way to get them lost. And Sami could never quite pass an opportunity to harass her partner. “Al,” she had said the last time they were lost somewhere in east San Diego County, “you couldn’t find your ass with a detailed road map.”

  Bogged down in heavy Saturday evening traffic on the main strip of Pacific Beach, the detectives crawled along Garnet Avenue, neither having much to say, each of them caught up in private thoughts. Two blocks from Crystal Pier, they drove by Romano’s Cafe, and Sami got an eerie feeling knowing that the murder had taken place only a short distance from where Simon and she had intended to have dinner. A meaningless coincidence, yet it added to her edginess.

  Simon.

  Since hearing about Tommy’s murder, Sami had little time to think about Simon. In a twisted sense—considering that Tommy’s funeral hadn’t even taken place yet—she actually felt guilty enjoying the little fantasies that often danced through her mind. But why should she feel guilty daydreaming about the charming man who had stirred her womanly emotions, feelings she’d given up for dead? Didn’t she have a right to these visions? She now understood that guilt came easy to her. She embraced it like a treasured heirloom.

  Unable to find a legal parking space, Al pulled next to a red curb, a no standing zone, and flipped down the sun visor, displaying the Official Police Business sign in the windshield.

  Al turned off the ignition. “Rank sure has its privileges.”

  “And you enjoy every one of them.”

  “Hey, for the paltry sum we get paid, we have to take full advantage of the fringe benefits.”

  About to get out of the car, Al grasped the door handle, but Sami grabbed his right arm. “Tell me about the victim.”

  In the dim light Al studied her critically. “Sure you want to know?”

  “No. But tell me anyway.”

  He hesitated for a moment. “She was young, Sami, born in Sweden, eighteen years old. Her parents told me she had recently signed a contract with Models Inc. Would have had a promising career as a fashion model. The sad thing is, she had leukemia—had less than a year to li
ve.”

  Sami thought about that for a minute. “Could it have been suicide?”

  Al grasped the steering wheel and adjusted his body. “She died from repeated blows to the face with a rock the size of a cantaloupe.”

  Sorry she had asked for details, Sami took a breath. “What details of her death are similar to the serial murders?”

  “The assailant cut a cross into her stomach. It might not be a connection, but then again, you never know.”

  “Are we interviewing a witness?” Sami asked.

  He shook his head. “Not exactly. At the scene of the murder, the Crime Scene Unit found a Gold Toe sock. That information somehow ended up in a newspaper article. We got a call from some homeless guy.” Al fished through his pockets and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. “John Williamson. Last night he spoke with a tall man walking barefoot on the beach in a business suit. Said that the guy gave him fifty bucks and a pair of expensive loafers. In return, the guy asked Williamson to attend services on Christmas Day and to promise not to drink. While they were talking, our homeless guy noticed that the suspect was holding a pair of socks with gold toes.”

  Anyone could have carved a cross into the young woman’s body. Perhaps to further incriminate the serial killer. But asking the homeless man to attend church on Christmas Day might suggest that the suspect was religious.

  “Where are we meeting Williamson?” Sami asked.

  “Near the beach.”

  John T. Williamson, ex-marine, former father, husband, and taxpayer, waited under a bright mercury vapor light in front of the entrance to Crystal Pier, exactly where he’d agreed to meet the detectives. There were other people in the area—a few joggers, several rollerbladers, people casually strolling along the boardwalk—but Al recognized Williamson immediately from the description he’d given over the telephone. The homeless man looked fidgety. Headphones dangled around his neck and the wire disappeared in his jacket pocket. He held a backpack in one hand and a cigarette in the other, puffing on it nervously. He was pacing like a caged hyena when the detectives approached him. The man stood tall, skinny as a pencil, and walked with a slight limp.

  “Are you John Williamson?” Al asked.

  “John T. Williamson, if you please.”

  “I’m Detective Diaz and this is my partner, Detective Rizzo.”

  Careful not to damage the half-smoked cigarette, he extinguished it and put it in his jacket pocket. “I’m not in any sort of trouble or anything, am I?” Williamson’s voice cracked.

  “Not unless you’re an accomplice to the murder,” Al said.

  Williamson didn’t connect with Al’s twisted humor. “Well, God knows I’m not. What I meant was, being homeless and all…you know, panhandling. That sort of thing. It’s not a crime, is it?”

  “Only if you’re harassing people,” Sami said.

  The witness looked relieved. “Don’t know that I can help you. Can’t believe the guy I spoke to could hurt anybody. He was weird but not the murdering type.”

  “Why don’t you let us make that determination, Mr. Williamson,” Al said.

  Williamson pointed to a row of concrete benches lining the boardwalk. “Mind if we sit over there and talk?” He grimaced and rubbed his knee.

  “Are you injured?” Sami asked.

  “Got this trick knee that flares up in the cool weather.”

  Al and Sami followed the witness to a vacant bench sitting under a cluster of tall palm trees. From where they sat, they could hear the ocean washing the shoreline.

  Sami removed a pad and pen from her jacket pocket. “Can you give us a detailed description of the man in question?”

  “Well, you know, it was dark on the beach and I didn’t really pay much attention to his face.” He played with his grisly beard. “He was big, built like a brick shit house. Broad shoulders. Looked like a linebacker.”

  “What color was his hair, eyes? Any distinguishing features?” Sami asked.

  “Geez, I’m really sorry, but I can’t remember.” He licked his lips and twisted his neck as if his collar were overstarched. “I was a little under the weather last night.”

  “You mean intoxicated?” Al asked.

  “Not drop-dead drunk. Just a little tipsy. It helps take the bite out of the chilly nights.”

  “If you saw him again,” Sami asked, “do you think you could identify him?”

  He did a thumbs-up. “Could pick him out of a lineup hands down.”

  “You told me on the telephone,” Al said, “that you called because the man you spoke to was holding a pair of Gold Toe socks?”

  “Yep. Every morning at sunrise, I get a cup of coffee at Johnnie’s and read the Chronicle. Don’t have to pay for the paper, cause there’s a bunch of them for free. Johnnie’s good about customer service and all. Mostly I read the sports, but I couldn’t help but see the big headlines about the girl murdered on the beach. When something like that happens right in a guy’s backyard, well, you pay close attention. Anyway, when I read that they found a sock with gold toes, I remembered that the guy I spoke to was holding a pair in his hand, so I made the call. Figured that’s what I’m supposed to do.”

  “You mentioned that the man was weird,” Sami said. “In what way?”

  “He was one of those religious fanatics. Seemed awful interested in saving my soul. What kind of guy gives a total stranger fifty bucks and a pair of expensive shoes just to make him go to church on Christmas Day and promise not to booze it up? Seems strange to me.”

  “Do you still have the shoes?” Sami asked.

  “You bet your life.” His raspy voice bellowed with pride.

  Williamson unzipped the backpack. As he gingerly removed the shoes, handling each one like a carton of eggs, this almost solemn ceremony struck Sami. It occurred to her that the man’s total worldly belongings were stuffed in that tattered backpack. No home or furniture or cellular or big-screen TV. Only the wares of utter necessity. The shoes, she guessed, represented a status beyond this man’s grasp. He clung to them as if they were a life preserver, links to prosperity and a lifestyle he might never know.

  “May we see the shoes?” Al asked.

  Williamson reached out and handed Al the black loafers. A profound look of concern painted Williamson’s face. “You’re not gonna…what’s that word…”

  “Confiscate?” Sami offered.

  “Yeah, that’s it. You ain’t gonna confiscate them, are ya?”

  Al eyed Sami. They both knew that the shoes, now contaminated, offered little information about the suspect. But to follow prescribed police procedures they were required to assume possession. “They’re your property, Mr. Williamson, but we do need to borrow them.”

  Williamson shook his head. “For how long?”

  “Just long enough for our lab to run a few tests,” Al said.

  “They ain’t gonna ruin ’em are they? I mean cut them open looking for clues and that sort of thing?”

  “Not to worry, Mr. Williamson,” Sami said. “We’ll return them to you as soon as we can.”

  Williamson sucked air through clenched teeth. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but can you give me some sort of receipt for the shoes?”

  Sami smiled. “Sure, Mr. Williamson.” She pawed through her purse and scribbled on the back of a bank deposit slip. “Here you go.”

  “Much obliged.” He neatly folded it in half and stuffed in his jacket pocket.

  Al carefully examined the shoes. The soles and heals were barely worn. Inside the soft leather loafers he noticed an insignia, a shield of sorts with the initials E.V. Under the shield, he spotted the name, Enrico Valentino.

  “Our suspect has expensive taste,” Al said. “These are two-hundred-dollar shoes.”

  “I expected they were,” Williamson said.

  “Have you worn the shoes?” Al asked.

  He shook his head. “I ain’t exactly dressed proper enough for those shoes.”

  A rollerblader with purple hair came whizzin
g by, almost crashing into them.

  “Ought to be a law against them damn skaters,” Williamson said.

  Not wanting to further contaminate the evidence, Al placed the shoes in a plastic evidence bag. “Tell me, Mr. Williamson, what did you and our generous mystery man talk about?”

  “He preached a bit, nagged me about my drinking and poor diet. Geez, you’d think the guy was my brother or something.”

  “When you finished talking to him,” Sami asked, “in which direction did he walk?”

  “North.” Williamson pointed. “Toward those rocks where they found the girl’s body.”

  “Anything else you can tell us?” Sami asked.

  “Only that the guy walked with a slight limp.”

  An image of Simon flashed in Sami’s mind. She recalled her visit to the hospital and Simon’s story about the broken baby toe. “Can you remember which leg he favored?”

  Williamson cocked his head to the side, considering her question. “It was his right leg.”

  “You’re sure.”

  He nodded vigorously. “I’d make a wager on it.”

  Sami handed Williamson her business card. “If you think of anything else, please call me at once.”

  He angled the card toward the light and studied it. “Think he’s the same sicko who’s crucifying all those women?”

  Sami shrugged. “It’s hard to know at this point, Mr. Williamson.”

  “Seeing as we’re all well acquainted now, there’s no need for formal talk. Why don’t you call me J.T.?”

  Al shook his hand. “Thanks for your help, J.T.”

  Sami thought the conversation was over, but she caught a neediness in Williamson’s eyes, a plea for her not to leave just yet. He looked like a child about to say goodbye to his mother before stepping onto a school bus his very first day of kindergarten.

  “Are you okay?” Sami asked.

  “I just wanted you detectives to know that I appreciate you not treating me like some kind of misfit. It ain’t no picnic having to beg for a livin’. I never hassle people. Whether they give me a little change or not, I always say, ‘God bless you.’ Even when they’re rude. Not everyone living on the streets has a choice.”