Picture Me Dead

by Heather Graham

  “Good idea,” Gwyn said. She smiled at Ashley. Ashley liked Gwyn. Gwyn was tough and careful. She was a black woman—tawny gold, actually—and she had been born in Cuba. Raised a Catholic, she had once told Ashley she had considered converting to Judaism, just to make sure she had a foot in every local minority out there. With public institutions required to have quotas, she was determined to prove she was more than a statistical offering. She studied hard, worked hard and meant to be the best at what she did. “If you need help, or just moral support, let me know. I’m happy to oblige.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Any of us would help you out, Ashley,” Arne said.

  “Ditto,” Izzy told her.

  “Thanks,” she repeated.

  “I’ll ask around, too,” Len assured her. He rose. “I’ve got to get back to my station. And you guys need to get back to class. I know Brennan. He’s a stickler for people being on time.”

  He gave Ashley a kiss on the cheek, waving to the others as he walked toward the parking lot.

  Arne offered Ashley a hand. “Ready to head back in?”

  “We’ve still got some time,” Gwyn said.

  “A few minutes,” Arne said. “No more.”

  “You know what? I’m going to make another quick phone call. Excuse me,” Ashley told them. Rising, she discarded her trash and walked halfway toward the building. She dialed Karen’s cell phone number and was glad when her friend picked up the phone. Karen had recognized her cell number on caller I.D and spoke before Ashley could say a word. “Hey, you read the paper, I guess. Can you believe that it was Stuart? We drove by a body on the highway, and it was just a body—I don’t mean that badly, it was horrible, no matter what—but we drove past right after it happened, and it was Stuart Fresia.”

  “I know. That’s why I was calling.”

  “I’m glad you called. I wanted to talk to you, but I can’t call you during the day because you’re in class. But I can’t believe it. I mean, he’s got to be one of the nicest, straightest, most decent kids we ever knew. How the hell could this have happened?”

  “I don’t know. I wish I did. But I’m going to ask some questions.”

  “Well, yeah. You’re a cop. Or almost a cop. You should be able to get some answers from someone.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “I hope…”

  “What?”

  “I hope he’s still alive,” Karen said.

  “He is—or was as of this morning. Nick called the hospital. He’s still in intensive care. No one can get in to see him but family.”

  “No, and I guess it wouldn’t do any good even if we could get in. He’s in a coma.”

  “I’ve got to get back into class. I just wanted to touch base with you.”

  “Thanks. And promise to call me if you learn anything at all.”

  “Promise.”

  Ashley hung up and realized that the others had preceded her into the building. She glanced at her watch and noticed with dismay that although it had seemed before as if she had plenty of time to get to class, she was just going to make it.

  She hurried along the halls to the right room, sliding in just as the minute hand swung. The rest of the class were already seated. She walked quickly to her own seat, noting that Captain Murray, head of personnel, had chosen that afternoon to come in and take a look at the current class. Her heart sank. She felt like a sore thumb, threading through the seats to reach her own.

  She knew, of course, that he was watching her, even as he spoke with Brennan. She kept her eyes ahead, on him and Brennan, praying she showed no emotion. Certainly not guilt. She’d actually made it in time.

  Neither of them singled her out. Brennan spoke to the class for a few minutes, telling them that Shelly Garcia from forensics was going to give them a talk on blood splatter and crime scene scope, and then Captain Murray would talk about some of the directions in which they might want to go after they graduated.

  Brennan sat after introducing the woman from forensics. The talk was fascinating, and Ashley was intent on what she was hearing. Then Murray stood at the front of the room and talked about various specialties within the department. She had a pad and took notes, as did the others. But she found her thoughts wandering on occasion as well.

  Without noticing, she began drawing the scene of the accident once again.

  She caught herself and was careful to look up frequently as she began filling in substance and shadow in her drawing.

  And once again…

  The figure. Just a black figure, far across the many lanes, but watching…

  Watching from the other side of the road.

  Mary Simmons was sitting in the rear of the property, waiting for them. She smiled when she saw them, then rose, and welcomed them. She was thirty-five and looked ten years younger, very much at peace with herself. The garden area of the temple’s property was pretty, with greenery surrounding small benches. Jake had to admit it was a serene setting.

  “Thanks for seeing us, Mary.”

  “Sure.” She glanced at Jake. “As long as you don’t intend to harass the Krishnas…?”

  “This place has been here as long as I can remember, Mary. We know it’s legit.”

  She shrugged, looking at him. “I’m not sure what I can say that I haven’t told you many times before.” Her gaze went from Jake to Marty. Marty looked at Jake, realizing that his friend had seen Mary several times during the years that had gone by.

  “Anything you can remember. Anyone we might have missed.”

  She nodded. “Well…Papa Pierre—sorry, Peter Bordon—always seemed to be the only one really running anything. He preached to us, had the property, brought us in, and yes, suggested that whatever we had must be given up for the benefit of all. What you all don’t see, though, is that he was kind and loving, and we all believed in him. And it was a simple way of life. We worked the garden, growing all our own food, and…” She paused, smiling, “Luckily I’m a vegetarian, because we also ate fish from the canal out back, and it’s likely that half the fish out there were diseased or tainted. To get back to the point, it was a simple way of life. He could befriend men, but in retrospect, he preferred women. And if there was dissent among us—seldom spoken, of course, because of our share-all philosophy—it was over who Peter would have with him each night. I kept house a lot. I was one of his first recruits. And yet, not even I really knew what went on at the house. We slept in the dorms, the cabins on the property. Unless we were chosen for the evening.”

  She looked at Jake. “We knew that cars came at night. I heard him talking to people in the house sometimes. But I never knew who was there. And I never suspected anything. When we learned that our friends had been murdered, we were appalled. And truly, we believed that the girls had been killed by people who hated Peter, our way of life, our beliefs. Peter even suggested to us once that we be very careful, because the police hated him, hated us, because they didn’t understand the depths of our faith and how we could live so completely for one another.” She shrugged. “But now…well, it seems so obvious that Peter liked money and sex. And naturally, he didn’t like the police himself, because he did have us all brainwashed. But still…I honestly don’t believe that Peter killed anyone. Or ordered that anyone be killed. He was greedy, he used us, but I don’t believe he was a killer.”

  “Mary,” Jake said patiently, “three women were killed. All three were associated with the cult. Peter was the head of the cult.”

  “Yes. But…Peter is the one with the answers, if there are any. I told you, people came and went that we never saw. Maybe they came for the money Peter received from us, I don’t know.”

  “What about Harry Tennant?” Jake asked her.

  “He had no money, so he wasn’t someone you’d expect Peter to foster. He only spent a few nights on the property. Well, that I know of, anyway. In retrospect, Detective Dilessio, the more I think about it, I do believe he might have committed those horrible crimes. He was strange. I
mean, really strange. He wanted to be like Peter so badly, maybe not in a religious sense, but…he wanted the power that Peter had over people.” She shrugged. “He wanted women. Sex. He came on to all of us. Peter never discouraged anyone else from soliciting a relationship. It wasn’t as if he felt we were his private harem or anything. And God knew, none of us seemed to know what it was that first brought us into his bed. Every person in the group was interviewed separately at one time or another. One minute you’d be talking about the good that could be done by a simple life…and the next thing you knew, you were exalting in all that was natural and beautiful in human existence. Created in God’s form—we were still mortal, still animals, and natural instincts were not something to be abhorred, but celebrated. So, looking back, it’s easy to see that Harry took a look at Peter, went wild with jealousy and maybe formed a psychotic hatred for the girls for wanting Peter and not him.”

  “Mary, I know that you’ve gone over this with us time and again, but please, bear with us, because another girl is dead. When the girls who were killed disappeared, didn’t you worry? Didn’t Peter worry?”

  She shook her head. “There were no ties binding us to the place. We were free to come and go as we chose.” She hesitated. “Yes, when the third girl was found, I was afraid. The police started to come by, and Peter encouraged us all to talk, so…Then Harry Tennant killed himself, and…well, you’ve got to understand that when you believe in teachings like Peter’s, deeply believe, death is not the end but a beginning.”

  “Those girls were tortured. Murdered.”

  “Their ears were slashed,” Mary said.

  “Because they didn’t hear, presumably. And if Peter wasn’t the one they weren’t hearing, Mary, then who was?”

  She shook her head. Then she frowned. “I think Harry Tennant might have been more psychotic, and even smarter in his demented way, than you might want to believe, Detective.”

  “Why is that?” Jake asked.

  She smiled sadly at them both. “I think he heard voices. He talked about Lazarus.”

  “Lazarus?” Marty said.

  “Lazarus…who rose from the dead,” Jake said. He smiled at Mary, speaking softly. “Mary, you’ve never mentioned this to me before.”

  “I never thought of it before. I believed that Harry was really crazy. And so much time has passed…I don’t know what is going on now, Detective Dilessio, but I know that I spoke the truth years ago when I told the police I didn’t believe Peter had ever killed anyone. I believed that Harry was responsible. He just acted crazy. One night…I woke up, and he was out by the canal, staring at the water. And he said that Lazarus had risen. That Lazarus had told him to go to the water. I admit, he gave me the creeps. So I left him there and hurried back to the dorm. Would you all like some herbal tea?”

  They thanked her and declined. Jake rose and started to reach into his pocket.

  “I have your card, Detective, and honestly, if I can remember anything else that might be helpful, I swear I’ll call you.” She stood as well, smiled, and gave him a little kiss on his cheek. “I promise. I know you’re trying your best.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You didn’t ask me the one question you usually do,” she said.

  He arched a brow.

  She gazed at him with tremendous empathy. “I swear, I never saw your partner, Detective Dilessio. If she ever came out to the property, I never saw her. And I pray that you believe me. I wouldn’t lie. It’s against everything in my faith.”

  “I know that, Mary,” Jake said. “Thanks. And don’t forget—”

  “I’ll call you. No problem. I like to see you, Detective.”

  They left. Marty had turned down tea, but he wanted coffee. Jake agreed. There was a Starbucks down the street. Marty ordered espresso. Jake opted for a double.

  “We’re not getting anywhere,” Marty said. “Bordon had complete control of that cult. I think those girls were hypnotized. They lived on the property owned by the People for Principle but never saw, heard or spoke any evil.”

  “I keep going in circles. There’s got to be a straight line in there somewhere, though. And we’re going to get to it,” Jake said, a grim look on his face.

  The class began clapping. Ashley quickly set her pencil down and did the same. To her amazement, they were breaking for the afternoon. Feeling guilty, she clapped hard. When they were dismissed and the class began to rise, she started to join them to file out, then remembered that she wanted to ask Sergeant Brennan if he could get her whatever information there was to be had on Stuart’s accident. She wadded up the papers with her sketches and tossed them into the trash can as she approached the front of the room. Murray and Brennan were talking to one another again as she approached, but both men saw her coming and fell silent, awaiting her question.

  “Hello. Montague, isn’t it?” Captain Murray said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re more than halfway through. Are you still pleased to be in the academy?”

  “Oh, yes, very pleased,” she said.

  “Well, good, I’m glad to hear it. Sergeant Brennan says this is one of the best classes he’s ever taught.”

  “Thank you, on behalf of all of us,” she said.

  “Did you have a question about any of the material covered today?” Brennan asked her.

  “Actually, I have a question about something that happened a few days ago. There was an accident on I-95. I was traveling north with some friends and went by just a few minutes after it occurred. When I got home, I found out that the man who was struck was an old friend of mine, and the papers have reported that he was apparently high on heroin. That just doesn’t sound right to me. I was hoping that maybe one of you could direct me to the officer in charge of the investigation, and that he or she might be willing to talk to me.”

  She was glad that neither of them was inclined to inform her that apparently her old friend had gotten into drugs. They both continued to stare at her politely. Murray answered.

  “Yes, I heard about the incident you’re talking about. It was handled by Miami-Dade and FHP. I’ll find out what officer was assigned to the investigation. I’m sure that whoever it is won’t have a problem discussing the known facts with you. I’ll make a few calls and give Sergeant Brennan the information for you.”

  “Thank you very much, sir,” she told him.

  “No problem.”

  She smiled, clutched her books, walked backward for a moment, then turned to exit the room. As she left, she was certain that both men kept their eyes on her. She wondered if they were reflecting on her request—or thinking she had difficulty with punctuality? Or, worse, did they somehow know she had been drawing in class?

  Great. So far she had offended a respected homicide officer, made those responsible for her think she might have a problem with timeliness, and maybe they had even realized she spent half of her class time doodling. No…they wouldn’t have been so polite, she was certain, if they were about to tell her she wasn’t up to par.

  As she exited the building, she found herself in the middle of a crowd of people. There were three shifts, or platoons; eight to four, four to midnight, midnight to eight. The “day” shift always left when class broke.

  She had come to recognize many people as they made their way to their cars. She had found “waving to” and “smiling at” friends among them. Not people she really knew; just people she saw every day. There was a certain brotherhood to be found at headquarters. Clicking her car open with the remote, she smiled at one of the women from records. The woman smiled back.

  That was when Ashley saw him again. And knew now, of course, who he was. Detective Jake Dilessio. He was leaving with another man, and they were carrying on a conversation as they walked across the lot. She hurried on toward her car. But before she could open the door, the detective turned. He looked different in a suit. Taller. Older. More official. More like he could get her into trouble. She quelled the thought and remembered that everyone
was entitled to their privacy—even cops. She wasn’t sure how that fit with spilling coffee over someone who happened to be standing in her doorway, but she still didn’t want to turn herself into a cowering little kiss-ass.

  With luck, he wouldn’t notice her. She was probably just one of a horde of ants to him. Lots of officers didn’t take the students seriously until they’d actually graduated from the academy.

  He was wearing sunglasses, dark glasses over dark eyes, shielded by a stray thatch of dark hair. He glanced her way but made no acknowledgment whatsoever. He obviously hadn’t seen her.

  But as she slid into the driver’s seat, she was aware that he was still looking in her direction. He had seen her.

  But he sure as hell hadn’t waved or begun to crack anything like a casual-acquaintance smile.

  He’d stared.

  Wishing she could slide beneath her seat, she slid her glasses on, buckled her seat belt, switched on the ignition and eased her car from the lot.

  Once on the road, she recalled that Sandy had told her that the detective had just moved his houseboat to Nick’s marina.

  It wasn’t Nick’s marina, of course. It belonged to the city. People just called it Nick’s marina because Nick’s restaurant had been there so long.

  As she drove homeward, she realized that the detective’s car was behind her own for quite some time. She recognized him in her rearview mirror. Then, somewhere on the highway, he turned off.

  She entered the house through the kitchen door and could tell that it was a busy afternoon at Nick’s; she could hear voices and laughter even over the sound of the jukebox. She made her way through the house to her own wing and stripped out of her uniform, jumped quickly into the shower and let the hot water pour over her for a long time. She wished she could stop thinking about Stuart Fresia, but she couldn’t. She wondered if it was guilt—she hadn’t kept up with old friends the way she should have. She wondered, too, if it was just that what people claimed had happened was so jarring that she simply couldn’t put it aside.

  Showered, somewhat refreshed, yet dolefully aware that her long weekend and its late hours was beginning to tell on her, she went through the back entrance into the restaurant. Nick was behind the bar, helping out Betsy, the weeknight bartender. The place was jumping—odd for a Monday night.