Blood on the Sun (CSI: NY) (17 page)

Joshua had broken down in the church and Father Wosak had moved to put his arm around and comfort the man. In the morning, she would let Flack take the lead interrogating Joshua. Stella would sit in.

Before she left the hospital, she wanted to talk to Melvoy. She had decided not to talk to him about Matthew Heath, the lab assistant who had taken his own life. If Stella had contributed to his suicide, the contribution had been infinitesimal. It wasn’t Stella with whom he could not cope. It was the world that had been too much for Matthew Heath. She saw that now. Perhaps she should have seen signs of it when the boy had dutifully, but with no signs of developing skill, gone through the day.

She wasn’t going to talk about that with George Melvoy.

The clock in the window of the coffee shop across the street read 2:37 a.m.

Kyle Shelton sat in the window, glancing at the clock and the few people of the night who passed by the night-lit interiors of the shops. There was a young laughing couple, arm in arm. He thought of Becky and closed his eyes. There was a trio of young men whispering, emitting danger. Kyle could sense it.

The air conditioner in the window next to the one before which he was sitting rattled and gave off spurts of almost cool air. The night heat seeped through the windows, the walls.

He had gone through cycles about his plan. Sometimes he thought that for something improvised, it was reasonably good. Things could go wrong, but it should hold. At other times, he was certain it had been a terrible plan, that the CSI cop Taylor was gathering pinpricks of evidence, secrets of blood and DNA, fingerprints he had forgotten.

His friend Scott Shuman said Kyle could crash at his apartment for a few nights. Scott was a good guy who was taking a big chance harboring a fugitive. Kyle had known Scott—short, dark unkempt curly black hair, slightly pudgy—in college. Both had been philosophy majors. They had become friends. Scott had become a well-paid computer program designer for an Indian company that explored the universe. Scott had never married. Though they never discussed it, Kyle thought his friend was probably gay but hadn’t yet admitted it to himself. Kyle could be wrong. He had been wrong about many things.

Middle of the night. Kyle felt it coming. He was going to allow himself to grieve. Actually, he had no choice. He could feel it happening.

Kyle could not remember crying as he was about to do, shaking with grief and loss, considering that there might really be a malevolent force that lived and thrived on the pain of humans. He wept and remembered Ovid’s words: “Suppressed grief suffocates. It rages within the breast and is forced to multiply its strength.”

The clock in the coffeehouse window read 2:49 a.m.

Mac’s watch read 2:49 a.m. He was walking Rufus to the small dog park five blocks from his apartment. He should have returned the dog before coming home. Mac had long ago admitted that his one emotional weakness was dogs. He knew how to handle them, work with them, admire them. He also knew he did not want to own one in the city, not with his job.

There was another single figure, a man, in the dog park. He sat across from Mac on a wooden bench and watched his short-legged pug waddle around the grass and dirt. The man, in his forties or fifties, looked tired. His arms were draped over the bench and he eyed Mac and Rufus warily. This was Manhattan, the middle of the night.

Rufus and the pug walked slowly up to each other, sniffed and then stepped away to take care of their own business.

Then Rufus moved to the man on the bench, sniffed and hurried back to Mac, who reached down, petted him and whispered, “I know.”

The man on the other bench was carrying something that Rufus had been taught to detect and report. It could be drugs or a gun. In spite of the heat that had bled into the night, Mac wore a light jacket under which were his holster and gun.

He had decided that the man with the pug was almost certainly not a threat. He was a man with a dog.

Mac thought about his wife, Claire, again. His thoughts of grief were not that different from those of Kyle Shelton, though he didn’t put them in the words of a philosopher.

A hot night like this back in Chicago, coming back from the wedding of Claire’s cousin. Too much to drink but happy, comforted by her closeness. They had walked instead of going home, talked instead of sleeping, made plans instead of accepting the need for sleep. It had been a good night. There had been many of them. Not enough of them.

Mac got up. The man on the bench watched him leave, his pug rubbing against his leg.

In a few hours, he would find Kyle Shelton. In a few hours he would talk to Jacob Vorhees again. In a few hours the investigation of the murder of the Vorhees family would be over, but it would not be the end of the horror for the boy and the young man who liked to quote philosophers.

Mac looked at his watch: 3:20 a.m.

It was 3:20 a.m.

Sak Pyon looked at the illuminated dial of the clock on the bedside table. He carefully peeled back the sheet, sat up slowly and got out of bed, moving softly across the floor toward the bathroom. He did not want to disturb his sleeping wife.

Nothing like this had happened in at least five years, maybe more. He slept without an alarm clock and woke automatically at 4:15 a.m. every day. He got washed, brushed his teeth and hair, dressed and left the apartment without making a sound. He would pick up coffee and a fresh blueberry muffin before he got to the shop.

Because he was early and because he had much to think about, Pyon decided to walk to work. The young policeman would probably be back about the sketch Pyon had drawn, a sketch not of the man who had gone through his shop and almost certainly killed the strange Jewish boy next door. Only last night before he had fallen asleep did he realize that he had drawn a stand-up comedian from one of the television shows he had seen on the Comedy Network. The policeman would almost certainly be back.

Pyon kept walking, the day already pre-dawn muggy. In Korea, the summer heat had not bothered him, but a quarter of a century in New York had changed him.

He thought of the man he should have sketched, should have told the policeman about, but Pyon had remembered the moment when the other man had entered the store and moved to the counter and leaned over, invading Pyon’s space, eyes unblinking as he quietly said, “I have your home address and the home address in Hartford of your daughter. Your granddaughter’s name is Anna. She’s five.”

Pyon nodded, afraid that he understood what he was being told.

“I have not been here today,” the man said. “If you tell anyone, the police, your wife, your daughter, anyone, I will kill your family. Do you believe me?”

Pyon believed the man, who hovered over him with a look much like that of the militia officer who had killed Pyon’s father with a single shot to the head, killed him calmly in front of the family. Pyon believed this man.

And so he had lied to the policeman and made a sketch of a television actor whose name he did not know. Pyon, as he approached the shop on the still-darkened street, gave serious consideration to quietly selling the shop to one of the several people who had shown interest. He could sell the shop, pack and…no. The man would find him. He would certainly know where to find Pyon’s daughter, Tina, who lived in Hartford with her husband and Pyon’s granddaughter. The man would find them. Of this he was sure.

Perhaps the oddest thing about the threat delivered by the man, thought Pyon, was the fact that it had been delivered in almost perfect Korean.

He looked at his watch as he turned on the light. It was almost 5:30 a.m. Through the window he could see the coming dawn over the buildings across the street.

At 5:30 a.m., Aiden Burn’s radio came on with the news on the half hour. She got up. She was meeting Hawkes at 6:30 a.m. He had left a voice message on her cell phone saying he had reexamined the bodies of the two dead men and had returned to the crime scenes. He had found something interesting.

Stella and Flack would be wearing down Joshua again this morning, but she wasn’t sure about him. Evidence led both toward and away from Arvin Bloom. Her report had laid out the pros and cons. Her report did not include her gut feeling.

She was dressed, showered and through the door by six a.m.

At six a.m. Joshua was found in his holding cell by a guard bringing breakfast. Joshua sat still on his cot, palms out, both deeply gashed. Blood drenched the cot and formed a small dark lake on the floor. Joshua’s face was white.

The guard, a man named Michael Molton who had twenty-two years of service, put the tray on the floor, called out for help and moved to find something with which he could stop the bleeding. It was only when Adams was bent over and pressing the part of the blanket that wasn’t covered with blood against the wounds that he looked down at Joshua’s bare feet in a second pool of blood. Both feet also bore gashes like the ones in his palms. On the floor near the cot, the guard saw a bloody piece of rusted metal about the size of a cell phone.

Molton thought he had seen everything, but this was a new one. And, he thought, the day is just starting.

It was six minutes past six in the morning.

“T
HEY LOOK LIKE MOB HITS
,”
said Hawkes, his eyes moving between the two sheet-covered dead men on the tables in front of him. They were turned facedown. “But whoever did it is even better than a mob hit man.”

Aiden watched as Hawkes leaned over the body of Asher Glick.

“Two shots, .40 caliber fired from no more than an inch away,” Hawkes said. “Found the bullets in the flesh under the tongue, less than half an inch apart. The other one…”

He pointed at the body of Besser.

“Same thing. Bullets from the same gun fired about an inch away. Bullets found lodged in the skull over the right temple about an inch apart.”

An examination of the bullets from the victims identified them as .40 caliber Smith & Wessons. They were looking for a pistol, one that could fit in a pocket. They were also looking for a semiautomatic, which would allow the killer to get off two shots quickly. Aiden knew there were pistols no more than five and a half inches long and weighing twenty-two ounces. Aiden told Hawkes.

“Indeed,” said Hawkes, “but there was something interesting, which was why I left you the message.”

Aiden’s eyes were fixed on him.

“Victim one, Glick,” said Hawkes, “was standing when he was shot.”

“Blood trail a little over three feet from where he fell or was placed,” she confirmed.

“Right,” said Hawkes. “Victim two was seated.”

“Blood spatter on the chair he was sitting in,” she said.

“Checked the angle of entry again,” said Hawkes. “This time assuming we were dealing with a pro. If he held the gun something like this…”

Hawkes stood straight up, hand out as if he were a kid playing war, aimed at Aiden.

“Pretty much standard position,” he said.

Aiden agreed.

Hawkes nodded and said, “Your shooter is about six feet four inches tall. Given the angle of the entry on both victims, I got a dummies and put a gun in its hand. Then I found dummies the same height as the two victims.”

“And,” said Aiden, “given the angle of entry, if the shooter was standing, he had to be tall.”

“Six-four is close,” said Hawkes. “Got any suspects that tall?”

“Indeed we do,” said Aiden.

“Coffee?” asked Hawkes.

“No time,” said Aiden. “Later maybe.”

“I’ve got to get Glick’s body to the widow today,” said Hawkes. “If I don’t, there’ll be a protest in front of the mayor’s office before the day is over.”

Aiden headed back to the lab and the computer, but there were some things the Internet probably couldn’t tell her. She would have to make some calls.

Mac sat at his desk. He had calls to make too.

He had reluctantly returned Rufus to the dog unit.

Now he sat in front of the screen of his computer, where he had read Danny’s e-mail about Kyle Shelton’s web site and blog. Mac was looking for what he could find on Shelton’s blog. There had been no entry the day before.

It was too early to call the college, but he tried anyway and got through the recorded message to a human being in student housing. Her name was Tara Abbott. She sounded sprightly and asked Mac a few questions to verify who he was. She took his phone number and said she would call him back instantly. She did. She wanted to confirm that he was a police officer.

“How long do you keep housing records?” he asked.

“Forever,” she said. “We’ve got them on disks now, going back to the founding of the college in 1934.”

“Can you find a student named Kyle Shelton?” Mac asked. “Probably there about five years ago?”

“I can and will,” she said.

Joshua looked dead to Flack, but there the man lay in bed, hands and feet bandaged, blood drained from his face. He was covered by a sheet and blanket, an IV pole and bag next to him.

“Can you hear me?” asked Flack.

No answer.

“Can you hear me?” he repeated, leaning closer to Joshua, whose thin breath touched Flack’s face.

Flack was about to give up when Joshua’s eyes fluttered and opened in a squint as if blinded by the light, but the light was dim and the window shade was down. A brownish muted light filtered through the shade.

Joshua blinked, looked around without moving his head and his eyes found the detective.

“Water,” Joshua gasped.

Flack got the slightly dusty glass from the table. A straw protruded from the water. Joshua took a long sip and gagged. Flack put the water back on the table.

“You want a lawyer?” asked Flack.

“No. I want to die, wanted to die,” rasped Joshua. “Only now, I’m afraid.”

“Of who?”

“Of what. Of dying. Last night in that cell I lost my faith,” said Joshua with a cough. “Is what I did in the newspapers? On the radio?”

“It will be,” said Flack.

Joshua sighed.

“I’ve lost my faith, my congregation, what little reputation I had. Everyone will find out about my drinking. ’Messianic Jewish leader crucifies two Jews, caught while he was about to do the same to a Catholic priest. Attempts to crucify himself in prison.’ That’s a summary, not a headline.”

“Did you kill those men?” Flack asked.

“No. I thought the priest had done it,” Joshua said. “The phone call…”

His voice trailed off.

“Hispanic accent?” asked Flack, remembering the drawing by Sak Pyon of an Hispanic man.

Joshua tried to nod, but the movement caused pain that was clearly, instantly frozen on his face.

“More water?” asked Flack.

“No,” said Joshua.

Flack said nothing as he sat looking at the man, who was breathing hard from the effort of talking.

Flack would not say it. His job wasn’t to go on hunches and intuition, but to come up with evidence, find suspects. He thought Joshua was innocent of murder. He may have been guilty of many other things, but not these murders. Prejudice had crept in. Flack didn’t like it.

His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Flack took it out, flipped it open.

“Yes?” said Flack.

“Is he going to pull through?” asked Stella.

“Looks that way,” said Flack, looking at Joshua, whose eyes were again closed. “Says he didn’t do the murders.”

“Probably didn’t,” said Stella. “Step into the hall.”

Flack assumed Stella had something private to say, something she did not want Joshua to hear Flack’s response to. He moved to the door and stepped out. Stella stood there, closing her phone and putting it in her pocket.

Stella had spent the last two hours with Melvoy in a room on the floor below Joshua’s. Melvoy was going to live, but there was a price to pay. His voice would forever be a rasp and his mouth would be almost painfully dry. He would have to carry a bottle of water everywhere he went. With Alzheimer’s taking over his mind, he would almost certainly forget to drink the water.

“What am I being charged with?” Melvoy had whispered when he saw Stella. Talking hurt, whispering didn’t, but he knew it was hard for Stella to hear him.

The list wasn’t long. Attempted murder. Breaking and entering. Threatening the life of a police officer.

But Stella decided she wasn’t going to press charges. Melvoy would walk out of the hospital a hero who had helped the police track down a murderer and prevent another killing.

“No more talk for now,” Stella said, seeing the pain in his eyes.

“One thing,” he whispered.

“Yes?”

“Why are you spending this time with me?”

“I like you,” she said.

“Mutual,” he managed with a smile.

Stella smiled back.

“Got to go,” she said.

He nodded.

She had the number of Joshua’s room. When she was outside of Joshua’s room minutes later, she heard a familiar voice beyond the door, which was when she had called Flack.

Both Aiden and Danny had spent the better part of two morning hours making calls. Both eventually succeeded, but they weren’t sure what their success meant.

Aiden made a call and arranged to meet Stella and Flack at a deli near the lab. Aiden gathered her information and headed for the door.

Danny went to Mac’s office, file under his arm. He knocked and walked in. Mac was hunched over photographs of Jacob Vorhees taken in the hospital. He held up one photo toward Danny and said, “What do you see?”

Danny took the photo. Mac saw that the tremor was gone. The boy was sitting up, arms out, covered with deep, red bug bites. He was sitting with his legs straight out, bottoms of his feet facing the camera.

Danny handed the photo back to Mac, who waited for an answer.

“Bottoms of the feet,” said Danny.

Mac nodded his agreement.

“He said he walked more than a mile through woods and yards,” said Danny. “There’s not a scratch or bruise on his feet.”

“He lied,” said Mac.

“You know why?”

“Maybe.”

The computer on his desk indicated that a message was coming in. The name and number of the caller appeared on the telephone’s screen.

Mac nodded for Danny to join him behind the desk.

“Kyle Shelton’s parents live in California,” said Mac. “He had a sister who died when she was twelve. I called Shelton’s parents and left a message asking them to call back.”

Mac pushed a button and put the call on speakerphone.

“Is this Detective Taylor?” a woman asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” said Mac. “Could you tell me the names of any friends your son might have in New York?”

“Why?” asked Shelton’s mother on the phone with concern.

“We’re looking for him,” Mac had said. “He’s missing. We don’t believe anything has happened to him.”

“Lord God I hope you’re right,” she said. “Haven’t heard from him in months. You’ll let us know when you find him?”

“Yes,” Mac had said. “His friends?”

“Not many,” she said with a sigh. “He was a lonely boy, studious, paid his own way through college. Always gentle. And then he volunteered for Iraq. He didn’t discuss it with us. When he came back, he had changed. He wasn’t a boy anymore. He was a man, a man with great dignity and pain. He didn’t smile anymore.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mac said.

“Kyle’s friends in New York,” she said. “Well, if there were girls, he never said. In college he roomed with a nice boy, Scott Shuman. They were good friends. I think Scott’s still in New York.”

The information confirmed what Mac had already learned from the university. Kyle Shelton had roomed with Scott Shuman all through college, first two years in a dorm, last two in an apartment.

Danny had moved to the computer. On the screen was information on Shuman, including his address, phone number and place of employment.

“You’ll call or have Kyle call?” the woman said.

“I will,” said Mac. “Thank you.”

He pushed a button, turning off the phone.

“You’ve got something?” Mac said.

While the information on Shuman was being printed, Danny handed the file he had brought to Mac, who read slowly and carefully.

Howard Vorhees had an arrest record, not in New York, but in Seattle, Minneapolis and Nashville. All of the arrests, which took place in the last five years, were for sexual advances to underage girls. All of the girls had been frightened, but hadn’t been touched. The police had questioned Vorhees and then let him go with a warning. Soon after each reported sexual advance, the Vorhees family had moved to another city. They had only been in New York for two years.

“Probably more that didn’t report him,” said Danny.

Mac nodded.

“Want me to check?”

“No,” said Mac.

“Wife also has two DUIs,” Danny said. “Nothing on the daughter or the boy.”

Mac nodded.

Danny knew better than to ask what this information meant, if anything, for their case. Mac would turn the question back on Danny.

Mac got up to go to Sheldon Hawkes’ lab. Over his shoulder, he said to Danny, “Let’s go get some answers.”

Aiden drank green tea. The antioxidants were good for you. Problem was she didn’t much like green tea, or any tea for that matter.

Flack was eating a fried egg sandwich with a slice of tomato and Stella had a large orange juice.

“Here it is,” Aiden said, handing the file in her hand to Stella. “Want a summary?

“Item,” Aiden said. “Asher Glick and Arvin Bloom were in grade school together. May mean nothing.

“Item,” she went on, “Arvin Bloom died of brain cancer when he was ten years old. Death records show it.”

“Different Arvin Bloom?” asked Flack.

“No,” said Aiden. “Childhood address Bloom gave us in Hartford is the same as the one on the death certificate.”

“We’ve got to prove it,” said Stella,” and even if we do, it doesn’t prove he killed anyone. Just stole their identity.”