Blood on the Sun (CSI: NY) (18 page)

“Look at the photocopy of the birth information,” said Aiden.

Stella found it. There were two tiny clear footprints.

“So we get prints of the bottom of Bloom’s feet and compare them,” said Stella.

“Keep going through the folder,” said Aiden.

Stella turned over pages as Flack looked over his shoulder. They came to a photograph of a footprint.

“Life size,” said Aiden. “Ten and a half. I lifted the print from Bloom’s bathroom floor. He was barefoot the last time we searched the shop.”

“They don’t match,” said Stella, “even taking into account the fifty year difference in the ages of these two people.” She knew Aiden had examined both prints under a microscope.

“He’s going to claim the prints you found in the bathroom aren’t his,” said Aiden.

“Then we’ll ask him nicely for new prints,” said Aiden. “And if nicely doesn’t work, we get another warrant.”

“What else?” asked Stella.

“Had the small splinters of wood on Glick’s jacket compared with the sawdust I got from Bloom’s shop. Both bloodwood. Tannic acid levels are exact. Magnesium levels are the same. Even the arsenic levels are the same.”

“He can talk his way around that,” said Flack. “Claim he hugged Glick or something.”

Aiden smiled and said, “Then we have the tote bag Joshua got behind the statue of Jesus in the church. Small specks of wood along the bag’s inner lining.”

“Bloodwood,” said Stella.

“And it matches the other two samples. That bag was in Bloom’s shop.”

“Motive?” asked Flack.

Aiden nodded toward the folder on the table. Stella flipped through it to five sheets clipped together.

“Summary,” said Aiden. “If this guy’s our killer it wasn’t because of the $40,000 he owed Glick. He has more than eighty thousand in his personal account, about the same amount in his business account and an investment portfolio worth at least $2 million.”

“Who the hell is this guy?” said Flack.

“And did he murder two people?” said Stella. “And why?”

Kyle Shelton had been sitting at the window of Scott Shuman’s apartment, watching the street. People were moving quickly in spite of the late-morning heat, the New York march.

He drank a can of ginger ale and ate some peanut butter and cheese crackers, deciding when to make his move and where to make it.

The phone on Scott’s kitchen counter rang. Kyle didn’t pick it up but Scott’s answering machine did: “This is Scott Shuman, please leave a message.”

When the message clicked off, Scott’s voice came on, anxious, concerned: “Kyle, a cop named Taylor just left my office. He asked me if I’d seen you. I told him no. I think he believed me, but you might want to get out of the apartment for a while. Oh, erase this message as soon as you get it, buddy.”

As Kyle erased the message, there was a knock at the door. He wondered if whoever was on the other side could hear the machine whirring as it erased. Kyle stood silently.

“Kyle,” came a voice he recognized. “We can hear you in there. Open the door, keep your hands in front of you and back up.”

It was time. It wasn’t the way he had wanted it to come down, but it was one of the ways he had anticipated. He moved to the door, opened it and found himself facing Mac and Danny, both of whom had guns in their hands.

Kyle backed away, his hands showing palms up. Mac and Danny entered and closed the door.

“Your friend Scott is a terrible liar,” said Mac.

“He’s a good friend,” answered Kyle. “ ‘The most I can do for my friend is to simply be his friend.’ ”

Kyle paused and said, “Thoreau.”

Danny patted Kyle down and told him to sit. As he did, Mac and Danny holstered their weapons.

“He has a vein in his forehead,” said Mac. “When he lies it expands.”

“Never noticed,” said Kyle. “What now?”

“We talk,” said Mac.

“You found Jacob?”

“You left me good directions,” said Mac.

“Is he okay?” asked Kyle, hand to his cheek.

His face was rough. He hadn’t showered or shaved. He had meant to, but had found himself riveted to the chair near the window.

“He’ll be fine,” said Mac.

“Okay,” said Kyle. “I killed them all. Becky, her mother, her father.”

“No, you didn’t,” said Danny.

“What did Jacob tell you?”

“Lies,” said Mac. “Lies you taught him.”

“Evidence doesn’t lie,” said Danny.

“You want a lawyer?” asked Mac.

Kyle shook his head “no.”

“Let’s go over the evidence,” said Mac.

The words came silently to Kyle before he could stop or control them. It was happening more often recently, in the last three days, though it had happened for years before.

This time it was the words of La Fontaine: “A person often meets his destiny on the road he took to avoid it.”

Sak Pyon was sitting in the CSI lobby when Flack came out of his meeting with Stella and Aiden. Pyon looked anxious, guilty. He held a small brown paper bag and an envelope in his left hand.

Pyon rose as Flack approached him.

“They told me you were in a meeting,” Pyon said. “I waited.”

Flack nodded.

“You thought of something?” asked Flack.

It was Pyon’s day for golf, but he knew from the moment he went to bed the night before that he would not be taking the train to the golf course, not practicing his strokes before placing his tee at the first hole. He would not be losing himself in concentration on the game. He would probably be in jail.

“I did not tell the truth,” said Pyon.

Flack didn’t answer, so the shorter man continued, “The sketch I gave you did not resemble the man for whom you were looking.”

“Why did you do it?”

“He threatened to kill me and my family. He was very convincing. Here.”

Flack opened the envelope Pyon handed him and pulled out a pencil sketch that looked nothing like the Hispanic man the shopkeeper had drawn the day before. This sketch looked very much like Arvin Bloom.

“You may have to testify in court,” said Flack.

Pyon nodded in understanding and handed Flack the paper bag.

“I was very careful with it,” said Pyon.

Danny opened the bag, inside of which was a plastic bag containing what looked like a paper towel.

Flack looked up.

“That is the paper towel the man you are looking for used in my bathroom after he had threatened to kill my family,” said Pyon. “I retrieved it when he was gone.”

“Why?” asked Flack.

“You can get DNA from it, can you not? He…”

Pyon hesitated, looking for the right word. He mimed blowing his nose.

“He blew his nose on the paper towel?” asked Flack.

“Blew his nose on the paper towel. I heard him. Blew his nose, came out and walked past without looking at me. The man threatened my family,” said Pyon. “I wanted to keep something that…”

Pyon hesitated.

“Something you could tell him would go to the police if anything happened to you or your family,” said Flack.

“Yes,” said Pyon with resignation. “Then I realized it would not stop him. I saw it happen in North Korea. He would torture my daughter, my wife in front of me till I gave him the paper towel.”

“Thanks,” said Flack, bag and sketch in his hand.

“I am free to go?” asked Pyon.

“Have a good day,” said Flack.

Flack turned to head back to the room where Stella and Aiden were still meeting.

From behind him, Pyon said, “He spoke Korean to me. Perfect Korean.”

Flack looked down at the sketch of Bloom and for the second time in the last hour, Flack asked himself,
Who is this guy?

The killer had just learned that Joshua had not killed the priest. He had phoned Joshua the day before, told him where to find the tote bag. Joshua had failed, but it might serve the same purpose, assure the police that they had their killer. It was buying him time. The police might come back to him. How much evidence could they get from what they had gathered?

There had been collateral damage. Couldn’t be helped. Compared to what he had seen and done around the world, particularly in Asia, this had been a minor setback, but still, he, like all things on earth and in the heavens, was aging.

He would have been gone by now, duffle bag in hand, if there hadn’t been a delay at the bank. He had seethed at the ineptitude of the assistant bank manager, but had shown nothing but pleasant patience and understanding.

Though he would have preferred not to, he would now have to make a call to the person who could get him out of this. It had been years since he had called him. It was possible he had been replaced or had retired. Whoever he talked to, he would tell them what had happened. If he didn’t they would find out anyway.

Had he forgotten anything? Possibly. He would check again. There wasn’t much to get rid of. He had accumulated little and had thrown away what was left in large green plastic bags in Dumpsters blocks away.

If necessary, he would have to lie convincingly. He was well prepared to do so and he was confident he was better at doing it than those who would be coming were at detecting it.

Besides, all he needed was a little more time.

He had two more things that had to be done. Should he first take care of getting rid of what was on the bed above him? Possibly, but he could do that in less than five minutes.

He moved to his computer. He would not just erase everything but remove the hard drive and take it with him. Time to start. He had just typed in the name of his bank, his account number and password when he heard the shop door open.

“M
AC
,” C
OLONEL
A
NTONIO
D
ENTON SAID
,
sitting upright behind his desk in full dress marine uniform. “Give us the evidence and we’ll take care of the problem.”

The investigation was really Stella and Aiden’s, but the connection to Colonel Denton brought Mac into the picture. Besides, he wanted to give both Jacob Vorhees and Kyle Shelton time to think before talking to them again.

The Manhattan office of Colonel Denton was polished walnut from chairs, to floors, to walls, to desk. There were only two photographs on the wall, both signed, one by the first President Bush, the other by a marine private who had signed the full-color photograph of himself and Denton in neat letters:
To Captain Antonio Denton on his birthday, with thanks from a grateful grunt. Semper Fi.
The signature belonged to no one famous, but it was a name both Mac and Denton knew well, a man who had died saving both of the men who now sat in this office.

Denton was fully gray, military cut, average height, a face that had seen much and stored it with loyalty.

“He killed two men,” said Mac, handing an envelope over the table to Denton, who was missing the small finger on his right hand.

Denton put on his glasses and looked at the fingerprint record in front of him.

“You got these…?” asked Denton.

“When the suspect had a DUI twenty-two years ago,” said Mac. “Name comes up Arvin Bloom, only it’s not Arvin Bloom.”

They understood each other.

Mac said, “I’d bet these are the only prints on file of the Arvin Bloom who isn’t Arvin Bloom. These are the ones that turn up whenever we check his prints.”

“And,” said Denton, putting down the sheet, “you think the day of this DUI is the day the new Arvin Bloom was born.”

“He’s off the charts, Tony,” said Mac.

Denton nodded. He owed Mac. Mac owed him. It was possible Denton could come up with something. He was military intelligence. It was easier to track such things down since the Homeland Security laws and the “or else” orders for all agencies to cooperate with each other.

“You think he’s one of ours,” said Denton.

“Kills like it,” said Mac. “Possibly military. Possibly CIA.”

“Won’t be easy,” said Denton with a smile.

“Didn’t think it would,” said Mac. “He’s lost it, Tony. He’ll kill again.”

Denton sat silently for a moment and then said, “As I said, give me what you’ve got and we’ll take care of the problem.”

Mac’s unblinking look was a familiar one to Denton.

“It’s New York’s problem,” said Mac. “You wouldn’t let him walk, but there are others who might depending on what he knows and what he’s done. You know it. I know it.”

Denton reached for the phone and said, “I’ll call you.”

Mac nodded and stood up.

“Make it urgent,” said Mac. “This one knows how to kill and how to disappear.”

“You up for dinner, a drink?” asked Denton.

“Sure,” said Mac.

“You holding up all right, Mac?”

They both knew he was referring to 9/11, to Mac’s dead wife. Denton had been at the funeral, had stood at Mac Taylor’s side.

“Fine,” said Mac, forcing a small smile.

“Lieutenant Rivera,” said Denton into the phone. “Get me Longretti in Washington.”

Mac left the room, closing the heavy door behind him.

Stella had sat at Joshua’s bedside, recording his statement, which, she concluded, would probably be worth very little because the man was clearly delirious, guilt-ridden and flashing back to feverish moments in his past.

A physician named Zimmerman, slightly overweight, dressed in whites with the stethoscope of his profession around his neck, watched, fascinated, while his patient was questioned. Zimmerman could not have been more than twenty-eight.

“I killed Glick,” said Joshua, wide eyes blinking. “I killed Joel. I was going to kill the priest.”

“Go over each murder for me again,” said Stella.

Joshua licked his lips and looked at the doctor as if he had never seen the man before.

“I was guided by the hand of a demon,” he said.

“Could you be a little more specific than that?” asked Stella.

“Don’t remember,” said Joshua. “He called me on the phone, found me in a bottle, spoke to me in tongues. Can I request execution by crucifixion in this state?”

“No,” said Stella. “Nor in any other one.”

“I think he’s bleeding again,” Dr. Zimmerman said in a deep voice. “Right foot.”

Stella nodded, clicked off the tape recorder and tucked it into her kit.

Joshua hadn’t killed anyone. A case could be built against Joshua, not a strong one, but one that if taken to a jury might be enough.

Stella rose.

Joshua looked up at her and smiled.

“Anything?” asked Mac, looking through the one-way mirror.

“Lulling ’em. Making nice,” said Detective Buddy Roberts, who stood with hands in pockets.

“They say anything?” asked Mac.

“No, Shelton knows we’re listening.”

Mac’s eyes were on Shelton and Jacob Vorhees, who sat silently.

He wasn’t looking forward to what was going to happen when he stepped inside that room. He wasn’t looking forward to what he was going to do to the frightened boy. Mac told himself that this would hurt Jacob Vorhees, but as with most wounds, after the pain the healing would begin.

Mac looked at Roberts, who shook his head “no” in answer to some inner question.

Roberts, two months from retirement, was big and bald with deep bags under eyes that had seen almost any horror the inhuman mind could come up with. He had built a fragile wall between himself and the images of children mutilated by their own parents, women torn from between their legs up to their bloody faces.

Roberts’ wall had been breached a little less than a year ago after he saw the body of a six-year-old boy who had been cut open, his liver removed. The cutter was the boy’s father. It was less the horror of the dead boy, which he could block, but the reaction of the father.

“I want to be a liver donor,” the father had said with a grin.

The father was a thin weasel with nervous hands and long dirty hair. The reason the father gave for what he had done was that he had been watching a rerun of
Lost in Space
when he suddenly got the idea of cutting out his son’s liver. The weasel had thoroughly enjoyed telling the story, and that he had hidden the liver.

Mac had been on the case, had followed a trace trail of blood from the apartment building to a deli across the street. Roberts had watched Mac, who had simply stood inside the deli doorway, looked around and walked to the ice cream freezer. The deli clerk watched as the two policemen removed frozen fruit bars, ice-cream sandwiches, chocolate-topped cones, half gallons and quart blocks of ice cream.

And there it was at the bottom of the case, still red, frozen inside a zippered see-through bag. Roberts remembered thinking that the liver was no larger than one of the ice-cream sandwiches.

So, when he had interviewed the father, Roberts knew where the liver was: in the CSI lab being examined.

“Freezer at the deli,” Roberts had said.

“Good,” beamed the father, rubbing his head. “What say we have it for lunch?”

Roberts’ wall had not come down completely, but he knew it soon might. He didn’t want to see what was on the other side. He had already seen it.

“Buddy?” said Mac, pulling Roberts back from his thoughts.

“Yeah,” said Roberts.

“They told them that Shelton can have a lawyer and stop talking and that Jacob must have a lawyer.”

Roberts smiled, now fully back in the room.

“Shelton wants no lawyer,” said Roberts. “We’ve got it in writing with witnesses. The Vorhees’ family lawyer is on his way here now. We advised the boy that he say nothing till the lawyer gets here.”

Mac looked through the window. Shelton looked tired. Jacob looked frightened and determined. Danny said something. Shelton nodded.

A few minutes later there was a knock on the door followed immediately by a lean man of about seventy in a designer business suit. The man who introduced himself as Lawrence Tabler shook Roberts’ offered hand.

Mac knew who Tabler was, a high-cost, aggressive and convincing advocate for his clients. He turned his blue eyes on Mac and said, “Detective Taylor.”

“Mr. Tabler,” Mac acknowledged.

They didn’t shake hands. A little over a month after 9/11 Mac had testified as an expert witness in the trial of a man who had brutally beaten his pregnant wife to death.

Tabler had relentlessly attacked the forensic evidence, suggested alternative scenarios to explain the evidence and, finally, attacked the integrity of the entire CSI unit, finishing with Mac. Tabler had done his homework or, more likely, had someone else do it.

“You want my client convicted, don’t you, Detective?” Tabler had asked in court.

“He’s guilty,” said Mac.

“You’re sure?” Tabler said, turning to the jury.

“I’m sure.”

“Your wife died on 9/11,” Tabler said.

“She did.”

“You had a breakdown?”

“A short period of clinical depression,” said Mac. “Like most people.”

“Are you still depressed?” Tabler said, turning back to Mac.

While he didn’t look directly at the prosecuting attorney, a slightly plump young blond with long straight hair, Mac did see her, wondered why she hadn’t objected to this line of inquiry. Mac knew where it was going and couldn’t stop it.

“I’m still depressed,” said Mac.

“A man is accused of brutally murdering his wife,” said Tabler. “You didn’t choose to lose your wife, but you assumed going into the investigation that he had the choice?”

“We work on the evidence,” said Mac. “We go where it takes us.”

“And this time it took you to my client,” said Tabler. “Often evidence doesn’t lead. It follows, follows where you want it to take you. Is that right, Detective Taylor?”

“No,” Mac had answered firmly.

“You’ve made mistakes,” Tabler pushed.

“Yes,” said Mac. He wanted to add, “Haven’t you?” but decided not to.

The assistant prosecutor and Tabler made a last-minute plea bargain during the lunch break. Before the judge, the husband had admitted to having taken too many pills for a headache and going wild when his wife had asked him the same question she asked every morning: “One egg or two?”

He had gone into the kitchen and began beating his startled wife.

The plea bargain gave the murderer a minimum sentence of ten years. Mac felt that the settlement was partly due to his own testimony.

Now Mac said nothing, but opened the door and stepped through with Tabler behind him. Shelton and Jacob looked up.

Tabler smiled at the boy and said, “I’m your lawyer.”

Jacob nodded.

“Have you told them anything?” Tabler asked, taking the last chair in the room.

Mac stood against the wall behind Tabler, arms folded.

“He was advised not to say anything till you got here,” said Mac.

Tabler tried to turn his head to see Mac, but he couldn’t.

Mac went on, “We’d like the two of them to tell us again what happened on the night of the murder.”

Jacob pulled a folded sheet of yellow, lined paper from his back pocket and handed it to Tabler, who slowly and carefully read it. When he was finished, he handed the sheet back to Jacob.

“He’s already made a statement and signed it,” said Mac, moving now to sit next to the lawyer. “And it’s on tape.”

“Can’t be used in court,” said Tabler. “He did not have a lawyer present.”

“He volunteered,” said Mac.

Tabler was shaking his head.

“He’s twelve years old. No judge will accept it,” Tabler said. “However, I have no objection to reading my client’s account of the murder of his family.”

Shelton looked past Tabler at Mac, arms folded, sitting across from him. Their eyes met. Kyle Shelton looked away.

Jacob cleared his throat and in a shaking voice read the account he had signed. It was within a few words of being exactly what Jacob had said earlier. Essentially, Jacob recounted hearing noises and a scream. He ran into his sister’s room where he saw Kyle Shelton stab his sister and then his mother. Jacob was frozen in horror. Then his father, wearing briefs and a white T-shirt, came into the room and ran toward Shelton, who stabbed him many times. He knew he would get Jacob next. Jacob ran, got his bike and rode away, heading for the woods next to the road. He realized that he was covered with blood. He took off all his clothes and ran naked back to the house through the woods and through backyards. When he got back, Shelton’s car was gone. Jacob had gone to the murder scene, saw his family dead and with great difficulty put his mother and sister respectfully on the bed. His father was too big to lift or pull. Then Jacob had heard something—the downstairs door? Had Kyle Shelton come back for him? Jacob ran to his room and groped his familiar way to the closet and climbed up to his private place. He had stayed there for two nights. Then Mac had come with the dog.