They Never Die Quietly (2010) (2 page)

Molly hopelessly pounded on the steel door with both fists. "Where
are
you, you son of a
bitch
? Benjamin, can you hear me? Oh God, oh God, what have I done?" Simon had left with her son more than an hour ago. How stupid of her to trust him. But did she really have a choice? She had to keep telling herself she didn't or else she'd lose her mind.

After screaming for over half an hour, her throat felt raw and on fire. Where could he have taken Benjamin? Why didn't anyone hear her screaming and come to her rescue? Feeling faint and out-of-her-mind frantic, she collapsed on the bed, sucking air in quivering gasps, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Three days ago, when the tire had gone flat and she pulled her Grand Cherokee to the side of the road, she tried calling her husband on his cell phone, but she'd been unable to reach him. She'd left him a message, but Robert had never been one to check his voicemail regularly. She'd never changed a flat in her life and had no idea what to do. When the guy in the black pickup stopped and offered help, he seemed to be a godsend. Acting like a perfect gentleman, handsome, refined, he looked like an athlete. How naive she'd been.

"Ma'am, I'm afraid your spare's flat too. There's a service station about a mile down the road. I'd be happy to give you a lift."

Over the past three days she'd had plenty of time to think. Had it not been for Benjamin, she would have completely lost her mind. Simon's conduct did not fit the mold of a madman. His quietness, his calm demeanor, almost schoolboy politeness puzzled Molly. Something wild brewed behind those ice-blue eyes. He had not behaved like a raving lunatic. Nonetheless, a demon lived inside him. Why would he kidnap them, lock them in this dungeon with all the basic amenities necessary to sustain life, and do
nothing
?

He hadn't tried to assault her, he'd been kind to Benjamin, and strangely seemed to be genuinely concerned with their comfort. He had, no doubt, a hidden agenda not yet revealed. He hadn't kidnapped them to treat them like guests. Then it occurred to her: a child molester.

She lay on the pillow, closed her eyes, and silently prayed. The thought was too much for her to bear.

Half asleep, Molly heard the key turn in the door. She stood up and felt a wave of dizziness. Wearing a carpenter's apron with a hammer hanging from his hip, Simon entered the Room of Redemption. Under his arm were two long four-by-fours, one twice as long as the other. He dropped them on the concrete floor.

"Where's my
fucking
son?"

"Watch your mouth."

"I want to see him,
now
!"

"He's fine."

"You're a liar!"

"And you are a sinner."

"Don't you dare judge me, you son of a bitch!"

"Only God can judge you."

"Fuck you!"

Simon rushed toward her and Molly backpedaled, falling onto the bed. He stood over her and extended his hand. But she flinched, expecting him to strike her.

"It's time, Molly." His eyes were different. They glared at her with a penetrating intensity. It felt as if they were touching her skin. "Will you do anything to protect your son?"

Now she understood. She almost smiled. "That's what this charade is all about. You want to fuck me, don't you?"

He grabbed a fistful of her hair; his body trembling. "Remove your clothes, sinner."

"You'll have to kill me first."

He turned and stomped toward the door. "Cherish your memories of Benjamin." He turned the key in the lock. "You're never going to see him again."

"No! Please!" Molly clasped her hands as if in prayer. "I'll do whatever you ask."

Simon stopped just long enough to get a glimpse of the resignation in Molly's eyes. To surrender unconditionally, without resistance, was the only way God would cleanse chosen ones' souls. "I know you will."

Waiting alone in the dimly lit Room of Redemption, her eyes focused on the soon-to-be-built crucifix, Molly felt utter agony. Not knowing what the monster had planned for her son served only to heighten her torment. At this very moment her captor could be doing the unspeakable to Benjamin. He'd always been such a fragile child. She began to sob, trying to suppress her emotions, fighting desperately to remove the vivid images from her mind, but she could not stop the visions or the flood of tears. For a breathless moment, Molly pressed her palms together and fell to her knees. She prayed to a God who had not been part of her life since childhood, a God who had taken her mother away when Molly was only seven years old. She had never been able to forgive her Creator for such a cruel misdeed. But now, at the threshold of death, an event grisly beyond anything she could imagine, she appealed to the only force in the universe with the power to rescue her.

"I don't care what he does to me, dear Lord. But please, I beg you, protect my son."

Strangely, a vision of Dorothy, from
The Wizard of Oz
, flashed through Molly's mind. She could see the young girl staring at the rapidly draining hourglass, eyes wide with fear, waiting for the Wicked Witch to return. This was not a movie though. There were no Scarecrow, Tin Man, or Cowardly Lion to save her. Only a madman.

The metal door squeaked open. She looked into Simon's eyes and knew for certain that the hourglass had drained.

Still sleepy from his sedative-induced nap, Benjamin asked, "Where we going?"

Simon smiled and buckled the seat belt around the three-year-old. "For a ride."

"Where's my mommy?"

"She's with God."

The boy thought for a moment. "You mean the God up in heaven?"

"He's the only God."

"When she comin' back?"

For a moment, Simon thought about lying. Under the circumstances God would surely forgive him this one sin. But to preserve the innocent child's feelings was only a temporary solution. A lie would create false hope. "Never, Benjamin."

The young boy twisted his knuckles in his eyes and started to whimper. Simon opened the center console and pulled out a Tootsie Roll Pop. "You like cherry?"

Benjamin nodded. Simon removed the wrapping and handed it to the boy.

The boy grabbed the sucker, licked it several times, and then took it out of his mouth. "I wanna see my mommy."

"Some day you will."

He drove west on Freeway 8 and exited on Mission Center Road. At eight-forty, almost closing time, he pulled into the entrance leading to Grossman's Department Store. There were only a dozen cars in the parking lot. Simon stopped the truck in front of the main doors and turned on the emergency flashers. He adjusted his Padres baseball cap so the visor rested just above his eyes. He handed Benjamin a piece of paper.

"Do me a favor."

The little boy looked at him curiously.

Simon unfastened Benjamin's seat belt and opened the passenger's door. "See that man standing inside the store." He pointed to a security guard leaning against a pillar. "It's very important that you give him that piece of paper. Your mommy wants you to. Can you do that?"

"For Mommy?"

"Yes."

Benjamin balanced his unsteady legs on the aluminum running boards and struggled to the sidewalk. Simon pulled the door shut. Before walking through the entrance, Benjamin stopped and looked over his shoulder. A young man wearing a baseball cap backward, his jeans five sizes too big, held the door open for him. Benjamin shuffled inside. He jerked his head from side to side as if looking for something unknown to Simon. Then, with his arms outstretched and the piece of paper between his tiny fingers, he made a beeline for the security guard as if he were the boy's favorite uncle. Simon watched the boy hand over the note. He stepped on the accelerator and sped toward the exit.

Homicide Investigator Sami Rizzo, the only woman to reach the rank of detective in the Major Offense Squad, marched over to her partner's desk, sat on the corner, and dropped a manila folder, almost knocking over his cup of coffee. Her black shoulder-length hair, with just a few strands of gray, was pulled back and held with a tortoiseshell barrette. Her blue eyes were slightly bloodshot from her contact lenses.

"Take a look at these, Al. They'll really make you want to finish that jelly donut." She crossed her shapely legs and her skirt rode up just enough to catch her partner's always-wandering eyes. "Look at the pictures, Al. The
pictures
."

Alberto Diaz grinned and opened the folder. He took another bite of his half-eaten donut and examined the graphic photos of the woman's mutilated body. By his impassive reaction, Sami felt like she'd just handed him a feature article in
Food & Wine
magazine.

"Where'd they find her?"

"On the front steps of Holy Redeemer Church in La Mesa."

"Just like the other two?"

"This one was a blonde, but she has the same wounds."

Diaz grabbed his lukewarm coffee and gulped it. Only thirty-two-years old, his attractive baby face, always clean shaven, was almost pretty. Taller than most Mexican-Americans, Alberto Diaz maintained a lean and muscular body. He had a thick head of jet-black hair and his dark eyes were as slick as oil. "Has she been identified?"

Sami shook her head.

After spending ten years as a patrol officer, working out of the toughest precinct in South San Diego, earning three commendations for outstanding service, Sami Rizzo vied for a promotion. Ferocious competition raged among uniformed officers pursuing a detective appointment in San Diego. And of course sexism, rampant within the law enforcement community, made her quest even more daunting. But Sami aced the written test, proving that her knowledge of the law, procedures, and the investigative process was unparalleled. Following the written test, a board of senior officers grilled Sami during what was called an interview but was more accurately an intense interrogation. Their goal: to test her resolve under pressure. Sami thought she'd done poorly in front of the board. Two weeks later she'd gotten a call from Chief of Detectives Larson, welcoming her to the homicide squad.

Diaz opened the folder again and removed one of the photographs. He stared at it intently. "What do you suppose he does with their hearts?"

"I'd rather not think about it."

"Anything on the kid?"

"Not a word."

"He doesn't do the kids," Diaz offered. "Think he's changed his routine?"

"Let's hope not."

Captain Carl Davison, standing just outside his office, yelled across the room, "Diaz, Rizzo, in my office!"

The two homicide detectives hurried down the narrow aisle between rows of messy desks. Their fellow detectives were huddled in groups, talking about cases and sharing the sordid details of last night's sexual escapades. As Sami negotiated her way past them, she could feel their eyes giving her the once-over. Normally, this wouldn't bother her, but today she felt a bit self-conscious. John Russell, a particularly obnoxious colleague, grinning like a crazed chimpanzee, held out his hand. "Nice knowing you, Rizzo."

"Wish I could say the same, asshole."

The Major Offense Squad comprised six sections: arson, burglary, homicide, robbery, sex crimes, and a special investigative squad responsible for extraordinary situations involving government officials and other officers, or investigations with high media coverage. Sami and Diaz had been warned by Captain Davison that if they did not apprehend the killer soon, he would be forced to turn the case over to the special investigative squad.

They entered the captain's office, and Sami noticed an unfamiliar woman seated opposite her boss. The woman eyeballed Sami curiously, as if to warn her that Diaz and she had better prepare themselves for a not-so-pleasant powwow.

Sami closed the door.

On occasion, Davison, a usually soft-spoken African-American, had the capacity to tear into the hides of overworked and underappreciated detectives. Sami studied his eyes and felt certain that today's little get-together would not be much fun.

Never caring much about state ordinances, particularly when his frazzled nerves needed a soothing blast of nicotine, Davison grabbed the burning cigarette resting in the overfull ashtray and deeply inhaled. The captain, two years from retirement, tipped the scales at two-thirty-five, forty pounds over his ideal weight. To look at him he didn't appear to be overstressed, and in spite of his usually calm demeanor his blood pressure recently hit a level that forced his doctor to insist he take medication to control it. You'd never know it to look at him, but he was a walking time bomb.

"I'd like you two to meet Sally Whitman," Davison said. "She's a profiler with the FBI."

Sally stood up, pivoted gracefully, grasped Sami's hand, and vigorously pumped the homicide detective's arm. The willowy, middle-aged profiler had a grip like Wonder Woman. She wore her dark brown hair severely short, almost in a buzz cut. High cheek bones and a pointed chin punctuated her narrow face. Wearing a trendy outfit, she could easily be mistaken for a punk-rock groupie. A couple of plates of her mother's lasagna, Sami thought, and Sally could gain just enough weight to have a figure.

Ever so slowly, her fingers lingering a little longer than Sami thought reasonable, Whitman let go of Sami's hand. Something in Whitman's eyes troubled Sami. Whitman gave Diaz an acknowledging nod but didn't offer her hand.

"Considering the lack of progress in apprehending this lunatic," Davison said, "I have enlisted the services of Ms. Whitman. Hopefully, she can offer some insights into the mind of a serial killer."

Serial killer?

Although three women had been murdered--all presumably the same way--no one in the homicide squad dared to mouth the term
serial killer.
It was taboo, as if a curse would befall the first person to say the words. The possibility had been hinted at in the
San Diego Chronicle
. And one television newscaster's overzealous commentary had caused widespread alarm among local residents, but no one had officially classified the three murders as serial.

To use this term so matter-of-factly struck a raw nerve in Sami. All her life she'd lived in San Diego, touted to be America's Finest City, and to the best of her recollection the area had not been terrorized by a serial killer since 1932.

The captain crushed his cigarette in the ashtray. "Tell the detectives what we're dealing with, Ms. Whitman."

The FBI profiler sat, crossed her legs, and tucked her skirt under her thighs in a proper fashion, never taking her eyes off Sami. "The man we're looking for is a religious fanatic. They're the worst because most of them believe God has empowered them with absolute authority. When a murderer is driven by some perverse religious belief, his cruelty has no limits. With God's endorsement each one believes he has his own set of twisted commandments. In this case we don't know if the perpetrator is doing God's work or Satan's. Sometimes there's really a fine line."

Whitman pointed to one of the victim photographs. "There's little doubt the women were crucified. The pathologist's report indicates that tiny splinters of wood, along with traces of metal were found in the wrist and foot wounds. The wood is white pine and the metal is alloy steel, probably from whatever kind of spikes or nails he used. My guess is he's either crucifying them as an offering to his God, emulating Jesus' death on the cross, or belittling the foundation of Christianity by performing mock crucifixions."

An air of silence descended upon the room. Diaz grabbed Sami's shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

"Could he be a woman hater?" Diaz offered. "Maybe he's pissed off at his ex-wife and taking it out on other women."

"That's unlikely, detective," Whitman said. "Woman haters typically defeminize their victims by cutting off their breasts or sticking objects in their vaginas. Granted, he did have intercourse with each victim, but I'm thinking that the sex was part of some warped ritual."

"Any idea why he would cut out their hearts?" Diaz asked.

Whitman fixed her eyes on the detective. "He probably collects them. Keeps them as trophies."

"What about the children?" Sami asked. "Why weren't they harmed?"

"In his twisted mind they served some purpose," Whitman said, "but I can only speculate." She studied the photograph. "Maybe he used the children as pawns to get what he wanted."

"I'm not following you," Diaz said. "We've already established that the killer is a big man. Surely he could overpower these women. Why did he need the kids?"

Whitman adjusted her glasses. "Control. Maybe he doesn't want them to fight."

Ordinarily, Sami could manage her emotions, but as a single parent of a soon-to-be three-year-old daughter, she could not help feeling great anguish. Careful not to expose her mental state to the captain, she tried not to make eye contact with him.

"What really bothers me," Whitman continued, "is that the killer is a sociopath."

Her eyes focused on something afar. "In some instances, victims are mutilated after death. But this is not the case with these women. They were alive, perhaps conscious when he crucified them."

With that statement, the room was as quiet as a mortuary. Davison lit another cigarette, and Diaz coughed into his hand. Sami wanted to be anywhere but in that office.

"Ms. Whitman, could you give me a moment with the detectives?" Davison said.

Sally Whitman placed the folder in her brown leather briefcase, eyeballed Sami, and quietly left the office. Sami knew what came next. She'd seen this metamorphosis before.

The minute Whitman closed the door, Captain Davison stood up and wagged his finger at the two detectives. "You know how I hate to be a hard-ass, but the mayor is chewing on my nuts. You two will still lead the investigation, but I'm assigning a special task force to assist you." The captain swiped his hand across his moist forehead. "You've got to find this psycho."

"He's a shrewd one, captain," Diaz said, "carefully covered his tracks."

The veins on Davison's neck were pulsing. "Don't tell me that this fucking fanatic can crucify women, dump their bodies on the front steps of local churches, and drop their kids off at department stores without
somebody
seeing
something
."

Davison sucked on the cigarette and exhaled a cloud of blue smoke. "Get your butts to La Mesa and talk to the priest who found--"

The telephone rang. The captain snatched the receiver. "Davison. Yeah. When? Where?" He scribbled on a yellow pad. "Okay, thanks."

Sami could see the captain's face change. Like a violent storm subdued by some mysterious wonder of nature, the captain lost his thunder.

"They found the kid." His voice softened. "The victim's name is..." He glanced at his notes. "...Molly Singer, thirty-two years old."

"Did he hurt the kid?" Diaz asked.

"Just like the other two: not a scratch on him." The captain removed his glasses and massaged his temples. "Please find this fucking wacko."

After cleansing a sinner, Simon had difficulty falling asleep. Neither guilt nor regret kept him awake. Why should he feel remorse after saving a soul from certain damnation? His restlessness resulted from a bitter reality: How could he possibly cleanse a world so infested with doomed women? One man, no matter how committed, could not tackle such a formidable task.

He sat up in bed and pulled his knees to his chest, wondering if his mother felt pride for her only son. Perhaps she sat beside God, watching down from the heavens, pleased with the path he followed. Had it not been for her stern hand and love-driven discipline, Simon might himself be a hopeless sinner. How many hours had he spent punished in that dark, claustrophobic closet, atoning for his misdeeds?

As a child, Simon had often broken the commandments of God. His mother never scolded him. She pointed to the closet without uttering a word, and he knew exactly what to do. The cubbyhole had no light. He was allowed neither food nor water. Just plenty of time to reflect on his unholy behavior. He had to urinate and defecate in the corner of the cramped closet. The area, so confined, caused him to gag and vomit from the foul smell. Often his clothing would be soaked with his bodily discharge.

In the summer, when the Texas temperatures flirted with triple digits and the humidity felt unbearable, Simon sometimes believed he would suffocate in that closet; die a sinner, unredeemed and sentenced to eternal punishment. This inflicted greater torture than his physical pain. There were moments of sheer terror, a helpless belief that God would never absolve his sins. The period of time in which his mother incarcerated him depended upon the severity of his waywardness. There were sins that required only an hour's punishment. Others confined him to the closet for more than a day.

Once, shortly after celebrating his eleventh birthday, when his budding sexual awareness reached a new level, he'd borrowed a
Playboy
magazine from a schoolmate--the same young lad who introduced Simon to the joy of self-gratification. While sitting in bed one rainy afternoon, gawking at the blonde centerfold with enormous breasts and neatly trimmed pubic hair, thinking that his mother was busy with her daily chores, Simon stimulated himself with unwavering enthusiasm. So preoccupied with his intended goal, he hadn't noticed his mother standing in the doorway.

"The lips of an immoral woman are as sweet as honey, and her mouth is smoother than oil. But the result is as bitter as poison, sharp as a double-edged sword."

That day, in mid-August, Simon felt certain he would surely die in the closet.

An eerie feeling of hollowness, a void of excruciating proportions crashed over Simon. He clutched his stomach with both hands, feeling as though he were impaled with a sword. The desperation was like the panic a drug addict might experience when the exhilaration from his chemical-induced euphoria plunges to the depths of despair and need, when all sense of reason disappears. Simon rocked back and forth on the bed, moaning, feeling the profound impact of withdrawal. The only medicine to ease his pain was to cleanse another soul. The redhead he'd been watching would soon occupy the Room of Redemption.