They Never Die Quietly (2010) (7 page)

His lips tightened and his eyes narrowed. He pushed the spike firmly against her wrist, pricking the flesh. "Is it your will to die for your sins and redeem yourself?"

Peggy tried to speak, but her throat was knotted.

"Sinner, I ask you: Are you prepared for everlasting life?"

In a mind of snarled thoughts, Peggy could only untangle one word. "April," she whispered.

"She will be spared if you willingly die for your sins." He tightened his grip around the handle of the hammer. "Are you ready to be cleansed?"

Peggy McDonald, thirty-five-year-old Irish Catholic, realized that her journey through life was about to abruptly end in a most diabolical way. Fate had intercepted her voyage and she would never see another sunset. Four-year-old April probably wouldn't remember her in adulthood. Andrew would mourn, go through a period of bitterness and solitude, but he'd marry again. Another woman would be lying beside him. Her entire life--summarized on the eleven o'clock news in less than five gory minutes--would be forgotten. Her total existence would forever be eclipsed by her role as the fourth victim of a crazed serial killer.

"Are you willing to die for your sins?" The hand holding the hammer trembled. Beads of sweat dripped down his face.

"What about my baby." It was not a question, but a breathless plea.

"She won't be harmed."

"No, you don't understand."

"I'm losing my patience, sinner. I told you that your daughter--"

"For God's sake, I'm pregnant!"

As if Simon's hand had a will of its own, the hammer slipped from his trembling fingers and bounced on the concrete floor. He had never prepared himself for such a possibility. Cleansing this sinner would also kill an innocent child, and Simon was acutely sensitive to the plight of unborn children. At an early age, he discovered the hypocrisy of our lawmakers, vile men who drafted laws supporting the butchers professing to be doctors. How conveniently Congress classified unborn children as embryos or fetuses. And for what purpose? Only to ensure the votes of pro-choicers. This sickened Simon. Often he fantasized about storming an abortion center and single-handedly executing each and every killer. Silently he applauded the holy crusaders, the brave soldiers so committed to their principles that they challenged the twisted system. He could never feel remorse for the murdered abortionists, for the death clinics burned to the ground or bombed to oblivion. It was the wrath of God.

But now Simon faced a most difficult dilemma. To release the sinner and preserve the unborn child's life would be just, yet not a feasible solution. How could he senselessly kill one of God's children? There was, of course, the possibility that she lied, pretending to be pregnant to preserve her life and undermine Simon's godly work. She had not deceived him though. Simon felt sure of this. When she lay naked on the bed, he'd noticed an unusual swelling in her lower abdomen, a bloating uncharacteristic of an otherwise physically fit woman.

He sat on the cold floor, pulled his knees to his chest, and fixed his eyes on Peggy's face. Surely, if he let her go she would promise not to betray him, assure him in a most convincing manner that she would never say a word to anyone. But in the end, when her anger swelled beyond the joy of having been set free, and her actions were driven by hatred and a profound sense of revenge, Peggy would tell the police everything.

If he ever needed his mother's advice, today was the day.

He closed his eyes and talked to her with words unspoken.

What shall I do, Mother
?

God has given you a bonus, my sweet son
.

I don't understand.

The earth is a wretched planet, overrun with violence, deception, fornication, and betrayal. It is a temporary stop, a momentary detour from our ultimate journey. You would be honoring this unborn child with a most holy gift if you gave its soul to the Lord
.

Simon considered her words. He wanted to comply but stood motionless.

Do it, my sweet boy. Do it now
!

He hesitated for only a moment. Then his body shivered and he could feel himself getting excited. Only his mother affected him so profoundly. As in the past, all he wanted in life was to please her.

"Sinner." Simon smiled at Peggy. "Today is truly a glorious day."

Death for Peggy McDonald did not come mercifully. It had taken much longer than the others for her to draw her last breath. Simon, sitting on the floor beneath her, reading passages from the Bible, watched her wiggle and squirm for almost three hours. Her shoulders were torn from their sockets, and the wrist and foot wounds oozed blood. Her once rosy cheeks were ash-gray. Frequently, when the cold spikes piercing her wrists and feet rubbed raw against a nerve, she'd yelp from the pain. At several points her guttural screams were almost deafening. But knowing that pain was an integral part of redemption, her futile cries for help did not trouble Simon. In fact, he found solace in them. When she finally reached the defining moment, no longer able to lift her body enough to breathe, Simon stood and watched her transition with uncontrollable excitement. To think that he had delivered, not one, but two doomed souls to eternal splendor overwhelmed him with joy. With her lungs devoid of air, her cheeks purple-blue, it took four agonizing minutes for her heart to arrest. All the while, as life slipped from Peggy, the last vision in her cloudy eyes was April's little body curled on the chair.

Simon could see April beginning to stir. Before she awakened, he found a vein behind her left knee and injected the mild sedative, enough to ensure that she'd sleep through the night. He lifted the child off the bed and set her on the chair. Held upright, perpendicular to the floor, the base of the cross was securely fastened to heavy metal brackets anchored to the concrete. Carefully, he loosened the clamps and guided the crucifix to the floor. With a three-foot crowbar, he braced the round end against a wooden block for leverage, and slowly pulled out each of the four railroad spikes, much like removing nails from a two-by-four with a claw hammer. Blood still trickled from the wounds, but the flow did not surge as it did when her heart pumped. To absorb the blood, Simon wrapped cotton towels around her wrists and feet. Then he lifted Peggy off the wooden cross, carried her limp body to the bed, and laid her on her back.

It was a moment he longed for.

The reunion.

He closed his eyes and cleared his brain of all thoughts, focusing on one image.

"Mother, are you with me?"

I've been calling for you, my sweet son
.

"Shall I come to your bedroom?"

Yes, Simon, Mother is waiting
.

He opened his eyes and Peggy McDonald no longer existed. Instead, Simon's mother lay on the bed, her lovely eyes looked up at him and she smiled. Ah, how he remembered those soft breasts and long shapely legs. Just like he'd done so many times before when beckoned in the middle of the night, Simon removed his clothes and crawled into bed beside his beautiful mother. He lay holding her, stroking her silky hair, caressing her warm body. Then, gently, lovingly, he made love to the only woman he had ever intimately known.

Thursday was an unseasonably warm day when Sami left her home at nine a.m. The temperature was already sixty-five. Aside from the ever-growing population, outrageous real estate prices, overcrowded freeways, and the most discourteous drivers in the galaxy, San Diego sure was a nice place to live. With the exception of a few stubborn clouds hovering over the shoreline--referred to by meteorologists as a marine layer--the sky looked clear and bright blue. She drove with her window rolled down; the invigorating air tousled her freshly trimmed hair.

Sami was not yet sure whether she felt disappointment or elation that the license plates on the black Supercab in the hospital parking lot did not belong to Simon. When she learned that the truck was registered to Alicia Chavez, fifty-five-year-old widow, a woman who'd never even gotten a parking ticket, Sami dismissed her original suspicions as foolhardy. Yes, Simon did fit the basic description of the serial killer, however, so did a few thousand other men. Perhaps, she thought, the lack of progress in this case was beginning to affect her ability to remain rational.

Normally, Sami worked Monday through Friday, eight to five, or at least those were the hours she turned in to payroll every week. To the outside world, working a day shift seemed a bonus, perhaps even unbelievable for a job in which the investigative process required that a detective be available whenever needed. Criminals didn't look at their watches before plunging a knife into a victim's chest. Therefore, Sami--and just about every other dedicated detective--invested plenty of off-duty time working. If the San Diego Police Department compensated Samantha Rizzo for the actual time she spent performing police-related duties, everything from midnight surveillance to early morning coffee with informants to weekend research to interrogating suspects, she could retire before her fortieth birthday. In spite of the craziness, she endured. Working a day shift was not a perk Sami earned. It just made sense. During the daytime hours, greater information resources were available and detective support departments such as the crime scene search unit, latent fingerprint unit, photography unit, police crime laboratory, and the document examination unit were more accessible.

Sami's concern about Captain Davison removing her from the case and turning it exclusively over to the Special Investigation Squad escalated with each moment she failed to produce a viable lead in the serial murders investigation. Although the captain hadn't alluded to this possibility, Al and she had struggled through another unproductive week, and often, at least within the dynamics of police procedures, certain repercussions were understood without the benefit of spoken words. She did not expect a warning. One morning--perhaps even today--Al and she would be summoned to Davison's office and the bloodletting would be over swiftly. No debate. No begging for more time.

Unlike prior investigations, this case baffled Detective Sami Rizzo. Her acute investigative skills and inherent ability to unearth a clue from seemingly innocuous information had always been a topic of great amusement among fellow detectives. With playful respect she had been nicknamed Blood Hound. Not an image she aspired to, but Sami, a little appreciative yet a bit insulted, reluctantly accepted the pet name in the spirit in which it was intended.

Every once in a while, particularly after she'd uncovered a new weighty piece of evidence in a difficult case, a giant-size Milkbone dog biscuit would mysteriously appear on her desk, wrapped, of course, with a big red ribbon. She'd not received any doggie treats on this investigation and couldn't believe that she actually missed them. This case completely bewildered her. The killer was indeed stealthy. A cruel, crafty, calculating murderer.

She parked the Taurus in the underground garage, grabbed her briefcase, and headed for the elevator. Just as she pushed the up button, her cell phone beeped.

"Sami Rizzo."

"Are you prepared for an evening of sumptuous food and stimulating conversation?"

She'd all but forgotten about the tentative dinner. "Simon?"

"Just calling to confirm our dinner date for tomorrow evening." His voice sounded strange.

Date
? Sami had always recognized the fine distinction between a date and enjoying dinner with a male companion. Did he really consider it a date, or was he merely playing a game of semantics? The offer tempted her, but the week had been consuming, and as much as she needed and wanted a recreational break..."Can I ask for a rain check, Simon?"

"Do you really want to hear a grown man cry?"

"It's been a hellish week and I'm afraid I wouldn't be much company."

"All work and no play makes for a dull life."

"I really can't, Simon."

"Look, you have to eat dinner anyway, right? Why not with me?"

She thought about his logic for a moment. How terrible could it be eating dinner opposite a man she was attracted to? "What time would be good for you?"

"Seven-thirty okay?"

"Perfect."

"Would I be less than chivalrous if I asked you to meet me at the restaurant?"

Maybe this wasn't a date? In her little book of etiquette, an honorable man always picked up his date. "What did you have in mind?"

"You're familiar with Pacific Beach, right?"

"Been there many times."

"How about Romano's Cafe, on the corner of Cass and Garnet?"

She'd never been there but heard about the quaint and romantic setting. "I'll see you at seven-thirty."

"Great. I'm looking forward to it, Sami."

"Just in case something unexpected happens--you never know with police work--why don't you give me your home or cell number."

Silence. "How about I call you around seven, just to confirm."

"Sure."

He doesn't want me to have his number.

That pang of doubt tweaked her subconscious.

When Sami walked into the precinct, Alberto Diaz was sitting on the corner of her desk, talking to Captain Davison. Diaz did a double take. Sami and Al had developed an esoteric communication system. Certain looks or nods or facial expressions represented signals. Al gave her a quick glance and his eyebrows twitched, warning her to be prepared for something unpleasant.

Davison pointed to his watch. "Your alarm clock broken?"

She hadn't left the office until after seven yesterday and thought she'd been entitled to a little slack this morning. By the agitated look on Davison's face, apparently not. "Worked late last night."

The captain, Sami thought, must have bought his brown suit long before the birth of his beer gut. His pants were so tight he had to wear them below his belly. The bottom of his shirt pulled apart.

"I have some rather alarming news," Davison said.

At first, Sami panicked, immediately concluding that the captain had decided to yank her off the case. But then she realized such an unpleasant conversation would most certainly take place behind closed doors where the rest of the detective squad would be insulated from the bitter yelling. "Should I sit?" Sami asked.

The captain let out a heavy sigh. "We found Peggy McDonald's body."

Sami felt as though she'd been punched in the stomach. "Where?"

"On the front steps of Saint Francis of Assisi's Church in El Cajon."

"When?"

"Early this morning. Just before sunrise."

"And the little girl?"

Al stood up and stepped toward his partner. "Nothing on her. Yet."

A lot of questions whirled through Sami's mind, but suddenly she recognized that the captain hadn't followed protocol. "Captain, why wasn't I called?"

He folded his arms across his chest. "I didn't get the call myself until almost eight. Thought you were en route."

Sami felt that she needed to justify her tardy arrival. "The only reason I'm late--"

"Save it, Rizzo," Davison said, his voice edgy. "If you didn't bust your ass every day, you'd be wearing a blue uniform and walking a beat in South San Diego. Besides, we've got more important issues to discuss." He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Why don't you two step into my office?"

The moment Captain Davison sat behind his desk, he lit a cigarette. After witnessing this phenomenon dozens of times, Sami concluded that Davison's habit was more reflexive than conscious. She wondered if he truly enjoyed smoking. Most of the time, halfway through a cigarette, he'd go through coughing episodes so severe that it sounded like he'd hack his lungs out all over the desk.

As always, Al looked as passive as a man getting his fingernails manicured. Sami felt anxious. Davison leaned back in his squeaky armchair, sucked on the unfiltered Camel, captured the smoke in his lungs for a few seconds, then exhaled a blue cloud. "You two got one week to find this guy. I'd take you off the investigation right now, but neither of you has ever let me down." Directing his words to Sami, the captain fixed his eyes on her. "I'm going to stick my neck out and assure the chief you'll make an arrest by next Friday. Don't make me a liar."

After digesting his words, Sami said, "Tell me about Peggy McDonald's body."

The captain sat forward and rested his elbows on the desk. "Find out for yourself." He glanced at his watch. "Her autopsy begins in an hour."

Autopsies were an integral function of the investigative process; the gory part that Sami loathed. Thus far, forensic medicine had uncovered little information that offered a lead in this case. Sami never had the stomach for blood and guts. In fact, she didn't even like watching medical dramas on television. At times like this, when faced with an aspect of her job that she truly abhorred, Sami questioned why she'd kept her promise to her father. She'd been sucked into this career, seduced by the illusion of serving society. It felt like a one-way street with nowhere to turn around, no side streets to change directions.

Even if she'd decided to pursue another career, economics and her responsibility to Angelina made it impractical for her to consider furthering her education, which was the only possible way Sami could bid farewell to police work. Her mother, of course, was another issue. To rescind the promise she'd so thoughtlessly made to her dying father, a wish that bitterly portrayed her absolute love for her father, would surely give Josephine Rizzo yet another thorn with which to torture Sami.

But another, more compelling reason Sami could not abandon the life of law enforcement loomed heavy: Detective work was in her blood. It had nothing to do with earning a living, fringe benefits, prestige, or social status. Like a terminal illness that cannot be cured, police work was an affliction from which Sami could never be healed, one whose grip on Sami's conscience tightened with each new investigation.

The medical examiner's office was housed in the County Operations Center. The two-story structure, located in Kearny Mesa, a community of central San Diego, operated under county jurisdiction but still provided services to the city police department. Sami pulled the Taurus into the crowded parking lot and maneuvered the car toward an area reserved for law enforcement personnel. Al had just gobbled the last bite of his "breakfast" and a little confectionary sugar remained on his upper lip.

Sami eyeballed Al and let out a heavy sigh. "How can you eat donuts--jelly donuts no less--just before viewing a postmortem examination?"

Al licked his lips clean. "What's the big deal? Donuts are one of the five major food groups."

"Oh, really?"

"Never heard of them?"

"Not your version."

Al grinned boyishly. "Pizza, burgers, carne asada, donuts, and pussy."

Sami didn't flinch. Al amused her more than he appalled her. Through their long relationship, she'd been conditioned to dismiss her partner's foul mouth. "You're a pervert."

"Thank you."

Sami worked in a world dominated by men. Crude, outspoken, self-absorbed men. Many still believed that women served only one useful purpose, and most men had few reservations about exhibiting their chauvinism. Having been a minority in a vocation saturated with egomaniacs, Sami had learned how to survive: laugh at their obscene jokes, smile when they make indecent proposals, massage their delicate egos, but never, ever get romantically involved with a fellow detective.

In many ways, Al fit the sordid profile of the other male detectives, but his banter had the ring of an innocent teenager's. He never treated Sami in a malicious manner, nor would he ever betray her. As partners, they were somehow able to shift through the sexism and establish a meaningful kinship. In many ways their relationship thrived because it could not be defined in traditional terms. Mutual respect created a strong foundation on which to build a solid friendship.

As they walked toward the building, Al draped his arm around Sami's shoulder. "You don't have to go in there, partner. Davison will never know."

"But I will."

"Why don't you let me observe while you wait in the car?"

"What would that accomplish?"

"It might help keep your Wheaties from decorating the autopsy room."

"You're in rare form this morning. Did you get handled last night?"

"Anticipation." He glanced at his watch. "Got a date with an angel."

"Oh, I'm sure you do. Bet she's the Virgin Queen of the Nile."

Sami trusted Al implicitly. He had helped her through rough times. When Tommy DiSalvo abandoned her, Al behaved like a mother hen caring for an ailing chick. Three times a week Al had spent his evenings with Sami, watching movies, playing backgammon, or just talking. Still pregnant when Tommy left, she'd considered asking Al to be her Lamaze coach, but when she realized that she might never be able to look into his eyes again, Sami decided to abandon the idea.

Sami had also fulfilled her role as an intimate friend to Al. More than three years ago she'd discovered that he was drinking excessively. At first, she tried not to get involved, hoping it was only temporary. But when he started coming to work with excessive mint breath and his performance as a detective seemed impaired, Sami could no longer ignore Al's problem. A stubborn, proud man, it took a great deal of coaxing and even more patience to convince him to join AA. Sami had to bribe him, promising to attend the first five meetings right by his side. And she had. Sat next to him and held his hand.