Wounds (12 page)

Bridger looked up from the plate. “I had a little trouble getting hold of you. I left a message at your condo and on your cell phone. Of course, now I know you were on your boat. But the cell phone—”

“I had it turned off.” A small wave of guilt washed over Ellis. “I was studying.”

Bridger nodded and offered a smile. “I've been known to do the same thing. Great invention, the telephone, but it does mean anyone, anywhere, can ring a bell in your home—or your pocket. Sometimes I think we're too connected.” He paused. “Anyway, I'm just checking on the faculty.”

“Ever the pastor, eh?”

Bridger shrugged. “True. Some habits shouldn't be dropped.” He looked into Ellis's eyes, as if he could read the thoughts printed on his gray matter. “You had Doug in your classes?”

“Yes. Seemed like a nice kid. Not an academician by any means, but genuinely interested in the material. Always respectful. How is his family doing?”

“Horrible.” Rachel shook her head. “We visited with them again today. They're holding up—barely. There is no way for a parent to prepare for such a thing.” Tears rose in Rachel's eyes, but she held them in check. “They'll come through this. Their church has been with them from the beginning.”

“I want to know about you, Ellis. How are you dealing with all this?”

Ellis sat back to give himself another foot or two of distance between them. He thought for a moment. “Dealing with it? I'm not, Adam. What can I do? I only knew Doug from classes. I don't know the family. I'm of no help to anyone on this. Well . . . I spoke to a couple of police detectives but had very little to offer.”

“I mean personally.” Bridger leaned over the table as if to counter Ellis's withdrawal.

“I know you do, Adam. I'm fine. Bothered? Yes. Troubled? Yes. Stunned? Beyond words. Still, I'm not in need of grief counseling.” He looked away for a moment before returning his gaze to Bridger. “I do appreciate the concern, Adam. I really do.”

Bridger pulled back and rubbed his chin. “I'm going to tell you what I told the others. I'm here for you—”

“
We're
here for you,” Rachel added.

“Yes,
we're
here if you need to talk. I'm not offering to be your counselor, Ellis, just your friend.”

“Thank you, but I'm fine. Really. I'm sad, but fine.”

“Okay. Good.” Bridger took a sip of his drink. “I plan to send an e-mail to the students. I've asked Rick to make himself available for grief counseling.”

Rick—Dr. Ricardo Salinas—taught psychology and Christian counseling at the seminary. Soft-spoken, mild-mannered, the man was considered an expert in his field. This was why Adam Bridger was president of the seminary; the idea of setting up grief counseling hadn't occurred to Ellis.

“We don't have a date for the funeral yet. Much of that depends on when the medical examiner releases the body. Once I know, I'll spread the word to faculty and the student body. Doug and his family went to a small church. I'm pretty sure it can't hold all the family, faculty, and students that will be there. I've offered our chapel. If the funeral is set during the week, I'll cancel classes for the day.”

“A good idea. I will be there.”

That would be a difficult day.

Especially for Ellis.

13

C
armen Rainmondi and Bud Tock finished their third trip up and down the alley, their eyes fixed on the white splash of light their flashlights made. They waited until the forensic team had arrived before doing a detailed search of the vehicle, something that went against Carmen's nature. Her first impulse had always been to charge ahead and let others catch up if they could, but she was well trained. There were reasons homicide worked the way it did—but that didn't mean she was comfortable with it. In the meantime, she bagged the note and showed it to Bud. He was looking at it again. The small bit of paper would undergo a thorough examination, but there were a few things they could determine.

“Courier type.” Bud shone his light on the brief message again. “That's an old-style font, the kind they used on old typewriters.” He tilted the paper so he could look at it on end. “Did you notice that each letter left an indent?”

“Yes. Our killer used a typewriter. Maybe an old Royal portable.”

“That's kinda specific. What makes you say that?”

“I'm not saying it
is
an old Royal. Could be an ancient Underwood. Who knows? I'm just saying the typeface and the indentation associated with each letter indicate a typewriter not a printer.”

“Can't argue with that logic. Now if we only had a typewriter to match it to.”

“The rat is taunting us, Bud.”

“Which is why you sent Heywood and others to patrol the area. This kind of nut job likes to watch us work.”

“Maybe. I got a bad feeling about this. Our perp isn't stupid.” Carmen kept her voice low. “He stole a car, changed its plates, dumped the body in an area with no security or traffic cameras, and left the van here, another place with no Big-Brother presence. He also left the back hatch part way open, sure to draw the attention of someone, especially a passing cop. I'd bet money he wanted us to find it.”

“It's the only thing that makes sense.” Bud handed the plastic bag with the note back to Carmen, who put it in an evidence envelope. “I guess you were right. The murders are related.”

“I was just guessing, and technically we can't say they're tied, but I'm betting they are.”

“But to what end?”

Carmen released a sigh of weariness and frustration. “I don't know. You're right, there are more differences than similarities. I was ready to get on board with the hate-crime angle. I suppose that's still valid.”

“Someone hates Jews
and
seminary students?” Bud pulled at his nose, a clear sign he was puzzled. “I suppose that's possible. One of the New Atheists?”

“New Atheists? What's that?”

“I'm no expert, but I do know that there's a new movement by atheists to make fun of Christians—well, I guess they make fun of anyone who believes in God or gods. Lots of books. Some even hit
The New York Times
best-seller list. They're popping up on talk shows, and some have even taken to holding rallies.”

Carmen eyed him. “How do you know all this?”

“Hey, I watch television.”

“To each his own. Why would an atheist stoop to murder?” Carmen raised a finger. “Not just murder, but torture. Brutality. Doesn't seem to fit the intellectual type.”

Bud nodded. “But then, we're not dealing with a reasonable person here. This guy's elevator has come off its cables.”

“We can't underestimate him. He's as clever as he is cruel.” Carmen watched as the techs confirmed that the gruesome spot in the van's cargo area was blood. They then dusted the vehicle for fingerprints and “rolled” the seats with something those not in-the-know might confuse with a paint roller. Except this simple device didn't put paint down; it picked up hairs, sloughed-off skin cells, and other items that might hold DNA.

The team worked like a well-choreographed dance troupe, but without the jumps and flowing motions. They needed no instruction, no guidance beyond special requests. This was what they did. Collect evidence. The detectives would build the case. The district attorney would prosecute. The jury would decide.

Carmen could only be responsible for her part: to see beyond the obvious and to avoid mistakes.

“We're missing something, Bud. Something big. I feel like I'm standing next to a rattler and not seeing or hearing it.”

“That's not a reference to me is it?”

Carmen smiled. “No, of course not. I wouldn't offend the snake kingdom that way.”

“Oh, nice. Pick on the good-looking cop.” He let the moment pass. “I have the same feeling”

Carmen chewed her lip for a moment. “How old do you think that minivan is?”

“Heywood said the theft report listed it as a 2001, so twelve years.”

“How many people do you think have been in and out of that thing?”

“No way to know, but my guess is lots. You think we're gonna get more DNA and fibers than we can handle?”

“Count on it. Even if the perp left some plump DNA behind, it will do us no good if his DNA is not in the system.”

“When we catch the guy, we can tie him to the stolen vehicle—a vehicle with a good bit of blood in the back.”

Carmen started to speak when Millie Takahashi approached. She was one of the lead techs of the Field Services Unit. Her appearance matched her last name: light Asian skin, dark intelligent eyes, coal-black hair. She stood only five-two, but her confidence was much taller. Today, though, she looked tired. Field Service techs were on call round the clock.

Carmen angled a look at her. “I don't like that expression, Millie.”

“Sorry, Detective, but I bring bad news. Much of the interior has been sprayed with bleach. There's a good chance key areas were treated with hydrogen peroxide.” She looked apologetic, as if she had been the one to douse the interior with chemicals.

“That's just . . .” Carmen struggled for a more professional word than the one on her tongue. “. . . swell.” Carmen pinched the bridge of her nose. Her weariness grew and the imaginary weight on her shoulders doubled.

“
CSI
effect,” Bud said.

“Most likely, sir.”

“I don't know why I'm surprised.” Carmen's jaw tensed. Bud had called it right:
CSI
effect. Prosecuting crimes had become more difficult since the television show
CSI
and its spinoffs had begun airing in 2000. Murderers and rapists watch television too, and they were picking up hints about how to cover their tracks.

“The bleach can't remove blood evidence, but it can mess with the PCR.” Polyermerase Chain Reaction, the process by which DNA is multiplied. “It's odd, because I don't think it was used in the back of the van where the blood is. The killer wasn't trying to destroy the blood evidence. Maybe someone interrupted him?”

“We can't get DNA from red blood cells,” Bud said, “but if that blood came from our vic, then there's got to be some white blood cells. Surely there will be hairs—”

“Yes, sir, we're checking that. I just wanted to let you know that we may have a problem.” Takahashi started to leave.

“What was sprayed?”

The woman glanced at Carmen. “The driver's seat and the area around it.”

“Thanks, Millie.”

Carmen let her walk away before turning to Bud. “He's playing with us. He's letting us know he understands the system. He knows how we work.”

“We'll get him, Carmen. It's just a matter of time.”

She thought of the note. “You got that right. The question is, will others die before we do?”

14

O
n most nights, Carmen's bed was a place of refuge: soft, warm, thick blankets to provide a night-long embrace. Tonight—or, to be more accurate, this morning—it felt full of sharp rocks. When she was twelve and Shelly was ten, they traveled to Joshua Tree National Park for a camping trip. The concept of camping as fun was lost on Shelly, and Carmen lost interest over the next few years. They were just old enough to want to sleep some distance from their parents. Nature had decorated the desert area with large rocks, some monoliths tipped over and propped up by lesser boulders. Carmen talked Shelly into spreading their sleeping bags beneath a massive stone structure that provided a granite ceiling.

“What if the rock falls on us?” Shelly had always been the timid one.

“Then it will squish us so fast we won't even know it.” Carmen had thought the comment funny, but Shelly hadn't seen the humor. That night they slept on naturally decomposed granite.

Right now, her bed felt just like the too-hard ground of the National Park.

She'd arrived home at 2:00 a.m., thrown a slice of cheddar between two pieces of wheat bread, and called it dinner. At 2:30, she stripped and crawled into bed. At 3:00, she was still staring at the glowing numerals of her alarm clock. Sometime after that she fell into a fitful sleep.

At 6:00 she rose, feeling worse for the attempt to rest, showered, donned a dark blouse, black jeans, and a woman's black business jacket. Might as well dress to match her mood. A short time later she headed out the door. She veered from her course long enough to drive through a McDonalds and grab a large coffee and Egg McMuffin. The coffee was tasty, but the breakfast sandwich was unwelcome to her cranky stomach. She downed it anyway. She needed fuel.

She had just settled in her seat when Bud appeared. He looked like a man who had tumbled down a large hill.

He took one look at her and grimaced. “You look awful.” He set two Venti-sized cups of Starbucks on his desk. He wore dark slacks, a blue shirt, and a sport coat. Bud's standard uniform, even on a Saturday.

“Wow, you know just what a girl likes to hear. One of those cups for me?” Carmen pointed to the coffee.

“Um, yeah, sure. That's what I was doing. Getting
you
a coffee.”

Carmen took a cup anyway. “You're such a sweetheart. Thanks.”

He looked like his best friend had just died. “Don't mention it. Seriously, don't ever mention it.”

She took a long sip then screwed her face. “Ugh, what's in this? It taste like a candy bar.”

“I am a man of refined tastes, and I like my coffee sweet.”

“Sweet. Sheesh, man, my pancreas just closed up shop. You got insulin in the other cup?”

He grinned. “No, this one has
more
sugar and caffeine. I needed a jolt this morning.”

“That oughta do it.” She sipped the drink again. “And they say girls like the froufrou drinks.”