Wounds (15 page)

“This won't take long, Professor.” Carmen pulled a photo from the file but kept the image facing her. “I'm afraid there's been another murder and it might be related to Doug Lindsey.” Carmen watched Ellis's face for a reaction. He froze in place and his head dipped. The mention of Lindsey's name hit him hard.

“Another . . . murder?”

“Yes, sir. It was especially vicious.” She hesitated, began to lay the photo on the picnic table, then waited one second longer, her eyes fixed on the professor's expression. She could see him tense, fearful of what he was about to see: no joy at the prospect, no curiosity. She set the photo down, the image facing the azure sky. Ellis pulled back, then stopped.

Clearly he had expected something horrible, which was what Carmen set him up to expect. Instead, the photo was of a middle-aged man in a suit and tie, a broad smile of even and near-perfect teeth.

Carmen let a moment or two slip by. “Do you know this man?”

Ellis exhaled slowly. He had been holding his breath. “No. I don't think so. This is the victim?”

Bud leaned over the table. “What do you mean, ‘I don't think so'?”

“I don't recall ever meeting him, but I suppose I may have seen him at some seminary function. The seminary has fundraisers and family nights. I may have seen him at one of those.”

“Not likely,” Carmen said. “He's Jewish. A cantor at his synagogue. Or should I say, he
was
a cantor.”

“That's horrible. Family?”

“Yes.” It was the kind of question an innocent man asked. Although Carmen doubted Ellis Poe could be a vicious killer, she had let her mind play with some doubt. “Wife, two teenagers.”

Ellis shook his head. “I can't imagine how they must feel.” He pulled the photo closer and studied it. “If I ever met this man, I don't remember it.”

“Would a Christian have any dealings with a Jewish man?” Bud relaxed his posture.

Ellis smiled.

“What's so funny?” Bud didn't sound amused.

“I'm sorry, Detective. Your question is . . .” Ellis abandoned the sentence. “Jesus is Jewish, so yes, Christians have dealings with a Jewish man.” He raised a hand. “I know what you're asking, and the answer is yes. Aside from a few crackpot groups, Christians respect Jews. Christianity was planted on Jewish soil and spread from Jerusalem to the world. There's no reason for your victim to avoid Christians or Christians to avoid Jews. Some of our students visit synagogues to better understand Jewish values and worship. I have done it myself. For a year, I went to synagogue to learn the Jewish perspective on the Tanakh.”

That was a new one on Carmen. “The what?”

“The Old Testament,” Ellis explained.

“I thought that was called the Torah?”

Ellis seemed surprised she knew the term. “Torah refers to the first five books of what we call the Old Testament: Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy. Sometimes the word
Pentateuch
is used. It's a Greek term. Of course, the Jews don't believe in a New Covenant as Christians do, so calling their Scriptures the Old Testament doesn't work.” He pushed the photo back to Carmen. “I'm sorry, Detective, I don't know the man.”

“His name is David Cohen. Ring any bells?” Carmen retrieved the picture and put it back in the folder.

“Cohen is a very common name, as is David. Your man was named after Israel's greatest king. Cohen means he is related to the priestly line of Jews. So he had the name of a king and a priest. Still, I don't know a David Cohen.”

“I have another question for you, Dr. Poe.” Carmen set the two folders on the table but left them closed, her hand resting on them as if fearful a gust of wind might send the contents flapping toward the bay or fall at the feet of some mother walking her children around the park. “Cohen was found in front of his rabbi's home—in the front yard. The rabbi found him yesterday morning.”

“That's awful.” Ellis's face showed his disgust.

“Its worse than you imagine.” She opened the file and removed a crime-scene photo and set it on the top of the file.

Ellis recoiled and looked away. “Why would you show that to me?”

“Because, I want you to understand what we're dealing with here. This man was beaten to death. Slowly. By hand. Then the killer, using a stolen vehicle, transported the victim to the rabbi's home and dropped the body in the front yard. The rabbi and his wife have two small children. Why do that? Transporting a body is one way to leave more evidence behind. Most murderers kill and leave. Why kill the cantor and drive to his rabbi's home and toss the body there?”

“How should I know, Detective? I'm an academic, not an investigator.” He kept his eyes averted.

“Try and follow me on this, Professor. Your student was in seminary to become a minister, right?”

“Yes.”

“He's killed and dumped in a public place. Cohen is a Jewish religious man. He is killed and dumped in a public place. Why?”

“Again, Detective, I don't have a clue. You tell me.” Defensiveness edged into Ellis's tone.

Carmen kept her gaze on him. “My partner and I have been talking. We think the killings are related—that they mean something besides the obvious, but we can't figure out what. The fact that both victims were religious people can't be overlooked.”

“But Doug was found in Balboa Park, not in someone's front yard.”

“True. There are significant differences, but . . .” Carmen looked at Bud, then continued. “We have a very good reason to believe that Lindsey and Cohen are the first in a series of murders.”

“How can you know that?”

“The killer is taunting us. That's all I can tell you, and that's probably too much.” She shifted on the hard bench. “You know more about the religious world than we do. What ties a Jewish cantor and Christian seminary student together? Why those two?”

Ellis shook his head. “I don't have a clue, Detective. If both were Jews then you might wonder if some anti-Semite, or white supremacist, or a member of an extreme Islamic group did it. But I can't think of any reason why any of those would go after Doug. If both victims were Christians, then you might suspect a few other groups.” He clenched and unclenched his hands. “I don't see a connection. Maybe its just coincidence.”

“Maybe,” Carmen said, “but that doesn't feel right. Who hates Jews and Christians? Muslims?”

Ellis shrugged. “There are extreme Muslim groups, especially in other countries. Most hate Israel. Christian pastors have been arrested. In some countries if a Muslim converts to Christianity, he or she can be arrested and tried. So that's one possibility. Has anyone taken credit for the murders?”

“No. And just for the record, I'm trusting your discretion in this matter.”

“Understood. There's a problem. I'm not an expert in terrorism, but usually a terrorist group wants credit for their actions. They don't act and then hide.”

“That crossed my mind,” Carmen said.

“I'm at a loss, detectives. I don't know Cohen, and I doubt I've ever met him. I have no memory of it if I have. I don't doubt you when you say there's a connection between the two murders, but I don't see what it is.”

Carmen put the graphic photo away and returned the files to her purse. “We appreciate your time, Dr. Poe.” Carmen rose. “If you come up with insights, please give us a call. Enjoy the rest of your weekend.”

Carmen walked back to the car more frustrated than when she arrived.

Ellis watched Carmen walk away and wished he could avert his eyes. He didn't gaze at her as most men gaze at a woman striding away. He didn't think of her form, her posture, or the breeze in her hair. He thought of how much she looked like her younger sister, Shelly. She possessed the same crinkle of skin around the eyes, the same slope to her nose, the same intelligent gaze—except Carmen's eyes revealed a festering hurt.

Ellis knew why.

17

C
armen slipped into the front seat of the Crown Vic and buckled her belt before Bud could open his door. He noticed.

“We in a hurry?”

“No, but there's no reason to hang around here.”

“Boy, you got that right,” He slipped the key into the ignition. “Nothing here but clear skies, blue ocean, a warm breeze, fine restaurants, and the best view of the San Diego skyline. Who wants to put up with that?”

“Want me to drive?”

“Nah, I got it.”

Bud directed the car from the parking lot, creeping along the asphalt, Carmen assumed, to add a little friendly irritation to the moment. As he turned the car, she caught sight of Ellis walking slowly along the concrete path that lined the grassy area: head down, shoulders slumped, hands in his pockets. He looked to be carrying an invisible, Atlas-sized load on his slight shoulders.

“He's hiding something.” Carmen stated it as fact, not supposition.

“You think he's involved in the murders?” Bud applied more pressure to the accelerator as they reached the street.

“No. At least not that I can see. Did you see the way he reacted to the crime-scene photo?”

“I did. I thought he was going to puke on the table. Not that I could blame him. Cohen was as messed up as a man can be. It almost put me off my food.”

“Really, I don't recall you missing a meal.”

Bud glanced at her. “I said
almost
.” He pulled onto the 282 and started for the blue bridge that linked Coronado proper with San Diego. “So what then? You think he knows Cohen?”

“I doubt it. There's something else. Something eating at him.”

“Cuz if you think he might be tied in, we could get a couple of warrants and search his boat and his condo.”

“We might have trouble with that. We don't have a connection. Not yet, anyway.”

Carmen's cell phone sounded. “Rainmondi.”

“Officer Heywood here, Detective.”

“Found something on the video?”

“Not yet, and I'm doubtful we will, but I'll keep at it. I'm calling to tell you CHP has found Cohen's car.”

Carmen had issued a BOLO shortly after identifying Cohen. There was one out for Doug Lindsey's Volkswagen Beetle, too. The “be on the lookout” went to all law enforcement organizations.

“Where?”

“Near Temecula.”

Carmen muttered a curse. “Okay, give me the location.” She listened. “Rainbow? That's south of Temecula, right?”

“Yes, it's more a village than a town.”

“You sound like you've been there, Heywood.”

“I broke down there once. It's a long and boring story. I'll let the Chippers know you're on your way. Just so you know, they said there's not much left. It's been stripped.”

“Thanks.”

Bud glanced at Carmen and raised an eyebrow. “Temecula?”

“Yep. Well, Rainbow. Ever heard of it?”

“I have. It's a berg that used to be important back in the days when the old 395 ran by there. The I-15 has pretty much bypassed the place.”

“They found Cohen's car. What's left of it. We got an hour's drive or so, depending on traffic.”

“You know . . .”

Carmen closed her eyes. “Don't tell me. You know a great place to eat in Rainbow.”

“Nope. See? You don't know me as well as you think.” A second later, “It's in Temecula. Mexican place. They have sopaipillas.”

“Do they have beans?”

“Of course.”

“Then we're not going.”

San Diego was in one of its rare moods: northbound traffic was light and the ever-present construction in north county had turned traffic friendly. Returning to the city might be more difficult. Traffic in San Diego was fickle.

Rainbow was a tiny community of two thousand. Most of the homes were World War II era. An old filling station waited just off the side road that joined the I-15 to the community. The buildings looked ready to collapse. Rust covered the metal pole that held a sign that once beckoned travelers to fill up their twenty-gallon tanks so their large V-8s could swill down the juice at twelve miles to the gallon. Carmen could imagine the place and the deserted diner nearby once surrounded by station wagons, Ramblers, and Fords, all with hoods large enough to serve as a landing pad for a helicopter. Only ghosts visited the sites now.