Wounds (25 page)

No one objected. No one would. This was the chief, and he lived and worked in a ratified air.

Carmen finished recounting all they knew. England listened, nodding from time to time as he shoveled food in his mouth with easy, precise movements. A man who wore expensive suits had to learn to eat carefully.

When she finished, England set down his spoon and dabbed at his brow, removing the spice-induced perspiration. “Your man is smart. Methodical. Has a hidden purpose. Wants to be noticed. He might even want to be caught, but under his own terms. Does that sound right?”

“Yes,” Carmen said. “He seems to avoid any place with a security camera. That means he scopes out his drop spots ahead of time.”

“All the injuries occurred before death?”

“The ME says so.”

“So he's sadistic. Smart and sadistic. That's the worst. Stupid and sadistic is easy to solve. You've got nothing on video?”

Heywood answered. “I've been working that with a couple of the techs, sir, and I've come up empty. Somehow he evaded cameras in Balboa Park. That was our best opportunity. Some of the museums have security cameras, but I came up with zilch. Since he stays on surface streets, the Cal Trans cameras have been of no use.”

England shook his head and stared at his stew as if an answer would bubble to the surface. “What drives this guy? Any indication of male rape or mutilation?”

“None,” Bud said. “The ME was specific about that. None of the wounds were sexual in nature.”

“And every death is different? Every body found in a different part of the city? Any idea how he's abducting the victims?”

“No, sir. With the Lindsey kid, we know a Taser-like device was used. We haven't found that to be true on the other victims.”

“The guy knows the system,” the chief said. “He kills in one place then dumps the body elsewhere, yet he's careful enough to make sure there's no trace on the body that can lead to his killing location. All the bodies were bound?”

“Yes, and strung up by the wrists,” Carmen answered. “Well, all but Bob Wilton, who died from a GSW to the head.”

The chief swore, then apologized to Carmen. He was an old-style gentleman. Clearly he'd never heard Carmen when she was angry. She could curse the leaves off a tree.

“So he has a killing field. Were they gagged?”

Carmen hadn't thought of that. She had studied the photos of the bodies enough to be able to call them to mind in vivid detail. “No. I haven't seen any indications of that, nor has the ME called it to our attention.” She looked at Hector.

“No on my guy.”

The chief sat silently for a moment. He was known to be a special kind of genius, the kind of smarts that allowed him to process information that would overwhelm lesser humans. “Ask the ME to check that. If he tortured his victims but didn't gag them, then you'd have to assume he has some place in an outlying area where a scream wouldn't draw attention.”

How stupid could she be? England said it with such calm assurance that it seemed a fact before he had finished the statement. Of course, no one had an idea where that might be.

“There's meaning in all of this, people. Serial killers usually kill in the same fashion. It's what they practice; a skill they hone. Jack the Ripper didn't use a knife one time and a gun the next. So why is the guy doing things the way he is? What does he want the world to see? To notice? No one goes through this much trouble unless he has a need to be noticed or a cause to promote. You say there is only the one note?”

Carmen answered. “Yes, sir.”

England pursed his lips. “The way he hides trace evidence . . . This guy has been working on this for a long time, planning, prepping, and if we don't catch him soon, he'll do it again and again until we figure out what his message is.”

“If so, sir, then he's bound to make a mistake somewhere along the line.”

“Don't bet on it, Detective. Even if what you say is true, he might not drop the ball until several more are dead. We can't allow that.”

“Yes, sir.” Carmen tried to imagine the pressure the man was under.

“What about the bullet used to kill . . .”

“Wilton, sir. Bob Wilton.”

“Wilton.” He said it as if filing the name in his mind. “Any good news on the bullet front?”

Carmen sighed. “Not much, sir. It was a small caliber and a head shot. It blew out the skull before expending its energy and lodged in the interior door panel. The slug is highly deformed. Based on weight we make it out to be .25 calibre. Ballistics was able to get enough information on striation to make us think it's from an older Walther PP series. PPK maybe.”

“James Bond special. Database match?”

“No. We ran it, but it was pretty much munched. A soft tissue shot would have been better, but such a small bullet, at such close range and passing through bone then ricocheting around . . . Disappointing. We're still working it.”

The chief took another bite of his stew but did so as if in slow motion. He put his spoon down. “You told me you assume he's a big man.”

“Yes, sir. Based on the size of the bruising, the damage done by the beating, and the force necessary to kill a man by punching.”

“Big man, small gun. Why?”

No one answered, so England offered an idea. “Small bullets deform more easily. Also a small gun means what?”

“The need for a close shot,” Carmen said.

The chief nodded slowly. “So . . .”

“He likes to be close when he kills,” Bud offered.

“Yes, yes, I think that's true.” England poked at his stew, seemingly lost in thought. “It fits, doesn't it? The guy is smart. Did he know that Wilton would be with Lindsey? If he did but didn't want Lindsey, then he knew he'd have to off the witness. He'd be worried about a traceable slug. A small round in the head would deform just as you described it. Did you find the shell or gun?”

“No, sir.” Carmen's mind was racing. “We had a team of divers search the lake. No gun there.”

“Wise. No, he'd take it with him. Dispose of it later. Or keep it if he's confident the slug can't be traced. If it's never been used in a crime, then the round won't match any of the databases.”

“That's my thinking, Chief.” Carmen hated agreeing. Life was much easier when the murderer was stupid. A highly intelligent killer was a different ballgame.

And not a good one.

The chief folded his napkin and set it on the table. “Okay, I appreciate the challenge before you. Let me know how I can help. I need to let you know this: There's a good chance I'll be doing a press conference tomorrow. If I know our mayor, he's going to insist on it. Think of it as a preventative media strike. I can't give you an exact time yet, but think about midafternoon tomorrow. Captain Simmons, I want you there.”

“Yes, sir,” the captain said.

“You, too, Detective Rainmondi.”

“Sir, I'm not all that great with the media.”

“No problem, Detective. You have all night and a good hunk of tomorrow to become an expert.” He smiled.

Carmen didn't feel the humor. “Yes, sir.”

“I want you to think about how the public might help.” He motioned to Jimmy Chen, who stood just outside the back room. He approached. “Yes, chief?”

“I forgot to ask about your family. Everyone well?”

“Yes, sir. Doing great.”

“Wonderful. Good to hear. Could you bring me the check, Jimmy?”

“What check?”

“For the meal. I promised to pay.”

Jimmy grinned. “I don't know what you're talking about, Chief? What meal?”

England laughed. “Thanks, Jimmy. You're the best.”

“My pleasure.”

Jimmy slipped away, and Chief England rose, removed his wallet, and withdrew a hundred that he tossed on the table.

“The least I can do is leave a good tip.” England thanked them and walked away. Carmen could hear him chatting it up with the off-duty cops out front.

Carmen looked around the table. “Did we just get schooled?”

“Yep,” Bud said. “We got schooled big time.”

The
Blushing Bride
shifted on its anchor, pushed by a breeze. Ellis Poe adjusted his cheap beach chair on the tiny front deck so he could stare east at the skyline of San Diego. Few things were as beautiful as the lights of buildings on the water of the bay. One America Plaza, Harbor Club West, Pinnacle Marina West and East Towers, the Marriott Hotel and Marina, with it's curved buildings designed to look like sails, and a dozen or more other tall buildings cast white and colored lights onto the undulating water. At night, the already stunning skyline took on an eerie beauty.

As was his custom when he stayed on the small boat, Poe had spent hours staring at the sight.

Other cities had taller buildings, but all buildings in downtown San Diego had a 500-foot limit because of their proximity to the San Diego International Airport. The height restriction did nothing to stem the creativity of the architects and builders. No matter how many times he saw the sun surrender the night to the skyline, he was impressed and hoped he always would be.

There was another building that could be seen in the skyline: the Metropolitan Correctional Center, a mid-rise prison run by the Department of Prisons. The joke in the city was that it was the only federal pen with an ocean view.

He wondered what the view was like.

If he followed the course he was considering taking, he just might find out.

27

H
er cell phone buzzed and chimed. Carmen had been dreaming, and her dream incorporated the sound. She was a young teenager at home, trying to pick up the receiver of the family's rotary-dial phone. No fancy push-button phones for them, her dad had decreed. “These work just fine.” Except this one didn't work. Someone had glued the hand-piece to the body of the phone.

Something else was wrong. Their phone rang when someone called. This phone was buzzing like an angry bee and emitting some kind of electronic tone.

“Answer it, Carmen.” Shelly was always so impatient.

“I can't, stupid. It's stuck.” Carmen tugged at the handset again. Nothing. Not only would it not come out of the cradle, but the body of the phone seemed attached to the table. If this was a joke, she didn't like it.

“You are so lame. Here, let me.”

Carmen could feel Shelly step near to her back. A hand reached around her and took hold of the handset.

A skeletal hand.

Fleshless.

Bright white bones.

Carmen screamed and pulled away. She would have been better off had she not looked. Shelly looked at her as if her older sister had lost her mind. She smiled, but since she had only half a face, it didn't work well. A half-smile was more a grimace.

The receiver lifted easily in the boney hand, and Shelly placed it to her skull. “Hello.” Another fifty-percent smile. “It's for you, dumdum.”

Carmen's knees went hollow. Her heart scrabbled about in her chest like an animal that had gnawed its way to freedom. Her bladder felt ready to let go of its contents. She wobbled back a step.

“It's the police station,” Shelly said through the corner of her mouth that had lips. “Don't you want to talk to them?” She held out the phone. A bit of flesh dangled from her wrist . . .

Carmen was out of bed before she knew she had moved.

A light on the nightstand thinned the darkness—the light from her smartphone. She snapped it up. “What?”

A tentative voice. “Detective Rainmondi?”

The words on the caller ID sank in. She was talking to someone from dispatch.

“Yes. Sorry. I was sleeping. Dreaming. Never mind. What's up?” She listened. Memorizing the information as she turned and sat on the edge of the bed. The sheets were wet. She had been sweating. “Understood. I need you to make a few calls . . .”

She ended the call, set the phone down, and rubbed her face. “Someone make it stop.”

Then she realized fate had made her the “someone.”

The clock on the nightstand read 4:03.