Wounds (28 page)

“Okay, Dr. Poe. I'm kinda busy. What can I do for you?”

He looked at the table, then at his hand. “You remember when you came to my office. I mean, after the funeral. You know, at the seminary.”

What had happened to the professor? “Yeah, I already said I remember. It wasn't all that long ago.”

“Well, I know that. I mean . . .” He sighed. “I know you have a lot on your plate.” He glanced at her, but only a glance. “These horrible murders. I-I don't know how you do it. I mean . . .” He looked up to the wall Carmen had attached photos and fact cards to.

He stopped talking.

For a moment, she thought he had stopped breathing.

“Is . . . that . . .” She saw him looking at the photos to the left of the time line—the place where the photos of his student had been mounted. One of the photos showed the damaged skin made by the dough docker.

Carmen, you're an idiot. You shouldn't have brought the poor man in here.
“Yes. That's Doug Lindsey.” She stood. “Let me find another room. I wasn't thinking when I brought you here. I've spent so much time in here and . . . Doesn't matter. Come on, I'll find a better place for us.”

“Wait.” He rose and walked to the wall and studied Lindsey's set of photos. He then looked down the line. “Five murders?”

“Yes. You didn't see the news or read about the other cases?”

“I never watch the news. Too depressing.” He moved to the next column and gazed at the corpse of Wilton, who had spent a week submerged in Lake Murray. He seemed to shrink a few inches. “Shot?”

She wasn't sure if it was a question or a statement. The answer was obvious. There was a sizable hole in the kid's head.

He moved to the next column and looked at the battered body of Cohen. He raised a trembling hand and touched the image. “Beaten?”

“Yes.”

“By hand?”

“Yes, but . . .” Carmen didn't know how to finish the sentence.

Ellis Poe moved to the next photo, that of a man with long marks over his body. He pointed at one of the stripes, opened his mouth. No words came out, leaving his expression to ask the question on his mind.

“Wood dowel. We found bits of wood in some of the wounds.”

The scholar's face blanched, but he turned to the last set of photos in a column shorter than the others. He gazed at the image of the naked man tied to a tree with strips of purple cloth, including one around the dead man's throat.

Carmen didn't wait for a question. Her guest was seeing something she wasn't. “Found yesterday. Strangled. Still waiting on the ME report, but we believe he was choked to death.”

Poe staggered back from the wall and steadied himself with one of the chairs. “Jesus!”

“It's shocking, all right.”

“No . . . I . . .” He went milk-white. “I'm going to be sick. Bathroom. Quick! Bathroom!”

Carmen was at the door before Poe could finish the sentence. No way did she want him puking in her case room. “Down the hall a few steps. On the left—”

Poe was on the move, bolting through the door, into the hall, and into the restroom. Carmen let a few moments pass, then followed, entering the same lavatory. He was in the first stall, his face deep in the toilet bowl, vomiting from the toes up. She ignored the sound and the smell. When it seemed the violent stomach purge was over, she pulled a few pieces of paper hand towel from a dispenser then handed them to the white-faced scholar.

He reached to flush the handle, then transitioned from his knees to sitting on the tile floor. Carmen drew another paper towel, wet it, and handed it to Poe. A little color had returned to his face.

“Thank you.” Then his eyes widened. “Should you be in the men's restroom?”

Before she could answer, someone entered and paused by Carmen. The woman—small, thin, with dark hair—looked at her. “Everything okay in here, Detective?”

“Yep. Just peachy.”

The dark-haired woman nodded, then motioned down the bank of stalls. “Um, do you guys mind?”

“Go ahead. Knock yourself out.”

“I won't be long.”

Carmen smiled. “Don't rush on our account.”

Poe leaned his head back until it rested against the stall divider. “I didn't think a man could embarrass himself in two ways simultaneously.” He wiped his mouth again. “I guess the lack of urinals should have been a clue.”

“True, well that and the blue placard with the stick figure in a dress and the sign that says WOMEN might have given it away.”

“Sorry. I didn't think to check.”

“Don't apologize. At least you didn't toss your cookies in my room.”

He smiled. “A small victory.”

A toilet flushed and the dark-haired woman reappeared. She looked at Carmen, then Poe. “Sure you're okay, Detective?”

“Yep. My friend here just made a wrong turn in the heat of the moment.”

The woman shrugged again and exited the bathroom.

“Jesus.” Poe stared at the opposite wall.

“Now you see, that surprises me. I didn't think guys like you said things like that. I mean, isn't that some kinda blasphemy or taking God's name in vain?”

“What?” His eyes widened then filled with understanding. “I see. No, I'm not swearing. I'm being literal.” He struggled to his feet, wobbled, then found his balance.

“I don't understand.”

“You're looking for a link, right? I mean, the wall is organized like someone looking for connections.”

“So?”

“Jesus is the connection.”

She frowned. “Dr. Poe, I'm not looking for a sermon—”

“No, you're looking for a killer, and Jesus is your answer. Really. He's the link.”

Carmen stared at the wobbly man in the stall of the women's restroom. More color returned to his cheeks. Suspicion became Carmen's dominant emotion. She had dealt with her share of religious wackos on the street—from apocalyptic sign-carrying wanderers announcing the end of the world and then asking for a handout to preachers caught fleecing the flock or becoming too intimate with underage parishioners. Was she looking at another nut case?

Her doubt must have been obvious.

“I know it sounds strange, maybe even impossible.” Poe rubbed his forehead and took a deep breath then let it out. His breath smelled sour. “Just let me talk it through, then you can toss me out on my ear.”

“It won't be your ear, Dr. Poe.” She crossed her arms. “Are you sure you're done in here?”

“Yes, I was just a little taken aback. I-I'm fine now. I think.”

A tall blonde walked into the restroom and paused. “Are—”

“We're good. Thanks.”

“Um . . .”

“We're leaving. Come on, Doc.” Carmen heard the woman sigh with relief.

Back in the case room, Carmen stood on the wall opposite her time line and watched Ellis Poe work his way through the photos again and read the notes. He mumbled as he did. Ten minutes later he turned and stared at her. “I'm even more convinced, but I need to ask a few questions.”

Carmen held up a finger and moved to the phone on the conference table. She punched in a number. “Bud, I'm in the case room. Get your fanny in here. Oh, and grab Joe. Hector still out?”

“Yes. What's up?”

“A spasm of genius, or maybe just a spasm. I want you to hear something.” She hung up, then decided to make another call. Before she entered the numbers she glared at Poe. “You had better be onto something, Doc, because I'm about to put my reputation on the line. Would you risk your reputation on your idea?”

“I'm already doing that. Right?”

Carmen didn't answer. She punched in another button. “Hey, Cap. If you have a few minutes, there's something I want you to hear in the case room . . .”

30

E
llis Poe had come to the station for a one-on-one confession. But that intent had tumbled to the back of his mind. Now he was facing the captain of the homicide division, two detectives, and someone introduced as
Officer
Joe Heywood. He didn't know the difference in police ranking and didn't much care. His heart was doing gymnastics, his stomach churned, and his palms were moist. He also felt light-headed, as if helium filled his cranium instead of brains.

The homicide team sat. Captain Simmons, whom he was told was doing overtime on Sunday like the rest of them, was well dressed and looked trim in a suit Ellis couldn't afford. Heywood looked like his father might have been a Buick.

Carmen settled in her chair and brought the others up to speed. “Dr. Poe thinks Jesus is the link in our case.”

“Jesus?” Simmons stared at her. “
The
Jesus? The Son-of-God Jesus?” He looked liked a man trying to understand the punch line to an arcane joke.

“I think that's what he means, Cap.” Carmen faced Ellis. “That is the Jesus you mean, right?”

“Yes. Of course . . . Look, I know it sounds crazy, but I haven't lost my mind. Not yet anyway. If you'll bear with me while I ask a few questions, I can then present a cogent response.”

“Cogent?” Carmen arched a brow.

Heywood jumped in. “It means logical, clear, orderly—”

“I know what it means, Joe.” Carmen frowned. “Okay, let's not waste the captain's time. Ask away.”

“First, I confess I haven't been following the news, so I may be missing some information.”

“Not so much, Doc,” Bud said. “We've kept most of the details out of the media.”

“Okay. Well. Um.” Poe sighed, thought for a moment.
This is a chance to do something good for a change. Get to it.
He cleared his throat and straightened, as if he were about to lecture one of his classes. He pointed at one of the photos of Doug Lindsey. “I know his body was found in Balboa Park. This is the Botanical Building. Am I right?”

“Yes.” It was clear Carmen was going to be the spokesperson for the group. “He was found outside of the building.”

“Doesn't matter. The building is significant, but so is the whole park.” Ellis tapped a close-up photo of the puncture wounds. “He died from these . . . perforations?”

“No, he died from anaphylactic shock. He was allergic to latex.”

The information felt like a punch, but Ellis pushed on. “He died by accident?”

“We believe the murderer would have killed him, but the kid died before he could. In case you're wondering, it still counts as murder.”

Ellis rubbed his chin and looked at the photos. “Many of the wounds bled so the injuries . . .”

“It was torture.” Carmen stated that face with a calm Ellis envied.

He moved to the next column. “This victim doesn't seem to fit. This is the only thing I'm confused about.”

“His name is Wilton. He was with your student when he was abducted.”

Ellis scratched the back of his neck. “So he's an anomaly. Someone who was in the way. Is that right?”

“We think so.”

“I see.” Ellis moved to the next column and pointed at a card beneath one of the photos. “Victim's name is Cohen. I see a note here that he was found at the home of Rabbi Singer. Jewish.”

“Most rabbis are, Dr. Poe.”

Ellis ignored the jab. “Beaten to death?”

“Yes.”

“With an object or by someone's hands?”

“We covered that earlier. He was pummeled.”

“I see. That makes sense.” Again, he moved down the line.

“How?” Bud sounded impatient.

“Please bear with me. My statement won't make sense until I lay the foundation. Forgive me, but it's how academicians think.” Next victim's column. He looked at Carmen. “You said these marks came from a beating with wood dowels.”

“The ME thinks so. I said bits of wood were found in some of the wounds. Trace identified it as the kind of wood used to make dowels, so the supposition fits.”

“Where was the body found?”

“Near Miramar. There is a set of old barracks on the east side of the freeway.”

Ellis was feeling sick again. His initial hypothesis was holding up, and it was unsettling. He moved to the fourth victim. “This column has fewer notations than the others.”

“That's because the body was found just yesterday. Crown Point.” Carmen leaned on the table. “That part of the investigation is just starting.”

“He was found tied to a tree? With purple cloth?”

“Just as you see in the photo, Doc.

“Is there a Jewish home nearby? A large home.”

“What's that got to do with anything?” Bud was growing increasingly fed up.

“Yes.”

At Officer Heywood's answer, the others looked at him.

He shrugged. “I helped with the canvassing. I noticed a mezuzah on the door frame on one of the houses. I didn't think anything about it.”

He gazed at Heywood. “Was it a big home? A mansion?”

“It was pretty big. It might be a stretch to call it a mansion, but it was one of the largest homes on the street. Houses along there aren't especially large. This one stood out.”

“You noticed a what on the door frame?” Simmons asked.

Ellis answered. “Mezuzah. It's a small container with a bit of Hebrew Scripture in it. Practicing Jews mount them to the doorposts of their homes. They're being obedient to a couple of passages in the Old Testament. Deuteronomy 6:9 and 11:20, if memory serves. God commands the people to keep His word before them at all times, even to the point of binding it to their doorposts and at times to wear phylacteries—small boxes holding bits of Scripture. The word
mezuzah
used to refer to the doorpost. It's an ancient practice. An admirable one.”

“I'm not following you.” Carmen's brow was furrowed. “So what if some religious Jew puts up one of these things. San Diego has many Jews. There's got to be thousands of these things.”