Wounds (37 page)

Ellis nodded. “That's my conjecture.”

“Who?”

“I don't see how we can . . .” He paused; an idea was inching forward in his mind. “So far the killer has been fairly close to the biblical account. Not completely accurate. I don't think that's his purpose. Still, he's done some research on his victims.”

“More than that, he's been able to avoid surveillance cameras, not leave behind trace evidence. The guy might not be an intellectual giant, but he is a thinker, at the very least, a schemer.”

Ellis stood and walked to the whiteboard, standing next to Heywood. “Two columns. Let's start with the obvious.” Ellis wrote
Jesus
near the top left of the whiteboard with one of the markers.

Heywood got the idea and wrote
Perp
.

“No, not perp.” Ellis rolled the marker over in his hand. “The killer isn't matching himself to Jesus . . . but he might be matching himself with the ultimate victim.”

“Got it.” Heywood erased his first title and replaced it with
Target
. The term made Ellis uncomfortable.

Ellis wrote,
Jesus, Yeshua, Joshua
in a line then pointed at each one. “
Jesus
is the New Testament name, His Greek name.
Yeshua
is His name in Hebrew.
Joshua
is the transliteration of Yeshua.”

Heywood wrote a question mark.

Ellis:
Jewish.
Heywood: another question mark.

It took a moment before Ellis continued. What they were doing . . . it didn't feel right. Like they were headed down the wrong road. “Okay. I don't think the killer is being that literal. Jesus was about thirty-three when he was executed, but it would be a mistake to think the target is the same age. We need to be more abstract.”

He stared at the whiteboard. Why couldn't answers just appear? How was he supposed to figure this out? “Okay—” He wrote a list of items in a column.
teacher/rabbi, peripatetic, preacher, healer, associated with sinners, critical of RLs, crowds . . .

“Hang on. Peripatetic?”

Ellis looked at the word. “It means traveling, wandering, itinerate.”

“And RLs?”

“Sorry,” Ellis said. “Religious leaders.”

“Got it.”

Ellis stepped back, stood for a moment, then began to pace. He reached the far end of the room and stared at the column. “In your column write ‘pastor' in line with ‘teacher.'” Heywood did. He also wrote
traveling
across from
peripatetic
. “What about preacher?”

“Evangelist. That works with traveling—” He fell silent and lowered his head in prayerful thought. “Could that be it? An evangelist. There are hundreds of them.”

“Any well-known ones coming to town?” Heywood asked.

“I don't know. I don't follow that kind of news. I'm the ivory-tower type. However . . .” He sat at the computer. “I'm doing a search for evangelists and San Diego.” His heart sank. “Nothing. Best I can tell, there are no revivals or crusades in the city any time soon.”

“Outside the city?”

“Maybe. Checking. I'm going to try crusades and revivals, California.” He began typing. “There are three in the next thirty days: Fresno, San Francisco, and Los Angeles.”

“L.A. is close. Less that two hours.”

Ellis nodded. “But why do his killing in San Diego if the final target is in L.A.? I'm looking at the evangelist's schedule. He's busy. Six crusades in six months. That's a lot. Still, L.A. is the closest, and it just might fit the pattern.” Ellis sighed. “We don't even know if our supposition is valid.”

“It's all we have at the moment. We're looking for connections. So far, it's all been connected to—”

“What?” Ellis straightened. Could it be . . .

Heywood frowned. “I said we're looking for connections—”

Ellis stood, his mind spinning like the blade in a blender. “Connections. I wonder . . .”

He sat down again and pounded on the keyboard. “Daniel—a Jewish name; Templeton—Temple, the structure central to ancient Judaism. Here it is; he has a bio at his website: ‘Reverend Dr. Daniel Templeton started his ministry in a small church, where his speaking skills were immediately recognized. In just a few years he became a much sought-after speaker. Full-time evangelism was the natural outcome. For more than two decades he has traveled the world preaching a solid, uncompromising gospel in crusades that draw tens of thousands each night. His popularity continues to grow. He is the confidante of presidents and world leaders.
Time
magazine dubbed him, “The world's chaplain.”'”

Ellis glanced through the evangelist's Web site. There were photos of him in large churches and in stadiums, with movie stars and power politicos, in foreign countries.

Heywood sat at his computer and did a search of his own. “He's in Wikipedia. ‘Dr. Daniel Joshua Templeton is an evangelical crusade preacher—'”

“His middle name is Joshua?”

“According to this it is.” Heywood looked at the whiteboard. “That part fits, but he's not preaching in San Diego, right?”

Ellis clicked on a link. “They have his schedule posted. L.A., Topeka, Orlando, London. No San Diego . . . I wonder . . .” Ellis was on his feet again, pacing the room.

“What?”

“Let me think. Just give me a second.” He placed his hands behind his back and lowered his head. “Does the bio give a date of birth?”

“Yep, but not a place. He was born in 1966.”

“A year older than I am. Tell me you can access birth records.”

“Not directly, no, but . . . I think I see where you're going. You think he's from San Diego?”

“Yes.”

“Then where he was born doesn't matter. My family moved here when I was three. I was born in Texas. What we want to know is, did he go to school here?”

Ellis closed his eyes, and ideas rolled in like the tide. “We can get phone numbers from school Web sites. They all have them. I'll call Mission Bay High; you take Kearney. We'll keep going until we find something.”

Ten minutes later, Heywood whooped. “Bingo, Doc! Clairemont High School. The school office there checked their files, and a Danny Templeton graduated in 1984.”

“Okay, okay . . . now what? Can you throw your badge around and find out what airline he's flying in on?”

“Yes, but I have a better idea. Let's just call his company. They'll know. Besides, he might not be flying commercial.”

Ellis felt stupid. Of course, that was a better approach. Faster. More direct. He returned to the Templeton Web site and clicked on the “Contact” link, found a number, and read it to Heywood. A moment later:

“Good morning. This is Officer Joe Heywood of the San Diego Police Department.” He gave his badge number and asked to speak to someone about “the Reverend's travel schedule.” There was a pause, then, “I understand your suspicion and commend you for being cautious. Are you able to put me on hold?” He listened. “Great. Please do so and call the San Diego Police Department Headquarters on Broadway. You'll need to know its on Broadway, since we have quite a few stations. I can give you the number or you can look it up online if you wish.” Another pause. “Yes, I'll hold.”

Heywood looked at Ellis. “She's a cautious one.”

“That makes her smart in my book.”

Heywood nodded. Minutes passed, then Heywood signaled that the woman on the other end of the line was back on.

“When? Thank you. No ma'am. We think he might be able to help us with something. That's all I can say.” He hung up. Before he could speak, the door to the case room opened. Captain Simmons walked in.

“I just got the strangest phone call from some lady in Chicago, and it was about you, Joe.”

“Sit down, Cap. We need to talk, and talk fast.” Heywood turned to Ellis. “He's already landed. Came in yesterday.”

38

D
octor Norman Shuffler looked like a man who had just finished a quick walk across the country. His shoulders slumped; his back was bent; dark bands of flesh accented the space beneath his eyes. Carmen felt bad for him; she felt bad for herself. Her last look in the mirror told her she didn't look much better.

It wasn't death that bothered the ME. He had said as much. It was the manner of death. This from a guy who spent his days cutting open bodies. His eyes lingered on the twisted band of razor wire that rested on a small metal table next to the counter. Nasty, nasty stuff.

Carmen had arrived at the ME's office ready to fight for a quick preliminary autopsy. There had been no fight. Shuffler was waiting to start the moment the corpse was on the metal table. Clearly, he wanted the killer caught as much as Carmen.

She spent ten minutes bringing Shuffler up to date, laying out Dr. Poe's ideas. Shuffler nodded as if he had been thinking the same thing. He hadn't; she was sure he would never sit on an idea. He never had in the past. When she told him about the lipstick connection, he seemed to deflate. “I can't imagine how that has affected you.”

“It's made me more determined to find this piece of trash, and I was fully committed before. Now it's personal.” She wished she could retract the last sentence. It sounded like something from a movie trailer.

Once the body was removed from the body bag, Shuffler stepped close. An aide took photos with a digital camera. Shuffler gave the woman some room but couldn't conceal his impatience. He bounced on the balls of his feet and gazed at the gruesome remains. The victim, unlike most “visitors” to the medical examiner's theater, lay face down, his raw-hamburger-like back awash in light from overhead fixtures.

“He was found prone?”

“Yes.” Carmen stood a step back and to the right side of Shuffler. “We think the killer wanted to display his handiwork.”

“No clothing? No ID?”

“We searched the area. Nothing. We're running his fingerprints.”

Shuffler nodded. “Did your professor have anything to say about that?”

“He said the display fits. Apparently, the Romans would strip the prisoner before breaking out the whip. He said ancient Jews found this especially embarrassing. He said rabbis wore sleeves that reached to their hands and a cloak that reached their ankles. Being stripped in public would be mortifying. He also said the fact the victim was found near roadways might be significant. I guess scourging was a public torture.”

“Unbelievable. I've heard of killers mimicking other murders, but never following biblical history. Sounds like your consultant is a smart man.”

“Whatever.”

Shuffler looked at her as if her emotions were written on her face, but said nothing.

The first part of the preliminary began with Shuffler recording his first impressions of the body. “The victim is a John Doe, found in an exterior environment. Victim is a male of 165 pounds”—the body had been weighed—“five-eleven-and-a-half inches . . .” He continued, estimating time of death based on liver temperature. He studied the body closely. “. . . appears to have endured a scourging . . .” He turned off the recorder. “Your man was alive during the beating. Just like the others. I can't imagine the pain. It takes time to do damage like this. The epidermis is almost completely removed.”

He studied the wounds a little longer, then pulled out a large, lighted magnifying glass. “Hello.” He took a pair of forceps and removed a bit of debris from the raw flesh near the left scapula.

“What is it?”

Shuffler studied it in silence for a few moments, then reached for a small sample jar. “Glass. Looks like ordinary bottle glass. Maybe a little thin for that. Perhaps from a glass tumbler.”

“Poe said the whips the Roman's used had multiple strands embedded with small lead weights, bits of broken pottery, and shards of metal.”

“A cat-of-nine-tails. I've heard of it. Never seen one, and after seeing the damage it does, I never
want
to see one. . . . Hang on. There's something more.” He used the forceps to remove another bit of debris. “Wood?”

Carmen stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Shuffler and peered into the magnifying lens. “Another element in the whip?”

“Maybe, but then again . . .” He pressed his lips together. She could tell he was puzzled. “At first, I thought the red color was blood absorption, but it's not. The wood is red . . . closer to purple.”

“Meaning what?”

He looked at her. “Meaning it is a sliver of purple wood.” He returned his gaze to the sliver. “I think I know what this is.”

“You gonna share your insight?”

“Take a breath, Detective. I'm thinking here, and that requires focus. I'm not a young man anymore.”

“You will always be an Adonis to me, Doc.”

He laughed. “That's why we should marry and sail the oceans on my yacht.”

“Except you don't have a yacht.”

He kept his eyes on the piece of trace. “There is that.”

“And you're married.”

“True, and my wife won't let me date. Go figure.” He placed the sliver in another small glass jar. He looked up and called to a young woman with red hair and freckles. She looked like a high school student, but the creases around her eyes snitched about her age. “Judy, I want to see this under the microscope. Let's start with the stereoscopic.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“There's going to be more.” He leaned closer to the shreds of what had once been a man's back and frowned. “There's particulate matter in the wounds. I'll sample it. It's soaked up a good deal of blood. You know . . .”

Carmen could tell the man had something on his mind. He used a swab with a plastic container that moved up the wood stick. It was similar to the swabs used to take DNA samples. Then he moved his gaze down the man's body. The scourging covered the entire back, the buttocks—a mass of difficult-to-define flesh—and the thighs. The man's calves were untouched. Shuffler studied the undamaged flesh of the lower legs and the bare feet. Again he took samples with a swab. “I'm pretty sure I know what this is: sawdust.”