Wounds (7 page)

That was an odd phrase.

“How long . . . I mean . . . before the body is moved?”

“It will be a little while, Rabbi. Sorry. We can't move the body until we have the whole scene photographed, searched, and documented.”

“I was hoping to get the family out for a while. You know, put some distance between them and”—he motioned to the front yard—“that.”

“I understand.” Bud shifted in his chair. “Is there a back door? Another way to the street?”

“No. There's a fence all the way around the property.”

“I see. Well, we will be as fast as we can, but it will take some time before we can release the scene. I wish we could do more.”

“You've been very kind, Detective. Please let me know once the coroner arrives.”

“Medical examiner,” Bud corrected. “Of course. I have a few more questions, sir. Have you or the people at your synagogue experienced hate crimes of late?”

Again, Singer shook his head. “No, the neighborhood is very respectable. Oh sure, occasionally we hear a slur or there will be a bit of graffiti, but nothing serious. Why do you ask?”

Before Bud could answer, a light went on in the rabbi's mind. Carmen could almost see his eyes glowing.

“Wait. Are you saying . . . the victim is a Jew?” His blinking increased and his jaw went slack.

“We found identification on the victim. Do you know a David Cohen?”

“
Baruch dayan emet
.” Rabbi Singer pushed back from the table. His hands shook.

“Excuse me?” Bud leaned over the table as if his gaze could fix Singer to his chair.

“It can't be. Not David.”

He pronounced the name “
Da-veed
.”

“So you know him?”

“Yes, David is our cantor.”

“Cantor? What's a cantor?”

“It's a position in the synagogue. A cantor leads the congregation and music. I-I must go to the body.” He stood.

“Wait a minute, Rabbi. We're not quite done.”

“Naomi!” Singer's voice roared through the house.

Bud was on his feet and standing between the rabbi and the front door before Carmen could scoot her chair back. “Rabbi, just wait. We don't know it's the same person. David Cohen is a common name.”

Singer, who had been slack-jawed and pale a moment before stood with teeth clinched and red-faced. “In
this
neighborhood? Near our synagogue? On my property?”

Naomi appeared in the living room without the children. “What? What is it?”

“Call the
chevra kadisha
.”

“Oh no.” She raised her hands to her mouth.

“David Cohen. David . . .” The rest of the words failed to launch.

“
Baruch dayan emet
.”

What
did that mean?

Singer spun to face Bud. “I must stay with the body.”

“I can't let you do that, sir.”

“You can't stop me.”

Bud stiffened. “Actually—”

“Bud!” Carmen stood, then approached the two. “Rabbi, you may stay near the body, but you may not touch it, or interfere with our team. Is that clear?”

“There are traditions to be upheld.”

“Sir . . .” Carmen lowered her voice. “Rabbi, you can do nothing for the man from a holding cell. I know your traditions are important, but so is catching the person or persons who did this. Do you agree?”

“Yes, but we must prepare his body for burial.”

Carmen didn't break eye contact. “Rabbi, there will be an autopsy.”

“We bury as soon as possible. Usually within a day.”

“Not this time, Rabbi. You must let us do our work. We'll do our best to accommodate your beliefs, but some things are not negotiable. Clear?”

He said yes but didn't seem happy about it. Naomi had come to his side. Carmen let a few moments pass then looked to Bud. “Let's get a uniform to stand with the rabbi so he doesn't accidentally contaminate the scene or interfere with chain of evidence. How's that sound?”

“Fine by me.” Tock said.

“You okay with that, Rabbi?” Carmen smiled.

“Yes, I'm sorry. I'm just in shock.”

“Who wouldn't be? We'll make sure you can stay near the body, but we have to be careful about our investigation. Understood?”

“Yes.” He stepped to a bookcase and removed a black book. “Can we go now?”

“Sure.” Carmen addressed Bud. “I'll be out in a second.”

“Gotcha.”

Once the men had left, Carmen had a question for Naomi. “What was that you said?”

“What I said?”

“Yes. Your husband said it too. Said it when he learned the victim was Jewish. “
Baruch
something something.”

“
Baruch dayan emet
. It means, ‘Blessed be the one true Judge.' It's something Jews say when they hear about the death of another Jew.”

With that, Naomi broke into tears. Carmen had seen such sorrow many times.

It never got easy.

8

C
armen left the rabbi's wife to comfort her children who had, as only children can do, adopted the grief of their parents. Seeing one's mother in tears was unsettling no matter the age of the child. The rabbi's children were very young, unable to understand what had happened, but they knew their mother was beside herself.

As Carmen exited the house she heard the little girl say, “Don't cry, Mommy. It will be okay.”

Carmen wished that were true. Such violence committed on the doorstep left wounds that never healed. Carmen knew that for a fact. Tunnel vision was a horrible thing for the eyes, but it could do a world of good for the mind. Focus on the work. Block out anything not related to the investigation. Facts. Evidence. Logic. Careful procedures. Those things mattered. Everything else was a distraction. Think like a laser, not a spotlight. That was her philosophy.

Pity it seldom worked.

Before the door closed behind her, images of her own mother's hysterical weeping washed forward in her mind. A uniformed officer had come to their door late in the night to deliver the news of the tragic auto accident. He looked suitably sad, expressed his regret at the news, and said detectives would be by to ask questions.

The officer left.

The night darkened. Carmen's mother went from weeping in the front yard to screaming. It took Carmen and her father fifteen minutes to get her back into the house. She cried for a full week. Shelly had died on Clairemont Mesa Boulevard; Carmen's mom died that night in a small home in East Clairemont. Not physically. She lived many years longer, but her heart, her spirit, perished that night.

It took a moment for Carmen to realize she had stopped walking. The buzz of a gathering crowd, the drone of slow-moving traffic on a busy College Avenue, a blend of voices hung about her head, waiting for attention.

She raised her eyes and took in the scene. Two uniformed officers stood just on the other side of the yellow police ribbon. A small crowd had gathered, and she recognized reporters from a local radio news station and two television stations. The officers stood tall with shoulders back, beefed up by their bulletproof vests, which made them look thicker and more powerful than they were.

Bud was leaning over the body again. The rabbi stood near by, never moving from the spot Bud had assigned him. No doubt Bud had made it clear that a few careless steps could ruin an investigation and therefore a prosecution. Carmen started Bud's direction but stopped when she saw motion at the barricade. A tall, dapper man in a dark gray suit was pushing through the crowd. He stopped and spoke to the uniforms. Hanging from the man's suit coat pocket was a SDPD badge. He smiled and one of the officers chuckled. Then the unthinkable happened: the man stepped to the yellow tape and lifted it. He was about to enter the crime scene.

“Hold it, Chief!” Carmen raised her voice enough to stop Assistant Police Chief Barry “Butch” Claymore in his tracks.

Carmen hustled his way, doing her best to show no emotion. The emotion she felt, she didn't want to express to the force's newest assistant police chief.

“Morning, Detective Rainmondi.” At least he knew her name. She wasn't sure that was a good thing.

“Good morning Assistant Chief. How may I help you?”

“Just doing my job, Detective. Word is spreading about the—let's call it
unique situation
—of the murder. I thought I'd take a quick look.” He reached for the barricade again. Carmen stepped in front of him. The two patrolmen moved a few steps to the side, no doubt putting distance between them and what might become a war.

“I'm sorry, Chief, but protocol demands I limit the number of people trafficking the scene.”

His smile dissolved. “Do I need to remind you that I outrank you, Detective?”

“No, sir. I congratulate you on your promotion. I'm certain your leadership will be a big boost to the department.”

“Are you being sarcastic, Rainmondi?”

“No, sir. I just can't let you on the scene. Rank has nothing to do with it. Protecting the evidence on scene does.”

“I've been a cop for twenty-five years, Rainmondi. I know how a crime scene works. I spent many years as a detective.”

“Yes, sir. Your personnel jacket is full of awards. I read your bio when you were promoted, but . . .”

“But what, Detective?”

This is where it could all go south. “Forgive me, sir, but you didn't come up through homicide.”

“What difference does that make? Never mind, step aside.”

“I'm sorry, sir, but I can't.”

“Now I know why they call you the Ice Queen.” He lifted the barricade and started to duck beneath it.

“Hello, Chief.” The voice came from an ebony-skinned man about Carmen's age who sported a shiny head and the build of a redwood tree. He wore a blue suit that must have cost a good two hundred bucks less than the one Claymore wore.

“Finally, someone with a lick of sense. Your detective seems to think I'm too stupid to know how to treat a crime scene. You may want to think about having a disciplinary talk with her.”

Captain Ulysses Darrel Simmons was Carmen's immediate superior. He was a by-the-book man who spoke with a James Earl Jones voice. No one called him Ulysses. Ever. It was Darrel or Simmons or Captain. Uttering the “U” name could lead to the dirtiest duty in homicide.

“She's doing her job, Chief. If she had let you in, I would have kicked her fanny all the way to the Mexican border.”

“Don't tell me I need to remind >
you
of my position—”

“Let's not go there, Chief. Every year, guys like me have to explain why some other cop contaminated a scene. I'm sure you know your way around an investigation, sir, but I drill the principles of scene discipline into my people. If they screw up, they pay for it big time.”

“I told Rainmondi I could have her badge. I can have yours, too.”

“With all due respect, sir, I don't think you can. If you want to follow that course of action, you are free to do so, but we can't let you in. If it's any comfort to you, I spend more time on this side of the barricade than on that side. At least until the detectives declare it clear.”

“Maybe I should talk to the chief.” Claymore's face had grown another shade of red.

“Certainly, sir, but just so you know, I have kept him off scenes, too.”

Claymore sighed loudly. “When will it be clear?”

Captain Simmons made eye contact with Carmen.

“It's gonna be a while, sir. Detective Tock and I have to finish our first examination. The techs are just getting started. Once they're done, then you can look around.”

Claymore opened his mouth to speak but closed it a moment later. Without a word, he turned and left.

Carmen forced a smile. “So should I polish my resume?”

“Nah. He's just trying on his big-boy pants. If he complains, the chief will smack him down a notch. Trust me, he knows how to do that.”

Carmen had heard about Captain Simmons's toe-to-toe with the chief. The rest of the details were kept between the two men.

“Thanks for bailing me out. I was pretty sure he would knock me down to make his point.”

Simmons shook his head. “He's a bit annoying at times, but he's a good cop. He's also a good politician. Knocking a fellow officer down would look bad. Besides, I'm not sure he could pull it off.” He looked into the yard. “Whatcha got?”

“White male. Clothed. Bud found the man's wallet. Name is David Cohen.”

“COD?”

“Unofficially, cause of death is beating. He's been worked big time. Of course, we'll let the ME pin it down.”

“Whose the civilian?” He nodded to the rabbi.

“Rabbi Joel Singer. The vic was his cantor. A cantor is—”

“I know what a cantor is. What's your take on him?”

Carmen shrugged. “Grief seems genuine. His first concern was to be with the body.”

“Jews like to do that. Grew up on a street with several Jewish families. Always treated me good. I assume the uniform is there to keep the man in one place.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I also assume you explained that his friend won't be buried right away.”

“Yes, he seems to understand. Doesn't like it, but he understands.”

Simmons put his hands into this pants pockets. “Look, I know you already have a fresh case, but the flu is going around. We're down several detectives. Since you and Bud have got things underway . . .”

“We'll take it, Cap. No problem.”
Sleep is for the weak
.

“Right. No problem. I'll help as much as I can. Whatcha need?”

“You could have someone run down the info for the vic. Address. Place of work. You know the drill. I also need these people moved back a few blocks. We think he was dumped here. If so, then we don't have the event scene. The perp may have left clues on the street or sidewalk. Unfortunately, the place is well traveled. Maybe trace can narrow it down for us.”