Wounds

by Alton Gansky

  Hector walked in and looked at the display. “I hate to see a guy like this end up this way.”

  Carmen studied him. “What do you mean?”

  Hector pointed at the display of multicolored ribbons. “These tell a story.” He pointed at a ribbon with several colored vertical stripes of various widths. “He served in Afghanistan.” He pointed at another. “Iraq. This one means he earned a Bronze star. Our vic is a war hero.”

  A war hero. And he died like that? The news made Carmen’s anger boil.

  “It’s the sad thing about war.” Hector sounded heartbroken. “Some go from zero to hero in war, then back to zero when they leave the service. War can make an ordinary man great and a great man something less than ordinary.” He pointed at a medal. “Purple Heart. He was wounded while on duty.”

  Carmen moved to the closet and searched through the man’s clothing. No suits, no uniforms. Just jeans and work shirts, a windbreaker, a sweatshirt, and a few sports caps. No female clothing. The manager’s suggestion was off the beam. Still, that left the question: “Why lipstick?”

  Hector shrugged. “Have you searched for the stick?”

  “Yes. Nothing. He may have flushed it.”

  Hector thought for a moment. “What about other makeup?”

  “You think the manger’s idea the guy was a cross-dresser has merit?”

  Hector shook his head. “Doubtful. Not out of the question, but unless you find a pair of triple-wide size-15 pumps in the closet, I choose not to believe it.”

  Carmen studied the message. “Something’s odd. What’s with the lettering? Every other letter angles a different way.”

  “Beats me . . . Wait, you don’t suppose the guy used both his right and left hands to write it? You know, to throw us off.”

  “Could be. Could be.” There was something else about the message that bothered her.

  “Odd shade.” Hector cocked his head to the side.

  “You an expert on lipstick, Hector?”

  “Expert? No, but I do have a wife and two teenage daughters. Trust me, I know about things I never thought I would.”

  She chuckled. “Okay, Mr. Makeup Artist. What’s wrong with the shade?”

  Hector looked at her. “Shouldn’t that be your area of expertise?”

  “When was the last time you saw me with lipstick on?”

  “Okay, you got me. I don’t think my kids would go out in public with that shade of pink. Well, I take that back. My oldest went to an ’80s party. She wore something like that.”

  “Eighties.” Carmen mulled that over. “I know enough to know you can get just about any color these days, but you’re right. You know, in some ways, it looks familiar.”

  “Shall we talk about the elephant in the room?” Hector eyed Carmen.

  “My name?”

  “That’d be the elephant.”

  “It surprised me at first, but then I remembered the press conference. I was up-front. I’m sure the television folks put my name in the lower third of the screen, and the print media listed me as the lead detective. It’s no surprise that the killer watched or read the reports.”

  “No surprise, eh? Frankly, I expected you to be a little more freaked-out about it.”

  “He taunted us once before.” Carmen turned from the mirror.

  “Not by name he hasn’t. Why do that? Why come back here and write the message?”

  She stopped in the middle of the small living room and gazed at the Spartan furniture, none of it younger than a decade. Even the television was an old CRT style with rabbit-ears. Rabbit ears, of all things. This guy lived on the cheap.

  Carmen organized her thoughts. “The place is clean and orderly. No sign of a struggle. No blood spatter, and we know the vic was beaten. The body showed signs of bleeding from the mouth and nose. I’d expect to see some blood in here. The crime scene techs will make a more thorough check, but I’d be surprised if they find anything. Furniture is in place.” She pointed at the bottom of the sofa. “You can see the feet of the sofa are in the carpet indentation. True for the rest of the furniture. I’m betting Mulvaney was abducted and killed elsewhere.”

  “His truck isn’t in the parking area of the complex. I checked when I went to get the crime-scene tape.”

  “Good. That was next on my list.” She moved through the apartment again. There had to be something. Anything. Some small clue she’d overlooked before.

  The man lived a simple life. His refrigerator held a six-pack of beer, milk, cheese slices, and some lunch meat. One of the kitchen cabinets held a half-dozen cans of Hungry Man soup, and at least a dozen packages of Top Ramen. There were three boxes of off-brand cereal.

  He must have eaten out a lot.

  “Something is missing.” She knew it, just couldn’t pinpoint it. She continued through the apartment once more.

  Hector snapped his fingers. “Fishing gear. Did you find a pole or tackle box?”

  “No.” An idea popped into her mind. She moved to the kitchen and opened the trash can. Fish bones. “He ate what he caught.”

  “A true sportsman.” Hector rocked on his heels, then fixed her with a stare. “I’m just going to say it. I think you need to assign a couple of uniforms for your protection.”

  Seriously? Didn’t he think she could take care of herself? “Nonsense. He got my name from the press conference.”

  “Do you think Captain Simmons will see it that way?”

  “I don’t know, Hector. I seem to know less with every day that passes.”

  “You can stay with me and the family. Two guns are better than one.”

  “Chivalry lives, Hector. Thanks, but I’ll be fine. I’m not part of the killer’s pattern. Besides, having the killer come to me might be easier than chasing him down.”

  “That’s dangerous thinking, Carmen. Real dangerous.”

  “Face it, Hector, this guy has the advantage. He isn’t a few steps ahead of us, he’s miles. We got nothing. No initial crime scene, no DNA, no fingerprints, no trace, no surveillance video, no witnesses, nothing, zip, zilch, nada. Five dead, and all we’ve learned is that he’s replicating scenes from the Bible. That, and he’s smarter than we are.”

  “Still—”

  “Let it go, Hector. I’m not going to do anything stupid.”

  “Wait. The message mentions four victims, not five. Why?”

  Carmen chewed on that for a moment. He doesn’t count Lindsey’s friend. “Wilton was an obstacle not a target.”

  “I guess that makes sense. Somehow, that chills me all the more.”

  They spent the next thirty minutes looking in every corner of the room for something that might pass as a clue.

  They found nothing.

  “Detectives?”

  Carmen turned to see Millie Takahashi in the doorway. Two other techs stood behind her. “Hey, Millie.” She walked to the head of forensics. “You got here quick.”

  Millie didn’t smile. Like the rest of the team, she looked beat. “We pretty much just follow you around these days. I’ve been thinking about sleeping in the trunk of your car. It would save time.”

  “Sorry, but I make Detective Tock ride back there.”

  “Lucky man,” Millie said. “What have we got?”

  “I don’t think you’ll find much, but maybe your magic will come up with something. I want lots of pictures of the bathroom, especially the mirror. There are a lot of smooth surfaces in there, so give it a good dusting. I doubt our man left anything for you to find, but he may have slipped up.”

  “Got it.” Millie took her kit to the bathroom.

  “Let’s get out of the way, Hector. Knock on a few doors. Maybe another tenant caught sight of our guy.”

  “Are you kidding me!” Millie’s voice poured from the
bathroom. She appeared a moment later. “He’s calling you by name?”

  Great. Another alarmist.

  Carmen shrugged and exited the apartment.

  The voices were so loud. The words had sharp spines that punctured his brain. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry!” He held his hands to his ears. Futile. The voices lived inside him, between his ears. “I just wanted a little fun. That’s all. Fun.”

  The voices screamed. Cursed him for breaking the rules. He should never have gone to the man’s apartment. Should never have written the message on the mirror.

  Never.

  But he had.

  And the voices were making him pay for it.

  33

  The sun had dropped behind the horizon. The lights of San Diego painted the darkness with an eerie glow. Outside, cars plied the streets, some with owners heading home, some with occupants headed to work. San Diego slowed, but it never slept.

  The team had called it a night. There was little more they could do. They turned over every rock they could see and found nothing. Carmen knew they were like her: a homicide detective might go home, but his work went along for the ride. Some of the best mental breakthroughs came when the detectives were home resting or watching television. The subconscious mind liked to be left alone to process what the conscious mind couldn’t. That was its function. It had worked for her on several occasions.

  Carmen didn’t want to go home. There was nothing there but her bed. That sounded pretty good, but she had no desire to be alone just yet. Something was eating at her, churning her stomach and making her head hurt. She was missing something. She knew that, but such knowledge was useless. Knowing there was something she didn’t know only brought fierce frustration.

  While she’d never admit it to anyone, she was depressed. The condition began in her teenage years—a darkness, a heaviness, a void that seemed to suck in her soul, leaving her hollow, cored out. Teenage angst was part of the normal maturing process, but Carmen’s depression never fully went away. It ebbed and flowed like the tide, lifting her to feelings of euphoria and empowerment, only to withdraw, leaving her an emotional husk. She was no good to anyone in those hours and certainly not pleasant to be around.

  Sure, there were medications she could take, but her blues were part of her, defined her, and in a strange way, strengthened her. Odd as it was, she felt more alive when down. Her depression was tied to her grief, and grief was a way of expressing love. A painful, corrosive way to express it.

  There was no logic to it. It just was. She just was.

  Once home, Carmen pulled out one of the drawers of her desk. A special drawer. One containing a small wooden box six-inches on a side and three-inches deep. The lock was a decorative style meant more to look pretty than to thwart snoopers. She kept the small key in the change compartment of her purse. She looked around the empty office area, removed the key, and unlocked the box. Slowly, she opened the lid, something she hadn’t done in months. A slight odor of cedar rose to her nostrils.

  Mementos. Remembrances. That’s what some would call the items in the box. A comb with a few strands of blond hair. A high-school ring. A pair of earrings. A school photo. A photo taken before Junior Prom.

  Carmen gazed at the image of her sister. Gone so many years now. So popular. So full of life.

  So dead.

  She ran a finger along the image, touching the cheek of the young lady in the photo. Carmen smiled. Big hair. Heavy makeup. Yes, the ’80s were gone and the world was a better place for it. Shelly wore a pink-and-white prom dress. Carmen remembered her mother arguing about the amount of eye make-up she wore. At least Shelly had picked a unique pink lipstick, a lipstick she would wear frequently after that night. Granted it was a darker pink than was popular for the time—

  Carmen bolted to her feet, sending her office chair toppling behind her. Her hands shook. Her stomach tightened into a knot. “No.” She shook her head. “It can’t be. No. I’m insane.” She scrutinized the photo, her eyes boring into the image. Her lips. The lipstick. Too much of a coincidence. She was letting her emotions run away. “Get a grip, girl.”

  Then a thought: She had another photo from that prom. One she carried in her purse. She retrieved the Polaroid and eased the photo from its plastic enclosure. The photo was too large for a wallet. Polaroids were great, but they didn’t take wallet-size photos. It showed Carmen and Shelly, side by side. Shelly was kissing Carmen on the cheek. Carmen remembered that night. She had to use soap and hot water to get the lip marks off her face. She recalled being annoyed.

  Shelly also kissed the photo. She was playful.

  Something Carmen had never been.

  Carmen marched into the forensic department and found Millie still working, sitting at a computer monitor. Millie’s husband was a Navy man and had been out to sea for four months. The forensic tech passed the lonely hours working overtime. This case gave her ample opportunity.

  “Detective Rainmondi,” the young woman said. Slight in build, she had a magnificent mind. “I didn’t know you were still around.”

  “Okay, you’re going to think I’ve taken leave of my senses, but I want you to do something for me, and I need you to do it as quickly as possible.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  “First, I need an evidence bag.”

  Millie retrieved one from a storage locker and handed it to Carmen, who dropped the photo into the clear, plastic bag.

  “Whatcha got?”

  Carmen took a deep breath. “This is a one-in-a-million chance, but I want you to test the lipstick on this photo.”

  “Which case does this relate to . . . Wait. You think the lipstick on the photo might match what we found on the mirror?”

  “I doubt it, but the shades are the same, or a least close.”

  Millie studied the photo. “That’s you. Younger, but it’s you.”

  “Right.”

  “Who is . . . your sister?”

  “Yes. It was taken a long time ago.” Her voice softened.

  “You think there’s a connection.” Millie thought for a moment. “It looks similar. The lipstick on the mirror was fairly dry. Age could explain that.”

  “Can you tell if they’re a match or not?”

  “Yes. I can do a visual comparison of texture and tint. I can arrange for a spectroscopic analysis and see if the profiles match, but you know the chance they’re a match is slim at best. Even if they are, all it means is that the perp had access to a product that was produced by the thousands.”

  “Produced decades ago. And remember, it was used to write my name. The color. My name. There’s something there.”

  “Maybe. Just maybe. I’ll get to work on it.”

  “As soon as possible, Millie. This is important.”

  “Everything in this department is important, but I get the point.”

  Carmen thanked her and walked from the room. Her mind was in 1985.

  And in the police file of her sister’s death.

  Ellis Poe sat in his nearly dark office, a converted bedroom in his condo, and reviewed class notes for the new semester. He had two classes on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday: Synoptic Gospels and the Pauline Prison Epistles. The first class was for first-year students, the second for third year. He had taught both classes many times, so his attention kept wandering from his lesson plan and to the problem facing Carmen and her team. Was he on target? The pattern certainly matched, but the “why” remained.

  He was no criminologist, no psychologist, but there had to be a reason. Surely the man had lost his senses sometime in the past. It was the only way to explain such brutality. As far as Ellis knew, the killer was targeting and attacking unarmed people. He was doing so in order, and each death was a message.

  Was the message complete? He doubted it. Ellis had already estimate
d one or two more deaths. He pulled a few sheets of blank paper from his desk drawer and moved his lesson plans to the side.

  A blank page. Always a formidable foe. Was there something more he could offer? Could he guess where the next body would be found, or at least narrow the possibilities? He doubted he could pinpoint a place, but he might be able to identify a trend.

  First, he made a list based on the columns of information he saw in Carmen’s case room. The thought of the place made him recall his embarrassing behavior. He would replay the ladies’ room thing for the rest of his life. Maybe someday he would consider it a funny event, but he doubted it.

  Two things seemed obvious. Each murder was done in a fashion similar to physical torment endured by Jesus: sweating drops of blood; beaten with fists; beaten with reeds, in this case rods; and strangulation. The last one didn’t fit. At least not the method of death, although the purple cloth did. The second set of relational points dealt with where the bodies were found: in a garden, at a rabbi’s house, by barracks, near a Jewish-owned mansion that he assumed was meant to represent Herod’s palace. Jesus didn’t die after each abuse, but that didn’t seem the killer’s point.

  If Ellis’s assumption were correct, the next death would be someone whipped to death and the body would have a crown of thorns. He had no idea where a person would get such a thing. He paused, then turned to his computer. A quick Internet search for “crown of thorns” revealed several places one could buy a replica. Would a mass murderer buy something like that from an Internet store? It was worth noting. He imagined that some Christian bookstores—and San Diego had plenty of them—might have a crown of thorns on hand. He made a note to tell Carmen.

  He spent the next few hours recreating what he had seen and learned, and then trying to skim new truth from the facts. At first, he told himself that he was wasting time, that he had no special training or gift for this kind of work, but then a more optimistic part of his brain kicked in. In some ways, he had skills that the typical police officer didn’t have. He doubted they taught hermeneutics—the ability to properly interpret documents and history in general and the Bible specifically—at the police academy. He had spent his academic career gleaning information from the details in the biblical accounts. It was what theologians did. At least his kind of theologian.