Wounds

by Alton Gansky

  Most people read the Bible; some study it; a few analyze it in depth. Why did Paul use that word instead of a different word? What is the underlying story behind an event? A few years ago he had read a book called 40 Days, examining the resurrection appearances of Christ, and was overjoyed to learn the unspoken message behind each appearance. There was an old maxim: “The devil is in the details.” For Ellis, God was in the details, the things preachers overlooked and liberal scholars ignored. Maybe he did have something to offer.

  Then the doubt returned. Still he pressed on into the night.

  It was close to midnight when Millie Takahashi phoned Carmen. She had just arrived home. “I hope I didn’t wake you.” Millie’s voice always sounded like that of a young girl.

  “Nope. Just walked into the house. Grabbed some fast food for a late dinner.”

  “Ugh, that stuff will kill you.” Millie was a devout vegetarian.

  “I should be so lucky. Did you come up with anything on the lipstick?” Carmen’s cases were given priority in all departments. Serial killings tended to do that.

  “Some. Here’s what I’ve got. I’ve sent a sample out for another chemical background. We should have those results by noon tomorrow . . . er, today. I did make some headway. I used our scanning electron microscope and did a few more magical incantations. Bottom line: there is a better than an 80-percent chance that the lipstick recovered on the mirror at Mulvaney’s place is a match for that removed from the photo you provided.”

  “So it’s from the same stick?”

  “I can’t go that far. I can say that it is most likely the same brand, same shade, and about as old. So on the science side of things, I’d have to say it is similar and might be a match, but the statement won’t hold up in court. Not yet. Micro-spectrophotometry and spectroscopy may nail that down for us.”

  The news unsettled Carmen but also gave her a moment of exhilaration. Could it be? After all these years? A clue?

  “You still there, Detective?”

  “Yes, just thinking.”

  A sigh came over the phone. “Okay, I’m gonna ask, and if I’m out of line, just tell me. Does this mean that the killer you’re tracking is related to your sister’s murder?”

  Shelly’s murder was no secret. Carmen seldom spoke of it, but the grapevine kept the story alive. No one came into homicide who wasn’t taken aside and briefed. The case had long gone into the cold-case files. Twice a team of detectives had been assigned to the case, but nothing came of it.

  Carmen sent her own sigh over the phone. “It must, Millie. I don’t know why, but the killer is taunting me.”

  “Because you did the press conference?”

  “Most likely. There are a lot of Raimondis in the world, but not many Rainmondis. Some, but not many. He could have associated my name with my sister.”

  “And the lipstick, if it is your sister’s, is his way of saying he’s back.”

  A wave of fury washed through Carmen. “Yes, and I’m going to do to him what my sister couldn’t.”

  Millie went silent. Cops were known for a tendency toward hyperbole and braggadocio. It was a part of the culture that Carmen embraced wholly. Still . . .

  Had she crossed the line with Millie or maybe upset her? Hinting violence against an unknown perp was bad form. She was about to apologize when Millie spoke up.

  “I’m with you on this, Detective. I and my department will do everything we can to run this guy down. You call me anytime, day or night.”

  “And I’ll probably find you in the lab.”

  “Yeah, well, until my husband gets back from sea tour, I might as well be here kicking bad-guy backsides with science.”

  “You get ’em, girl.”

  “You too, Detective.”

  Carmen disconnected the call. The greasy food she ate in her car, the lack of sleep, and the news Millie had just shared all upset her stomach. She crawled into bed in an attempt to do the impossible: sleep.

  34

  Carmen arrived at her desk a little after seven, having managed close to five hours of sleep—four of which she considered good sleep. Exhaustion had kept her from dreaming. That and the sleeping pill she took before crawling between the sheets. To her surprise, she found Millie’s report waiting for her on her desk. Nothing more than what she had been told over the phone. She would have to wait for the other tests.

  “A little light reading?” Bud slipped into his desk chair. He seemed alert but also looked drawn. The long hours and stress were beginning to show.

  She held up the papers. “Millie’s preliminary report on the lipstick.”

  “Hector told me about that. The perp wrote your name? I don’t like it.”

  “It is what it is.”

  Bud grinned. “That’s what makes me like having you as a partner. Where else can a man get a lesson in philosophy like that? Apart from a fortune cookie, I mean.”

  “Wow, the compliments never cease.”

  “Admit it, my humor is irresistible.”

  Carmen met her partner’s eyes. “Not the word I’d choose. Wanna hear my term for it?”

  “Of course not.” He pointed at the file. “So, is it lipstick?”

  “Yes . . . look, there’s something you should know.” She told him about the lipstick on her sister’s photo. “It’s a close match with what was on the mirror. Waiting on more science, but it is almost certainly a match.”

  Bud’s face hardened as if he had just made eye contact with Medusa. He looked away. Looked at the ceiling, then his desk, then the floor. Carmen had seen the man angry before, but this time he looked as if he were going to explode, sending chunks of himself all over the room. “You’re saying . . .” He shook his head. “Can’t be. The odds. I mean . . .” He whispered a long string of invectives.

  Carmen let him vent.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “This must be tough on you. I hated this guy before, but now I want to . . . well, never mind.”

  Bud was the only person she had ever allowed to see her broken side during their short relationship—and that was a lifetime ago. “Thanks, partner. I appreciate the empathy.” She pulled a photo from the file. “What do you make of this?”

  He took the photo of the message. “Angles on the letters vary. No, they switch back and forth. He wrote some words with his left hand, others with his right.”

  “Millie’s team thinks so, too.”

  “He’s not wanting to give us even that much. The guy thinks ahead.”

  Carmen thought for a moment. “That switching hands seems consistent with his cautious nature, but the message is far from what I expect from the guy. Why call me out by name, unless—”

  “Unless he’s connected to your sister.” Bud swore more. This time a little more loudly.

  “Of course, but what if he is? So he sees me on TV or reads my name in the papers. He connects the names. Why call my attention to my sister’s death?”

  “He’s taunting you.”

  “But why?”

  “The guy is nuts, that’s why.”

  Carmen shook her head. “I agree his train derailed a long time ago, but he’s still smart. If not smart, then criminally clever. I’m sure he has a plan. This doesn’t fit his MO. Think about Wilton. He didn’t fit the scenario, so he got a bullet in the head and a week underwater. Our man has been on a single mission: kill people in such a way that it delivers a message. I don’t think I was on his radar until the press conference. Until that time, there was only one note. And I wasn’t mentioned, it was just a generic statement.”

  “That’s two.” Bud quoted the note.

  “Now I’m in the picture, and somehow that’s made him change.” She leaned back in the chair. “Think about this: We’re pretty sure that Mulvaney was killed somewhere other than his apartm
ent. No blood where we found him, and we know he had been bleeding from his mouth and nose. There is no evidence of a struggle at the man’s apartment. None of his neighbors heard or saw anything.”

  “So the guy went out of his way to go to his victim’s apartment and leave the note for you?”

  “Yes, and that’s a huge departure from everything he’s done in the past.”

  “I’ll give you that, but what does all that mean?”

  Carmen shrugged. “I don’t know. Not yet, but I’m thinking.”

  Bud’s face clouded over. “You better not be thinking of doing something stupid.”

  “Truth is, Bud, I can’t even come up with a stupid idea.”

  “Somehow I don’t believe you.”

  “Your lack of trust wounds me. I may never be the same.” She reached for the phone.

  “Yeah, I can see how I’ve crushed your spirit.”

  Carmen checked her messages and was surprised to find one from Ellis Poe. She listened, jotted down a few items, then hung up.

  “That was Poe. Says he wants to talk with me.” Carmen looked at the times on the paper.

  “What about?”

  “About the case, that’s all he said. He gave me a list of times he is unavailable. I guess classes have started again at the school. He’s got a couple of classes this morning and a faculty meeting.”

  “You gonna call him in?”

  “Nah, I think I’ll go out there.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “No need. The poor guy will just throw up on your shoes.”

  Carmen pulled the Crown Vic into one of the parking slots in the lot closest to the main building. It seemed months since she was here to attend the Lindsey funeral, and even longer since she and Bud first met Poe, when they arrived to ask about Lindsey. Despite her commitment to be cold and prickly to everyone, she was developing a warm spot for the sensitive professor. He was bright, insightful, and cooperative. Not courageous in the least, but at least he had convictions, and men with convictions tended to be worth a little more patience.

  Usually.

  She locked the car, walked to the admin building, and asked where Poe’s class was. An older woman had replaced the young front-desk clerk she met when this whole mess began. The sight of Carmen’s badge didn’t faze her. She was of an age where she could claim she’d seen everything. Besides, the murder of one of the students was still recent enough to be fresh on everyone’s mind. No doubt it was still the topic of the day.

  The campus was quiet, but Carmen could see students sitting in classes, professors in front lecturing or writing on a whiteboard or using a computer and projection system. Seeing young minds at work made her recall her love for school and her dreams of being a doctor. She missed those years—and the ones she never got to live.

  Placards mounted to the wall next to the doors identified classrooms by number. She looked for 227 and found it easily. A peek in the window showed a full room. Ellis Poe’s voice drifted through a slightly open window. She caught a glimpse of him. He wore a suit. The other profs she saw were dressed in casual clothes. This was Southern California, after all.

  Poe paced the front of the room, head down, hands behind his back. He was asking question after question, driving his students to think broader and dig deeper. Carmen was familiar with the Socratic method: teach by asking questions and forcing the students to think and counter each other.

  She looked at her watch. According to the schedule Ellis had left in his message, she had about a five-minute wait. She used the time to do something therapeutic—stand in the sun and feel the hilltop breeze on her face. The air was still cool but, typical of the inland city of Escondido, was edging up to warm. The sound of birds floated on the air; the smell of nearby eucalyptus trees filled her nostrils.

  The weariness she had been fending off settled over her. The urge to get in the Crown Vic and chart a course north until the tank was empty was almost irresistible. The problem with running away was worries traveled along. How unfair. A woman should be able to leave a place of pain and move to a place of pleasure.

  Life was unfair.

  The sound of soles on concrete made her turn. Ellis had let his class out. She watched the stream of students, mostly male, pour through the door. Their ages surprised her. Most seemed to be in their thirties, some in their twenties, and at least four students looked old enough to be grandparents.

  A few caught sight of her and smiled. Most moved with their heads down as if in deep thought. When the door closed, Carmen approached and entered the class. Poe stood behind a wooden lectern, his head down, his hand moving across some papers. “You must be rough on the students. Some of them looked old enough to be my father.”

  Ellis Poe looked up and smiled. “A couple of them are. Some people start seminary after they finish their careers. Some come straight from college.”

  “So you weren’t tough on them.” She walked to the front of the classroom.

  “I didn’t say that. I wasn’t expecting you.”

  Carmen cocked her head.

  “I mean, I was expecting you to call first.”

  “Sorry, it’s an old detective trick. Show up unannounced.”

  He blinked several times as if he didn’t understand the dynamics of a surprise visit. “I’ve been thinking about the case you’re working on. Couldn’t sleep last night.”

  “That’s going around.”

  “I suppose so. Anyway, I told you and the others that the next victim might parallel the scourging and ridicule of Christ.”

  Carmen hiked an eyebrow. “Ridicule?”

  “The crown of thorns. The Romans crucified Jesus for claiming to be a king. Under Roman rule, only Caesar could be called king. Jesus rode into Jerusalem to much fanfare, like a king. The religious leaders told Pontius Pilate and others that Jesus had been claiming He was King of the Jews. Pilate insisted that the phrase be hung over Jesus’ head while he was on the cross.”

  “So Pilate agreed Jesus was a king?”

  “Hardly. He did it to annoy the Jewish leaders. They didn’t get along. The crown of thorns was likely made from the acanthus plant and shoved on Jesus’ head to mock his self-proclaimed kingship.”

  “Sounds painful.”

  Ellis agreed. “More than most people know. Anyway, Roman generals and leaders sometimes received a civic crown made from oak leaves. They called it the Corona Civica.”

  “A laurel wreath?”

  “Yes. That began with the Greeks and, of course, was made of bay laurel.”

  “Is this going anywhere, Professor?”

  “Sorry. We academics like to talk about things no one else is interested in.” He took a breath. “I began to wonder where one could get a crown of thorns. I mean, if I’m right, then the killer will need one. I did a little research. Turns out you can buy them online and in some Christian bookstores.”

  “You’re kidding, right? Why would anyone buy such a horrible thing?”

  “It’s symbolic, Detective. Christianity is very symbolic. Some people wear crosses, which is odd since they’ve made an instrument of torture and execution into a bit of jewelry. Crosses and crucifixes adorn the walls of many Christians’—”

  “Aren’t those the same thing?”

  Ellis shook his head. “Not technically. A crucifix usually shows Christ on the cross. A typical cross—the kind Protestants prefer—has no corpse. Roman Catholics prefer the crucifix because it emphasizes Christ’s sacrifice. Nothing wrong with that. Evangelicals prefer an empty cross because it represents Jesus’ victory over death. The word crucifix comes from the Latin cruci fixus—‘one fixed to a cross.’ Some people use a crown of thorns as religious art during the week before Easter; pastors sometimes use them as instructional art. The symbology of Christianity is fascinating b
ecause . . . I’m doing it again, aren’t I?”

  “Yep.”

  “Do you want to sit?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I’m just saying that your man may have ordered something online or purchased one from a Christian bookstore. If not directly, then through a catalog.”

  She gave that some thought. It was a long shot, but she could run down orders for crown of thorn replicas and get a team out interviewing employees at Christian bookstores. Long shots were all they had now. “That might be useful. Thanks.”

  “No problem. I tried to narrow down where the body might be left based on the Antonia Fortress.”

  “Antonia’s what?”

  “The Antonia Fortress was a structure built near the temple about two decades before Christ’s birth. There’s some debate about it, but it probably served as a military barracks. Jesus would have been scourged there.”

  “By scourging, you mean whipping.”

  “Yes. As I said in your office, it’s a horrible thing that strips the flesh from a man’s back. Because Jesus was Jewish, there was no limit to how many stripes He would receive. Some people died under the lash. The only thing that saved Jesus’ life was the order that He be crucified.”

  Carmen tried to imagine the cruelty, and it wasn’t hard. She had seen too many battered bodies over the last two weeks. “Did you come up with anything?”

  “No, nothing definitive. Based on the information mounted to your wall, we can conclude that the killer is more allegorical than literal. He’s not following the Passion events to the letter, just alluding to them. I approached it from a construction point of view. The fortress was built of stone, but I don’t know of any military facilities like that. I could be wrong. I only have the information I can get off the Internet. I’m hoping you can find more.”