by Alton Gansky
“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.”
“Sawdust.”
“Yes, and not just any sawdust. I see a mixture of shades and colors.” He returned to the upper torso, this time searching like a man with a mission. He plucked more glass and bits of lead from wounds; then he removed a short, curled, flat piece of wood about the size of a thumbnail. “And I definitely know what this is.” He fell silent as he examined it.
“Care to share it with the armed detective in the room?”
“Of course. Sorry. See this curve?” He pointed at the fragment. “I’ll bet you a chicken dinner that it’s a wood shaving. The kind you get from a planer.”
“Like in a wood shop.”
“Exactly like you would in a wood shop. I’m pretty sure that was fine sawdust I collected from his feet. We’ll know after we run tests.”
Carmen started to speak, but Judy the Redhead interrupted. “I have the sample and microscope ready.”
“Thanks.” He reached for the container holding the glass fragment. “I want to get a closer look at this, too.” He moved from the exam table to a counter sporting various styles of optical microscopes. Judy, as requested, had set up the stereomicroscope. Shuffler bent and placed his eyes over the viewing lenses. A moment later he straightened. “Take a look, Detective. Purple wood.”
Carmen did. The microscope gave a clear image. “Can we see this on the monitor?”
“Sure.” Shuffler nodded to the tech. The image appeared on a computer screen nearby. “Much of it is covered in blood and tissue, but you can see the base color is purple.”
“Someone stained a piece of wood purple?” Carmen was thinking of the purple material used to strangle the last victim.
“No,” Judy said, then cut her eyes to Shuffler. She looked like she had interrupted her parents in an important conversation. “Um, I believe it might be purpleheart.” When no one responded, Judy continued. “It’s an exotic wood. When I was young, my father took up woodworking. He liked the exotic woods. Expensive stuff. He made an Art Deco clock with purpleheart. When you put the finish on it, it turns from pale to bright purple. It’s also really hard. My dad bought a piece of the stuff, held it between two fingers, then tapped it with his knuckle. It rang like a bell. Oh, okay, not like a bell, but it rang a little.”
“Come with me, Judy.” Shuffler led the tech to the mangled body. The small wood shaving and forceps rested on a metal tray. “Can you identify this? Unofficially of course.”
She took the forceps and peered at the shred of wood then put it under the magnifier. “I’m not an expert in exotic woods, Doctor, but my guess is bird’s-eye maple. It has a distinctive marking that looks like a bird’s eyes, hence the name.”
“Thank you, Judy. We’ll get more definitive information, but I have a feeling you’re right.”
Carmen’s mind flooded with ideas. “So how do bits of exotic wood get embedded in the vic’s back? The glass makes sense; that was part of the torture.”
Shuffler straightened as if an erect posture freed his thinking. “I’m just spit-balling here, but the guy is using a whip, right? He starts the flogging, and bits of flesh, fat, and blood collect on the ends of the whip. As he draws the whip back for another strike, it drags along the floor, picking up debris.”
The logic was sound, but something bothered Carmen. “Seems careless. The perp has gone to great lengths to erase any evidence. Why do shoddy work now?”
“That, my dear, is your problem.” Shuffler moved to the man’s head and examined the wounds caused by the razor wire.
Carmen couldn’t let go of the fact that trace evidence had been found. Was it a mistake? Had he been rushed? Or—was it intentional? A message? A way of taunting Carmen?
“Puncture wounds are deep.” Shuffler didn’t look up from the corpse. “They go all the way onto the skull. I can’t imagine the agony that caused.”
Blood streaked the man’s face—scalp wounds always bled profusely—indicating he had been vertical when the wounds were inflicted.
Shuffler pressed on the wounds. “Blood in the wound scabbed over. These wounds were inflicted before the beating.” He paused, then, “Your man says Jesus was beaten like this?”
“Yes.”
He took a step back and gazed at the body again. “And he lived long enough to be crucified?
”
“I guess. I’m the wrong one to ask.”
Shuffler spoke softly. “I’m going to have to revise my image of Jesus. The pain, the shock . . . Okay, preliminary COD is shock and blood loss. I’ll know more when we measure his blood volume, but I’ve seen enough to make the statement. I’ll have something official in a few hours.”
Carmen’s cell phone rang. She answered, listened, then said, “What?” Thirty seconds of silence were followed by “I’m on my way.”
The Reverend Dr. Daniel Templeton rose to consciousness like a bubble rising from the ocean depths. He first became aware of the pain in his side, then the pain in his jaw and the left side of his head. Then came the realization that his hands were bound above him. He was standing. No, not standing. He forced the fog from his brain. Hanging. He was strung up by his wrists. Heat, like hot coals buried beneath his skin, burned in his shoulders. The agony was beyond words.
He raised his head, directing his eyes to the ceiling, and saw a rope wrapped around a rough beam. The rope had been looped through a cloth band wrapped around his swelling wrists. He closed his eyes then opened them again. Something was wrong. His right eye wasn’t working. The skin on his cheek felt taut to the point of splitting like overripe fruit.
How did he get here? He couldn’t recall, but a terrible memory lurked in the back of his mind and he wasn’t ready to face it.
He pointed his toes and found he could touch the floor, but only with the ends of his feet. He could push up a couple of inches but couldn’t lower himself enough so his heels touched the floor. With each moment, his mind cleared a little. He had always been proud of his quick thinking, his ability to assimilate information and make cogent conclusions. That skill had gone missing. Was it the blow to the head? Had he been drugged? Maybe he was only semiconscious. He couldn’t decide.
A noise caught his attention. A whimper to his left. He swiveled his head to see what kind of animal made such a pathetic sound. The animal was a woman. One of three. The noisy one looked to be in her fifties, and her face bore the marks of a beating. Next to her, lying on her side, was a young woman, also bruised and battered. The swelling around her face made what he assumed had once been an attractive appearance hideous. The first woman was conservatively dressed in jeans and blue pullover blouse. The unconscious woman wore a tight skirt hiked to the top of her thighs. Makeup, run by tears, left tracks on her swollen cheeks. The third woman looked closer to the first in age. She sat crossed-legged, rocking, her mind in some imaginary world, no doubt one more preferable than the reality she was in. He started to speak but managed only a mumble.
He was gagged.
As his mind began to clear, his fear grew. The more he saw, the more he knew, the more terrified he became. Where was he? He looked around the room. It was large and dirty. It looked old and abandoned. Large machines dotted the space, a space he judged to be three or four thousand square feet. He recognized two of the devices: a band saw and a large table saw. A commercial wood shop, or what used to be one. The thick layer of dust on the concrete floor and the tools told a story of neglect. Light pushed through a bank of windows, each of which had been covered with butcher paper.
He used his toes to make a ninety-degree turn and saw things that fueled his confusion: stained wood dowels. He also saw a long, wide sheet of translucent plastic hanging from the overhead beams. A paint room? Maybe where workers used to apply stains and paints. He was no craftsman, but he understood the need for a dust-free environment. His working eye focused on the plastic sheets. There were dark dots and streaks on them. Best he could tell, the stains were on the inside.
Then a thought occurred to him. What if the marks weren’t from a sloppy woodworker applying stain? What if they were . . . blood. His stomach turned and he felt the need to vomit, something the tape across his mouth made impossible. The brief image of him aspirating vomitus made him turn away and focus on controlling his stomach. When he opened his eyes, he saw two things that nearly drove his sanity from his mind: A large wooden cross, and a twisted crown of what looked like barbed wire.
39
Ellis gazed out the window as Carmen drove the Crown Vic over the San Diego-Coronado Bay Bridge. The city lights, which he had always considered a comfort, seemed dull, as if they felt he was unworthy of their beauty. The thought was nonsense, but depression was seldom logical.
Carmen had shown up at the station and entered the case room like a cannonball.
“Fill me in.” Her order was cold, concise. Ellis could swear the temperature in the room dropped a dozen degrees.
Bud and Heywood tag-teamed the report. Hector sat quiet, seemingly happy to be one degree removed from the center of attention. Captain Simmons sat at the head of the table, Ellis at the foot. It took five minutes to give her a rundown of why and how they settled on Daniel Templeton and what they had done since learning that he had gone missing.
“Has anyone reported him missing?”
“No,” Heywood said. “His office told us that he changed his agenda a few days ago. His sister is in the hospital. He was planning to visit. We’ve contacted her, and she said he had called to say he was coming in early to spend time with her but didn’t know when he was due.”
“Do I want to know why she’s in the hospital?”
Heywood didn’t hesitate. “She was attacked during a robbery. Took a beating, but not enough to endanger her life.”
“Bait?”
“That’s what we’re thinking.” Bud sounded calm and professional, but Ellis thought the man resembled a watch spring wound to the breaking point. He didn’t want to be around when the spring gave way.
The conversation fell into police talk that Ellis had trouble following. He deciphered enough to know that an alert had gone out with Templeton’s description.
“How did our guy nab him?”
Captain Simmons motioned to Hector. “Detective Garcia was already on the street. Detective?”
Hector leaned over the table. “I took a quick run to the airport and looked at security video.”
“They caught our man on camera?”
“Yep. You know how security conscious the airport is. Bud and Joe got the arrival time from Templeton’s office. We used that as a starting point and were able to follow him through the terminal. He skipped baggage claim. He had just a carry-on. Most likely his other luggage would arrive with his evangelism team.”
“I want to see the video,” Carmen said.
“I figured you would. I brought a copy with me, and it’s ready for viewing.” He tapped a few keys on a laptop. A digital projector hanging from the ceiling came to life and showed the crowds moving through a terminal. It was typical airport pandemonium. People in a hurry raced around those who seemed to have all the time in the world. Parents held the hands of tots overwhelmed with the strange environment.
“This is Templeton.” Bud pointed at a middle-aged man with a round middle. He carried a shoulder bag and moved through the terminal like an experienced traveler.
“Nothing happens here.” Hector advanced the video. “Another camera picks him up here, as he passes by the TSA checkpoint. Of course, he’s an arriving passenger so he doesn’t go through security again. Now to the heart of the matter.” The video advanced more.
“This is our perp.” Bud pointed again.
“He’s holding a sign . . . he pretended to be a chauffeur?”
“Yep. Templeton’s office arranged for an executive car. Not unusual for executives.” Bud continued the narration. “The driver takes Templeton’s bag. As you can see, the perp is a big man. He’s 280 if he’s a pound.”
“Hang on.” Hector advanced the video. “Okay, this is outside the terminal.”
“Where did he get the Lincoln Continental?”
“It belongs to a local firm. The firm had been contracted to pick
Templeton up. I spoke to them. They said someone called to verify the pickup. Identified himself as ‘Dr. Templeton’s advance man.’ The firm confirmed the pickup and the time. We don’t know what happened after that. The car and the driver are missing. I have a feeling we’ll be called about another body soon.”
“I don’t recognize the perp.”
“We think his name is Mitchell Finch,” Heywood said.
Carmen looked stunned. “How did you figure that out?”
“I didn’t. Dr. Poe did.”
“What? I don’t believe it.”
“Let him explain,” Simmons ordered.
Thankfully, the him Simmons referred to was Heywood. From the storm brewing on Carmen’s face, Ellis wanted to stay as quiet as possible.
Heywood went on. “It took a few hours to get everything in place, so let me just hit the highlights. Dr. Poe made a few conjectures about who the perp wanted to crucify.” Heywood explained about the comparisons to Jesus and His passion. “Admittedly, we took a few leaps of faith, but it was all we had.” He then explained why there were high school yearbooks on the table. “The doc can explain it better than I can.”
“I want to hear it from you,” Carmen snapped.
Ellis was about to affirm what a good idea that was when Captain Simmons spoke up again.
“And I want you to hear it from Poe.” Simmons’s rank and tone trumped Carmen’s. She frowned but said nothing.
Ellis had to clear his throat twice before his vocal cords would work. “Daniel Templeton went to Clairemont High. For years I’ve wondered if I knew the person who . . . attacked . . . who killed Shelly. I never came up with anything, but I’ve been pretty sure he was about my age. Officer Heywood sent people out to retrieve yearbooks from local schools. They cover the years Shelly was in school.”
Heywood nodded. “We established Templeton’s school by calling the records department of all the high schools in the city.” Heywood motioned for Ellis to continue on.
He did so. “Officer Heywood learned that Templeton had gone to Clairemont, so I started there. I went through the yearbooks and came up empty, but like all yearbooks there were a number of people whose names are listed but for some reason never had their photo taken. We discovered that was true for someone named Mitchell Finch. We found him listed in a group photo, one of the wrestling team. Officer Heywood made some calls.”
