“It was just part of it,” she said with neither rancor nor embarrassment. “Why not? I taught him everything else.”
SEVENTEEN
When Naomi Chance arrived at the office at 8:30 A.M., Vail was already at work. Unshaven, his shirt as rumpled as a wad of paper, he was staring at the photographs and taking more notes, as he had been doing the night before when she left the office. A half-eaten meal was on the desk beside the legal pad. Steam rose from his coffee cup. He was so deeply concentrated he did not hear her come in. She was accustomed to that. Vail called it “diving”—for it was like going under water. It was a different world, one without sound, one in which all the data and faces of the case were jumbled together and he sought to categorize them, to rearrange them into a logical chronology until they formed a picture that made sense to him. Like a legal jigsaw puzzle, the picture occasionally would become clear even though some of the pieces were missing. She ignored him and went about her daily routine. Twenty minutes later he was in her doorway.
“What time is it?” Vail, who never wore a watch in the office, asked.
“Almost nine.”
“Tommy’s back. He and the Judge will be in before noon.”
“Strategy meeting?”
Vail nodded. “I’m anxious to hear Tommy’s report.”
“I doubt that even Tommy could find out much in a town called Crikside.” She laughed. “How about the doctor?”
“Coming in for the day,” he said. “I want her to hear what Tommy has to say, too.”
At about the same time, across town, Lieutenant Stenner had gathered his task force in his office, a large, barren room totally devoid of personality or warmth. His large desk contained two telephones, a Rolodex and two stacks of field reports—incoming on the left, outgoing on the right. His chair, rigid, straight-backed, without padding, looked about as comfortable as a rack. There were no photographs in this stark chamber, no books, no awards or citations on its walls, only two large corkboards, one containing the photographs of the Rushman murder and photocopies of several reports, the other a catalog of all active cases and their current status. It was obvious that Stenner was a man so totally devoted to his duty that anything remotely personal was barred from the premises.
The task force consisted of Dr. Bill Danielson, the county medical examiner; Harvey Woodside, the obese and asthmatic coroner; and a team of six detectives headed by his personal assistant, Sergeant Lou Turner. They were all handpicked veterans, a force of efficient experts, each of whom had earned citations and departmental awards for his competence and expertise. Jane Venable observed from an uncomfortable chair near the door.
Stenner removed his jacket, draped it over his chair and stood in the front of the room, bright red suspenders—the only color in the room except for the blood in the coroner’s photographs—supporting his dark blue pants. He carefully adjusted his wire-rim glasses over his ears and rubbed his hands together.
“We are a week into this investigation,” he began in his flat, formal, no-nonsense voice. “Let’s see what we’ve got. Mr. Danielson, will you please lead off?”
“Yes, sir.”
Danielson, a man in his late forties, was a devout fisherman with leathery, sun-stained skin and hard biceps which strained the sleeves of a pale blue shirt. His collar was open and his tie was pulled down. He was originally from the South, and his deep voice was a resonant composite of flat Midwest and soft Georgia accents. He took a pencil from his shirt pocket and walked to the board of photographs. Stenner sat to one side and everyone in the room was poised with pens and clipboards, ready to take notes. Before he started, Danielson took out a cigar and started to peel off the cellophane wrapper.
“I’d prefer you don’t smoke,” Stenner said. “Stinks up my office for days.”
Danielson stared at him for a moment. “It’s your office, Abel,” he said, and began to speak, emphasizing his remarks by pointing at appropriate photos with his unlit stag.
“The victim, Bishop Rushman, experienced a total of seventy-seven different wounds. At least nine, possibly as many as twelve, of these wounds were fatal. Death could also have been caused by extreme exsanguination—that’s bleeding to death—traumatic shock or sudden cardiac collapse, all due to the extensive damage of the wounds. An antemortem incision or a stab wound of the body that severs a large artery or vein or a highly vascular organ will produce profuse hemorrhaging, shock, and death within a short period of time—certainly the circumstance here.
“Wounds due to pointed and edged weapons are divided into four categories: stab wounds, incised wounds and cuts, chops, and therapeutic/diagnostic wounds, which are the type usually made by a physician or surgeon. This victim suffered stabs, incised cuts, chops—and possibly one therapeutic wound. In stab wounds, the most common weapon is the knife, in this case a kitchen knife of the carving variety with a twelve-inch blade, four inches in width at maximum. We can attribute all of the wounds in Bishop Rushman’s body to that single weapon.
“Now in stabs, the length of the wound in the body exceeds its width on the surface of the skin, and the edges of the wound are sharp, without abrasions or contusions. The size and shape of the stab wound in the skin is dependent on the configuration of the weapon, the direction of the thrust, the movement of the blade in the wound, the movement of the individual stabbed, and the state of relaxation or tension of the skin.” He pointed to several punctures in the photographs. “The victim experienced thirty-six separate and distinct stab wounds. Fourteen to the chest and upper torso, seven of which pierced either the heart or lungs, four to the left forearm and three to the right, three in his left palm, one in his right, eight to the abdomen and three to the right leg. The arm and palm wounds most likely were caused when the victim attempted to protect himself—”
“Excuse me, Bill,” Stenner said. “But I think we can save the technical descriptions for the trial. Right now I think we’re interested in the number of wounds and cause of death, okay?”
“Right,” Danielson said. “Incised wounds are those in which the instrument is inserted into the skin, then drawn along the body. We had twelve incised wounds, the most serious of which was to the throat. This wound almost severed the head. Incised wounds of the neck are frequently extremely deep and often extend completely to the vertebral column. Fact is, the spinal column is probably the only thing that prevented this victim from bein’ beheaded. It’s difficult to tell which of these wounds were administered first but my educated guess is that the throat wound was the first and was sufficient to cause almost instant death. It’s interesting that normally a throat wound this deep and complete would be performed from the back of the victim. This wound was administered from the front. Death from incised wounds of the neck may be due not only to exsanguination but to massive air embolus. Our X ray of the chest for detection of air in the heart and venous system indicates this was the case.”
“So he probably saw it coming,” said Turner.
“I should think so,” Danielson answered. “Frequently in throat wounds this massive, there is also cadaveric spasm—that’s instant rigor mortis—but I don’t believe that was true here.”
“Why not?” Venable asked.
“Because of the wounds to his forearms and particularly the palms. Obviously he was trying to protect himself.”
“Okay. Sorry to interrupt,” she said.
“Other incised wounds were to the face, scalp, chest, and abdomen and on each leg. None of these was sufficient in itself to cause death.
“Finally we had cuts. Seventeen in all, most of which were superficial compared to the traumatic wounds. And then we had the removal of the genitalia, which were placed in the victim’s mouth. Incidentally, this amputation was performed with some degree of surgical skill, particularly when you consider it was done with a carvin’ knife. That’s the cut I believe approached diagnostic skill.”
“You think the perpetrator had some medical background?” Stenner asked.
&n
bsp; “Possibly. Certainly he had some acquaintance with these procedures.”
“Humph,” Stenner responded.
“The bleeding was profound,” Danielson, whose train of thought stayed remarkably on course despite the interruptions, went on. “The cadaver contained less than a pint of blood when we did the postmortem. That’s rare. Usually bleeding slows down when the organs stop functioning, particularly when the heart stops pumping. After that you get seepage. I believe that despite the severity of this attack, the victim may have survived longer than might normally be expected.”
Stenner asked, “Did he put up much of a fight?”
“Judging from the wounds in the forearms and palms, I would say yes. But not for long. This man died very quickly.”
“How about pain?” Woodside asked.
“Intense while it lasted.”
“How long do you think that was?” asked Stenner.
“The length of time it takes to die following an incised wound of the neck depends on whether the venous or arterial systems are severed and whether there is aeroembolism. In this case there was both. But judging from the wounds in his arms and palms, he could have survived for as long as a minute, minute and a half. If the throat wound was the first cut, I don’t see how he could have been conscious for any longer than that—but it’s possible he managed to fight for a minute or so.”
“How about that picture on the right? The back of his head. What is that?” one of the detectives asked.
“I was coming to that,” Danielson said. “I have no explanation for this. Notice this photograph here, which was shot during the P.M.” He pointed to a shot of the back of Rushman’s head. Just below the hairline, “B32.156” was written in blood. “I can’t explain the numbers,” he concluded. “But they were definitely printed with the bishop’s blood, as were the numbers 666 on his stomach—an obvious reference to the devil.”
“Any other conclusions?” Stenner asked.
“Just that there was a certain amount of surgical skill in this job,” Danielson answered. “Several of these wounds were very accurate, as far as hitting vital organs, causing trauma, what have you. And others were just random butchery. I also believe the killer was left-handed.”
“Thank you,” Stenner said, and Danielson returned to his chair.
“Ms. Venable?” Stenner asked, looking at the prosecutor.
“Nothing at this point,” she answered.
“Lou, what’ve you got for us?”
Turner went to the board and pinned a diagram of the murder scene on it.
“We have the three interviews which are not admissible but do establish his story. He claims he came in through the front door here, heard something upstairs in the bishop’s apartment and went upstairs. He says he went into the bishop’s bedroom and that’s where it gets crazy. Stampler says there was someone else in the room, someone he is afraid of, that he—Stampler—blacked out, and the next thing he remembers is leaving the bedroom. Claims he heard someone downstairs, panicked, ran down the hall here, out the back door and down the stairs, then saw a police car here in the alley so he ducked back into the church, ran down this corridor, and hid in the confessional where he was found.”
“What do you think?” Stenner asked.
“Pure, unadulterated bullshit. Excuse me, ma’am.”
Venable smiled. “I’ve heard the word before, Sergeant. And I tend to agree with you.”
“We searched his stander but it had been ransacked before we got there,” he went on.
“By whom?” Venable asked.
“Other … uh, residents … of me Hollows. I doubt mere was very much to take. We are also trying to locate his girlfriend—” he checked his notes “—Linda. So far no luck on her, apparently she left about three weeks ago. There’s no record of last names at Savior House but we did get a possible fix on her. We think she’s from someplace in Ohio, possibly Akron or Dayton. I can’t blame her much for leaving, nobody could stand the Hollows for long.
“Our interrogations of his friends at the house and the staff at the church haven’t turned up much of anything. They all tend to back up his contention that he and the bishop were very close. This Stampler’s a very smart kid, probably has an IQ in the 130s, 140s. He’s from Crikside”—there was laughter in the room—“that’s right, Crikside, Kentucky, population about two-fifty,” he said with a chuckle. “Not too many phones in Crikside but we talked to several people there who know him. No record of any kind of abnormal behavior there, no arrests.
“Apparently he was an independent kid. Father died of black lung, brother was killed in a car wreck. The mother died last year—about a year after he left home. She apparently suffered some mental disorder before she died but her doctor never diagnosed it; According to him, she was—and I quote—’lonely-crazed.’”
“‘Lonely-crazed’?” Woodside echoed.
“‘Lonely-crazed,’” Turner repeated. “Moving along, he was an excellent student in grammar and high school and we’re still missing a few months between the time he left there and showed up here in the city so we’ve still got homework to do on background, Lieutenant.”
“Any police record here, any record of any trouble before this?” Venable asked.
“Nothing so far,” Turner answered. “He worked as an orderly at the hospital for a few months. Gets good marks from the staff there, but he quit, and then got a job cleaning up at the library, also good references from his supervisor there. He was taking extension courses at City College but we haven’t pulled his transcript yet. That’s about it so far.”
“Like to take a stab at the numbers on the back of his head?” Danielson asked.
“Not a chance,” Turner said with a smile. “Anybody else?”
The other detectives all shook their heads.
“Thanks, Lou,” Stenner said. “Dr. Woodside, you’re up.”
Woodside hefted his enormous bulk from his chair and waddled to the front of the room.
“Without boring you with a lot of technical ying-yang—I’ll save that for the big show—here’s what we can prove,” he gasped with a rather smug smile. “The knife taken from the perpetrator at the time of arrest is definitely the murder weapon. Blood on the perp’s clothes and body is that of the victim. There was also some bits of the victim’s flesh on the weapon and on Mr. Stampler’s clothing. Fingerprints on the doorjambs, walls and on the murder weapon match those of the perp. We also have fibers in his clothing that match fibers from the carpeting and we can track him from the scene of the crime to the kitchen by the bloodstains on the carpeting. We also can show he left through the kitchen door and went down the back stairs, then reentered the church through the back door and made his way through the corridor to the church and the confessional where he was found hiding.”
“How about the knife drawer?” Venable asked. “Any prints?”
“Oddly enough, no,” Woodside said. “We lifted some fibers off the drawer but we haven’t matched them to anything yet.”
“It would be nice if we could prove he came in the back door and carried the knife to the bedroom,” Venable said. “It would help to establish, premeditation.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Woodside said.
“Very good,” Stenner said. He looked back at Venable with what passed for a smile. “Anything so far?” he asked.
“It’s looking good,” Venable said, walking to the front of the room. “But we need two more things to lock this case.”
“Motive?” said Stenner.
“That’s right,” she answered. “I feel sure the shrinks will let him stand trial but that doesn’t rule out a possible insanity plea by Vail, it just means Stampler’s competent to stand. Let’s just hope our shrinks don’t decide he’s a mental case. Which reminds me, Vail’s also got himself a shrink.”
She flipped open her notebook.
“Molly Arrington. Thirty-four, graduated magna cum laude from Indiana State, been working with deviant mental cases at
the Justine Clinic in Indiana for six years or so. She’s supposed to be damn good, so you can bet she’ll come up with something to counter the state psychs. Hopefully we can overcome that obstacle. But, if we get Stampler for trial what we need is a motive, Abel, something that’ll put the jury’s teeth on edge, otherwise Vail may try to use the nature of the crime itself to prove his client’s a fruitcake.”
“Well, then,” Stenner said stoically, “I guess we’ll just have to find you a motive, Madam Prosecutor. What’s the other thing?”
“Prove to me nobody else was in that room when the bishop was sliced and diced,” she said.
At a few minutes before noon, Vail collected the defense team in his office. Molly Arrington was the last to arrive, looking harried and almost out of breath.
“This is Dr. Molly Arrington, our resident psychiatrist,” Vail introduced her with a smile. “Sorry to pull you back from Daisyland so soon but I wanted everybody to get to know you and I want you to hear what Tommy learned in Kentucky.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet all of you,” she said quietly.
“I’ve already explained the rules of the game. We all say what we think, no holding back. Naomi, you’ve read the autopsy report. Anything we don’t know at this point?”
“You noticed the 666 carved in Rushman’s stomach?”
“Yeah,” said Vail. “We’ll have to check to see if Aaron or any of these kids was into devil worship.”
“There’s something else. We don’t have this picture but according to the report ‘B32.156’ is printed in the bishop’s blood under his hair on the back of his head.”
“B32.156? What the hell could that mean?”
Naomi shrugged. “Who knows?”
“Probably a symbol,” Molly suggested.
“What kind of symbol?” the Judge asked.
“I don’t know,” said Molly. “Symbols are universal language. To the ancient Egyptians, the dung beetle or scarab was the symbol for resurrection. The cross is the symbol for Christianity. The triple six on the bishop’s stomach is a symbol for the devil. It’s a conundrum. It’s a symbol to whoever put it there.”
Primal Fear Page 20
