“I was falling,” Joshua said. “Like so many of the saints, I had to go to the depths before I raised myself up with the help of the Lord. How can one expect salvation without experiencing sin?”
“Your congregation knows you were in prison?” asked Aiden.
“Yes.”
“When you got out,” said Stella, “you became an apprentice to a carpenter.”
“Humbly in the footsteps of Jesus, who never renounced his Jewish identity,” said Joshua.
“Then,” Stella continued, “you joined a Messianic temple.”
“A gathering of the timid, the cowardly,” said Joshua. “They didn’t even turn the other cheek. They never stood up to let the first cheek be struck. I left them and started my own congregation.”
Joshua looked at the two women and shook his head.
“I know how to fire a gun,” he said. “I know how to wield a hammer and drive a nail. I am left-handed. But I did not kill Asher Glick. We believe in converting, convincing, not killing. If we kill, our cause is set back by years, decades.”
“Look at this photograph,” Aiden said.
He took it. It was the wall of the synagogue library on which was written CHRIST IS KING OF THE
JEWS. He handed it back to Aiden.
“That’s what you believe, isn’t it?” Aiden pressed.
“Yes,” said Joshua. “Is there anything else you wish to say to me?”
“That you’re free to go,” said Stella, “but we’ll be talking to you again.”
4
SHELDON HAWKES, listening to Dinah Washington singing Love for Sale, made the first incision into the naked corpse of Becky Vorhees after examining all the wounds in the girl’s body, six in her chest and stomach, one in her neck. He reported the wounds, including the location, size and shape of each penetration, and the depth of each thrust of the knife, into the microphone above his head, which was attached to a recorder on a table nearby. He also recorded that, while there were signs of slight bruising and shallow penetration, she did not appear to have been raped.
There were many possible reasons and, if asked, he would give them, but he was sure Mac would have his own thoughts on the reason for the lack of deep penetration. Three would be obvious. One, the rapist had changed his mind. Unlikely given the violence of the attack. Two, the girl had fought him off. Three, the girl had not fought him off, but the rape had been interrupted.
The girl’s mother had been stabbed five times, four times in the stomach and once in the chest, a deep hard thrust that broke through bone to the heart. There were no signs of recent sexual activity on the woman.
Finally, almost two hours later, Hawkes had the last body on the table. Howard Vorhees was a big man, more than two hundred pounds, in good shape, obviously worked out. He had been stabbed once in the back and twice in the stomach. Besides these wounds, the only other thing Hawkes found of possible interest was a purple bruising just above the man’s right wrist. The bone beneath the bruise was not broken. If he were still alive, Vorhees would have been in pain.
“The blood from the victims has been typed and the DNA is being determined,” Hawkes said into the microphone. “Assuming the wounds were all made by the same weapon, which I believe is likely, a determination will be made to conclude from the layering of the blood the order in which the victims were killed.”
Hawkes flipped off the tape recorder and looked down at the dead man. If he could see the knife, he’d be able to confirm what he suspected.
For now, however, he could determine the order in which the three members of the Vorhees family had been killed. For example, if the blood in the wounds of Becky Vorhees was hers alone with no traces of blood from any other family member, then she had almost certainly been murdered first. If the blood in the wounds of Howard Vorhees contained both his blood and that of his daughter but not his wife’s, then he had been killed second. Once he had the blood reports, he would know with certainty.
He looked down at the placid pale face of Howard Vorhees. Hawkes had listened to sixteen Dinah Washington songs. The last, Destination Moon, was just ending.
Long before the days of the iPod, Hawkes had listened to Maxine Tucker, Sarah Vaughn, Dinah Washington over and over again. On one of those days, Hawkes had been sewing up a skeletal homeless man with a liver that looked like bulbous gray silly putty when a new body was wheeled in.
“Put it over there,” he had told the paramedics, pointing to his left without looking up as he finished sewing the cavity closed.
After putting the corpse back in its assigned drawer, Hawkes had put a CD in his stereo and turned to the body that had been brought in moments earlier.
Behind him came the bittersweet voice of Maxine Tucker singing, “I wonder if it’s worth the dyin.’ ” And in front of him lay the body of Maxine Tucker.
Hawkes had stood silently listening until the end of the song.
Hawkes sat next to Mac at the counter at Metrano’s. Mac had coffee. Hawkes ate a gyro sandwich.
“Well?” asked Hawkes, reaching for a large glass of Coke.
“I think you’re right,” said Mac. “The girl was killed first. Then the mother. Mother’s blood in her wound was over hers. The father was killed last.”
“Makes no sense,” said Hawkes. “You have three people to kill. The one you go after first is the one most likely to cause you trouble, the father, but he was last.”
“Maybe he came into the girl’s room after she and her mother had been stabbed,” said Mac.
“He didn’t hear all the noise?” asked Hawkes. “He wasn’t taking sleeping pills or any other drug. I would have found traces in his stomach. Nothing wrong with his hearing that I could see.”
“So,” said Mac. “What was he doing when his wife and daughter were murdered?”
Hawkes shrugged.
“And why were the women laid out on the bed but the father was crumpled on the floor?”
Mac was looking into the tan depths of the coffee in his mug. Hawkes looked at him.
“You have an idea?” said Hawkes.
Mac nodded.
“You know where the boy’s body is?” asked Hawkes.
“Maybe,” said Mac. “I need to find Kyle Shelton.”
“The Beast,” said Hawkes. “It would also help if you could find the knife.”
“We’re working on that,” said Mac.
Mac didn’t like what he was thinking. Didn’t like it at all.
Danny sat in the chair across from Sheila Hellyer. Her office was small, clean, as identified by polished wood as the CSI lab was identified by shining steel.
Sheila Hellyer was somewhere in her forties, good looking, classy, short gray hair, every strand in place, large silver earrings.
“Hold up your hand,” she said.
He did. The tremor was there. Sheila Hellyer wrote something on the yellow lined pad in front of her.
“When did it start?” she asked.
“Noticed it this morning when I got up,” Danny said, trying not to look uncomfortable.
“What did you think had happened?” she asked.
“My grandfather had Parkinson’s.”
“It come on him suddenly?” she asked.
“No, a little at a time according to my mother,” he said.
“I don’t think you have Parkinson’s, but we’ll run neurological tests.”
“You’ve seen this before?” Danny said.
“Many times,” she said. “Sometimes a tremor, a tic, a slurring of words and uncontrollable blinking of the eyes. It comes with the job. This happened to you once before.”
Danny looked puzzled and said, “No.”
Sheila Hellyer flipped through the papers in the folder, found the one she was looking for and said, “Two years ago you underwent a mandatory psych evaluation,” she said. “You had shot and killed an armed murderer on a subway platform.”
She put down the evaluation and said, “The recommendation was that you be allowed to go back to work, bu
t that you should be evaluated every six months.”
“I have been,” Danny said.
“I know. It says here that in each evaluation session you showed some signs of resentment toward the evaluator.”
“Maybe they were paranoid,” said Danny seriously. “Stress of the job. I think one of the evaluators, Dr. Dawzwitz, had a tick in his right eye.”
Sheila couldn’t hold back the smile. He was right. He was also deflecting.
“I mentioned the tremor in your hand,” she said. “In your initial evaluation, Dr. Dawzwitz noted a small tremor in your right hand.”
“No,” protested Danny, trying to remember.
There had been so much to think about, so much not to think about. He had wanted to go to bed and pull the blanket over his head. He had also wanted to plunge into work, all-consuming twenty-four-hour work. Had his hand really trembled?
“What happened last night?” she asked.
Danny shrugged.
“When you held up your hand I could see your knuckles were bruised. I think one of them might be broken.”
Danny looked away, sighed, examined his hand and said, “Two men tried to mug me last night on the way home from work.”
“On the street?”
“Subway.”
“And you were afraid?” she asked.
Danny smiled, a bitter smile.
“No,” he said. “That was the problem. There were two of them. One had a knife. One had a lead pipe. I think I was happy to see them.”
“What did you do?” she asked.
“Lost it,” he confessed. “Beat the hell out of them. I heard a rib crack, a nose break, saw blood spurting. I kept punching. I wanted to kill them. I think I shouted or grunted or something.”
“What were you thinking?” she asked.
“Thinking?” he said. “Nothing. I was seeing. Maggots. A dead little girl. A killer who wanted sympathy. And then more bodies, mangled, torn, sometimes faceless. An old woman dead on the floor of a subway car clutching her shopping bag. I thought I had forgotten most of them.”
“And the man you killed two years ago, did you see him?”
“No,” he said.
“You kept punching the two men on the subway after you had subdued them?” she asked.
Danny nodded.
“How did it feel?” she asked.
“Losing it? Scary. When I stopped punching and looked down at the two of them groaning, I didn’t remember beating them. But maybe what was worse was that, scary as it was, I felt good about it.”
“You don’t get to touch the bad guys in CSI,” she said.
“No. Not if we can help it. Even when we use force when we have to, it always winds up as an issue in court if there’s a trial.”
“This time you did use force,” she said. “For all the victims you’ve seen, all the killers of the innocent you had to endure. You did something.”
“The wrong thing,” he said.
“And you regret it?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “I let them go.”
He looked down at his trembling hand and then up at her and said, “I just want the tremor to stop.”
“I’ll call Dr. Pargrave in neurology to set up tests and prescribe blood work,” she said, making a note, “and I’ll ask him to give you a prescription for propranolol for the tremors and a mild drug prescribed for combat veterans. Make an appointment with me for one week from today. If you need me sooner, call day or night.” She handed him a card.
“What’s wrong with me?” asked Danny.
“How much coffee do you drink on an average day?” she asked.
“Not much. Four, five cups.”
“Cola?”
“Diet, three a day maybe.”
“Too much caffeine. Cut the caffeine. Cold turkey.”
Danny looked at her, adjusted his glasses and repeated, “What’s wrong with me?”
Sheila Hellyer nodded and said, “Cop trauma. You’ve seen too much darkness, death. You hold it in and then, in your case, something triggers all the memories and you explode. That hand is angry.”
“You sure I’ll be OK?”
“No,” she said. “That’s why we’re running tests. The tremor might get worse without the caffeine. What you should do is go home for a few days and meditate or rent all six Star Wars movies.”
“Are you going to recommend that I be taken off the unit?” he asked.
Sheila Hellyer closed the file in front of her and said, “If I recommended that all of the walking wounded police officers be fired, the New York police department would probably be reduced to a few hundred people. Besides, a lot of those officers living with the horror of what they see and do are the best this city or any city has. Just my opinion. I’m not planning to write a paper about it.”
The Stalker entered Stella’s apartment using a copy of the key he had made himself from the one he had found in a drawer in the kitchen the first time he had been there. The first time he had picked the lock. It hadn’t been easy. It wasn’t something he knew how to do, but he had practiced at it, especially with the lock Stella had installed. He had purchased a lock just like hers, read a book on how to pick a lock, bought the right tools, and practiced.
It had taken him almost twenty minutes that first time he had entered Stella’s apartment, and by the time he was finished he had been drenched in sweat from the fear of someone seeing him. He had also been afraid that he had left small scratch marks that she might notice.
Now was the third time he had been in her apartment, and this time he didn’t bother searching drawers and accessing Stella’s computer. It took too much time to put everything back exactly as it was so she wouldn’t notice anyone had been there.
He moved quickly to the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. He knew where the bottle was. He took the bottle he had brought with him from his pocket and carefully, over the sink, poured the white-brown gel from the bottle he had brought into Stella’s medication and shook Stella’s bottle for a full two minutes.
He had learned how to make the gel, which used simple fly strips and turpentine, from notes he found on a bookmarked web site on her computer.
He had been certain it would work. The person who had written the notes knew about such things, but just in case, the man had tried the poison on a dozen white rats he had purchased at a pet show. He had told the woman who sold the rats to him that he was feeding them to his two corn snakes. The rats had died almost instantly. That wasn’t good. He moved on to guinea pigs and finally a rhesus macaque monkey, tried various mixtures, percentages, until he found one that made the monkey immobile for about two minutes before it died.
She might take it that night. It might be days or weeks before she would need it, but she would need it. When she did take it, it would kill her quickly, but she would suffer.
He carefully cleaned and dried the sink using toilet paper and a spray bottle of cleanser Stella kept under the sink. He flushed the paper down the toilet, made sure it was gone, pocketed the bottle he had brought with him and returned Stella’s half-full bottle of antihistamine syrup to the cabinet with the label facing out as he had found it.
Less than a minute later, he left the apartment. He would return when the time came. He wanted to be there when she died. He wanted her to live long enough to know why this was happening to her, but he would settle for simply knowing that she was dead.
Mac had returned just before dawn to the wooded area where Jacob Vorhees’ bicycle and clothes were found. He wanted to use an ALS on the area to look for signs of blood. With his luminol light on and wearing an amber eye-shield, Mac went over the ground, moving outward in circles to a distance of fifty yards.
No signs of blood, but as dawn came, Mac found the missing sneaker behind a rock, half a football field away from the bike and clothes. Had the boy broken away from Kyle Shelton still wearing one shoe? Had the shoe come off when the boy was running away?
Wearing latex gloves, Mac lift
ed the shoe and saw the blood. He bagged the shoe and put it in his kit.
Mac had a few ideas. Some were simple, some—one in particular—were bizarre, but he had dealt with more than the bizarre before.
There were at least six linden trees in the area Mac covered. He had examined leaves from beneath some of them. Most of them had the edges gnawed off or an irregularly shaped hole in the middle of the leaf. It didn’t take much searching to find silken threads on the trees and then cankerworm larvae on the still-living leaves of the linden tree.
Magnified 120 times and focused, the leaves revealed two secrets.
There was one small bite mark at the edge of one leaf near the stem. There was also a trace of something else, something white and pulpy. Mac increased the magnification until he was convinced the small white dot was animal material, almost certainly from a dead caterpillar very much like the one he had found on the linden leaf in Jacob Vorhees’ room.
Back in his office, Mac checked his watch. He had a busy morning ahead. He sat back in his office chair and looked down at the two items on his desk, the fragment of leaf and a credit card printout, items related to the murder of the Vorhees family.
When Danny came through the door holding a folder and a book, Mac didn’t look at his hand or ask him any questions about his session with Sheila Hellyer. Instead he asked, “What do we know about Kyle Shelton?”
Danny opened the folder and scanned the report. He already knew what was in it.
“Age twenty-five, degree from City University of New York, in philosophy. Did three years in the marines, enlisted. Served on the Iraq-Syria border. Purple heart. Punctured spleen from a mine. Got out, took a job delivering flowers. Had a fight in a bar on the Lower East Side, The Red Lamp Lounge. Some guy, a little drunk maybe, got in Shelton’s face about Middle East policy. Shelton shut him up by breaking the guy’s jaw with one punch. Shelton spent three months at Riker’s and then got a hearing and was given probation. And last, but maybe not least, our fleeing Beast wrote a book, War and Rationalization. Published by a respectable small press. Got a short favorable review in the Times on a Tuesday. The book didn’t sell, only two thousand copies.”
Blood on the Sun (CSI: NY) Page 6
