Blessed are the Dead
Page 24
“Gabriella! Gabriella! Can you give us a comment?”
I shake my head no. Finally, I find Donovan. He’s leaning against a squad car talking to a uniformed officer who is taking notes. His shirt is back on. Before I can head that way, an officer stops me and tells me he needs to get my statement. By the time we are done, Donovan is nowhere to be seen. The officer drives me down the hill to where Lopez’s car is parked, and I jump in before the reporters surround me. As soon as I get onto the highway again, the fog instantly lifts from the roadway, and the sun pours down on me.
My phone shows a message waiting for me. The number is unfamiliar. The message is from May.
“Gabriella, I just saw the news. It’s my fault. I gave Jack Dean Johnson your cell-phone number,” she says, sounding out of breath. “He promised me that if I did, he would tell me about taking Jasmine. He was supposed to meet me at the office last night but never showed. I didn’t know what he was going to do to you, or I’d never have given him your number.”
Click.
I’m too exhausted to even try to figure out why May would confess this to me.
My phone rings, and for a second, my heart leaps, but it’s not Donovan. It’s Kellogg.
“Just saw you on TV. You okay?”
I have bloody guts spattered all over my shirt, my head throbs like Vesuvius about to erupt, I’m once again a loser in love, and I don’t have a job. But, surprisingly, I’m okay.
“I have some news,” Kellogg says. “Evans was canned yesterday. Guess the publisher found out she was sleeping with a sports reporter.”
“What? I thought she was sleeping with May’s dad?”
“Huh? Oh yeah. Not anymore. I heard he found out about it, too. Well, anyway, guess who the new executive editor is?”
“You?”
“Damn tootin’.”
“Congratulations. You deserve it. I’m so happy for you.”
“Thanks, but listen, that’s not why I called. Are you home yet?”
“Almost. Why?”
“Because, Giovanni, I’m going to need you to get me your story by deadline. As my star cops reporter—who just helped the police stop a serial killer—I’m going to allow you to write it at home and e-mail it to me. You’re on deadline. I’m not putting the paper to bed without your story, so get crackin’.”
“You got it.” I hang up and can’t stop smiling. “But what about May?”
“She’s the new education reporter.”
DURING THE TWO-HOUR drive back to the city, I think about evil. Can someone truly be entirely evil? I don’t know if I will ever find anything good about Jack Dean Johnson, any redeeming quality in him, no matter how hard I try. I feel the slightest tinge of pity when I remember the story he told me about his mother, but it quickly goes away, replaced by the nightmarish images of what he did to little girls. Maybe someday, with time, I’ll be able to scrape up some feeling for him other than utter hatred and disgust. Or maybe I won’t.
Chapter 55
ORANGE SHAFTS OF sunlight are streaming through the cracks in my curtains when I arrive home. I talked to my mother on the way home. We are all meeting at my grandmother’s house tonight. She said Dante feels awful about how he treated me and that I need to forgive him because otherwise, he’ll never forgive himself.
Sitting on my couch, I can’t help but worry about Sofia and how she will be forever marked by the monster who wanted to take her life. But I feel hopeful remembering that the spark was still in her eyes. She’s a fighter. She’s a survivor.
Feeling overcome with thankfulness, I turn on the radio station that plays my favorite eighties alternative music and draw back every curtain and shade. It’s a new day. My latest dose of ibuprofen is starting to kick in. I have another chance at my life.
I boot up my laptop and begin to write my story. As I write, the blank television screen keeps catching my eye. I tell myself I don’t need to see his face again so soon. But ultimately, I am a reporter. I grab the remote control. Every local station is broadcasting Johnson’s death, and more details are emerging about his hideout.
My phone rings. It’s Moretti.
“I figure you should get the scoop on all this. You’ve earned it. So, here’s what I know. You’re the only reporter who’s going to get all of this detail.”
He fills me in on the horrid details of what they have found. Apparently, the basement was Johnson’s torture chamber—at least for the past seven years since the base has been closed. Investigators found a metal bed frame with shackles attached to both the head- and footboards.
I cringe and try to ignore unbidden images of Sofia chained to it. I’m sure that was next for her.
God knows where he held and tortured his other victims.
The FBI is going to go back and hunt for evidence in every house he’s ever lived in and every apartment he’s ever rented and every vehicle he’s ever owned.
Moretti goes on to say that investigators also found a small trunk in the basement. Inside, they found twenty-four cigar boxes. Each box contained a missing persons flyer for a child. The oldest dated back to 1979.
When I hear this date, my heart lurches, but I don’t interrupt as Moretti continues.
Despite his claims that he didn’t keep souvenirs, Johnson kept one small memento from each child—a single eyeball in a small plastic jar of formaldehyde. I’m sure some FBI profiler will have something to say about that.
My face flushes as I remember him telling me that he didn’t “save earlobes and fingers like some fuckers.” No, he saved eyeballs.
My mind races back to peering down into Caterina’s casket. Her eyelids were closed. I wouldn’t have been able to tell if her eyes were still there or not. And I’m sure this is something my family would never have told me.
Finally, in the silence, Moretti clears his throat. I know what he’s about to say. He found out about my sister’s murder. He knows I’ve kept it from him. And now he has to tell me that they found a cigar box with her eyes. I wait for what he has to say next.
“There wasn’t a box for your sister, Caterina,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
I catch my breath in surprise.
“You already knew about my sister?”
“Yes. I’m so sorry, kiddo.”
He must have known all along and just respected my desire not to talk about it.
And now he’s just told me that Johnson didn’t kill her. I’m filled with a strange mixture of gratefulness, relief, and, oddly, disappointment. It means that predator didn’t take my sister. But it also means her killer is still out there.
Then Moretti tells me there was a box with Jasmine’s flyer—and sadly, an eyeball—in it. Police are going to send it to the state DNA lab to see if it matches samples taken from her brush at home, but it’s hers. I know it. Against all odds, there will be justice for Jasmine—and a whole lot of other little girls. And best of all, a monster who preyed on the innocent can never again hurt another little girl.
I look at the thick folder that says “Caterina” on my desk. I open it carefully and slide out a few newspaper clippings. I skim them quickly, looking for one thing. There it is. In every story, there is a mention of Caterina’s pink jump rope being left behind.
The proof is right there—Johnson didn’t know anything about my sister other than what he could have found in old newspaper articles. I pick up my cell phone and set it back down. I’ll call Donovan later. I’m going to need his help finding out who took Caterina. But I don’t have time to talk to him right now. I’m on deadline.
I stare at my screen. There is so much I want to say. I think about what was most important to Jasmine during her short life and realize that she only wanted what all of us want. I begin with that.
More than anything, Jasmine Baker wanted to be loved. She didn’t live in a fancy house, d
idn’t have a room full of toys, didn’t even have a bed to call her own. She never had much in her life, and only wanted the same things every other little girl wants.
A killer preyed on those desires. What it took for Jack Dean Johnson to lure Jasmine into his vehicle was so little because she asked for so little in life. He offered her luxuries that many children take for granted: a trip to the candy aisle, a new outfit, and a princess movie to watch on television.
Jack Dean Johnson knew that when he offered these small enticements, Jasmine would willingly climb into his car. He said as much to the Bay Herald before he was killed yesterday at the former Fort Ord military base.
It’s a good start. My eye lingers on one sentence—“ . . . before he was killed.” That’s going to be something I’ll have to deal with. But not today. Today is not about me. Today is about Jasmine Baker.
After about an hour of writing, I take a break when one of my favorite songs comes over the radio—“Don’t You Forget About Me” by Simple Minds. I grab Dusty in my arms and start dancing around and singing.
I hear a sound over the music and realize someone is knocking on my door. Maybe it’s one of my neighbors complaining about the music. I turn down the volume and stick my good eye to the peephole. It’s Donovan. He’s chewing on his bottom lip and peering down at his shoes. He runs his fingers through his hair and glances back up. What I see in his eyes surprises me. He doesn’t seem pissed off. He looks nervous, uncertain.
He looks how I feel deep inside. Lonely. I realize that I’ve been holding him—and every other man in my life—at arm’s length for so long because I have refused to believe that I am worthy of love. I have accepted that my fate in life is to be alone. Somewhere deep down inside, I don’t think I deserve to be loved. Why should I have love when Caterina has nothing? I’ve believed for so long that is my punishment. The price I need to pay for being the daughter who lived.
But when I peer through that peephole, I suddenly realize I have another choice. My nana’s words come back to me—We who are left behind are only supposed to do one thing—we are supposed to live.
My knuckles are turning white from gripping the doorknob. I peer into the mirror hanging by my door. I have tangled hair, a fat lip, a black eye, and a jagged row of angry black stitches over my left eyebrow. And then I notice something I didn’t even realize when I was dancing around—I have tears dripping down my face. Big, fat, salty tears. And that’s okay.
I take a deep breath and fling the door open wide.
Acknowledgments
I’D LIKE TO say a huge thank-you to my rock-star agent, Stacey Glick, and my extremely smart and super cool editor, Emily Krump. There have been so many people who have supported, inspired, helped, and encouraged me along the way, including Owen Laukkanen, David Corbett, Claire Booth, Celeste Altus, Joelle Charbonneau, Donnell Bell, Kate Schultz, Jana Otto Hiller, Sam Bohrman, Sarah Hanley, Coralee Grebe, Sean Beggs, Kaethe Schwehn, Mickie Turk, Alex Kent, Carolyn Ore, Laurie Walker, Susan Hastings, Sarah Henning, Marla Madison, Jeffrey Brown, Mary Gardner, Paul Legler, Lisa Li, Mary Strohmayer, Warren Snyder, Brian Kalinowski, Stacia Decker, Kathryn Beaumont, and Theresa Rizzo. A special thank-you to Stephanie Kahalekulu for her friendship and the bond we will always share after our dealings with the killer my antagonist is based on. Thank you to my mom for being an early reader and supporter. And, of course, always and forever, all my love and thanks to my husband, who ruthlessly and passionately believes in me, and my two fierce daughters because my family is my everything.
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About the Author
KRISTI BELCAMINO is a writer, photographer, and artist. In her former life as a newspaper crime reporter in California, she flew over Big Sur in an FA-18 jet with the Blue Angels, raced a Dodge Viper at Laguna Seca, watched autopsies, and interviewed serial killers. She is now a journalist based in Minneapolis, and the Gabriella Giovanni mysteries are her first books.
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Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
BLESSED ARE THE DEAD. Copyright © 2014 by Kristi Belcamino. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition JUNE 2014 ISBN: 9780062338907
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062338914
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