They Never Die Quietly

by D. M. Annechino

  “We understand that.” Sami said.

  Al, apparently uninterested in hearing the man’s life story, elbowed his partner, signaling that he wanted to leave, but Sami ignored him.

  “How long have you been homeless?” Sami asked.

  He counted on his fingers. “Six years. I’m not from these parts. Born and raised in North Dakota. When I lost my job at the sawmill, everything turned to shit. Lost my home, and then the wife took off with my kid…” He stared at his badly worn sneakers. “…boy’s name is Billy. Nine years, two months, and eighteen days old.” His eyes beamed with a cold intensity. “When I turned to the booze, I had no chance to find another job. Didn’t want to. All I cared about was finding the kid. Only flesh and blood I got.”

  Al elbowed her again. Harder this time. She tightened her lips and gave Al a fierce look. “What brought you to San Diego, J.T.?”

  “The Dakotas ain’t the best geography for a man living under the sky. I figured if a guy like me’s gotta live in the streets, why not where the sun shines and the snow ain’t piled up to my butt? I found a job at this lumber mill. Stayed sober long enough to buy a one-way ticket to this fine community called San Diego.”

  Fascinated by his story, Sami said, “You said that some homeless people don’t have a choice. It sounds to me like you have a lot of options. Have you looked for work?”

  “Who’s gonna hire a drunk with a bum knee and no legal address?”

  “Alcoholism can be managed.”

  Al grabbed Sami’s arm and gave her a hard stare. She had helped him through his drinking problem and could read his mind. He wanted no part of counseling a homeless man. He let go of her and wandered to a vacant bench away from them.

  “There are plenty of jobs that wouldn’t require undue stress to your knee,” Sami said. “Besides, maybe with proper treatment your knee can be healed.”

  “Yeah. I know. Heard all the success stories.” Williamson stood up, groped through his inside jacket pocket, and pulled out a pack of Camels. With his back to the ocean breeze, he cupped one hand around the cigarette and lit it with a match. “With all due respect, detective, the real world ain’t much like the one you live in. For the kind of job I might be able to snag, there’s a dozen men standing ahead of me with smarter brains and stronger bodies. Those Mexicans are hardworking fools. I ain’t got nothing against any of ’em, but they’ve made it tough for American-born people like me.” He paused for a minute and looked out toward the ocean. “When I can’t muster enough change to get by, I hang around the employment center, down off Mission Bay Drive. If I get there early, before sunrise, before me and a pint of Wild Turkey get reacquainted, usually I can get a few hours’ work cleaning out a garage or doing some yard work for the uppity snobs living in La Jolla. The ones with the fancy German cars who have no ethical problem paying a man less than minimum wage.” He sucked hard on the Camel. “Booze is all I got anyway. What good’s a job when all a man thinks about is the son he’s never gonna see again. It’s better when my brain’s numb.”

  His speech humbled Sami. For an instant, she thought about conceding, letting the man wallow in his misery. But for some unknown reason, perhaps in the spirit of Christmas, she felt drawn to the stranger’s hopelessness. “There are a number of ways to find people. We have at our disposal sophisticated information resources and new technologies with global capabilities.” Sami glanced at Al and watched him vigorously shaking his head. She flipped the page on the notepad. “Would you like me to see if I can track down your wife and son?”

  Williamson stood stone still. He smiled for the first time. “You would do that for me?”

  For a fleeting moment all her worldly troubles and despair seemed to be eclipsed by the euphoric timbre in this stranger’s voice. His eyes were alive with anticipation.

  Sami’s voice was a little shaky. “What is your wife’s full name?”

  “Mary Jane Williamson. Her former last name was Mitchell. I suspect that she’s more than likely usin’ her maiden name.”

  Sami scribbled on the notepad. “And how old is she?”

  “Best as I can recall”—he used his fingers to count again—“thirty-seven or thereabouts.”

  “Your son’s name is William?”

  “Billy is what’s on his birth certificate.”

  “What was their last known address?”

  This question seemed to stump Williamson. “Lived on County Road 3, in a town called Mandan, about ten miles west of Bismarck.”

  Sami jotted down the information. “Can you give me a description of your wife?”

  He didn’t respond immediately. He licked his lips and his eyes blinked nervously. “She’s a cute little thing.” He extended his arm and held his hand palm side down. “Stood about five-foot-two. Long brown hair—the color of chestnuts.” He paused for a minute, as if trapped in a memory. “Her eyes are big and brown.”

  Noticeably upset, he swallowed hard. Sami gave him a minute to regain his composure. “Is there anything else you can tell us?”

  “Would her Social Security number help?”

  Stunned, Sami asked, “You can remember her SS number?”

  “Funny thing is, I can hardly recall where I slept two nights ago, but for some reason, Mary Jane’s number is stuck in my head. It’s kinda like a tattoo on my brain. I suppose that part of my good memory is because the first three numbers are the same as mine. Five-oh-one—like Levi blue jeans—seven-seven, one-two-five-four.”

  Sami closed the notepad and stuffed it and the pen in her jacket pocket. She extended her arm. “It’s been a pleasure, J.T. Call me in about a week and hopefully I’ll have some info on your wife and son.”

  Williamson’s grip was viselike. His dark eyes were glassy. “The pleasure was all mine. If I think of anything else about the guy with the fancy shoes, I’ll be sure to give you a holler.”

  Sami turned, ready to join Al, but another question came to mind. “One more thing, J.T. You mentioned something about the suspect requesting that you have a special Christmas dinner? Did he ask that you go to any particular restaurant?”

  “Ain’t a restaurant at all. It’s a place where homeless folks can get a hot meal for free. Katie’s Kitchen. It’s in South San Diego.”

  TWELVE

  It wasn’t until he read the chilling headlines in the morning newspaper that Simon felt the shockwave of what he’d done. He felt dirty, as if a wave of toxic waste washed over him and contaminated his body and soul. For the entire day his mind had been crowded with malignant thoughts. He remembered the young woman. How could he forget such a stunning example of female beauty? He recalled their chance meeting on the beach. Talking to her under a moonlit sky. Hearing the waves gently slap against the rocks. Feeling empathy and compassion for the ill-fated teenager. He remembered every detail to the point when blackness had filled his eyes, until his body no longer belonged to him, the moment it became possessed by an all-consuming force. As in the past, his other self, a dark side of his character whose grip on Simon grew stronger every day, had overtaken him.

  Still wearing his heavy cotton robe, he sat on his favorite leather wing chair. The newspaper lay on the ottoman. A cold cup of coffee sat on the end table. Next to the coffee was a plate of over-easy eggs, rye toast, and home-fried potatoes; a breakfast untouched. He glanced again at the front-page article.

  “…her face was so badly beaten she could not be visually identified…”

  Simon’s stomach turned sour with nausea. How could a man of God, a crusader with a mission to purify the world, commit such a heinous act? To purify an unclean soul through crucifixion was a divine endeavor. But to murder an innocent woman while gripped with uncontrollable rage could only be the work of a demon.

  “It is the work of Satan,” he whispered. Who else could he blame, if not the architect of wickedness?

  You are wrong, my son. It is the sacred work of God.

  He had made peace with his mother, apologized for his unkind wor
ds, asked for her forgiveness. How foolish he had been to accuse his mother of such vile deeds. As in the past, she had been gracious and understanding. She’d explained that even God’s most reliable servant can go astray.

  “How can it be the work of God, dear mother?”

  The world is infested with wanton women. Beware of their trickery, sweet boy. With deceiving words and seductive bodies they will corrupt you and lead you to a sinful path of faithlessness. Her punishment was just.

  “But not all women are evil.”

  Oh, but they are, my naïve son. What did the young harlot on the beach want from you? Under the guise of a pitiful, dying woman, she stroked your compassion to get what she wanted. They are all serpents who speak with scheming tongues, pupils of the Prince of Darkness. Do you remember how Bonnie Jean tried to tarnish your pure soul? The world is infected with the likes of Bonnie Jean.

  “Do you expect me to purify every woman walking the earth?”

  One at a time, sweet boy. One at a time.

  Samson, the chocolate Labrador, waddled over to Simon, moaning and doing his dance, sniffing the uneaten breakfast. Simon leaned forward and scratched the sniveling dog’s head.

  “Need to go out, big boy?”

  The dog reacted to his words with great excitement, his tail wagged furiously.

  Simon went into the kitchen and opened the door. Samson dashed outside. He stood in the dark kitchen and closed his eyes.

  “Is it time for another cleansing, Mother?”

  Indeed, my son.

  “Then I will search for a sinner.”

  No need, my boy. You have one beckoning you.

  “Who?”

  The wretched detective.

  Sami lay in bed and pieced together all the clues from the investigation, her mind flooded with suspicious thoughts. Now, more than ever, Simon was a prime suspect. She didn’t want to believe it, but she could no longer ignore the evidence. Physically, Simon fit the serial murderer’s description perfectly: Caucasian male, well over six feet tall, blue eyes, light brown hair. As a physical therapist, well trained and familiar with the anatomy, he might possess the knowledge to remove the victim’s hearts with precision. The gold cross dangling around Simon’s neck, his mysterious limp, and the fact that the suspect who murdered the woman on the beach mentioned Katie’s Kitchen to J.T. Williamson could not be a coincidence. And it seemed rather convenient that the woman was murdered very close to where Sami had planned to meet Simon for dinner. Wanting to share her supposition with Al, she was tempted to call him. But at this juncture she felt she needed more hard facts. Besides, at this point, all the evidence was circumstantial, insufficient to issue a search warrant. And even if she could convince a judge to sign a search warrant, it seemed unlikely that Simon would be careless enough to murder his victims in his home. No, Sami would have to play this one out as a covert operation until she uncovered more compelling evidence. She turned off the light and rolled onto her stomach, knowing for certain that any chance of sleeping would be all but impossible.

  Because time was so critical and at any moment the serial murderer could kidnap his next victim, early Sunday morning Sami drove to her mother’s, dropped off Angelina, then went to the precinct to run Simon’s name through the FBI database to determine if he had a prior history of felonies or misdemeanors. Her mother, of course, was not pleased with Sami’s unannounced crack-of-dawn visit, but Sami didn’t give her time to protest. Besides, her mother usually awakened at five a.m.

  As was always the case, only a handful of detectives and support staff occupied the precinct on Sundays. Sami went into the computer room, closed the door, and entered Simon’s name into the system. She pushed the appropriate keys that would initiate a thorough search of his name and waited. After less than one minute, a flashing banner announced, “No Matches Found.” Although significant, this information only confirmed that Simon had no prior record. It did not, however, remove him as a possible suspect. Now she would have to get close to him. Very close to him. She’d have to gently quiz him through dialogue rather than interrogation. As of yet, she hadn’t a clue how to accomplish this objective. She only knew that time was not her ally.

  After picking up Angelina from her mother’s home, Sami spent the rest of her Sunday morning curled on the sofa in her bathrobe, trying to imagine how she’d make it through the next two days. At ten-thirty, Al unexpectedly showed up with a carton of donuts under his arm. Sami brewed coffee and they sat side by side on the sofa. Al gobbled jelly donuts like a man recently released from a concentration camp, painting his face with powdered sugar, while Sami quietly sipped the hazelnut coffee and Angelina watched cartoons. Sami was tempted to tell Al about Simon and her suspicions, but a little voice in her subconscious warned her not to. Not yet anyway. Al wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, flipped open the cover on the cardboard box, and studied the nine remaining donuts.

  “You’re not really going to stuff another donut in your face, are you?”

  Al closed the lid and patted his stomach. “Maybe later.” He slurped his coffee. “How about you? I bought your favorite: glazed buttermilk.”

  The thought of eating a donut made her ill. “Haven’t you noticed? I’m trying to watch my weight.”

  He gave her a once-over. “I thought your ass looked a little trimmer.”

  “Amazing what a full-length body girdle can do.” Sami didn’t wish to impose on their friendship, but she needed a favor. “Doing anything exciting this afternoon?”

  “Going rock climbing with my buddy Louie.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  Al clutched her hand. “Jesus, your hands are like ice.”

  “Cold hands, warm heart.”

  Al rubbed Sami’s clammy hand, trying to warm it. “Your heart must be an inferno.”

  Al’s hands were soft and his touch gentle. Since Tommy and she split up, Sami desperately missed human contact. She longed for tenderness—a pleasure Tommy ended the moment Sami announced she was pregnant. Al’s touch only served to galvanize her feeling of loneliness.

  “What time is the wake?” Al asked.

  His question caught her off guard. “Two o’clock.”

  “How about I pick you up at one-thirty?” He made the offer without missing a beat.

  “You’re going rock climbing.”

  “You’re more important than rocks.”

  “I’m flattered. I think.” Sami turned and faced Al. “You hated Tommy.”

  “Still do.”

  Sami’s eyes filled with tears. “I appreciate your support.”

  “Support? Wait ’til you find out what I want in return.”

  Sami’s eyes twitched to a smile.

  Al excused himself and went to the bathroom. Angelina, bored with cartoons she’d already seen, turned the television off and found her mother’s lap.

  “Hi, Mommy.”

  “Hello, sweetheart.”

  Angelina’s hair stuck to her cheeks. Sami pushed it away from her eyes. “Are we going back to Grandma Rizzo’s for dinner?”

  It was a Sunday ritual. “Mommy has other things to do, but I’m going to take you to Grandma’s a little later.”

  “Where you going, Mommy?”

  She had been preparing for this moment, but found herself almost paralyzed. “There’s something I have to tell you, honey. About Daddy.”

  “Is he going to take me to Legoland?”

  “No, sweetheart, he’s not.”

  After painful deliberation, the DiSalvo family decided that a one-day wake was all they could endure. Had Tommy died of an illness, or even met his untimely fate in a car crash, the family might be able to withstand the pain and suffering of a longer wake. But the condition of his body, the utter brutality by which he was murdered, made even a one-day wake intolerable. This decision did not serve to ease even a grain of Sami’s angst. To walk into the Westwood Funeral Home required strength beyond her capacity. Although the DiSalvo family decided that Tommy’s casket sho
uld be closed—not even the world’s most gifted plastic surgeon could reconstruct his beaten face and make it presentable—Sami had decided not to expose Angelina to such a traumatic experience. Having other babysitting options available, Sami asked her mother to accompany her.

  “He did not respect me when he was your husband, why should I respect him when he is dead?”

  “I’m asking you to do it for me, not Tommy,” Sami had pleaded.

  Josephine wasn’t budging. “Angelina needs her grandmother. I don’t want you leaving her with some stranger.” When Josephine Rizzo folded her arms across her chest, Sami knew that further debate would be futile.

  Tommy DiSalvo was dead. The man who once swept Sami off her feet, introduced the chubby Catholic girl to her first breathless kiss, taught her that sex was an ongoing adventure, a man who could be gentle one moment and unmercifully cruel the next, the father of her only child, a man she might have saved had she not been so selfish…was gone forever.

  Wearing the only black dress in her wardrobe appropriate for a wake, a wool knee-grazer slightly snug in the hips, Sami walked into the funeral parlor clinging to Al’s arm. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn high heels, and her ankles wobbled in protest.

  “Don’t be nervous,” Al said. He looked quite dashing wearing his two-button navy-blue suit, accompanied with a crisp white shirt and blue paisley tie. With a generous amount of hair gel, Al had neatly combed and slicked back his usually messy hair.

  “That’s easy for you to say,” Sami said. “I think I need to find the ladies’ room.”

  The Westwood Funeral Home, a white brick structure with four marble pillars supporting an expansive carport at the front entrance, was located on Genesee Avenue in Clairemont Mesa. The building, strategically designed to accommodate three wakes simultaneously, while still providing privacy for the bereaved visitors, stood among other commercial establishments. Today, Tommy’s was the only wake.