They Never Die Quietly

by D. M. Annechino

  Josephine’s voice rang in triumph. “I’ll be waiting.”

  Sami tiptoed into Angelina’s bedroom and sat on the bed. Rather than abruptly wake her, she gently stroked her hair. What a beautiful child.

  Her rather flowery explanation of Tommy’s death had not adversely affected Angelina. Or at least it appeared that way. When Sami had delicately made the announcement, the two-year-old chewed on her lower lip and rubbed her watery eyes but did not shed a tear. That her dad now lived in heaven with God hadn’t upset the child. In her mind, he had embarked upon an exciting journey, and although she could no longer see him or hear his voice, she could speak to him often and know that he would hear her words.

  The lightheartedness of childhood can often be merciful, Sami thought. But an adult mind cannot find solace in the same safe harbor as a child’s heart. In due time, Angelina would come to grips with troubling questions. Losing her father at such an early age represented only a small portion of the issues that Angelina would face. The real tragedy lay in Angelina’s dim memory of an obscure man who did not participate in his daughter’s life, a father who would tragically fade to oblivion.

  In later years, Sami felt sure, Angelina’s world would be rocked with a profound feeling of loss. For now, Sami found minor relief knowing that Angelina sought refuge in the safe harbor of her youthful innocence.

  Angelina yawned. Her eyes barely opened. “Time to go to Grandma’s?”

  “Yes, sweetheart.”

  “Can I wear my Winnie the Pooh shirt?”

  “Of course.”

  For a moment Sami’s thoughts shifted to her father’s death. In an abstract way she had felt as though she were no longer imprisoned by his expectations, or her inability to please him. Overwhelmed with culpability, she wrestled with this feeling for years. How could anyone benefit from a parent’s death? It occurred to Sami that Angelina might be better off without her biological father. Perhaps she would be spared the bitter realization that Tommy DiSalvo would never aspire to her daughterly expectations.

  Superficially, this presumption seemed coldhearted and utterly callous. And Sami would never share these dark judgments with anyone. But the whole issue of parent-child relationships hovered as controversial a topic as politics or religion. Absolute truths did not exist. To Sami, nothing on earth was clearly right or wrong. Each relationship delicately rested on a balance scale, the position of each side affected by the daily rituals of parent-child interactions.

  Angelina sat up and reached for the ceiling with outstretched arms. “Am I gonna get another daddy?”

  The jaw-dropping question shook Sami to her core. She had to think carefully before answering.

  Parked a block away from Sami’s home in the rented Chevy Impala, slumped low and hyped with anticipation, Simon watched. Not knowing when she’d leave her home, he’d been waiting since six a.m. He swallowed the final mouthful of lukewarm coffee and set the stainless steel mug in the cup holder. At seven-forty-five, he saw her walk out the front door wearing a business suit, one a homicide detective would wear to work. The morning was cool, the sun hidden by stubborn clouds. Sami held Angelina’s hand, led her to the car, and secured her daughter in the child seat. Simon waited for Sami to back out of her driveway before starting the engine. He followed at a safe distance behind, wearing a Padres cap on his head. Afraid she’d lose him on the freeway, Simon felt relieved when Sami passed the on-ramp to Freeway 805 and continued through residential neighborhoods. She pulled into a driveway on 32nd Street. Simon parked at the curb and waited, snapping a mental picture of the address. He observed Sami leading Angelina to the front porch of the tiny, run-down home. They disappeared behind the front door. Sami emerged five minutes later. Alone.

  Sami pushed through the double doors leading to the Detective Division, walked by her desk, waved to three fellow detectives—Alberto Diaz wasn’t in sight—marched into Captain Davison’s office, and closed the door.

  Davison peered at her over his reading glasses. “I thought you’d be at the funeral.” The top button of his wrinkled shirt was undone and his black tie hung loosely around his neck.

  “So did I,” Sami said.

  “You’re not going?”

  “It would appear that way.”

  Davison rubbed his chin. “So am I to assume you’re officially back to work?”

  “That depends.” She sat in one of the two chairs opposite Davison. In the past, she always waited for an invitation.

  The captain dropped a pen on the desk, removed his glasses, and rocked back in the chair. “Okay, Rizzo, what’s on your mind?”

  “I thought you were a man of your word, captain.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “You said we had until Friday before you pulled us off the case.”

  “So that’s why your ass is chapped?” Davison folded his hands. “Diaz didn’t fill you in?”

  “I’d like to hear your version.”

  Davison reached for the pack of Camels sitting on the corner of his desk. He stuck his index finger inside and fished around but discovered it was empty. He opened the squeaky center drawer and rummaged through an accumulation of rarely used paraphernalia. Unable to find cigarettes, he stood up and frisked his pockets. “Shit.” Davison fell into the chair. “I know you’ve been through a lot of shit, Rizzo, and you’re a good cop, but this case is over your head.”

  Good cop? Apparently he had forgotten about her commendations. “And you think the boys in the Special Investigation Squad are going to bag the big one?”

  “I had to do something.”

  Sami glared at Davison.

  “You’re emotionally involved, Rizzo. It’s been obvious for weeks. There’s no way for you to remain objective.”

  For a moment, Sami sat silent, thinking about what the captain said. His assessment of her was correct. But she wasn’t going to give up her fight yet. “I know you’re under a lot of pressure, captain, but—”

  “I’m sorry, there’s nothing to discuss. The decision’s made.”

  “I’d like your permission to speak with Chief Carson.” James Carson, recently appointed Chief of Detectives, supervised all six detective precincts in San Diego County. He had a reputation as a hard-nosed, inflexible tyrant, but Sami had nothing to lose but a little of her hide.

  “I won’t stop you from going over my head, Rizzo, but Carson is going to chew you up and spit you out.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  Like two chess players contemplating their opponent’s next move, they sat quietly eyeballing each other.

  Davison said, “Do you have one shred of evidence or even a lukewarm lead?”

  “We’ve got a homeless man who can identify a likely suspect.”

  Davison’s eyes narrowed. “You really believe the woman murdered in Pacific Beach was the work of the serial killer?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “What proof do you have?”

  She didn’t yet want to tell the captain about Simon, so she couldn’t offer tangible evidence or dazzle the captain with an argument that might strengthen her position. The only trump card she carried was her proven skills and sound reputation. “When you were a detective, captain, how often did you rely on your gut instincts?”

  “I know where you’re going with this, Rizzo, and it ain’t gonna work.”

  “Indulge me. Please.”

  “A cop without good instincts should look for a different occupation.”

  “How many times have my hunches resulted in an arrest?”

  “No one is questioning your record, detective. The problem is—”

  “Have I ever asked you for special consideration?”

  His voice softened. “Not that I can recall.”

  “This investigation is a millimeter away from breaking wide open. I can feel it in my bones.”

  “Is Diaz as passionate as you with this investigation?”

  She hadn’t asked Al, and for all she knew h
e might be relieved that it had been reassigned, but she had the captain where she wanted him and had to keep pushing. “Al feels the same way I do, captain. I’m surprised he hasn’t thrown a temper tantrum.”

  Davison set his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers. “You do realize that my credibility as a commanding officer will be in the toilet if I reverse my decision.”

  “You’re a big boy. You’ll get over it.”

  The captain exposed a rarely seen smile. “Even if I put Diaz and you back on the case, you’d still have to work with a task force.”

  “I realize that, Captain. Just give me another shot.”

  Davison shook his head. “Okay, Detective Rizzo, I’m gonna give you just enough rope to hang yourself.” He leaned forward and slapped his palms on the desk. “If this asshole isn’t behind bars by Friday at midnight, you’d better update your résumé.”

  “By Friday midnight, you’ll owe me an apology, captain.”

  Normally, Sami disliked the enormous amount of paperwork associated with detective work, but today, this tedious task seemed like a godsend, helping divert her thoughts away from Tommy’s funeral and Maria DiSalvo’s coldhearted accusation. It took almost two hours for her to complete her daily progress report. As a homicide detective, every detail—even those seemingly insignificant—loomed large. And a major part of her responsibility was to record every aspect of an investigation in writing. Not divulging her suspicions about Simon violated her code of ethics. But Sami’s instincts, always reliable, urged her not to share her assumptions quite yet. She hadn’t decided if convincing Captain Davison to reassign the serial murders to Al and her had been a good thing. By midnight Friday, she’d know for sure if her power play had been a wise decision or foolhardy.

  Sami left the precinct at ten-thirty a.m. and drove to the Police crime laboratory located on Broadway in downtown San Diego. Hopefully, the lab work would yield a significant piece of evidence from the Valentino shoes or the Gold Toe sock. The crime lab, officially named the Scientific Investigation Bureau, served as a crucial resource for homicide investigations and offered much support to the detective squads. The SIB consisted of five sections: Biology was responsible for the identification, analysis, and differentiation of body fluids—blood, sperm, vaginal fluids, saliva. It also performed tests on hair to determine origin (human, animal, or synthetic) and race, and in some cases DNA comparisons were done. Criminalistics provided chemical analysis of urine—to detect drug content—blood analysis for DWI, examination of alcoholic beverages, poisons, gunpowder and gunshot residue, paint scrapings, metals, glass fragments, fibers, soil, and identification of foot, heel, and tire impressions. The Document Examination section performed tests to learn the age of documents; they restored charred or water-damaged papers, as well as restored erasures, obliterations, or alterations, and compared hand printing and handwriting. Firearms identified and determined the condition of firearms; examined cartridge casings; analyzed neutron activation of gunshot residue; restored obliterated serial numbers; identified pick marks on lock cylinders; determined distance between victim and firearm; and acted as liaison between law enforcement agencies, gun manufacturers, and dealers. The last section—Controlled Substance Analysis—performed quantitative and qualitative analyses on all narcotics. Even with such a comprehensive resource, apprehending, arresting, and convicting a criminal was still an enormous undertaking.

  Instead of waiting for an elevator, Sami took the stairs to the second-floor Biology Lab. When she walked into the lab, Sami spotted Betsy, the technician assigned to analyze the Valentino shoes and Gold Toe sock. Standing only four-foot-eleven, barely ninety-five pounds, the Vietnamese-born woman had the spunk of a Norfolk terrier. Sami had grown particularly fond of her over the past three years.

  Betsy sat on a stool in front of a Formica table. There were plastic containers of various size scattered about, and a wooden rack filled with glass test tubes next to a sophisticated-looking microscope. Betsy looked up, her almond-shaped eyes as dark and shiny as chocolate frosting. “Long time no see, Sami.” Having moved to America when she was only five years old, she spoke without an Asian accent.

  Sami put her arm around Betsy and squeezed her shoulder. “How’s my favorite tech doing?”

  “I’d be better if I had major news for you.”

  “Please don’t tell me it’s a bust.”

  “Not exactly.” Betsy held up a small plastic bag. “Found a couple of hairs in the sock. The guy’s Caucasian—for all that’s worth. Now all you have to do is ask every over-six-foot, athletic-type white dude in the county to shave his legs and drop a few hairs off at the lab, and with a little DNA magic you’ll have your man.”

  “I’ll start handing out the razors. Any luck with the shoes?”

  “Well, I did find a little sand and clay, but they have little geographic significance.” Betsy grinned. “On the bright side, though, I recovered a trace amount of blood inside the shoes. It may take a few days before we get the DNA results, but I think we’ve got enough for us to match his blood type.”

  “I’ll keep my fingers crossed. And by the way, keep the shoes in a safe place, Betsy. I promised to return them to their owner.”

  Betsy looked puzzled. “You’re going to return the shoes to the suspect?”

  Sami shook her head. “It’s a long story.”

  Betsy pointed to one of the shoes, cut in pieces and sealed inside a plastic bag. “Afraid it’s a little late.”

  Betsy eased off the stool and looked up at Sami. “I was really sorry to hear about your former husband, Sami. Any progress in the investigation?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Must be tough on Angelina.”

  “She’s okay for now, but only time will tell.”

  “Want to grab a beer sometime?”

  “I’d love to, Betsy.”

  Somewhat deflated, Sami returned to the precinct. About to sit, she noticed a lavender envelope sitting in the center of her cluttered desk with her name neatly printed on the face of it. She tore it open. The pure white greeting card had a purple tulip and the words With Sympathy on the front. She opened the card and read:

  May the memories you cherish fill your heart with peace today and give you the strength and courage to sustain you on your way.

  Warm regards,

  Simon

  FOURTEEN

  Monday at six-thirty p.m., Sami’s telephone rang. Angelina had just finished dinner—pizza from Vincenzo’s—and Sami gulped the last mouthful of a Corona while clearing off the kitchen table. Angelina sat on the floor watching television. Takeout food had become mainstream at the Rizzo residence. So much so that one of Sami’s many New Year’s resolutions—quickly approaching—was to buy a half-dozen cookbooks and attempt to learn the craft of cooking. She made a fair spaghetti sauce, but as Josephine Rizzo often pointed out, “it tasted like the ‘orange sauce’ Americanos buy in a jar.” On occasion, when Sami felt particularly adventurous, she’d stuff a chicken and roast it. But a culinary aficionado? Hardly.

  With the volume of business-related calls she received every day, Sami was conditioned to answer formally. She picked up the receiver and without forethought said, “Sami Rizzo.”

  “Is this the devastatingly gorgeous Sami Rizzo, the female Sherlock Holmes of the Western world?” Al sounded remarkably upbeat.

  “Sorry, pal, but you’ve really got the wrong number.”

  “So I gather you made it through the day without your indispensable partner?” Al had spent most of the day interviewing homeless people and local residents close to the vicinity where the Swedish model had been murdered on the beach.

  “To be honest, Al, I didn’t even notice you weren’t around until I stumbled upon a box of uneaten jelly donuts.”

  “Did you save me any?”

  “Not one.” Sami eyed the last piece of pizza. “Any luck with the interviews?”

  “J.T. is our only link.”

  An awkwar
d silence ensued.

  “How you holding up, Sami?”

  She had to ponder his question for a moment. “Believe it or not, I actually feel guilty about not feeling guilty. It’s as if Tommy’s been gone for years.”

  “He has. Is Angelina okay?”

  “So far, so good.” The melted mozzarella beckoned Sami. “Will I see you in the morning?”

  “Eight a.m. sharp.”

  “Got the lab test results on the shoes and sock this morning.”

  “Good news?”

  “Betsy found a hair in the sock. Our perp’s a white guy.”

  “That narrows the field to about a hundred fifty million suspects.”

  Temptation got the best of her and Sami folded the last piece of pizza in half and took a generous bite. “Betsy also recovered a trace of blood in one of the shoes. We’ll have the DNA results in a day or two.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Captain Davison rescinded his decision to pull us off the serial murder investigation.”

  Al didn’t speak for a few moments. “Let me alert the people at Ripley’s Believe It or Not.”

  “Hard to grasp, huh?”

  “What prompted that change?”

  “A five-foot-seven Italian on her period.”

  “You sure that’s what you want?”

  Sami suddenly realized that she had made a headlong decision without having paid Al the courtesy of consulting him. “Are you okay with this, Al?” At this point, the question seemed rhetorical.

  “Hey, you know me. I go with the flow. What I’m concerned about is you. Are you okay with this?”

  “Ask me Friday at midnight.”

  Perhaps because she had been numb for the last few days, brooding over Tommy’s murder, wrestling with her conscience, it wasn’t until her head touched the pillow Monday evening that Sami clearly understood the impact of her showdown with Captain Davison. Without a substantial lead, how could she possibly crack this case and make an arrest by the end of the week? In a moment of wild-eyed idealism, Detective Sami Rizzo had placed herself—and her partner—in a hopeless situation.