“If you’re seeking employment, I can assist you.”
Al let out a heavy breath. He pulled out his wallet and flashed the police ID. “I’m Detective Diaz, and I’m not looking for a job.”
The woman stood. “I’m so sorry. Give me a moment, please.” She did an about-face and dashed away, disappearing into a smaller room. Two minutes later, the young woman returned to the window. “I’ll buzz you in, detective.” She pointed to the door.
Al waited to hear the annoying buzz and entered the bustling office. There must have been a dozen people crammed into the twenty-by-twenty-foot room, shuffling papers, talking on telephones, working on computers, and stuffing folders into metal filing cabinets. From a private office in the far corner a middle-aged woman appeared, marching toward Al with purpose. The rather rotund woman offered her hand.
“I’m Kathy O’Brien, Detective Diaz. Please come with me.”
Al followed the waddling woman to her office and sat in a chair that looked like it should have been donated to Goodwill a decade ago. And Al thought the hospital business was booming? They obviously weren’t spending their profits on furnishings. When she closed the door on the closet-size office, Al suddenly felt claustrophobic. His queasy stomach certainly didn’t need a concentrated dose of her cheap perfume. It smelled so sickly-sweet it prickled Al’s nose hairs.
Out of breath, O’Brien wedged her hips between the armrests of her dilapidated executive chair and eased back. “How can I help you, detective?”
“Do you have a physical therapist named Simon working here?”
“Simon who?”
How many Simons can there be! “Don’t have his last name.”
“I know most of the employees on a first name basis, but Simon doesn’t ring a bell.”
He was in no mood for stupidity. “Perhaps you’d be kind enough to call physical therapy and ask?”
She rolled her eyes and thought about his comment as if she were trying to solve a calculus problem in her head. “May I ask what this is all about?”
“It’s an urgent police matter,” Al barked.
As if she were trying to stare him down, O’Brien glared at Al for a moment. Then she picked up the telephone and pushed four numbers.
It occurred to Al that Simon could himself answer the telephone, and this nitwit might be dumb enough to tip him off. Al held up his hand. “Wait a minute.”
O’Brien held the receiver away from her ear. She cocked her head to one side and peered at Al. “What?”
“Please hang up.”
Confused, O’Brien dropped the phone in its cradle and sat quietly with her arms folded.
“Ms. O’Brien, this is a delicate matter. If you do have a Simon working here—the one I’m looking for—I don’t want to spook him. Understand?” Al gave her enough of an explanation to stress the urgency and the need for confidentiality. Showing a little enthusiasm to help Al for the first time, O’Brien’s chubby fingers banged on her computer keyboard.
While watching the blue computer screen reflect in O’Brien’s oversize glasses, Al could not repress his growing concern that Sami’s kidnapper and the serial killer were one in the same. No matter how hard he tried to dismiss this suspicion, the possibility seemed more than idle speculation. Furthermore, Al could not regard the convenient timing of Angelina’s abduction as mere coincidence.
After several minutes, O’Brien leaned on an elbow and half smiled, glowing with an air of accomplishment. “We have a Simon Kwosokowski employed by us.”
Al rubbed his moist palms on his jeans. “He’s a physical therapist?”
She nodded.
“Is he working today?”
She held up her finger as if to say, “Wait a minute,” and pressed a few more keys. She shook her head. “Nope. Used two vacation days. Today and Monday.”
Of course, Al thought. How convenient. “Do you have a photograph of him, vital statistics, home address?”
“Give me a minute and I’ll pull his personnel file.”
While O’Brien searched the file cabinets in the main office, Al sucked in as much unperfumed air as he could. If he didn’t get out of this office quickly, he would surely redecorate her desk with his coffee.
O’Brien returned with a manila folder. Again, she stuffed her portly body into the chair and opened the folder. Al’s stomach felt like he’d just eaten a dozen jalapeños. For some reason, O’Brien still didn’t grasp the critical nature of the situation. She lollygagged like a woman thumbing through a photo album. Detective Diaz came dangerously close to snatching the folder and verbally abusing her. God, how he hated poky people!
She handed Al a copy of Simon’s driver’s license.
Al studied it carefully. Name: Simon Kwosokowski. Address: 850 Felspar Street, Apt. 3, San Diego, CA 92109. Sex: Male. Hair: Brown. Eyes: Blue. Height: 6' 6". Weight: 225. Date of Birth: June 10, 1975.
Al didn’t want to panic, but Simon’s profile closely fit the serial killer’s. He tried to ignore the haunting voice jabbing the back of his mind, but now it screamed.
“Ms. O’Brien, do you know what kind of vehicle Simon drives?”
“Sure do.” She leafed through the folder again. “Employees are issued parking permits and we require specific information on their vehicles.” She found a copy of the parking permit application. “Here you go, Detective.”
At first, Al couldn’t look at the paper. He felt light-headed, seconds away from vomiting. Then he glanced at the application, hoping that his worst fear would not become reality. Al read the words but could not believe his eyes. Simon drove a black Ford Supercab. Sweet Jesus. When he found his voice, he looked at O’Brien with misty eyes. “May I have copies of these documents?”
“Surely.” She stepped out of the office and returned with the copies, placing them in front of Al. “Is there anything else you need, detective?”
Al could not be certain if O’Brien would call Simon and warn him. How could he control this? He had to rely on her integrity. And integrity—at least in Al’s experience—was a lonely word. She seemed like a solid citizen, but Al had met one solid citizen who shook his three-week-old infant to death. He’d met another solid citizen, a well-adjusted sixteen-year-old girl, an honor student with troops of friends and teachers who were shocked when she shot her mother and father in the back of their heads while they slept. If a solid citizen was capable of murder, then one could also pick up the telephone and warn a fellow employee that the cops were hot on his trail.
“Only your promise that you’ll keep the details of this meeting confidential.”
“You have my word on it.”
Al left the hospital and walked out into the bright sunshine, feeling as if he were dreaming. How could this be happening? Always clearheaded and methodical, Al didn’t know how to proceed. Under the circumstances, how could he remain objective and repress his fear? When he got back to his car, he telephoned Captain Davison, hoping that perhaps one of his fellow detectives uncovered a significant piece of information. He could only pray that Sami and Angelina were not yet harmed.
Quite to Sami’s surprise, Simon returned promptly with her purse. She felt uncomfortable wearing her short black skirt and silk blouse—the last thing she wanted was to look sexy—but what were her options? Having turned off the television, Angelina now prepared breakfast for one of the Beanie Babies and seemed preoccupied enough for Sami to speak frankly without disturbing her.
“Can we talk?” Sami asked Simon. She sat on the edge of the bed facing him.
He set the purse on the floor. “Do you think I’m naïve?”
“You’re anything but naïve, Simon.”
“Then why do you continue to insult me with this pointless interrogation?”
“I’m quite clear what’s going to happen soon. Is it surprising that I would search for a little peace of mind?”
He scratched his stubble. “Okay, I’ll concede that point.”
“If you truly believe you’re doing
God’s work, wouldn’t it make sense for you to console me and help me to repent?” Her tactic a long shot, Sami had to keep him talking.
He kept his distance, and leaned against the door. “Okay, Sami, I’ll play your foolish game.”
“When will you actually…” She couldn’t finish the sentence.
“Cleanse your soul?”
She nodded.
“Sunday at six p.m.”
That he said it so casually heightened her fear even more. “Does that particular time hold religious significance?”
“No.”
“Then why so specific?”
“I have my reasons.”
“But you’re not going to share them with me?”
“You get the door prize, detective.”
Back to the drawing board. “Why do you involve the children? Are they part of the ritual?”
“They serve a purpose.”
“Why expose innocent children to such a painful experience?”
“They are not harmed.”
“April McDonald might strongly disagree.”
His face tightened. “An unavoidable mishap.”
“Did God tell you to cut off her ear?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Did she disobey you?”
“It was her mother’s fault.”
“So you don’t feel responsible?”
“It was an unfortunate mistake. I’ve made my peace with God.”
“How?”
Simon stared coldly at Sami. He inched toward the bed, unlaced his right sneaker, kicked it off, and pulled off his sock. He pointed to the black-and-blue, bloodstained skin near the missing baby toe. “I have paid my penance.”
Sami’s lungs felt like they were lined with lead. That he could disfigure himself further illustrated the depths of his insanity. “What must I do to ensure that Angelina is not hurt in any way?”
“Give me your unconditional cooperation.”
“And what does that entail?”
“When the time comes, you’ll be the first to know.” Finality echoed in his voice.
He sat beside Sami and put on his sock and sneaker. “You’re having all the fun, Sami. How about I ask a few questions?”
Fun?
She’d never been a violent woman, but Samantha Rizzo could, without guilt or remorse, strangle this bastard to death. For now she had to stay focused on her primary objective. But if she ever got the upper hand…“What do you want to know?”
“You’re different from the others.”
“How?”
“You don’t seem frightened or angry.”
“Is that what you want?”
“No. But I’d like to know why you’re so calm.”
“Maybe because of my deep religious beliefs.” This, of course, was a total lie. But her answer got his attention.
“Are you a practicing Christian?” He seemed excited.
“I attended both a Catholic grammar school and high school.”
“That doesn’t make you a Christian. Do you live by the word of the Bible, Sami?”
She couldn’t figure out where he was going but guessed that to portray herself as a God-fearing, Bible-touting woman couldn’t hurt. “I believe in God and Jesus Christ and try to obey the Ten Commandments.”
The corners of his mouth curled to a smile. “I think you’re lying through your teeth.”
Sami’s Italian temper quickly diluted her sense of reason and self-preservation. “How dare you challenge my beliefs.”
“Ah. So you do have a pulse. I was starting to think you were a robot.”
“Is this how you get your thrills, Simon, by tormenting your victims?”
“Thought we were just having a conversation.”
“What’s next? You going to tear off my clothes and rape me like you did the other four women?”
His face changed. She struck a raw nerve. “I never touched those women—not in that way.”
“That’s a bold-faced lie and you know it.”
He spoke through clenched teeth. “I said I never touched them!”
“Then explain to me how semen found its way into their vaginas?”
Angelina heard the commotion and ran to her mother’s side. Sami held her close.
“That’s impossible!” Simon’s hands were trembling.
Sami didn’t know how far to push him. Things could get out of hand. Then again, facing certain crucifixion if she didn’t take drastic measures would far exceed her current danger. How could she be sure he wouldn’t retaliate by assaulting her—or worse, Angelina?
“You may not remember, Simon, but you did have sex with these women, and I can prove it.”
His face flushed red. “You can’t prove anything.”
Sami had to keep the pressure on. “You’re afraid to remember, aren’t you, Simon? Terrified that your holier-than-thou crusade is a fraud.”
“I fear only God’s wrath.”
“Do you think God is pleased that you raped these women?”
He charged toward the door. “This isn’t over.”
When he slammed the steel door, the entire room shook.
Angelina clung to Sami like Velcro. “He scared me, Mommy.”
“I’m sorry, honey.”
“When can we go home?”
“Soon, Angelina. Soon.”
Brooding over Sami’s harsh words, Simon sat in the living room searching his sketchy memory, trying to recall if her accusation had a basis. Absurd as her indictment seemed, there were certain events he could not remember, periods of blackness and blank spaces in the continuity of his godly work. There were times when one minute he’d be in the Room of Redemption and the next sitting in the kitchen without knowing how he got there. But a trigger, usually a confrontation, preceded these blackouts. What happened during the lapses? Could the detective be right? Impossible! Then again, maybe she was more clever than he’d originally thought.
Simon poured a tall glass of milk and guzzled it.
She’s getting to you, my son.
“Is it true, Mother?”
If it is, I would be truly disappointed, Simon.
“Tell me, Mother, please.”
I cannot watch over you every minute.
“What should I do, Mother?”
Pray, dear boy. Fall on your knees and pray.
TWENTY
Al pulled the Chevy to the curb in front of 850 Felspar Street. From a crumpled pack of Winstons he shook out the last cigarette and lit it. Sitting quietly, he puffed and observed, trying to unsnarl his tangled thoughts. From where he parked, he could see the Pacific Ocean. Whitecaps rolled toward the shoreline; surfers fought for parking spaces close to the beach; traffic on Mission Boulevard—a quarter block away—whizzed by. The sun now dominated the morning overcast.
After speaking with Captain Davison, Al could no longer deny the compelling truth: Sami’s captor, Simon Kwosokowski, was indeed the serial killer. Al’s brain thundered with haunting premonitions, vivid visions of Sami’s violent demise. But if Detective Diaz didn’t suppress these thoughts, any hope of saving Sami and Angelina would be lost. Al didn’t need morbid thoughts clouding his mind. He had to stuff these distracting emotions in a leakproof vault and seal it shut.
The building Al observed had eight apartments. If Simon lived there, Al asked himself, how could he hold two people captive without neighbors hearing or seeing something unusual? How could he possibly crucify his victims, transport their bodies to East County churches, and drop off the children at local department stores four times without attracting attention? The area, like most beach communities, throbbed with activity from early morning until the local pubs and restaurants closed. Surely someone would have seen something. If Simon did live in this apartment building, Al doubted that Sami and Angelina were inside. The killer, Al felt certain, performed his diabolical deeds somewhere remote and less populated.
Wearing old blue jeans and a flannel shirt, Al didn’t look like a cop.
In fact, with his unkempt hair and unshaven face, he looked exactly the way he wanted: inconspicuous and unremarkable. After carefully considering the possible risk, he decided to ring Simon’s doorbell. Why not? What could happen? Al pulled the Glock 9mm from the glove box, checked the clip to be sure it was fully loaded, cocked and locked it, stuffed it in front of his jeans, and covered it with his shirt.
Standing in front of the center entrance to Simon’s apartment building, Al noticed eight doorbells to the right of the main door. Next to each doorbell, haphazardly scribbled on withered paper, barely legible, were the occupants’ names. Curiously, Simon’s name had not been posted next to the apartment three doorbell. Instead, Al read the name Stella Anderson. To be certain his mind had not deceived him, he fished the copy of Simon’s driver’s license out of his shirt pocket and examined it carefully. Sure enough, Simon—at least in theory—lived in apartment 3.
Al rang the doorbell.
No answer.
He rang it again.
Through the dirty glass on the front door, he could barely make out a silhouette moving toward the entrance. He heard the lock click, and the door swung wide open. The elderly woman, wearing a shabby lavender robe three sizes too big, couldn’t have weighed more than ninety pounds. Her wild hair, pure white, looked as if it hadn’t been brushed in days. Dark, puffy bags of flesh hung under her bloodshot eyes. Her total lack of caution struck Al more than her corpselike appearance. She opened the door not knowing who waited outside. What if he were a thief, or worse? As a homicide detective, he knew firsthand how vulnerable elderly people were. He’d investigated more robbery-homicides than he wished to think about.
The hunched-over woman looked up at Al and squinted. “You got my medicine?”
“Pardon me, ma’am?”
“Medicine! Where’s my pills?” The woman looked frail but barked like a pit bull.
“I think you’re mistaken.”
She studied Al’s face. “Ain’t you the delivery guy from”—she paused and shook her head—“Grand Pharmacy?”
“Afraid not, ma’am.”
“And stop calling me, ma’am. It’s Mrs. William Anderson. If my William were still alive, next month would be our fiftieth anniversary. But after three heart attacks…” Again she squinted at Al. “Who the hell are you?”
They Never Die Quietly Page 23
