They Never Die Quietly

by D. M. Annechino

  He held his police ID close to her face. “I’m Detective Diaz. May I speak with you for a moment?”

  “Am I in trouble with the cops?”

  “No, Mrs. Anderson. I’d just like to ask you a few questions.”

  “You’re not here because of those parking tickets I never paid, are ya?”

  If people like her were allowed to drive, Al thought, he would surely start taking the bus. “You have nothing to worry about.”

  “Wanna come in? My apartment ain’t nothing fancy, you know.” Without waiting for Al to answer, she turned around and shuffled away. Al followed close behind.

  Her apartment was tiny but impeccably tidy. No dishes in the sink, the worn out thick pile carpeting looked freshly vacuumed, and the kitchen floor glistened. A hint of Pine-Sol hung in the air.

  They sat at the kitchen table.

  “I’d offer you coffee, but it gives me the jitters, so I don’t buy it anymore. Really miss a good cup of coffee in the morning. Can I get you some herbal tea?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “How’s about some butter cookies? They’re not the store-bought kind. Got ’em at D’Angelo’s bakery. They melt in your mouth. Gotta hide ’em from my daughter. She barely leaves me the crumbs.”

  “No, thank you.” Al found the old woman charming. But this wasn’t a social visit. “Would you be kind enough to answer a couple of questions?”

  She folded her wrinkled hands and rested them on the table. “I’ll do my best.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “When William died in September of eighty-eight, I sold our paid-for home in La Jolla. Too much upkeep for an old crow like me. Lived near the ocean most of my life, so I got me this here apartment right after the deal closed. I about died when the home William and I paid fifty-thousand dollars for sold for over a million dollars. Don’t that beat all? Gave some of the money to my daughter, the rest I invested in mutual funds. Never live long enough to spend it. I suppose my daughter wouldn’t at all mind if her mom died.”

  If she’s the one eating all your butter cookies, Al thought, you’re probably right. “Do you know a gentleman by the name of Simon Kwosokowski?”

  “Are you a detective or postal inspector?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I warned Simon that someday he’d get in trouble.”

  “So you know Simon?”

  “Such a sweet man. Lived here for a couple years. Treated me better than my own flesh and blood. A real gentleman.”

  “He doesn’t live here anymore?”

  “Been gone for a long time.”

  “Do you know where he lives?”

  She shook her head. “I suppose in the country somewhere.”

  “You warned him that he was going to get in trouble?”

  “With the post office.”

  “Why?”

  “I suppose it’s okay to tell you cause you’re a detective.” Stella Anderson drummed her crooked fingers on the table. “I used to live in unit number two, but when Simon moved out, he convinced me to take his unit. It was a little bigger than mine, had newer appliances, and a nice view of the ocean from the bedroom window. So I said, ‘What the heck?’ I didn’t lift a finger. Simon moved everything for me.”

  “What did moving into his apartment have to do with upsetting the post office?”

  “Simon asked me if it would be okay if all his mail was still sent here—to 850 Felspar, apartment number 3. I don’t know why he would want to be inconvenienced, but I couldn’t see no harm in what he was asking. Only thing is, I thought it was temporary. But seeing as how this little deal’s been going on forever, I told Simon not too long ago that he better watch out for the postal inspectors. You can’t pretend you live somewhere when you don’t.”

  Bewildered, Al asked, “So what you’re saying is that Simon’s mail still comes to this address even though he hasn’t lived here in years?”

  “That’s what I just said.”

  “So how does he get his mail?”

  “Every Wednesday, after he gets out of work, he swings by and picks it up.”

  “Only on Wednesdays?”

  “You can set your watch by him.”

  Al felt a twinge in the back of his neck. Today was Friday. The last four victims were murdered less than seventy-two hours after their abduction. By Wednesday, it would be too late. “Do you have a telephone number for Simon?”

  “Only his number at the hospital.”

  Al pondered for a moment.

  “Is Simon in trouble with the police?”

  “Possibly, Mrs. Anderson.”

  “Can hardly believe that.” The woman looked at Al, her eyes distant. “Every Wednesday, without fail, when Simon picks up his mail, he takes me to dinner. And I’m not talking about some cheap fast-food place. Always someplace fancy. Never once did he let me pay.” She was lost in her thoughts. “I don’t know what you think this young man did, but sure as my name is Estella Abigail Anderson, that boy’s heart is as pure as mountain snow.”

  Al’s head was reeling with disjointed thoughts. He couldn’t stop thinking about Mrs. Anderson’s final words: “pure as mountain snow.” If only she knew. It could be possible that he followed the wrong trail, but he didn’t think so. In fact, Al felt even more convinced that Simon Kwosokowski and the serial murderer were one in the same. Al knew that most serial killers suffered from multiple-personality disorder and often displayed split personalities. That Simon lived several distinctly different lives made sense. It explained how such an evil murderer could show such kindness to an elderly woman and possibly to J.T., the homeless man.

  The Pacific Beach post office stood only three blocks from Mrs. Anderson’s, so Al decided to have a little chat with the supervisor. The parking lot was jammed, but Al found a spot on the street a block away. When he approached the main door, a line of people snaked outside. At first, he didn’t understand why the post office would be so busy Friday afternoon. Then it hit him: He’d forgotten about Christmas. He brushed past a long line of people struggling with packages and bundles of envelopes, and he walked up to one of the clerks as if he had a special pass. He could feel the angry stares of the patiently waiting patrons quietly accusing him of cutting in front of them. The clerk pointed to the end of the line, but before he could reprimand Al, Detective Diaz stuck his ID under the man’s nose.

  Al’s mood grew more ornery by the minute. “I need to speak to your supervisor right away.”

  “Yes, sir.” The tall skinny man almost ran to the private office off to the side. The defiant-looking teenager standing next to Al, obviously unimpressed with Al’s credentials, glared at Detective Diaz; a rebellious attitude was painted on his face. Al stared back. The bleach-blond punk, shirtless and barefoot, wore a pair of jeans so oversize that the crotch hung to his knees. The waist of his pants rested on the young man’s hips, exposing more of his festive red and green boxer shorts than any decent citizen cared to see. Wouldn’t take much for Detective Diaz to grab the young punk by the nape of the neck and introduce his wiseass face to Al’s clenched fist.

  Al might be able to live with the lad’s nonsensical attire if he didn’t exude such an air of antiestablishment arrogance. Al could ignore the ridiculous clothes. But not the attitude. The punk continued to stare at him.

  “Excuse me, son,” Al said. “Did you happen to read the sign posted on the front door regarding shirts and shoes?” He forced himself to be polite.

  “I’m not your son, pal.”

  Wrong answer. Al grabbed the punk’s biceps and squeezed. The man grimaced. “Excuse me, asshole, did you read the fucking sign posted on the front door?”

  The punk squirmed. The audience mumbled and gasped. “No, I didn’t.”

  “Well, the next time you come into the post office, don’t forget your shoes and a pair of pants that fit you. Understand?” He let go of the punk’s arm.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The postal clerk returned
with the supervisor, a fortyish woman barely five feet tall. “My name is Mary Beacham, how may I help you, detective?”

  Al didn’t think it prudent to put on another exhibition. “Can we talk privately?”

  She opened the security door and Al followed her to a small office adjacent to the main counter. The office, cluttered with piles of legal-size envelopes and manila folders, had one-way, smoked glass, apparently so the supervisor could monitor the activity in the main lobby. The office smelled like a high school locker room.

  “I’m trying to find out if you have any forwarding information on a man who once lived at 850 Felspar, apartment 3.”

  She scribbled on a yellow pad. “Can I have his name, please?”

  Al spelled it. “Simon K-W-O-S-O-K-O-W-S-K-I.”

  “Wow, that’s quite a handle.”

  “How quickly can you check?”

  “It’ll take me no more than ten minutes.”

  While Al waited for her to return, a wave of helplessness gripped him. Again his stomach felt like an alien creature would explode through his flesh at any moment. Time burned away, and he hadn’t a clue how to find Simon. Yes, he had a plan and would facilitate it through a series of inquiries—more a process of elimination—but his effectiveness was hampered by a draining hourglass. Time was his enemy. At any moment, Simon could decide to make Sami his next sacrifice. The killer wasn’t bound by a timetable. There were no rules. Only Simon controlled Sami’s destiny. Al could only hope that Sami would find a way to outwit Simon and derail his plan. At least long enough for Al to rescue her.

  Another issue gnawed at Al’s subconscious: Why had he spent the last six years hiding his love for Sami? Such foolishness. He had no delusions about Sami’s love for him. Her feelings were driven purely by friendship. But even if she felt a sliver of what he felt, it could have been a start. He knew now, sitting in this smelly office, that fear had silenced him. Fear of rejection. Fear that their friendship would be jeopardized. Fear that she’d never act quite the same. By his own hand he had issued a verdict and sentenced himself to a loveless existence.

  As he thought about his less-than-exciting life, Al bitterly realized that he lived the life of a lonely man. He didn’t really participate in life; he stood on the sidelines as a spectator. Other than his sister, Alita, who lived in Brazil, traveling the world, after having her dream of marrying a man of means, Al had nobody. If he could turn back the clock, just for a moment, Al would look into Sami’s beautiful blue eyes and tell her exactly how much he loved her.

  Mary walked in the door and sat behind her desk. “According to my records, Simon Kwosokowski still lives on Felspar Street. The mail carrier responsible for that area told me that he’s been delivering Mr. Kwosokowski’s mail to 850 Felspar for years.”

  “Can I see his mail?”

  “Sorry, Detective Diaz, I checked his mail slot and it’s empty.”

  “Thank you for your time, Mary.”

  Deflated and panic-stricken, Al hopped in his car and telephoned Captain Davison. After bringing the captain up to speed, Al said, “The Clairemont branch DMV is only fifteen minutes from here. I’m gonna scoot over there and have them run his VIN and plate number. Hopefully, they’ll have his real address.”

  “Why go to the DMV, Al? We can run the VIN and plates here in the office.”

  Although the police department had access to the Department of Motor Vehicles database, occasionally a glitch in the system would result in inaccurate information. Al wasn’t going to take any chances with Sami’s life. “I’d rather go right to the source, boss. In the meantime, would you have someone contact Pacific Tel and South Coast Gas and Electric and see if this asshole has a phone or electric service?”

  “Hicks and Robinson are already on it, Al. I’ll call you back in thirty minutes.”

  The conversation was over but neither man hung up.

  “She’s going to be okay, Al. Sami’s a tough cookie. She’ll figure out a way to get the upper hand.”

  “I hope you’re right, captain.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Sami had no appetite, but to absorb the acid eating away at her stomach, she had to force something down her throat. As she stood with the refrigerator door wide open, staring at a well-stocked assortment of fruits, vegetables, cold cuts, bread, bagels, prepared salads, cheeses, various dressings, and condiments galore, it struck Sami that Simon’s plan might be different than he claimed. If he truly intended to kill her Sunday at six p.m.—the mere thought made her shiver—why had he stocked the refrigerator full of food that would last for weeks? Granted, Simon was completely out of touch with reality. But he wasn’t stupid. There was, of course, the grim possibility that he intended to immediately abduct another mother and daughter when his work with Sami was finished. She tried not to consider this scenario.

  “Would you like something to eat, honey?”

  Angelina was restless, tired of television, bored with the assortment of toys, cranky. She snapped her head from side to side. “I wanna go home, Mommy.”

  Sami postponed breakfast and sat next to Angelina. Her stomach growled. She combed her fingers through her daughter’s hair. “Would you like to play a game, sweetheart?”

  “No.”

  “How about I tell you a story?”

  “No!”

  Sami didn’t know how to occupy her. How do you reason with a two-year-old locked in a cage? “Mommy loves you.”

  Angelina cocked her head and glanced at Sami. Her mouth twitched to a smile.

  “Will you give Mommy a hug?”

  Eyes moist with tears, throat tightening, Sami held her daughter close.

  Thoughts of her mother drifted into Sami’s mind. She wondered how she was coping. Foolish thought. How would any mother handle such a traumatic situation? No doubt Sami’s mother was an absolute mess. If only she could send a message just to let her know that Angelina and she were okay. There was the possibility that Simon had lied, that her mother was…Sami pushed the thought out of her mind. She’d give anything to speak to her mom. Ironic, Sami thought. For most of her adult life, she avoided her mother as much as a daughter could, making their encounters as brief and perfunctory as possible. Sami maintained a self-serving kinship, wrestling with this hypocrisy for years. The guilt of daughterly obligation was forever dueling with her free will. She could not deny that she exploited the relationship with her mother, selfishly trading companionship for her mother’s babysitting services.

  Given over thirty years of vivid examples, no one could deny that Josephine Rizzo was a close-minded, meddlesome old woman. But the compelling question haunting Sami at this moment of self-recrimination was this: Why hadn’t Sami ever accepted her mother for who she was without judging or trying to change her? There were so many things Sami needed to say. She searched her memory but could not remember the last time she hugged or kissed her mother. Their relationship had been lacking affection for as long as Sami could remember. Never willing to accept part of the responsibility, Sami now recognized that a good part of their tepid relationship rested on her shoulders.

  Sami jumped when the steel door swung open. Lost in her thoughts, she hadn’t heard the dead bolt unlock. “Would you go watch television for a while, honey?”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Please.”

  Sami waited until she heard the sound from the TV, and then sat on the bed. Time for a different tactic. “I owe you an apology, Simon.”

  He stared at her suspiciously. “For what?”

  “I said a lot of horrible things earlier, and I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t expect you to understand all this, but it would be easier for both of us, and Angelina, if you remained civil.”

  She curled her hands into fists. I’ll show you civil, you fucking asshole! She wanted desperately to smash his face.

  Easy, girl. Stay focused.

  “I’d like to learn more about the Bible and redemption. Will you teach me?”

  He moved t
oward her. “You’re playing with me.”

  “I swear, Simon, I’m not. If my life is going to end soon, I want to prepare myself emotionally and spiritually.”

  “Your life won’t be over. It will begin.”

  “Help me to understand this.”

  “Would you like to read the Bible with me?” His voice was suddenly animated.

  “Very much.”

  He turned and opened the door, his eyes glowing with purpose. “I’ll be right back.”

  The line trailing out the front entrance of the DMV looked longer than the one Al encountered at the post office. He slid past the crowd and walked up to the man posted at the central information booth. A young brunette woman waved her arms, inquiring about registering her out-of-state Toyota. Al stepped in front of her.

  He flashed his police ID. “Sorry to interrupt, but I need to run a VIN and plate number immediately.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “Can’t you do that at the police station?”

  “I don’t have time to play twenty questions. I need to speak to someone now!”

  The man turned around to see which service representative was available. “Go to window four.”

  “Thank you.” Al jogged to the window.

  “How may I help you, sir?” The stunning African-American woman smiled.

  Al handed her a piece of paper. “Would you check the VIN and plate number of this vehicle and give me the owner’s current address?”

  “And you are?”

  Again he showed his ID. “Detective Diaz.”

  He glanced at his watch: two-fifteen.

  “Well, sir, it seems that the prior owner traded this vehicle in for a new one. Wait just one minute.” She pushed a few keys. “Yep. We received the report of sale from the dealer yesterday.”

  “Can you give me the name and address on the report of sale?”

  “Simon Kwos—”

  “Kwosokowski?”