Blessed are the Dead (16 page)

 

Chapter 31

E
VOLVING PSYCHOLOGICAL RESEARCH
has shown that sociopaths—­­people who act without empathy or remorse—­are basically the same as psychopaths. Different names for the same thing.

Back in the newsroom, I'm finishing up my profile about Johnson. It's only Thursday, but they want the story early. It's going to run this weekend—­the one-­week anniversary of discovering that Jasmine was dead.

I dial Dan Reynolds, a renowned criminologist at San Jose State University, who often speaks to the media about psychopaths and serial killers to ask him about this for my story on Johnson. A few years ago, we talked about sociopaths in connection with a woman who didn't show a shred of remorse after she killed her three children by locking them in the garage with the car running.

“Can you tell me about sociopathic behavior again?” I ask. “I think I'm dealing with one.”

“Remember, psychopaths and sociopaths don't have to be criminals or dangerous ­people. Chances are you work with at least one if not more sociopaths,” Reynolds tells me. “The typical office sociopath is the man or woman who will step on everyone else on the way to the top spot at the company. That doesn't mean he or she is violent. Most often, they are just lacking in empathy for others. They aren't aware they are hurting others. Or if they are aware, they truly don't care.”

“Yeah, I think our paper has at least one of those around,” I say, looking over at May, who is oblivious beside me.

“Believe me, every office has one,” Reynolds says. “Did you know that what makes someone a psychopath is actually a huge field of study for geneticists?”

“So, ­people might be born that way? It might be in their DNA?”

“Yes, that's what they are looking at.”

“What about serial killers? What makes someone become a serial killer? Does anybody know?” I ask.

“A common trait among serial killers is they often were abused, either physically, sexually, or mentally as children,” Reynolds says. “For instance, John Wayne Gacy's father beat him and called him a sissy and faggot. Then Gacy turned around and raped boys, accusing them of being gay.”

I tell him about my visit to Johnson's mother earlier today and her overreaction to his normal teenage behavior.

“There might be something to that. There is a theory out there that some potential serial killers turn violent because their mothers rejected them in a traumatic way. Then, instead of attacking their mother, they take out their rage against someone who reminds them of their mother, in a sense killing her each time they take a new victim.”

Although Johnson's high-­school girlfriend may have had brown hair like mine (
and Caterina's,
I think, cringing), his petite mother has blond hair and blue eyes. Just like Jasmine.

“Would that be enough? A messed-­up mother?” I say.

“Well, remember there are other factors, and a serial killer is not created overnight,” Reynolds says. “It occurs as a process of escalation. It usually begins with sexual fantasies and ultimately ends in murder. Sometimes, the first death happens by accident or simply as a way to cover up a sex crime. What happens is that somewhere along the line, the thrill from killing becomes greater than the thrill of the sexual violence itself. So then the ultimate goal becomes the murder, not just the violent sex act.”

“That sounds like what Johnson described to me,” I say. “The first murder happened just because he felt like it, almost on a whim. But after that, almost every sexual encounter led to murder.”

“Yes, that sounds about right.”

M
Y
NEXT CALL
is to a former FBI profiler, Gunnar Svenningsen. Although retired, he is an expert on serial killers and occasionally called in to assist with current FBI investigations. I am not surprised when he tells me that Johnson fits the profile of a classic, megalomaniac, psychopathic, serial killer who lives for the media attention he has been receiving.

“He reels you in by taunting you with details of his exploits but never providing any proof. He wants you to keep coming back. He thrives on your attention and seeing his name in the newspaper,” Svenningsen says. “He believes he is smarter than you are, smarter than the cops, smarter than his victims, and believes he will never be caught. Even though he is in jail right now, he really believes that he can dangle information about Jasmine and get away with it. In his mind, he is a genius. Luckily for us, he's not as smart as he thinks, and this is why he got caught for taking that little girl.”

Serial killers are supposedly acting on compulsive behavior that stems from something that happened in their youth. I tell him, too, about Johnson's mother.

“That is a possibility,” he says. “You never know what goes on behind closed doors, though. See, that's the thing—­we don't know what ­people are like when no one is looking. Most serial killers appear normal and maintain jobs and family lives. They aren't the weird loners who seem creepy to us. The truth is, they are more likely to be the guy who lives next door.”

I tell him what Johnson's neighbor said about his acting strange after his motorcycle accident.

“We do have some documentation of ­people who led peaceful lives, then became violent after suffering a severe head injury.”

I frown, remembering what he told me. “Never mind, from what he told me he was raping and killing way before that.”

“Then maybe it had nothing to do with it,” Svenningsen says. “In many serial-­killer cases, there really is nothing we can point our finger to, and say, ‘This prompted this man to go out and rape and kill.' We just don't know what the ultimate cause is. If we did, maybe we'd have some chance of stopping them.”

I stay late at work finishing my story before I leave.

His world is an eight-­by-­ten-­foot jail cell where he directs the action like a filmmaker. He is starry-­eyed from the headlines about him. It makes him feel ten feet tall.

As his trial for kidnapping looms, Jack Dean Johnson grows more desperate for the spotlight.

It's no great surprise that Johnson fits the profile of a full-­blown, textbook psychopath—­in simplest terms, an extremely narcissistic person without a conscience. A group of experts, including a former FBI agent and a criminologist, all agree on this.

They say Johnson is a man who thrives on control and manipulation, getting one over on others. He is utterly self-­absorbed. He has no remorse. If he has a conscience, it's a weak one. He enjoys making others suffer. He believes he is supremely smart.

He strings ­people along with his tales, feeding them one crumb of credibility at a time.

When the media attention is focused on him, Johnson probably feels like God, Reynolds said.

And despite his cat-­and-­mouse games, he definitely may have committed all the crimes he has laid claim to and may very likely be a serial killer, Reynolds said.

“He has all the traits of one,” Reynolds said. “He has no emotion. He has no guilt. And he obviously is capable of murder.”

The article goes on with comments from his mother and ends with the quote from his former neighbor saying Johnson can kiss his ass. A separate story runs that includes all the information I researched about sociopaths and serial killers. Both stories will run Sunday morning, the day the newspaper likes long feature stories that ­people can take time to read over their leisurely morning coffee.

As I leave the office tonight, I feel a sense of unease. I've turned in my profile on Johnson, effectively ending my career as a police reporter. Now, I get to cover education on Monday. Fuck me.

Researching the story has kept me busy and focused. It has helped me keep darker, unpleasant thoughts at bay, on the edge of my conscience.

Except late at night. Alone in the dark, my mind floods with images I try to blot out during the day—­Caterina, Jasmine, Donovan. I can only push those thoughts away for so long. And once my eyes close in sleep, they fill my dreams. Donovan's usually angry at me and far away, too far away for me to talk to or touch. My subconscious does not let me forget that distracting myself from those thoughts during the day is only an illusion. They are always there. Waiting.

 

Chapter 32

A
S SOON AS
I get home, I open my freezer and grab a bottle of Absolut. I pour about three fingers' worth into a tumbler, grab an old pack of smokes I find rummaging through a dresser drawer, and head to the roof of my building. On the way up the stairs, I pluck an empty beer bottle out of a recycling bin to use as my ashtray.

I plop down onto the roof and bring the glass to my lips. The first sip tingles icy hot on my lips, in my mouth, and on my tongue. As it trickles down my throat, I feel the warm trail it leaves as it travels down my insides. I'm immediately embraced by a warm sense of well-­being. The education beat! Fuck them all, I think, and laugh. It sounds more like a raspy witch cackle. I take another pull on my drink.

My back relaxes against the concrete wall that surrounds the roof, which is still warm from the sun. I put the empty beer bottle between my feet and flick my ashes into it. From my perch, I can turn my head and watch the last of the sunset as it ripples and sparkles on the Bay. In the other direction, I see the skyline of the city I love. But I turn away. Superimposed on any view are two faces: Jasmine's innocent grin and Johnson's leer. Caterina's little face is back in the dark recesses of my mind. She is safe there. I push her back every time she tries to emerge. Stay put, little one.

I notice that a ­couple from my building somehow snuck up onto the roof when I wasn't looking. They stand with their arms wrapped around each other watching the sunset. They look back uneasily at me. I raise my glass to them before they turn away. As darkness falls, I grab a warm sweater and the Absolut bottle out of my apartment before returning back to the rooftop. As I pass by the mirror by my front door, I see that my hair is tangled and that I have deep purple circles under my eyes.

Much, much later I stumble downstairs into bed and wake in the morning with a hangover. For the first time in a long while, I realize I did not dream. I pop four aspirin before leaving the house.

 

Chapter 33

M
Y HEAD IS
throbbing. For so many reasons. I'm making appointments to meet with principals at all the schools I'm now supposed to cover. Now that I've turned in my profile on Johnson, I have to work my new beat. Anything on the crime beat is off-­limits. Even so, I secretly fax a request to interview Johnson, then stop by Kellogg's desk.

I fidget and don't want to meet his eyes. “I guess I'm going to go drive around my new beat and find where some of these schools are.” Just saying it makes me want to throw up.

He stops typing and turns his chair to face me. “Listen, between you and me, I don't have as much say in some of what goes on around here as you might think. Sometimes, decisions are made that I don't agree with one bit. Just want you to know that.”

I nod and walk away. Now I feel even worse for lying to him, but every fiber of my body is urging me toward Rosarito.

Satellite dishes on news trucks arch into the sky in front of Jasmine's apartment building. I watch the madness from my car. Reporters stand in clusters on the sidewalk, gossiping, I'm sure. Occasionally, a reporter bangs on the front door to no avail. I know Adele won't open up for the reporters, but even the little girl who usually lets me in is not answering the door today.

I sip out of a Thermos of hot coffee. When I open the lid, the steam fogs up a teardrop portion of the windshield in front of me. I reread the street signs for the tenth time. I'm on Code 5—­stakeout.

I've grabbed the big crate out of my trunk that has what I think of as my tools of the trade and put it on my passenger seat. It contains hiking boots, jeans, a fire-­retardant poncho, a few granola bars, bottles of water, a portable police scanner, binoculars, manuals on fires and homicides, copies of Freedom of Information Act requests, a first-­aid kit, and a camera.

I peer through the binoculars at the front door, trying to spot if anyone is peeking out, and munch on a granola bar that I wash down with some water. I don't see a thing. I'm waiting for something, some clue that will show me whether Jack Dean Johnson really killed Jasmine. But is it here? Am I wasting my time? Is he just telling me he had something to do with taking Jasmine just to get attention and his fifteen minutes of fame?

Nicole calls to check on me.

“Be careful. If Evans gets wind you're still trying to cover this story, she's going to ship you to some weekly covering the garden club.”

Not if I get a huge scoop she's not. If I can get the story proving who kidnapped and killed Jasmine, then I'll be untouchable. I'll go straight to the publisher with it and demand my beat back.

A few ­people go in and out of the Victorian, rushing away from the TV reporters and cameramen who run up to them, trying to get an interview. However, there is no sign of Kelly Baker or Richard Silva. I'm daydreaming when I notice movement by the front door. I lean toward the steering wheel and point my binoculars toward the steps. It is Adele's cat, Dusty. What's he doing outside? Adele told me he was an indoor cat only. I get out. When I get to the building, I slowly walk up the stone steps, calling his name softly.

A TV reporter with heavy makeup runs up and shoves a microphone in my face. Her cameraman's face is not visible behind the huge lens he has pointed at me.

“Excuse me? Do you live in this building?”

I turn and glare at them. “I'm with the
Bay Herald.
”

“Oh, sorry about that.” But they don't leave. Instead, the reporter turns to me. “Hey, do you happen to have a phone number for the parents?”

“Please leave. You're scaring the cat.” With all the commotion, the cat is backed into a corner, with his back arched. As I move closer, he hisses at me. I start clicking my tongue and calling his name. The broadcast reporters retreat back to their news vans. The cat relaxes. He seems to recognize my voice and flattens his back, lying down on his front paws. I scoop him up and hug him close. His fur is matted. He is so light. Holding him is like holding a fluffy down pillow or bag of cotton candy. Underneath his fur, there is nothing there.

“How did you get outside?”

I start banging on the front door. Nobody answers. I pound it harder, and shout, “Open up.”

That gets the attention of the little girl in the front apartment. She peeks out. When she sees me, she opens the door. I slam it on the mob of reporters who start running up the concrete steps behind me. They begin pounding on the glass. I ignore their shouts. I knock on Adele's door. Nothing. I bite my lip. What if she is inside and hurt? “Adele? Are you home? I have Dusty. He was outside.”

“She dead.”

I turn. The little girl is leaning against her apartment door. Dread creeps across my back and up my neck. My face feels cold and numb.

“What did you say?”

“She dead. Something smelled nasty. The landlord, he come, open the door, and she dead.”

I hug the cat to me and close my eyes for a moment. God, no, I think. Not Adele, too. The cat meows and struggles against my arms. I open my eyes and crouch to speak to the girl.

“Are her belongings still inside?”

The little girl looks confused.

“Her things, her bed and clothes, are they still there?”

She shook her head until her little braids whipped back and forth across her face.

What? I saw Adele less than a week ago. How could they have been so heartless? What did they do with all her things? Poor Adele.

“Who's taking care of her cat?”

“Dunno. It's always trying to get inside. Mama tole me not to let it.”

I blink back my tears, hugging the cat closer. I wish I had been a better friend to Adele. I should have had her over for dinner at my apartment. I could have even invited her to Nana's house for Sunday supper. I should have made her take my money for heart medicine. What if that is how she died? She was so alone. She said once the cat was all she had in this world. I figure Adele was all that cat had, too. I walk down the hall, clutching the cat, and knock on Apt. 8. No answer.

“I know you're in there,” I say quietly before I turn away. “I'm sorry.”

Juggling the cat, I walk back down the hall, eyeing the front door and the reporters pressed against it. About six faces peer in on me, watching me, silently. I turn to the little girl.

“Honey, why don't you go in your apartment now? Don't open the door if anyone knocks. Don't talk to any of those ­people. You just stay inside until they leave.”

She nods. Her big eyes in her small face watch me as she slowly closes her door. I open my sweater and stick the cat close to my chest before I open the front door. I can barely squeeze by as they rush in and try to beat each other down the hall to Kelly Baker's apartment.

I whisper into the cat's ear. “You're going for a ride, Mister . . . or are you Miss?” I guess I don't know. I just assumed it was a boy.

On my way home, I stop at a convenience store. I sit in my car, hugging the cat and trying not to cry.
Die before cry.
I go inside and buy a new pack of Marlboro Lights, a few tins of cat food, more vodka, and milk. When I walk back to the car, the cat has its paws up on the window and looks like it is meowing for me.

At home, I take a wet washcloth and try to clean the cat with it. I don't want to try to give the pathetic thing a bath yet. Its fur is wet, but at least it looks a bit better. In the kitchen, I pour the cat food into a small bowl I place on the tile floor and watch it frantically wolf it down. When it begins licking the empty bowl, I pour in some more food and fill another bowl with water. It stops while there is still food left, so I figure it has had enough.

I pour a tumbler of Absolut. I down it and decide to pour the vodka into a big, pink, plastic ice tea glass this time so I don't have to come down from the roof for a while. I'm heading toward the door when a loud noise startles the cat and it goes screeching by me. I jump backward and lose my balance, falling back on the register, gouging my lower back, and sending the chessboard and pieces skittering across the room. I look at the mess ruefully, kick a few of the pieces, then turn away.

Before I go up to the roof, armed with my drink and cigarettes, I lock the cat in my bathroom with the water and food bowls. I hope if it has any business to do, it will do it in there.

“
N
ICE JOB ON
that profile of Johnson yesterday,” Kellogg says when I walk into the newsroom Monday. After a few minutes of shuffling papers at my desk, I tell him I'm spending this week getting to know my new sources on the education beat. But I'm not.

Instead, every day I drive endlessly around Rosarito. Sometimes I'll start at the northern border of the city, at the top of the hill where Interstate 80 begins to dip down into the city. To my right is the amusement park and beyond that, the bay. I'll drive all the way to the south of the city near the waterfront. I take side streets and wander through neighborhoods, but eventually I always end up in downtown Rosarito in front of Jasmine's apartment building. Some days I park there for hours, peering over at the front door. This time I'm alone. The TV reporters are on to bigger stories. Occasionally I gain access to the building. I always make the sign of the cross when I walk past Adele's apartment. It doesn't matter how many times I knock on Baker's door. No answer. For all I know, the ­couple doesn't even live there anymore.

As soon as it is dark, I head home, where my bottle of Absolut waits for me in the freezer, so I can drink myself silly. The alcohol blots out my memories. Once I'm drinking, I don't think about Donovan. I don't think about Jasmine. I don't think about Caterina. I just drink until I feel sleepy. Then I wake up each morning and practice my acting skills again.

It's strange coming home now. Every time I unlock my door, a little ball of fur greets me with way too much enthusiasm. I always thought cats kept to themselves and were disdainful of ­people. Not this one. At night, the damn thing acts as if I have been gone for days when I show up. It curls its furry gray body around my legs and continues to wrap around me as I walk, nearly tripping me. I no longer lock it in the bathroom at night when I go up to smoke and drink on the rooftop since it obviously knows how to use the litter box I bought.

I bought a cat bed, a little fluffy round cushiony thing that I put on the floor beside my bed. Each night, I firmly place the cat in it, pushing its back down, until it reluctantly crouches, as if waiting for me to turn away so it can get up again.

“This is your bed. This is where you sleep,” I tell it. ­“People sleep in beds. Cats sleep on the floor. You're just lucky I bought you a bed so you don't have to sleep on the cold floor.”

It never listens to me. Every morning I wake to find the little bugger has crept onto the foot of my bed, curled up like a ball. When it sees me, it stretches languidly, blinking its eyes and yawning without an ounce of guilt.

In the mornings, the cat joins me on my balcony and curls up on the seat opposite me as I read the papers and drink my coffee. Donovan only haunts my thoughts late at night when I fall into bed. I still wear his shirt to bed each night even though it is starting to smell. It has become my talisman. I no longer dream about Jasmine. Deep down, I believe that if I keep wearing his shirt, it will continue to protect me from my nightmares.