They Never Die Quietly (2010) (24 page)

Al could not avoid using the siren and flashing beacon. The boulevard was thick with traffic, and at every intersection the signal lights were forever red. Once he weaved his way through six lanes of congestion and turned on Redfield Road, he switched off the police accouterments.

Expecting the facility to look like a country Home Depot, Al almost drove past East County Lawn and Garden. The place looked no bigger than a shanty. He turned into the dirt parking lot and a cloud of dust whirled around the car. In front of the small structure were maybe a dozen used lawn mowers and an assortment of various garden-related products, each with a handwritten sign displaying the discounted price. Al grabbed the receipt and copy of Simon's driver's license and headed for the open front door. The hunched-over man seated behind the counter, repairing a weed whacker with trembling hands, turned his head and glanced at Al over his reading glasses. The man looked like he'd missed an appointment with the Grim Reaper a decade ago.

"Howdy." His voice was raspy and thick with a southern drawl. Strange, Al thought. Thirty miles west of the ocean and it looked and felt like the outskirts of Amarillo, Texas. Al expected tumbleweed to roll across the parking lot at any minute.

Al didn't think it necessary to flash his ID. He laid the papers side by side on the glass-top counter. "I'm trying to locate a gentleman who lives in this area."

It took the man awhile to stand. His face twisted with pain. Briefly, he examined the documents. "Yep. That's my receipt all right."

Al pointed to the photocopied picture. "Do you remember this man?"

He lifted a shoulder. "Lots of folks come in here. Hard to remember 'em all."

"This is really important. Please take a closer look."

He poked at his glasses, pushing them up his nose, and scratched his unruly beard. "If my memory ain't playing tricks, he's a big fella." He held his hand about a foot over his head. "Six-six. Maybe taller."

"Do you know where he lives?"

"He ain't a regular, so I can't say fur sure."

"Do you remember if he paid for the repair with a credit card?"

As if overcome with a sudden feeling of pride, the man stood as tall as his twisted bones would allow and pointed to a handwritten sign over his head. "Don't take no checks or those damn charge cards."

"You have no idea where he lives?"

"'Fraid not."

Al stared at the man for several minutes, feeling a compulsion to grab him by the shoulders and shake him silly. He knew nothing about this broken-down old man but wanted to wring his neck. That he could not tell Al where Simon lived was not the geezer's fault, but Al was beyond proceeding logically. He stuck his police ID under the man's nose and let him get a long look. He picked up the photocopied driver's license and poked his index finger against Simon's picture. "This man is a murderer. He's kidnapping young women and fucking crucifying them! Do you know what crucifixion is, old man?"

The old man wobbled a bit, then groped for the chair just behind him. He sat and ran ten fingers across his almost-bald head. His lower lip was shaking.

"If I don't find the son of a bitch soon, he's going to kill my partner."

"Geez. Wish I could help. Honest. But I just don't know where the guy lives."

Sami used every piece of furniture--including the mattress and box spring--to barricade the door. With her arms folded, she paced barefoot across the cold concrete floor, while Angelina occupied herself sitting cross-legged on the small area rug watching television. Sami licked her lips and whispered to herself, "I'd pay a king's ransom for a Corona right now." Four-fifteen. The hour drew near. With each passing moment, Sami's fear and angst intensified.

Sami was amazed at how well Angelina had behaved. The last thing she needed was a whiny, nagging kid. For a child to be incarcerated in this hellhole without having a total meltdown was extraordinary. She hoped that her daughter maintained her even-tempered demeanor just a little longer. Angelina had been known to throw a tantrum now and then, and Sami had never been able to foresee these rampages. There had never been a recognizable trigger or particular event that preceded these episodes. The last thing Sami needed was for Angelina to go berserk.

Sami guessed that Simon did not crucify his victims in front of the children. Perhaps he escorted them upstairs and either bound or sedated them. She remembered the interviews with the victims' children. None remembered seeing their mothers harmed. It was entirely possible that such a traumatic experience would remain repressed in a child's mind indefinitely. However, if the four children had witnessed the crucifixions, Sami could not fathom that none would remember at least sketchy details.

Unable to find anything she could use as a weapon, Sami grew frantic. She rifled through every drawer and cupboard, but nothing would suffice. Exasperated, she glanced at the box spring leaning against the door. The frame--covered with a translucent cloth--was constructed of one-by-four wooden slats. Although the slats were not heavy, if she could pile-drive the butt end of one into the base of Simon's neck as soon as he walked through the door, she might be able to incapacitate him just long enough to retrieve Angelina from the broom closet and escape.

Conscious of her tender lower-back muscles, Sami laid the box spring on the concrete floor, facedown. She tore away the cloth covering and began twisting the wooden slats at the corners where they were held together with thick staples. Surprisingly, she dismantled the frame with less effort than she'd anticipated. Part of her success, of course, could be attributed to her surging adrenalin. And she guessed that the label stapled to the frame that said made in china might have had something to do with her good fortune as well.

Her first inclination had been to remove the power cord from the television. When Simon finally broke through, she could stand to the side allowing the opening door to hide her long enough to wrap the wire around Simon's neck and strangle him to the point of unconsciousness. But she feared--particularly because of her ailing lower back--that his sheer strength might be too much for her to handle. Besides, whacking him with a blunt object seemed less intimate than strangling him. Keeping a safe distance made sense.

For her plan to work, Sami had to rile Simon to a point beyond reason. No matter how strong or resourceful, by the time he fought his way past the barricade, she suspected that he'd be exhausted and violently angry. All she needed was a split second, a moment when Simon stood frozen. If he charged into the room like a madman and she concealed herself behind the opened door for just an instant, she could smash the back of his head with the butt end of the slat as if it were a battering ram.

As soon as she dismantled the box spring, Sami recognized that an individual slat would not be effective. Who was she kidding? How could she expect to render a six-foot-six hulk unconscious with a seven-foot one-by-four? It would be like trying to knock out a rhino with a broomstick.

Brainstorm!

Tearing the already-ruined bed sheets into long narrow strips, Sami bound three slats together at both ends and in the center, so her makeshift weapon would have more punch. Surely a five-foot three-by-four would carry enough wallop to put his lights out. In a little while, she'd know for certain.

Al left the lawn and garden shop in a daze. Inundated by a feeling of utter hopelessness, he drove without direction or an intended destination. He felt like a sailboat without sails in the middle of the Pacific, aimlessly adrift. When he looked up and saw the entrance ramp for Freeway 8, he had no idea how he got there. About to turn onto the freeway, he instead pulled to the side of the road, blocked the flow of traffic, and switched on his hazard lights. A motorist behind Al immediately blasted his horn, reminding Al of his discourteous gesture. Al paid no mind. After a caravan of cars joined in the protest, Al continued along El Cajon Boulevard and turned into a small strip plaza. He felt light-headed and disoriented, as if gripped by a severe case of influenza.

In the corner of the small shopping center Al noticed Jose's Bar & Grill. He parked his car and trudged toward the bar as if walking through mud. Few people patronized the run-down establishment. Good, he thought. Quiet is what he needed right now. A young couple sat at the far end of the bar nursing a giant margarita with two straws. Another man downed a shot glass of tequila with a shaky hand. No more than three tables were occupied with people finishing a midafternoon lunch.

Al sat at the bar as far away from the other patrons as possible. Flipping through the channels on a nineteen-inch TV mounted above the bar, the bartender tuned in
The Jerry Springer Show
and set down the remote.

Great, Al thought. Just what he needed to hear: the sordid details of misfits playing true confessions with their lovers on national television. He tried to tune it out but couldn't ignore the ranting bleach-blonde with the leopard stretch pants and abundant breasts barely covered by a bra-like top. She admitted to her husband in a most animated fashion that she'd been having an affair with another woman. After the outraged husband's carefully censored tirade, the "other woman" traipsed onstage and locked lips with the busty blonde, while her husband had to be restrained by three stagehands. In the background the audience chanted, "Jer-ree! Jer-ree! Jer-ree!" Al thought he would surely puke.

Standing in front of Al, the bartender slapped his palms on the bar and smiled. "What can I get ya?" The man's teeth were tobacco-stained and his greasy hair hung in stuck-together strands in front of his deep-set eyes.

As much as Al needed to calm his nerves, there would be no Dewar's today. "Ginger ale, please."

The bartender looked at Al as if he had spoken Martian. He delivered the soft drink, resumed his position on a stool behind the bar, and watched television. Al sipped the soda and it soothed his queasy stomach.

The Springer circus had now been replaced by another mindless talk show. During a station break, Al half-listened to a local news brief: "Rancho Santa Fe," the newscaster said proudly, "was just named the most desirable place to live in the country. It was voted even more prestigious than Beverly Hills, which ranked second."

The bartender chuckled. "Shit, man." He directed his comment toward Al. "I'd be lucky to pay the property taxes on a pad in Rancho Santa Fe."

Al sat upright in the barstool. "What did you say?"

The bartender folded his arms across his chest. "Said I couldn't scrape up enough money to pay the taxes on one of those uppity estates."

Property taxes?
Al fumbled through his pockets and dropped a crumpled twenty-dollar bill on the bar. As he made a beeline for the door, he heard the bartender yell, "Hey, bud, don't you want your change?"

Al waved his hand as he shoved his way out the door.

The sun warmed his face and the air felt slightly oppressive. Thirty miles from the coast, El Cajon had a reputation for sultry days. He tried to take deep breaths, but the air was too thick. A little woozy, Al tried to focus on rational thoughts. He eased his way into the front seat of his car. He had to clear his head.

On his cellular, Al punched in Davison's private number. After four rings, he got the captain's recorded message.

Al slammed his fist on the dashboard.

A woman walking by his car gawked at him and shook her head.

When he heard the beep, Al said, "Captain, this is Diaz. Call me immediately."

After leaving the message, Al called the precinct's main number. He recognized the administrative secretary's voice immediately. "Gloria, have you seen Captain Davison?"

"And good afternoon to you, too, Detective Diaz."

"Look, I'm in no mood. Where the hell is Davison?"

"I don't see him in his office. Hang on for just...a...minute. No. He hasn't signed out, so he must be here."

"Where?"

"I don't know, detective. Maybe he's in the bathroom."

"Gloria, this is"--his tongue could barely form words--"a life-and-death situation. I don't give a rat's ass what you have to do, just find Davison and have him call me at once. Understand?"

"Um...yes, detective."

At first when Sami heard the footsteps above her, she panicked and thought Simon was stomping down the cellar stairs. She almost grabbed Angelina and whisked her into the closet but decided to wait until he actually tried to open the door. It was almost five, and she didn't think he'd be coming quite yet. Of course, she hadn't written the script. Simon was director, producer, and leading man. He had liberal creative license to play this out however his twisted mind saw fit. She felt reasonably secure, though, that he could not possibly break through the barricade in less time than it would take her to safely hide Angelina and position herself beside the door with her lancelike weapon. Then again, when dealing with a man as complicated and unpredictable as Simon, she could not take anything for granted. He might twist the handle a few times, and in a fit of raving lunacy pump enough adrenalin through his powerful legs to kick the steel door open with a few wild thrusts.

The sounds of heavy footsteps persisted, and they annoyed the hell out of Sami. She wondered what Simon was doing. What do murderers do to pass the time while waiting to kill another victim? How do serial killers occupy their leisure time? Maybe they torture stray cats? What kinds of magazines do they read?
Guns & Ammo
perhaps? What television programs do they like? Probably not
Cops
or anything on PBS. And what thoughts do they think when fleeting moments of reason prickle their conscience and force them to recognize that their ruthless behavior isn't as honorable as they'd like to believe?

Sami had a lot of questions for Simon. If by the grace of God and a twist of fate she survived this ordeal and didn't lose all sense of self-control and civilized conduct by repeatedly pulverizing Simon's head with her weapon, she intended to sit across from his shackled ass, look deep into his eyes, and badger him until she got the answers she needed.

Her emotions continued to vacillate. One minute she felt terrified, the next enraged. Waiting for the inevitable--whatever that might be--was perhaps the most profound torture. Over the past six years, she'd apprehended three murderers who were now serving life sentences. One rapist-murderer waited on death row. In an abstract way Sami more clearly understood just how punishing a lifetime behind bars truly was. All one could do was eat, sleep, and think about their miserable existence. A vivid image of Simon rotting in a jail cell brought a smile to her taut lips. She longed to be sitting in the courtroom when the judge issued the sentence. To look into his hopeless eyes would surely thrill her to hysteria.

Now Sami heard pounding above her.

Was Simon building a crucifix?

While waiting for Davison to return his call, Al spotted a Starbuck's in the strip plaza. Caffeine. That's what he needed. Lots of it. He managed to totter over to the coffee shop, order a gigantic cup of Colombian, and find his way back to the car before his cell phone rang.

"This is Diaz."

"Tell me you have good news, Al."

Al started his car and turned on the air conditioning. "It's a long shot."

"I'm listening."

"If our perp owns a home in San Diego County, he pays property taxes, right?"

"Unless he owns a church, he does."

"Then his name and real address have to be recorded on the trust deed."

It took a moment for Al's theory to sink in. "You may be cooking with oil, Al."

Al filled his mouth with the hot coffee and swallowed. "Do we have an in with the assessor's office?"

"Don't need one. It's public record."

"So I can call the county, give them our perp's name, and get his address?"

"If he owns property in the county you can."

"I'm on it, captain."

"If you find this guy let's not overreact and storm the fort like a one-man wrecking crew. Call me before you do anything."

Al couldn't hang up quickly enough. He dialed 411 and got the number for the county assessor's office. Nerves ablaze, he fumbled with the keypad.

One ring.

Two rings.

"Assessor's office, this is Jodie speaking."

"This is Detective Alberto Diaz calling. I'm trying to locate a piece of property owned by, Simon"--he spelled the last name--"K-W-O-S-OK-O-W-S-K-I."

She repeated the spelling to be sure she'd written it correctly. "Give me your telephone number, detective, and I'll get back to you in the morning."

"That's not going to fly, young lady. This is a police
emergency
."

"I see. Um...let me talk to my supervisor."

"You've got thirty seconds."

By the sound of the garbled conversation, Al guessed she covered the mouthpiece with her hand so she could tell the supervisor that some asshole detective with a bad attitude was trying to rough her up.

"Well, detective, I guess I can help you. But you'll have to be patient for a few minutes while I access our database. It's an old system and sometimes--"

"I don't need an explanation. Just do it as quickly as possible."

Helpless, Al waited. He sat in his car overwhelmed with anxiety, sipping the hot coffee as quickly as he could without burning his mouth. In spite of the cool air fanning his skin, beads of sweat dotted his forehead.

"Hurry," he whispered.

In the solitude of Al's car, the world no longer existed. He couldn't feel the sun reflecting through the windshield, nor could he hear the traffic and activity churning around him. He couldn't smell the lemon-scented deodorizer hanging from the brake release. The taste of Scotch whisky and cigarettes no longer lingered in the back of his throat. He lived in a solitary world of self-recrimination.

During these quiet moments of waiting, Al again felt overpowered with a feeling of regret for never revealing his love to Sami. Why had he acted like a teenager? How many times in a man's life does he truly fall in love? He worked in a volatile environment, never knowing when he awoke in the morning if this would be the day a criminal's bullet might snuff him out. He'd always been somewhat fatalistic, never believing in saving for the future or planning for his golden years. In almost every aspect of Alberto Diaz's life, he subscribed to the credo of carpe diem. But not with his hopeless love for Sami. He had tucked it away in a secure corner of his heart, foolishly thinking that one day when the timing was perfect he would offer it to Sami like a gift. The day had never come.

Now it seemed that it never would.

Jodie's voice thundered in his ear. "Could you please spell the last name again."

Al could barely contain himself. "K-W-O-S-O-K-O-W-S-K-I."

"Just another minute."

Unless the air-conditioning had been designed to make a body drip with cold sweat, it wasn't doing its job. Al's shirt was almost wringing wet.

"I may have something for you, detective. According to my records, Simon Kwosokowski owns a single-family home in Alpine. 8751 Clearwater Road."

The air slowly escaped from Al's lungs. "And that's the only listing you have?"

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you, Jodie. Sorry if I was...a little pushy."

"Don't mention it." Her voice was like ice.

Al checked his weapon for the second time today to be sure he had a full clip. His hands were shaking, his mouth dry as sand. Not having a GPS system, he grabbed the
Thomas Guide
from the backseat. Alpine was about twenty miles away. Other than heading east on Freeway 8, Al wasn't quite sure how to find Clearwater Road. He made a U-turn in the parking lot, chirped a tire turning into the street, and barreled for the freeway ramp.

Once on the freeway, again taking control of the left lane, testing the resolve of the Chevy five-liter engine, Al telephoned Captain Davison and gave him an update.

"Wait until I can send some backup, Al."

"Send all the troops you want, but I'm not waiting, captain."

"I'm not giving you the choice. That's an order."

"That lunatic could be nailing Sami to a fucking cross as we speak, I'm not going to sit here with my thumb up my ass while--"

"What's your plan, Al? You going to knock on the front door? Bust it open with your shoulder? Break into a window? It's broad daylight. Don't you think our perp is wise enough to be on the lookout for unwanted visitors?"

Al thought about that for a minute.

"I know what you're going through, Al, but if he spots you, Sami doesn't stand a chance. You can't tackle this thing half-cocked. You're too emotionally involved."

"Do whatever you want, captain, but I'm not waiting."

"He's methodical, Al. He's waited at least three days before murdering the last four victims. Sami's got some time."

"How long did he wait to rape them, captain? How many times did he rape them? How long does it take to crucify someone? How long before they die?"

The captain had no retort. "Okay, Al, go with your gut. But I want you to think about this: If Sami dies because of your reckless heroics are you prepared to deal with the guilt?"

"That's not something I can think about right now."

"I'll contact the El Cajon and Alpine police departments. Backup is on the way."

Simon hadn't eaten anything all day. He'd paced the floors. Tried to read the Bible. Took a long hot shower. Nothing eased his frayed nerves. Something gnawed at his subconscious. He didn't feel the usual exciting anticipation. In the past, when the final hours whittled away, his body erupted with fever. All he felt now were doubts and apprehension. He knew that he made a mistake by indulging Sami's futile attempts to get into his head. At the time he found it entertaining but hadn't realized how insidious its residual effect was.