They Never Die Quietly (2010) (3 page)

At six-thirty, Detective Sami Rizzo swung by the precinct, dropped off Diaz, and headed for her mother's home in North Park. She wasn't in the mood to face Captain Davison. Their trip to La Mesa hadn't yielded anything close to a lead; the priest offered little help, and the neighbors they'd interviewed hadn't witnessed anything worthwhile.

She pulled into the driveway and parked the Taurus next to her mother's worn-out Buick. As soon as Sami stepped into the living room, Angelina came charging out of the kitchen with that awkward gait of a not-yet-nimble toddler, and gave Sami's knees a bear hug. "Mommy, Mommy, me and Grandma made brownies!"

Sami sniffed the air, but the smell of spaghetti sauce masked the scent of chocolate. She picked up her two-year-old and kissed her on the cheek. "I'll bet they're yummy. How many have you eaten?"

Angelina held up two fingers.

"You didn't spoil your dinner, did you?" Sami glanced at her mother, who was leaning against the doorjamb leading to the kitchen, her arms folded across her chest.

"She has her grandpa's hollow leg. Rest his soul. No need to worry about her appetite."

Josephine Rizzo, a portly woman with beefy arms and a round shiny face, stood barely five feet tall. Her mostly gray hair, with a hint of black still surviving a trying life and decades of hard work, was twisted into a neat bun. At night, just before bedtime, she'd let her hair hang freely to the small of her back and stroke it a hundred times.

"The sauce is almost done," Josephine said. "Want to stay for dinner? I made
gnocchi.
"

Sami wanted to go home and spend some time alone with Angelina, away from her mother and shopworn stories about how things might have been had Sami's father not died of lung cancer before his forty-fifth birthday. Besides, Sami had not been pleased with her figure of late--nothing new of course--and her mother's delicious
gnocchi,
packed with complex carbs, were the last thing her body needed. Her father, in his charming way, had often reminded Sami of her less-than-Barbie-Doll figure. Coming from anyone else, she would have been monumentally insulted. But she adored her dad. She had spent her life trying to be the son he never had.

Since surviving the awkward years of puberty, Sami had blossomed into a strikingly attractive woman, often catching the attention of an admiring eye. In spite of her in-home aerobics and three-times-a-week jog through Balboa Park, her nemesis had always been her hips. The bottom half of her hourglass figure was slightly out of proportion with her torso. She was probably the only one who noticed this. In fact, most men preferred women with hips. At least that's what she'd heard. Still, Sami would have been much happier if God had been a little less generous in the hip area.

About to decline her mother's offer, Sami could see the neediness in Josephine Rizzo's eyes. "Sure, Mom, we'd love to join you."

Holding her soundly sleeping daughter like a sack of flour, Sami struggled to turn the key in the front-door lock. She'd never been a fastidious housekeeper, but lately her house looked like a tribe of party-loving teenagers hung out there. With the exception of her mother, who had no reservations about condemning Sami's untidy domain, and Diaz, her true buddy, she rarely had company. The condition of the house didn't bother Angelina, so why live like the Vanderbilts?

She dropped her briefcase on the cluttered coffee table, kicked her way past toys, magazines, and an assortment of obstacles, negotiated her way up the stairs, and set her daughter on the bed. Careful not to wake her, Sami undressed Angelina, tucked her in, kissed her on the forehead, and flipped on the Cookie Monster night-light. Before leaving, Sami stood over her daughter and watched her peacefully sleeping. That little face, lovely as it was, resembled Angelina's father. Asswipe Extraordinaire is what Sami called him. Not in front of Angelina, of course. But she didn't mind sharing that pet name with the rest of the free world. Just thinking about the non-child-support-paying bum infuriated her.

Sami went into the kitchen and snagged an ice-cold Corona from the almost-empty refrigerator. She could smell leftover Chinese food three days past its destiny with the garbage disposal. The only lime in the fridge had more fuzz growing on it than a baby chick, so she opted to enjoy the beer without its usual complement. She found a vacant spot on the sofa and plopped on the badly worn cushion. She kicked off her shoes and took a long swig of the beer. Sami had intended to preserve her much-needed quiet time and forget about the investigation, but her briefcase beckoned. She flipped it open and reluctantly removed the inch-thick file.

Each of the three brutally murdered young women had been in their early thirties. And they all had been abducted along with their young children. The children, interviewed under the careful supervision of a child psychologist, had not been visibly injured. This confused Sami. Why would a barbaric killer kidnap the kids and let them go unharmed? Not even Sally Whitman, a professional profiler, could answer this question.

The children offered several significant details: One said that his mother and he stayed in the basement of a home in the country, and that a nice man let them play with all kinds of fun toys in this special room. One boy said the man stood a foot taller than his dad, and remembered that the man drove a big black truck. Another girl said he was white with blue eyes and light brown hair and that he was handsome.

Sami set down the file and cleared a space on the cocktail table. She placed the graphic photos of the three victims side by side and examined them carefully, observing the similarities. The women--at least based on several assumptions--had been murdered the same way. There were round holes, one-half inch in diameter through both wrists, just above the palms, and identical holes through both feet, right at the instep. The women's hearts had been cut out of their chest cavities with surgical precision that did not look like the work of an unskilled hack. Obviously, the perp had some formal medical training.

Looking at the gaping wounds in the victims' ribs, Sami recoiled in anger and fear at the gruesome photographs. She set down the photos and guzzled the remaining beer. She'd witnessed her share of savagery, a part of the human condition beyond her ability to understand, but these murders aroused a terror in her like never before. How she wished her father was still alive. A firm hug from him could change her world.

Angelo Rizzo had been a policeman for eighteen years, and for Sami to become a homicide detective was her father's dying wish. "Sami," he'd whispered, lying in a hospital bed, barely ninety pounds. "Do it for me, for your
padre
."

He had dreamed of a promotion to detective status, but never made it out of the blue uniform. Sami, an only child, had aspired to the role of the son her father desperately longed for. How could any daughter deny her father's last request? At times, Sami believed she'd been held accountable for her father's inability to follow Italian tradition by producing a son. He had never accused her, but the undertone hung in the air every time her mother reminded Sami that since her birth, she simply could no longer conceive.

Not knowing how much pressure he had placed on his only daughter to play the role as his son, Angelo Rizzo shortened his daughter's name from Samantha to Sami before her first birthday. Sami had no memories of dance lessons or trips to Peterson's Department Store shopping for pretty Easter dresses. Instead she'd been the neighborhood tomboy, her father's fishing companion. When she'd announced that she wanted to be a social worker, her father gave her "the look," and she knew her aspiration would never come to pass. Her father's lofty expectations had been important to Sami. He wanted her to become a cop, ultimately a detective. She had honored his request, but to do so she had to suppress her own desires.

Samantha Rizzo's life had been neatly planned long before her birth. And although detective work did not truly suit her character, Sami found solace in the utopian belief that she could make a difference. She approached police work with an ironic blend of undaunted courage and naive expectation. Her efforts and performance as a detective were neither diluted nor compromised by the fact that her father's relentless crusade had forced her into a career she'd not chosen. In the wake of these feelings of displacement, and the ever-present regret that she hadn't followed her heart's ambition, was a woman well respected by her male comrades. Teasing and sexual harassment aside, no one would argue that Samantha Rizzo wasn't one hell of a cop.

At this particular moment, however, she was hypnotized by the bitter reality that these pictures represented a world beyond redemption. And this helpless desperation caused her to feel less effective than ever before. She turned over the photographs and forced herself to continue reading the written report.

There were no visible signs of throat or neck trauma, yet the victims died from asphyxiation, which is the cause of death with crucified victims who do not succumb from blood loss. Semen had been detected in their vaginas, but there was no physical evidence that any of the women had been raped. Normally, with forcible intercourse the tissue is bruised or noticeably damaged. It didn't seem possible that these women would have agreed to consensual sex with their assailant, but there existed no basis to prove otherwise.

Sami examined the photographs again.

Wrist wounds. Just above the palms.

Foot wounds. Right at the instep
.

Sami glanced at the crucifix hanging on the wall across from her, an essential embellishment her mother insisted upon. A cold fist closed around her heart. Until now she had not clearly understood the magnitude of this investigation. Alone with her menacing thoughts, a million miles away from serenity, she understood why her feelings had been so fiercely roused. The mere thought of these women being crucified paralyzed her, assaulted her senses with unimaginable images. She'd been born and raised a Roman Catholic, familiar with the dynamics of the church and the teachings of the Bible. At this particular moment, she wished she were a heathen. The killer's motives were beyond the realm of human comprehension. And if Sami didn't find a way to stop him soon, perhaps before the sun peeked over the eastern horizon another innocent woman would be nailed to a cross.

On Thanksgiving morning, a gloomy, chilly day by San Diego standards, Sami bundled up Angelina and drove to her mother's house. For the past five years Sami had volunteered at Katie's Kitchen, where she served hearty Thanksgiving dinners to the less fortunate. It had been a tradition in her family to begin holiday dinners in the midafternoon, so Sami's benevolence did not conflict with this practice. She had plenty of time to offer her services and then enjoy dinner with her mother and daughter.

"When are you coming back, Mommy?" Angelina sat securely in the car seat.

Sami pulled into her mother's driveway and turned off the ignition. "In a couple of hours, honey."

"Is Grandma cooking turkey and smashed potatoes and punkin pie?"

Sami nodded, unable to suppress the chuckle. "That's
mashed
potatoes and
pumpkin
pie, sweetheart."

After greeting her mom, gulping a cup of coffee, kissing Angelina goodbye, and withstanding yet another query into why she should care about people who were lazy leeches of society, Sami drove to South San Diego, an area of modest homes and people of restricted means.

Katie's Kitchen was in an old church that had been a vacant eyesore for more than a decade. Katie O'Leary, a seventyish woman of limited financial reserves, an ailing back, and a lifetime of good deeds credited to her resume, began her crusade in a tiny home on Delta Street, three blocks away. With little assistance, she prepared huge pots of soup, chili, spaghetti sauce--anything she could afford--and went out into the streets searching for the homeless. It didn't take long for word of her kindhearted generosity to spread among the close-knit society of less fortunate souls. In just a few weeks, Katie found more empty stomachs than she could fill. Jake Stevens, a young reporter for the
San Diego Chronicle
, a veteran of the Peace Corps and other humanitarian organizations, heard about Katie's campaign. After he interviewed Katie and wrote a story about her contribution to the needy, a local philanthropist contacted the
Chronicle
and offered to fund Katie's operation. Two months later, a crew of volunteers gave the old, worn-down church a major face-lift and named it Katie's Kitchen.

Sami could not find a parking place in the small lot adjacent to the building, so she parked on the street, two blocks away. As she briskly walked, gruesome thoughts lingered. If she weren't careful, this investigation would own her soul and spill into every facet of her life. She had never dealt with a serial killer, hadn't speculated how she'd react, and never fathomed encountering one as diabolical as this monster. She could not imagine a man so evil that he could crucify three young mothers.

A group of raggedly dressed people, mostly skinny, unshaven men, with a few unkempt women scattered among them, gathered in a haphazard line snaking out of the main entrance and down the steps. Smiling, Sami walked past them and into the building. A frantic buzz of activity hung in the air as mobs of people impatiently waited, elbow to elbow, to fill their usually empty stomachs. On opposite sides of the packed-to-capacity room, two long tables, crowded with steaming chafing dishes of sliced turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, and corn, invited the hungry guests. At the back of the room, a table covered with an assortment of pies--apple, pumpkin, coconut cream--grew more popular by the minute.

Sami gently elbowed her way to the kitchen.

Katie O'Leary, hunched over, looking far too fragile to be participating in any demanding tasks, waved her hand at Sami. "Happy Thanksgiving, sweetie."

"Happy Thanksgiving to you." Sami said. "How can I help?"

"Sure could use a hand with these trays." Katie pointed to three recently replenished chafing dishes. "Would you please put these out on the table and bring back the empty ones?"

"Be happy to."

Two hours had passed, yet the crowds continued to pour into the dining room at a frenzied pace. It seemed to Sami that the homeless were spontaneously multiplying. Unaccustomed to bending and lifting, Sami's back vehemently protested. But determined to hang in until two p.m., she endured. Her white apron, decorated with various stains and an assortment of colors denoting the holiday feast, attested to her earnest participation.

Assigned to various duties requiring their undivided attention, the volunteers had little time for idle chitchat and for the most part worked separately. At a point when Sami's back threatened to betray her, she tried to lift a tray full of turkey but groaned out loud and set it down.

"Can I give you a hand?"

When Sami turned, she discovered that the soft mellow voice belonged to an extraordinarily handsome man. He grinned at her.

"You could really be my hero," Sami said.

"It seems that Katie must be a sexist," the man said. The corners of his mouth turned up. "I've been washing dishes for over two hours while you ladies have been struggling with these heavy trays. I'd be happy to trade assignments."

And she thought chivalry was a lost art? She wiped her hands on the apron and extended her arm. "Sami Rizzo."

He firmly grasped Sami's hand. His long narrow fingers felt as soft as a lambskin glove. "My name's Simon. I'll skip the last name. It's one of those Polish handles with too many
Z
's and
K
's."

Amazing, she thought, tall, handsome, polite, and a sense of humor? "I don't believe I've ever seen you here." She wouldn't have forgotten someone like him.

"It's my maiden voyage."

"I'm a veteran. Sixth year."

"Admirable." His blue eyes fixed on Sami's just long enough to make her feel uneasy. "Too bad there aren't more people like Katie. Sure would be a better world."

"No argument here." Sami wanted some vital statistics but wasn't sure how to ask. "So, when you're not washing dishes how do you occupy yourself?"

"I'm a physical therapist." He dug in his back pocket and handed her a business card. "I might be able to get that kink out of your back."

What woman in her right mind would object to having
his
hands on her body? "I might have guessed a professional athlete."

"Wasn't blessed with coordination or grace. Played a little basketball in junior college, but my trophy cabinet is pretty dusty."

A stocky woman charged into the tiny prep room as if the building were on fire. For a moment she stood silent, hands parked on her hips, out of breath. Finally, she gulped enough air to speak. "Sorry to interrupt, hon, but we really need that tray of turkey. Never saw such a hungry bunch. 'Fraid there's gonna be a riot if we don't keep the food comin'."

Without saying another word, Simon effortlessly lifted the tray and disappeared.

After washing dishes until her hands were trembling, Sami decided that she had fulfilled her Thanksgiving good deed. She wiped her hands, said goodbye to Katie, and waved to other volunteers as she walked toward the door. The crowds finally thinned and the onslaught of homeless people started to subside. She surveyed the room but could not locate Simon. She thought they had made a connection; then again, she was often a victim of wishful thinking.

On the Monday after Thanksgiving, Simon stood by the gold BMW and craned his neck to see if anyone was watching. Sure that he remained inconspicuous, he bent over, unscrewed the plastic cap on the tire valve stem and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. He removed the one-way safety valve with the special tool he'd purchased at Sears, and quickly--before too much air escaped--screwed on a plastic cap in which he had punched a tiny pinhole small enough for the air to leak slowly. In less than thirty seconds he completed the task. He stood and surveyed the parking lot again. People hustled in and out of the FoodMart and loaded groceries in their vehicles, but no one seemed overly curious about his activities.

Dinnertime, when people hurried home from work and needed to make a quick pit stop, proved an ideal time for Simon to remain unnoticed. San Diegans, or possibly all Californians, at least based on Simon's experience over the past ten years, pretty much kept to themselves. They weren't unfriendly, just aloof and self-absorbed, which suited Simon perfectly. He didn't need neighborly strangers jeopardizing his plans with gestures of goodwill and little let's-get-to-know-each-other chats.

Peggy McDonald, the big-breasted redhead he'd been observing for over two weeks, lived in La Jolla, about a twenty-minute drive from Pacific Beach. Her babysitter lived on Diamond Street--just around the corner--so every day, after picking up her daughter, Peggy would swing by the FoodMart before heading home.

While parked, very little air would escape from the tampered-with rear tire. But Simon knew from prior experience and meticulous testing that once driven the tire would go flat in fifteen to eighteen minutes. He'd driven the route a dozen times and felt certain she'd break down close to the top of Soledad Mountain Road--not the most remote area, but dark enough for a good Samaritan to help an unfortunate motorist without attracting much attention.

As in the past, Peggy hustled through the automatic doors and jogged toward her car, plastic FoodMart bag swinging from one arm, her daughter securely held with the other. She secured her daughter in the child safety seat, tossed the bag of groceries on the passenger side and positioned herself behind the wheel. Driving a little too fast for a busy parking lot, she raced toward the south exit.

Simon followed her.

She turned on Garnet Avenue and headed east. Then, she turned left onto Soledad Mountain Road. Through a series of sharp curves the scenic road wound upward past gated communities and pricey apartment complexes. Simon, close behind, noticed that the BMW listed slightly to the right. The four-lane road narrowed to two, and Peggy's red brake lights warned Simon that she was slowing.

Just as Simon had estimated, Peggy's BMW limped to a stop three blocks from the Soledad Natural Park. Not wanting to raise suspicions about his timely rescue, he pulled to the curb a safe distance behind her and turned off his headlights. After waiting three minutes, he continued ahead, parked about two car lengths behind her, and let the engine idle. He could feel the fever building but recognized that to be convincing and nonthreatening he had to maintain a calm, even-tempered demeanor. He didn't want to spook her in any way. No doubt she had read about the other women, the common thread that each of their cars had been found abandoned with flat tires. If he sensed any unusual reaction, Simon was prepared to abort the plan.

Peggy stepped out of her car and slammed the door. She perched her hands on her hips, vigorously shaking her head, gawking at the tire as if her cold stare could miraculously repair it. The dark surroundings, lit only by a half-moon struggling to burn through a misty haze, fit into Simon's plan perfectly.

As he sat quietly, a little anxious yet still in control, Simon could see the Soledad Mountain Monument, a pyramid-like brick structure built on a hill just off the road. On top of the structure stood a cross. A crucifix. There were no floodlights, but a silhouette of the cross stood out against the smoky-gray moonlit sky, creating an eerie image. How poignant, he thought, that he would capture this sinner only steps away from such a monument. He hadn't planned it this way but truly felt as if it were a sacred message from God. For a moment, Simon fixed his eyes on the cross, as if drawn by some divine magnet. Sitting alone in his truck, Simon felt serenity, blessed contentment only God could bestow upon a mortal. Of all the sinners walking the earth, God had chosen Simon as His true disciple.

Simon waited for her anger to subside before getting out of his truck. He watched her searching through what looked like an oversize purse. Not wanting to startle her, he called out as he ambled toward her. "Looks like you could use a hand."

She snapped her head toward him, obviously jarred by the strange voice piercing the quiet darkness of the night. "Geez, you scared the shit out of me." Her voice projected a feisty attitude, a biting growl of independence, an I-don't-take-shit-from-anyone tone. She would not be like the others.

"Sorry, miss. Didn't mean to frighten you." He stood several feet away, hands stuffed in his jeans, looking like a shy teenager. His eyes drifted to the faulty tire. "I'd be happy to change it for you."

"I just had the friggin' tires replaced two weeks ago. Eighty-thousand-mile warranty, my ass." She kicked the tire. "Can I borrow your cell phone? I left mine at the office."

"Sorry, never had much need for one."

She looked at him in total awe, as if anyone on planet Earth without a cellular telephone had to be a complete moron. "You
don't
have a cell phone?"

"Only take me ten minutes to change the tire and you can be on your way."

She combed her fingers through her unruly hair, evaluating his offer. "Only ten minutes?"

While Peggy sat in the backseat trying to console her daughter who was perturbed about the delayed dinner hour, Simon wiggled his fingers into cotton gloves--no need to leave fingerprints--opened the truck and went through his practiced routine. He removed the awl from his jacket pocket and carefully twisted the sharp point into the tread, puncturing the spare tire. Slowly, he eased the tool out. He leaned on the sidewall with both hands and could hear the air hissing out of the tire. In less than five minutes the tire deflated. He closed the trunk and peeked in the open rear door, shaking his head. "I'm afraid your spare won't be much help, miss. It's flatter than a pancake."

"How can it be flat? The goddamn thing's never been used."

When Simon heard her curse, he had to control his anger. To use the Lord's name so blasphemously infuriated him. But he had to focus on the more important objective.

As a vehicle leaned around a severe curve about a hundred feet away, headlights illuminated the landscape, casting long shadows on the highway. The Pathfinder slowed and then stopped parallel to the BMW. Some do-gooder, asking questions, meddling with his plan could prove risky. Simon faced the bitter realization that he might be forced to terminate his plan. He wished it were that simple.