Wounds (11 page)

“The short stripes? I see them.”

“Notice the roundish bruise above it. Notice anything weird?”

“No—wait. The skin is broken at one of the stripes.”

“Look closer and you'll see that's true for two of the marks. Now, this is where you jump up and sing my praises. The short, rectangular strips are from the protruding sole of a work boot. The semi-round bruises are from the steel toe of the boot.”

“You're guessing.” Carmen was impressed. “But it's a great guess.”

“Great? It's brilliant! We can't prove it—yet, but I think it's on the money.”

“So the killer pounds the body with his fists then changes it up to break the victim's legs by repeatedly kicking him?”

“You got it. Leg bones are thick and tough. Aside from using a blunt instrument, they're hard to break by a simple punch.”

“Okay, this guy is sick. Really twisted. No wonder Doc is so put out.”

“He's a sensitive guy. The vic isn't some gangster who gets beat to death for cheating on his drug delivery. Cohen is an average Joe. No criminal record. Family man. Religious. Well thought of. He didn't deserve this, unless you found something in the background.”

“No. I've looked at his cell phone records. Nothing is jumping off the page. In fact, he barely used the thing. I guess he's one of those who carried a cell phone for emergencies or so his family can reach him. That's it. It's not even a smart phone. Can't get bank records until tomorrow, but I doubt they'll show anything. It's possible he's a white-collar criminal, but I won't put any money on it.”

“Me either. Anything new on the seminary kid?”

“Nah. Same thing. Clean as bottled water. His phone records are boring. Haven't traced every number yet, but the ones I've done all lead to family and a movie database. The kid liked the flicks.”

“So what we have are two nobodies.”

“That's one more thing they have in common.”

Bud chuckled.

“Here we go again. I don't see any connection. Innocent, nice people get off all the time. Just because these two murders happen within a day of each other means nothing.”

“If we were talking gunshot deaths, or murders committed during a crime, then I'd be with you, but two bizarre murders in a row? I don't know, Bud. It doesn't seem right.”

“Suspicious minds make for great detectives, but you've got a way to go to convince your good-looking partner.”

“True, but have I convinced you?”

“I just said—oh, I see. Having a little fun with ol' Bud, eh? See if I ever bring you a sandwich again.”

Carmen's cell phone rang. She answered then said, “Where?” A second later: “Got it. On my way.” She stood. “Come on, Genius. They found a car that might be related to the Cohen case.”

“Outstanding. This is much better than going home and being with the family.”

“Is that sarcasm I hear? You know you love this.”

Bud huffed. “I bet I'll enjoy retirement better.”

They started from the room, but Carmen stopped suddenly. “Wait.” She fast-stepped back to her desk and grabbed her sandwich.

12

F
ew outside the Force knew it, but many clues leading to the solving of a murder come from the beat cop—the guy or gal in uniform keeping peace on the streets. While the job of collecting and processing clues in a murder fell to the homicide detectives, much of the legwork was done by uniforms and techs. It might take a village to rear a child, but it took a team to solve a murder. Once again, a sharp-eyed patrol officer had found something that might prove helpful.

Officer Joe Heywood was tall and thick and built like an old Ford truck. His brown hair was cut military short, a reminder that he had once been an Army Ranger. He was quick with a smile but had the reputation of being able to intimidate an approaching bullet. He was also a bit of an enigma. In his off time he liked to read popular books about theoretical physics. When Carmen first met him—her last year as a patrol officer and his first year in uniform—she had joked about it: “Having trouble sleeping?”

It had been a mistake, one that forced her to endure fifteen minutes of “quantum entanglement” and “M-theory.” She still had no idea what Heywood had said, but he did teach her not to bring up the subject again.

Carmen left the Crown Vic a dozen yards from the suspect car, ducked beneath crime tape, and approached. Heywood had cordoned off the alley. His patrol car served as a barricade on one side. Another officer stood near it, as did one on the opposite end.

Heywood was doing everything right.

As Carmen walked the narrow lane, she took in everything. They were in an alley behind a strip mall at the edge of Mission Valley. Yellow light from nearby high-pressure sodium street lamps, and the back-porch lights next to the rear doors of the shops in the center, cast eerie illumination on the scene.

Carmen and Bud scanned the ground as they approached, looking for anything that might be important.

“Hey, Joe.”

“Detectives. You made good time.”

Bud shrugged. “It's nine o'clock. The sane people are home watching television.”

He grinned. “What's that make us?”

“Protectors of all that is good and right,” Bud said. “Whatcha got?”

“Doing routine patrol. There have been several break-ins at this complex. Some of the stores are still open, but some close at eight. I've had to run off kids before. They like to hang back here, smoke, and avoid responsibility.”

“Don't be bitter, Joe. They're the future of our country.”

“We're doomed.” The corner of his mouth tipped up. “Anyway, I found the car here. You can see the ‘no parking' signs. Delivery people can't get their trucks down here if anyone parks in the alley. I also noticed the cargo door was popped. So I thought I'd take a look.”

“And?” Carmen studied the vehicle. It was an old Dodge Caravan, blue, and had seen better days.

“I approached. No driver. No passenger. Engine was cold. Since the back was partially open I had cause to look. Someone could have been sleeping or hurt back there.”

Carmen nodded. It was as good a reason as any to look inside a car without a warrant.

Heywood moved closer to the back of the car and, with a gloved hand, used a finger to lift the door, revealing the cargo area of the minivan. He then shone the beam of his MAGLITE on the carpet-like cover over the base of the area. It was blue with a large dark stain at one end and several smaller stains to the right. Carmen got a whiff of something sour and rank: fresh blood, urine, and feces. She added the beam of her small Streamlight flashlight, which she had removed from the SDPD windbreaker she wore.

“I'll get the kit.” Bud walked back to the Crown Vic. He returned a moment later and set the plastic kit, which looked like a fisherman's tackle-box, on the ground. He removed a small spray bottle and a cotton swab on a long stick, dabbed at the largest stain, then took a step away from the vehicle. A spritz of Luminol and the business end of the swab began to glow blue. The chemical reacted to the iron in hemoglobin. The glow faded within thirty seconds.

“Yep, blood.”

Carmen nodded at her partner, then leaned in closer. “There's a dip in the deck. Looks like whatever left the blood was dropped in place, breaking the fiberboard beneath.”

“I noticed that, too.” No arrogance in Heywood's words. “I ran the plates, and they belong to a 2005 Caddy owned by an elderly couple in Rancho Bernardo. Their car was reported missing two weeks ago.”

“I may not be the brightest crayon in the box, but I'm pretty sure this isn't a Cadillac.” Bud bagged the swab and closed the kit.

“No arguing about either statement,” Carmen said.

“Hey!”

Carmen smiled at Heywood. “Poor guy suffers from insecurity.”

Heywood returned the smile with a courtesy grin that said he recognized the attempt at humor, but it didn't deserve a real laugh. “The Caddy was recovered three days later in Otay Mesa. Obviously, the plates were missing.”

“Obviously.” Carmen directed her light to the ground around the vehicle.

“I found one boot print near the driver's side door. There's a good bit of dust there. After I saw the blood, I withdrew, cordoned off the alley, and called you.”

“Good man.” Carmen continued to look around. “You used the same path for egress and ingress?”

“Yes. The same one I led you down. No other officers have been within twenty feet of the vehicle.”

“What about shop employees? Talk to any of them?” Bud stood with the kit in his hand.

“Yes, sir. Most of the places are closed. There's a small Italian hole-in-the-wall. After I had the alley secured and officers at each end, I chatted up the manager. He said the van had been here since he arrived at three this afternoon. He called the day manager, and she said she saw the vehicle when she opened.”

“What time did she start work?” Carmen asked.

“Ten. They open at eleven. She helps set up the kitchen for the lunch rush.”

“You got their names?” Carmen started to walk around the Dodge, directing her flashlight in front of her and along the driver's side.

“Yes.”

Bud followed Carmen. “Good. What about registration? We know who owns the plates but not the van.”

“No, sir. Once I saw the blood I stopped touching things.”

“I may need to have you speak with Assistant Police Chief Claymore.” Carmen looked in the driver's side window. The interior was neat.

“Yes, ma'am. Um, why?”

“Because I think you could teach him a few things.” Carmen moved to the front of the van. The years had taken their toll on the paint and grill. Spots and smears of bug carcasses decorated the exterior. “It's been awhile since this thing has seen any soap and water.”

“Reminds me of my former partner,” Bud said.

“Cute. You better not be saying things like that about me.”

“Never.” Bud's playful attitude was one of the ways he dealt with the soul-crushing nature of his work. “I say other things about you.”

Carmen returned to the driver's door and used her gloved hand to open it. She looked at the sunshade over the steering wheel. It had a holder for the DMV registration. She pulled down on the shade and noticed two things: one, the registration was missing; two, it had been replaced by a simple typewritten note:

THAT'S TWO

She responded with a string of hot curses.

“That was an excellent sermon, Adam.” Ellis Poe sat in a booth in Denny's restaurant. Across from him sat Dr. Adam Bridger and his wife, Dr. Rachel Bridger. Ellis was a bit formal and would never call the president of the seminary by his first name if a student was in earshot, and he certainly wouldn't do so on seminary grounds. This, however, was a neutral place.

“Thank you, Ellis. I'm glad you could join us. I never get to spend as much time with our key faculty as I would like.” Bridger took a bite of a tuna fish sandwich. He confessed that through his two decades of ministry he had never been able to eat before speaking. It started when he was in seminary, and he had never been able to solve the problem, so he always postponed eating.

“I don't know how you have time to do what you do.”

Rachel sat next to Adam, drinking a cup of decaf. “He's always been an ace at multitasking. I think he works in his sleep.”

“Doesn't everyone?” Bridger said.

“No, honey, we mere humans sleep to rest, perchance to dream.”

Rachel was in her fifties but still had the radiance of a much younger woman. She was smart, funny, and had a spine of steel—something Ellis assumed came with her job as a surgeon. One couldn't dip both hands into a person's abdomen or chest and have second thoughts about it.

From the outside, they looked like any older middle-aged couple, but they had their own history. Bridger had had adventures he seldom mentioned, and Rachel had spent time in a coma. Ellis didn't have the details, and the couple never offered explanations, which provided fertile soil for rumor.

Ellis admired their banter. Truth was, he envied their relationship. At one time he had seen himself with a lovely, intelligent wife. A young man's dream. These days he worked hard at having no dreams at all. Disappointment followed such idle wishing. Still, he couldn't deny the gnawing emotion that occasionally arose to remind him that he was not as comfortable being a loner as he let on. “You handled the announcement about Doug Lindsey well, Adam. Sensitive. Dignified.”

“The whole thing is horrible.” Rachel pushed her cup away as if the topic had spoiled the liquid.

Bridger nodded and looked at his plate as if seeing something only his eyes could recognize. “I've been trying to make contact with each of the faculty, checking up on them. Such an—event—can scar a person.”

You have no idea.