Picture Me Dead (13 page)

“Hey, kid, how's it going?” he asked her.

Arne Jacoby sniffed. “How's it going? She's a star student. Ever get a one-word answer out of this girl? Nope. No matter what the question, she's done the research.”

“Actually, I wasn't talking about the academy,” Len said. “Did she tell you about the body she passed on the highway the other week? There was an article in the paper about it. I kept it for you, Ashley, in case you hadn't been able to get a hold of a copy.”

“I found the article, Len, and it's worse than what I knew.”

“What are you talking about?” Arne demanded. “You're losing us. Start from the beginning. There was an accident?”

“Yes, a kind of freaky—and sad—accident, as it turns out,” she added, looking at Len, then explaining to them all. “I went to Orlando with some friends for the weekend, and we passed an accident on I-95. A pedestrian had been struck. Apparently he'd been walking across the expressway. In his underwear. Turned out he was someone I know. Knew well, as a matter of fact, years ago.”

“You knew the guy?” Len said.

“I think I heard some mention of that accident on a traffic report,” Gwyn said, frowning. “There was an article in the paper the other morning, too.”

“Strange case. The guy was in his underwear, running across the highway. Well, it is Miami…. He wasn't in a fraternity or anything, pulling off a stunt?” Len asked.

“No, not Stuart. He's out of school, working. He was the kind who graduated with honors, more of a…well, more of a nerd than a fraternity type.”

“So…” Gwyn persisted. “What was he doing?”

“They're saying he was all doped up,” Len explained quietly. “But that's about all I've heard about the incident. It was probably handled by the North Miami guys, or maybe North Miami Beach. Or maybe County. I'm sure someone can find out. We can check with vehicular homicide—no, sorry, the guy wasn't killed, right? He's in a coma. From what I read, though, he was
really
doped up.”

“Was he a junkie when you knew him?” Izzy asked, his tone soft, consoling.

“No!” Ashley said indignantly. “And that's the point. I don't think he's a junkie now.”

“When was the last time you saw him?” Arne asked quietly.

“A few years ago,” she admitted. She realized that everyone around the table was looking at her the same way. Sadly. As if they didn't want to state the obvious. She hadn't seen the guy in a long time. Human beings were fragile. There was nothing to say that he hadn't become a dope addict in the years since she had seen him.

“I'd still like to find out more about the accident,” she said.

“Ask Brennan—maybe he knows something or can at least point you in the right direction,” Len suggested.

“Good idea,” Gwyn said. She smiled at Ashley. Ashley liked Gwyn. Gwyn was tough and careful. She was a black woman—tawny gold, actually—and she had been born in Cuba. Raised a Catholic, she had once told Ashley she had considered converting to Judaism, just to make sure she had a foot in every local minority out there. With public institutions required to have quotas, she was determined to prove she was more than a statistical offering. She studied hard, worked hard and meant to be the best at what she did. “If you need help, or just moral support, let me know. I'm happy to oblige.”

“Thanks.”

“Any of us would help you out, Ashley,” Arne said.

“Ditto,” Izzy told her.

“Thanks,” she repeated.

“I'll ask around, too,” Len assured her. He rose. “I've got to get back to my station. And you guys need to get back to class. I know Brennan. He's a stickler for people being on time.”

He gave Ashley a kiss on the cheek, waving to the others as he walked toward the parking lot.

Arne offered Ashley a hand. “Ready to head back in?”

“We've still got some time,” Gwyn said.

“A few minutes,” Arne said. “No more.”

“You know what? I'm going to make another quick phone call. Excuse me,” Ashley told them. Rising, she discarded her trash and walked halfway toward the building. She dialed Karen's cell phone number and was glad when her friend picked up the phone. Karen had recognized her cell number on caller I.D and spoke before Ashley could say a word. “Hey, you read the paper, I guess. Can you believe that it was
Stuart?
We drove by a body on the highway, and it was just a body—I don't mean that badly, it was horrible, no matter what—but we drove past right after it happened, and it was Stuart Fresia.”

“I know. That's why I was calling.”

“I'm glad you called. I wanted to talk to you, but I can't call you during the day because you're in class. But I can't believe it. I mean, he's got to be one of the nicest, straightest, most decent kids we ever knew. How the hell could this have happened?”

“I don't know. I wish I did. But I'm going to ask some questions.”

“Well, yeah. You're a cop. Or almost a cop. You should be able to get some answers from someone.”

“I'll try.”

“I hope…”

“What?”

“I hope he's still alive,” Karen said.

“He is—or was as of this morning. Nick called the hospital. He's still in intensive care. No one can get in to see him but family.”

“No, and I guess it wouldn't do any good even if we could get in. He's in a coma.”

“I've got to get back into class. I just wanted to touch base with you.”

“Thanks. And promise to call me if you learn anything at all.”

“Promise.”

Ashley hung up and realized that the others had preceded her into the building. She glanced at her watch and noticed with dismay that although it had seemed before as if she had plenty of time to get to class, she was just going to make it.

She hurried along the halls to the right room, sliding in just as the minute hand swung. The rest of the class were already seated. She walked quickly to her own seat, noting that Captain Murray, head of personnel, had chosen that afternoon to come in and take a look at the current class. Her heart sank. She felt like a sore thumb, threading through the seats to reach her own.

She knew, of course, that he was watching her, even as he spoke with Brennan. She kept her eyes ahead, on him and Brennan, praying she showed no emotion. Certainly not guilt. She'd actually made it in time.

Neither of them singled her out. Brennan spoke to the class for a few minutes, telling them that Shelly Garcia from forensics was going to give them a talk on blood splatter and crime scene scope, and then Captain Murray would talk about some of the directions in which they might want to go after they graduated.

Brennan sat after introducing the woman from forensics. The talk was fascinating, and Ashley was intent on what she was hearing. Then Murray stood at the front of the room and talked about various specialties within the department. She had a pad and took notes, as did the others. But she found her thoughts wandering on occasion as well.

Without noticing, she began drawing the scene of the accident once again.

She caught herself and was careful to look up frequently as she began filling in substance and shadow in her drawing.

And once again…

The figure. Just a black figure, far across the many lanes, but watching…

Watching from the other side of the road.

 

Mary Simmons was sitting in the rear of the property, waiting for them. She smiled when she saw them, then rose, and welcomed them. She was thirty-five and looked ten years younger, very much at peace with herself. The garden area of the temple's property was pretty, with greenery surrounding small benches. Jake had to admit it was a serene setting.

“Thanks for seeing us, Mary.”

“Sure.” She glanced at Jake. “As long as you don't intend to harass the Krishnas…?”

“This place has been here as long as I can remember, Mary. We know it's legit.”

She shrugged, looking at him. “I'm not sure what I can say that I haven't told you many times before.” Her gaze went from Jake to Marty. Marty looked at Jake, realizing that his friend had seen Mary several times during the years that had gone by.

“Anything you can remember. Anyone we might have missed.”

She nodded. “Well…Papa Pierre—sorry, Peter Bordon—always seemed to be the only one really running anything. He preached to us, had the property, brought us in, and yes, suggested that whatever we had must be given up for the benefit of all. What you all don't see, though, is that he was kind and loving, and we all believed in him. And it was a simple way of life. We worked the garden, growing all our own food, and…” She paused, smiling, “Luckily I'm a vegetarian, because we also ate fish from the canal out back, and it's likely that half the fish out there were diseased or tainted. To get back to the point, it was a simple way of life. He could befriend men, but in retrospect, he preferred women. And if there was dissent among us—seldom spoken, of course, because of our share-all philosophy—it was over who Peter would have with him each night. I kept house a lot. I was one of his first recruits. And yet, not even I really knew what went on at the house. We slept in the dorms, the cabins on the property. Unless we were chosen for the evening.”

She looked at Jake. “We knew that cars came at night. I heard him talking to people in the house sometimes. But I never knew who was there. And I never suspected anything. When we learned that our friends had been murdered, we were appalled. And truly, we believed that the girls had been killed by people who hated Peter, our way of life, our beliefs. Peter even suggested to us once that we be very careful, because the police hated him, hated us, because they didn't understand the depths of our faith and how we could live so completely for one another.” She shrugged. “But now…well, it seems so obvious that Peter liked money and sex. And naturally, he didn't like the police himself, because he did have us all brainwashed. But still…I honestly don't believe that Peter killed anyone. Or ordered that anyone be killed. He was greedy, he used us, but I don't believe he was a killer.”

“Mary,” Jake said patiently, “three women were killed. All three were associated with the cult. Peter was the head of the cult.”

“Yes. But…Peter is the one with the answers, if there are any. I told you, people came and went that we never saw. Maybe they came for the money Peter received from us, I don't know.”

“What about Harry Tennant?” Jake asked her.

“He had no money, so he wasn't someone you'd expect Peter to foster. He only spent a few nights on the property. Well, that I know of, anyway. In retrospect, Detective Dilessio, the more I think about it, I do believe he might have committed those horrible crimes. He was strange. I mean, really strange. He wanted to be like Peter so badly, maybe not in a religious sense, but…he wanted the power that Peter had over people.” She shrugged. “He wanted women. Sex. He came on to all of us. Peter never discouraged anyone else from soliciting a relationship. It wasn't as if he felt we were his private harem or anything. And God knew, none of us seemed to know what it was that first brought us into his bed. Every person in the group was interviewed separately at one time or another. One minute you'd be talking about the good that could be done by a simple life…and the next thing you knew, you were exalting in all that was natural and beautiful in human existence. Created in God's form—we were still mortal, still animals, and natural instincts were not something to be abhorred, but celebrated. So, looking back, it's easy to see that Harry took a look at Peter, went wild with jealousy and maybe formed a psychotic hatred for the girls for wanting Peter and not him.”

“Mary, I know that you've gone over this with us time and again, but please, bear with us, because another girl is dead. When the girls who were killed disappeared, didn't you worry? Didn't Peter worry?”

She shook her head. “There were no ties binding us to the place. We were free to come and go as we chose.” She hesitated. “Yes, when the third girl was found, I was afraid. The police started to come by, and Peter encouraged us all to talk, so…Then Harry Tennant killed himself, and…well, you've got to understand that when you believe in teachings like Peter's, deeply believe, death is not the end but a beginning.”

“Those girls were tortured. Murdered.”

“Their ears were slashed,” Mary said.

“Because they didn't hear, presumably. And if Peter wasn't the one they weren't hearing, Mary, then who was?”

She shook her head. Then she frowned. “I think Harry Tennant might have been more psychotic, and even smarter in his demented way, than you might want to believe, Detective.”

“Why is that?” Jake asked.

She smiled sadly at them both. “I think he heard voices. He talked about Lazarus.”

“Lazarus?” Marty said.

“Lazarus…who rose from the dead,” Jake said. He smiled at Mary, speaking softly. “Mary, you've never mentioned this to me before.”