Punish the Deed (2 page)

Four

He huddled under cardboard, peering out at the community of the left behind. He wanted to punish them for the ways they were just like him. He wanted to stomp them into the ground for the ways they weren’t like him – for the courage they lacked to strike back.

Instead he observed their movements, wrapped in a tattered blanket of pity for the pathetic nature of their lives. Each man who shuffled past his makeshift home bore the stench of a misbegotten life. All had the repulsive smell of the never washed but each foul odor bore its own distinctive accents of personal musk. He could close his eyes and still recognize each man by the fragrance that traveled in his wake.

The women were different. Each left a rancid feminine perfume on their trail – an alien aroma that overpowered any individual nuance that left him feeling lost in a jungle of desire and loathing. The last one he abolished was a woman. It was hard to sniff her sins beneath the mask of femaleness that emanated from her coppery blood. It took too much of a toll. The next one would have to be a man. The scent of woman dead robbed him of his sleep.

His eyes darted back and forth from the pathetic souls who moved about or sat still under moldy cardboard shelters or huddled beneath crinkly garbage bags. He watched them with as much interest in their welfare as he expended on the scurrying beetle that struggled through the dirt and mud. He was of them. Yet he was above them.

He hated them all. He loved them all. He did what he did for each and every one of them.
I am the snake that slithers in on angel wings seeking vengeance for the world of the forgotten.

His lips curled as the rain stirred up the scent from the above-ground latrine – nothing more, really, than a spot behind the bush. That solitary bush of modesty made the dirty two-legged creatures superior to the rats, stray dogs and feral cats that darted in and out of the night. But not by much. Not enough to count. Not enough to matter to the world outside, which continued to turn and thrive by ignoring those lost in the shadows.

When the rain stopped, he’d move on, seeking another village of the damned in the center of a city of conspicuous consumption – a place where both goods and souls were consumed with little distinction between the two.

He’d acclimatize to the new place. Then take his time to sniff out another Pharisee and lead yet another lamb to slaughter.

Five

Lucinda gave the go-ahead to the team of techs to process the crime scene. She watched as the first suited-up body videotaped their approach and another followed in his wake shooting still shots with a digital camera. Once they’d passed into the kitchen, another tech got busy with the contents of the trashcan, and yet another gathered samples of the blood and saliva stain on the floor beside the door.

Lucinda followed the first two techs into the room but stood back while they worked. When they had completed their documentation of the scene with the body
in situ
, the team leader, Marguerite Spellman asked, “Lieutenant, we’re ready to call in the coroner’s guys to remove the body. Do you need some time first?”

“Yes, Marguerite; just a few minutes. Thank you.”

Lucinda absorbed the image of the victim from every angle. Because of the location of the body in the small room, she couldn’t do a 360-degree circuit of the body as she preferred. Her eye was drawn to the fingers, splayed at unnatural angles with her hands folded on her chest.
Had to have been placed there after she died. What else did he do to her after he killed her?

She observed the victim’s skirt riding halfway up her thigh.
Did that happen in her fall to the floor or in a struggle? Or did the perpetrator do some exploration after her death? Was she sexually assaulted?
The answer to that would have to wait until after the coroner completed the autopsy.

She crouched down to examine the coffee mug nestled in the arch of the victim’s foot.
Is it what it seems? Did it simply come to a stop right there? Or is its position trying to tell me something?

She stood and bent forward to look at the dead woman’s face. It was hard to call it a face any longer. Brutal force had turned her features into raw meat – nose broken, teeth chipped, cheek bones crushed flat, eyes covered in rivers of blood and her skull caved in at several locations.
There’s a lot of anger here. Is it personal toward the victim? Or is it unfocused, internalized rage and the victim was just at the wrong place at the wrong time?

She straightened up, sighed and gave Marguerite the go-ahead to have the body removed. Lucinda moved over to the far end of the kitchen counter. There she spotted a legal pad with the first few pages curved over and back. On the top of the flat section, there were four words printed in caps in the middle of the page: “I WAS LEFT BEHIND.”

Do those words have anything to do with this crime
? Using the tip of a pen, she eased out and flipped over the bent pages. Across the top binding, she spotted more printing in all caps: “FLEMING.”
Must belong to Sharon Fleming. Were both printed by her hand?
She flipped through the remaining folded-over pages and saw someone’s notes – presumably the victim’s – sprawled in sloppy cursive racing across the page, ignoring the lines as they went.
Dramatically different from the printing but that does not automatically lead to a different author.

She flipped the pad over and back, looking for any signs of evidence from the crime. She did see clusters of small, dark spots on one edge but they looked more like old splashed coffee than dried blood splatter.
When did it get here? How did it get here? Did the victim carry it into the room? Or was it already here and she came into the room to retrieve it when she was attacked? Was that her printing on that page? Or the perpetrator’s. Did he use what was at hand? Or did he bring it in here after the crime? Am I sure it was a male who committed the crime? Most likely, but not definitely.

The two men in white overalls took pains not to disrupt the crime scene any more than necessary as they lifted the body up off the floor and placed it in an open body bag on the stretcher. Lucinda took a last look at the devastation on the victim’s face then stepped back to allow the men to zip up the bag and roll it away. She closed her eye and still saw the ravaged features. As the image faded, the spark of anger in her chest flamed as hot as extreme heartburn. She pushed a fist into her chest, opened her eye and swallowed deep. She watched as a tech shot photos of the bloody floor where the body used to lay.

Marguerite turned to Lucinda again. “Lieutenant, I’ve got a blood-spatter expert at the state lab on stand-by. You want me to bring him in for analysis and possible stringing?”

“I’m not sure if that’s necessary,” Lucinda said. “But then, I’m not sure that it’s not. Better do it to be on the safe side. When the state guy gets here, let the methods he uses be at his discretion. Make sure you bag up the cups on the floor. I’m not sure that they’ll matter either but I’d rather err on the safe side. And that legal pad on the counter? Make sure it gets taken to the lab for fingerprint and body fluid analysis – and try not to damage any of the writing. Matter of fact, you might want to copy it all before you do any testing.”

Marguerite nodded and got to work bagging the evidence. Lucinda hung back observing the team at work and taking in the details of the scene, hoping that all the pieces would come together into a clear picture that would lead to an arrest.

Satisfied with the thoroughness of the team’s evidence gathering, Lucinda went to the door at the end of the hall and checked it for any signs of forced entry. Finding none, she moved into the office beside the entrance to inspect the windows. Her cell phone interrupted her. “Pierce,” she said.

“Lieutenant, Officer Colter. The school district superintendent is insisting that we allow him into the building.”

“The answer is no, Colter. Spell it for him if you have to.”

“Yes, sir . . .”

“Is that all, Officer?”

“Ma’am, he’s written down my badge number and said he’s calling the mayor and the police chief.”

Lucinda sighed. “Tell him I’ll be right there, Officer.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Lucinda headed back to the door she’d checked a few moments before. On the sidewalk at the foot of the steps, she saw the back of patrol officer Robin Colter, her elbows jutting out from her sides, her legs spread wide, her feet firmly planted. In front of her, inches from her face, a hefty man in a blue suit and bright yellow tie towered over her, ranting.

“Superintendent!” Lucinda shouted from the top of the stairs.

Robert Irving turned his gaze upward. “I demand to be allowed into my office.”

“Where is your office?”

“What are you? An idiot?” he said, waving his arm in Lucinda’s direction. “In there.” He tried to side-step Officer Colter. She stepped in front of him, blocking his way.

He laid a hand on Colter’s shoulder but before he could push, Lucinda said, “I wouldn’t do that, Superintendent.”

“Tell her to get out of my way and let me into my office.”

“No, Superintendent. Take your hand off that officer or I’ll have you arrested.”

He glared at Lucinda before moving his arm down to his side. “I’m superintendent of this school district and I demand that you vacate this building or show me the search warrant that entitles you to be on the premises.”

“No, Superintendent. We are not leaving until we finish our investigation. And under the circumstances, we don’t need a warrant,” Lucinda said as she walked down the steps in his direction.

As she got closer, Irving’s eyes widened. “I recognize you. What are you doing here? I thought you were in homicide.”

“I am. That’s why I’m here. I’m investigating a murder in this building.”

The blood drained from Irving’s face, taking all signs of belligerence with it. “Murder? Here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who? How?”

“We have not confirmed the victim’s identity.”

“Why not? Who do you think it is?” Irving asked.

The screech of tires pulled Lucinda’s attention away from the superintendent. A boxy hybrid made a u-turn and sped off. In seconds, patrol cars gave chase with lights flashing and sirens wailing. Lucinda walked down the sidewalk to the curb.

“Lieutenant! Lieutenant!” Irving shouted after her.

Lucinda waved him off without looking back in his direction. The high-pitched sound of metal scraping metal ripped through the air followed by a thud and the tinkling noise of broken glass. Irving walked down the sidewalk and tapped Lucinda on the shoulder. “Lieutenant?”

“Not now, Mr. Irving. We’ve got a situation here. Go stand by Officer Colter. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”

He blustered a protest but Lucinda turned away from him, stepped into the street and walked down to the corner without comment. Her cell phone rang. “Pierce.”

“Lieutenant, the vehicle sideswiped a television satellite truck as it turned into Third Street. It careened off of there and smashed into a telephone pole.”

“Any injuries?”

“Just the driver of the fleeing vehicle but he’s just got a few small cuts and scratches and a chaffed face from the airbag deployment. And right now, he’s being badgered by reporters.”

“Get him into a patrol car and bring him up here. Block the road to keep the media away. And get someone to search that vehicle. The murder weapon is heavy with a rounded edge.”

“Yes, ma’am. We’re on it.”

Moments later, the patrol car pulled up in front of Lucinda. She pulled open the back door, placed a hand on the roof, leaned forward and peered inside at the cuffed man in the back seat. He looked in his early thirties even though his hairline was obviously receding. Pulled back straight from his crown were strands of mousy brown hair cinched in a ponytail at the nape of his neck.

“Who are you?” Lucinda demanded.

“Sean Lowery, technology director for the schools. I work here.”

“I see. And why did you rabbit out of here so fast?”

“Listen, are these cuffs really necessary? I’m aching from getting knocked around in the accident.”

“Mr. Lowery, why did you flee the crime scene?”

“Crime scene?”

“Mr. Lowery, please answer the question: why the hell did you peel out of here?”

“I was flustered,” he said.

“Flustered?”

Sean nodded his head and gave her a weak smile.

“Why would you be flustered?”

“I saw all the police cars and panicked.”

“Why, Mr. Lowery? Why did the police presence make you nervous?”

“Well, you know. It was just a normal reaction.”

“Mr. Lowery, look toward the parking lot. Do you see the other school district employees out there?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“So why did they all pull into the lot without hesitation while you ran away? What’s the reason? Do you have something to hide?”

“Oh no. Nothing to hide. No reason,” he stammered. “It was just a reaction. A stupid reaction. You see cops, you see trouble. There’s always a problem. Something wrong.”

“So instead of coming back to help us solve this problem at your workplace, you decided to become part of the problem. Is that what you’re telling me, Mr. Lowery?”

“Uh, no. I didn’t mean to cause a problem. I just didn’t want to get involved.”

Lucinda sniffed and smelled the vague remnants of a familiar odor. She crouched down beside him and looked straight into his eyes. His focus was off. Redness permeated the whites of his eyes. He turned away from her. “I didn’t mean any harm, I just wanted to . . .”

“Mr. Lowery, are you under the influence?”

“I haven’t been drinking, I swear.”

“I’m not talking about alcohol. Are you stoned?”