Wounds (22 page)

“Too be honest, Cap, I'm feeling overwhelmed. I mean, four murders in just over a week, and very little to go on. The amount of work is daunting.” Carmen was being honest, but she tried to sound solid, confident.

“Are you over your head?” There was no accusation in Simmons's tone. Sometimes a question was just a question. “Can you lead this team?”

“Of course, sir. I didn't mean to imply I was looking for a way out.”

“No need to defend yourself, Carmen. You're on my good list, but I have to ask. This case is the kind of thing that can make it to the national media. We're in the spotlight here, or will soon be. The weight is going to come down on the chief and the mayor, and that will trickle down to you and me. Clear?”

“Crystal, sir.”

“Okay, so I'm going to ask a few questions, and I want the straight skinny. Got it?” He looked each detective in the eye; each indicated agreement. He looked back to Carmen. “I ask again: Do you have what it takes to deal with a serial killer, or do I need to pass this on to someone else?”

Carmen lifted her chin. “I am ready and able, Cap. I want to stick with this to the end.”

Simmons stared at Bud for a moment. “I said straight-skinny, Bud. Are you comfortable with Carmen taking lead in this?”

“Absolutely, Captain. She has my full confidence. I joke around a lot, Cap, so let me get serious: Carmen is the one to fly this plane.”

Simmons turned to Hector. “What about you, Hec? You're going to have to roll your case into this mess.”

“I'd have to do that anyway, sir. I'm good to go with Carmen in the lead. She's a team player. So am I. I just want to catch this guy.”

“We all do,” Simmons said. “Okay, I'll get whatever help and resources I can. I've made sure the forensics department gives you guys priority. I'll rattle the chief medical examiner's cage to do the same thing. We got a real nut case running around the city. I want to see him in prison—or someplace else.”

Carmen didn't need to guess the place Simmons referred to: a grave.

“Understood, sir.” The votes of confidence felt good, but her stomach roiled at the fact that all this could come down on her like a brick wall in an earthquake.

“Tell me your plans.”

She took a breath. “Hector is going to stay on his case. Bud will focus on Cohen, and I'll stick with Lindsey. That's only for information gathering and sorting through evidence. We'll work together on the serial aspect of the case. I want to keep Heywood as a field investigator and liaison with the uniforms. He's still part of the clan. I'm going to need Millie Takahashi to coordinate the forensics. If we get too many hands working trace, DNA, etc., then we could end up like a kid trying to fly a dozen kites at one time.”

“You got it.”

“If you would, Cap, we may need another detective. We're good right now, but I'd like to know I can call on another experienced investigator if we need it.”

“I'll make it work, even if I have to do it myself. What else can I do?”

“We need lines of communications open with the sheriff's department, CHP, and maybe the FBI. We might need some extra forensics tools we don't have in-house. But most of all—”

“Keep the brass off your back?”

“Yes, sir. Sooner or later, word is going to get out to the media. So far it's just been the usual coverage of a murder, but if they learn there's a link, then people with cameras are going to be following us around. Of course, there will be public announcements. I'm not good at those kinds of things.”

“Done.”

“Thanks, Cap.” Carmen looked at her team. “Okay, guys, it's time for a little game of contrast and compare; then Hec, I need you to do legwork on Brady's background.”

“Will do, Boss.”

“And don't call me that.”

“Okay, Chief.”

The group laughed for a moment. They needed it.

Carmen, Bud, and Hector hammered out a plan of action for the day. Carmen would visit Doug Lindsey's parents to see what she could learn about Wilton. If she were lucky, she might learn which church the student went to and pick up some worthwhile info there. Bud would head over to San Diego State University to see what he could dig up about Wilton from his professors and friends, if he could locate any. Hector would observe the ME's exam. They would reconnect before the end of the day.

Before leaving the conference room, Carmen did something she seldom did. “Listen guys, thanks for standing behind me with the captain. It's good to know you trust me.”

“Trust?” Bud feigned surprise. “I'm just setting things up so you will feel obligated to pick up the check next time we're at Jimmy Chen's.”

“Gee, thanks. A girl likes to feel special.”

“I do what I can.” He stood and walked from the room, Hector a step or two behind him.

Alone in the conference room, Carmen took a few moments to draw a deep breath and quiet a mind that spun like a jet turbine. In an ideal world, she would only concern herself with solving the murders, but there was much more at stake: the media, which were sure to catch wind of things. Four murders—scratch that—
she
was concerned with four murders, but there had been several others. If the media got busy on this, it would have an impact on the force in general, as well as the public, the chief and other brass, and the mayor. A mistake could ruin her otherwise spotless career.

She let the concerns stew for a few moments before reminding herself that what really mattered was bringing down the madman who was taking life for reasons known only to him.

Carmen gathered her files and walked from the room. “I'm coming for you. I'm coming for you, and nothing can protect you.”

Carmen moved through the detectives' work bay, her head down, her mind bearing down on the questions in her mind.

“Detective Rainmondi.”

A glance up showed the voice belonged to Joe Heywood.

“Hey, Joe. 'Sup?”

“Two things. First, I've struck out on the video camera search. I found one guy in the Lake Murray area who has a security camera mounted to the front of his garage. He's been plagued by taggers, but that turned out to be a goose egg. The recorder he uses only keeps the video a few days before writing over the previous material.”

“If this were London, we'd have tons of video to look at. They have security cameras everywhere.”

Heywood nodded. “Good for police work. Not so good for privacy rights.”

“I wasn't aware we had a right to privacy.”

“That's still being debated.” Heywood looked serious. He always looked serious. “Second thing: there's a reporter from one of the local television stations looking for you.”

“Did you tell him I was here?”

“Her, and I haven't spoken to her. The call came up from reception.”

Carmen did nothing to hide her disgust. She didn't hate the media. They could be useful, but she didn't have time for this.

She stepped to her desk, picked up the receiver of her phone, and punched in an extension. “Hey, Cap? I need a favor.” She told him about the reporter. “Do you mind handling that? You're better at that kind of thing, and I don't want the killer to know who's tracking him. If you know what I mean.”

He did, and Carmen hung up, then addressed Heywood again. “Thanks for the heads-up.” She paused. “You miss the patrol car?”

He shrugged. “Some, but not much.”

“Good. We need the help . . . What are you doing now?”

“I was about to ask what you needed.”

After a moment's thought, she nodded. “Ride with me. I'm headed out to visit the Lindsey family. I've got more questions.”

“Do I get to drive?”

She hiked an eyebrow. “Absolutely not. Is that a problem?”

“Not at all. Just trying to make a funny.”

“I see. You failed. Let's hit it.”

24

T
he Lindsey home in La Mesa looked the same as the last time Carmen visited. Small, quaint, brown with beige trim and a neat lawn—except the lawn wasn't quite as neat as a week ago. Carmen noticed last time that it was due for a mowing. An additional week had made it more noticeable, not that Carmen was being critical. After her sister was murdered, Carmen hadn't wanted to do anything, not even shower. Letting the grass grow was to be expected.

Carmen had called ahead to make sure Doug's parents would be home. Karen Lindsey opened the door to her home a moment after Carmen and Heywood closed their car doors. She had been waiting for them.

These moments were always awkward. Does one wave? Smile? Carmen had been trained to be sensitive but neutral. It made sense, but it was also close to impossible to achieve. Times like this, Carmen felt more like an actress than a detective.

Karen pushed open the screen door. From a distance, the fifty-four-year-old woman looked twenty years younger. Brown hair, parted in the middle, hung to the top of her shoulders. Her skin, naturally light, looked corpse-like. She wore no make up.

As Carmen approached, the age erased by distance became apparent. The woman was far from old, but wrinkles had appeared around her eyes and on the skin beneath her chin. Grief had sided with the wrinkles.

“Mrs. Lindsey, thank you for seeing us on such short notice.” Carmen kept her voice firm but soft around the edges. The woman's son had been abducted, tortured, and killed. She had a right to teeter on the edge of an emotional abyss.

It was a feeling Carmen understood well.

Carmen extended a hand, one to be friendly and two to keep the woman from embracing her. Grief-stricken people have been known to do crazy things: transfer their anger to the police, strike out, even snatch a weapon from a holster.

They shook hands for a moment. The woman's hand felt like a freshly caught fish: cool, clammy, squishy. “This is Officer Joe Heywood. He's helping with your son's case.”

“What happened to your other partner?”

“He's working a different angle.” Carmen wasn't ready to tell them about the other murders. “May we come in?”

“Of course. I'm sorry. Where are my manners?”

Buried with your son.
Carmen couldn't blame her. She buried things with her sister. “Thank you.”

Heywood let Carmen cross the threshold first. The inside of the home was decorated in cheery yellow, flower-print sofa and love seat, beige rug. Prints of cities—Paris, Rome, London—adorned the wall. Cities, Carmen knew from a previous visit, the family had never seen. They were not wealthy, just optimistic.
Had been optimistic.
A handcrafted wooden cross hung on one of the walls.

A tan, leather easy chair rested opposite the sofa. It didn't fit the decor. Eric Lindsey was a man's man: broad in the shoulders, muscled from work on construction sites. He didn't rise when they entered, but he did grace them with a nod. The room was dim, the thin curtain drawn, letting in only a little light and even less of the outside world. Dim as the light was, there was enough to see that the man hadn't shaved since the funeral, and, based on his oily, wayward hair, he hadn't showered.

“They're here, hon.” Karen stated the obvious.

Carmen had been around the block enough times—professionally and personally—to know murder kills more than just a person; it assassinates the souls of the family and friends, stripping away every sense of security and often leaving only a husk of humanity. Oddly, it was the men who seemed to suffer more. Carmen had no idea why that was true or why it would be the case, but her years of experience said it was a fact.

“Mr. Lindsey.” Carmen nodded, but didn't invade the man's space.

“News?” His voice sounded like it was coated in gravel.

Carmen sat on the sofa. Heywood followed her lead. She noticed his eyes capturing every detail of the room. It was what cops did. Was there a weapon nearby? Empty cans of beer or bottles of Jack Daniels indicating the person was intoxicated? Drug paraphernalia? An ashtray of discarded joints? A dirty hypodermic? The list was endless. She had made the survey the first time she interviewed the family, and she did it again the moment she walked into the twilight of the room. She saw nothing of concern.