Wounds (30 page)

If only he could.

Carmen brought Hector up to speed on their meeting with Ellis Poe. They sat in the case room.

“Wait a minute. He ran into the women's restroom.” Hector laughed. “That's a good one.”

“Funny as it is, Hector, you're missing the point. He's on to something. At first, I thought he'd rounded the bend or was something of a holy roller out to save all our souls, but his logic is unassailable. It seems obvious now. Maybe if I were a churchgoer, I'd have picked up on it myself, but I wasn't even close.”

“None of us were close, but let's be honest, Carmen. What good does it do us? So what? Maybe the killer has a biblical bent, but how does that help us catch him?”

“I don't know. I suppose we can canvass all the churches in the city—”

“Do you know how many churches that is? Hundreds. Maybe a few thousand. He may be doing this because he hates churches. If so, he won't be attending one.”

Carmen had to acknowledge the wisdom in the comment.

“Did your guy have any ideas about when all this might stop?” Hector leaned back in his chair. He looked worn to the bone. The case was taking a toll on her team. On her.

“He thinks there will be a least one more murder, maybe two or three, depending on how the guy breaks down the Passion of Christ. He thinks the next one will be a guy wearing a crown of thorns with the flesh whipped from his back.”

“Ouch. Where does one get a crown of thorns these days?”

“I don't know, but remember, much of this is symbolic. Mulvaney was strapped to a tree with purple cloth. Poe tells us that the purple mentioned in the New Testament would probably have been a robe Jesus' tormentors threw over him, not strips of cloth.”

“I guess.”

“You look bad, Hector.”

“Thanks, Boss. I love you, too.”

Carmen chuckled. “You know what I mean. I'm beat. When we find this guy, I may just shoot him over all the sleep I've lost.”

“I'll cover for you.” He closed his eyes and sighed. “Ready for the preliminary ME report?”

“Sure. Can't wait.”

“Max Mulvaney died of strangulation. Had been dead for three hours when he was discovered. He showed bruising from a beating, and there were also two puncture marks indicating a Taser-like weapon was used. The ME thinks he was beaten unconscious after that. I checked DMV, and Mulvaney drove an old GMC pickup. I've put out a BOLO for the vehicle. I got his address, and I'm heading there as soon as we're done. For all I know, the car is there. Or it could be in a ditch.” He stood.

“I'll go with you. I've had it with this place.” Carmen rose and stretched her back.

“I appreciate the company.” He studied the floor for a moment. “I've seen horrible things, Carmen. That includes stuff I saw in the military that I can't talk about. But this stuff? It's making me sick. I may have laughed at your professor buddy, but there are moments I feel like tossing my cookies, too.” He paused and lowered his head. “Sorry. I'm feeling sorry for myself.”

“You don't have to apologize to me, Hector. I've been thinking about selling flowers on the street corner.”

He snickered. “I know what you mean. There are days when I think those guys really have it going on.”

She put a hand on the man's shoulder. “We'll get 'im, Hector. You, me, Bud, Joe, the cap—we'll get him. One way or the other.”

“I hope you're right.”

So do I, buddy. So do I.
They walked from the room.

32

M
ulvaney's apartment building was a dump, a one-bedroom on the second floor of an apartment building on Del Monte Street in Ocean Beach. The apartment building looked a century old, but Carmen was sure it had only been around since the '40s or '50s. The building was small, with stucco walls that someone thought would be improved with lime-green paint. The windows, double-hung affairs that dated the building, were trimmed in an off-white that could do with a good sanding and fresh gallon of paint.

Carmen and Hector identified themselves to the landlord, informed him he was now shy one tenant, and asked to be let into Mulvaney's apartment. The manager was an old surfer with long, stringy, sun-bleached hair. His skin was dry, with traces of salt. Carmen guessed the man had been surfing a short time ago.

Old surfers never die; they just wash out to sea.

“Dead? Really? Murdered? Whoa, dude.” The guy was well past his fiftieth birthday, but he spoke like an eighteen-year-old from the seventies. “Bummer.”

A part—a large part—of Carmen wanted to search the man's apartment for drugs. The air was perfumed with the stench of marijuana. Nothing like a relaxing toke after a few hours in the Pacific. She took a couple of sniffs but said nothing.

“Um, yeah. Sure. His apartment. Glad to help. Just let me get the keys.”

“Leave the door open, please.” Carmen smiled. A simple message saying don't bail out the back window. To the man's credit, he returned in fifteen seconds, crossed the threshold, and closed the door behind him as if the damage hadn't already been done.

Carmen had no desire to bust the man. She had bigger fish to fry. Surfer dude led them up the exterior stairs. The concrete treads and wood runners bounced with their steps. The stairwell held.

“What kind of tenant was Mr. Mulvaney?”

“Max? He was all right. Stayed to himself. Didn't bother nobody. When he rented the place, he mentioned he had been in the military. I think the war affected him in the head, if you know what I mean.”

“Did he do any entertaining?” Hector walked directly behind the manager.

“Nah. Not him. I'd see him go to work and come home. Most nights he went fishing on the pier. Always went alone, came back late, then he'd start the whole thing over.”

“So you never saw anyone going to his apartment?” Hector pressed.

“You mean like . . .” He started to use a term then changed his mind midsentence. “You mean like, um, ladies of the evening?”

Hector's voice took on a sharper tone. “I mean anyone.”

Surfer dude shook his head. “Like I said, I never saw anyone go to his place. No one complained about the guy. He was jus' a lonely dude, doing his own thing.”

They walked down a porchlike walkway. Carmen had a question. “Did he pay his rent on time?”

“Oh, yeah. He was always good about that. Never late. Never had his utilities cut off. You know the utility companies inform us when they cut someone off. They must think we'll cover for the tenant or somethin'.” He chuckled “Like that's gonna happen.”

Mulvaney's apartment was a street-side corner unit with a fine view of the apartment building directly across Del Monte. The manager started to insert the key into the lock.

“Hang on a sec.” Carmen pulled on a pair of latex gloves and twisted the doorknob. It turned easily. The door was unlocked. A closer look at the lock showed scratches around the key slot, perhaps the result of years of use or from being picked. She looked at Hector, who had already pushed the manager to the side. Carmen and Hector drew their weapons.

Carmen already had the doorknob in hand. She would be the one to open it. Hector stepped to her side. Carmen pushed the door open and Hector charged in. “Police!” Carmen followed so close she almost tripped over Hector's trailing foot.

Hector veered to the right, Carmen to the left, their weapons extended before them. There were only two doors in the apartment, one slightly narrower than the other. The smaller had to be the bathroom; the wider, the bedroom. Hector positioned himself next to the bedroom door and opened it with a fluid motion, waited one second, then disappeared. A second later, “Clear.”

Carmen moved to the bathroom door as Hector came to her side. She opened the door fast and hard, stepping into the small space. Empty. The shower curtain was drawn. She pushed it back but saw only brown stains on white fiberglass. “Clear.”

A voice from behind them. “Cool.”

Carmen turned to see Surfer dude smiling.

“Just like television.”

“I told you to stay outside,” Hector said.

“No way, dude. You told me to move out of the way. You didn't say nuthin' about staying outside.”

“Um, Hector . . .”

“I see it. I think we're gonna need Field Services here.”

Carmen nodded. “You think?”

Hector moved closer. “Is that lipstick?”

Carmen had been paying attention to the message, not the medium.

She holstered her weapon, leaned forward, and fought the urge to use every swear word she knew.

THAT'S FOUR, CARMEN

They walked the manager from the apartment. Carmen knew her anger must show on her face—it radiated heat. After Hector jogged down the stairs, she spun on the manager. “I thought you said women didn't come up here.”

The scraggly haired man's face went white. “No, I didn't. I said I never saw anyone come up here. At least that's what I meant to say. I never saw the guy with a chick. Maybe he's a cross-dresser or somethin'.”

This guy was a total waste of time. “Okay, sir. We have some work to do here. I want you to go back to your apartment. We may have more questions.”

“Yeah. Sure. Whatever you say. Glad to help. Just ask—”

Carmen turned her back on the man and reentered the room just as Hector was coming up the stairs with a roll of crime-scene tape. While he taped off the second-story walkway leading to the apartment, Carmen took a slow look around the room. What was she missing?

The place was neat, orderly, but plain in every other way. No ornamentation. The kitchen counters were clean, no dishes in the sink. The only decorations on the walls were a triangular wooden frame holding a folded US flag and some medals.

Hector walked in and looked at the display. “I hate to see a guy like this end up this way.”

Carmen studied him. “What do you mean?”

Hector pointed at the display of multicolored ribbons. “These tell a story.” He pointed at a ribbon with several colored vertical stripes of various widths. “He served in Afghanistan.” He pointed at another. “Iraq. This one means he earned a Bronze star. Our vic is a war hero.”

A war hero. And he died like that? The news made Carmen's anger boil.

“It's the sad thing about war.” Hector sounded heartbroken. “Some go from zero to hero in war, then back to zero when they leave the service. War can make an ordinary man great and a great man something less than ordinary.” He pointed at a medal. “Purple Heart. He was wounded while on duty.”

Carmen moved to the closet and searched through the man's clothing. No suits, no uniforms. Just jeans and work shirts, a windbreaker, a sweatshirt, and a few sports caps. No female clothing. The manager's suggestion was off the beam. Still, that left the question: “Why lipstick?”

Hector shrugged. “Have you searched for the stick?”

“Yes. Nothing. He may have flushed it.”

Hector thought for a moment. “What about other makeup?”

“You think the manger's idea the guy was a cross-dresser has merit?”

Hector shook his head. “Doubtful. Not out of the question, but unless you find a pair of triple-wide size-15 pumps in the closet, I choose not to believe it.”

Carmen studied the message. “Something's odd. What's with the lettering? Every other letter angles a different way.”

“Beats me . . . Wait, you don't suppose the guy used both his right and left hands to write it? You know, to throw us off.”

“Could be. Could be.” There was something else about the message that bothered her.

“Odd shade.” Hector cocked his head to the side.

“You an expert on lipstick, Hector?”

“Expert? No, but I do have a wife and two teenage daughters. Trust me, I know about things I never thought I would.”

She chuckled. “Okay, Mr. Makeup Artist. What's wrong with the shade?”

Hector looked at her. “Shouldn't that be your area of expertise?”