Wounds (6 page)

“Figures.” She shook the water from her hands and reached for the phone. Bud Tock's number. She tapped
answer
and placed the phone to the side of her head, pulling her soggy hair back from her ear. “Yeah.”

“Yeah? Really? That's how you answer the phone these days? Yeah?”

“Um, yeah.”

“There it is again. Listen, something has come up . . . What is that noise?”

“Water. You caught me in the shower.” There was a pause. “Careful what you say next, Bud, or the first thing I do when I get to the station is shoot you in the foot.”

“That, Detective, would be assault with a deadly weapon.”

She could hear his smile. “I'll claim it was an accidental discharge. Everyone will believe me and think you deserve it.”

“That so? Okay. You're probably right.”

“I'm always right. So what's up? I'm not due in for another hour or so.”

“I came in early to see what you did with the jacket last night. The captain was here. We got another body and since I was already here . . .”

“That'll teach you to show initiative. Where?”

“Corner of College Avenue and Cresita Drive.” He gave her the address. “White house. Fence and hedge block much of the house from the street. I'm sure I'll get there before you. Bring a couple of Egg McMuffins, will ya?”

“Nope. You're watching your weight.”

“No, I'm not.”

“You should. Everyone else is.”

“Funny. Now get out of the shower.”

When Carmen pulled her police-issued black sedan to the curb, she saw three patrol cars, the crime-scene van, and Bud Tock's vehicle. Yellow crime-scene tape stretched across the driveway and front walk.

Dressed in her usual detective garb—a pair of black slacks, a gray blouse, and black blazer—she waved her badge at the officer guarding the driveway and walk. He nodded. Since she had seen this officer many times, the badge flash was unnecessary, but she did it anyway. The uniform pointed to the southern part of the property.

“Thanks.” Carmen ducked under the tape barrier then heard a familiar voice.

“Over here, Detective.”

Bud Tock stood a short distance from the front door and stared at the base of a tree that ruled the corner of the front yard.

“Whatcha got, Bud?”

“Male, Caucasian, thirty-three according to his driver's license. Take a look. And, for the record, I no longer want the Egg McMuffins.”

That didn't sound promising. Carmen followed Bud's motion and made her way to a mound covered by a tarp. No question what made up the mound. She pulled a pair of latex gloves from her pocket and donned them; then she bent, took a corner of the tarp, and pulled it back. Women on the police force often feel the need to hold back emotions. At least Carmen did. She had developed the habit of stuffing fear and repulsion into a dark corner of her mind, saving them until she could deal with them in private. This sight, however, tested that determination.

Her first instinct was to drop the tarp.

Her second, to vomit.

She did neither. Instead, she crouched and studied the mangled flesh more closely. The sound of footsteps approaching strengthened her determination to maintain composure.

“Quite a mess.”

She answered Bud without looking at him. “Well, I see what took away your appetite.”

“It takes a lot to do that these days. Maybe I'm just getting old.” He took a deep breath.

“No doubt about that. Help me get this thing off. I need to see the big picture.”

They removed the covering. The victim lay on his back, both eyes open—but his left eye socket was crushed, leaving the eyeball staring at what had once been a nose. His jaw hung loose, broken in several places. Carmen could see several holes in the man's left check where his teeth had forced through the skin. The autopsy would give the detailed report, but Carmen could make out other injuries: right arm rested at an angle that indicated at least one break; collar bone looked busted too. The man wore a white shirt, and in several spots blood soaked through—although no holes or slices to indicate bullet or knife wounds. Both legs appeared broken.

“Tell me the guy was hit by a bus.”

“I don't think so.” Bud took another deep breath. “My guess is someone, or someones—maybe a gang—beat him to death.”

“Was anyone home to hear the beating? It had to be noisy.”

“The whole family was home. They heard nothing.”

She snapped her gaze to Bud. “How can that be? Several men beating another isn't the quietest thing. What are they, old and deaf?”

“Nope. Young family. I think the body was dumped here.”

Carmen looked back at the body. “Why would anyone beat a man to death then cart him to another location and offload the corpse? Seems risky. College Avenue is four lanes of constant activity.”

“The fence might be one reason. Once on the property, it's impossible to be seen from the street, but I think it's more than that. I think it's a hate crime.”

Carmen and Bud covered the body again. “You're going to have to explain that one to me, partner.”

“Our vic is one David Cohen.”

“Jewish? There are a lot of Jews in San Diego, Bud. Let's hear the rest of it.”

“This property is owned by Beth Shalom Synagogue. The guy who lives here is the congregation's rabbi.”

“Oh, I see what you mean. Does he know the vic?”

“I haven't told him who it is yet, so I don't know. Wanted you here first. You're good at judging reactions.”

“Okay, give me a few minutes to look around. Then we'll cut the techs loose to do their thing. We can interview the rabbi then.”

“Gotcha.”

7

R
abbi Joel Singer was younger than Carmen figured. She'd expected an old man with a gray beard and a large black hat. What she got was a man in his mid-thirties, with curly black hair, a thin, short beard, and piercing eyes. He was dressed in khaki pants and a dark, long-sleeved shirt. Nikes clad his feet. She guessed him to be close to six feet tall, maybe taller on days when there wasn't a battered body left in his front yard.

The inside of the house was clean and simple. No art on the white walls. The furniture looked less than two or three years old, the carpet was clean. A sofa with cloth, flower-print upholstery sat next to the rear wall of the living room, occupied by a lovely woman with shoulder-length brown hair and brown eyes tinted red and swollen from the flood of tears they held back. To her right sat a girl whom Carmen estimated to be six years old, and snuggled under the woman's left arm sat a dark-haired boy who would no doubt break many hearts when he got older.

She chastised herself for the last thought. The kid looked frightened out of his mind.

Had the parents told the children about the body, or were they just picking up the fear from mom and dad? Police cars on the street and strangers milling around the house would certainly have started a stream of questions, the kind only young children could ask. Carmen smiled at the children.

Bud Tock took the lead. “Rabbi, this is my partner Detective Carmen Rainmondi. We need to have a word with you and your wife, if we may.”

The children inched closer to their mother.

“I don't think my children should be left alone at the moment, and I don't want them to hear what we have to talk about. This has been very frightening for them—for us.”

“Yes, sir, but—”

Carmen cut Bud off. “We can chat with them individually.” She stepped to the children and crouched in front of them. “Hi. I'm Detective Carmen.” She looked at the little girl first. “What's your name, darling?”

The child looked at her mother. Mom nodded.

“Neria. It means ‘Light of the Lord.'”

“That's beautiful. Neria. I like that.” Carmen faced the boy. “How about you, champ? What's your name?”

Like his sister, he looked to his mother for permission and got the same nod. “Aviel.”

“Aviel. It's a strong name.”

The boy smiled. “It means ‘The Lord is my father.'”

“Nice. Listen kids, I need to talk to your dad here for a little bit. You know, grown-up talk. Do you mind waiting in another room? Your mother can go with you.”

The woman rose. “Come, children.”

Carmen pushed to her feet and wondered when getting up from a kneeling position required a grunt. “May I have your name, ma'am?”

“Naomi. Naomi Singer.” She didn't bother to say what the name meant. Instead, she led the children down a hall.

Carmen moved to Rabbi Singer. He motioned to the dining room. Like the living room, the space faced the front yard. Also like the living room, the window shades had been drawn. Carmen couldn't blame him. They sat around a simple wood table stained by craftsmen to look like walnut. They sat. “I can make some coffee if you like.”

“No, thank you, sir.” Bud took the lead, as Carmen had expected. Her job was to listen and watch. “How did you come to find the body, Rabbi?”

“It's in my front yard; how could I not find it?”

Bud smiled. He wielded a smile that could calm an angry, starving bear.

Singer lowered his head for a moment. “Sorry. I'm a little shaken.”

“I imagine you are, Rabbi. I've been in this business longer than I care to admit, and this has put me a little off my game. Start from the beginning.”

“I rose early. I usually do. It's quieter then, if you know what I mean.”

“I know, Rabbi. I've got kids at home. Boy and a girl. Eight and four. They can make more noise than a room full of monkeys.”

Singer smiled at the image. “Anyway. I'm the rabbi at Beth Shalom. I guess I already told you that.”

“No problem, sir. My partner hasn't heard any of this. You said earlier you were going to the synagogue. Why?”

“I wanted to pick up a couple of books. It's Pesach and I wanted a few things for my sermon.”

“Pesach?” Bud tilted his head.

“Passover.” Singer rested his hands on the table. “It's one of the high holidays. An eight-day celebration of the deliverance of the children of Israel from Egypt. The first two and last two days of the Pesach are . . .” He seemed to search for a term that his Gentile visitors would understand. “. . . non-work days. Only work that has to do with health and welfare can be done. Well, that and worship. The days in between allow for more kinds of work. Today is one of those days.”

“And you were going to walk?” Bud put his hands on the table, mirroring the rabbi.

“Yes, sir. I almost always walk. It isn't far. Just a few blocks.”

“Go on.”

Carmen took notes in a small pad. It was old school, but still the easiest way to record comments and observations.

“It was about six. My wife and children were still in bed. I went out the front door and locked it behind me. I was, maybe, three steps from the front stoop when I saw . . .” He directed his gaze to the table. “When I saw the body. It was . . .” His face went white, and for a moment Carmen thought the rabbi would take a header onto the wood flooring of the dining room.

“Take your time, Rabbi.” Bud leaned back, and as was often the case in interviews, the subject leaned back too. “I know it had to be quite a shock.”

“Shock? The word doesn't begin to cover it. I almost fainted. I don't think I've ever fainted, but that—that just about did the job.”

“Then what did you do? Did you go to the body?”

He shook his head. “Should I have done that? I mean, he looked dead to me. Really dead. I've seen lots of dead bodies, but nothing like that.”

“Wait a minute.” Bud held up a hand. “You've seen a lot of dead bodies? You were in the military?”

“No, I meant—” Singer inhaled deeply, slowly. “It is Jewish custom that family or someone from the synagogue sit with a body until it is buried. It is a sign of respect. I am a rabbi, the son of a rabbi who was the son of a rabbi. I have sat with many corpses.”

“I see,” Bud said. Carmen wasn't sure she did. Bud pressed on. “You told me earlier that neither you nor your wife heard anything during the night?”

“Nothing, Detective.”

“What time did you go to bed?”

Singer thought for a moment. “The children were in bed by 8:30. We retire early. Usually by ten.”

“That was true for last night?”

“Yes. I read for about half an hour after that, then went to sleep. I heard nothing. I asked the children if they heard anything last night. They said no. Was he killed in our yard?”

Bud shrugged. “Too early to say, Rabbi. The forensic team is just getting started. Still, I doubt it. He was beaten so badly that you would have heard the struggle, unless you had the television turned up.”

Singer blanched. “We didn't watch television last night. We don't watch it much. News mostly. Never developed the addiction.”