They Never Die Quietly (2010) (9 page)

And now, Simon's body and soul belonged to his beloved mother.

When she finished with him, she whispered in his ear. "Happy birthday, sweet boy." She kissed his cheek, hopped off the bed, put on her robe, and left the room without saying another word. Simon knew for certain that this was just the beginning of his journey into manhood.

Simon clenched his fists and pounded his mother's picture lying on the table. Rage welled in his gut. Repeatedly, he punched the photograph until his knuckles were swollen and bloody. How he wished his long-dead mother could feel the pain. He had always been a righteous man, had never been vengeful or vindictive. His lifelong goal was to carry out God's will, to purify the sinners of the world. Revenge was not in God's plan, yet the Bible, the written word of God, proclaimed that an eye for an eye was just. Hadn't his mother quoted this exact proverb to him when he'd cut off April's ear? How, then, would his mother atone for her sins? How could Simon cleanse her soul?

As if a suffocating weight were lifted from his chest, his soul purged of its suffering, Simon felt as if he could breathe again. What had happened in the past was God's will, and who was Simon to question his Creator's plan? After all, it was not uncommon for God to test his children. His mother would indeed be punished and he would participate in her cleansing. To dwell on the events of the past, to be riddled with regrets and everlasting analysis, would only serve to sabotage Simon's appointment as a divine messenger. Continuing with godly duties was the only thing that mattered.

Simon stood tall and took a deep breath. His commitment to carry out God's wishes was now fortified with a renewed resolve.

More than an hour had passed since Simon had struggled with the memories of his twelfth birthday. Although he still felt unsettled, his emotions had calmed down. He sat at the kitchen table and glanced at the unread
San Diego Chronicle
. Under the front-page headline was a story about the serial killer. He read it with great interest. The writer said that an undisclosed source claimed that the homicide department was close to an arrest. Nothing more than PR hype, he thought, a ploy to ease the public outcry. The article, of course, did not name the detectives, but Simon was reasonably sure that Sami Rizzo was one of the detectives assigned to the case. Her performance as a homicide detective was public record. No one in the department had a better history of arrests. Who else would they assign to such a high-profile case?

When he'd met her Thanksgiving Day, his interest in her had been merely that of a competent physical therapist and a servant of God. His offer to treat her back was motivated by a genuine desire to unselfishly help a sister in need. After all, weren't all of God's children brothers and sisters? Although he sensed that she was quite smitten by him, as were many women he encountered, he had never shared any of their romantic aspirations. Let the sinners play their foolish games. Detective Rizzo was a homicide detective.
The
homicide detective investigating the deaths of the women he had cleansed. He could no longer consider her a sister in need. She posed a serious threat to Simon's mission. He wasn't yet sure how things would progress, but he would not allow Detective Rizzo to foil God's plan.

"Mr. McDonald," Sami said, "is this a convenient time for you to talk, or should I call back?" Considering that his wife had recently been butchered and his daughter was missing an ear, Sami guessed that the last thing he wanted was to talk to a cop.

Silence.

"Mr. McDonald?"

"What do you want?"

Sami sat and rested her elbows on her desk. "Would it be possible for us to speak with April sometime this afternoon?"

"She just got out of the hospital, detective."

"I'm sorry, Mr. McDonald, but this is really important."

"Hasn't she been through enough?"

Indeed she has, Sami thought. "If there's any chance for us to apprehend the man who--"

"I'm not going to subject my daughter to an interrogation."

"I give you my word, she will be interviewed under the guidance of a certified child psychologist."

"And that's supposed to ease my mind?"

"Mr. McDonald, I know how difficult this is, but--"

"Tell me, detective, how do you presume to know what I'm feeling?"

"I can only imagine--"

"What can you imagine?" He paused for just a breath. "Do you have any children, detective?"

The question caught her by surprise. "I have...a two-year-old daughter."

"What's her name?"

"Angelina."

His voice softened. "Do you love her?"

At first Sami thought his question was rhetorical, then realized he expected an answer. "With all my heart."

"How would you feel if some maniac chopped off one of her ears, if for the rest of her life she were disfigured?"

Sami'd been plagued by such a scenario many times. "It's inconceivable for me to imagine the horror I'd feel."

"Let me tell you what it's like, detective. Firsthand. My life is pretty much over. No, I'm not going to eat a bullet or OD on amphetamines. I'm grief stricken, but not insane. No one--no matter how strong--bounces back from something like this. If Peggy had been killed in a car accident, or a plane crash, or even if she'd died of cancer, I could deal with that, digest it as the luck of the draw. I'm a fatalist, detective. I know that our lives are hanging by a thread. If she had died a normal death, I would eventually heal and start over again." His voice was shaky and he kept sniffing. "That fucking monster crucified my wife, hung her on a cross, and tortured her. How do you recover from something like that?" He paused for a minute and sighed into the receiver. "I have a thriving law practice. I'm physically fit, and for the most part I've got the world at my fingertips. None of it means anything anymore. Every time I look at my daughter I'm going to be reminded. When I close my eyes I can see that bastard pounding nails through her wrists. I can see him raping her." Now he was sobbing. "Detective, when the medical examiner performed the autopsy...did he discover that Peggy was...pregnant?"

"We were aware of that, Mr. McDonald," she almost whispered. "I'm so, so sorry for your loss." She paused to regain her composure. "Please help us catch this guy. April might have seen something that will give us a lead. You don't want him to kill again, do you?"

"What I want, Detective Rizzo, is to watch him roast in the electric chair."

"Then help us."

Again silence. "With all that's going on right now"--his voice was unsteady--"funeral arrangements and"--there was a long pause. "I need some time."

Sami wanted to push him but sensed it would be wiser to back off. "You have my number, Mr. McDonald. Call me anytime, day or night."

Sami thought about canceling her dinner plans with Simon several times throughout the day. After all, if she had any hope of solving the case, she had no business going out on a date. On the other hand, as Simon so convincingly pointed out, she had to eat anyway. Maybe she'd meet him for a quick dinner and end the evening early. As a homicide detective, working nine to five didn't solve cases. Besides, in the event of a sudden development, she could be reached on her cell phone or pager.

Sami couldn't decide what to wear. The look she searched for was casual elegance, a term she'd first heard while watching a documentary on E! As of yet, she still hadn't quite figured out what it meant. Supposedly it was a California thing. In choosing the right outfit, Sami had three goals: to appear fashionable, to camouflage her generous figure, and to look sexy without feeling slutty. A formidable challenge considering that her closets and dressers were full of clothes that would no doubt be rejected by the Salvation Army.

She rarely shopped for clothes and hated the thought of it. With the exception of the tailored business suits she purchased for work, most of her outfits were an accumulation of inappropriate birthday and Christmas gifts, presents from her mother that Sami truly should have returned, or at least donated to a charity for the visually impaired. Sami appreciated her mother's rare attempts to please her, but unfortunately, her mother's flair for fashion was as lackluster as her zest for life. For years Sami'd pleaded with her mother, begged her not to buy gifts. But year after year the avalanche continued. Her closets were full of oversize blouses, thick woolen sweaters designed to keep Eskimos warm, and an assortment of slacks and skirts in archaic styles, most of which were far too dull for Sami's taste. To further punctuate her bland wardrobe, on every occasion worthy of a gift, Tommy DiSalvo had given her, without fail, the world's most complete collection of tawdry jewelry. Much of the jewelry was so hideous Sami wouldn't wear it to a Halloween party.

On this first, perhaps most important date, Sami wanted to impress Simon, maybe even entice him just a little, but she didn't want to give him the wrong idea. Sami had already paraded around the living room with five outfits at which her mother seemed unenthused. She didn't really want to rely on the fashion sense of a fifty-six-year-old widow who'd been wearing the same sauce-stained apron and faded blue duster for more than a decade, but she had no choice. Much of what Sami had modeled were outfits her mother had purchased, which made Josephine's disfavor outrageously ironic. Maybe, in some perverted way, Sami's mother had purposely bought her gaudy clothes?

Angelina--bless her dear heart--tried to offer support. Each time Sami did her runway strut around the coffee table, Angelina had said, "You look
sooo
pretty, Mommy." She loved Angelina's unwavering allegiance, but knew she'd get her daughter's endorsement even if she paraded around in her sweats.

It had been more than a year since Sami's last romantic misadventure. After being heckled by her partner, Al, who incessantly warned that she desperately needed to get laid before "the love canal closed for good," she foolishly placed a personal ad in the
San Diego Press
, a trendy periodical jammed with singles ads. She'd placed it more to amuse Al than to feed some quixotic desire. She'd written what she thought was a clever ad. The headline read:
Are You My Romeo?
The body of the ad was poetically composed with a Shakespearean wit.

Of the thirteen men responding to Sami's woman-seeking-man ad, she'd eliminated nine of them via telephone conversations. Evidently, many of the eligible bachelors in Southern California needed a course in remedial reading. They responded to her ad with little consideration for what Sami was seeking in a mate, hoping, apparently, to charm her into compromising her standards. Two men admitted that they were married, and without the slightest hesitation proclaimed that they were looking for "something on the side." Neither had difficulty expressing exactly what they were seeking. Sami, amused by their outlandish proposal suggested that they visit Las Vegas, where prostitutes were abundant.

One elderly gentleman, soft-spoken and very polite, wanted to be Sami's sugar daddy. She'd never consider such a venal arrangement, of course, but when he announced that he was worth more than a hundred million dollars, Sami hesitated for just a minute before hanging up the telephone. Three men were struggling through gut-wrenching divorces, and Sami sensed each needed a therapist more than a soul mate. One of the men she met for coffee, who on the telephone spoke with the same charisma as a Kennedy, completely misrepresented himself. The supposedly tall, fit, attractive thirty-five-year-old attorney was in actuality a squatty, nearly bald, forty-five-ish librarian. Not that Sami was superficial. But she certainly wanted a partner who visually stimulated her, and she wasn't yet desperate enough to sleep with Mr. Magoo. Or a bold-faced liar.

To make it to Romano's Cafe on time--allowing for the usually insane Friday evening freeway traffic--Sami had to leave her home in fifteen minutes.

Decision time.

As promised, Simon had called at precisely seven p.m. to confirm their dinner plans.

Wearing only pink panties and a matching bra, Sami stood in front of the full-length mirror mounted on the closet door and proceeded to torture herself. She turned from side to side, critically appraising her figure, wishing that the halogen lamp in the corner wasn't so bright. Her untanned skin looked pasty white.

How could she have lived in San Diego all her life, a community heralded to be the fittest city in the country, a virtual utopia of sun-rich landscape, and look like she should be milking cows in some Midwestern hick town? She folded her arms across her chest in disgust and shifted her eyes to the more immediate problem: what to wear.

The black skirt, simple yet never out of style, slenderized her figure, and the slit in front was just naughty enough to expose a tasteful portion of her still-shapely legs. Okay, she thought, we're making some headway. She loved the feel of her powder-blue silk blouse against her skin. With the top two buttons left open, Simon might get a peek at her Wonderbra cleavage, but not an eyeful. Now for the roadblock. Sami wished she could wear sheer, nude-colored panty hose, but two varicose veins--gifts from Angelina's nine-month visit inside her womb--forced Sami to choose black, concealing hose, which defeated the whole purpose of the slit up the front of the skirt.

Go with it, girl, it's the best you've got
.

After brushing her hair, Sami grabbed the almost-full bottle of Obsession perfume and dotted a few strategic locations on her body: both sides of her neck, just below her ears, in the bend of her elbows, and right above her cleavage. She finished her ensemble with a pearl choker and matching earrings. When she walked into the living room, she expected her mother to give her a disapproving scowl.

"You look very nice, Sami," her mother said. "This young man must be someone special."

Dumbfounded, Sami said, "We'll soon find out."

Angelina dragged her blanket across the room, struggling not to trip as she walked awkwardly toward her mother. "Mommy, you look
sooo
beautiful!"

"Thank you, sweetheart."

"Is Grandma Josephine gonna watch me tonight?"

"That okay, honey?"

"Um-hum. Will you read me a story before you go?"

"I'm sorry, baby, but I've got to leave in a couple of minutes. If you're a good girl"--Sami glanced at her mother--"maybe Grandma will read you a story."

"How about if we watch
Happy Feet
?" Josephine Rizzo said. "Would you like that, Angelina?"

She nodded her head vigorously.

Sami guessed that her mother had watched that movie at least fifty times with Angelina.

"What time is your gentleman friend picking you up?" Josephine asked.

"I'm meeting him at the restaurant, Ma."

Josephine fiddled with her apron. "Oh, a real gentleman, huh?"

"It's easier that way," Sami said.

"Easier for him."

Did she always have to meddle in her affairs? "Dating isn't what it used to be."

"I guess not."

Sami looked at the octagonal clock above the television. "I've really got to go."

"You're gonna make him think you're some kind of cheap date."

Sami kissed Angelina on the forehead. "Maybe I am, Ma."

Quite to Sami's pleasant surprise, the freeways were running smoothly. No ten-car pileups or reduced-lane construction areas. Occasionally she encountered some nitwit so busy chatting on his cell phone that driving safely seemed to be an afterthought, but overall, traffic cruised along without incident. When Sami exited Freeway 5 at Grand Avenue, about twenty blocks from Romano's Cafe, her cellular rang.

She pawed through her purse, finding it just as she screeched to a stop for a red light at Grand Avenue. Ironic, she thought, that a detective would ignore the hands-free cell-phone law. She'd been meaning to buy a Bluetooth headset but hadn't gotten around to it. "Detective Rizzo."

"It's me, Sami." Al's voice was edged with tension. "Where are you?"

"Didn't take you long to forget about my dinner date."

"Sorry, partner, but you have to cancel."

"Unless you've got our favorite perp cuffed and ready to confess, you haven't a prayer."

"Sami...this is serious."

She couldn't remember the last time Al sounded so businesslike. "What the hell's going on?"

"Not over the telephone."

"Tell me."

"Get to the precinct as quickly as you can."

She wanted to argue, but the urgency in his voice begged for her to cooperate. "Give me twenty minutes."

"Drive carefully, partner."

Squealing a tire, Sami made an illegal U-turn and raced toward southbound 5. Other drivers, unaware that she was a cop, honked their horns. One woman waved an angry fist and gestured with her middle finger. Sami's thoughts inundated her. Maybe the killer had kidnapped another victim, perhaps even murdered her? But this didn't make sense. In the past, victims didn't end up in the morgue until at least three days after their abduction. The killer followed a pattern. Then Sami remembered Peggy McDonald's autopsy. Unlike the first three victims, Peggy had a bruise on her face, her heart had not been removed, and she'd been violently raped. The murderer's methods were changing, which could mean the time line of the murders might change. She remembered what Sally Whitman, the FBI profiler, had said: "...when a murderer is driven by some perverse religious belief, his cruelty has no limits..."