Wounds (19 page)

“He had his wallet on him. Twenty-two-year-old white male. He's been submerged for awhile, so his remains are in bad shape. Really bad shape.”

Carmen shone her light on the body. The young man looked like a character from a Zombie movie, only worse. His eyes, what was left of them, were open, revealing fogged orbs half their normal size. His lips were drawn back revealing teeth, his tongue swollen. His skin was pale, almost white. There was evidence that fish in the lake had been dining on him.

She forced down the gorge threatening to erupt from her stomach. The lead curtain closed tight.

Raising her head, she noticed two things: first, the windows were open; second, there was a hole about the size of a 9mm slug in the vic's head. “Did you lower the windows, Doc?”

“No. They were that way when I got here.”

“Bud?”

He was close enough to hear the question. “Nope. The thing went in with the windows down.”

Carmen returned her attention to the ME. “We know the car belonged to Lindsey, and he was killed about a week ago. Am I right in assuming that . . .” She motioned to the body.

Shuffler didn't need a complete sentence to understand. “His name is Bob Wilton. His license says Bob, not Robert. Yes, I'd say on preliminary examination that the body has been in the water about a week, which fits with the time of death for Doug Lindsey. Of course, it's going to be difficult to prove, but I see nothing that contradicts the assumption.”

“Not much guesswork needed for COD.” Carmen stared at the swollen bullet wound.

“I can't say officially, but you can probably bet your house on the fact that Mr. Wilton died from a gunshot wound to the head. The other side of the cranium is a mess.”

Carmen nodded. “Through and through?”

“Yes. Small hole here.” He pointed to the wound. “Big hole on the other side. He's been in the water too long for powder residue, although I might have more luck once I have him back in the office.”

Turning, Carmen walked to Bud. Heywood had joined him. Carmen addressed the newcomer first. “Okay, Heywood, what does that gigantic intellect of yours tell you?”

“About the murder?”

“No, about the softball game in the park. Of course, about the murder.” She raised a hand. “Sorry. I'm a little on edge.”

“No problem, Detective.” Heywood straightened. “What strikes me as odd is the gunshot wound to the head. It doesn't fit the other murders.”

Carmen gave a nod. “Go on.” The three strolled up the bank slowly, still careful about where they stepped.

“Well, Victim Number 1 was tortured and died of anaphylactic shock brought on by latex powder on the murderer's gloves.”

“Probably an accident,” Bud said. “Not that the man didn't intend to kill Lindsey anyway.”

Heywood continued. “Victim Number 2 died of a vicious beating. Both murders were protracted and hands on. The killer here popped the vic in the car with a shot to the head. Impersonal. Fast.”

“Why?” Carmen pursed her lips. “Why would he do that? Why change?”

“I'd just be guessing, Detective,” Heywood said.

“You'd be surprised how often a guess is right, Officer. Give me your best shot.” Carmen stopped at the top of the slope just a couple of feet from the crime scene tape.

“Victim 3 was in the way. He didn't fit whatever the actor is doing, so he just squeezed off a shot. Maybe he did so when he grabbed Lindsey.”

“I'm thinking along the same lines. Does that make sense to you, Bud?”

“Yep. Maybe Lindsey and Wilton were out together. Bad guy approaches them somewhere, drills Wilton and takes Lindsey at gunpoint.”

“But if he has Lindsey, then how does he have time to drive the Bug here and sink it, unless—”

“—the crime happened here.”

“Maybe he sedated Lindsey,” Heywood suggested.

“Doc said he found a pair of puncture marks that didn't fit the pattern of the other punctures over the kid's body.”

“The Taser thing you mentioned,” Bud said. “That's crossed my mind. So he shoots one guy in the car and uses a Taser on the other? That had to be terrifying.”

“Wait . . . wait.” Carmen's brain had dropped into fourth gear. “Doc says the exit wound is large. If Lindsey is in the driver's seat when his buddy is shot, then why didn't we find blood spatter on his clothing?”

“The bad guy redressed Lindsey after the kid died?” Heywood didn't sound convinced of his own suggestion. “That would mean that he anticipated the problem.”

“We gotta go simpler,” Carmen said. “Look for the obvious answer.”

Bud scratched his chin. “Okay, how about this? Lindsey wasn't in the car at the time. Maybe the perp takes him out with the Taser, then approaches the VW and does Wilton.”

That was a real possibility. “Makes sense. But what situation would fit that scenario?”

“Maybe Lindsey needed to use the head, and his buddy stayed in the car.” Bud thought for a second. “But that means the perp would know that Lindsey would do that and would have lain in wait. How would he know that?”

“Wait a second.” Carmen looked back at the VW. She was going to have to do what she didn't want to: return to the VW. “I'll be right back.”

She went to study the corpse again, seeing this time what the hideous condition of the body kept her from seeing before. She returned to the two who waited for her at the top of the bank. She uttered four words as if they answered everything: “He's wearing jogging clothes.”

Bud stared at her for a moment, then raised an eyebrow.

The three looked to the park.

“That would explain a lot.” Bud gave a slow nod. “A lot.”

Carmen waited for the forensics team to arrive, then supervised as they removed the hideous corpse from the small car, placed it on a gurney, covered it, and took it to the ME vehicle. She took her own photos, not because she didn't trust the crime-scene unit or Heywood, but because taking photos focused her attention on details.

She and Bud had interviewed everyone still at the park, and she sent Heywood and a few other officers to search for security cameras. There were no traffic cams in the area, but maybe some security-conscious homeowner had a camera mounted to the front of his or her house. That would be lucky.

Too bad she and luck hadn't been on speaking terms since the first body was found.

21

C
armen and Bud were the last to leave the scene. They drove to the address on Bob Wilton's driver's license—she in her car, Bud following in his. The place was dark and empty. Mail was jammed into the small box. No one had been to the house in days. Which meant Wilton lived alone. The home was located in the town of Allied Gardens, not far west of Lake Murray.

She looked around the small bungalow. Streetlights illuminated the front of the home. Its pale green paint looked newly applied. White trim accented the exterior. The small lawn—far better than what welcomed guests to Carmen's home—was neat, mowed, and looked well attended. Small plants in a dirt strip added visual interest to an otherwise plain wall.

“Keeps a neat yard.”

“A week's salary says it's a rental.” Bud stepped to Carmen's side. “Not many twenty-something-year-olds spend their time gardening.”

“It's not gardening, smart guy, just a few plants and a lawn.”

Bud stared at her for a long moment. “You forget, I've been to your house.”

“Touché.” The comment stung and she couldn't guess why. She didn't care what other people thought of her yard or home or much of anything else. “Let's knock.”

“You expect someone to answer? The only person that's been up these porch steps is the mail carrier.”

“Still, it's gotta be done. Can't have some suit asking if we knocked or not, and if not, why.”

Bud shrugged. “I guess.”

Carmen moved up the steps, her gaze shifting from the front door to the living room window, looking for movement or a shadow. It was closing in on eleven. Not a time when people came to the front door of houses. Bud moved to the window and peeked around the jamb. He shook his head, indicating he saw nothing of interest.

A wood-frame screen door opened without a squeak. She knocked firmly but without aggression. She wanted to sound like a friend, not a home invader. As expected, no one responded and she heard nothing. This time she rang the doorbell. The sound of it, a sound that reminded Carmen of her parent's home, oozed outside. Still no response.

Carmen pulled a latex glove from her pocket and used it to turn the doorknob. To her surprise, it turned. She opened the door an inch then drew her Glock 9mm. Bud had already done the same.

“Look,” he deadpanned, “the door is open. Someone might need our help.” He moved behind Carmen and pulled the screen door wider.

She removed a small flashlight from the pocket of her blazer, pointed it to the porch, and clicked it on. Then she pushed the door open and entered. “San Diego Police. Anyone here?” If she believed she was entering a charged situation, she would have kept the announcement to herself, but she and Bud were entering a private residence without a warrant and on the pretense that someone might be injured. There was no response.

The living room had an old sofa, a coffee table that might have once belonged to the Flintstones, and a small flat-screen television sitting on an old school desk.

Bud moved around her and headed to the kitchen, an open area just off a small dining room. “Clear.”

Carmen started down the hall, coming across the hall bath first. It was empty. “Clear.”

Bud had already moved down the hall and pushed into a bedroom. “Clear.”

It was Carmen's turn at the lead again. The door to the bedroom was closed. Again, she used the glove to keep her prints off the surface of the doorknob. Bud was by her side before she could twist the knob. Carmen pushed the door open and slipped in, afraid she would find someone in the bed. The bed—a mattress on the floor—was empty as was the half-bath of the master bedroom. They holstered their weapons.

“Kid lives a simple life.” Bud looked around.

“No bet—” Carmen raised her hand and cocked her head, turning her ear to the master bedroom door. She drew her weapon again. Bud didn't seem to have heard the noise, but he followed suit. Carmen tapped her ear, then pointed out the open door. They separated, each taking a different angle on the door. They kept their lights off. The pale glow of a night-light emanated from the master bath.

A pair of metal tubes slowly appeared in the doorway. No, not tubes. It took less than two blinks for Carmen to recognize the business end of a double-barrel shotgun. Bud's movements blurred as he seized the end of the weapon and shoved the barrels up toward the ceiling with one hand, then aimed the bore of his handgun at the forehead of the man wielding the shotgun.

Carmen advanced. “Drop it. Drop it now!” Her shout echoed in the near-empty room. Bud pulled the weapon away. “On the ground. Do it now. Face down.
Do
it!” She had enough light to see she was talking to a man.

The man complied. She got a sense that he was thin, even frail. She kept her weapon trained on him until Bud had set the shotgun aside and dropped a knee on the man's back. She heard the wind leave his lungs, carrying a small cry of pain with it.

“Don't hurt me. Please don't hurt me.” The voice of an older man. “Who . . . who are you?”

“San Diego PD, pal,” Bud said. “Hands behind your back.”

“No, wait. You don't understand.”

Carmen peeked around the door frame, then entered the hall, handgun leading the way. No one. She closed the front door and locked it. When she returned, she saw the gunman sitting crossed-legged on the floor, his head down. Bud was clearing the shotgun.

“Loaded?” Carmen switched on the light.

“Oh, yeah. If he had pulled the trigger, neither one of us would be as good looking as we are right now.”

“Are you guys really cops?”

“We're as real as it get.” Carmen took in the man. He looked like a guy who had sixty in his rearview mirror. Gray stubble carpeted his chin and cheeks, his eyes were wide and moist, his frame thin, like a man at the end of a long illness. He smelled of cigarettes and beer. “What's your name?”

“Schirru. Greg Schirru. I live next door. I own the place. This place, I mean.”

“You're the landlord?”

“Yes, ma'am. Look, can I stand up? I'm really uncomfortable. Arthritis in my lower spine. Sitting like this is agony.”

Carmen was getting the picture. “Sure.” She and Bud lifted the man to his feet.

“Maybe the cuffs too?” He sounded childlike.

“Let's wait on that. You were waving a shotgun at us a few moments ago.” Carmen tried to sound firm, but not mean.

“Sorry about that. I thought you were a burglar or somethin'.”

Bud grinned. “Turns out we were the somethin'.”