Wounds (33 page)

“Somehow I don't believe you.”

“Your lack of trust wounds me. I may never be the same.” She reached for the phone.

“Yeah, I can see how I've crushed your spirit.”

Carmen checked her messages and was surprised to find one from Ellis Poe. She listened, jotted down a few items, then hung up.

“That was Poe. Says he wants to talk with me.” Carmen looked at the times on the paper.

“What about?”

“About the case, that's all he said. He gave me a list of times he is unavailable. I guess classes have started again at the school. He's got a couple of classes this morning and a faculty meeting.”

“You gonna call him in?”

“Nah, I think I'll go out there.”

“I'll go with you.”

“No need. The poor guy will just throw up on your shoes.”

Carmen pulled the Crown Vic into one of the parking slots in the lot closest to the main building. It seemed months since she was here to attend the Lindsey funeral, and even longer since she and Bud first met Poe, when they arrived to ask about Lindsey. Despite her commitment to be cold and prickly to everyone, she was developing a warm spot for the sensitive professor. He was bright, insightful, and cooperative. Not courageous in the least, but at least he had convictions, and men with convictions tended to be worth a little more patience.

Usually.

She locked the car, walked to the admin building, and asked where Poe's class was. An older woman had replaced the young front-desk clerk she met when this whole mess began. The sight of Carmen's badge didn't faze her. She was of an age where she could claim she'd seen everything. Besides, the murder of one of the students was still recent enough to be fresh on everyone's mind. No doubt it was still the topic of the day.

The campus was quiet, but Carmen could see students sitting in classes, professors in front lecturing or writing on a whiteboard or using a computer and projection system. Seeing young minds at work made her recall her love for school and her dreams of being a doctor. She missed those years—and the ones she never got to live.

Placards mounted to the wall next to the doors identified classrooms by number. She looked for 227 and found it easily. A peek in the window showed a full room. Ellis Poe's voice drifted through a slightly open window. She caught a glimpse of him. He wore a suit. The other profs she saw were dressed in casual clothes. This was Southern California, after all.

Poe paced the front of the room, head down, hands behind his back. He was asking question after question, driving his students to think broader and dig deeper. Carmen was familiar with the Socratic method: teach by asking questions and forcing the students to think and counter each other.

She looked at her watch. According to the schedule Ellis had left in his message, she had about a five-minute wait. She used the time to do something therapeutic—stand in the sun and feel the hilltop breeze on her face. The air was still cool but, typical of the inland city of Escondido, was edging up to warm. The sound of birds floated on the air; the smell of nearby eucalyptus trees filled her nostrils.

The weariness she had been fending off settled over her. The urge to get in the Crown Vic and chart a course north until the tank was empty was almost irresistible. The problem with running away was worries traveled along. How unfair. A woman should be able to leave a place of pain and move to a place of pleasure.

Life was unfair.

The sound of soles on concrete made her turn. Ellis had let his class out. She watched the stream of students, mostly male, pour through the door. Their ages surprised her. Most seemed to be in their thirties, some in their twenties, and at least four students looked old enough to be grandparents.

A few caught sight of her and smiled. Most moved with their heads down as if in deep thought. When the door closed, Carmen approached and entered the class. Poe stood behind a wooden lectern, his head down, his hand moving across some papers. “You must be rough on the students. Some of them looked old enough to be my father.”

Ellis Poe looked up and smiled. “A couple of them are. Some people start seminary after they finish their careers. Some come straight from college.”

“So you weren't tough on them.” She walked to the front of the classroom.

“I didn't say that. I wasn't expecting you.”

Carmen cocked her head.

“I mean, I was expecting you to call first.”

“Sorry, it's an old detective trick. Show up unannounced.”

He blinked several times as if he didn't understand the dynamics of a surprise visit. “I've been thinking about the case you're working on. Couldn't sleep last night.”

“That's going around.”

“I suppose so. Anyway, I told you and the others that the next victim might parallel the scourging and ridicule of Christ.”

Carmen hiked an eyebrow. “Ridicule?”

“The crown of thorns. The Romans crucified Jesus for claiming to be a king. Under Roman rule, only Caesar could be called king. Jesus rode into Jerusalem to much fanfare, like a king. The religious leaders told Pontius Pilate and others that Jesus had been claiming He was King of the Jews. Pilate insisted that the phrase be hung over Jesus' head while he was on the cross.”

“So Pilate agreed Jesus was a king?”

“Hardly. He did it to annoy the Jewish leaders. They didn't get along. The crown of thorns was likely made from the acanthus plant and shoved on Jesus' head to mock his self-proclaimed kingship.”

“Sounds painful.”

Ellis agreed. “More than most people know. Anyway, Roman generals and leaders sometimes received a civic crown made from oak leaves. They called it the Corona Civica.”

“A laurel wreath?”

“Yes. That began with the Greeks and, of course, was made of bay laurel.”

“Is this going anywhere, Professor?”

“Sorry. We academics like to talk about things no one else is interested in.” He took a breath. “I began to wonder where one could get a crown of thorns. I mean, if I'm right, then the killer will need one. I did a little research. Turns out you can buy them online and in some Christian bookstores.”

“You're kidding, right? Why would anyone buy such a horrible thing?”

“It's symbolic, Detective. Christianity is very symbolic. Some people wear crosses, which is odd since they've made an instrument of torture and execution into a bit of jewelry. Crosses and crucifixes adorn the walls of many Christians'—”

“Aren't those the same thing?”

Ellis shook his head. “Not technically. A crucifix usually shows Christ on the cross. A typical cross—the kind Protestants prefer—has no corpse. Roman Catholics prefer the crucifix because it emphasizes Christ's sacrifice. Nothing wrong with that. Evangelicals prefer an empty cross because it represents Jesus' victory over death. The word
crucifix
comes from the Latin
cruci fixus
—‘one fixed to a cross.' Some people use a crown of thorns as religious art during the week before Easter; pastors sometimes use them as instructional art. The symbology of Christianity is fascinating because . . . I'm doing it again, aren't I?”

“Yep.”

“Do you want to sit?”

“I'm fine.”

“I'm just saying that your man may have ordered something online or purchased one from a Christian bookstore. If not directly, then through a catalog.”

She gave that some thought. It was a long shot, but she could run down orders for crown of thorn replicas and get a team out interviewing employees at Christian bookstores. Long shots were all they had now. “That might be useful. Thanks.”

“No problem. I tried to narrow down where the body might be left based on the Antonia Fortress.”

“Antonia's what?”

“The Antonia Fortress was a structure built near the temple about two decades before Christ's birth. There's some debate about it, but it probably served as a military barracks. Jesus would have been scourged there.”

“By scourging, you mean whipping.”

“Yes. As I said in your office, it's a horrible thing that strips the flesh from a man's back. Because Jesus was Jewish, there was no limit to how many stripes He would receive. Some people died under the lash. The only thing that saved Jesus' life was the order that He be crucified.”

Carmen tried to imagine the cruelty, and it wasn't hard. She had seen too many battered bodies over the last two weeks. “Did you come up with anything?”

“No, nothing definitive. Based on the information mounted to your wall, we can conclude that the killer is more allegorical than literal. He's not following the Passion events to the letter, just alluding to them. I approached it from a construction point of view. The fortress was built of stone, but I don't know of any military facilities like that. I could be wrong. I only have the information I can get off the Internet. I'm hoping you can find more.”

“He's not going to get on an active-duty military base. Our guy is camera shy. He couldn't get past security, not without being seen.”

“I don't have answers for you, Detective. I'm just trying to be helpful. I could be wrong about all of this, but I'd regret not bringing it up, then learning I was right and important information could have been obtained.”

“Much appreciated, Dr. Poe. Is there anything else?”

Poe squirmed. “Not at the moment.”

“You know, we never talked about whatever it was you came to the station to chat about.”

Ellis's face paled. “I got distracted by the crime time line you created. The connection to the Passion of Christ knocked me for a loop.”

“I picked up on that. Well, I'm here now—”

The door opened and two students entered. “I have another class.” He looked away.

“It's your choice, Professor. If it's not important—”

“I'm not saying that . . .” He ceased making eye contact.

An odd thought rolled to the forefront of her mind. She lowered her voice. “You're not going to ask me out, are you? Because—”

“No. Of course not! Nothing like that.”

She feigned shock. “Are you saying I'm not worth dating?”

“No. I . . .” His pale face reddened. “I didn't mean that either.”

“Relax, Dr. Poe. I'm just giving you a bad time.”
And testing your response. What are you hiding?

“Look. We should talk. I need to talk. This class will run about an hour, then I have student appointments. After lunch, I have a short faculty meeting—”

“You gave me your schedule on the phone. I wrote it down.”

“How about four? Classes will be over by then. Do you want me to come to the station?”

“Yes, I don't want to have to drive up here again. So what . . . 4:30 or so?”

“I'll be there.” His red cheeks turned pallid.

Carmen studied him for a few moments. He looked guilty.

Very guilty.

But about what?

35

T
he day passed in a contradictory way: fast and slow. At times it seemed as if the clock had stopped; at other times it seemed the hands of the clock were racing each other. It took all his mental energy just to get through his classes, consultations, and faculty meeting. His mind was a Ping-Pong ball in a tornado.

His body had turned against him as well. His stomach cramped, released, then cramped again. The muscles in his chest constricted as if his suit coat were shrinking around him. He felt feverish, agitated, afraid—everything he felt the other day when he first attempted to tell Carmen what she had a right to know. Would he be able to follow through this time?

The normal half-hour drive was taking longer. Traffic was already clogging the freeway arteries of the city. He couldn't decide if he should be grateful.

His mind alternated between concocting excuses why he shouldn't do this and rehearsing what he was going to say. Mired in the sluggish traffic, he wondered if he would be sleeping in his own bed tonight or as the guest of the county jail.

He tried to pray for courage, for wisdom, for direction, but his prayer life continued to be impotent. Normally prayer was his joy; now it seemed unfruitful. He had long ago lost respect for himself, but he always felt loved by God. He wasn't so certain now. The spiritually warm feelings he had after his last visit to Carmen's office had evaporated. Maybe God had lost respect for him because he once again failed to do right by poor Shelly. His theological mind argued against the supposition, but it lost the argument. Nothing can outshout the heart.

He parked and removed the keys from the ignition. They jingled in his trembling hand. “No turning back now,” he said aloud. “Time to man up. Whatever comes of this, at least you'll know you did the right thing.”

Right thing. Twenty-eight years late.

The walk from the parking lot was tough. Every five steps he fought the urge to turn around, return to his self-imposed exile, keeping the world at arm's length, hiding in books and ancient texts.