Wounds (39 page)

Heywood went on. “It took a few hours to get everything in place, so let me just hit the highlights. Dr. Poe made a few conjectures about who the perp wanted to crucify.” Heywood explained about the comparisons to Jesus and His passion. “Admittedly, we took a few leaps of faith, but it was all we had.” He then explained why there were high school yearbooks on the table. “The doc can explain it better than I can.”

“I want to hear it from you,” Carmen snapped.

Ellis was about to affirm what a good idea that was when Captain Simmons spoke up again.

“And I want you to hear it from Poe.” Simmons's rank and tone trumped Carmen's. She frowned but said nothing.

Ellis had to clear his throat twice before his vocal cords would work. “Daniel Templeton went to Clairemont High. For years I've wondered if I knew the person who . . . attacked . . . who killed Shelly. I never came up with anything, but I've been pretty sure he was about my age. Officer Heywood sent people out to retrieve yearbooks from local schools. They cover the years Shelly was in school.”

Heywood nodded. “We established Templeton's school by calling the records department of all the high schools in the city.” Heywood motioned for Ellis to continue on.

He did so. “Officer Heywood learned that Templeton had gone to Clairemont, so I started there. I went through the yearbooks and came up empty, but like all yearbooks there were a number of people whose names are listed but for some reason never had their photo taken. We discovered that was true for someone named Mitchell Finch. We found him listed in a group photo, one of the wrestling team. Officer Heywood made some calls.”

“And I learned that Finch never graduated. He was expelled for attacking a gym teacher. That would have been his senior year. It also happened about two weeks after your sister's murder. Didn't do any real harm to the teacher. Just a shove, but it got him booted. He disappeared then. We can't find any record of him. We got his Social Security number, but that's it. He's never paid taxes, and, as far as we can tell, never held a job. A legitimate job, that is.”

Carmen's gaze bored into Ellis's eyes. “Is he the man who killed my sister?”

“I can't be sure until I see him in the flesh, but I am as sure as I can be based on surveillance video.”

Carmen began to pace. “We got an image. We've got a connection. What about a motive?”

“All we know is that Templeton and Finch went to the same high school at the same time. They don't seem to be the kind to kick it together. Templeton was an A-student, Finch not so much.”

“Wood shops.”

Ellis frowned. Wood shops? What did Carmen mean by that?

Heywood gazed at her. “I didn't ask about shop classes—”

“Not shop classes.” Carmen stopped pacing and explained what she learned at the ME's. “Let's get on that. Let's assume Shuffler is right and that the wood comes from a wood shop of some kind. A cabinet maker's shop.”

“It would have to be inactive,” Bud said. “I doubt he'd torture and kill people in a place of business.”

“I've been thinking the same thing.” Carmen crossed her arms. “It would need to be set apart from other businesses.”

“Some of these places set up in concrete tilt-up buildings, but that would mean other businesses would be around and people would be coming and going.” Hector thought for a moment. “It would need to be a place out of earshot of others, so something outside the metroplex.”

The ideas began to flow, but Ellis had nothing more to add. He sat in silence and watched the teamwork. But at the back of his mind, something ate at him. Something he didn't want to consider but hadn't been able to escape.

What horrors were those three women and Templeton enduring?

“You sure you don't want me to drive you back to Escondido?” Carmen's words were ice-cube hard. “That's where I picked you up.”

Ellis turned to her. Darkness had settled, and only the street lamps lining the bridge and the glow of the dashboard instruments provided illumination. The darkness matched both their moods. “Thanks, but that's an hour of driving for you. I can stay on my boat tonight and catch a cab back to the seminary tomorrow.”

One of the harbor cruise boats plied the waters two hundred feet below. It must be nice to have a night out with friends. As they drove, he caught sight of one of the signs attached to the bridge listing the phone number of the suicide hotline. This bridge ranked number three in the country for suicides. Ellis had never been suicidal. It wasn't part of his faith. Still, there were many times when he would have accepted an early death as his due.

Tonight was one of those times.

“I want to be clear on something, Dr. Poe.”

He liked it better when she called him Professor or Doc. She used the formal title like a club.

“I hate you. Yes, hate. True, deep, hot hate. I will never forgive you.”

“I don't expect forgiveness, Detective. I don't forgive myself; why should you?”

“I say this because you have proved to be useful. You may have helped us crack the case—not that it's anywhere near over. There are going to be those that think I should thank you for your insights and for not bringing charges against me for abuse of power and aggravated assault. My captain could have buried me in an I.A. investigation—”

“I.A.?”

“Internal Affairs.”

“Of course.”

“I just want you to understand that though I deserve to be brought up on charges, I still hate your guts.”

“I know you do, Detective. I wish I could rewrite the past . . .” The heavy cloak of depression lifted for a moment to give room for something new: anger. “And just to be clear, I accept your hatred, but don't think for a moment I haven't been paying for my cowardice. I pay for it daily. For almost three decades I've lived with the memory of that night. You've seen my life. I live in a small condo and on a tiny boat. I hide in my office. I haven't been out of the city as an adult. I go nowhere. I do nothing. I have no family, no wife, and no self-respect.”

“I dream about my sister—”

“And so do I. Once, I spent my days trying to work up enough courage to ask her out.”

Carmen snapped her head around.

“That's right, Detective. I was enamored with your sister, but I was a realist. I wasn't her type. I was a gangly, geeky, high-school senior who enjoyed books more than people.”

“You never asked her out?”

“Of course not. She was way out of my league.”

Silence flooded the car. “I had just become a Christian before she was killed. I knew so little and wanted to know so much. I was a blade of grass in a tornado.” Tears rose. “I still am. I know more, and my faith is the most important thing in my life, but that one night and my inaction have kept me from becoming more than what little I am.”

“You expect me to feel sorry for you?”

“No. Hate me. It's your right.”

They reached Coronado, and Carmen followed the familiar path to the park near the small mooring area where the
Blushing Bride
bobbed in dark waters. The park was empty except for a hunched, homeless man walking along the sidewalk marking the edges of the park and lot. Ellis watched him, one of the many homeless who lived on the streets of San Diego. He moved with his head down, his back bent, and walked with a limp. One arm dangled at his side.

Carmen parked across several stalls of the empty lot as if planning a quick getaway. Ellis hoped he could get both feet on the ground before she peeled out. He turned to her but couldn't think of what to say . . .

I'm sorry.
Already said, repeatedly.

Have a nice night.
Ridiculous.

He decided to slink away like a dog, his tail between his legs. He opened the door, then turned back for a moment. “Be careful, Detective.”

“Hey, buddy.”

Ellis turned to see the homeless man. Something didn't fit. His eyes were clear and his face freshly shaven. He didn't look like the other homeless people who traveled through the park—

Something hit Ellis on the side of the head. His ears rang, pain shot through his neck, and his vision blurred. Before he could react, he felt another impact in his belly doubling him over.

“Hey!” Carmen's voice rang out. “Police! Step back!”

Through diminished senses he caught a glimpse of Carmen exiting the vehicle and reaching to her side. Her weapon? He felt his feet leave the ground, and before his addled brain could make sense of what was happening he found himself facing Carmen as she drew her weapon.

The attacker was using him as a shield.

She hesitated.

The attacker didn't.

A gun appeared in the hand Ellis had assumed was paralyzed. Something flew from the gun and struck Carmen in the throat. Not a bullet. There were wires. Carmen convulsed. Stopped and convulsed again as the attacker pulled the trigger a second time. He chuckled and pulled the trigger again.

Carmen collapsed.

In a motion as powerful as it was swift, Ellis's face hit the right, front quarter-panel of the Crown Vic.

The dark night went black.

40

C
armen opened her eyes and saw concrete, dirt, and dust. She coughed and blinked away the blurriness and tried to make sense of her surroundings. The engine of her mind was running, but she couldn't put it in gear.

She heard sniffling.

She heard moaning.

Two voices.

Her neck hurt, and a pungent, medicinal odor filled her nostrils. Although she lay on her side, unmoving, the room seemed to spin. Years ago, she suffered from a weeklong bout of vertigo caused by an inner-ear infection. It kept her bound to bed or the sofa, and she thought it would never end.

This was worse.

Jigsaw pieces of memory circulated in her mind, seeking their matches. Where had she been? At the station. No. She had left there. Not alone. Someone was with her. A face flashed on consciousness.
That weasel, Poe. He was with me.
Anger rose in her, then dissolved into concern.

Poe. Where was he? Did he do this? No. Something happened. Another man. A big man, homeless . . . She drifted off for a moment then brought herself back. She tried to bite her lip, hoping the pain would keep her from succumbing to the anesthetic. Wait . . .
what
anesthetic?

A puzzle piece landed face up. She dropped Poe off in Coronado.

Another piece. She had just bent his ear about how much she hated him. He took it on the chin without complaint. A bit of remorse had stabbed her then and poked her again.

A third piece: the homeless man . . . the assault on Poe . . . the electrodes striking her throat. The fire in her skin. The muscle seizure. The hard asphalt of the parking lot. The electricity stopped, and something covered her mouth.

No more memories after that.

She reached for her throat, but her arms wouldn't work. Wrong again. They worked, but they were bound.

The blanket of fog began to lift, letting in the pain.

A heavy thud sounded behind her followed by a groan. A hand seized her arm and pulled her into a sitting position. Carmen looked up and into the face of the man she had seen on the surveillance footage.

His smile chilled her.

He stepped to her side and pulled another form to a sitting position. Carmen turned her head—surprised by the pain the motion brought—and saw Ellis Poe, a large mound of flesh swelling on the left side of his face.

“Wakey, wakey, buddy. Time for a little chat.” The man's voice seemed an octave too high for his size.

Poe didn't respond. Their captor slapped the professor's face—right on the jaw injury. Poe's eyes shot opened, and he moaned through the duct-tape gag.

“Ah, there we go.” The man turned his attention to Carmen, then reached for her face. She pulled back. “Relax, woman, I'm just removing the tape. I'm not going to hurt you. Well, not yet.” He ripped the tape from her mouth, and it felt as if several layers of skin and half of her upper lip went with it. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of screaming.

She watched as the man took a handful of Poe's hair and lifted his head, seized the tape across his mouth and yanked. Poe had no problem indicating his pain.

Their captor pulled a rustic, rail-back chair over and positioned it a few feet in front of them. To Carmen's surprise, Poe was the first to speak.

“Mitchell Finch, I presume.”

Finch cocked his head. “Have we met?”

“A long time ago.”

Finch leaned back, crossed his legs and rubbed his chin. “We have a pretty good memory.” He stopped abruptly and turned his head as if trying to eavesdrop on a whispered conversation. “Of course. Of course.” He clapped his hands. “This is so cool. We
have
met. You're the scrawny kid who tried to interrupt my work. You shouldn't have done that. We're very particular about our work. Still, it was a brave thing to do. Stupid, but brave. You have our admiration.”