Blessed are the Dead (18 page)

 

Chapter 37

O
N THE WAY
back to the newsroom, I check my messages. Kellogg wants me to meet him in Evans's office immediately. What now? What else can she possibly do to me? I think they forgot about having my review. Maybe that's going to happen right now. Great.

And then I know. Because this time when I walk in, Evans asks me to close the door. I do so, then turn around. Kellogg and a security guard are sitting in front of her desk. Immediately, my stomach clenches. Kellogg has his head between his hands. He looks up at me, and his eyes are sorrowful.

This is bad. This is it.

Evans doesn't even offer me a seat. “I specifically told you that you were off the Jasmine story, and now I just found out that you were at the funeral. The ser­vice was held in the middle of the day, when you were supposed to be working. Since the Jasmine story is no longer your beat, I can only assume that you were there when you were supposed to be at work. That means you lied and were engaging in personal business during company time. That is grounds for dismissal. A security guard will escort you as you retrieve your personal belongings.”

“I still think you should rethink this move,” Kellogg finally speaks up. His voice is wavering. I look up, surprised to hear it. “And you should also rethink taking Gabriella off the police beat. I really wanted to say this before, and now I'm going to tell you what I think. She is our only connection with a serial killer. She's the only one he will speak with, and if we let her go, then we lose that advantage. Is that worth it?”

It's the first time I have ever seen Kellogg stand up to Evans. His hands are trembling, and he stands there awkwardly, waiting for her response. He's smart. He's appealing to her competitive side. The more scoops I have, the better she looks to the big corporate honchos. I hold my breath. Maybe it will work.

She dismisses his claim with a wave of her hand and a whoosh of air. “Oh please. May will be able to get him to talk just as easily. I'm not worried about that. In fact, maybe May will get him to finally confess. He hasn't really told Gabriella anything valuable yet.”

I don't know why I thought Kellogg could change her mind. She's had it in for me for months. This is personal. It doesn't matter what I say.

Kellogg stands up. “I'm so sorry, Gabriella,” he says, not taking his eyes off Evans. “Believe me, this was not my idea, and I don't support this decision one bit.”

Evans's mouth drops in surprise as Kellogg walks out of her office.

The security guard, an older man, follows me to my desk. I start to pack up my few personal belongings—­my photo of Caterina, some books, and other personal items. Then, I remember something. I wait until the guard's eyes are on the big TV, watching the game, and I unearth the folder with Caterina's clips and slip it into my bag.

Kellogg comes up and gives me a strange look before he begins chitchatting with the security guard about the Giants' game. The guard turns his back to me, and they discuss the score. Kellogg's arm hangs over my desk. An envelope and a piece of paper drop down. The letter is addressed to me and has a county-­jail return address. It's from Johnson. The other piece of paper is a fax approving my interview request with Johnson. I quickly stick both in my bag. At the door, I hand over my badge and give Kellogg a hug. It's a bit awkward, but he hugs me back. Neither of us says a word as I walk away.

I feel ill, but it's my heart that hurts the most. My body seems heavy, sluggish. My legs feel like sandbags, and it takes enormous effort to walk to my car. I haven't had a proper meal in more than a week. During the day, I exist on vending-­machine snacks—­pretzels, candy bars, and potato chips. At night, booze and smokes fill my empty stomach. All I want to do is go home and crawl in bed and sleep for a week. I don't want to think. I don't want to feel. I don't want to move.

I open Johnson's letter and read it sitting in my car. I know I'm prolonging leaving the newspaper parking lot. Driving away will make it final.

Gabriella,

I've been violently sick the past two days from some E coli virus, but feeling somewhat better. I've got some problems with your article on me. My attorney says I shouldn't talk to you or I would've gotten back to you sooner. Things have changed now.

Question: If I seek the public eye so much (as your experts claim), why did I REFUSE OVER 40 media interviews, 15 of those with TV stations?

Here comes the best part—­your EXPERTS. Talk about trying to be self-­important. FBI guy: “You don't see feeling in this guy. He's all EGO.” Did Gunnar say how I managed to keep my EGO hidden from view for 43 years? Or the 22 years since my first killing? How does he explain that?

Now, I could NOT believe this part,

“He's not super intelligent, but he is cunning and shrewd and very manipulative.”

I don't believe I've got to PROVE if I am smart. The simple fact that they have NOT caught me speaks in itself. Why do you think I should give the coppers ANYTHING to prove any other crimes?

Spending the rest of my life here could NEVER be punishment for all the things I've done. Hell, it doesn't even cover just the sex crimes.

The cops will NEVER figure it all out.

Stop the FUCKING TYPEWRITER, what is this shit? You: “like a typical psychopath, Johnson also blames his victims for what he does to them.”

Because I talk about sex with kids in other countries or how much it happens in this country, DOES NOT MEAN I BLAME
the victim.

How many times have I told you, I do the things that I LIKE DOING.

Gunnar Svenningsen is a Bozo: “Isolate this guy. He can't stand that. He'll go crazy.”

Some already think I'm crazy. Being isolated does not bother me because I LIKE MYSELF.

Buddhist meditation works wonders.

“Do you really THINK I'm blowing smoke-­up-­your-­ass? It is good to doubt and question things I say. But IF you believe me to be lying, then our time is being WASTED!

Do you think I should just hand YOU all-­the-­good-­info (confessing-­in-­detail) on a silver platter? NOT

I'm thinking about calling you Clarice, YOU know, as in Clarice STARLING. What do you think of that? You sort of remind me of her. But she was more patient. You need to be patient. I've told you this is to be A TIME-­consuming mission. It's going to take time if you want to find out about Caterina. If you don't want to invest the time, LET me know NOW! I bet another reporter might want to talk to me instead. Like that one, MAY. I don't think you like her, do you?

Does seem to me that lots of questions are going UNASKED about Jasmine? Why is that?

Like maybe, why was the HEAD separated from the rest of the body? Was the rest of the body in the same AREA as the HEAD was found? Was all the meat still on the rest of the BONES? Etc etc . . . It really is quite simple. Lots of things I've already told you, you just were NOT paying ATTENTION to what I was saying!

I did hear something 'bout a navy blue sea bag, them are quite handy and useful items. Not as handy or as useful as good ol' gray duct tape. Anyhow, I'll put an end to this rambling for now.

Jack

I crumble the pages and toss them in the backseat. My engine turns over with a growl, and I don't even bother to look behind me as I back out of my parking spot and head to North Beach. Stuck in Friday night traffic waiting to enter the Caldecott Tunnel, I call both Nicole and Lopez and tell them I got the ax. They are both outraged on my behalf, but I can tell they don't know what to say.

“I'm still going to visit Johnson as much as I can,” I tell Nicole in a rush.

There is such a long pause that I wonder if the call has been dropped. Then, she responds in a wary voice.

“Really? Do you think that's a good idea? I mean, what are you going to do with what he tells you if you can't write an article?”

“It's not just about the articles. It's about finding out what happened to Jasmine—­and Caterina. Just because I don't work for the paper anymore doesn't mean I'm giving up on this. But don't say anything. Please? It needs to be a secret. Can you do that for me?”

“Of course,” Nicole says, but she sounds worried.

Cars behind me honk, and I use it as an excuse to hang up. I didn't like the disapproving tone in her voice. So what if I still want to cover the story? I can find someone to print my articles. And really, I was telling the truth—­the most important thing is finding out what happened to Jasmine and Caterina.

I punch the accelerator as the traffic opens up inside the tunnel. I speed past cars in the Caldecott Tunnel, cutting in and out of lanes of traffic. A few angry drivers honk at me, but I give them the finger. When I emerge on the other side and see the city stretched a few miles in front of me, I decide I don't want to wait to get home to get a drink.

I take the Highway 13 Berkeley exit and head for the Claremont Hotel.

The posh old hotel has fantastic panoramic views of San Francisco and always makes me feel rich for the day. Tonight, I order my Absolut and sink into a leopard-­print lounge chair near the grand piano and a planted palm tree. Then I order another drink. And another. I'm flirting with every guy in the place by the time the bartender cuts me off.

“Why don't you give me your keys, miss?”

“Oh, I'm not driving, silly,” I say, smiling. “I just live over on Ashby Avenue. We're practically neighbors. I know I can't drive like this!”

“I'll call you a cab,” he says. “I don't think you should walk home, either.”

“Great,” I say with a bright smile. “Thanks. I'll go use the ladies' room first.”

Instead of taking the stairs to the bathroom, I stumble out to my car. I have trouble getting the key into the ignition, but finally turn the engine over. I only make it about a block before I hit a curb and end up parked kittywampus on the sidewalk. I look over and see a child's bike in front of a house, only a few feet away from my fender. The sight makes me sob. I open my door and lean my head out to vomit, getting some in my hair.

What the fuck am I doing? I straighten out my car, bumping off the sidewalk and putting it in park on the side of the road. I reach into the backseat and pull an old blanket over me before I lean my seat back and close my eyes, rubbing my miraculous medal between my fingers.

In the morning, I wake early, shivering, with my head throbbing and back aching from sleeping in the front seat of my car.

Halfway across the Bay Bridge, the fog shrouding the city overtakes my car. Every once in a while, the mist parts, and I get a glimpse of steel gray buildings arching up and disappearing into the concrete-­colored sky. As I cross over Terminal Island, off in the distance there is a small patch of San Francisco bathed in sunlight. It's hard to tell for sure, but it looks like it is right about where my church sits.

 

Chapter 38

T
HE CANDLES FLICKER,
casting shadows on the statue of the Virgin Mary before me. Although there are four shrines to the Madonna in Saints Peter and Paul Church, she is my favorite: Her smooth ivory hands clutch a cherub-­looking baby Jesus, and pink roses form a crown above her lowered eyes. Dried and blackened red rose petals are scattered at her base in homage. The alcove smells like melted wax. Deep sapphire glass holds votive candles.

I stuff a ten-­dollar bill in a metal box and light four of them: one in remembrance of my father, one for Caterina, one for Jasmine, and one for my own sorry self.

I spent about thirty minutes in the shower earlier, ridding myself of the vomit and filth, and although I nearly rubbed my skin raw scrubbing, it did nothing to cleanse me of the dirtiness and despair I feel. There's only one way to do that.

As my eyes adjust to the dim interior, I see that the church is not empty. It never is. A man with thin, blond, slicked-­back hair is walking to the front of the church. He is wearing a deep orange cardigan and has a slight limp. The sight sends a chill down my spine, and I don't realize I'm staring until he stops at a pew near the front, genuflects, and sits with his hands folded looking up at the altar. Another man with a balding pate has his arm bent around a stooped, silver-­haired woman. They are both kneeling in their pew.

Brilliant hues stream from stained-­glass windows depicting Bible scenes. The massive high altar is white marble and gold and always seems to be glowing on its own no matter what time of day or night I visit. The familiar, comforting smell of incense hangs in the air.

Suddenly, a woman in a pink sweatshirt with the hood pulled up over her head is at my side, asking me for fifty cents. I tell her I don't have any change even though I do. She wanders away to the back of the church where a kaleidoscope of colors filters down from the rose window above the huge, wooden church doors. What have I become? I watch the woman leave. When I was in college, I would actually pull my car over to hand homeless ­people dollar bills. What happened to that girl? Instead, I'm walking a tightrope on the edge of a precipice, fighting the temptation to fall into the darkness.

I lower myself onto a worn embroidered rug padding the base of a dark wood kneeler. I close my eyes, bow my forehead, and fold my hands in prayer on the kneeler's armrest. The church is an oasis of silence and peace. Very faintly, seemingly from a distant shore, I can hear the sound of traffic outside. The clatter of a janitor wheeling a trash can through the sanctuary momentarily startles me.

I begin by reciting several prayers I memorized as a child. They do nothing to cast out the gloom and desperation that has been closing in on me for the past few weeks. The fleeting murkiness hovering around me for years—­just out of reach—­has finally found a chink in my armor, like insects that can squeeze under the cracks in the door. The day my father died, the shadows made their first appearance, fluttering above me, trying to get in. At Caterina's funeral, they settled their weight upon me, and my world became a surreal tabloid of hopeless gray. It took years before they scattered.

Now I feel the heavy cloak of despair again. The reminder that men like Jack Dean Johnson really walk this earth has darkened my world. Even if he didn't take Caterina—­or even, Jasmine—­he's preyed on other innocent children like them.

My chest becomes tight. My nose begins to run and I cry. I angrily wipe my face on my sweater sleeve.

“God, how could you take away my father and my sister? I was only six years old.” Now I'm sobbing. “How could you let that happen?”

Through my tears, I realize I'm not only sad, I'm angry. In fact, I'm furious.

“And you let that monster take Jasmine,” I say between clenched teeth. “She only wanted to be loved. She was a little girl.” It all comes out in such a rush. My clasped knuckles are white, and my rings dig into my palms. By now, tears are dripping from my cheeks onto my hands. Along with Caterina and Jasmine's, other faces flash before me.

I remember Adele's neatly folded afghan in her windowless apartment. Nobody even knew she had died. How can you be that alone in the world? I think of Evans, who I suddenly realize is bitter and lonely. A vivid memory of her sitting alone in her office at night eating dinner comes to me. For the first time, I feel sorry for her. I stop praying and just cry. I haven't cried like this since I was a little girl when my father and sister died. Big, gulping sobs. I bury my face in my folded arms on the armrest. After a long while, the tears stop flowing.

I wipe my face on my sleeve and stand. I'm weary. I'm hungry. But I feel a gossamer sense of peace start to spread within me. By this time, the shadows in the church stretch deeper. Only the west-­facing windows continue to splash geometric rainbow slivers of light onto the marble floors. I rummage in my purse and come up with a fistful of change. I look around, but the woman in pink is gone, as is the ­couple. Only the man in the sweater remains.

On my way out, I stop at the font of holy water that faces the altar at the rear of the church. A big, brass, bell-­shaped cover is off to the side, allowing midweek access to the bowl's contents. I dip my three middle fingers into the holy water and bless myself.

For the past twenty-­two years, I've been okay with not knowing the specifics of Caterina's kidnapping and murder. But now I realize that's not working for me anymore. Writing about Jasmine has unleashed emotions and memories I didn't even know existed. And despite the fear of breaking my mother's heart, I'm starting to feel that I need to know the truth. That I might need this more than I need anything else in the world—­even my mother's approval.

Outside, the fog is seeping through Washington Square Park, muting sounds and making the bustling shop fronts seem like they are on a distant shore. As I walk back through the park, I fish a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of my bag and drop them in a trash can. At home, I poke through my cupboards. I haven't been shopping for a while, but after watching my mom scrape together meals through some lean years as a single mother, I know how to cook with a bare pantry.

I peek in the freezer. I eye the bottle of Absolut—­the third one I've bought in a week—­and unceremoniously dump its contents down the sink drain. The cat watches lazily from the kitchen floor. Poking around in the freezer, I find a loaf of sourdough bread and set it out to defrost. I also sauté some frozen French-­cut green beans in olive oil, salt, and slivers of garlic. I unfurl a can of anchovies and lean down, scooping them into the cat's dish.

“Here, Dusty. You're going to love these.”

He eyes me suspiciously for a moment. I don't blame him—­it's the first time I've called him by his name. He waits a second, then, with his tail swirling above his head, daintily licks every last bit of anchovy from the small dish.

For my entree, I make pasta
cacao e
pepe,
a simple pasta with pecorino Romano cheese and fresh black pepper. I know an easier way to make it by grinding some fresh black pepper, but I like to make it the way my mother does. I take a handful of black peppercorns and heat them in a cast-­iron skillet until they become fragrant and begin to slightly pop. As the spaghetti noodles boil, I let the peppercorns cool while I grate a handful of pecorino Romano. Then I mash the peppercorns with a pestle and mortar until they are ground. Once the spaghetti is
al dente,
I drain it and immediately mix it with a little hot water, the pepper, and cheese.

The pasta, with a slice of bread, the green beans, and a glass of cabernet sauvignon makes the perfect meal. Even though I'm dining alone, I set the table as my mama taught me, china plate, cloth napkin, and even light some candles. I finish every bite. I clean the dishes, then start on my apartment, which has been neglected for weeks.

I feel guilty when I start hunting for chess pieces, finding some under my bed, others in the closet. I'm going to have to write Tomas and explain. I've thrown away his postcards without looking at them. Once my apartment is in order again, I tackle the loads of laundry that have piled up and even give Dusty the bath I should've when I took him in, which he's not thrilled about.

Then, even though it's early, I crawl into bed. Once I get settled in, I lean over, pluck Dusty off the floor, and lift him onto my bed with me. He kneads the pillow next to me with his paws and walks in circles until he finally settles into a big puffy poof near my head.