Wounds (23 page)

Carmen looked Eric in the eye. “There have been developments, Mr. Lindsey, and we're doing everything we can. I want you to know that I have brought on more detectives, and my captain has made your son's death a priority with forensics and other departments.”

“I've heard there have been other murders. Why is my boy getting more attention?”

It was an odd question but a fair one. Apparently the man sensed something was up.

“Shouldn't we be glad about that, honey?” Karen spoke to her husband like a woman who never had reason to fear the man. It was a good thing to see.

“Of course it is, but I don't think the police usually work this way. The newspaper runs a crime column. Not much information in it, but I know there have been other murders.”

“Yes, sir, there have.” Carmen shifted on the sofa, scooting forward and resting her arms on her knees. “We need your help with something, but first I have to ask that you not relate what I'm about to say to the media. I don't want anything messing up the prosecution when we catch your son's killer.”

“Don't you mean
if
you catch him?” Mr. Lindsey was curt but not cruel.

“We're going to get him, Mr. Lindsey. I can promise you that.”

“Is every murder solved?” He tilted his head.

The question hurt like a slap to the soul. “No, sir. Not every one.”

“Then please don't blow smoke our way, Detective. We are wounded, we are middle class, we don't have college educations, but we are far from stupid.”

“Yes, sir. I know. I meant no offense.” Carmen felt the room cool.

“Don't be rude, Eric.” Karen put fire in the words.

Carmen looked to the love seat where Karen sat. “He's right, Mrs. Lindsey. I have to deal with different people and have to guess at the best approach. I've guessed wrong.” She directed her gaze to the man in the easy chair. “Straight talk?”

“We've been coddled and cooed over by everyone who sees us. We're busted up, Detective, busted up real bad, but I'd prefer facts. Straight talk.”

“Understood. First thing I want to say goes beyond my work as a detective. Truth is, I probably shouldn't say it, but this case has taken on a special meaning for me.” She took a breath. She was about to break one of her own rules. She hesitated. Was there any way to back away from the statement she had started? No, not when she was seeing something in these two that set off alarm bells. “I know what you're going through.”

“Do you?” Mr. Lindsey's eyes filled with tears. “Everyone says that. I know they don't. They can't—”

“My sister was murdered. It was years ago. I was still a teenager. No need to get into details, but I've buried a loved one. Not a child, but a family member nonetheless.”

Karen gasped and raised her hands to her mouth.

“She died a brutal death, like your son. I never share this with anyone, but I'm telling you so you'll understand that when I say I'll catch the murderer, you can believe I will do so or go to my grave trying.”

Mr. Lindsey spoke softly. “Did they catch her killer?”

“Not yet, but I will.”

Eric Lindsey nodded. “I believe you.”

An awkward moment settled on the four. Carmen's heart was doing jumping jacks. Her emotions, usually stuffed so deep she barely knew they existed, percolated to the top, threatening to rush out with tsunami force. She focused on beating the unwanted feelings back to the dungeon of her mind.

“Thank you. I'd appreciate it if you would keep that to yourselves.”

“Count on it.” Mr. Lindsey relaxed his shoulders, and his face softened. She was no longer a public employee; she was a fellow traveler on a steep road of sorrow.

“What I share now is confidential.” Carmen pushed back on the sofa. “I tell you because I need your help. There's been another murder that is associated with your son's killing.” She swallowed then launched into the details like a woman jumping into cold water. “We found your son's car. It was submerged in a small bay of Lake Murray. Did he go to Lake Murray often?”

“He went once a week with a friend of his.” Karen's voice wavered. The news had hit her hard.

“Jogging,” Eric said. “He was determined to get in shape. His friend was trying to introduce him to the joy of physical exertion. Doug was never much for sports. Jogging was something he could do that didn't require a competitive spirit.”

“May I ask his friend's name?”

Karen answered the questions. Eric looked like he had already made the connection. That was the only reason Carmen could think of why the man's face had lost all its color.

“Bob. Bob Wilton. Nice young man. Full of faith and hope. He goes to SDSU. Grad school. History, I think. Doug didn't have many . . . friends . . .” She looked at her husband, then back to Carmen. “Oh, no. Blessed Jesus, no.”

Carmen couldn't count the number of times she had heard people use the name of a deity when faced with danger or pain. For most, it was a form of swearing. For Karen Lindsey, it sounded more like a prayer.

“No . . . no . . . he's not . . .” Tears rolled from the woman's eyes and her face reddened. “Tell me I'm wrong.”

“I wish I could, Mrs. Lindsey. I'm afraid Mr. Wilton was murdered. Since he was found in your son's VW, we think he was killed at the same time your son was abducted.”

Karen's gaze turned distant, as though seeing something in the past. “Bob . . . was so . . . poor. His whole life was tied up with school.” She drew a hand below her eyes. “We used to have him over for dinner at least twice a week. I used to buy extra groceries for him. I—” She dissolved into tears. Crying turned to sobbing. Carmen let the woman grieve. Heywood, who sat on the end of the sofa closest to the love seat, reached to the woman and lay a large hand on her shoulder.

Carmen focused her attention on Eric. “Sir, your wife said Mr. Wilton was a man of faith. Does that mean he went to church?”

“Yes. He taught the junior-high boys Sunday school. Doug would go to his church sometimes to help out. It's a small church. Maybe a hundred people or so. Bob said he preferred small churches. More ministry is done in small churches than mega churches, he used to say . . .” He choked.

“That fits with what Mr. Wilton's neighbor said. Do you know the name of the church?”

“Um, yes.” He wiped his eyes. “One of those nondenominational churches. The Bridge Community Church, I think.”

Heywood withdrew his comforting hand and did a search on his smart phone. “There is a church by that name not far from Wilton's home. He could bike there easily enough.”

“Mr. Lindsey, do you know anyone who might wish to harm Mr. Wilton?” Carmen watched his expression and saw the look of a man stunned into disbelief.

“We didn't know him that well. Just enough to know he seemed like a great kid and that he was good for Doug. I didn't know Karen was buying groceries for Bob.” He forced a tiny smile. “I guess she didn't know I was paying his electric bill.”

Carmen asked a few more questions, then rose to leave. When they arrived, Eric hadn't budged from his chair. When Carmen stood, he bolted to his feet and walked the detectives to the front door. He moved like a man who had been at sea for six months trying to regain his land legs.

As they stepped onto the front porch and into the light of day, Eric asked a question of his own, one uttered in soft tones. “I have to ask. I'm not sure I want to know. Was Bob found in the car in the lake?”

Carmen had promised straight talk. “Yes, sir. He had been there a week.”

He grimaced. “And . . .”

“Gunshot wound to the head.”

He looked down as if his head had become too heavy to hold erect anymore. “Thank you for not pulling your punches.”

“Thank you for your help. Please know that we're on this.”

“I know you are, Detective. We'll pray for you.”

He disappeared into the house, closing and locking the door. Carmen heard Karen wail, and a moment later a deep, gravely voice joined hers.

Back in the Crown Vic, Heywood spoke softly. “Do you know the problem with being a higher-order animal?”

“Higher-order animal?” Carmen started the car.

“An animal with high intelligence, like humans.”

She pulled from the curb. “I've seen plenty of humans that I would be hard pressed to call intelligent.”

Heywood wouldn't leave the track of conversation. “I didn't say intelligent people acted intelligent, just that they have advanced brains compared to other animals.”

“Hmm-hmm. Is there a point to this?”

Heywood nodded. “The price of intelligence is sorrow. Our brains allow us to do more—create, appreciate beauty—but they also make emotions more intense.”

“You've been watching PBS again, haven't you?”

He ignored the quip. “Humans are one of the few species that understand sorrow. Elephants and dolphins have been known to show some signs of grief, but humans take it to a new level. It forever changes us.”

“Like the Lindsey family.”

“Yes. You too.”

She snapped her gaze his direction. “What do you mean?”

“You deal with death on a daily basis, and not just any kind of death: murders. Vicious violence. As a beat cop, I see the same things. We're usually the first on a murder scene, but we get to walk away after you guys show up. We make our notes, we write our report, we testify in a trial, but mostly we move on to the next problem: domestic violence, robbery, public intoxication. You know what I mean. You patrolled the mean streets.”

“That I did, Heywood. That I did.” She let his comments marinate in her mind. Television cops seemed immune to the crimes they investigated. Sometimes the writers would give the pretend-detectives a heart, but they had to be well by the next episode. Life didn't work that way. It never had.

“Murder is always personal.”

Carmen couldn't believe she'd said that. It sounded like something from a fortune cookie.

But Heywood nodded. “Yes, it is.” A second later he added, “Grief is the worst of all diseases.”

She couldn't argue.

“Detective?”

“What?”

“I'm sorry about your sister.” He showed no emotion, but the sentence was saturated with sincerity.

“Me, too, Joe. Me, too.”

25

E
llis Poe was not an arrogant man. He knew no self-centeredness. His humility was real, not like those who appeared humble to garner the praise of others. His meekness came from a festering emotional wound that had gone gangrenous decades before. His disease was not apparent to others, although some suspected an injury lurked in his past, one that remained fresh and painful.

He did his best to appear confident but never gregarious, kind but never engaging, friendly but never a friend. Where other men admired the successful, the icons of business or the media-loving politicians, he admired a different group of men: monks.

At first he told himself that he respected their faith, their determination to avoid all secular involvement so they could spend their days in prayer and meditation; souls so devoted to God they surrendered all desire for love and companionship. Ellis's brutal self-honesty sank that lie in short order. He envied the monks because they didn't deal with life as he had to. They had no social entanglements, and if they were driven to the monastery by some sin known only to them, then they could suffer for it alone.

Alone
.

Some feared that word. Some would go to any extent to avoid being alone. Ellis hankered for it. For the most part, he had spent his adult life alone, interacting with people only when it was unavoidable. A few had grown from strangers to acquaintances. People like Adam Bridger, the president of the seminary, made inroads into Poe's self-erected monastery, but he could count on one hand the number of those who found cracks in the walls.

Since his last days of high school, Ellis had found a measure of comfort in empty rooms and books. Theological texts, ancient grammars, scholastic journals, and lesson plans. Even in his classes, he had erected an invisible barrier that spanned the width of the classroom: on the one side the students; on the other, Planet Ellis Poe.

When teaching, he spoke with passion rooted in his love of the New Testament and the times of Christ. That was when he felt whole, complete, human. In those moments, his mind could only embrace the topic of the day.

In his office, in his home, on his tiny boat . . . things were different. The demons rose unbidden; the dark clouds rolled overhead like a desert thunderstorm; the cold, lashing wind of regret tore at him. He let it. Not because he liked it. He didn't. He did so because he deserved it.

He was a coward.

He was unprincipled.

He had been faithless and timid.

He deserved his isolation and so much more. So very much more.