Pure Hate (9 page)

Reed actually lived a little further east in the
homogeneous, all white, northeast section of Philadelphia. Why he sent his kids
to a school way down here in this combat zone instead of a nice, safe school in
his own neighborhood, Baltimore could only guess. This was the first school
that Reed and Malcolm attended together. It seemed that Reed was a little sentimental
after all. If he remembered the school so fondly that he would risk his kids’
lives and their social objectivity to send them there, Baltimore found it hard
to believe that he hadn’t thought of Malcolm in over a decade as he had
claimed. Every time he dropped his kids off at school, he most certainly
thought about him. Baltimore would bet his badge on it. But did Reed shudder
when he thought of Malcolm or did he smile fondly? That was the question.
Baltimore felt he was getting closer and closer to finding the answer. He could
almost see the far-off wistful look in Reed’s eye and the nostalgic grin on his
face.

Detective Baltimore was instantly transported
back to his own childhood as he walked into the bustling elementary school. His
grade school had been just like this one, filled with students’ artwork and
awards, stupid motivational slogans about getting along with others and
anti-drug messages painted on the peach-colored walls. This school, however,
seemed to contain four times as many kids as had attended his little academy.
It seemed like there were more kids crowding the hallway between him and the
principal’s office than there had been in his entire school. Baltimore was
fighting against the current on a seemingly endless tide of pre-adolescents
making their way toward the schoolyard. He was stepped on, kicked, elbowed and
cursed as he struggled through the crowd. He felt like he should have worn full
riot gear.

Finally, Baltimore made it to the principal’s
office without having to draw his gun. He was a little bumped and bruised, but
he had survived the recess rush. A young blonde-haired woman, who looked as if
she had graduated from elementary school not too long ago herself, sat behind
the reception desk, appraising him with a bright Colgate smile as he walked
into the office. She had big blue eyes and was dressed in the same oversized
baggy clothes as the kids.

“Excuse me, I’m here to speak to Vice Principal
Lamb,” Baltimore said, showing her his badge, at which point her smile faltered
and her eyes hardened a little. I guess he wasn’t so attractive anymore. Hating
cops was in style these days.

“Do you have an appointment with her, Officer?”

“That’s Detective Baltimore and I’m sorry, no, I
don’t. I’m investigating the murder of the Cozen family and I understand the
children attended school here.”

“Oh, yes. That was so tragic. I’ll let her know
you’re here.”

She sprang from her chair behind the desk and
barged, without knocking, into an office only a few feet away. As she stuck her
head inside to talk to the vice principal, her butt swayed from side to side as
she shifted from one foot to the other. Baltimore wondered how he was able to
tell that she had a nice ass when she wore jeans two sizes too large. But he
could tell. He wondered if that show was for his benefit. The girl couldn’t
have been older than twenty, twenty-one at the maximum. True, he was only
twenty-five himself, but the job along with his above-average intelligence made
him feel much older. Too old for this one, although she was tempting. She was
more James’s type, he thought, and wondered where his partner might be right
now, if he was even working the case or if he was off at some sandwich shop
somewhere scarfing down a cheese steak hoagie. Everyone said he was a good
detective and maybe he was at one time, but in the two years that Baltimore had
been paired up with the guy, he’d seen very little evidence of any commitment
to the job. All the guy seemed to want to do was eat and chase pussy. There
could be a body laying cut up on the floor and, while Baltimore was gathering
evidence, James would come out with some story about a girl he fucked two years
ago who had tits just like the corpse.

When the fluffy little blonde returned, she had
two people with her. A short, balding, over-weight, black gentleman stepped
forward and seized the detective’s hand in his stubby little fingers. He pumped
Baltimore’s arm enthusiastically and introduced himself as the principal.
Beside him, in a tan skirt suit with a white silk T-shirt, stood a striking
older woman with blonde hair streaked with gray, high cheekbones, full lips,
and steel gray eyes like a timber wolf. She stepped forward and introduced
herself as the vice principal. When she shook his hand, her breasts wobbled
pleasingly beneath her shirt. It was obvious that she was voluptuously endowed
despite the great pains she took to hide it.

‘A prude perhaps?’ Detective
Baltimore thought. Maybe the whole child molestation thing was just the
over-active imagination of a spinster who feared her own sexuality and was
suspicious of any type of intimacy between men and women. He hoped not. If he
could tie Cozen into a motive like this he was certain he could use it to
squeeze a confession out of him. Shit, he wouldn’t need a confession to get a
conviction. If he could prove that Reed Cozen molested his own daughter he
wouldn’t need a shred of evidence to convict him for the murders. The jury’s
revulsion would guarantee that bastard a lethal injection. The only thing that
bothered him was that the coroner had found no evidence of rape or sexual
assault on either of the two kids and only on the mother. But rape didn’t
always mean penetration. Detective Baltimore knew there were any of a number of
things a pervert could do to a young kid that wouldn’t bruise or tear the
vaginal walls or the rectum. The detective’s stomach lurched at the thought of
it.

He was led into the vice principal’s
office where he took a seat on a leather couch across from a huge pine desk
that had been stained a dark brown to resemble oak.

“What can we do for you, Detective?
Of course, we heard about the murders and we’ve all been racking our brains
trying to remember if we saw anyone suspicious hanging around after school
looking like they were, you know, stalking the children. But, so far, no one
can remember seeing anything out of the ordinary.”

Detective Baltimore turned his
attention to Ms. Lamb.

“I understand that you once took
Jennie Cozen to the Department of Human Services to see an abuse counselor. May
I ask why?”

“Well, Detective, she was called to
my office repeatedly for cursing and extremely inappropriate sexual language
and behavior.”

“Behavior?”

“Yes. Grabbing little boy’s penises,
grabbing girls between their legs and on their backsides, making comments about
her own sexual prowess. In short, we believed that this type of premature and
somewhat oversexed behavior was consistent with what we have seen in children
who have been sexually abused.”

“And on the basis of this you took
her to see an abuse counselor?”

“Not only that. One day she was
called to my office for pulling up her dress and showing her breasts to the
boys in her class. When I called her into my office she said that they had just
developed and she was proud of them and wanted to show them off. It was simply
the last straw and I had to suspend her. When her father came down to pick her
up . . . the way she kissed him . . ...”

“You mean he used his tongue?”

The vice principal blushed.

“No . . . uh . . . not exactly. It
was the way she draped her arm around his neck and he slipped his arms around
her waist and they kissed right on the lips. You kind of got the impression
that if they weren’t in public he
would
have French kissed her and when
they talked to each other it was more like husband and wife than father and
daughter. I mean, she spoke to him like he was another one of her little
playmates. No respect at all. It was just unnatural. Even when they left she
wasn’t just holding his hand she was hugging it to herself the way newlyweds
do. I know it sounds like I’m over-reacting, but it just all started to add up.
Even Tom here noticed it. As soon as they left, we just looked at each other
and we knew something about that wasn’t proper. You would’ve had to see it. It
was almost lewd.”

“Thank you for your time, Miss Lamb.
You have been most helpful.”

The principal finally spoke up after sitting
there quietly and letting Anna Lamb have her say.

“She’s right, you know. I was here and I saw it.
She’s not just making this up. If you had been here and had seen the way they
acted around each other, it was like watching that movie
Lolita
. You
just knew that this wasn’t how fathers and daughters acted toward each other. I
have two daughters. One of them is just a little older than Jennie and I have
never touched her the way Mr. Cozen touched his daughter . . . not with that
level of intimacy and familiarity. If you had a daughter you would understand.
When they hit puberty, you notice and your attitude changes. When they start to
develop breasts and want to dress sexy and you notice that they are almost
women, it makes a father a little uncomfortable. There’s a stiffness in your
posture when you hug them that wasn’t there before, because you notice that she
has breasts now and you almost try not to rub up against them when you embrace,
as if even that would be perverted. It’s a subtle thing, but it happens. You
become uncomfortable with the idea of your little baby girl becoming a sexual
creature. Mr. Cozen did not seem uncomfortable. He was a little too damned
comfortable.”

“Detective, you don’t think this has anything to
do with why they were murdered do you? I mean, I thought you already had a
suspect?” Anna Lamb asked. She looked horrified.

“We have a suspect, not a conviction. Thank you
very much for your time. Here’s my card. If you think of anything else, please
call me.”

Detective Titus Baltimore left Frankford
Elementary, beginning to believe that perhaps something was going on with Reed
and his daughter. The thought made him sick . . . and angry. At least now he
had something to do rather than sit around twiddling his thumbs while he waited
for Malcolm Davis to get picked up. He slipped behind the wheel of the Mercedes
and headed back to the Cozen house.

As he drove, he thought about the first case he’d
worked involving allegations of sexual molestation. A guy named Mitchell Allen
murdered his babysitter and her boyfriend because he claimed he caught them
sexually assaulting his son. He bludgeoned them both to death with a two-and-a-half-pound
welding hammer, broke nearly every bone in their bodies. They had been, quite
literally, beaten to bloody, misshapen pulp. He was arrested and tried for
second-degree murder. Titus gave his testimony about the forensic evidence
linking Allen to the crimes, but since Mr. Allen was admitting that he did in
fact kill the couple, Titus’s testimony had been brief.

A medical examiner testified that
they’d found no physical evidence of sexual assault on Mitchell Allen’s little
boy. All they had was Allen’s word on what he saw and the word of his young son
and Allen had refused to allow his son to testify. He didn’t want the kid put
through any further trauma. Baltimore stayed to hear the outcome of the case.
Finally, on the third day of the trial, Mitchell Allen himself was called to
the stand. The assistant D.A. asked him if he felt any guilt or remorse for the
death of the couple.

Mr. Allen replied, “You know I’ve
been thinking about that ever since the night it all happened.”

“And . . . ?” The prosecutor probed

“Well, I guess I can’t really answer that until I
know how this all winds up affecting my son, Johnny. I mean, years from now,
when he’s an adult, I might find out that I caused him more harm than good by
killing those two. Then again, I might have just saved him years of emotional
trauma. Right now, I just don’t know.”

“Mr. Allen, I think you may have misunderstood my
question.’

“No, I understood you perfectly.”

“What about your victims, Mr. Allen?
Do you feel anything for them? What about their families and their loss?”

“The only victim in this was my son! Those two
pedophiles, their families, the City of Philadelphia, the State of
Pennsylvania, they weren’t the ones being raped! I hope those two burn in hell
for what they did! And as for their families, I read somewhere that behavior
like this is passed down. The abused becomes the abuser. The victim becomes the
victimizer. So, if those two sons-of-bitches molested my kid because they were
molested by their parents when they were young, then my only consolation in all
this would be to know that their parents were suffering. That every day they
feel the pain that they caused my child.”

That wasn’t what the jury wanted to hear.
Mitchell Allen was found guilty of second-degree murder and sentenced to fifteen
years behind bars. As far as Baltimore knew, the man was still there, still
unremorseful, still unrepentant and the detective still agreed with every word
the man said. Now, more than ever, Detective Baltimore wanted to nail Mr.
Cozen’s ass to the wall. If he had molested his daughter, Jennie, and then had
gotten his friend Malcolm to murder his own family to keep anyone from finding
out about it, Detective Baltimore was determined to make the man pay.

Detective Bryant was back at his desk, staring at
the computer screen as it tossed up possible matches from the over three
million prints on file. Many of the prints were from convicts already dead,
currently incarcerated, or drifters who had moved on years ago, but there were
some that looked pretty good. But the computer, as good as it was, didn’t
replace the naked eye and, again and again, he dismissed the computer’s suggestions. The AFIS
had already gone through over a hundred thousand prints last night and nearly
double that this morning. Finally, it tossed up a print for a guy who was
arrested on Pine Street for soliciting for prostitution and again for public
indecency (apparently got caught giving a blow-job in an alley). James shook
his head in disbelief as the computer downloaded the suspect’s picture.

“No! Oh my God. This is crazy!”

It wasn’t Malcolm Davis, but it might
be the next best thing, his accomplice, a longhaired, gay prostitute named Paul
Cooper. There was even a recent address. James sprang from his chair and rushed
into the Captain’s office to give him the good news.

“Captain Kelly! I think we’ve got that
sonuvabitch! The computer found a match for one of the prints lifted from the
murder weapon. It matches the fingerprint of a male prostitute we picked up a
few times for solicitation and get this; he looks just like Mr. Cozen! I mean
they could be twins! Is that some creepy shit or what? But it’s definitely a
different guy. I already checked Mr. Cozen’s prints against those on the murder
weapon and nothing. This is a different guy walking around with his face!”

The captain was silent. His elbows rested on the
desk. His clasped hands supported his square, dimpled chin. He was staring at
James as if he hadn’t heard a word he’d said. James was about to repeat himself
but he paused, giving the captain time to respond.

Captain Roy Kelly was a huge man in
his early forties. He was nearly six four with shoulders like a fullback and
arms like Lou Ferrigno. He was often in the gym lifting weights in the morning
when James got there. Kelly was a stern and serious man who almost never
yelled. He didn’t have to. Kelly’s demeanor did his speaking for him, and it
was clear he would rather not talk unless it was absolutely necessary. He was economical
with his words, his deep gravely voice and unwavering dead man’s gaze carried
weight. When he spoke, it was like the rumbling of an earthquake and could
always be heard, even across a noisy room.

“Detective, where is your partner?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since last
night.”

“And why don’t you know? You guys are supposed to
be working together.”

“Captain, Tight Ass just has his own way of doing
things. The guy just . . . I just can’t work with . . .”

The Captain raised his left hand to silence him
and James’s mouth snapped shut obediently. He hated the way the Captain could
do that to him. The man was definitely a born leader, even if he was a
reluctant one, but what did that say about James? He hated to think of himself
as a born follower, reluctant or otherwise.

“James, before you go to arrest this suspect, the
first thing you are going to do is pick up Detective Baltimore. He’s at the
crime scene trying to dig up leads. I want you two sharing leads and working
together. Right now, you’re both pursuing two entirely different lines of
investigation and I want to see you come together on this and solve this
fucking case. I will have patrolmen standing by. As soon as you rendezvous with
Titus call for back up, and I will have them
meet you at the scene. One more thing, I know you and Baltimore are on long
leashes. That’s my fault. You and I were in the academy together and I know you
should have been promoted long ago if it wasn’t for your anti-authority kick.
So maybe I feel like I owe you. But I want you and Baltimore to start reporting
in to Lieutenant Woo. He’s the head of the task force and he should know
everything you too are up to.”

“If he brought his ass out to the
crime scenes every once in a while he’d know what was going on.”

The Captain lowered his eyes from
where they had been burrowing into James’s and went back to some crime scene
photos he had been examining before the detective walked in. Lieutenant Woo
rushed into the captain’s office as if he’d heard his name called. He began
talking excitedly to the Captain. James considered himself dismissed and left
to find his partner. He couldn’t even remember Baltimore’s cellular number. He
hadn’t used it in months. Maybe Baltimore had his radio turned on for once.
James started to try him on the police band and then decided to try later. He
needed a few more minutes alone to think.

The squad room was bustling with nervous energy.
This case had everyone uptight. It was the type of case that could either put a
detective on the fast track to a promotion or put a black mark on his permanent
record that would guarantee a stalled career. Half the department was trying to
get in on the case and the other half was trying their best to avoid it.

Officer Webb, a young black kid who, despite his
crisp blue uniform and Kiwi-black, spit-shined shoes, looked more like a
gangsta rapper than a cop, rushed up to James waving a yellowing eight-by-ten.
It almost made James nervous to see the guy with a gun, which in turn made him
feel guilty. He offered the guy a weak, insincere smile and then looked at the
picture. It was Malcolm Davis’ graduation photo sans cap and gown.

“Here’s the picture we got from Mrs. Davis,
Malcolm Davis’ mom.”

The picture showed Malcolm in the same type of somber
attire that Mr. Cozen described him in the night of the murders—black suit,
black shirt, black tie. His head wasn’t shaved then
-
but it was cut very short. His eyes were preternaturally focused
and intense, boring into the camera, seeming to come right out of the photo.
The photograph looked alive like those portraits with the eyes that follow its
viewers wherever they went. He was leaning forward as if he was about to spring
off the stool. Officer Webb was looking over James’s shoulder at the photo. He
let out a long hissing breath and shook his head in disbelief.

“Does that look like a teenager to you? Intense
sonuvabitch isn’t he? Those eyes! The original thousand-yard stare—I’ve got
homies on death row with eyes like that . . . assassin’s eyes.”

James tried not to wonder what a cop was doing
with “homies on death row.” He looked at Malcolm’s eyes, the smirk that was
almost a snarl, the flared nostrils, and the slightly furrowed brow. The kid
looked savage, feral, like something dragged from the wilderness that had
gotten off its chain. James thought it was the face people would give to a
murderer when they imagined one without ever actually seeing one, all the
features melodramatically menacing.

“I thought serial killers were supposed to look
normal . . . you know . . . ordinary . . . like the guy next door? This guy
looks like a comic book super villain, like he should be chasing James Bond
through Venice in a speed boat,” Webb joked.

“Yeah, he is an unsettling, disturbing looking
muthafucka ain’t he? Take this photo, make copies, and get it out to the press.
It’s old, but we can still use it. He ain’t really changed very much.”

“James!” the Captain was slipping his sports coat
on and rushing toward him. Lieutenant Woo was right behind him. James looked at
the Lieutenant and thought he must be getting old because every officer he saw
looked young to him except for the Captain. The Detective was younger than
Captain Kelly, but the years of witnessing one grisly example of man’s
inhumanity after another had prematurely aged him. He was only in his forties,
but looked like he was in his mid-fifties.

“Forget about picking up Titus. You’re coming
with me.”

“What’s going on, Captain?”

“Malcolm just killed again. He slashed a
bodybuilder at a gym downtown.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Captain Kelly turned to Lieutenant Woo and told
him to call Detective Baltimore and have him meet them at the Atlas Gym. James
watched as the tall lanky Chinese detective hurried off to do the Captain’s
bidding. Once again, he would be a no-show at
the crime scene. The only photo opportunities this time would be for someone to
lay the blame on for this latest fuck up, a front-page crucifixion. No way Woo
was going to make the scene for that. If his luck held out, James probably
wouldn’t see the Lieutenant again until the case was solved and there was glory
to be usurped. That’s the way he preferred it anyway. He would much rather have
reported directly to the Captain than to one of his bootlicking underlings.

“Make sure Titus comes right away. Tell him to
drop whatever bullshit he’s up to.”

“Great, that’s just what we need,” James lamented.

The Captain grinned sardonically. It was the only
type of grin the man seemed capable of.

“Teamwork, remember, James?”

“Oh, yeah. Teamwork. Right.”

When Captain Kelly and Detective James arrived at
the Atlas Gym, they found the worst possible crime scene imaginable. Over a
dozen different people from customers, friends and co-workers, to EMTs and
cops, had touched the body and were now milling about, contaminating the crime
scene. Someone had had the sense to put yellow police tape around the scene,
but the tape had been torn down and trampled. It was complete pandemonium.

The Captain was incensed. Detective James
Bryant was doing his best to limit his reaction to merely incensed. He felt
like punching someone’s teeth out.

“Who the fuck is supposed to be controlling this
crime scene?” the Captain growled

“Who the fuck is in charge here!” James yelled

The uniformed officers on the scene all stared at
each other and then back at the Captain. Finally, a tall Italian officer with
sergeant stripes and a thin moustache that looked like it had been plucked
rather than shaved, stepped forward. Both the Captain and James rolled their
eyes and shook their heads. The guy looked like he should be on the cover of some
fashion magazine from the 1920’s or at a gay pride parade.

“Uh . . . I’m the ranking officer here, sir.”

“Great. Get all of these people out of the
fucking crime scene so maybe we can gather whatever evidence hasn’t already
been contaminated or destroyed. Get the witnesses outside! Get statements from
them and then get them the fuck out of here! The man is dead right? So why the
fuck do we still have EMTs here? Get them the fuck out of here and call the ME!
Until the forensic guys get here, I want everybody
but Detective Bryant and me the fuck out of here! Oh, and when Detective
Baltimore shows up, send him in here, too.”

The Sergeant walked off, looking like he’d just
been smacked. His face was red and he was cursing under his breath.

“You can’t blame the guy, really. All they’re
used to doing down here is catching shoplifters and harassing kids for skipping
school to play video games,” the detective
said

“Yeah, that and taking bribes from the Mafia,
flirting with the tourists, and eating pizza all damn day,” the captain growled
back.

The sergeant and the rest of the
officers began herding the huge crowd outside, happy to have something to do
that kept them out of the captain’s direct line of sight.

“Who was the first officer on the
scene?”

A young redheaded kid who looked barely out of
his teens stepped forward.

“Uh . . . I was, sir.”

“What’s your name?”

“Officer Wyatt. John Wyatt.”

“Wyatt, next time you arrive at a one-eight-seven,
the first thing you do is secure the goddamn scene! If I ever see some shit
like this again, I’m going to snatch that badge right off your chest and stab
you with it. Look at this shit! Now, almost anything we find a defense attorney
will shove right up our asses if we try to bring it into a courtroom. Did you
interview any of the witnesses?”

“Uh . . . yes sir. The sales lady was standing
right by the guy when the suspect sliced him. She said the TV had just showed a
picture of Malcolm Davis and the guy pointed at the suspect and yelled out
‘That’s him!’ Then Malcolm opened up the guy’s throat with some kind of little
knife that he whipped out of a gym bag he was carrying. After that, the suspect
just walked out the door, got into his car, and drove away. Obviously, no one
else tried to stop him.”

“Tell me the sales lady is still here.” James
said.

“Oh yeah, she’s the one with the incredible body
standing over there in the red spandex.”

“I want you to make sure you get a complete
statement from her,” the captain said

Captain Kelly and Detective James Bryant
knelt to look at the body. There were bloody towels everywhere from where the
gym staff had attempted to stop the bleeding. Blood formed a huge puddle on the
floor. People never realized how much blood was in the human body until they
saw it pooled around a corpse. Kelly and James studied the victim’s lacerated
throat, helplessly outraged.

“What the hell kind of monster would
do something like this for no reason? He almost took the guy’s head off.”

“The guy recognized him. That’s all
the reason he needed. It almost looks like the suicide attempt Mr. Cozen
described to me.”

“What suicide attempt?”

“Mr. Cozen said that Malcolm tried to
commit suicide after he found out what had been going on with Cozen and his
girl. Crazy fuck nearly decapitated himself.”

“I’ve never heard of anyone trying to
commit suicide by cutting their own throat. Jesus. That’s a guy who really
wants to die.”

“Yeah, that was my thought, too.
It’ll be a lot of fun trying to bring this guy in.”

“Yeah, it looks like he’s saying
catch me if you can. This guy just said the wrong thing and he’s a corpse. Big
sonuvabitch, too, but it doesn’t look like he had a chance to put up much of a
fight. No signs of a struggle at all.”