Wounds (20 page)

“I guess so, but I was just trying to protect my property. A man can do that, right? I mean, we haven't lost all our rights.”

Carmen didn't want to get into that debate. “Why didn't you call the police?”

“I did. I did, but you know how long that can take.”

Bud couldn't let that go. “Our response time is pretty good, sir.”

“I guess so. You were here before I called.”

Carmen blinked several times, then decided not to unravel that. She looked at Bud.

“I got it.” He removed his cell phone and placed a call to the dispatchers informing them of their location and that the burglary call could be canceled.

“I'm Detective Carmen Rainmondi, homicide. This is my partner Detective Bud Tock. We need to ask you a few questions.”

“Sure—wait. Homicide? Really? Homicide? But that would mean . . .” He leaned forward like a man about to empty his stomach. He took a couple of deep breaths then straightened. “Tell me you're not here because . . . Bob?” The man looked as if he had been punched. Tears filled already full eyes. “Gone? He's gone?”

“Yes, sir. I'm sorry. Mr. Wilton was murdered.”

“How—no, wait—I don't want to know yet. I . . .” He bent again.

Carmen didn't rush the man. She did move back a step. “Are you going to be all right, sir?”

“I think so.” Again he straightened. “I just can't wrap my brain around it. Okay. Okay.” Tears trickled over his stubble-covered cheek. “What do you want to know?”

“How do you know Mr. Wilton?” Carmen studied the man's reaction, looking for any hint of deception. All she saw was sorrow.

“Like I said, I own this place. He's my renter.”

“How long has he lived here?”

“About two years. Good tenant. Quiet. Not like some of those college kids. The only way I knew he was home was if I saw a light on.”

“Do you know why someone would want to kill him?” Carmen assumed that Wilton was the wrong guy, in the wrong place, hanging out with the wrong guy.

“No. I mean the kid was a peach. He used to come over from time to time for dinner. He was dirt poor and I'm a widower. A little company was nice. He was always polite. Always good to me.”

“Did he have people over?” Carmen asked. Bud was taking notes.

“Do you mean girls?”

“I mean anyone.”

“No to the girls. I never saw a girl over there. Not that he was, you know, that way—”

“Gay?”

“Yeah. He was real religious. We talked many an hour about God. I think he was trying to save my miserable, drunken soul.” He paused and looked at the ceiling. “Now that I think about it, I did see another guy come over from time to time. But I still don't think he was gay.”

Carmen exchanged glances with Bud. “Do you know the name of the man who used to come over?”

“Nah. Never met him. Just saw him from time to time.”

Bud looked up from his notes. “Did the friend drive over? Did you see a car?”

“Yes, sir. It was a bit of a classic. An old VW Bug. Brown, I think. Can't tell ya the year. I never could tell those things apart.”

“Did you ever see them drive off together?” Carmen continued to study the man's eyes and his body language. So far she saw nothing to indicate the neighbor was lying. It was clear he didn't liked being cuffed, but Carmen wasn't ready to cut him loose. Handcuffed people tended to be more cooperative.

“A few times.”

“How were they dressed?”

“You mean, like, was they dressed for a party or somethin'?”

Carmen shook her head. “I don't mean anything, Mr. Schirru. I'm just trying to learn a few things.”

“They dressed like guys that age dress. Well, a few times they wore gym clothes.”

“Gym clothes? Like what?”

“You know. Jogging stuff. We used to call them sweat suits. Bob was big time into jogging. He ran every morning and sometimes in the evening. He jogged around the neighborhood, but on some days, like Wednesday, he would jog elsewhere. Come to think of it, that's when the other fella would come over. Wednesday.”

Doug Lindsey's body was found early Thursday. “How long have they been doing that?”

The man shrugged. “I don't know. I'm retired. Time don't mean the same to me as it used to. A couple of months maybe. Maybe more.”

“What about family?” Bud asked. “Did you ever meet Mr. Wilton's family?”

“Kid didn't have one. That's one reason I kept an eye on him. It's also the reason I only charged half rent. Felt sorry for the guy. He told me at one of our little dinners that his parents had been killed in an auto accident up in Riverside. That happened a couple of years ago. He was down here going over to the university.”

“San Diego State?” Carmen already knew the answer. Wilton had a student ID card in his wallet. She was testing the witness.

“Yes. He was a graduate student. History, he told me. Wanted to teach college classes, so he still had a lotta schoolin' ahead of him. I guess he had to get a Master's degree and a doctorate.”

Bud looked at Carmen. “There are a bunch of books in the first bedroom. Desk. Computer. The kinda stuff you'd expect a grad student to have.”

There hadn't been time for Bud to let her know that. Grad school was expensive. Books alone could break the bank pretty quick.

Carmen thought a moment. “Did he have other friends?”

“Not that I know of. At least none that I ever saw. He is . . .” His face clouded over. “He
was
a friendly guy. I liked him. I liked him a lot.” Another stream of tears.

“Mr. Wilton has been gone for a week,” Carmen said. “The mail is piling up out front. Didn't that concern you?”

“I can't see the mailbox from my house. And it's not unusual for us not to talk for a week or more, especially if he had papers to write or he was crammin' for a test. Now I feel worse.”

“You said your tenant was a religious man. Did he mention what church he went to?”

“No. I never asked. Now I wish I had. Someone needs to let them know.”

“We appreciate your help, Mr. Schirru.” Carmen nodded to Bud, who put his notebook away, then released the man who had introduced himself with a shotgun. “In the future, let the police handle the gun work, okay? This could have gone bad real quick.”

“Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry. I hope I didn't scare you none.”

Carmen grinned. “You scared me half to death. I'm just glad no one got shot.” She retrieved a business card. “Please call me if you think of anything else, or if someone comes snooping around the property.” She patted him on the shoulder. “You've been a big help. You can go now.”

“Thank you.” He started to leave, then stopped and looked at his shotgun.

“I'll bring that over when we leave,” Bud said.

Schirru nodded. “Um, listen. I know you can't tell me the details, but was it—quick? His death, I mean.”

A wave of pity surged in Carmen. “Yes, sir. Very quick. He didn't suffer.”

“Good. I guess that's good.” He lowered his head, then raised it a moment later. “Listen, I know the kid didn't have family, and didn't have any money to speak of . . . Man, I can't get my thoughts in order.”

“Understandable, sir.” Carmen guessed where this was going.

“There should be a funeral. I don't want him treated like a homeless guy found dead in some alley. I'm not rich, but I do all right. Rentals, you know. Anyway, if you'd be kind enough to let me know what I need to do, I'll pay to get him a plot and a decent funeral.”

“That's very kind, sir. I'll talk to the medical examiner. I can't speak for him, but if the law allows, he might be able to release the body to you when the time comes.”

“Okay. Okay. Thanks.” Greg Schirru started for the door. Bud walked with him as a courtesy and to make sure he didn't take anything from the house.

When Bud returned, he looked an inch shorter. “Wow, what a night. First time in my career I felt sorry for someone who leveled a shotgun at my chest.”

“I know what you mean; it's a lousy way to start a conversation.” She looked around the master bedroom. The sight of the simple mattress on the floor and a yard-sale reading lamp to the left moved her. “This guy had next to nothing. How did he get to SDSU if he didn't have a car?”

“There's a mountain bike in the bedroom, study, whatever you want to call it.”

“Show me.” Carmen exited the master bedroom. Bud followed. She turned on the overhead light. The old desk looked like it once occupied a 1950s CPA office: black metal body, fake wood top. The wood veneer had pulled away in several places, revealing particleboard below. On the desk was an old Dell laptop that had been used so much that many of the white letters on the keyboard had worn off. Next to the keyboard rested an open Bible. It was open to a chapter—or did they call it a book?—called Malachi.

A notepad with a number 2 pencil rested on the other side of the laptop. Carmen removed a pen from her pocket and used the back end of it to tap a key. The computer came to life. The computer had been “asleep” for a week. She could see the computer was plugged in. A Microsoft Word document appeared on the screen. There was only the title and two paragraphs. Carmen read aloud. “‘Early Twentieth Century Changes to Presidential Elections in the United States.'”

“Gripping,” Bud said.

“I'm sure it would have been a best seller.” She thought for a moment. “I think we can rule out money as a motive, unless that mattress is stuffed with cash.”

“Looks like the guy chose poverty to fund his education. I wonder how he paid for his school and books.”

Carmen frowned. “I don't know. I should've asked that when Schirru was here. Scholarships, maybe. Small trust fund? Student loans? Insurance from his dead parents?”

“Or combination thereof.” She turned from the computer. “We'll get the techs to go over the computer, but I doubt they'll find anything useful. Maybe something in the e-mail or photos.”

“I'll make the call.”

“That will give us a little time to look around.”

It was close to midnight when Carmen crawled into her bed. It was just the way she liked it: warm blankets, cool pillow. She longed for sleep. She
needed
sleep. The way things were going, she and Bud were going to break the overtime budget by themselves.

She'd allowed herself to relax a little the last few days, but only a little. Two murders in a row had her imagination creating unlikely scenarios, like a murder a day. Since it was now Friday, it had been a full week since Cohen's body was found on the rabbi's lawn.

Of course, finding Bob Wilton's body in Doug Lindsey's submerged VW threw a wrench in things, but technically speaking, it was part of the first murder, now a double murder. Add Cohen, and the total so far was three. Maybe that was the end of it.

As she settled beneath the covers, she worked at convincing herself that, despite the enormity of the problem, the killings might be over. She was fooling herself and she knew it.

What did a week without a new murder mean? Nothing. The killer had a plan. That much was clear. She just didn't have a clue yet what it was.

The search of Bob's house hadn't revealed anything new. There hadn't been much to see. The kitchen was stocked with Top Ramen, canned fruit, soup, crackers, and instant coffee. The place was Spartan in every way. Clearly, Wilton was sacrificing for his education.

When Carmen and Bud left the residence, she felt as empty as the house she had just searched. In some ways, she admired poor Wilton. The young man knew what he wanted and was willing to sacrifice for it.

Now in her bed, her mind finally grew tired of rehashing the day. With any luck—No. Strike that. Forget luck. She would have to rely on exhaustion to bring her a few hours sleep.

22

H
ector Garcia was a squat man with a hairless dome and a round middle that tested his leather belt. He was also one of the sharpest people Carmen knew, fearless when the occasion called for it, gentlemanly the rest of the time. Carmen found the detective waiting for her when she rolled into the office a little before eight. She had slept, but not well, and for her, a bad night's sleep was worse than no sleep at all.

“Hector, you're back.” Carmen tossed her small purse into the drawer of her desk and unclipped her holster. “Enjoy your vacation?”

“Vacation. I spent three days puking up my toes.”

“Not my idea of fun, Hec, but if that floats your boat—”

“Just wait until this stomach bug gets you. I'll send over a large glass of raw eggs for you to drink.”

“Whoa, that's an image I don't need.” She sat. “Feeling better?”

“Yes, thanks. A little off my feed, but at least I'm not spending my days and evenings sleeping next to the toilet.”