A punishing breed, p.26
A Punishing Breed, page 26
Talbot squirmed in his seat. “What’s he trying to say?” he asked.
Worthington took in a mighty breath, pushed the air into his sinuses; his voice jumped an octave, high-pitched and clear. “MONSTER! RUN GIRL RUN! MONSTER!”
Talbot sank back, covered his ears.
DJ stood up, moved forward quickly, caught Warren Worthington, afraid he would fall forward with the effort of speaking. He steadied the man.
“Monster, monster, monster . . .” He repeated the word in his high-pitched voice. As if he were a ventriloquist, his lips barely moved. DJ realized Worthington had switched to a falsetto voice. DJ’s grandpa, at the end, his brain racked with dementia, had reverted to a baby-like voice.
“Did you save her, Mr. Worthington? Did you warn the girl?”
This quieted the man. He nodded.
“You saw the monster?” DJ asked. “Did you see who it was?”
Warren Worthington pulled back from DJ, looked into his eyes. Warren turned and moved more quickly than DJ could imagine, grabbing onto the back of a chair, the edge of a table to push himself forward. He climbed up a short narrow staircase at the rear of the room like a crab, eschewing the chairlift, using a handrail with his uninjured side to pull himself along, his bad hand landing on each stair for balance.
“Sir? What is he doing?” Talbot stared at DJ.
Before DJ could answer, Worthington was coming back down, descending slowly, his rear end on the banister, his good foot braking his momentum on each step. He had two magazines wedged under the bad arm, and he was wearing something over his shoulders and down his back.
Worthington came forward with his spider-like walk, handed DJ a comic book. The living room was dim, but DJ was afraid to break the spell by turning on a lamp. He dropped to his knees near the nearest nightlight, found the cover, and read it aloud. “The Avenging Angel.”
Worthington nodded and pointed one long finger at his chest. “Mmmmeeeee.”
And then he handed DJ the second comic book, pulled his good hand across the pages until he found what he wanted. It was a drawing of a villain in a black hood.
DJ read the caption. “Azrael.”
That’s when DJ noticed what Warren Worthington was wearing on his shoulders and down his back. A rectangle of material with a slit that allowed Warren to drape it over his shoulders. It looked like a poncho, smelled like a dead animal.
“May I?” DJ asked as he touched the fetid material.
Warren Worthington held up his hand to stop him. He pointed again to Azrael, the dark villain on the page of the comic book, and then back at the thing he was wearing. Warren lifted the poncho-like material to encircle his head with one hand, his face now in shadow. He circled the couch with a stumbling gait and came toward them. “What’s happening,” said Talbot.
“I think,” said DJ, “he’s showing us what happened that night in the olive grove. Aren’t you, Mr. Worthington?”
Warren Worthington pointed to himself and then the page. His voice rising into soprano, he rang out, “MONSTER. MONSTER. MONSTER.”
“The monster was wearing this,” said DJ. “Over his head?”
“Yeth,” said Worthington in his lower register. His voice raw, his whole body fading as if he might collapse into himself. DJ helped him back into the chair.
“May I see this?” DJ asked.
Warren tugged at the stinking poncho as DJ Arias delicately lifted it over Mr. Worthington’s head.
“Monstheh,” he said one final time.
DJ held the fetid rectangle of material. It was about five feet long, two and a half feet across. He lowered it toward the floor, and in the gleam of nightlights saw the plush fibers of dark scarlet, stiffened and stained with dried blood. At the center, the sewn-in face of a snarling winking panther was underlined with the embroidered words “Hesperia College.”
It was the missing blanket.
“Mr. Worthington, this is what we’ve been looking for!” said DJ. “Where did you find it?”
Warren breathed in and with his high, childlike voice said, “It. Find. Me.” Warren pointed upward. “Trees.”
“That night?” DJ asked.
“Lat-her,” said Warren, switching into his deeper register. The efforts of the evening were catching up with the man.
It made sense to DJ.
In the comic books he had read as a kid, the cape was part of the hero’s destiny. Last Thursday night, Mr. Worthington saw Fern Lake in front of his house, decided to follow her onto campus and into the olive grove. He had frightened the girl who heard someone behind her, then probably saved her life when the murderer, running from the direction of Sliming, attacked them both.
Sometime later, Warren Worthington had returned to the olive grove and found the blanket that had eluded the police.
Or, as Warren Worthington believed, he found a cape.
DJ’s inner twelve-year-old, and maybe the man he was today, believed the cape had found Mr. Worthington.
Because Warren Worthington was a hero, maybe not a superhero. Bent and broken but not defeated, the man before them had saved the girl.
CHAPTER 46
Azrael
After further questioning, it was clear Warren Worthington had not seen the face of Fern Lake’s attacker. He had seen a tall and muscular figure wearing the blanket to hide their identity.
“Monstheh,” he repeated.
It must have been a terrifying few minutes for the girl and this man, fighting for their lives in the dark against Mr. Worthington’s monster.
“It was a person,” Talbot kept repeating.
But DJ believed in monsters; he had arrested a few, some he still chased.
“Mr. Worthington,” DJ said. “We’re going to have to take the cape; it’s evidence. It will help us catch the murderer.”
Warren nodded his head. “Ohhkay,” he said as he watched Talbot carefully fold the cape into an evidence bag with gloved hands.
The two detectives walked outside to wait for a second black-and-white police car to provide surveillance at the Worthington house.
“That place is something,” said DJ. “If there was a spark anywhere it would go up in flames.”
Talbot was quiet.
“What do you think?” DJ asked. He meant about the case.
“I think we need to call social services. That house is uninhabitable.”
“It’s not clean and tidy,” said DJ, “but I’ve seen worse.”
“Sure, I’ve seen crack houses that are worse. But Mr. Worthington needs therapy, social interaction . . .”
“A bright new future?” DJ asked.
“That’s not funny.” Talbot was shaken. Warren Worthington and his monster had gotten under his skin.
DJ held the sheaf of paperwork that was stuck to Warren’s refrigerator. On top was a neatly typed list, now yellowed, of the small band of professionals and their contact information that pieced together Mr. Worthington’s life. “Mr. Marvin Lester, Elder, Saints of the Messiah Church, Trustee, Estate of Warren Worthington; Dr. Lynwood Taylor, General Practitioner; Mrs. Isabella Mendoza, neighbor, alternate emergency contact.” That name was outlined and a carefully printed Post-it note with Danny Mendoza’s name and number was placed beside it. Meals on Wheels for shut-ins was written in and messily x-ed out. The rest of the list included pharmacies, handicap van services, neighborhood grocery stores, and a Pasadena comic bookstore. The glue and ceiling wax to patch together a broken life.
How different was this man’s house from Will Bloom’s home? Despite the dust, clutter, and smell, each home was more notable for its absence. No family photos, love notes on a counter, indentations on a pillow. No breadcrumbs leading to friends and lovers. How different were these homes from DJ’s own?
“I know a cleaning service,” said DJ, thinking of his cousin, Sylvia, who now ran her own empire, Felicidad Maid Service. “Maybe we can get an agreement from this list of caretakers and Mr. Worthington to have his house cleaned once a month or so.”
Talbot was still frowning. “But what about the socialization?”
“Talbot, I think society left Mr. Worthington behind years ago. Maybe even before the accident. He may not be eager to re-up.”
“Well, it’s not too late to try,” said Talbot, snatching the Worthington contact list from DJ’s hands.
Their conversation was curtailed by the arrival of the police car. Talbot greeted the two officers who conferred with him on the sidewalk. The male officer, Ricardo Hermosillo, gave a short nod to DJ and returned to the car. The female officer, Maria Lopez, the list now in hand, joined Talbot and DJ as they reentered the house. Officer Lopez looked around the dark interior and at Warren Worthington without a side-eye glance or sniffle at the sickly sweet smell of sugar mold.
“Mr. Worthington, we have a police car outside to watch over you,” DJ said.
“Nnnoooo,” Warren moaned.
“Just for a day or two.” DJ knelt down beside the man. “Mr. Worthington, I don’t want to frighten you. But this . . . monster is still out there. He’s hurt two people. We don’t want him to hurt you.”
Warren shook his head and again quietly moaned. “Nooo.”
“This is Officer Lopez. We’re going to check all the doors and windows, make sure everything is secure. We’d like Officer Lopez to stay here in the living room, by the front door.” Lopez was in her late twenties, with long black hair pulled back into a ponytail, warm brown eyes, and a no-nonsense attitude. She shook Warren Worthington’s good hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Worthington.”
He looked at the woman and, after a moment, gave her a sweet crooked smile.
“Waaarrrn, Ohm Waaaarren.”
To Worthington, she looked like a younger version of Mrs. Mendoza. His angel mother.
Officer Lopez smiled back. “Hi, Warren, you can call me Maria.” She turned to DJ. “I think we’ll be fine here, sir.”
DJ and Talbot checked out the rest of the first floor. The cluttered kitchen had a door that exited on an overgrown backyard. It also had three dead bolts. Most of the windows were rusted shut. As DJ and Talbot readied to leave Worthington’s house, Officer Lopez turned on lamps, gathered soda bottles, half-empty glasses, and headed to the kitchen. This wasn’t expected of her, but she wasn’t the type to sit around. Warren watched her, at first warily, then relaxed. This was just what Mrs. Mendoza did, chiding Warren for not putting things away, but always with kindness and a ready smile. He barely acknowledged DJ and Talbot’s departure.
Talbot gave a quick wave to Officer Hermosillo in the black-and-white police cruiser. He would be there through the night, watching over the tumbledown Worthington house.
A block away, another cruiser watched over Danny’s house and Fern Lake.
The detectives returned to the car, where Evidence waited patiently. DJ felt an electric current run up his spine. The comic books were tucked into his coat pocket and the evidence bag containing the bloodstained blanket was in the back seat. Talbot would send it to the lab for DNA testing.
The results would take weeks, but DJ was certain it contained the blood of Will Bloom and maybe DNA evidence of the murderer.
As Talbot drove back to Hesperia, DJ was quiet. All along, this had been a premeditated, cold-blooded murder. At first, DJ surmised the murderer had made a panicked escape away from the scene of the crime, ending up in the olive grove by accident. But what if the path was carefully planned by someone who knew the campus intimately, the regular comings and goings of students on a school night? It was highly unlikely anyone would be walking through the dark olive grove at night. Why Fern Lake was on that side of campus and took the unlit shortcut to her residence hall was still unclear. But if Fern Lake hadn’t taken that path, if Worthington hadn’t followed her, the murderer may have escaped with no witnesses or evidence.
But where was the murderer headed? If they were running across campus, through the olive grove, what was on the other side? The street that bordered Hesperia?
“Talbot, where does Campus Road on the west side of Hesperia terminate?” DJ asked.
Talbot had spent hours searching the grove and beyond looking for the blanket. “It dead-ends into a trail that leads up to Malo Hill, then down the other side into a park, a recreation center, and the local high school.”
“Could someone make it down that path in the dark?”
Talbot thought it over. “It would be tough at night, but if you had a flashlight and knew your way, you could do it.”
Along the street that bordered the Hesperia campus was an affluent neighborhood perched on a hillside.
“All right,” said DJ, “and Precipice Drive veers off Campus Road and circles the hill. The college owns several of those houses, and they’re occupied by neighbors, faculty, and staff.”
Both men were quiet. The murderer could have been a campus employee heading for the safety of home or someone escaping into another neighborhood.
Something, if not someone, was starting to form in DJ’s mind. A murderer was right under their noses. Someone not only dangerous, but daring. They wouldn’t hesitate to kill again. Talbot pulled into campus and parked outside Sliming.
“Talbot,” DJ said. “Make sure that each of the patrols stay in place until the new shift is briefed and takes over.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And have each of them personally check on the safety of Warren Worthington and Fern Lake before they head out. I want verbal and visual identification on each witness at shift change. Text me when each rotation takes place.”
“Of course, sir,” Talbot said. “They’re good cops on both teams.”
“They better be,” DJ said. “This murderer has killed twice. I don’t think he or she will hesitate to do it again.”
DJ grabbed Evidence and headed for his truck. “Get a good night’s sleep, Talbot. We have the president’s meeting to attend bright and early.”
“Yes, sir,” said Talbot. “All the usual suspects in one room.”
DJ thought it over. “You’re right,” he said. “Let’s get there early to prep. See you at seven thirty.”
“Yes, sir,” said Talbot.
DJ was glad Talbot’s focus was back on the case and away from Warren Worthington’s house. Away from the question of what kind of life is worth living.
That night DJ drank no beer, watched no television. He read through the witness reports and the very good and methodical police work of Detective Talbot. Nestled beside him, Evidence slept, tucked into the cushions of the sofa. Before DJ fell asleep, he paged through the comic books that Worthington had given him. One was titled The Avenging Angel, a lantern-jawed superhero with wings. The comic book hero’s real name was actually Warren Worthington III.
DJ wondered if Warren’s parents knew they named their son after a Marvel character. DJ thought not. There wasn’t one iota of whimsy in that threadbare, broken-down house.
The other comic book Worthington gave him was a DC Batman comic. The hooded figure, Warren’s monster, was named Azrael. DJ knew his comic book universe as much as any red-blooded American male. He had collected Batman comics as a boy and had liked the DC moniker, Detective Comics.
He vaguely remembered Azrael, a dark hooded figure, his face obscured by the shadow of a hood. DJ looked up the name and comic on the internet. Azrael was a member of a group of assassins in the DC universe and became a minor character in the Batman series.
He looked up the name by itself, Azrael, on the Internet. Azrael: the angel of death in Islam and in some Jewish texts. A gruesome and menacing figure in both contexts. A harbinger of the end.
The monster, according to Warren Worthington. The murderer to DJ. He looked at the comic book again; a dark hooded figure, face obscured by shadow and a hood.
It was the last image in his mind as DJ, Evidence at his side, fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
CHAPTER 47
Meeting with the President
I.
DJ and Evidence arrived on campus at 7:30 a.m. An early morning text confirmed both witnesses, Fern Lake and Warren Worthington, were secure.
Talbot was already at Sliming with Officers Browning and Butter, straightening up the conference room, clearing the table. The president’s meeting would now take place in the Wick Conference Room, their temporary headquarters, the largest space on campus to accommodate all the guests. Talbot had okayed the move.
“Some employees need to bring family members or friends for support,” said Talbot. “The president’s office wants us to know this has been tough on everyone.”
“No shit,” said DJ.
Cafeteria staff arrived with carafes of fresh coffee, breakfast pastries, fruit. Normally, caffeine and sugar would have delighted DJ, but today, delight was in short supply.
This was President Reese’s party with DJ as guest mouthpiece.
Evidence retreated to a quiet corner of the room, laid down, kept a watchful eye on the goings-on.
The two detectives stepped outside to discuss their strategy. DJ’s role was to reassure the Hesperia community that all was safe, but he had his own plans for the meeting.
“All right, Talbot, when it’s our turn, I’ll take the lead. Your role is to observe. If I throw a question to you, only respond in the affirmative or negative, stay out of any political fray.”
“I thought LT SS wanted everyone reassured,” said Talbot.
“We’re here to catch a killer. One of the attendees has to be the murderer. Reassurance won’t get us anywhere.”
Talbot grimaced.
At eight forty-five, the first to arrive were Danny Mendoza, in street clothes, and Fern Lake, in an oversized button-down shirt and jeans. They were accompanied by sleep-deprived police escorts. Talbot talked to the officers, then whispered to DJ, “Daniel Mendoza was asked to attend. Fern Lake insisted on coming with him.”
The officers grabbed a cup of coffee and returned to their car.
The couple, in silent agreement, broke apart, moved to opposite ends of the lengthy conference room table, Danny at the head, Fern at the foot. DJ shrugged. He was relieved to have eyes on his witness. Perhaps Miss Lake would see something among the attendees that would trigger a remembrance of Thursday evening. He made a mental note that a convict-gardener and a college coed had zero chance at a long-term relationship. That made him feel better.
