A punishing breed, p.8
A Punishing Breed, page 8
“Officer Benson asked me that too. I called Campus Safety on the emergency phone as soon as I was inside my dorm. When I told him what happened, he asked me if it might be the Wiccans.”
“What are Wiccans?” asked DJ.
“They practice pagan witchcraft,” said Talbot. “They worship the goddess.”
DJ stared daggers at Talbot. Bobtail was a vestibule of useless knowledge. Wiccans, Buddhists, guardian angels; he was surrounded by religious nuts.
“There’s a group at Hesperia,” said Fern. “Sometimes they meet in the grove. Mostly women.”
“Okay. Do you think this was the Wiccan group?” asked DJ. “Maybe you interrupted one of their gatherings?”
“This wasn’t women casting spells,” said Fern. “This was something else. Something evil. It wanted to hurt me.”
“Maybe kidnap you?” asked DJ.
“I don’t know, the more I think about it, I wonder if I was just in its way. Like it was trying to get somewhere and it stumbled over me,” said Fern. “And there was that smell.”
“That what?” Talbot asked.
Fern looked at DJ, then Talbot. “The thing is, I know what the smell was, on the thing it threw over me. It was blood.”
“You smelled blood?” asked DJ. “Or you think so now because you were covered in it?”
“My mom died when I was twelve. She had a bleeding disorder. She was pregnant. I found her when I came home from school.” Fern Lake was quiet, thoughts inward, reliving something from long ago. “I recognized it, but didn’t understand it.”
“Understand what?” asked DJ.
“That smell. When I came home that day and found my mother. She’d hemorrhaged. She’d fallen and kept trying to get up. She’d crawled all over the house.”
“You don’t have to talk about that now,” said DJ.
“We think she was trying to find her phone as she bled out. Blood was everywhere.”
“I’m sorry this brought that memory back,” said Talbot.
“Yeah,” said DJ. “You don’t have to relive that.”
“But it was that smell,” said Fern. “Strong and coppery. You know?”
“Yes,” said DJ. “I know it.”
“It was death,” said Fern. “Whoever attacked me last night was covered in it, covered in that smell.”
CHAPTER 15
Dollar Socks
DJ stood up. He wanted out of the room. He nodded at Talbot. Let Bobtail walk the young woman out and give her the 411. What kind of name was Fern anyway? What’s wrong with the name Ferencia? God, he wanted a cigarette. No, he wanted a beer, preceded by a shot of tequila. Then a cigarette.
There was an exterior door at the end of the office suite. He took it. The story of Fern Lake’s mother got under his skin. His Grandma Amelia had died alone. A stroke. Blood everywhere. She was on the back porch, where she did laundry. She fought hard to stay alive.
After her death, his mother, Cari, short for Caridad, Spanish for Charity, went through his beloved grandma’s house like a bulldozer. She demanded DJ be present to “help out.” Truth was, DJ wanted to be there. He would stand witness to his grandmother’s treasures even if she didn’t need them anymore. The old timber house felt fragile without her, as if a strong wind would carry it away.
He felt his grandma’s presence as if at any moment she might walk in and say, “Hola, mijo.”
She was everywhere, her baby-powder scent on the sheets, the clear plastic tablecloth protecting the fine hand-embroidered linen on the dining room table, her freshly cooked enchiladas in the fridge. DJ threw them in the trash. You can’t eat a person’s last intended meal. His mother, Charity, for once kept silent.
He always called his mother Charity.
It didn’t suit her.
She was a person who kept busy organizing, putting things in their places, slamming drawers. That’s how she dealt with life. She’d punished a rebellious boy by slamming things, a yardstick on his fingers, an open hand across his mouth, a book that hit his head. One day DJ had retreated to Grandma Amelia’s house with a bloody nose and stayed there.
“Let’s start with the bedroom,” Charity said.
DJ watched mutely as she piled his grandmother’s white cotton panties into a trash bag. They reminded DJ of innocence, as if his grandmother never grew beyond her twelve-year-old self. Maybe there were years of silk and lace, but he didn’t want to believe it.
“You take this drawer.”
DJ knew her impatience was due to the fact that his aunts, Hope and Faith, would soon arrive to fight over the linen, old jewelry, and china. Keepsakes of their idealized childhood. DJ didn’t have one of those.
He shook open the plastic trash bag and started shoving in the white rolled socks. One pair was a black sock and a white sock. Because he had his own sense of order, he pulled them apart. That’s when DJ found four twenty-dollar bills rolled inside. His mother perked up at that. She dumped all the socks on the bed and started unrolling each pair. DJ jumped in. By the time they reached the bottom of the drawer, they had eight hundred and twenty dollars in cash and countless orphan socks. His mother started unfolding the underwear.
When the aunts arrived, the cash disappeared into his mother’s oversized purse.
“We’ll deal with this later,” she whispered. DJ didn’t care. As his aunts and mother bickered over the remnants of his grandmother’s jewelry, he cleaned up the enclosed back porch off the kitchen.
His grandmother died beneath the yellow laundry sorting table wedged into the corner. She had struggled after the stroke, fell, and hit her head. She must have tried to rise up over and over again. Blood was everywhere, the sick-sweet coppery smell Fern Lake had described. He shut the door to the kitchen and the women’s arguments. DJ wept as he scrubbed the floors and adjoining wall.
In the end, for Charity, Hope, and Faith, it was all for nothing. His grandmother had a will and left everything, including her house, to DJ and Faith’s son, Frankie. By that point, there was no Frankie, so it all went to DJ. He didn’t care about the cash, linens, china, let his mother and her sisters fight over those. He kept the mantel clock that he used to wind for Grandma Amelia each morning when he was a boy. It ran five minutes late.
He sold the house because the person that saved his childhood, who loved him, had died there. He bought a new house for his wife, Lillian, for their life to begin.
Memory made his heart ache. His grandma’s house was gone, and his own home felt hollow and fragile, as if a strong wind might carry him away.
CHAPTER 16
Campus Politics
DJ sat in the conference room drinking coffee. It was set up as their temporary headquarters, visible by thermos carafes, Styrofoam cups, a bag of fruit from the Buddhist, and a box of doughnuts scattered across the table. Two patrol officers had left to search the olive grove and found nothing of interest.
DJ read a message on his phone. The forensics team found drops of blood on the carpet around the staircase that Ema Treet had attempted to clean earlier. They matched the rare blood type, O-negative, to Will Bloom. The same blood type on Fern Lake’s backpack and clothes. It would take weeks for DNA results, but it was clear Fern Lake had tangled with the murderer.
He considered this as he stared out the window watching students head to class, lunch, or destinations unknown. Girls with giraffe-like legs visible beneath short-shorts and boys with haystack hair peeking out under baseball caps strolled by. Even on a fall day, most students wore flip-flops as if there were a campus-wide ban on wearing shoes.
Hedy Scacht suggested Hesperia’s president had protected Will Bloom. DJ wanted to interview the president ASAP, set parameters on the murder investigation. He’d sent Talbot to set up the meeting.
The former Hesperia College president, the one DJ dealt with ten years ago, was an old gray-hair named Jordan White. He was hands-off with the suspect, gave DJ carte blanche.
“Church and state,” White had said. “You lead the way, young man, and we’ll deal with the consequences.”
That was music to DJ’s ears. Later, DJ realized that his suspect, Daniel Mendoza, was inconsequential to President White. He was the son of an employee, Isabelle Mendoza, the head chef, not a rich kid with a donor parent who could sue Hesperia College. The frat boys who poured whiskey down Danny’s throat came from wealthy families. President White went to bat for them. But Danny could be hung out to dry, to atone for all sins. The case helped DJ’s career but soured him on Hesperia College.
A quick knock on the door brought DJ out of his reverie. Talbot escorted a tall, boney woman with a cap of smooth black hair into the conference room. DJ felt the coffee sour in his belly. The woman wore a Scandinavian sweater over a gray skirt, turquoise tights anchored by red clogs. Not likely one of Will Bloom’s conquests unless the dead man had a stronger stomach than DJ did.
“Detective Arias,” said Talbot. “This is Larissa Wren. She’s the president’s secretary.”
Larissa’s face, bare of makeup, was the human personification of an owl; bushy, close-knit eyebrows, amber irises in round unblinking eyes. Heavy black glasses sat on a sharp beak of a nose. She wore a severe haircut, more monkish than modern.
“Executive assistant,” said the woman. “You may address me as Larissa. President Reese will see you now, Detective Arias.”
“We’re finishing up preliminary interviews,” DJ said, glancing at his watch. He didn’t like to be ordered around, and he wanted to finish his coffee. “Give me ten minutes.”
Her eyelids, naked of embellishment and perhaps lashes, finally blinked.
“Now would be best.”
DJ was about to protest, but her stare unnerved him. Larissa Wren was a woman who completed her mission with an unwavering belief in the power from above. In this case, the third floor, where president was king.
“I’m sure your staff will understand your absence,” said Larissa.
DJ caught a smirk from Talbot that disappeared so quickly he might have imagined it.
“I need the president to answer a few questions right away,” said DJ, trying to wrestle back control of the situation. “So by all means, lead the way.”
“President Reese was devastated by the passing of Mr. Bloom. He has a full day of meetings, but he had me clear the next thirty minutes to meet with you.”
“A whole thirty minutes,” said DJ as they left the conference room, “of devastation.”
“Thirty minutes for you, Detective,” said Larissa. “The devastation is ongoing. Please follow me.”
She was impervious to sarcasm.
DJ admired that.
The third-floor executive lobby was a rotunda, the decor vintage 1960s. Under the domed ceiling, polished wood counters housed a reception area. Beige Berber carpet covered the floor and bright blue and orange leather cushions graced midcentury chairs that had seen better days.
“Wait here, please,” Larissa said in a whisper. She disappeared into a side office. As DJ sat down, he heard a muffled knock and hushed voices.
She reappeared immediately.
“President Reese is ready to see you.”
DJ rose and followed the woman through an inner reception area, past another minion’s desk, and through a tall oak doorframe. The president’s offices took up half the third story. A compact man with an athletic build and a mane of Kennedyesque hair stood before them. He immediately held out his hand.
“William Reese,” he said. “Please call me Bill.”
He had a firm grip, bright blue eyes, and an open youthful face beneath his chestnut wave of hair. DJ guessed “please call me Bill” was in his midforties. Young for a college president. DJ couldn’t detect the thirty minutes of devastation.
“I’m Detective Arias.”
“I’ll close the door,” said Larissa as she disappeared into the outer office.
“Detective Arias, this is a terrible tragedy for the college and for me personally.”
“You and Mr. Bloom were good friends?”
“Will was a colleague. He came on board several years ago. This is a terrible shock.” “Bill” clenched his jaw and lowered his eyes in a show of the aforementioned devastation.
“So you weren’t personal friends. You didn’t know his family or women friends?”
“No, no, no,” said the president. “Well, I know he had an ex-wife, no children. His ex lives on the East Coast, I believe.”
“You can provide us with her information?” asked DJ.
“Yes, Larissa will send it to you,” said Reese. “We’ve been trying to reach her. Please sit down. I want to hear your thoughts on Will’s death. Hedy said that you don’t believe it was an accident?”
The president led DJ to a circle of leather chairs around a center table. On its surface stood ceramic bowls of blueberries, shelled pistachios, and flower buds. DJ wondered if a Japanese tea service would arrive.
They sat down opposite each other.
“There’s no possibility,” said DJ, “of accident or suicide.”
“No,” said Bill Reese. “Will wasn’t the type for suicide.”
“So perhaps you and Will Bloom were more than colleagues?”
“I just meant that Will was very sure of himself. It made him a damn good fundraiser. One of the best. It’s not easy raising money for a small liberal arts college committed to social justice and community.”
“From a search of Will Bloom’s office and conversations with witnesses, it appears Mr. Bloom’s community focus was on the ladies. Did you ever hear rumors of that?”
Bill Reese’s set smile tightened until there was a white ring around his lips.
“President Reese?”
“Look, Will Bloom was the best fundraiser in the business. Raising money is a top priority; this college lives on a razor’s edge. I needed the best.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“This is confidential. It wasn’t until about nine months after I hired Will that I realized he had personal issues. They didn’t interfere with his job performance.”
“What were those personal issues?”
President Reese formed a triangle with his two hands. He stared into his improvised steeple of fingers, searching for an answer. “I don’t want to gossip about a dead man.”
“A murdered man,” said DJ. “It’s not gossip. Your information could lead to his killer.”
“I doubt that.”
“Please,” said DJ, “go on.”
Bill Reese leaned forward, combed manicured fingernails through his glossy wave of hair, and came to a decision.
“Will drank. A lot. It got out of control and I addressed it. He curbed the drinking, but he didn’t entirely stop. An occupational hazard. It comes with the job. I’ve never seen more consumption of alcohol in my life than in the pursuit of raising money.”
“Mr. Bloom has whiskey bottles under his desk,” said DJ.
“Not a good idea,” said Bill Reese. “But not unheard of. Donors drop by after work.”
“He also had an open box of condoms in his bottom desk drawer, along with women’s lingerie. More donors dropping by?”
Reese’s face went pale. “I would have no way of knowing that.”
“He didn’t pursue women on campus? Have sex in his office?”
“Not to my knowledge,” said Bill Reese. “I can’t know what each employee is doing on campus. But we have very strict rules about administrator/student relationships. Anyone abusing that rule would be immediately dismissed.”
“But if Mr. Bloom was sleeping with anyone other than a student in his office? No big deal?”
“Of course it would be a big deal,” he said. “If I had known. If he was caught. Not just gossip.”
“Or maybe he was just too good at raising money?” asked DJ.
“Are you accusing me of something, Detective Arias?” said the president. “Bill’s” tight smile turned into a snarl. “Shouldn’t you be finding Will Bloom’s murderer instead of insinuating something about my character?”
DJ barely suppressed a smile of satisfaction. There can only be one big dog in the yard, and it wasn’t going to be “Just call me Bill.”
“I’m sorry,” said DJ. “Just doing my job. Mr. Bloom was killed before or during sex. And in his office.”
“What?” said the president. “I didn’t know that.”
DJ thought there were a lot of things that “Bill” conveniently did not know. “Can you tell me,” asked DJ, “where you were last night from 5:30 p.m. until around 5:30 a.m. today?”
“Why? You can’t think I had anything to do with Will Bloom’s death.”
“Maybe you found out what he was up to and decided to stop him?”
The snarl returned. “I was in a very public meeting at Eagle Rock Library with faculty and community members last night until ten o’clock. And then I went home to my wife and children. Just for the record, Will Bloom was heterosexual, as am I.”
“Good to know,” said DJ. “We’ll check your alibi and . . . I’ll take your word, for now, on the other thing.”
DJ couldn’t keep the sarcastic smile from his face.
A knock at the door. President Reese tried to once again become “Bill,” the in control politician. He settled for pale fury.
“Come in.”
Larissa Wren stepped in; a heat-seeking owl protecting King Owl. “John Lonica is here. Is everything all right, sir?”
DJ’s thirty minutes must be up. He felt the interview went well.
“Everything is fine,” President Reese said tersely. “Bring him in. I’ve asked John to join us for the last ten minutes of our meeting. He’s our Head of Communications. I want to make sure we get the right message out to the community about this terrible loss. Detective Arias, meet John Lonica.”
Lonica was a tall, thin, no-nonsense man, his smile slight as his silhouette. He shook DJ’s hand and folded his long legs to fit into one of the low chairs surrounding the small circular table. He carried a reporter’s notebook and a pencil.
“Now, John,” Bill Reese said to the communications man, “the important thing we want to convey to our trustees, parents, faculty, and larger community is that our students are in no danger.”
