he probably would not be the one who had to tell them. That’s what lieutenants were for.
Several questions nagged and gnawed at Slore, questions he knew had to be answered. Why was this victim’s body brought here? Why here? Why to this side of town? This was the second body. The Smith boy was left just a few blocks away. Why had both of the bodies been hauled to the area surrounding the Alamodome? The press had already tagged the first murder, The Alamodome Murder. Who? What? When? Where? Why? How? These were the questions even rookie policemen understood needed to be answered to solve any crime. “The note! Lieutenant, read that note to me.”
“And the Yeled grew and was weaned, and Abraham made a great feast the same day that Isaac was weaned.”
“Well, from the other note, we know that a Yeled is a young boy or a child. What do you think, Lieutenant? Has anybody checked with a rabbi on this?”
“Grab the ball, Slore. Go find a rabbi. Then you can ask him. It’s got to be another quotation from the Bible.” Grimes continued, “Quotes from the Bible seem mighty odd at a murder!”
The two men walked up the trail that was made today by investigators, as they rushed in and stumbled out of the vacant lot. Neither spoke. Both men consumed by inner rage, disgust, and sorrow. Slore lifted the yellow POLICE CRIME SCENE tape for Grimes. “You want me to talk to them or do you want to?” The Lieutenant stared at the mob of TV, radio, and newspaper reporters that were held back by two uniformed officers. “You talk. What a bunch of maggots they are.”
Slore nodded and turned to face the rush of reporters. Then quickly, taking only two minutes, Slore gave the press a rundown of the boy’s murder. Once he let his feelings show and referred to the murderer as a sick and perverted creep. He knew better. But it’s the truth. That creep’s a sick and perverted slime ball. He’d told his wife, Kelly that very thing this morning while they were dressing for work. She agreed, but cautioned him not to talk that way in the house. Joey might hear him. “You know how fifteen-year-old boys are,” she’d said. He nodded, but he didn’t regret saying it. He gave the pushing horde of reporters a statement, with as little information as he thought he could get away with, and didn’t answer any of their questions. Slore felt almost rude turning away like he did to follow the Lieutenant to the car. “The media and police investigations mix about like oil and water,” Grimes said. Suddenly he looked past the throng of reporters. “No matter how often you see a dead child your heart is squeezed. These two murders are the worst I’ve ever seen. They’re like some kind of devil worship or maybe Jamaican, Santeria. What do you think?”
Slore was slow to answer. He unlocked the car door and felt the oven‑like heat hit his face. “They have to be some kind of voodoo or why else would they cut the middle finger off? And why is a Bible verse left near the body?” Frowning, he remembered seeing reports recently that several graves had been unearthed and wondered if there could be any connection. Maybe they are some type of cult worship and sacrifices? “You know, I think we ought to look into those grave desecration cases the Sheriff’s Office is investigating. I heard the middle finger of the corpse was taken in some of those. There may be a connection. I don’t believe in coincidences.”
Grimes shook his head, “You got it. Police 101, there’s a rhyme and reason for everything.”
Cool air from the sedan’s air conditioner felt good, even icy, as it mixed with drops of perspiration on Slore’s face. The blue Ford, with no hubcaps and black wall tires, turned left into the parking lot next to the San Antonio Police Station. Slore parked near a lamppost with the hope of a little shade falling on the vinyl seats. The twenty-minute ride from the side street near the Alamodome had been a time to be quiet, to think. Slore thought of his only child, Joey. If something like this happened to Joey, he didn’t know if he could take it or not.
As they entered the building through the rear door, Grimes said, “I’ve never seen anything like that! That pervert just bit it off.” Maybe it was the heat or maybe the sight of the torn, bloody, gaping hole in a young boy, whatever the reason, Grimes felt sick and, as soon as they entered the building, he went straight to the Men’s Room.
Slore dropped into his chair and turned on the computer screen. Today the chair felt good, like an old friend. His now wrinkled sports coat hung wet and saggy from his broad shoulders. His tie was crammed into one of the pockets. Today even the detective’s office felt cool and good, a haven after a storm. When the Medical Examiner’s office first told Slore that victim number one, Tommy Lee Smith, had bled to death from being bitten, he felt nauseated and was afraid he would pass out. Now, after seeing the results of another child gnawed to death, the shock seemed to settle around him and grow worse.
As Slore started to type, he called to Randy Hoffman. “Randy, check with Missing Persons and see if they have a thirteen or fourteen-year-old white male reported missing. This kid has brown hair, brown eyes. He’s fitted with braces. Also, better check with Juvenile.”
Detective Randy Hoffman nodded and walked toward the door, flipping a paper ball in the general direction of the trash basket. “Lots of blood at this one,” Hoffman said as he stopped and winked at the homicide’s secretary, Lucy Rodriguez. Then he was gone and it was quiet.
Slore felt tremendous pressure to solve these cases. He often wondered if maybe he had been in the police business too long. He chewed on the inside of his lip then picked up the phone to call Intelligence for files on cult activities when suddenly, he felt weak. Slowly his mind faded. First came the black, then the red rolled in to his mind. He gasped a hollow breath. Take a deep breath and it’ll pass, he thought, as he dialed his home phone number instead.
The phone rang only once before he heard the click of the receiver. It was picked up and answered with a familiar purr. Slore smiled as he heard his wife’s almost too sexy voice. Kelly should have been a DJ instead of a legal secretary, he thought. She was a lovely, open book of romantic poems. Not too tall, with light and soft auburn hair. Her hazel eyes sparkled with flecks of yellow and green. They would celebrate seventeen years of marriage next week.
He recalled that during the Christmas holidays they had talked about adding to their own family before it was too late. Kelly wanted another boy, but he had yearned for a little girl this time. He felt contented as he remembered those happy times. Joey had begged for a motorcycle for Christmas and had a hard time hiding his disappointment when he received a watch and boots under the tree. Now that seemed so far away, and something he could not figure out had changed in his relationship with Kelly. She now seemed a little distant, and she no longer talked about a second child. He told Kelley he’d be late then hung up the phone as Grimes came through the door.
Grimes’s flat face had regained its normal color. Letting the Homicide Office door slam behind him, he walked straight to Slore’s desk and reached over for the stack of missing person’s reports. Someone had told Slore that Grimes’s mother was an Eskimo and that his family, on his father’s side, had migrated from Russia. That could explain his expressionless Asian face.
“Sergeant, pack it up and go on home,” Grimes said. “I need you to cover for me tomorrow. I’ve got breakfast with the chief and the mayor in the morning. They want a complete update and you’ll have to run the show till I get back.” Grimes grunted and sat on the edge of Slore’s desk.
“Are you sure? I can stay and check out the missing persons reports before I go.”
“No, get out of here. Now! See you tomorrow. Hoffman can follow up on these files. Can’t you, Randy?” Sometimes Grimes enjoyed his authority. Tonight the Lieutenant displayed the patience of two town dogs waiting for table scraps, as he held the reports out for Hoffman.
Slore thought, Kelly and Joey will be surprised. What good fortune, just what I needed. Maybe a night off will help me forget. His head spun for a second. Relax, you idiot, he told himself as he shrugged his shoulders. I’ll call her and we can go to that Mexican restaurant on West Avenue. No, I think I’ll stop for Chinese take-out, and then drive home with the surprise. If I hurry, she’ll just be finishing her exercises. Joey will be starved, he always is, and he does love Chinese.
Slore