Benign Intent

By R. Heise

    Why were these people--these apparently random people--murdered so respectfully, so gently? Why would someone kill them at all? That is the question Detective Gabe Taglio wants to know!      With his partner, Paul Hannon, Detective Taglio investigates a series of definitely "benign" killings in their city. It is only after some inconclusive investigations that the detectives appreciate the connection between the murders occurring in their city and the murders of a previous generation--the Holocaust of World War II.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hillcrest Media Group
• Release date: Oct 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9781634131667

Book preview

Glatstein

Chapter One

The naked body lay in a fetal position in the small stand of winter-barren birch trees, just off the River Corridor bikeway. Her long blond hair had blown across her face, obscuring all her lovely features. A gentle, late November snow was falling, causing her body to take on the same, soft, muted contours as the fallen branches scattered around her. The whole scene was extremely peaceful--a winter benediction of snow and silence.

In a stack behind the crook of her knees sat the neatly folded pile of her clothes. She had worn heavy gray sweatpants, a darker shade of gray Jockey bikini underwear and a white jogging bra. Over that she had layered a long-sleeved white silk turtleneck from L.L. Bean, a well-worn, lightly faded Ohio State sweatshirt, and a navy blue, fleece-lined waterproof parka. Navy mittens and a red ski band protruded from the pile. Old white Reebok jogging shoes topped the stack of folded clothing. Her gray sweat socks, one tucked into each shoe, were now drooping out like the ears of the Energizer bunny--long out of power.

All very neat. As he turned away with a slight smile, he thought the woman had probably never folded her clothes that neatly in her entire life. Now there would be no second chances.

Death does that.

* * *

Gabe adjusted the flame under the pot of boiling water. It felt strange to be home at this hour, stranger still to be cooking. He had left the downtown precinct around 2:30 today, using some of his comp time to leave a couple of hours earlier, since things downtown were fairly slow. He'd caught up on some paper work after getting home, and felt good about that, but soon found his mind wandering to Anne. He was concerned about her and her relentless stress at work. If he couldn't focus on the paperwork, he thought he might as well cook. Being creative with food was always a stress reliever for him. He loved to dabble in the kitchen, but seldom had the time. Gabe knew he could think about Anne while he cooked and he wouldn't botch the meal. He couldn't say the same for the persistent paper work.

When Gabe left the priesthood ten years ago, he really had no inkling of what he was going to do with the rest of his life--where he would live or even how he would make that living. From the time he was fourteen and first entered the Franciscan Order until he left seventeen years later, someone else had made all his decisions for him. That someone else had also paid his bills, chosen his clothing, told him where and how to live, and cooked, cleaned, and adjusted the thermostat for him.

Buying his first pair of socks on his own had been a traumatic experience--and time consuming. Years later, whenever he remembered that day, he always shook his head with wry disbelief. After driving to the mall, it had taken him an hour of roaming around inside to even choose which store to go into. Then he had been overwhelmed by the sheer quantity of choices in socks. Before, when he needed socks, he just told someone, and the socks appeared. Never had he had to make a choice about length, style, material, patterns, color, manufacturer, and price! Finally, after much angst, it occurred to Gabe that, no matter what choice he made, the world would not come to a terrifying halt--at least in this simple matter of buying socks.

Two months later, an old grade school buddy, Paul Hannon, had tracked him down. The phone call from Paul had started Gabe's life in a new direction. After a cursory update on their last 18 years, Paul asked him to come up to Sycamore Falls, Ohio, to consult on a police matter he was involved in. A priest was a suspect in a murder case, and Gabe was asked to lend his particular insight and experience to help solve the case. Gabe was glad for the respite from looking for work and trying to find a focus for his life, and he quickly said yes. Two days later, Gabe and his almost-new socks were off to join Paul.

After an intensive three weeks of working with Paul and his police cronies, Gabe was hooked. It took him only six months to complete his training, and three years later he made detective. He really loved his work. Besides feeling that he was doing some good, he enjoyed the camaraderie with the other men and women in his department. It was akin to the closeness he felt to the priests in his Order--something he had missed since leaving--that sense of belonging.

* * *

Gabe heard the sound of the garage door opening. He skillfully slid the fettuccine into the boiling water, gave it a stir, and turned to greet his wife as she came from the back hall into the kitchen. Anne put her tote bag on the floor and silently went into Gabe's arms.

Bad day? he asked, even though he knew the answer before he asked. Her only response was to cling to him a little tighter, a little longer.

Yum, what smells so good? She asked, letting him go and turning her attention to the stove.

Shrimp, olive oil, fresh basil, and chopped tomatoes and freshly grated Parmesan. The fettuccine will be ready in about eight minutes.

I should come home late more often! Anne said as she slipped off her coat, picked up her tote bag and went to put them away. She came back and began to set the table.

Bad day? Gabe asked again.

Oh, about normal, I guess. But then bad is the norm anymore. All day I kept wanting to check the calendar for a full moon. Gabe saw a flash of a grin on her face, but it didn't last long. The kids were wild, distracted, not tuning in. And on top of it all, I got a new student today. She's eight years old, has been badly sexually abused, and both parents are alcoholics. She's now in a foster home, and I'm supposed to get her interested in reading. No sweat, right? I spent most of the day trying to make her understand that she could not roam around the room any time she wanted, and also trying to make her feel safe and trust me. Anne said all this with a half smile on her face, but her dark brown eyes were bright with a hint of tears.

Anne was a special education teacher at Wright Creek Elementary School. This was her fifteenth year of waging a daily, low-level war with the effects of genes, drugs, alcohol, apathy, bad parenting, and poverty. You name it, it was there. She won lots of battles, but the war was never ending. Each year that she taught, she became more discouraged, more beaten down. She only had the kids for six hours a day, and then she had to send them back to the very cause of many of her students’ problems.

There you are, you big ol' lug, said Anne as she bent and scooped up Rascal, nuzzling his furry face. Are you here because you missed me, or are you trying to soften us up because you smell shrimp?

Rascal purred so loudly that both Anne and Gabe burst out laughing.

What would we do without you, Hunk? said Anne, kissing Rascal between his ears and plopping him back on the floor. He lay down right where he was and Gabe and Anne had to keep stepping over him while they brought the food to the table. He didn't mind and neither did they.

In return for their rescuing him from a busy highway when he was just a hand-full of a kitten, and giving him a home, food and love, Rascal repaid them with his unconditional love and ability to always make them feel better, no matter what their mood.

While they ate, they chatted about their respective work days, finalizing next week's Thanksgiving plans, and talking about what they wanted to do over the upcoming Christmas holiday. They both wanted to see the new Denzel Washington movie that was showing at the nearby mall. In between, they fed Rascal tidbits of shrimp.

During their conversation, Gabe's mind kept drifting back to when he had first met Anne.

He had been assigned to investigate a robbery at her school. Ten brand new computers and printers had been stolen--nothing major by big city standards but a big deal to the staff and students at Wright Creek. After the case was over, they began to see each other socially and eleven months later they were married. No doubts for either one of them--not then, not now. That had been seven years ago, and the only regret they ever expressed was wishing that they had met sooner.

Gabe began to stroke his salt and pepper beard, and Anne noticed it. Okay, what's up? she surprised him by asking.

He looked at her with loving amazement and saw the laughter in her eyes. She loved to read him like that, before he ever spoke.

I love you, you know that? he said.

Yes, I know that! Now, stop stalling and tell me what's going on?

Do you remember me mentioning the name John LaForž?

When she shook her head, he continued. He was one of my college history teachers in the seminary, a really good man, and an excellent teacher. Well, he called me today and asked me to give a lecture series. The topic is: Law versus Morality--An Historical Perspective.' It would be once a week for six weeks. His health is failing, and he's afraid he won't be up for it--so he asked me to fill in for him. It would start the first week in February and go to mid-March. Whaddyuh think?"

Anne paused only a second before answering.

I think it's great! You've got historical dates and names and events running through your veins instead of blood anyway. You'd be perfect. Maybe if I come and listen to you, I might even find something to whet my interest in history.

The ringing of the phone in Gabe's den precluded any further conversation. When he returned to the kitchen, he was putting on his coat. I've got to go down to the station right away. Paul just called. He gave her a kiss and headed for the garage. We seem to have a giant mess on our hands.

Chapter Two

The room was simple, almost monastic. Open beams of aged oak in the peaked ceiling lent it the lone architectural interest. Oak planks, turned dark with age and use lined the floor. Whitewashed walls, bare windows. A single bed with no headboard or footboard, plain white sheets and a heavy beige blanket. Next to the bed sat a small, beat-up mahogany nightstand with a single drawer and a wind-up Baby Ben alarm clock sitting on top. The lamp on the nightstand turned on by pulling a tarnished gold chain. The lamp had no shade, making the light harsh and unwelcoming. Three doors led from the room, one leading to a simple bathroom, one to a closet and one to the upstairs hall. That was it. No pictures on the wall. No curtains at the windows. No mirrors. No framed photographs. Nothing personal at all. It could have been a charming room, but it was only a place to retreat, to sleep, to try to forget--but most often to recall what in wakefulness he would forget.

A garbled murmuring was the only sound in that stark room--no bird-song, no radio, no creak of floor, no wind. Just the sound of haunted dreams.

The barracks was empty, except for one old man left to die alone on his bunk. The protruding bones of his body gave dimension to the taut, pallid, sore-covered skin. His eyes were sunk deep into their sockets and occasionally when closed, carried the memory of his family like some slowed motion movie scenes. His gnarled hands picked at the thin, dirty blanket covering him. He had lain in his own filth since early this morning, too weak to turn over, let alone find his way to the latrine.

The dying man would occasionally mutter in a voice weak with sickness, hunger, fear, and hopelessness. Elohai, Elohai, lamma shabacthani ... Elohai.

A cold wind keened through the cracks in the wall, adding its voice to the moans of the old man. David, from his secret place, heard a loud bang as the barrack door was thrown open and two laughing men came inside. Tall, strong, well-fed soldiers looking for some amusement to pass the time in this miserable god-forsaken place. Their heavy boots echoed in the empty room as they approached the sick man's bunk.

The one soldier looked down and his lip curled in a slight smile. The smell in here is like my barn back home. He laughed out loud. All animals smell the same--pigs, cows, Jews! Scheiss, it is two days now he has not worked and he does not even have the balls to die. What a pitiful creature. We really should help him do the right thing.

The soldiers exchanged smiling glances. They came a little closer to the old man, who watched them with terrified eyes, but was too helpless to do anything else. Not that anything else would have done any good. They learned that early.

One of the soldiers leaned over the old man and gave him a friendly smile. We are here to give you some help. Do you think we have no compassion? He leaned a little closer.

Does this hurt? He poked a gloved finger at the man's terrified, open eyes. The man flinched.

Does this hurt? Does this hurt? The soldier kept poking his fingers into the man's eyes--harder and harder.

The man tried to roll his head away. Nein, nein! Please! he kept saying.

The other soldier held the man's head steady. There was blood coming out of the man's eye socket. The man raised his arms and flailed towards the soldier's strong grip on his skull.

The other soldier was laughing. Messy, messy, Weinhardt.

Finally the first soldier raised his two fingers high and jabbed them deep into the man's right eye socket. The man screamed a high, thin scream and his breath went out of him. His body convulsed and kept on trembling. A froth of blood and unintelligible, gurgling sounds came out of his mouth.

The soldier wiped his gloves on the man's filthy rags. He laughed.

The other soldier laughed, too. Leave him?

Well, let us! The first soldier took the man's head from the top in both his hands and twisted it sharply--like turning a steering wheel with both hands. There was a crack. There, much better! We have done our good deed for the day.

On the dead man's forehead, the first soldier stubbed out the cigarette that had been hanging from his lips. Now let's go into town and have some real fun. We have taken care of one more dirty Jew.

David silently slid the wooden plank into place. From his hiding place, the last thing that he heard was the fading sound of laughter as the door slammed shut behind the soldiers.

The man awoke in that white-washed room to the hellish sound. His body felt slick with sweat and he could smell his own fear. He drew his knees to his chest and tried to focus. It took him only seconds to realize that the scream had come from him, in response to some nightmare that he could never recall--perhaps, deep down, never really wanted to recall.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, rested his elbows on his knees, and lowered his face into his hands. He waited for his breathing and heartbeat to return to normal. He was still shaking, more from the unremembered nightmare than from the cold air hitting his damp skin. A glance at the clock told him it was 3:27 a.m. much too early to get up, yet knowing he would not really sleep any more this night. On legs still trembling, he went into the bathroom to splash some cold water on his face. Not once did he glance into the small mirror over the sink, too terrified of what he might see.

After drying his face, he went back into the bedroom, and sat on the edge of the bed. He reached out and fumbled the chain on the lamp, pulling it to illuminate a small area with cruel stark light. He stared for many minutes at the closed drawer in the nightstand. With shaking fingers, he grabbed the knob and slowly pulled the drawer open. Until the Baby Ben's alarm went off at 5:30, the only sound in the room was the man's anguished crying.

* * *

Damn, I hate cases like this! Gabe said, running a hand through his already mussed-up brown hair.

Well, shit, Taglio, it would be great to have all our murders served up with the perp still holding the smoking gun or the dripping knife--but where is the challenge in that? Don't tell me you don't get turned on by the hunt, the chase, putting the puzzle together?

Well, yeah. Gabe said with a shrug of his shoulders. But it would be a hell of a lot easier if we could have at least a few pieces to the puzzle to start with.

Gabe and Paul were drinking coffee at Gabe's desk in the Southtown Precinct. The squad room was almost empty this early in the morning. They had spent hours at the crime scene, questioning the wife, a few neighbors, watching the finger print team do their job, and waiting, waiting, waiting on the M.E. to finally arrive.

OK, Paul mused, Let's see if we can create some of our own pieces. Let's go over it one more damn time. Gabe, you talk, I'll write.

Gabe started. Wife comes home from work at her usual time, about 5:20, finds her husband dead from what appears to be a heart attack. But it's like no heart attack I've ever seen. Either the poor bastard knew he was going to die, and he didn't want to mess up his khakis and tee shirt, so he takes them off, folds them, stacks them in a neat pile, and then goes off to meet his maker. Or--and I emphasize or--someone else causes his ticker to stop, undresses the guy, and folds and stacks his clothes for him. But why, for God's sake?

Unless the dead guy is an obsessive-compulsive neat freak, we have to buy the second scenario, Paul interrupted.

Gabe nodded his head and continued, We have no forced entry, no signs of any struggle whatsoever, nothing in the house taken, and no one can give us any names of anyone eager to kill him. And besides all that--his wife has a perfect alibi and really seems to have loved the guy.

Maybe we'll get some help from the M.E., Paul mused. A cause of death would be a good place to start. Whaddyuh make of the number written on the underside of his arm?

Gabe kept silent for a while. Jesus, Hannon, I don't know where to start. If he died of natural causes--which seems to be a hell of a long shot--he wrote that number there himself, and we have to ask why. If someone else killed him, they put that number there, and we are still left with the why? The number 2 could mean lots of things. Someone could be saying, 'You're not number 1,' or even 'You're only second best,' or 'You're a piece of shit.' They might even be saying 'I've done this before and I'll do it again.' But if that's so, why haven't we had a Number One yet?

* * *

Anne was half asleep when she felt Gabe slip into bed beside her. She noticed her bedside clock read 3:30 A.M. Gabe nestled into Annie's back, spoon-fashion, and nuzzled his face into her long brown hair. In a sleepy but clear voice, Anne said, My, Rascal, you sure do feel good! Gabe chuckled softly, kissed the back of her neck, and within seconds started a soft snore.

Damn him, thought Annie, how can he do that? She was always astonished at his ability to fall immediately to sleep, no matter how many cups of coffee he had, or what kind of twists and turns his job lead him through.

They would be able to sleep in a little later, since it was Saturday, and he could catch her up on this new case over a leisurely breakfast. She was always fascinated by the psychology of the human mind and how it worked, and she loved hearing from Gabe about the different personalities of the people he became involved with.

Annie settled herself more comfortably against Gabe, and thought again how lucky she was to have him a part of her life. Knowing that the feeling was mutual made their marriage a strong one. They had their share of disagreements, but on the balance sheet, the time spent laughing and loving together far surpassed the arguments and disagreements--and even those were minor.

Their personalities were very different--Gabe out-going and laid back; she, more quiet and driven. Gabe loved starting conversations with strangers on an elevator, and he would make silly faces at small children until he had them giggling. Annie was much more reserved; it took her longer to trust.

They were good for each other. Annie hurried Gabe up, and Gabe slowed Annie down. It was as though they were each taking on some of the best qualities of the other.

Annie thought back to her childhood. When she was five years old, her father died. She grew up an only child, with a middle-aged mother. Not having a father as she grew up always made her feel different, set apart--a little alienated. All her life, she battled with those feelings of not quite belonging.

That all changed with Gabe. He loved and accepted her so completely that she couldn't help but feel lovable and worthwhile. His acceptance and love gave her the confidence to be herself, to like who she was.

Annie turned around and settled her head on Gabe's shoulder. She heard him whisper, I love you. She kissed