Proof Positive (2006) (14 page)

Cashman learned quickly that it was one thing to fantasize about murder and another to actually kill a person. As soon as he began driving to Mary's house, his body betrayed him. Sweat beaded his brow, and his stomach rolled. Once, he felt so sick that he pulled over to the side of the road. As he sat with the door open, gulping in fresh air, he fought to block out all thoughts of Mary, but he couldn't and he almost turned back. Only the idea of the evil men he'd put behind bars walking free helped him to keep going. He did like Mary, but, he convinced himself, she was only one person. Dozens of innocents would be at risk if he didn't stop her.

At four-fifteen, Cashman parked in front of Mary's house. He had on the outfit he wore at crime scenes. His hand shook as he carried a large black bag and a rolled-up tarp to the front door, set them down on the porch, and rang the doorbell. There was no response after the first ring. A feeling of relief flooded him when he heard no sound inside the house after his second ring. Maybe Mary wasn't home. One part of Bernard Cashman hoped that fate had spared her from the terrible things he planned to do. Then a light went on in Mary's bedroom, and his stomach lurched. Moments later, Cashman heard footsteps on the stairs. Mary peered through the glass panes in the front door. Cashman steeled himself and forced a smile. Mary looked confused, but she turned off her alarm and opened the door wide. She looked even more confused when she noticed that Cashman was wearing Tyvex booties and latex gloves.

She was saying Bernie when Cashman gathered his courage and hit her as hard as he could in the solar plexus. Mary staggered backward into the house and collapsed in the entryway. He felt terrible as he slapped plastic cuffs on Mary's hands and ankles and taped her mouth shut, but this single act of violence freed him. He had committed assault, a felony offense punishable by prison. There was no going back now.

Cashman took a syringe out of his jacket pocket as Mary sucked in air through her nose. When she saw the syringe, Clark's eyes widened in fear and she struggled. Cashman stunned her with another body blow, then rolled up the sleeve of her pajama top and injected her. When she began to space out, Cashman patted Mary's shoulder.

It's heroin from one of your cases, he told her in a calm, reassuring voice. You'll find it quite pleasant.

It was vital to Cashman's plan that a forensic team would not find evidence of a struggle in Mary's home. When he was certain that she would be docile enough that he could stop holding her, the criminalist went outside and brought in the bag and the tarp, which he spread out on the floor. It wasn't difficult for Cashman to lift Mary onto the tarp. As soon as he was in college, away from his mother, Cashman had built up his body, and he was now in top physical shape. Before going up to her bedroom he pressed Mary's fingerprints onto the syringe and the glassine envelope in which the heroin had been stored. There was a wastepaper basket in Clark's bathroom, and he discarded the syringe and the envelope.

A few minutes later, Cashman returned to the entryway. He was carrying a set of old clothes, sweat socks, and a pair of sneakers he'd found in Mary's bedroom. He stripped off her pajamas. She moaned and rolled around sluggishly. The heroin had dulled her pain and made her listless. Mary's nudity embarrassed Cashman. He felt terrible about hurting her, but even worse about seeing her naked. After all, they were friends. But, he told himself again, he could not permit her to destroy his work. Cashman averted his eyes as much as possible when he slipped Clark's panties on her. He had to hug her and sit her up while he worked her into her bra and shirt. The scent of the soap she had used when she'd showered lingered on her skin, and her breasts pressed against him for a moment. There was a good deal of clothing between them, but he still felt intensely uncomfortable.

When Mary was dressed, Cashman rolled her in the tarp, slung her over his shoulder, took her to his truck, and placed her in the back as gently as possible. Part of him hoped that the heroin would dull her senses enough to stop her from being frightened. Cashman checked his watch. It was still dark. He returned to the house and began to search for the hammer and any other evidence that might incriminate him. His anxiety increased as minute after minute passed without discovering anything. He began to wonder if she'd secreted them somewhere else or if they were still at the lab and he'd missed them. After half an hour of fruitless searching, Cashman decided to stop. He needed the cover of darkness to transport Mary to his home.

Cashman lived in a two-story, red-shingle Craftsman with an unfinished basement on a quarter-acre of land in southwest Portland. His garage was toward the back of his house, at the end of a long driveway. Gretchen Studer, his neighbor on the garage side, was a nosy seventy-four-year-old widow, who slept at odd hours. He'd caught her on several occasions peeking at his house through the half-closed curtains in her second-floor bedroom. Cashman planned to park so the back of his pickup was even with the basement door. If Mrs. Studer was watching from her bedroom, it should look as if Cashman were bringing a rug into his house.

Fortunately, the Studer house was dark when Cashman parked the truck. By the time Cashman locked Mary Clark in his basement, it was almost five-thirty. He wanted desperately to sleep, but he had to get to work on time to keep up appearances, so he settled for a cold shower and several cups of coffee. Cashman was tempted to question Mary before he went to work, but he did not want to rush. He wanted her frightened enough to tell him what he needed to know, without having to cause her any more pain than was necessary. Lying in the dark would give her time to think.

Chapter
18.

CARLOS GUZMAN WAS A HEAVYSET MAN WITH A DARK COMPLEXION, thick, black hair, and eyes the color of milk chocolate. He had a master's degree in forensic science and an undergraduate degree in criminal justice and had been promoted to head the crime lab after fifteen years on the job. He stopped Cashman as soon as Bernie arrived at the crime lab.

You seen Mary? Guzman asked. His voice was gravelly and he sounded a little like Edward G. Robinson in one of those black-and-white gangster movies from the forties. To keep in character, Guzman should have been puffing on a bad cigar, but smoking was not allowed in state office buildings.

She's probably fast asleep, Bernie said. We worked a liquor store robbery last night and we didn't finish up until the wee hours.

Okay. Tell her to drop in when she shows up.

As soon as Guzman walked away, Cashman tried to remember if Mary had mentioned how many of his cases had concerned her. She had referred to Hayes by name, but he didn't think she'd told him how many cases she was looking into. Or maybe she had. Was it Hayes and two more? What really bothered him was his inability to find the hammer from the Hayes case in the crime lab or Mary's house.

Cashman checked his watch. He would drive by Jacob Cohen's lot during his lunch break to scope it out. Then he'd go home and give Mary more of the heroin he'd taken from two of her cases before returning to the lab. It was important that the toxicology results establish the presence of the opiate in Mary's system, for his plan to work.

After returning from his lunch break, Cashman would stay until five, his normal quitting time. After work, he would check out the lot again before driving to the bus stop closest to Mary's house. He would leave his truck in an inconspicuous spot near the bus stop and run to Mary's home to get her car. She lived only two miles from the bus line, and Cashman ran six to ten miles for exercise, so covering the distance would be no problem, and no one would take a second look at a jogger in Oregon. He would use Mary's car to transport her to Jacob's lot. Then he would take the bus to his car and drive the pickup home. Eventually, the corpse in the lot would be identified as Mary Clark and her car would be found nearby. When the lab discovered heroin in Mary's system and heroin missing from her cases, it would be only logical to conclude that she was a secret addict who had gone to Queen Anne Boulevard to buy dope.

After work, Cashman approached Jacob's lot from a back street and parked on Hobart under a large oak tree. Jacob's abandoned car was in the back of the lot, almost touching the wall of a four-story building. A bar occupied the street level, and low-rent apartments took up the other floors. The building that once stood in the lot had been destroyed in a fire. The ruins had been torn down, but no one wanted to rebuild in a high-crime area, and the large lot was now filled with trash and rubble.

It was raining hard. Only one intrepid hooker, desperate to raise money for a fix, was patrolling Queen Anne. Even without the rain, it was too early for much to be happening. A few pedestrians, huddled under umbrellas, hurried down the main drag. Later, a group of teenagers, oblivious of the weather, sauntered by, shouting insults at the waterlogged whore. No one walked down the side street where Cashman was parked.

The criminalist thought he saw movement in the abandoned car but wasn't certain until Jacob emerged, dressed in soiled jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, carrying a black plastic garbage bag. He hurried across the lot, his shoulders hunched against the heavy rain, until he reached a dumpster that stood near a side door to the bar. Cashman saw Jacob reach into the dumpster and figured he was scavenging for dinner. He watched for a few more minutes before driving home.

It was still raining when Cashman pulled into his driveway a little after seven. He ate dinner quickly before changing into an old long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans. Then he slipped on latex gloves and put on a baseball cap to limit the transfer of any trace evidence to Mary's body. If he discovered any evidence connecting him to Mary's murder while working the crime scene, he would dispose of it, but it was always wise to take precautions.

Before opening the basement door, Cashman grabbed a crowbar. Fear and guilt flooded through him once again, but he took a deep breath, turned on the light, and walked down the stairs. Mary was cuffed, gagged, and lying on the tarp. He had left her in the dark without food or water all day to heighten her fear. He didn't really want to scare her, but it was essential that she tell him where she'd hidden the hammer, and he hoped that she would speak more freely if she was terrified.

Hello, Mary, Cashman said, squatting so he could work loose the tape that gagged her.

Please, Bernie, she started to beg. Cashman steeled himself and slapped her.

You put yourself in this position by snooping and I don't want to hear any whining. Do you understand?

Mary nodded. She bit her lip and tried unsuccessfully to stem the tears that flowed down her cheeks. The sight of those tears upset Cashman, but he remembered what was at stake and gathered the strength to go on.

There's no reason to cry, Cashman said. If you do as I say you won't suffer. Do you understand?

Mary nodded again.

What were you thinking? Cashman asked with a brisk shake of his head. Thank God I was able to stop you before you talked to Carlos. Don't you realize that your interference could have resulted in convictions being thrown out? Do you want the monsters I sent away back on the street?

I wasn't

Cashman slammed the crowbar down, breaking her collarbone. Mary screamed and turned white with pain. The shirt at her shoulder darkened with blood. Cashman felt terrible, but the sooner Mary talked the sooner he could end her suffering. She needed to know that he meant business.

I'm sorry that I had to do that, but you must listen to me. No excuses and no lies.

Mary was turning her head from side to side and writhing with pain. Cashman waited patiently for her to collect herself.

Where did you hide the hammer from the Hayes case, Mary?

Clark was crying again. She shook her head.

Please don't make me hurt you again. I feel terrible about this. If you help me find the hammer and tell me the names of the other cases you investigated, I'll let you live.

I know you' re going to kill me, she sobbed.

Cashman began to get angry. He had just told Mary that she was not to whine, and she wasn't answering his question. This was direct disobedience. He squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth before slamming down the crowbar twice on Mary's face, breaking her nose and crushing her cheek. Blood spattered his T-shirt each time the crowbar made contact.

Mary blacked out, and Bernie felt tears well up in his eyes. He felt sick. Did she think he enjoyed this? Why did she have to be so stubborn? He sincerely hoped it wouldn't take too long to convince her that it would be easier to tell him the truth than to suffer.

Are you ready to answer my questions now? Cashman asked, but Mary didn't answer. She wasn't coming to. Cashman slapped her cheek, getting blood on his glove. She didn't react. He was sure that she was breathing, but she was not regaining consciousness. Cashman started to sweat. What if he'd hit her so hard that she stayed unconscious? How would he question her, how would he find the hammer? Cashman knelt down and shook Clark's shoulder.

Mary, don't do this to me, wake up.

She didn't move. Cashman panicked. He slapped her face again and shook her again. She moaned but did not regain consciousness. Cashman stood up and took several deep breaths. He couldn't believe this was happening to him. The medical examiner would be able to tell if Mary had been moved after she died. Mary had to be alive when he took her to the lot, if the police were going to believe that she'd gone to Queen Anne to buy heroin and had been murdered by Jacob Cohen during an attempted rape.

Cashman checked his watch. He hadn't planned on moving Mary until two or three in the morning. He assumed that there would be too much activity around the lot until then. But that might not be true in this downpour. What was he going to do? He could wait and hope that Mary regained enough consciousness to be questioned, but his plan would fail if she died while he was waiting.

Cashman made a decision. He would drive to the lot. If she woke up during the drive, he would question her about the hammer. If she was still unconscious when he got to the lot, he would kill her and take his chances. If the hammer stayed lost, he would be fine. Anyone who found it would still have to make the same deductions that Mary had, to realize that Raymond Hayes's prints had never been on the handle.

Bernie left Mary in the basement and went upstairs, where he put on a gray hooded sweatshirt similar to the one he'd seen Jacob wearing. If he had the sweatshirt and jeans on, people seeing him from a distance in this downpour might mistake him for Cohen. When he returned home, he would burn everything he wore to the lot.

Before going downstairs, Cashman opened the drawer of his night table and took out a .38 Special he had stolen from a crime scene two years ago. The gun had belonged to a pimp who had been stabbed twenty-seven times by a woman in his stable whom he'd abused one time too many. Cashman kept the gun for protection. He had never used it, but the lot was in a dangerous part of town, and he would feel safer knowing that he could defend himself.

When Cashman returned to the basement, he used a syringe to draw some of Mary's blood, which he put in a vial. Then he rolled Mary in the tarp and put her in the back of her car. During the drive to the lot, he strained to hear any sound that would tell him she was conscious, but she still had not regained consciousness when he parked under the oak tree across from the lot at ten o' clock.

Luck was with him. The rain had gotten worse, and there wasn't a soul around. Cashman carried Mary and his black bag to the center of the lot and threw his burdens down. He unwound the tarp and rolled Mary onto the rubble-strewn ground. Next, he took the crowbar and a very sharp carving knife out of the bag. It was essential that Mary not be identified for as long as possible. Cashman was on call this evening, and would be summoned to this lot to work the crime scene. He would never be allowed to do so if the victim was someone he knew. DNA might eventually prove that the corpse was Mary Clark, but it took time to complete a DNA test. By then, he would have concluded his work.

Cashman averted his eyes and began smashing Mary's face with the crowbar until it was unrecognizable. Next, he used the tip of the knife to remove her eyes. He thought he might throw up when he fished them out of their sockets and placed them in a black garbage bag similar to the one he'd seen Cohen carrying when he was scavenging for food in the bar dumpster. The desecration of Mary's body left him nauseated, and he stopped to catch his breath before going back to work. When Mary's teeth were destroyed to prevent identification by her dental work, he used the knife to cut off her hands to prevent fingerprint identification.

Next, Cashman ripped Mary's shirt and bra and stabbed her repeatedly. Mary was dead by now, but there was enough blood on her clothes and the ground for the medical examiner to conclude that she had been killed in the lot.

Every once in a while, Cashman cast a quick, anxious glance at Jacob's car and the surrounding streets, but luck was with him. The rain was keeping Cohen and everyone else indoors.

Cashman was sweating and breathing heavily by the time he pulled Mary's jeans and panties down to her ankles to make it appear that she'd been the victim of an attempted rape. Before inflicting more damage, Cashman placed the two pubic hairs he'd taken from the evidence locker on Mary's leg, near her genitals, and smeared some of Mary's blood on them to hold them in place. Then he stabbed Mary in her abdomen and pubic area and cut her genitals. He tried not to look when the knife sliced in. He was sick and dizzy, but desperation drove him.

When he was satisfied that the murder looked like the work of a madman, Cashman pulled up one side of Mary's panties until they protected the pubic hairs he'd pasted to the body with Mary's blood. Then he laid the crowbar and knife on the ground near the corpse, hoping that Cohen would handle them. After gathering up the severed hands, he placed them in the garbage bag that held her eyes and put that bag in his black evidence bag. He would put the body parts in a dumpster close enough to the area to implicate Jacob, but not so close that an immediate connection to the murder would be made.

The rain had been pounding Cashman, and he was soaked to the skin. He stood up and cast one last look at the abandoned Buick that Cohen called home. As he peered into the darkness, he thought he saw movement in the car. Was Jacob watching him? Cashman grabbed the tarp, the garbage bag, and his black bag and walked from the lot while keeping an eye on the car. He did not relax until the lot was out of sight.

There were several dumpsters along the bus route. He got rid of the tarp in one of them, and the bag with the eyes and hands in another, which was several blocks away. A bus came by shortly after he disposed of his grisly collection. The driver was tired and gave him only a cursory look. Cashman kept his hood pulled down and stared at the floor of the bus as he headed to the rear. The bus was empty. He took a seat that faced in, so the best the driver would be able to see was his profile.

Cashman was bleary-eyed by the time he started his truck an hour later. He needed sleep desperately, but he knew he would have to wait. He had to call the police, but he couldn't do it from his home phone or his cell phone. When he was checking out the lot and the area around it, he had noticed a convenience store with a working pay phone. He drove to the store and waited until there was no one around the phone. When he was certain that he was unobserved, Cashman placed an anonymous call to 911 and reported seeing a man in a hooded sweatshirt attacking a woman in Jacob's lot.

The criminalist estimated that he had an hour before he would be summoned to the crime scene. By the time he pulled into his driveway, he was freezing, exhausted, and miserable. The minute he was in the door, Cashman stripped off his clothes, started coffee brewing in the pot in his bathroom, and took a scalding-hot shower. After his shower, he dressed in the clothes he would wear to the crime scene. He knew he should eat, but he was afraid he'd be sick, so he settled for dry toast and more coffee. He had just finished his two slices when the phone rang.

Chapter
19.

THERE WAS NO GLASS IN THE WINDSHIELD OF THE ABANDONED Buick that served as Jacob Cohen's home, so the front seat got soaked when it rained. Miraculously, there was still glass in the rear side windows, and Jacob had hung a sheet of opaque plastic over the back window, so the backseat was one of the few dry spots in the car. Jacob had crawled into the backseat when it got dark, but he knew better than to go to sleep until well after midnight. Someone could sneak up on him if he was asleep. It had happened more than once. Sometimes other homeless men stole from him, although, except for his books, he owned little that even the homeless would value. At other times neighborhood boys beat him for fun. If he was vigilant, he had a chance to run and they would just trash his car.

Even when Jacob wanted to sleep, sleep never came easily. There was the constant tension of living the way he did. Worse were the voices of the people he had killed. They whispered to him during the day, but they were much louder when he shut his eyes and tried to rest. Then there was God, who spoke to Jacob on rare occasions to remind him that he would burn in the fires of Hell for what he had done.

There were no street lamps on Jacob's side of Hobart, and rain and thick clouds blocked the moon. The darkness was almost impenetrable. If Jacob hadn't been alert, he would never have spotted the gray, shapeless mass that moved rapidly across the lot. Jacob leaned forward and stared into the night. In the absence of light, the apparition gave the impression of floating, but that couldn't be right.

When it was halfway across the lot, the mass shrank toward the ground and stayed there. Jacob guessed that the thing was kneeling. Then what Jacob guessed was an arm rose and fell several times. After that, the phantom worked busily at tasks that Jacob could not discern before scurrying across Hobart and heading west on Queen Anne.

Inertia kept Jacob in the car until the tumult in his mind drove him into the downpour. He had to know what had happened, even if he put himself in danger. Jacob crept forward slowly. He had no weapon, because he could not bear the thought of hurting anyone. Everyone believed that he'd assaulted that whore, but she had attacked him when he tried to warn one of her potential victims that congress with the Jezebel who haunted his corner would send his soul straight to perdition. Any injuries he'd inflicted on her were the result of his arms and legs flailing in self-defense.

Jacob began to make out a shape in the debris that covered the lot. At first he mistook it for a large rug or a full trash bag. Then he started to see details. He had been nervous when he left the safety of his car. Now fear was edging in. Was that hair? Was that an arm? Jacob began babbling Hebrew prayers under his breath as he inched closer. When he was near enough to see clearly, horror rooted him to the ground and caused him to stare soundlessly at the desecrated body.

Where hands should have been Jacob saw blood that had pooled around two jagged stumps. Where a face should have been, Jacob saw a raw, gelatinous mass. The eye sockets were empty. He dropped to his knees, put his face in his hands, and wept. How could someone do this and call himself a human being? Where was God when this abomination was occurring?

Sometimes Jacob talked to God, and sometimes God talked to him, but there were times when Jacob doubted that God existed and thought the doctors were right when they told him that the voices he heard were not real. Tonight, kneeling next to this wretched soul, he was troubled to his depth. No God would allow something like this to happen; no God would have permitted Jacob to exist after what he'd done. Jacob tried to shake himself loose of the idea of God, but the possibility that no Creator existed was too terrifying to hold on to for long. If God did not exist, Jacob would never be punished, and the one thing he knew for certain was that he deserved to suffer everlasting torment.

Jacob's thoughts drifted down to earth, and he saw the crowbar and knife lying next to the body. He reached out until his fingers were inches from the knife before stopping. Heat seemed to radiate from the blade; steam seemed to rise from it. He could see streaks of blood that remained on the surface despite the rain. Jacob grabbed the knife and pointed the tip toward Heaven. If there was a just God, lightning would strike the silver blade, course down the weapon, and skewer his heart, ending his suffering. But nothing happened.

The blade slipped from Jacob's fingers and his chin dropped to his chest. He began to sob. Sharp-edged pieces of concrete stabbed him through the material at his knees, but he was oblivious of the pain. Was the dead body a sign? If so, what did it mean? It occurred to him that he could turn the knife on himself. Was God demanding that he end his useless existence? He raised his eyes toward the sky and screamed, What do You want from me?