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“You know, Lindsay. I know you know. We both know it was him.”
I just wanted her to let me be and curl up in bed. “I don’t know,” I said wearily. “It could be.”
“What caliber was the gun? Did it match Catchings?”
“Please, Cindy, don’t try to play detective on me. I knew the guy. His partner said it was his kid’s seventh birthday. He had five children.”
“I’m sorry, Lindsay,” Cindy finally came back in a softer, gentler voice. “It’s just that it’s like the first murder, Lindsay. The shot that no one else could make.”
We sat awhile on the phone without talking. She was right. I knew she was right. Then Cindy said, “You’ve got another one, don’t you, Lindsay?”
I didn’t answer, but I knew what she meant.
“Another pattern killer. A cold-blooded marksman. And he’s targeting blacks.”
“Not just blacks.” I sighed.
“Not just blacks…?” Cindy hesitated, then she came back in a rush. “The Oakland crime reporter got a rumor out of Homicide there. About the Chipman widow. Her husband was a cop. First Tasha’s uncle. Then her. Now Davidson makes three. Oh, Jesus, Lindsay.”
“This stays with us,” I insisted. “Please, Cindy. I need to sleep now. You don’t realize how hard this is for us.”
“Let us help, Lindsay. All of us. We want to help you.”
“I will, Cindy. I need your help. I need all of your help.”
Chapter 34
I THOUGHT OF SOMETHING during the night. The killer had called 911.
I got right on it in the morning. Lila McKendree ran Dispatch. She had been on the board when the Davidson call came in.
Lila was plump, rosy cheeked, and quick to smile, but no one was more professional, and she could coolly juggle serious situations like an air-traffic controller.
She set up the tape of the actual 911 call in the squad room. The entire detail huddled around. Cappy and Jacobi had come in before heading back out to Vallejo.
“It’s on a three-loop reel,” Lila explained. She pressed the playback key.
In a few seconds, we were going to hear the killer’s voice for the first time.
“San Francisco Police, nine one one hotline,” a dispatcher’s voice said.
There wasn’t another sound in the squad room.
An agitated male voice shot back, “I need to call in a disturbance…. Some guy’s doing an O. J. on his wife.”
“Okay…,” the operator replied. “I’ll need to start with your location. Where is this disturbance taking place?”
There was an interfering background noise like a TV or traffic, making it difficult to hear. “Three oh three Seventh. Fourth floor. You better send someone out. It’s starting to sound real bad.”
“You said the address was three oh three Seventh?”
“That’s right,” the killer said.
“And who am I speaking with?” the operator asked.
“My name’s Billy. Billy Reffon. I live down the hall. You better hurry.”
We all looked around, surprised. The killer gave a name? Jesus.
