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Conklin and I entered the victim’s sparely furnished apartment. A halo of blood pooled around the man’s head, a dark puddle on the polished oak floors.
He was a black male, early thirties, fit, wearing shorts, a thin gray T-shirt, and running shoes. He was lying on his left side next to a treadmill.
I bent to get a better look. His eyes were closed and his breathing was labored — but he was still alive.
Paramedics clattered through the door, crowded around the victim, and on the count of three lifted him into a stretcher.
The paramedic standing closest to me said, “He’s unconscious. We’re taking him to San Francisco General. Could you step aside, Sergeant? Thanks.”
The sirens were wailing up Townsend as Charlie Clapper and a couple of his crime-scene investigators entered Wyatt’s living room, then crossed the floor to the treadmill.
“The cord to this thing’s been cut,” Clapper said, showing me where the clean separation had been made, as if with a sharp knife. “You saw the victim?” he said to me.
“Yes. He’s alive, Charlie. At least he is now. Looks like he was really clobbered from behind.”
As with Irene Wolkowski, whatever instrument had been used to bash Ben Wyatt’s skull had been removed from the apartment. And also similar to the Wolkowski crime scene, very little else had been disturbed.
No doubt there was a connection between the attacks that were making terror an almost daily thing at the Blakely Arms.
What was that connection? What the hell was going on?
Chapter 90
BEN WYATT’S NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOR Virginia Howsam was a woman in her late twenties who worked nights at a club downtown. She told us that Wyatt was a day trader and a really ni
ce guy whom no one in his right mind would want to hurt.
We thanked Ms. Howsam for her help and took to the fire stairs, thinking maybe the people under Wyatt’s apartment might have heard sounds that could help us pinpoint the time of the attack.
Conklin was right behind me on the stairs when the phone at my hip rang. I reached for it, saw Dave Stanford’s name on the caller ID.
“This is Boxer.”
“I’ve got good news for you.”
I signaled to Conklin to put his ear next to the phone so we could both hear.
“You’ve got news on Erica Whitten?”
“No, but I thought you’d like to know that Charlie Ray has had his hot chocolate with extra whipped cream and is now sleeping in his own bed.” Stanford chuckled.
“Fantastic, Dave! What happened?”
Stanford told me that the husband of a depressed woman had come forward. Their child had died of crib death weeks before.
“This woman who took Charlie was strung out on grief,” Stanford said. “She was driving down the street, saw Charlie peeking over the fence. She stopped and grabbed him.”
“She’s in custody?”
“Yeah, but she’s not the person we’re looking for, Lindsay. She has nothing to do with Erica Whitten or Madison Tyler. She’s on antidepressants, under a doctor’s care, and yesterday was the first time she left home since her baby died.”
I thanked Stanford and closed the cell phone. Conklin was right there. I was looking into his eyes, feeling the heat.
“So we’ve got nothing,” Rich said.
“We’ve got something,” I said, starting down the stairs again. “We’ve got a killer at large in this goddamned building. As for Madison Tyler, we’ve got another dead end.”
Chapter 91
