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Chapter 30
BLAYNEY WAS AT the leading edge of the pack of reporters, some of whom I’d known for years. Others had to be out-of-towners who’d just blown into the Bay Area for a big, banging story that would be making headlines indefinitely: murder at the Ellsworth compound.
The reporters were on the move, sticking elbows into ribs, treading on toes, jostling video equipment as they angled for position on the Hall’s front steps.
Microphones advanced.
Cameras fired in a 180-degree arc around my face.
I’d been mobbed by the press hundreds of times before, but today, I’d been told to keep my mouth shut and let Brady do the talking.
Jason Blayney called out to me, “Sergeant Boxer. What does Harry Chandler have to do with the bodies at his house? Is he a suspect?”
Overlapping questions came at me like flights of arrows: How many bodies had been found? Had the victims been identified? Had the SFPD arrested anyone?
“Is Harry Chandler a suspect, Sergeant?”
“Lindsay, please give us something, okay?”
I looked for a way out, but the crowd was dense and shifting, too thick to bull through. I reminded myself to adopt the wise and cool mind-set Bec Rollins had advised.
Suddenly, that seemed like a good idea.
I took a breath, said, “Sorry, everyone. You know the drill. I have nothing to tell you at this point. I have to protect the integrity of the investigation. That’s all I’ve got, so if you’ll please excuse me, I’ll see you some other time.”
The reporters weren’t taking no way for an answer. I looked around for anyone leaving the Hall of Justice who could step in and take the cameras off me. I was hoping to see the DA or Jackson Brady.
But that wasn’t happening, and Jason Blayney was still in my face.
“Sergeant Boxer, the public has a right to know something. If there’s a murderer on the loose —”
“Mr. Blayney? We can’t give out information about an ongoing investigation. You know that, or you should know that. You want a statement, contact Media Relations in the morning. Thank you.”
I ignored the renewed flight of questions and parted the throng by lowering my head and making gravity my friend. I’d gotten down the steps and across Bryant, all the way to my car in the lot, when I heard footsteps, someone running up behind me. It was Jason Blayney, damn it, and he was calling my name.
I kept my back to him, got into the Explorer, had the door half closed behind me when Blayney put his hand on the door handle and pulled.
Was he kidding? This was over the freaking top.
I whipped around and faced him down.
“Blayney, are you crazy? The answer is no. No statement. No nothing. Now back the hell off.”
Grinning, he took my picture, then shut off his tape recorder and said, “Thanks for your nothing statement, Sergeant.”
I knew I was going to see my picture on the Post’s front page and that I was going to look insane.
So much for wise and cool.
I was steaming as I drove out of the lot. Blayney was a cockroach, but frankly, he and I both had the same questions.
Who were the victims?
Why had heads been dug up at Harry Chandler’s mansion?
And why didn’t we have a single bloody clue?
Chapter 31
