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If I had been wearing boots, I would have been shaking in them, thinking about all of the truly bad things that could happen if we went into Randall’s house. But I saw no choice. If he knew he was being watched, there was no telling what he would do. We had to get him away from his children.
“Screw Meile’s pet. Send backup,” I told Brady. “Send everything you’ve got. If I’m right, I don’t want to play patty-cake with this guy. If I’m wrong, I’ll apologize to him. Profusely.”
Two unmarked cars arrived within minutes. I told the officers to park on Golden Gate, then proceed to the back of the Randall house on foot and cover the exit. And I told them that the suspect was a cop.
“If you encounter him, he could be wearing a uniform or he could ID himself as a cop. Treat him as you would any suspect who is armed and dangerous.”
More cars streamed silently onto Elm, their sirens and headlights off. I briefed six more unis, told them that we had a murder suspect inside the house, that he was armed and dangerous, that there were five children and at least two other adults inside.
I sketched out a plan, and then Conklin and I went up the long flight of outdoor steps that led to the front door. Conklin stood back with his gun drawn.
I rang the bell and then knocked, calling out, “Sergeant Randall. This is the police.”
I prayed that we could reason with William Randall.
I prayed that bullets weren’t going to come flying through the door.
Chapter 89
A HALL LIGHT blazed inside the house, then the main floor lit up. Someone peeked through the fan light in the door. The door opened and a woman in a thin yellow robe, her face lined wi
th sleep, asked, “Can I help you?”
I showed her my shield and introduced Conklin, who holstered his weapon. I asked the woman if she was Becky Randall and she said that she was. I told her in a few words that we were investigating a shooting that had taken place in the last hour.
“I don’t see how I can help,” she said, “but my husband is on the force. William Randall. He’s with Vice.”
“Where is your husband now, Mrs. Randall?” Conklin asked.
“He’s upstairs, sound asleep.”
“We have to talk to him.”
“Sure. Please stay here. Lots of sleeping kids and I want them to stay that way. I’ll go and wake Will up.”
More squad cars were streaming onto the block from both directions. Becky Randall understood suddenly that we weren’t conducting a routine canvass.
She said, “What’s going on?”
“Please come with me, Mrs. Randall,” I said. I took her arm and guided her firmly onto the outside landing, after which Conklin put his big foot between the woman and her front door.
I said, “An officer will stay with you until we’ve spoken with your husband.”
I walked the loudly protesting Becky Randall down the steps and turned her over to Officer Cora. I used the time to get myself together.
It didn’t matter how many people were going through Randall’s front door. We were all at risk: my baby, my partner, the Randall kids, and the guys who were taking orders from me.
I followed Conklin across the threshold with my gun in hand, switching on lights as we went through the house. I signaled to the uniforms to fan out on the second floor, and after the main floor was cleared and contained with a cop standing outside every bedroom door, Conklin and I proceeded upstairs to the attic.
As I had thought, there were two rooms on the attic floor. One of the bedroom doors was open. I could see the entire room from the hallway: there was a young man lying in a hospital bed, a mobile of mirrored stars gently swaying above him.
He turned his eyes to me, said, “Ahh.”
I threw on the lights, searched the room, then waggled my fingers at the boy and shut the door.
The door to the second room was closed.
Conklin and I flanked the door and then I knocked.
