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“Sergeant Randall? This is Sergeant Lindsay Boxer, SFPD. Don’t be alarmed. We just have some questions for you. Please come to the door and open it, slowly. Then step back and put your hands on your head.”
He said, “Who is it?”
I repeated my name, heard floorboards creaking, and then the voice came through the door again.
“I’m not armed,” he said. “Don’t shoot.”
The door swung open, and standing a few feet inside the doorway was William Randall. He was wearing blue boxers and his hands were folded on top of his dark hair.
There was a tattoo on his chest, an eagle with wings spread and two-inch-high letters inked under that emblem. I knew the words, of course. It was the motto of the City of San Francisco, and also of the SFPD.
Oro en paz. Fierro en guerra.
Gold in peace. Iron in war.
Apparently it was William Randall’s motto too.
Chapter 90
IT WAS A grim scene in the squad room that night.
Randall’s superiors, past and present, stamped their feet and yelled at Brady for the way Conklin and I had extracted Randall from his home.
Brady shouted back, “If he’s the doer, he’s killed six people this week. Do you get that?”
Brady defended us and said that we had done the job right.
But I was starting to wonder.
While we were walking Randall out of his house, the busboy had retracted his tentative ID, saying he wasn’t sure he’d picked the right guy out of the six-pack. So while the busboy’s memory was still fresh, Brady called for a lineup.
Conklin fit Randall’s general description so he was drafted to stand with Randall. Four random justice department workers filled in the ranks.
I stood behind the glass with the busboy as six men filed across the room and took their places at the height board. Each man stepped forward, turned left, turned right, and stepped back.
I held my breath as the busboy asked for Randall to step forward again. The busboy ID’d him — then when Meile said, “Are you absolutely sure?” the kid changed his mind and positively ID’d Morris Greene, an assistant DA who’d been pulling an all-nighter before we’d drafted him for the lineup.
What now?
Brady’s expression was resolute.
He said to me, “Pretend he’s David Berkowitz. Pretend he’s Lee Harvey Oswald.”
The observation room behind the two-way mirror was packed with brass: Brady, Meile, and Penny were there, and a few guys from the top floor I didn’t know.
I brought coffee for three into the interrogation room, apologized again to Randall for the one-thirty wakeup call with drawn guns as well as the solitary two-hour wait in the box.
He said, “Look. I’m innocent of any crime. Do your job, but let’s speed it up, okay? My wife and kids are in hell right now. And I’m about two minutes away from turning in my badge and telling all of you to take a flying leap.”
What had we done by bringing Randall in?
What could we possibly accomplish?
We had no witness, no evidence, just a career cop who’d been asleep in his undershorts when we crashed into his house.
Had Sergeant William Randall killed six people in seven days? Did we have a committed spree killer under lock and key? No pressure at all. With the top floor watching from behind the glass, Conklin and I had to ask the right questions and either clear Randall — or get him to confess.
Chapter 91
