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I said, “Whoa. Is this the first time the needle sticker has struck in the front of the body?”
“To the best of my knowledge.”
“So this was a confrontation,” I said. “The victim saw his killer.”
“No doubt. And they mixed it up.”
She bunched the sheet over his privates and showed us the rest of him. She pointed out other fresh bruises, four by my count—one under the rib cage, a big one on his side, one high on his right thigh, and one on his left shin.
“I’ve got some good news.”
I looked up at Claire. I couldn’t even guess.
“Some living folks saw the killer in action.”
Say that again? “There are witnesses?”
Claire said, “Husband and wife saw the hit from their car. They flagged down a cruiser. Here,” she said, handing me a scrap of paper. “Fresh contact info, get it while it’s hot.”
CHAPTER 71
THE WITNESSES, LYNN and Ray Schultz, were in their thirties, owned a liquor store in North Beach, and given the annual stats of liquor store robberies, I was betting that the Schultzes were quite observant.
Conklin and I set them up with coffee in Interview 2, took chairs across from them, and got to work.
Ray Schultz said, “Last night, sometime after nine, we’re going home from the store. I’m driving. It’s dark and I’m watching the street. Lynn, you tell them, honey.”
Lynn Schultz said, “So we were stopped at the light on Union Street.”
She drew a line on the table with her blue-polished fingernail.
“I’m staring out the window at some free furniture on the sidewalk. And I see this kinda small, kinda weird-looking guy wearing dark clothes, walking with his eyes down.
“Here.” She stabbed a ding in the table at an imaginary point along her imaginary road. “He bumps into Mr. Beardsley, who drops his newspaper and his briefcase.”
Lynn Schultz was quite animated now. She said, “The paper blows all over and Mr. Big looks pissed. The two of them are, like, five, six feet apart, facing off. I think, OMG, and I roll down the window so I can hear. And Mr. Big calls the other one a name. Like ‘You crazy little shrimp’ or something.
“And the little guy goes, ‘Bring it on,’ and gets right up into Mr. Big’s face. I mean, like, aggressive and, yeah, crazy. Mr. Big could make two of the other guy.
“And Mr. Big shoves Mr. Little away with his forearm.”
The husband said, “I didn’t see that, but what Lynn is describing is a football move. Like the way a defensive lineman would push away a blocker. It’s called a forearm shiver—”
“And the little one goes down,” said Lynn Schultz. “And he gets up slowly, like he’s been hurt, and stands there for a second with his hands on his knees, and then bang, he leaps at Mr. Big like a tomcat and it looks like he bites him on his neck, and that throws Mr. Big off balance and now he’s down.”
Lynn Schultz was acting it all out now.
“And the small guy, he’s on the ground, like, leaning on his elbow, and from that position he launches this sweeping kick and gets the big guy in the shin, right here,” she said, patting her leg just below the knee.
“The big guy lands on his back—and in a split second the little one is on top of him, raises his arm high, and looks like he punches Mr. Big in the chest.”
Good God. That answered my question of how and why Mr. Beardsley had gotten a needle in his pec muscle.
Ray Schultz was saying, “I’m seeing this now. Mr. Big yowls and he’s in trouble. Now the light turns green. Horns are honking. I start to go, but Lynn yells at me to pull over to the curb and ‘do something.’
“So I pull over. I get out. The little guy has gone, nowhere to be seen. And I run over, get down next to Mr. Beardsley, who’s clutching his throat, trying to get his breath. But he can’t get enough air. He says, ‘Call 911.’
“My phone’s in the car, but I run out into the road and wave down a cruiser.”
