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I was thrilling inside. I could see the whole scene going down almost in front of me. These witnesses were good.
I asked the Schultzes, “You’re sure the smaller man was the attacker?”
Said Lynn Schultz, “Definitely. One hundred percent.”
“Okay. If you could, describe him once more, as best as you can,” I said.
“Sure. Estimating he could be about five two? Lightcolored hair? Like faded blond. He had a collar or a hoodie under his coat. Damned shame I didn’t see his face.”
Conklin said, “You’ve given us a lot, Lynn. Our first good lead.”
I made notes, including that Beardsley had been carrying a newspaper. If the headline had read STEALTH KILLER, maybe it had sparked Beardsley’s curiosity. Had he made the killer, and the killer knew it—so he took Beardsley out?
Conklin was saying, “If you think of anything else, anything at all, call my direct line. Thanks very much for coming in.”
We had beautiful, corroborated eyewitness reports and a decent description of the needle sticker. It was, as Conklin had said, our first good lead. It was better than I could even have wished for.
But we needed more. The “weird-looking guy” was volatile and sounded like he was also fearless. He was striking out much more frequently than before—as far as we knew.
How many of our citizens had died as a direct result of this killer?
More than two months after Claire had found a bruise on Lois Sprague’s buttock, we had no more idea who the needle sticker was than we had then. Four more people had died.
The killer was on a roll.
CHAPTER 72
CONNOR GRANT’S COMPLAINT to Internal Affairs haunted me all day and cut my sleep short every night as I waited to be interviewed by Lieutenant William Hoyt.
That Monday morning, Carol Hannah, my tough, dedicated union rep, came to Interview 1 and we went over everything I said and did when I arrested Connor Grant and everything I had done or been accused of doing since I joined the police force as a rookie.
Carol said, “I don’t see anything to this complaint except that Connor Grant wants revenge. If I’m missing something, please tell me now.”
“The whole episode lasted ten minutes,” I told my advocate. “I’ve thought about every second of it and I followed procedure. I’m sure of it, Carol.”
Carol said, “If Hoyt goes over the line, I’ll intervene.”
The way a complaint to IAB was processed was pretty straightforward. I would be interviewed, and my interview would be compared with reports from other sources and my personal file to see if there was a hinky pattern of behavior. If I’d broken the law, IAB would go to the DA, and if Parisi found that there was cause to try me for these crimes or infractions of police procedure, there would be a trial before the police commission. I would be suspended from my job until the case was adjudicated, but even if the charges were dismissed, my reputation would be permanently damaged. In other words, it would be a living, breathing nightmare that made me sick even to think about.
Connor Grant had thrown me under a steaming pile of bull, and my preparation with my union rep and having her at my side would be my best chance to get out from under it.
That afternoon Carol and I went downstairs to the district attorney’s offices, and Parisi’s assistant walked us down the hallway to his private conference room, gave us each a bottle of water, and closed the door.
I took a seat. Carol sat down beside me and we waited. Fifteen minutes felt like fifteen years as I watched the second hand tick by on the wall clock. Then there was a tap on the door and Lieutenant Hoyt came in with a man he introduced as Sergeant Kreisler. Hoyt was bald, sharp featured, and about as warm and fuzzy as a hockey puck.
Kreisler had a full head of hair and a rosy complexion. He was a little too warm and fuzzy. Like he was enjoying the very idea of this meeting.
Carol set up a recorder and pushed the Play button, and Kreisler did the same.
Hoyt said to me, “Sergeant Boxer, we’re going to cover a lot of ground in this meeting. A complaint against you is a complaint against the entire police force, you understand. So don’t take it personally—or take it personally, I don’t care. I just want to get to the truth.
“You know the charges?”
“False arrest. Lying. Making up a confession resulting in a trial.”
“Good enough,” said Hoyt. “Let’s begin.”
For the next two hours William Hoyt tore apart my career in Homicide, case by case.
