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Hon said, “In a sentence or two, what is your complaint against Sergeant Stevens?”
“He didn’t work these cases with urgency. Perhaps if these victims hadn’t been homeless, if there were family members making inquiries, the cases would have received more attention. Perhaps, then, a woman who was doing her civic duty by coming to the police would be alive—and a spree killer would be awaiting trial.”
I said, “Thank you,” and sat down.
I heard Hon call Stevens, asking him to speak.
I had no idea what to expect, but I was sure he wouldn’t be blowing kisses at me from across the aisle.
CHAPTER 66
SERGEANT GARTH STEVENS stood up, put his hands in his pockets, and smiled.
He looked cool, composed, and confident. There was no murder too heinous, no charge against him too dire, to disturb his good mood. Noooo problems at all.
“Lieutenant Hon,” he said. “Gentlemen. I can make this real short. My partner, Evan Moran, and I work graveyard shift for Central Station, Homicide. Over the last six months a number of people have been shot in areas, as Sergeant Boxer put it, where homeless people congregate. We have worked seven of these cases.
“While being called to those street crimes, we have also been called to gang killings, domestic homicides, liquor store shootings, and hit-and-runs. Same day of the Geary Street murder, we were called to a home where a five-year-old boy had drowned his baby sister.
“In short, we’ve been busy and have closed 70 percent of our cases, which is a high-water mark for the entire SFPD. We have not made similar progress in these homeless murders, but it’s not because we were sleeping in our cars. Our squad is small and sometimes shorthanded. We get to our crime scenes as fast as we can, and we work the scenes in a professional manner.
“I have filed my report as well as the reports of the first-responding officers, CSI, and the medical examiner. Lieutenant Levant has been kept up to speed on all of my cases, and he has not found me or my partner negligent in any of them.
“If I may, I wish to put forth a theory as to why this series of possibly related crimes has gotten Sergeant Boxer into such a twist.”
“Go ahead,” said Hon.
“Okay,” said Stevens. “I was a psychology major back when I went to Fordham. Skipping ahead, I became a police officer for the SFPD. Back in those early days I was friends with Sergeant Boxer’s father, Marty. I even knew Lindsay, here, when she was a child.”
“Can we move it along, Stevens?”
“Yes, sir. Sergeant Boxer didn’t get along with her father. This isn’t gossip. It’s common knowledge, and maybe she has valid reasons. Regardless, I think she has transferred her anger at Marty Boxer to me. I think she sees me, she sees him. And she sees red.”
As Stevens had said, I saw red. Blood red. I was flooded with rage.
“Okay,” said Hon. “Thank you, Stevens.”
“One more thing,” said Stevens. “I’m requesting that the Cushing case be transferred to Central. My partner and I are conversant on this string of shootings and therefore have a better chance of closing the lot of them if we have all of the information.”
Hon said, “Duly noted.”
Stevens sat down.
Somehow the hearing ended and I left the room under my own power. I took the stairs down to the squad room.
Conklin was there.
“How’d it go?”
“I don’t have any idea,” I said. “I don’t have a clue in the world.”
CHAPTER 67
WHEN I PULLED open the door to MacBain’s, a wave of lunchtime chatter washed over me.
Most days the laughter and exuberant din recalled the good times I’d spent there. But not today.
Today I needed to see Claire.
