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Six squads were blocking through traffic and forming a wall around the crime scene. As we moved toward the police, I saw that barrier tape had enclosed a third of the lot. Ten uniformed officers were directing traffic, protecting the scene.
I pinned my badge to my breast pocket and Rich and I got out of his car and headed in on foot.
“The Camry,” I said pointing to the vehicle three cars in from the main through-road, taped in within the larger perimeter. The Toyota sedan looked six or seven years old, an oxblood red with some rust around the wheel wells.
Checking my watch, I saw that it was seven thirty and shops were closing at eight. Lights went on in the lot. Scattered bells rang andCLOSEDsigns were hung inside glass doors as they were pulled shut. A CSU van rounded the turn into the shopping center on two wheels followed by another van, this one marked “Coroner” in big black letters.
Pedestrians had quickly gotten a sense of the situation. A crime, probably a murder, had occurred and many of those people whose cars were parked within the taped-off areawouldn’t be allowed to leave. I didn’t have to hear their voices to know what they were saying to one cop after another.“I need my car.” “I have to pick up my husband.” “I have all of these packages.” “My mother’s alone.” “You have to let me leave.”
That wouldn’t be happening.
A uniformed cop, about six three, 280, put up a hand to stop us from coming closer. We kept coming but I shouted out my name, rank, and flashed my badge. Conklin added that Marin County’s Captain Geoffrey Brevoort was expecting us. The uniform waved us in, holding up the tape so we could duck under it.
“Mancuso,” he said. “Tom.”
He introduced us to his partner, Chris Fama, and made a general announcement to the team. Then, Fama ran the scene for us.
“We got the call about fifteen, twenty minutes ago. The manager at the Dunkin’ was leaving early and his car was next to a Camry. He saw that the rear left door was ajar. The driver’s window was open. He looked in, saw what he saw, and phoned it in.”
Rich said, “He’s being questioned?”
“Yep, probably just got to the station.”
I pulled on latex gloves.
“Mind if we take a look?”
“Here. Take my light,” said Fama.
CHAPTER 7
RICH AND I stepped over to the red sedan and peered inside. Every murder left a mark on me and questions quickly formed, tumbling one after the other in my mind.What had happened here? Who had killed this man, how, and why?
I tried to puzzle it out using only what I could see by flashlight and the glare of the headlights under the darkened sky. I had no blood tests, no fingerprints, no witness statements. Not even the man’s name.
But there was evidence in the murder itself.
I made note of the position of the victim’s body. His feet had lifted off the floor near the pedals, but his upper body was twisted to the right. He was facedown on the front seat, his head toward the passenger side, right arm under him, the left hanging over the edge of the seat.
I snapped a few pictures, then, said to Rich, “I think he saw the shooter approach from the rear and tried to dive under the dash.”
A bad feeling overcame me as I continued to study the body.There was a wad of what looked like a black leather jacket in the passenger-side footwell.
“Rich. Is this that guy from the bookstore?”
“Huh. Could be. Same type of build, anyway.”
“On the floor. That could be his bomber jacket.”
The victim’s face was pressed against the upholstery, distorting his features. Rich focused the flashlight beam on the dead man’s face. His skin was covered with blood and flecks of brain matter, which were also evident on the dash and the passenger-side door.
There was so much blood that I couldn’t see where he’d been shot. A whack with a tire iron, for instance, could create the same amount of blood and tissue detritus.
“It’s going to be three to six hours before this is sorted out,” Rich said.
I agreed. The CSIs would have to document the primary crime scene. Take photos, lots of them, search for bullet holes and casings, anything the killer may have left behind. Until they were finished with their work, the body could not be moved.
Mancuso’s partner, Chris Fama, had returned with his notebook in hand. He said, “The tags say that this car belongs to a Ralph Hammer. If thisisHammer, he has no priors. He lives outside Mill Valley. I’m going to have to notify his family. ’Scuse me. I’m getting a call.”
