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I got myself a mug of highly sugared coffee and, passing on the cookies, returned to my desk.
“So, what’d I miss? Where’s Brady?”
As if summoned, the lieutenant burst through the gate—and he looked worried.
“Boxer. Conklin. I need you downstairs.”
Leaving Alvarez, we followed Brady down the fire stairs. Brady is six two, muscular, with white-blond hair banded in a short ponytail, wears denim everything. But more to the point, he’s a great leader. We three exited the building through the lobby’s back door, took the breezeway out to Harriet Street, which is where a lot of Hall of Justice workers take advantage of free parking under the overpass.
This morning, squad cars had formed a barrier that cordoned off the street to traffic. Sergeant Bob Nardone, was standing at the intersection of Harriet and our breezeway. Another couple of uniforms blocked my view.
Nardone broke from the huddle and approached us.
He said to Brady, “The victim is white, male, sixties to seventies. I was about to get into my car when I saw him lying facedown next to my vehicle. Bullet in the back of his head, looks like it was fired at close range. Lieutenant,” he said to Brady. “Will you take a look before the swarm moves in?”
It was too late to avoid that. Hall of Justice workers and passersby were crowding in for a look. There was no room for all of us, so Brady and Conklin joined Nardone while I called my closest friend, Dr. Claire Washburn.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” she said. And she meant that literally.
Claire is San Francisco’s chief ME. Her office is a hundred yards from where we stood on Harriet Street.
While I waited for Claire, I called the crime lab and got director Eugene Hallows on the phone. I said, “Gene, first homicide of the week is right here on Harriet Street between Bryant and Harrison Streets. You’ll see the cruisers.”
“I’ll send the van, ASAP.”
We clicked off and I went over to the squad car barricade hoping to get a closer look at the scene, but Conklin put his hand at my back and headed me away from it. No question about it, my cool-under-fire partner looked very troubled.
CHAPTER 3
TIRES SQUEALED AS the coroner’s van rounded the corner of Bryant to Harriet. It came to a hard stop when the driver rolled up on the barricade that was now hemmed in by a gathering and restless crowd. Al Bunker, the ME tech at the wheel, climbed down from the van and began loudly “negotiating” with Officer Kieran Laughton to make room for the ME as was required.
But there was little Laughton could do.
Harriet is a side street; narrow, industrial, bounded by high chain-link fencing. Vehicles were parked on both sides of the fences and pedestrians used the gates in the chain link.
Nardone shouted to Bunker, “Al, back up. I’ll spit on the fender for ya’, awright?”
The van was in reverse when I heard Claire Washburn calling my name. I swung around to see her step off the curb, her expression a cross betweenGlad to see you, girlfriend, andwhat’s the holdup here?
“Suggest you bark at the uniforms until they make room for you,” I said to my BFF. “This is as close as I’ve gotten.”
“Follow me,” she said.
Claire is a big woman, but she squeezed between two cop cars and I followed. I nearly caught up with her as she closed in on the dead body and the uniforms barring the way. I took a seat on the hood of a cruiser. I only had a view of her back and the deep ring of surrounding uniforms as Claire stooped down and did a preliminary assessment of the victim in situ.
When she stood up, Claire called out to me over the heads of the uniforms, “From what I can see, he was shot execution style, one round through the back of his skull, no facial injury. He’s coming out of rigor. I’m saying he’s been here for ten to twelve hours. Make it eight to ten o’clock last night. Call me later for updates.”
Then she picked Conklin out of the crowd.
“Richie. Help me roll him.”
From my seat on the cruiser, I could just see that the body was lying between an SUV and a panel van and that it would be hard to flip the DB onto his back. The sum of what else I could see of him was a gray tweed jacket, dyed black hair, and blood at the back of his neck.
I’d had enough.
“Let me through,” I said to the uniforms in front of me. “I’m not kidding.”
I’d hopped off the car hood and was shoving the uniforms ineffectually when Conklin called out to me.
