She left a few minutes later, but I couldn’t shake her idea that someone out there might be lying about me.
How do you deny what you don’t see coming?
When I woke up after a four-hour nap, the sun had already gone down. My own version of jet-lagged, I wasn’t going to be falling asleep at a reasonable hour. So I did the unthinkable, something my lawyer would surely chastise me for. I decided to get back out there and continue my investigation.
I would swing by the house where Bauer was murdered. And stake out the Andersons’ home. And do whatever the fuck else I could to exonerate myself. Cara had scared me about the strength of the DA’s case. I convinced myself that I had to find my own evidence.
The irony that that’s what got me in trouble in the first place was not lost on me.
On my way to Oakland, I found myself daydreaming.
I’d knock on the door of Clarence, the older black man I’d befriended, asking him if he’d seen anyone enter Griff Bauer’s house in recent days. He’d tell me he saw a man, grew suspicious, and took a picture of him entering said house. I’d take Clarence’s photo to the police, who would realize I’d been framed.
And the charges would be dropped.
But I knew this scenario wasn’t going to happen. I’d been on the news, charged with murder. Asking questions around town would just get the police called, and I’d land back in jail. And they wouldn’t give me bail this time around.
So I wouldn’t be talking to Clarence.
In fact, I decided not to stop at Griff Bauer’s house at all. There was nothing to be done there.
The Andersons’ house was different. At least people lived there and maybe, just maybe, I’d see something.
But if I was truly trying to find evidence that exonerated me, what was I doing at the Andersons? Absolutely zero proof existed that my dad’s suspicions had anything to do with the murders a few doors down. Or the murder of Griff Bauer.
This was all a wild goose chase.
I parked outside of the Andersons’ house. I saw some movement inside, but no one came outside. After almost two hours, I got bored and drove back home.
A complete and total waste of time.
19.
“I’ve outlined a bit of a defense,” Gary Rodgers said as I sat in his office.
He worked in the heart of San Francisco, on Market Street in a huge high-rise known as One Front Street. His office was home to three or four other lawyers, but it became readily apparent that Gary ran the show. His face occupied the majority of pictures on the walls.
I had been greeted by an older-than-expected secretary, who walked me through a legal library which must have had hundreds of books. Smart to place the library on the way back to Gary’s office. Helped suggest they'd be prepared.
Gary was hanging up the phone right as I walked in, and in between thanking the secretary, he greeted me with the line about our defense.
“Before we get into it, is there any way I can meet with the two main detectives working the case?”
“I’d highly recommend against it, Quint.”
“I understand. But is it possible?”
“It’s more than possible. The two detectives would love to meet with you. But they’d be meeting you with a different goal in mind. They’d be looking to cross you up, to find something to use at trial. And considering you have already lied to them, it would be pretty easy to trip you up.”
“I didn’t lie about being inside of the house.”
“I know. But you hadn’t told them you went to the house on the morning he was killed. Amongst other half-truths. You start talking to them and remind them you were there that morning, then they go knocking on doors and find someone to testify, putting you at the crime scene around the time of the murder. Look, they are likely doing that anyway—it’s their job, after all—but my point is, the more you talk to them, the more rope you will give them with which to hang you.”
“I just wanted to explain my actions to Detective Kintner and tell him I didn’t do this thing. We’d become friendly and I think he’d listen.”
“He’s no longer your friend, Quint. Right now, he’s out there gathering evidence to put you away for life. You need to stop thinking of him as a friend.”
I bowed my head, knowing I acted like a naive child. “You’re right. It’s just tough to sit here, doing nothing.”
“Unfortunately, it’s not till the trial that you’ll get your chance to tell your side of the story. Which we should discuss now.”
We spent the next hour talking about my defense, potential character witnesses, and things in my favor the police were not aware of.
Gary asked all the right questions and explained the legal ramifications thoroughly. I was blessed to have him on my side.
We finished, but as I turned to go, he called me back.
“You’re not doing any investigating about your father, are you?”
“No,” I lied.
“If the detectives see you by any of these crime scenes, they’ll arrest you again. And I won’t bail you out this time.”
“Understood.”
“Alright, Quint, thanks for stopping in. Let’s talk later this week.”
“I have one last question,” I said. “When do we start getting discovery so we can see the case against me?”
“It doesn’t always come in at once. We’ll start receiving it once a trial date is set. Which should happen at the preliminary hearing in a few weeks. I’d suggest delaying the trial as long as we can, especially since you’re out on bail, but we can talk about that as it gets closer.”
“Got it. Thanks again for everything, Gary. I’ll see you later this week.”
Next on my list of things to do was to see Tom Butler. Ironically, the man I’d just brought up as a potential character witness was about to officially fire me.
Tom had invited me to come by his house. Considering the charges against me, I appreciated the offer. It must not have been easy.
Krissy and Tom lived on the top of a cul de sac in the hills of Walnut Creek, looking upon the downtown area. It was a beautiful home in one of the most desirable sections of the city. I’d been there many times over the years, but never, of course, under circumstances like these.
I parked by their mailbox and walked up the slight hill to their house. I’d been unsure if Krissy was going to be there as well, but they both stood there waiting as I approached.
“Hi, Krissy. Hi, Tom. I’m so sorry.”
I shook Tom’s hand and Krissy gave me a hug.
“Let’s talk inside,” Tom said.
We sat around their dining room table. I turned down anything to eat, but accepted a cup of coffee. They each had a mug in front of them as well.
“Before I give you the disappointed dad speech, why don’t you tell me what you were thinking, Quint?”
While I’d told my mother and Cara most everything (leaving Dennis McCarthy and my father’s unlikely connection out), I had to tread lighter with the Butlers. Tom and Detective Kintner were friends and I couldn’t afford to say something that would incriminate me. So I decided to talk in generalities if possible.
“First off, guys, thanks for having me in your house. I know the charges against me sound terrible, but I’m innocent. I promise.”
I kept saying innocent, even though I knew “Not guilty” was all that would matter if we went to trial.
“We believe you,” Krissy said. Tom nodded in agreement.
“When I was in the hospital on my fortieth, I heard a scary conversation from the other hospital bed in the room. I could tell these guys were up to no good. So I took a picture of the man’s address, with the idea of doing some investigating. You may not believe me, but this all started because I thought maybe I’d had a big case thrown in my lap. The address led me to the house the next morning, where I saw the dead body. I should have told the cops immediately, there’s no question about it. But my own greed about potentially writing a signature articl
e got the best of me.”
I realized that I was probably already giving away too much information. I had to tone it back.
“And this one mistake led to more, because I didn’t want to admit my initial error. But I promise you with all my heart, I didn’t kill the guy. I just thought I’d stumbled on a big article for our paper and I went with it. I was wrong and went too far investigating it, but that’s the only thing I’m guilty of.”
“I believe you, Quint, but why do the cops think you did it?” Tom asked.
“I think I’m being framed.”
“By who?”
I’d done enough talking, but I could safely answer that question.
“I have no idea,” I said.
“As we’ve said, Tom and I believe you, Quint,” Krissy said. “But you can understand why we can’t have you working at the Times right now.”
“Of course,” I said. “But am I being fired?”
They looked at each other. Tom took the lead.
“Even if everything you told us is true, you still broke some serious journalistic codes. We take those very seriously, Quint. Because of that, we have to terminate your employment at the Walnut Creek Times.”
They’d been so polite and told me they’d believed me. But their hands were tied and I couldn’t blame them.
“I expected it,” I said.
“It gets worse, Quint. We are going to have to cover your case and your trial. You worked for us for nine years, after all. We can’t just pretend you didn’t.”
“It should make great theater. Having Greg or Crystal or Trent write about their ex-co-worker, the murder suspect.”
“We don’t have a choice. We’d be accused of journalistic dishonesty if we didn’t cover it.”
I lowered my head till it softly hit the table.
“I’m so sorry I put you in this spot. I have no doubt this is hard on you guys as well.”
“We treat our employees like family, Quint. Especially you.”
“You’ve always been more than fair.”
“How’s Cara taking this?” Krissy asked.
“She’ll be fine. It’s my mother I worry about.”
They both sighed.
“We’re so sorry, Quint,” Krissy said.
“Yeah, me too. Imagine being an innocent man and worrying they’ll send you away for life. Now I’m unemployed and my friends are dropping like flies.”
“Put yourself in our shoes, Quint.”
“I’m not blaming you two.” I stood up. “I should go,” I said.
They walked me to the door.
“Quint, when this is all over and you want to write a tell-all book, I know some publishers.”
“Thanks, Tom,” I said. “The way things are going I’ll be writing it from jail.”
“It may not feel like it right now, but we are on your side.”
“I know you are. Tell everyone at work that I said I’m innocent.”
“We will,” Krissy said. “Take care of yourself.”
I waved goodbye and started walking back down the hill to my waiting car. It was getting lonely on Team Quint.
20.
Although innocent of murder, I’d certainly been guilty of making bad decisions. And they continued. I parked outside of the Andersons’ home the next two nights, hoping I’d see something that would be a game changer.
I didn’t.
I shouldn’t have been surprised. When people get off work and head home, they usually stay in for the night.
But staking the house out during the day would be incredibly risky. If someone saw me, grew suspicious, and the cops were called, I could kiss my freedom goodbye.
But I also couldn’t just sit around, doing nothing. That wasn’t my style.
So on Saturday, after my first non-working workweek in a long time, I drove back to the Andersons’ early in the morning, determined to find something out. To my shock, about thirty minutes in, the dark “rape van” pulled out from the back of their house.
As the vehicle pulled out onto the street, I saw an older man behind the wheel. I had to assume it was Doug Anderson. No one in the passenger seat.
I’d followed the van for about ten minutes when it took an exit off of Interstate 80 and headed toward Golden Gate Fields, the local horse track.
I’d been several times over the years. It was a slowly decaying track, but still a lot of fun. The three strata of Golden Gate Fields were almost a microcosm of living in America. On the top level, the Turf Club, the fat cats, rich people who had done well in life, were catered too, waited on, and served good food and stiff drinks.
The middle level wasn’t bad. A few miscreants, but the majority of people were decent, law-abiding people. The clothes weren’t as nice as the Turf Club, but nothing to scoff at either.
The lowest level, which put you trackside, was full of degenerates and reprobates. Shirts were torn, cigarettes dangled, and betting two dollars on a race was on the high side.
I wouldn’t want Cara walking by herself on the bottom level of Golden Gate Fields, let’s put it that way.
Mr. Anderson drove his car up the hill that led to the racetrack. I followed from a distance. He passed by the bottom level, as I knew he would. He parked at the middle level, and I drove past him and parked as well. I got out of my car and watched as he entered the middle level but bypassed that as well, taking an elevator toward the Turf Club. I couldn’t just follow him into the elevator, so I took the stairs up to the top after waiting a few minutes.
I pulled my hat down tighter around my head, hoping no one would identify me. I paid the exorbitant fee ($16) to get into the Turf Club and looked around for Mr. Anderson. I saw a buffet, a few bars, and huge windows that looked out over the Bay and Golden Gate Bridges. Hard to imagine that only a few hundred feet below, the troublemakers roamed trackside. It was like a different world
I found him. Mr. Anderson sat near the glass above the racetrack, overlooking the finish line. It had to be the most expensive table at the Turf Club.
It was hard for me to see the man he spoke too, because I couldn’t risk getting too close. He wore a nice suit, that much was for sure. He appeared to be in his mid-fifties, and had a panache to him that I could sense even from far away.
I took out my phone and pretending to take a picture of the racetrack, instead snapping five quick pictures of the two of them. The gorgeous view looking down on the track was likely photographed many times every day. So I didn’t think I was bringing attention to myself. I looked at my phone, and while the picture wasn’t perfect, if you focused in on the other man, you could definitely see his face. I didn’t recognize it.
I almost wanted to bet a race just to try and get even from the ridiculous entry fee, but I decided to leave well enough alone. I left the Turf Club and walked back to my car. And waited. It wasn’t long until I saw Mr. Anderson approaching his. Less than fifteen minutes.
It made me even more suspicious. He’d gone to Golden Gate Fields and barely stayed long enough for one race. He wasn’t going to the racetrack. He was meeting someone who just happened to be at the racetrack.
He drove his windowless van back onto Interstate 80 and I once more followed at a safe distance.
He turned off at the first exit, an industrial area that was really run down. He took a left, then a right, and pulled up to what looked like an abandoned warehouse. I couldn’t pull in without being seen, so I remained on the street.
Mr. Anderson got out of his car and walked to a similar windowless van a few feet away, jumping into the passenger seat. I realized this meeting would take place out of my point of view.
However, I could still get some information out of it. I grabbed my phone and, zooming the picture to three times its usual size, took a photo of the other vehicle’s license plate. I then took one of Mr. Anderson’s for good measure.
Less than a minute later, Mr. Anderson left the truck and walked back toward his. He held two brick-size packages in his hand. Realisti
cally, they could be anything, but if we were still at the track, and there were horses named Drug Bricks or Cash Bricks, I’d bet on both.
He was about to reverse in my direction, and he might start recognizing my car. I’d gained some hopefully valuable information without being spotted. I’d take the win.
I drove away from the abandoned warehouse and got back on the freeway, heading home to Walnut Creek.
At home. I turned on some quiet jazz music and started doing some thinking.
I’d become friendly with Tina Vetters, a thirtyish woman who worked at the DMV, and she helped me out from time to time when I needed to verify a license plate number. She would have been a perfect ally right now, but this was entirely different and I knew it.
No one would be willing to help out a suspected murderer, unless they wanted to land themselves in jail as well. I couldn’t put anyone in that spot. So I didn’t call Tina Vetters.
Finding out who the car was registered to would have to wait.
How about the man that Anderson met with? Could I ask Gary Rodgers if he recognized him? He’d probably chastise me to no end, but he was my attorney and I did have attorney/client privilege with him. That was a possibility. I could always go back to the track and ask someone on the staff, but that didn't seem all that bright. I’d be found out in no time.
I’d paid almost no mind to Dennis McCarthy’s suggestion that I’d be chasing after my namesake. When I googled “Shark San Francisco” or “Shark Bay Area” the only results I got were links to shark attacks or stories about the San Jose Sharks, the Bay Area’s hockey team.
I had certainly put the man who had sent me letters on the back burner, but was that a mistake?
I started running through all that had happened. A man (it could have been a woman, but I doubted it) starts sending me letters. I’d assumed it’s because I worked at the Walnut Creek Times. The goal was to get a reporter to investigate the man’s enemies. Possibly write something negative about them. So me being a reporter would be more important than me being Quint Adler.
Revenge at Sea: (Quint Adler Book 1) Page 14