BASCOMBE: You said he was pushing buttons on the gate keypad…Nicholas?
LINSTAD: I suppose it’s possible.
BASCOMBE: It sounded before like you were pretty sure.
LINSTAD: It could be, it was dark.
BASCOMBE: Are you saying you’re not sure anymore?
LINSTAD: I…[inaudible]
BASCOMBE: Listen, I appreciate what you’re experiencing. I need to know what you saw, exactly like you saw it. It wasn’t too dark for you to see his face…? Nicholas.
LINSTAD: Yes, okay.
BASCOMBE: Yes he was messing with it…? I know you’re nodding but for the record, can you verbally acknowledge what you’re…
LINSTAD: I saw that he was pressing buttons.
BASCOMBE: Did it look like he was trying to break in?
LINSTAD: [inaudible] intentions. I thought perhaps he lived there.
BASCOMBE: He looked suspicious.
LINSTAD: I don’t know that.
BASCOMBE: That was the word you used. When we first sat down you told me you noticed him because he was acting suspicious.
LINSTAD: Perhaps I should have said he looked anxious.
BASCOMBE: How?
LINSTAD: I don’t know. It is an intuition that I had. I work with teenagers, I’m attuned to the way they behave.
BASCOMBE: You didn’t alert the authorities.
LINSTAD: No, of course not.
BASCOMBE: Why not?
LINSTAD: Because I didn’t know what he’s doing, he wasn’t doing anything wrong. He’s standing there. I called his name and he saw me and left. Why do I call the police? What can I tell them? There’s a person? He’s not there anymore. It’s not my business.
BASCOMBE: All right…Do you need a minute? Do you want some more water?
LINSTAD: No, thank you.
BASCOMBE: I’ll get you some more.
LINSTAD: Fine, yes.
(14:29:36)
BASCOMBE: Can we continue? You said the victim was working on the same study and that this boy Triplett was part of it. Sorry, can you, verbally…?
LINSTAD: Yes.
BASCOMBE: Did the two of them have contact with each other?
LINSTAD: She assisted with data collection. She was present at certain times and not at others. The subjects came in for several hours to perform the task and [inaudible] she was there when he was. But I don’t know if they met, I can’t say that.
BASCOMBE: Were they friends?
LINSTAD: How can I know? I don’t think so.
BASCOMBE: Okay, but, what I’m asking is, was there some kind of prior relationship between them that might lead him to want to hurt her?
LINSTAD: I don’t, I really don’t know.
BASCOMBE: The boy, you knew him a little bit?
LINSTAD: Not very much.
BASCOMBE: Enough to be worried when you saw him.
LINSTAD: I wasn’t worried, I was [inaudible].
BASCOMBE: What’s the difference?
LINSTAD: In the, the, in a broad sense, I was concerned. This boy, I saw him in the laboratory. You must try to imagine how it is to see him in a setting that is totally different. It was very late, I was tired. I apologize, I find it difficult to explain.
BASCOMBE: It’s all right, do what you can.
LINSTAD: That’s all I can think of, I don’t know how else to say it.
BASCOMBE: In terms of personality, how would you describe him?
LINSTAD: Well, it is really difficult to say.
BASCOMBE: Still, you interacted with him.
LINSTAD: Very briefly.
BASCOMBE: Did he ever do or say anything inappropriate, or threatening?
LINSTAD: I’m not sure what you mean.
BASCOMBE: In your judgment.
LINSTAD: This is not something I feel comfortable speaking about.
BASCOMBE: What makes you uncomfortable?
LINSTAD: He has a right…I must respect his privacy.
BASCOMBE: Be that as it may, you’re aware, you have to be aware of what he did.
LINSTAD: I don’t…It’s not my intention to lead him to a, a [inaudible].
BASCOMBE: Nicholas. Listen. This was a terrible thing. Just god-awful.
LINSTAD: Please.
BASCOMBE: It was really ugly, what he did to her. I can show you the pictures.
LINSTAD: No. No. No.
BASCOMBE: I’ve been a cop a long time, okay? Nothing like this.
LINSTAD: I don’t want to discuss it anymore. I saw him there, that’s all.
BASCOMBE: I’m saying, if you can help us…What is it. What’s the matter.
LINSTAD: Please, can we stop?
(14:51:09)
BASCOMBE: How are you feeling? Are you feeling better?
LINSTAD: Yes, better. Thank you.
BASCOMBE: You’re ready to go on?
LINSTAD: I must tell you I don’t think I should say any more before I’ve had a chance to consult with someone.
BASCOMBE: Okay, that’s not a problem, but first let’s talk about your study.
LINSTAD: One moment, because it’s not my study.
BASCOMBE: I thought it was yours.
LINSTAD: I have an advisor, it’s his lab.
BASCOMBE: What’s his name? I’d like to talk to him.
LINSTAD: Is that necessary?
BASCOMBE: Well, yeah, I think it is, because we’re talking about a kid who was in his study and a victim who was in his study. You can tell me his name. I’m not going to have a hard time finding that out. I can call your department…
LINSTAD: Professor Walter Rennert.
BASCOMBE: Okay.
LINSTAD: He doesn’t know I’m here. I didn’t tell him I was coming.
BASCOMBE: Why don’t you give him a call him right now? You can call him from another room and talk to him. Tell him we’d like to speak to him.
A knock yanked me back to the present. Nate Schickman poked his head in. He’d changed into work clothes. “Doing all right here?”
There was a clock above the door. I hadn’t left my chair in three hours.
“Fine,” I said, moving the binder off my lap. “There’s a lot to sort through.”
“You finding what you need?”
“Getting there.”
He came and stood by the table, regarding the file with a bemused expression. Aside from the main binder, it contained a host of stuff I hadn’t touched. An entire second binder of crime scene photos. Other agency reports. A box of mini-cassettes; those would be interesting to hear. Seeing Linstad’s words transcribed to paper made it hard to know if his waffling was the result of nerves, guilt, or genuine uncertainty as to what he’d witnessed.
Schickman said, “When I got it for you I took a peek. Crazy shit. I was kind of surprised I’d never heard about it.”
“Before your time.”
“Yeah, but. This place has a long memory.”
“The primary, Ken Bascombe. Is he still around?”
Schickman shook his head. “Don’t know him.”
“Can you think of someone who might be able to reach him?”
Schickman looked at me. “Be straight. What’s the deal here? Either you closed your case, or you didn’t.”
“It’s done,” I said. “I’ll send you the death certificate if you want.”
“Then what’s up?”
I said, “Rennert’s daughter is convinced it’s murder because of this other case. My reaction was the same as yours: How come I never heard of it? So I wanted a look, that’s all.”
He smiled, too polite to call bullshit on me. “Curiosity knows no bounds, huh?”
“It’s my day off to spend.”
He squinted at the open binder. “Who’s the primary, again?”
“Bascombe.”
“I’ll see what I can dig up,” he said.
—
I RETURNED TO the file.
By the time the cops got around to interviewing Walter Rennert, they’d managed to unearth Julian
Triplett’s name. It wasn’t difficult: they crossed the street to Berkeley High and asked around. In a freshman class of eight hundred, there was a single boy who matched the physical description provided by Nicholas Linstad, in all its freakish proportions.
For his part, Rennert began by denying that he was aware of any contact between Triplett and Donna Zhao. Eventually, though, he allowed that he wasn’t around the psych building every minute of every day, overseeing every aspect of his lab.
He refused to describe the nature of the study Triplett had been enrolled in, blustering about academic freedom. Bascombe switched tacks, attempting to coax Rennert into talking about Triplett’s personality. Again, Rennert refused. When the detective pressed harder, Rennert asked for a lawyer.
That was the extent of it. Perhaps he could already sense the coming shitstorm.
Ultimately, as the evidence piled up, whatever Linstad or Rennert or anyone else thought about Julian Triplett’s capacity for violence ceased to matter.
Triplett’s first interview with police took place in late January 1994. In the transcript, he came across as detached, often giving bizarre answers. He became fixated on the tape recorder, asking Bascombe who was listening to them and at one point attempting to shut it off. Unable to account for his whereabouts and actions on the night of the murder, he kept contradicting himself.
He was home.
No, he was walking home.
No, he was playing video games.
Six more interviews would follow, and Bascombe would note that Julian Triplett wore the same outfit to each: navy-blue or black mesh basketball shorts and a gray hoodie.
Bascombe asked Triplett for permission to take his fingerprints.
Triplett consented.
The crime lab matched a partial on the knife handle to Julian Triplett’s right thumb.
Confronted with this, Triplett imploded. He confessed to killing Donna Zhao.
BASCOMBE: Where’d you stab her?
TRIPLETT: Here.
BASCOMBE: He’s pointing to his chest. Where else?
TRIPLETT: Here.
BASCOMBE: In the abdomen. After you stabbed her. What happened then, Julian?
TRIPLETT: She like disappeared.
BASCOMBE: She disappeared.
TRIPLETT: Okay.
BASCOMBE: It’s a question. I’m asking you.
TRIPLETT: Okay.
BASCOMBE: Julian. Julian. Come on, now. Tell me the truth. What are you talking about, she disappeared. Where’d she go?
TRIPLETT: Like in the air.
BASCOMBE: In the air.
TRIPLETT: Can I have a Coke?
BASCOMBE: You can when you stop playing with me. I’m gonna ask you again. What happened after you stabbed her? What’d you do with the knife? You throw it away?
TRIPLETT: Yeah.
BASCOMBE: Where.
TRIPLETT: I want to go home.
As before, lacking voice cues, I couldn’t tell what was going on in Triplett’s head from reading the transcript. Denial, fear, remorse, confusion? His youth complicated matters.
With the day winding down, I gave up on reading for content and began to flip pages quickly, using my phone to photograph them for later review.
I phone-shot the crime scene photos. Street; building exterior; stairs; front door. Familiar angles, but fewer than you’d find in one of my case files. This was the period before digital cameras, when every frame cost money.
Front hallway.
Living room, in chaos.
Kitchen.
A human being, torn apart.
At five fifty-six, I packed up the file and took it back to Schickman’s office. Two other cops sat working their computers.
“Cool,” Schickman said. “You can just leave it here.”
I set the box down on his desk. “Thanks a lot.”
“Yeah, no worries,” he said.
I asked if he’d had a chance to look up Bascombe.
“Shit, no. I’m getting crushed here. Tomorrow, scout’s honor.”
One of the other detectives called, “What kinda fuckin scout are you?”
I said, “Tomorrow’s great, thanks.”
We shook hands and I left.
—
DUSK HAD FLOODED the square, skateboarders and students cleared out, leaving men in rags, in sleeping bags, belly-up on benches. They stumbled in and out of streetlight, kicked bottles, sermonized, confronted invisible enemies. They, too, were invisible, pressed down to ground level, stepped over.
Across the purpled lawns, lights burned inside the high school. Extracurricular activities. Math or debate or jazz or fencing.
Julian Triplett had never made it to the end of sophomore year.
Less than half a mile away, due east, lay the Cal campus, steeped in history and flush with resources, a haven for young minds full of hope and folly. They came from around the world to drink at the fountain.
Donna Zhao hadn’t graduated, either.
I thought of the two of them colliding like streaking comets. Meeting in a savage heat that left no trace.
CHAPTER 17
Julian Triplett wasn’t in the system.
I found a last known address for him—his mother’s house, on Delaware Street—but it was a decade old, and nobody picked up when I called. Other than a younger sister named Kara Drummond, who lived in Richmond, he had no other kin or associates. He had no adult criminal record. No credit history, no Facebook page, no Twitter, no Instagram, no gallery of faces on Google Images.
The lack of an internet presence is unusual but not unheard of. The denizens of People’s Park tend not to be plugged into the social network. Maybe Triplett was living on the street. Or he’d served his sentence and decided to get far away, start over. Part of my job is finding people, some of whom prefer not to be found.
The phone interrupted me.
“Yes, hi, this is Michael Cucinelli from Cucinelli Brothers Mortuary in Fremont.”
“Hi, Mr. Cucinelli. What can I do for you?”
“Yeah, so I’m following up with you directly, cause we have the body of a Mr. Jose Provencio here, and I gotta be honest with you, this is getting to be a bit much.”
“Wait a sec,” I said.
“Well, yeah, but no, cause I’ve been waiting five months, so I’m not really inclined to do a heck of a lot more waiting.”
“Hang on. Hang on,” I said, mousing rapidly. “You said Jose Provencio?”
“Yes.”
“Jose Manuel Provencio?”
“…yes.”
“He’s still there?”
“I’m looking right at him.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Do I sound like I’m kidding?”
“You’re telling me he never took care of it.”
“Who didn’t.”
“Samuel Afton. Mr. Provencio’s stepson. He assured me he would handle it. He said he worked out a deal with you guys.”
“Look, I don’t know anything about that. I know that my idiot nephew is telling me this guy’s been here since the summer. I respect what you do but I’m at my limit.”
“You and me both,” I said. “Give me five minutes, okay? I’ll call you back.”
Samuel Afton’s phone went straight to voicemail. I left a message asking him to get in touch immediately, then phoned Cucinelli.
“Here’s the deal,” I said. “If I don’t hear from him by the end of the day it’s going to county indigent.”
He grumbled but agreed. “As long as we finish with it today.”
“Five o’clock. You have my word.”
I put down the phone.
“Yo,” Zaragoza said, hanging over the partition. “We’re up.”
I reached for my vest.
He laughed. “No, dude. Lunch run.”
—
IN THE CAR, he said, “You okay?”
“Me? Fine. Why.”
“You look kinda tired.”
I’d been up late several nigh
ts in a row with the Zhao file. Even after forcing myself to roll over and turn off the bedside lamp, I’d lie on my back, listening to cars bottoming out in the potholes along Grand Avenue, wondering whether to call Tatiana and what to say.
The question wasn’t if Julian Triplett was dangerous. I’d seen the carnage. I’d read the autopsy protocol. Donna Zhao had been stabbed twenty-nine times.
The question, rather, was, if the huge guy I’d seen outside Rennert’s house was in fact Julian Triplett, or whether he was some other huge guy, and I was caught up in an equally huge mindfuck of a coincidence, victim of my own imagination.
Say it was him. What did I hope to accomplish by warning Tatiana? What did I expect her to do? Run out and get a gun? Like a dancer, Berkeley born and bred, would arm herself. Even if she did, she was more likely to end up shooting herself by accident.
By making her aware of a threat, I was in a sense creating that threat, which in my mind created a responsibility for me—to ensure that no harm came to her. Was I going to sit outside her house, a one-man neighborhood watch? For how long?
I was also concerned about feeding her suspicions. There was no evidence her father’s death was anything but natural, and I had no proof of Triplett’s ill intent. I had no proof he knew she existed. He hadn’t come to her address.
I considered other explanations for his presence outside the house. The best I could come up with was that he’d read the obituary and dropped by to gloat.
“Insomnia,” I said to Zaragoza.
“You try melatonin? I have some in my desk.”
“No, thanks.”
“I meant to ask you. Sunday. Priscilla’s making…” He paused, scratching his chin.
“Food?” I suggested.
“Let’s hope.”
“Yeah, man. Thanks.”
“Thank her. Her idea.”
That raised my antennae. “No unmarried cousins, please.”
“One time,” he said.
“Once was enough.”
“Telling you, dude, you fucked up. Iris is a quality chick.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
Leaving In-N-Out Burger with my arms full of greasy bags, I felt my pocket buzz and hurried to dump the food in the backseat of the Explorer. Too late: I’d missed the call. I was expecting a voicemail from Samuel Afton.
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