“I rented the space on a foggy day. Had I known . . .” Ross shrugged huge shoulders. He was a big man, but there was a gentleness to him that belied his size—a soft voice, his eyes friendly. As big as he was, Ross seemed to slump, as if carrying an enormous weight on his shoulders. Given whom he had apparently once been based on the pictorial history on his shelves, and where he now conducted business, Donley reasoned it a safe assumption the man had taken a serious and painful fall. He knew Lou had represented a lot of cops and wondered if that was the connection. “You were a cop?”
“I was. Tell me about your client.”
Donley rubbed at his chin. “Well, to start, he says he did not kill Andrew Bennet.”
“I know.”
“How would you know?” Donley asked.
“I read it in the paper.” Ross put up his hands to depict a banner. “Big headline. Priest says, ‘I didn’t do it.’ Sounds like it was a hell of an arraignment. Most are boring.”
Donley smiled. “Right. So, what exactly did Lou ask you to do?”
Ross spoke as he moved to the chair behind the desk. “Ask around and find out what I could about what went down that night at the shelter and anything else I thought might be important.”
“Did you find anything?”
“First, tell me about the priest. Do you believe him?”
“Yeah, I believe him.”
“Why?”
Donley took a moment to gather his thoughts. “The night of Andrew Bennet’s murder, Father Martin said he was on his way to lock the front door when the power cut out.”
“I believe there was a storm that night,” Ross said.
“There was, but I’ve checked with PG&E. There was no power outage for the grid that included the shelter, and they did not shut off power to the building. That means either the power failed, which would have been a hell of a coincidence, or someone pulled the fuse. The fuses are located in a closet in the back of the room where Andrew Bennet’s body was found.”
Ross seemed to consider this for a moment. Then he asked, “How would someone get in the building unnoticed?”
“According to Father Tom, there’s a door in that room that leads to a staircase that goes down to a basement. Another door leads to the back of the building. He keeps both locked at all times. Someone had to have let the killer in, or at least propped the door open.”
“So, two people?” Ross asked.
“Seems that way.”
“What else?”
“The day I visited Father Martin in jail, he was under lock and key, a high-profile defendant on suicide watch being kept in isolation.”
“Given what he’s accused of doing, that would be the protocol,” Ross said.
“So, tell me why, on Christmas Eve, he gets transported to give a blood sample at the end of a shift, and somehow when he’s brought back, he’s placed in general population and nearly killed.”
“The paper said it was an administrative error.”
“Yeah, and occasionally the power goes out, but that’s two coincidences. Then there’s the fact the DA keeps hinting at a plea.”
“DA doesn’t plea murder ones.”
“They do now. Gil Ramsey hinted at it in his office once. Yesterday afternoon, after hitting me with the news that they’d found my client’s blood type on the victim’s clothing, Linda St. Claire offered twenty-five years to life with parole at twenty for a guilty plea.”
“She made the offer after telling you the blood type matched?”
“Strange, huh? You’d think it would have made them pull the offer off the table.”
“What did your client say?”
Donley shook his head. “He won’t plea. He didn’t do it.”
“Gutsy.”
Donley nodded, but inside he couldn’t shake that feeling he was leading Father Martin to the gallows.
“You have a motion to exclude evidence pending,” Ross said. “Maybe they’re worried the blood type won’t come in.”
“My motion won’t keep out blood on the victim’s clothing, and as Ms. St. Claire was so kind to remind me, even if I win, I still have to defend against a murder charge. If she wins I’ve given Father Martin a one-way ticket to Colma,” Donley said, referring to the city famous for having more graves than citizens.
“How does your client explain the blood?”
“Someone had to doctor the clothing.”
“So, a third person involved?”
Donley heard Ross’s skepticism. “My client was taken to the hospital the night of the murder for a broken wrist, Mr. Ross.”
“Frank,” he said. “How did he break his wrist?”
“He slipped and fell on Andrew Bennet’s blood. I have the hospital records. There is no mention that my client was bleeding. Look, I know where your questions are heading, Frank, and I don’t disagree that, at the moment, I don’t have a lot to back up a conspiracy theory. So, I’m screwed royally unless I can figure out who did kill Andrew Bennet.”
“Solve the case?”
“That might be the only way.”
“Did your priest know the victim?”
“Knew of him. He was surprised when Bennet showed up at the shelter that night.”
“Why?”
“Bennet was a tough kid who did heavy drugs, heroin apparently. Father Tom said when Bennet came in, he was agitated. He thought Bennet was coming down off a high or was in need of a fix, but before Father Tom had the chance to talk to him, Bennet took off.”
“He left the shelter?”
“At some point. Then his body turns up back at the shelter. That got me thinking. What if it wasn’t drugs that made Andrew Bennet agitated? What if he was agitated because he was afraid someone was going to kill him? Maybe Bennet went to the shelter because he was scared.”
“Then why would he leave?”
“I don’t know.” Donley shook his head. “The problem is, I have until Thursday morning, bright and early, to figure this out. I can’t afford to lose that motion, but at the moment, I don’t believe I can win.”
“Ask for a continuance. Your guy is in the hospital.”
“I did. The court denied my motion. The judge doesn’t need Father Martin present to hear it. Can you help me?”
Ross sat back, pausing before he answered. “Maybe. I spent the weekend and all day yesterday running some things down.” Ross opened a drawer and pulled out a file. He placed it on the desk and opened it. On top was a newspaper article. Someone, likely Ross, had written the date in ink at the top above a simple, nondescript headline.
Body Found in Dumpster
“Sixteen-year-old runaway from Illinois named Jerry Burke,” Ross said. “He was strangled. The killer stuffed his body in a green garbage bag and dumped it in a bin behind a bar in the Castro. Burke had a long history of solicitation and drug-related charges.” Ross turned the article over and handed Donley a copy of a police report, two sheets of paper stapled at the top. “The driver for the garbage company that serviced the area found the body when he went to dump the contents. Actually, he saw a foot sticking through the bag. But for that, the driver said he would have buried Jerry Burke under a mound of garbage, perhaps forever. There were no other statements. There were no witnesses.”
Ross took back the report, put it in the file, and set the file aside. He opened a second file. It appeared to be organized in the same manner, a newspaper article clipped to a police report. “Two weeks later, the body of Manuel Rivera, seventeen, was found at Fort Funston.”
Donley and Kim sometimes ran Bo at that park, which was situated on a bluff above the coast.
“A woman walking her dog found the body. More accurately, her dog found it in a thick bramble of bushes.”
“How’d he die?”
Rivera was shot once through the head. He was also described as a street prostitute with a long criminal record, including drugs and solicitation. The police report was similar to the first, scant. The only witness statement was from the
woman who stumbled on to the body.”
“You think these cases are related to Andrew Bennet’s killing.”
“I can’t say that, but the autopsy report on Jerry Burke revealed his lungs were filled with water, and the garbage bin in which they found him was a long way from any body of water. He also had fresh burn marks on his body, like someone had used him as an ashtray. Rivera didn’t have any water in his lungs, but he also had the burn marks. Torture is done either because the killer is a sick, sadistic son of a bitch, or he’s trying to get information.”
“Bennet had burn marks on his body. It’s in the ME’s report.”
“So, we have three street kids all about the same age, all tortured, all murdered within weeks of one another. All three investigations remain open, and here’s what I learned more recently. Dixon Connor is the lead detective in all three investigations. At least, he was until he got himself suspended.”
That got Donley’s attention. “Connor is the detective who broke down the door to Father Tom’s office. He claims that’s where he found the letter opener and photographs.” But just as Donley started to get excited, he deflated. He shook his head. “The State will object this is all irrelevant, and I don’t see Judge Trimble letting in any evidence related to Rivera or Burke without something more to tie them to Andrew Bennet.”
“I agree. But you were talking about coincidences. How much do you know about San Francisco Homicide?” Ross said.
“Not much.”
“Fourteen detectives, one lieutenant, and one secretary. They work in seven teams. Since murderers don’t conform to regular business hours, the detectives are on call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. To ease that burden, they rotate, like doctors on call. They call it standby. Connor was on standby the nights of each of the three murders. From twenty years of police work, I can tell you that’s rare. Even less likely is Connor being stupid enough to break in a locked door at a crime scene and jeopardizing the evidence.”
“What can you tell me about him?”
“Dixon Connor is a third-generation San Francisco police officer. His grandfather walked the beat, his father followed him, and it’s the only job Connor ever wanted to do. Only it isn’t a job for him. It’s a way of life. His father, Max, was a legend in the Sunset District. Infamous is probably a better word to describe him. Max Connor ran the Police Athletic League. His teams were white boys, and they were tough. Max Connor was a good cop, but not so good a person.”
Ross told the story like he was building up to something.
“What do you mean was?” Donley asked.
Ross picked up a pen and ran it between his fingers like a tiny baton. “Max Connor didn’t exactly take to having women and minorities on the police force. He made life miserable for the few female officers we had back then. Most of them didn’t want to make waves, didn’t want to buck the system and come off as too sensitive for the job—it was still pretty much an old boys’ network back then. So most tolerated his crap.”
“But not all?” Donley said, picking up the thread of the story.
“Maria Gonzalez grew up in a tough neighborhood. The facts are a bit sketchy, but if you believe her, Max Connor forced himself on her after a night of drinking. She said that when she resisted, punches were thrown. Max Connor claimed she set him up, came on to him, then started screaming. He said she had an ax to grind and wanted to get him dismissed from the force. It was classic ‘he said, she said.’ The review board sided with Gonzalez and dismissed Max Connor. That was enough to kill him, but it turned out that was the least of his problems. The district attorney was the political type, and the dismissal, which got a lot of press, was an opportunity to stand up for women and minorities, and maybe get a few votes in the process. Augustus Ramsey decided to make an example of Max Connor. And he assigned a young DA to the case named Gil Ramsey. His son.”
“So, what happened?”
“They couldn’t make a rape case, so they went after Connor for assault and battery. The old boys’ network couldn’t save Connor the humiliation of a criminal trial.”
“No wonder Connor hates lawyers. Was his father convicted?”
Donley shook his head. “Like I said: He said, she said. The jury hung. But Gonzalez wasn’t about to let it drop. She sued Connor for civil damages and won. I heard she took him for just about everything he had but his house. After that, Max Connor disappeared. I didn’t hear anything about him for about a year. Then I picked up the paper one morning, and there he was. He’d shot himself with his service revolver. Dixon Connor found him lying on his bed wearing his dress blues, medals pinned to his chest. A memory like that eats at a man.”
Donley knew.
“Then there’s the cumulative effect of the painkillers Connor chases with alcohol to deaden the pain from the bullet in his back that they can’t remove without permanently damaging his spine. Suffice it to say, I wouldn’t put anything past the man.”
Donley recalled the sight of the barrel of Connor’s gun, as big as a sewer pipe. He started to pace, feeling both energized but anxious. “So, if he kicked in the door, there had to be a reason. Right?”
Ross crossed his arms. “You got a theory?”
Donley ran a hand through his hair. “Maybe he killed Bennet and planted the evidence to frame Father Martin.”
“If that were true, why screw up the evidence? Why not just plant it and let someone find it?”
Donley shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Theories without motivation aren’t much good. Ninety-nine percent of all murderers have a motive: money, jealousy, revenge. Maybe one percent kill for pleasure. Those are your psychopaths. Connor is not that one percent. Did he have anything against your guy?”
Donley continued to pace. “Father Martin said they sparred a few times over the shelter, but nothing that would warrant something like this. Maybe Connor is a closet homosexual, you know? Maybe he likes boys—”
Ross shook his head. “Second rule: know your suspect. Connor is not a closet homosexual. He detests them as much as he detests women and minorities on the force.”
“OK, what theory would you start with?”
Ross rocked back in his chair. “A guy like Connor? I’d guess revenge above anything else.”
Donley stopped pacing, a thought coming to him. “Connor showed up at San Francisco General on Christmas Eve to talk with a young man from the shelter he put in the hospital the night they arrested Father Tom. Why would he do that unless maybe he was looking for something?”
“What are you getting at?”
“Maybe I’m coming at this from the wrong angle. Maybe Connor didn’t kick the door in because he wanted to plant evidence. Maybe he thought there was something inside the office he wanted. Maybe that’s why he broke open the desk and the file cabinets.”
“What’d the young man say?”
“I don’t know. After Connor’s visit, he took off. I haven’t been able to find him.”
“So how do you know this happened?”
“Because I was at the hospital and tried to talk to him.”
“Christmas Eve?”
“That’s the night I got the call about Father Martin being beaten. I missed Connor by minutes.”
Ross folded his hands in his lap. “Christmas Eve. That’s admirable.”
“I owe it to Lou. The archdiocese is his biggest client.”
“Bullshit,” Ross said. “I know a lot of attorneys who wouldn’t have done what you did, no matter how big the client.”
Donley looked to the framed photographs and certificates on Ross’s shelves. He suspected Frank Ross, once a decorated police officer, wasn’t sitting in a Tenderloin office that smelled of mold by choice. Something had happened in his past that had relegated him to this life.
“All right. I’ll tell you straight up. No bullshit. I need to exorcise some demons from my past to get on with my life, and I think defending Father Tom might help me do that.”
Ross
stared at him, but for a brief moment, his eyes flicked to the photographs on the shelves.
“So, will you help me?” Donley asked.
Ross ran a hand across his chin and looked down at the flashing light on his answering machine. “I have a client who is not going to be too happy with me. He’d like his deposit back, and I’m not inclined to give it to him. He lied to me. Common sense says he should go away quietly, but he’s a lawyer, and no offense to you, they don’t usually have much common sense.”
Donley smiled and picked up the phone. “What’s his number?”
Father Martin had told Donley he’d chosen the location for his shelter, six blocks west of the Polk Gulch, because it was an easy walk straight up O’Farrell and Ellis streets. The four square blocks that ran north and south between Geary and Ellis and east to west from Van Ness to Polk represented the mouth of The Gulch. Ellis was a main tributary, a one-way street that emptied onto the main artery, Polk Street. At night, Polk Street was alive with local bars, trendy restaurants, and not-so-trendy liquor stores, corner markets, adult-video stores, and an occasional fast-food eatery.
Ross drove the Cadillac past the shelter. Yellow police ribbons crisscrossed the front entrance, and an unhappy-looking police officer stood on the top step with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He kept his shoulders turned to avoid the cold winds blowing small tornadoes of dirt and litter up the street.
“Overkill,” Ross said. He turned the corner and drove down an alley so narrow, Donley thought the sides of the Cadillac would scrape the buildings’ concrete walls, but the big car emerged unscathed.
“You always want to start with the crime scene,” Ross said.
“I told you, I don’t have time to get a motion filed for an expedited view,” Donley said.
“No, you don’t.” Ross turned right on Ellis and parked next to a ten-foot-high, chain-link fence enclosing a square slab of concrete.
The back side of the building formed one of the walls in the park. Amid graffiti and gang symbols, someone had spray-painted a square approximating a baseball strike zone. Round marks indicated where a ball had been repeatedly thrown. The park was twenty feet lower than the front entrance to the building on Eddy Street, a configuration not uncommon in San Francisco because of its steep hills. Buildings were pitched on slopes. A jungle gym sat atop a rubber mat that looked like a puzzle missing several of the interlocking pieces.
The 7th Canon Page 18