Returning with the body, I ran into Zaragoza in the intake bay.
“You get my text?” he asked.
“What text?”
“Your guy,” he said. “Moby-Dick. They got him.”
I began pelting him with questions.
He put up his hands. “Hey. Hey. I don’t know shit about shit. I just asked them, ‘You guys seen a dude with a schlong on his neck,’ and uniform’s like, ‘Oh yeah, that guy, they brought him in last night.’ Anything else, talk to them.”
I was amazed. Not just at Vinson’s arrest, but at my teammates’ diligence. I’d assumed they’d been laughing at me behind my back.
I looked to Shupfer, scribbling on the clipboard.
“Go,” she said. “I got it.”
“You sure?”
“Go before I change my mind.”
“Thank you.” To Zaragoza: “Thank you.”
“Yeah, man. Anytime.”
“Seriously,” Shupfer said, “leave.”
* * *
—
I DROVE TO 7th Street, puzzled. Nwodo’s phone kept sending me straight to voicemail and Larry Vinson’s name wasn’t showing up in any of the county booking logs.
Hauled in but not yet arrested? New problems?
The desk sergeant told me Detective Nwodo was away from the office.
“Who’s with her suspect?”
He looked me over, clocking my Coroner’s uniform. “Hang on a sec.”
I leaned on my elbows while he called up to Investigations.
He replaced the receiver. “Someone’ll be out in a minute. Make yourself comfortable.”
He meant the row of tubular steel chairs beneath a pocked corkboard. I stayed right where I was, and he went about ignoring me.
Someone turned out to be a woman with a great mane of cinnamon hair—Detective Robin Muñoz, whom I’d met briefly at Highland Hospital. The Jalen Coombs murder was hers, which made Dane Jankowski hers, too. I didn’t know what, if anything, Nwodo had told her about me. Her smile was cordial but absent any special regard.
“I remember you,” she said. “Delilah’s friend.”
“Clay Edison. I can’t get her on the phone.”
“Delilah? She’s on a plane. You need something?”
I asked about Larry Vinson.
“Bad Tattoo Man,” she said. “They got him in the fishbowl.”
“Who does?”
“Von Ruden.”
“I was hoping to have a word.”
Muñoz tilted her head. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Just—I’ve been giving Nwodo a hand, here and there, so…You know. I know a little bit about it.”
Slow nod. She said, “Come on up.”
On the stairs, I asked where Nwodo was flying to.
“London. Visit her sister.”
“How long’s she gone?”
“A week. She left last night.” Muñoz checked her watch. “Probably touching down right around now.”
“Has anyone let her know about Vinson?”
“Von Ruden did,” she said. “I’m assuming.”
“So he’s briefed on the situation.”
Muñoz stopped four steps shy of the third-floor landing. Facing me, she said, “What situation would that be?”
I hesitated. “It’s complicated.”
“Uh-huh.” She was evaluating me with the same skepticism as had the desk sergeant.
He’s like a giant fucking barnacle.
“Call Nwodo,” I said. “Ask her.”
Muñoz resumed her climb. “I’ll do that. Maybe I’ll let her unpack.”
* * *
—
SHE ESCORTED ME to the viewing room, a converted closet with enough space for a desk, a monitor, and two more tubular steel chairs. The walls exhaled burnt coffee and feet.
Muñoz toggled the screen over to INTERROGATION 3.
Larry Vinson, alone and uncuffed, sat at the table, munching on Funyuns and sipping Mountain Dew.
Muñoz told me, “Hang out here.”
I sat. Vinson was absorbed in his snack. A second bag stood by for when he finished the first. He’d shed his outer layers, a navy-blue parka draped over the chair-back, a gnarly poop-brown scarf over that, its fringes tickling the carpet. The camera angle was favorable, showing the world-famous tattoo. With each gulp of soda, I saw, or imagined, the shark-phallus pulsing obscenely.
For a wanted man, he appeared mighty chill.
Conventional cop wisdom holds that an innocent person will rage and protest. It’s the guilty who relax, put their heads down, take a nap. Take that as an ironclad rule, and Larry Vinson was in major trouble.
But it’s not ironclad. If you’ve been arrested twenty-plus times, you’re going to feel at home in an interrogation room. Guilty, innocent—why get worked up?
Take a load off. Nice and toasty.
Enjoy your Funyuns.
Hell, they were free.
Detective Von Ruden appeared in the viewing room doorway. “To what do I owe the honor?”
“I heard you had the Dickfish,” I said. “Always wanted to see him in concert.”
Von Ruden chuckled. “Oh yeah. Once-in-a-lifetime experience.”
“Where’s he been hiding out?”
“BART cops spotted him on the steps at Nineteenth Street.”
“Good for them.”
“Yeah, it takes a village.” He smiled. “So what can I do for you?”
On the screen, Larry Vinson shook Funyun crumbs into his mouth.
I said, “How long have you had him?”
Von Ruden yawned. “Couple hours. Most of that’s been feeding the poor bastard. We’re getting to know each other.”
“You haven’t arrested him.”
“I will if I need to. Nothing else, we have him on failure to register. He ain’t leaving.”
“He hasn’t asked for a lawyer.”
“Not yet.”
“Nwodo bring you up to speed before she left?”
“Some,” he said, starting to get impatient.
“You mind I poke my head in? Talk to old Larry.”
“Trust me, you don’t want that. Mr. Vinson has not showered in some time. I gotta step outside every ten minutes so I don’t suffocate.”
“Smells don’t touch me.”
“Yeah, I guess they wouldn’t, huh.”
“Has Larry given you anything yet?”
“We’re still flirting.”
“Have you asked him directly about the murder?”
“Like I said. Flirting.”
“I’m wondering if maybe he thinks he’s up on the old warrant.”
“So let him think that,” Von Ruden said. “Look, friend. I’m busy. All right? Whyn’t you relax and enjoy the show.”
He walked off.
Reappeared on screen, entering the interview room.
Hey buddy. How’s your lunch?
Larry grunted.
You want anything else?
Larry shook his head.
For a brief while that was how it went: Von Ruden asking harmless questions, Larry Vinson answering in monosyllables. Gradually, the detective began circling in. Where was Larry living? Where had he been living the last few months?
I couldn’t tell if Von Ruden was being intentionally vague, or if he was in fact unfamiliar with the details of the Winnie Ozawa murder.
Week of Christmas Von Ruden said. You heard about that thing that went down?
Vinson started in on his second bag of Funyuns.
Some people got shot Von Ruden said. You didn’t hear about that? It was big news. Fancy
house party. Buncha people got killed. Everyone was talkin.
Larry chewed, chewed.
You know the place I’m talkin about, though. Big house, corner of Eleventh and Almond.
A hiccup in the cadence of Larry’s chewing; a tiny raising of the antennae.
Yeah, you know the one I mean Von Ruden said. You stayed there a couple times, right?
Larry swallowed, took a swig of soda.
So let’s talk about why you’re here Von Ruden said. You know why you’re here? You want to take a guess? It’s about the girl. Paging through the file. The girl…
Larry licked salt from his fingers.
…in the toolshed.
Larry stopped.
Yeah Von Ruden said. Someone fucked her up. Real nasty.
Larry blinked.
You want to tell me about that, Larry?
Larry Vinson had been arrested twenty-plus times. He knew the drill.
He crossed his forearms on the tabletop and put his head down. With his face buried in his sleeves, the word came out muffled. The room microphone wasn’t in terrific shape, either, and his voice emerged a clotted ursine growl. All the same, I heard him perfectly.
Larry Vinson said Lawyer.
Some cops get up and leave at that point. More than a legal nicety, it’s a tactic, calculated to instill second thoughts and panic.
Hey, I’m doing you a favor, letting you talk.
Don’t make a damn bit of difference to me. I already got you sewn up.
Von Ruden chose instead to stick around, asking Vinson what did he need that for, we’re just having a conversation, you and me, just two guys talking. Offended that Larry would taint their blossoming friendship with accusations of duplicity.
Lawyer.
Larry my man.
Lawyer.
All right. If that’s what you think you really want.
Lawyer.
You want something else to eat? While you wait.
Lawyer.
You want to eat a lawyer? Cause I heard they taste like shit.
Lawyer.
Eventually Von Ruden slapped the table. Suit yourself.
He got up and left. Minutes later I heard his plodding tread in the hall.
“You see that?” he said, leaning into the viewing room. He had a shit-eating grin on his face. “I say shed he sits up like I stuck a cattle prod up his ass.”
“I saw it,” I said.
Von Ruden said, “There you go.”
I nodded. I think he was expecting me to thank him. “Thanks.”
“All right then,” he said, and departed.
I was still sitting there, staring at Larry’s crumpled form, when Muñoz came around the corner, cellphone pressed to her breast.
With a bemused expression, she handed me the phone. “It’s Delilah.”
I heard a froth of noise. “Where are you?”
“Heathrow,” Nwodo said. “Just heard. I’m trying to figure out a flight back today.”
On screen, Larry Vinson had gone to sleep.
I said, “Don’t rush.”
CHAPTER 25
She didn’t listen to me, of course. She got on the next available flight, which put her into SFO the following afternoon.
By then Larry had established that he wasn’t talking to anyone about anything. That included his public defender, a guy named Lipper who looked like a high school freshman.
Von Ruden arrested Larry on the outstanding warrant as Lipper watched.
Larry held his wrists out for the cuffs, like a groom being fitted for a tux.
* * *
—
NWODO TOOK A cab straight from the airport to the jail. I met her there. Our “interview” with Larry, in the presence of a sleepy-looking Lipper, lasted till midnight. Not once did he speak, not even to thank us for the Funyuns.
Except to enter a plea of not guilty, Larry did not open his mouth in court. After Lipper had prodded him.
The judge denied bond, citing the flight risk.
Larry didn’t react other than to stand up and shuffle out in his orange jumpsuit stamped PROP OF ALAMEDA COUNTY.
Nwodo, undaunted, consulted with Lipper, and the two of them went to the cells so she could try to loosen Larry up and Lipper could file his paper.
Larry kept his head down from start to finish.
* * *
—
NINE DAYS LATER, she said to me, “It’s a done deal.”
We were at a restaurant in downtown Oakland, blocks from the courthouse, having an early lunch of poke bowls and bubble tea. Ours was the sole occupied table, though the line for takeout stretched to the sidewalk, men and women in business attire stabbing their phones with loathing, collecting their orders, and backing out into the buttery spring sun.
She delivered the news with an air of detachment. The DA planned to charge Lawrence Lee Vinson with the murder of Winnie Ozawa. Broad consensus held this to be the best possible outcome. The case was three months old and getting staler by the day. Neither Nwodo nor I had been able to locate an address for Winnie or anyone connected to her, leaving no viable alternative suspects. Why go to the trouble of manufacturing one, when Vinson fit the bill?
Extraneous DNA notwithstanding, the case against him was considered solid. He was a sex offender, in the right place, at the right time. When they’d picked him up, he’d been carrying a screwdriver whose brand matched the other tools hanging in the shed. Of greatest importance to the prosecutor, he would look terrible to a jury. Logic pointed to a plea. If for some reason the case went to trial, Dennis Lipper would have to pray for a courtroom with the jury box located on the right side, away from the neck tattoo.
Sit still, Larry.
Whatever you do, don’t turn your head.
Meanwhile, life kept coming, which meant that death kept coming, which meant that Nwodo’s docket was overflowing. Her superiors had indicated, not too subtly, that she should quit while she was ahead.
“Everyone’s telling me good job,” she said.
“Good job.”
We clinked plastic cups. It was hard to argue that the world wasn’t a better place with Dickfish Vinson off the street, and what doubts Nwodo and I shared were slippery.
She’d rebooked her flight for Thursday, the red-eye. Her sister had managed to secure last-minute dinner reservations at a trendy gastropub.
“It’s my vacation,” she said, “and I’m taking it.”
She wanted to move on. Who was I to deny her that?
“You earned it,” I said.
“Been fun,” she said. “You ever get bored where you are, call me up.”
We shook hands, and she walked out, stuffing her bowl in the trash as she went.
Saturday, March 30
3:04 p.m.
Carmen Woolsey touched me gently on the shoulder. “The car’s here.”
I thanked her and got up from my desk.
Any coroner’s deputy is authorized to release a body. Typically it falls to whoever happens to be in the vicinity of the morgue when the hearse shows up. That day, I’d asked to be informed when Bayview came for Jasmine Gomez.
I’m not sure why. To put a period on the case, I suppose. It’s not as though I expected an invitation to the memorial service. I felt ready to say goodbye, not merely to Jasmine and Winnie, but to a defined moment in time, an asterisk in the text of my life and the lives I’d come to know: Almond Street and its aftermath.
Down in the intake bay, I elbowed a flat metal panel. Double doors swung open, and the hearse driver glanced up from his phone and waved. Older gentleman named Sid. A regular. We spent a minute catching up before I went down the hall to cold storage.
I stepped through a curtain of freez
ing air.
On the table, Jasmine appeared much the same as when I’d first encountered her: a swathed, frail shape. Physically, she seemed scarcely to exist. But halfway around the world a young Marine was thinking about her and doing his best to imagine—over a distance of miles, across a gap of understanding—what she would’ve wanted. An arrow tracing the globe, a scratchy connection bounced into the heavens and back again, one of the countless invisible threads that bind our souls.
I double-checked the toe tag. Rolled the gurney out to the intake bay.
Forms were signed, the body loaded.
Sid said, “Good seeing you,” and got behind the wheel. The hearse crawled toward the driveway, signaled, and turned amid a cough of exhaust.
* * *
—
REENTERING THE SQUAD room, I grabbed the stack from my mailbox and sat at my desk.
My cellphone showed a missed call from Luke; a text.
hey bro call pls
I disregarded it, answered work-related email, finished typing the narrative for the Dublin Target overdose. I spent half an hour dealing with a medical resident at Highland who was refusing to sign a death certificate for his patient. The decedent was eighty-seven and had succumbed to complications from pneumonia, passing in the middle of the night without any apparent irregularities. Her body was none of my business. All the same the resident insisted that I come fetch it. It happens, every so often; you get one who locks up like that.
While I was talking him down off the ledge, my cellphone rang: Luke again. I silenced it, continuing to reassure the resident that he would be fine, reminding him politely that it was his legal duty to sign the certificate.
In the end he complied. They always do.
I began sorting my snail mail.
Professional development conference. Latest in DNA facial reconstruction.
Tactical gear supply catalog.
Internal memos; mandatory diversity training; an appeal for volunteers to teach neighborhood disaster preparedness, to work the Silicon Valley Soap Box Derby.
Legal-sized envelope, plain white and hefty. The return address had me puzzling why Alex Delaware was mailing me stuff. But no: Delaware, as in the state.
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