by Brian Thiem
“That’s the roommate according to the rental agreement,” Braddock said. “Both Garvin and Pratt work at Best Buy. There’s not much more on the application than that.”
Sinclair discovered a hole in the living-room wall about five and a half feet high. He walked back to the body and pointed his hand toward the hole. Looking to his right, he got down on his hands and knees and peeked under a worn maroon upholstered chair. He located what he was looking for—a shiny brass shell casing. “It’s a three-eighty,” he announced to Braddock.
“Wasn’t that the caliber of the slug they recovered from Dawn?” Braddock asked.
“Sure was. We’ll need to find the slug in the neighbor’s apartment for a comparison, but I’m sure it’ll be a match.”
“I can’t believe the bullet traveled that far,” Braddock said.
“I can. It looks like it entered Pratt’s head through the eye socket, so it might have entered the brain without hitting bone. It would still have plenty of energy when it came out of the back of the head. It took nothing to punch through two pieces of sheetrock—one at this wall and one at the neighbor’s wall. As long as it didn’t hit a stud, it had enough energy to smash through the glass and the particleboard closet door.”
“Check this out,” Braddock said as she crouched next to a series of shelves that held a large flat-screen TV, cable company receiver, and dozens of cords. Braddock held up a wireless controller in her gloved hand. “These are the DualShock controllers for PlayStation Four.”
“I didn’t take you for a gamer.”
Braddock laughed. “When that husband of mine had his knee surgery last summer, he was confined to the house and spent hours a day on the couch playing different SWAT and military games. He claimed he was honing his professional skills.”
“Where’s the box?”
“See this clean spot,” Braddock said, pointing to rectangular area on the shelf surrounded by thick dust. “This is exactly the size of the PS Four console.”
“The killer took the box?”
“That system is more than just a box,” Braddock said. “It’s a computer. They cost around four hundred without any accessories, so they could’ve taken it for its value. But more likely, they took it because of the data that’s on it—player names and a record of any chat messages between players. You can even e-mail or Facebook message through it. When people play online together, they’re often chatting via text, and the system would probably have a record of that.”
“So that box might’ve told us who the other suspects in Dawn’s murder were and who killed Edgar Pratt,” Sinclair said.
Chapter 33
By the time Sinclair returned to the scene with the signed warrant, the body was gone and Braddock was in the living room with the evidence tech. “Coroner deputies pointed out some tattooing around the entrance wound,” Braddock said. “Means the gun was close—maybe within inches—when it was fired. Nothing else remarkable about the body. No signs of a struggle or forced entry to the apartment. Pratt must’ve let the killer in.”
“I called Phil and gave him Pratt’s name when I was driving back to the PAB. He just got back to me and said one of his Intel officers showed Pratt’s photo to a source, who confirmed Pratt is Gothic Geek.”
“Is Phil’s source someone inside the anarchists?”
“He didn’t say,” Sinclair said.
“There’s a lot our old partner isn’t saying.”
Sinclair nodded in agreement.
“The videographer is down,” Braddock said. “Two more to go. Why would someone kill both Dawn and Pratt?”
Braddock was obviously assuming Pratt and the other two suspects in the park were the only ones involved in Dawn’s death. Sinclair wasn’t as sure. “Maybe Pratt’s associates didn’t like him blabbing about what they did. Wouldn’t be the first time partners in crime knocked off the weak link.”
“Looks like we’re worse off than we were this morning.”
“I wish we got to Pratt before his friends did, but the fact that they felt it necessary to kill him says a lot,” Sinclair said. “These guys can’t keep their mouths shut, and that could be to our advantage.”
*
Sinclair’s watch read 8:30 when he and Braddock knocked at the door of Garvin’s house for the second time that day. The remaining search of the apartment hadn’t yielded much of value. A dresser drawer in Pratt’s bedroom was filled with old bills and receipts. Among the papers, Braddock found a pen-and-ink drawing of a medieval castle with the words Gothic Geek across the top, which corroborated the assertion by Roberts’s informant that Pratt’s username was Gothic Geek. What they didn’t find were any computers, cell phones, or any papers with names of friends or associates.
A stout woman with bottle-blonde hair opened the door. Mrs. Garvin invited them in and sat behind a can of Coors at the kitchen table. “My husband said you came by earlier, and Sean just called from the jail asking me to make bail for him.”
“Will you?” asked Braddock.
“I love my son, but he needs to face the consequences of his actions.”
Braddock told her what happened at the Mills Café and what they discovered at the apartment.
“Edgar’s dead?” She shook her head, took another swig of her beer, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I knew him since he was little. He and Sean went to school together and have been best friends ever since.”
Mrs. Garvin didn’t seem too surprised by the death of her son’s best friend. Sinclair asked, “What about any other friends?”
“Sean doesn’t talk about anyone in particular. I know he has some friends from work—other kids he plays his video games with. He’s been at Best Buy for years. He talks about the Occupy Oakland and Black Lives Matter stuff that he’s involved in, but he has no understanding of the politics behind it or any real interest in the cause. To him, it’s just a thing to do.”
Sinclair and Braddock spent another twenty minutes with Mrs. Garvin but gained nothing useful. They drove four blocks to the address the coroner’s office gave them for Edgar Pratt’s parents. The coroner had already made the death notification to Edgar’s father, and Sinclair hoped the shock had dulled a bit. According to the coroner, the parents had been divorced for ten years, and Edgar’s mother was now living in Fresno. Parked cars choked the street in front of Pratt’s house. Sinclair double-parked and flipped the switch to the flashing yellow light on the rear of his car.
A thirty-something brunette woman dressed in a Cal hoodie and jeans answered the door. Sinclair identified himself and flashed his badge. “I’m Trish, Ed’s sister.” She opened the door and led the way into the living room where fifteen people were talking, laughing, and crying. “Dad,” she yelled over the noise. “The homicide sergeants are here.”
Mr. Pratt was white, about six-foot-two, and appeared to be about sixty years old. He rose from a chair in the corner and pushed through the crowd. He and Trish led Sinclair and Braddock through a kitchen crowded with people to a bedroom converted into a TV room with a small sofa and recliner.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Pratt,” Sinclair said once everyone found a place to sit.
“The coroner didn’t say much other than Edgar was shot inside his apartment,” Mr. Pratt replied.
Sinclair figured there was no reason to withhold the details about the video, so he explained that he came across the YouTube video filmed by Edgar when he was investigating Dawn’s murder.
“Edgar’s into computers,” Mr. Pratt said. “He plays those shooting games, but he’d be afraid of a real gun. I can believe the stuff about him attending protests. That’s what young people do. Hell, I marched in Berkeley when I was young. But a murder? I can’t accept that.”
“I saw the video, Dad,” Trish said. “It’s Ed’s voice.”
“How’d you hear about the video?” Sinclair asked.
“It’s gone viral,” Trish said. “Everyone knows about it.”
Sinclair continue
d to look at her until she continued.
“My dad called me as soon as the coroner left, so I texted a few old friends to see if anyone knew what Ed’s been up to. They told me about the video.”
Sinclair jotted down the names and phone numbers of everyone who texted or called her. He’d have to talk to each of them and find out how they heard about the video, hoping one of them might lead him to a direct source.
“I moved to Castro Valley ten years ago,” Trish said. “So I don’t know much about Ed’s life today, but he’s always been a nerd. He’s not into girls and would never pay for a prostitute. Getting involved with an escort makes no sense. He prided himself on his Gothic Geek persona. Except at work, he always dressed in black. I can’t see him being dragged into something like a murder.”
Families of murderers were usually the last ones to accept their loved ones were capable of killing. “What about other friends besides Sean?” Sinclair asked.
Mr. Pratt shrugged his shoulders. “He moved out of the house a year after he graduated from high school. He never brings friends around anymore.”
“I’m seven years older than him,” Trish said. “He was just my dorky little brother when we were growing up. When I moved out, he was still in middle school.”
“You’ve got a house full of people,” Sinclair said. “Are any of them Ed’s friends?”
Mr. Pratt pulled a blue bandana from his pocket and wiped his eyes. “Some are relatives and others are from my work or neighbors.”
“Would any of them have had recent contact with Ed?”
“I doubt it,” Mr. Pratt said.
“I can ask around,” Trish said. “If so, they’re more likely to talk to me than you.”
“I appreciate it.” Sinclair handed several business cards to Mr. Pratt and Trish. “If you could, pass around a pad of paper and collect names and phone numbers of everyone here and anyone else who calls or comes by. You can tell them it’s so you can let them know about funeral arrangements.”
“I can do that,” Trish said.
On their way out, Sinclair and Braddock looked over the people in the house. None fit their image of a young geek, Goth, or anarchist.
Once they were out of the Maxwell Park neighborhood and on the 580 Freeway, Braddock said, “The involvement of these anarchists and gamers sure throws a twist in our theory that Dawn’s death was connected to her escort work.”
Sinclair heard Braddock’s subtle I told you so in her comment. “I can’t see Dawn having anything to do with this stuff. Tomorrow, we’ll dig more into Garvin and Pratt and see what else they were involved in when they weren’t gaming or protesting.”
*
The digital clock on Sinclair’s bed table flipped to 5:30. He’d been watching it jump minute by minute for the last hour. It had taken him an hour to fall asleep after he went to bed around midnight, his mind churning through the latest murder and trying to fit it into the one involving Dawn. Too many pieces didn’t fit. When he finally drifted off, it was a fitful sleep, punctuated by a dream of him standing in the Mills Café and watching bullets exit Sean Garvin’s gun and punch through him. He woke drenched in sweat. He changed into a dry T-shirt and boxers and crawled back into bed. But sleep never came.
He finally showered, dressed, and padded to the kitchen. He was about to hit the button to the coffee grinder when he saw the kitchen lights in the main house come on. The decorative lights guided him around the pool and down the path to the mansion. He opened the back door without knocking.
“Good morning, Matthew,” Walt said. “Coffee’ll be ready in a minute. You got in late last night.”
“Yeah, we had another murder.” Sinclair gave him the basics.
Walt poured two mugs of coffee and handed one to Sinclair. “Peet’s Sumatra.”
Sinclair took a sip of the gutsy, dark roast blend. Walt took a seat at the kitchen table, and Sinclair pulled out a chair and sat across from him.
“Didn’t sleep well, huh?” Walt said, undoubtedly seeing the fatigue written on his face.
“Trying to figure out the murders.”
“Is there something more personal you’re also trying to figure out?”
Sinclair set his cup on the table. “You cut right through my shit, don’t you?”
Walt smiled. “Sometimes we need to tell our friends what they need to hear and not just what they want to hear.”
“You remember when I started therapy with Dr. Elliott and you mentioned that until I can risk a chink in my armor, I’ll never be able to have a deep and meaningful relationship with anyone?”
“Yes, although the metaphor may not be perfect. What I meant is that like most people, you likely developed defense mechanisms over the years; however, yours were reinforced by traumatic incidents in your life. These defenses allowed you to protect yourself from getting hurt. Avoiding pain is good, but when the fear of getting hurt emotionally becomes your driving force, it prevents you from getting close to people. By opening up a little bit and risking emotional pain, you also make yourself available to all the pleasures of close human contact.”
“Dr. Elliott mentioned this stuff again the other day. When I started therapy, I told her one of my concerns was that if I started to feel too much, I’d lose my edge at work. I’d start feeling at the wrong time, and in the worst case scenario, it could get me killed.”
“Feeling is not weakness, Matthew, it’s the opposite. Only the strong are capable of the full range of emotions.”
“Yeah, well this therapy that’s putting chinks in my armor or allowing me to drop my shield, or whatever the fuck analogy you want to use, almost got me killed yesterday.”
Walt raised his eyebrows and was ready to say something when Betty, Walt’s wife, came down the back stairway into the kitchen.
“Matthew,” she said, opening her arms.
Sinclair got up and received her hug. She was a year or two younger than Walt, heavyset, and with the kind of rosy, wrinkle-free face that women in their forties wished for.
“How about some breakfast?” she said.
“I’ve really got to—”
“Matthew, you look gaunt,” she said. “When did you last eat?”
Sinclair thought about it. It had been a sandwich at lunchtime yesterday. “I’d love some breakfast.”
“I’m sorry I disturbed you boys. You go back to your discussion, and I’ll stay out of your hair.” Betty went to the other side of the kitchen, put two large pans on the commercial-grade gas stove, and began unloading the refrigerator onto the counter.
“Would you like to tell me what happened?” Walt said once Betty focused her full attention to cooking.
Sinclair told him about the incident with Garvin at the Mills Café.
When he finished, Walt asked, “Why didn’t you shoot?”
“Maybe I froze. I should’ve shot. He had a gun. He could’ve brought it up and fired in a split second—faster than I could’ve reacted.”
“But he didn’t,” Walt said. “And it wasn’t a real gun.”
“You can’t tell a real gun from a replica in that kind of situation, and I can’t read someone’s mind and figure out what they intend to do. I need to act based on what’s in front of me.”
“But you did know.” Walt grabbed their cups, walked across the kitchen to fill them, and returned to the table. “You picked up on something in the way that young man acted or the way he looked. You knew he wasn’t going to shoot you with that gun—that he wasn’t a threat to you. That’s why you didn’t shoot.”
“My fellow officers think I’ve lost my nerve. They’ll think I’ll freeze again and get one of them killed because I won’t drop the hammer when it’s necessary.”
“I have to reach back a few years, but I remember when I was a young soldier in ’Nam. No one wanted to be around a soldier who was a coward. There was nothing more important than having my buddies know I’d have their backs in a firefight. Could it be that you’re less concerned about others th
inking you lost your nerve than you are about you thinking so yourself?”
Chapter 34
Sinclair was sitting at his desk, filling out his overtime slip from the previous night, when Maloney walked into the office a few minutes before eight. He plopped an Oakland Tribune on Sinclair’s desk. Underneath a headline reading THRILL KILL was a grainy photograph, obviously a still from the video, of Dawn hanging from the tree with a fireball surrounding her abdomen.
Maloney crossed his arms. “The story says a source close to the investigation believes the murderer may fit the thrill-killer classification.”
Sinclair swiveled his chair around to face his boss. “John asked what I thought the motive was, and asked if it could be a thrill kill. I said I didn’t know enough to rule it out.”
“That’s all the confirmation he needed,” Maloney said. “The article goes on to quote some retired FBI agent theorizing about the psychological profile of the kinds of people who would do this. The chief isn’t going to like this. With the media fanning the flames, it’ll get the community all riled up about some more psychopaths on the loose in Oakland.”
Even though the media feeding frenzy over the Bus Bench Killer had been more than a year ago, Sinclair recalled vividly how much it distracted him from his work. “I’ll bet that FBI agent never stepped foot in a crime scene with a body still present, but he’s lectured at Quantico about thrill killers. You know I can’t control who the media talks to or what they print.”
Maloney took a deep breath and sighed. “I’m just venting before I head to the eighth floor and face the music. Anything new on the murder of the anarchist?”