by John Flynn
But even before she reached her desk, Kate could tell that something odd was happening. Detectives Clark, Ramirez and Jawara and several uniformed cops were clustered around her desk with their backs to the door. Obviously, they were hiding something. They were also having trouble keeping the occasional snicker and chuckle from exploding into a full-blown laugh riot.
Kate shook her head. Over the years, she had become all too familiar with their crude behavior and practical jokes. “Aw-right. Aw-right. Break it up,” she said. “Why is everyone so interested in my desk?”
“Attention!” Clark commanded, pivoting around to face her.
On cue, the detectives and police officers at her desk all snapped to attention, turned around, and saluted her. The left eye for each man was blotted out with grease paint to match Kate’s black eye. They struggled to maintain a serious facade, but unable to hold it in any longer, they all started laughing and cracking jokes. Miller also joined in on the fun.
“Very funny. Very funny,” she said, glaring at her partner. “I suppose you put them up to this.”
“Don’t look at me. This wasn’t my doing,” he replied.
Ramirez stepped forward, with a decree in hand, and read: “In honor of your meritorious service, above and beyond the call of duty . . . He pinned a handmade badge, which had been constructed of colored paper and aluminum foil, to Kate’s chest. The words “Tough Guy,” which were stenciled in black ink, really stood out against her white blouse. “. . . we award you with our highest honor, the distinguished ‘right cross’ medal.”
Miller smiled. “Actually,” he reported to the others, “it was more like a backhand than a right cross.”
“Frank!”
At long last, Kate surrendered to their little prank, and started laughing, too. They were now all laughing together.
Miller glanced up to see if the head of the Homicide Bureau was going to join them, but spotted Lt. Roberts standing in his office door with a stern look on his face. He had seen that look many times before. It always meant trouble. The senior detective acknowledged him with a nod, and walked the length of the bureau to the lieutenant’s office.
“I’ve decided to cut Valdes loose, and put a man on him,” Roberts told Miller, as he closed the door. “He’s really no use to us unless he can lead us to the man who hired him, and that’s really not much of a lead.”
“I agree.”
The lieutenant nodded. “I know that we’ve had our differences over the years, and we don’t often agree on how this department should be run.”
“That’s true,” Miller conceded. “But I’ve always brought it to you personally, and never said anything in front of the men.”
“I appreciate that,” said Roberts. He reflected for a moment, then added, “I suppose if circumstances had been different, you’d be running this department now instead of me.”
“I doubt it. Never been much of an administrator. I hate doing paperwork, and I’d rather be on the street than behind a desk.”
“Miller, I’ve seen how you are with the men. They look up to you. They respect you. They want to be just like you.”
Miller shook off the compliment. “I really wouldn’t put too much stock in that, Lieutenant. They’re just being polite to the old guy.”
“You’re much too humble.”
“Sir, I think the word you were looking for was ‘truthful.’”
“Well, I can honestly say that I’ve never worked with a more dedicated professional,” said Lt. Roberts. “This department is really going to miss you when you’ve gone.”
“Don’t count me out yet,” replied Miller. “I still have a few months to go before I have to turn in my shield.”
“That’s kinda the reason why I wanted to talk with you. I need a favor.”
“Sure. Anything.”
The head of the Homicide Bureau took a deep breath, as if that alone would make his next set of orders easier to deliver. Suddenly, he looked tired, drained, and older than his forty-nine years. “Clark has made a lot of headway with those home movies that we found hidden in the dungeon. In fact, he’s identified one of the men who’s in a couple videos with Collins.”
“That’s good news.”
“The problem is, this guy’s connected to the mayor’s office. I mean really connected,” reported Roberts, with a degree of anxiety in his voice. “He’s agreed to come in and talk with us, but he doesn’t know he’s a suspect. And he’s coming in with the mayor’s head counsel.”
“I think I got the picture.”
“I’m assigning you to question him. You’re far more experienced than Clark, and you’ll know how to handle this bondage stuff with some discretion.”
Miller frowned. “Thanks a lot.”
“Make no mistakes. This could get ugly real fast,” said Roberts.
“Does Aguilar know?”
“No, and I’d like to keep it that way.”
“Well, then, let’s be honest with each other, Lieutenant,” said Miller, without taking his eyes from Roberts’s face. “If this thing blows up, and it might, it’ll be my head on the chopping block, not yours.”
A moment of awkward silence passed between them.
“I’ll do what I can to protect you,” the lieutenant said, “but we’re going to treat this pretty much like it’s your show.”
“Thanks for being straight with me,” said Miller, opening the door. Laughter and frivolity filled the outer office.
“For what it’s worth, Frank, I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.”
Chapter Seven
AT FIRST, FRANK Miller didn’t believe it.
He stood still, mouth open, staring as Bradley Rutherford III, one of the richest and most influential men in the city of San Francisco, strolled into the Homicide Bureau with his entourage. They looked more like the Pickle Family Circus than an entourage with its collection of handlers, media morons, gymnastic acts and clowns. Of course, Rutherford seemed to be ideally suited to act as the group’s ringmaster.
Miller had seen the real Pickle Family Circus perform back in 1980 or ’81 before they moved to Montreal and became Cirque du Soleil. But this particular act had nothing on them. They took the whole notion of performance art to the next level as each of them delivered such feats of derring-do as to bring the house down. One right after the other trotted out their hastily-prepared and quickly-rehearsed affidavits that placed their boss nowhere in the vicinity at time of the Collins murder. Then his own paralegals executed the documents with the proper stamps and signatures before they surrendered them over to the Officer on Duty. The circus acts went on for more than an hour, until finally, it was time for Rutherford himself to take the center circle.
Dressed in an expensive, hand-tailored Brioni suit, Italian soft-leather shoes and a diamond tie tack that was worth more than some third-world country’s gross national product, Rutherford entered the interrogation room. Flanked by the mayor’s head counsel, a cute redhead in her thirties named Ellen Bloomfield, Rutherford surveyed the room and the men in it with a cool eye. He was not a particularly tall man, but his larger-than-life presence seemed to fill the entire room. He did a complete visual sweep, and then sat down opposite Miller.
Unlike his fellow officers who had gone out of their way to shake his hand or offer to make his stay more comfortable, Miller didn’t make a move. He just looked down at the folder in front of him, and said finally, “Would you state your name for the record, please?”
“Bradley Rutherford, the third.”
“What is your occupation, Mr. Rutherford?”
“I work as a—”
Bloomfield cut him off in mid-sentence. “My client is an investment broker. He provides invaluable fiscal advice to certain business and community leaders who insist upon absolute confidentiality. To say anythi
ng further would violate the trust my client has forged with these individuals,” she said in a clipped, no-nonsense tone of voice. “Let us just move on, detective.”
“Did you know Stephen Collins?” Miller asked Rutherford.
“As I told Detective Clark, I knew Stephen professionally,” Rutherford replied, acknowledging Clark’s presence in the room with a nod. “We had lunch a couple of times. He was anxious to submit a construction bid to the city of San Francisco, and I helped him with the wording. Nothing more.”
“How many times is a couple of times? Two? Three?”
“I don’t know. Maybe five or six times. Over a month or two.”
“Were they dates?”
Bloomfield objected, “What kind of question is that, detective? My client is an upstanding member of this community. He has been married to the same woman for twenty years. To insinuate that he is a homosexual—”
“I wasn’t insinuating anything, Miss Bloomberg,” said Miller.
“Bloomfield.”
“I told you at the very beginning that some of my questions would be fairly sensitive ones and that no disrespect was meant of any kind. I am merely pursuing a line of questioning here.”
Ellen Bloomfield leaned over to her client and whispered something in his ear. Rutherford nodded.
“Were they dates?” Miller repeated his question.
“No,” Rutherford answered, “we weren’t having sexual relations, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“Did he ever invite you over to his house?”
“Yeah, a couple of times.”
“But never with Mrs. Rutherford?”
Rutherford grinned, his mouth filled with shark teeth. “Look, I’ll admit that our relationship was more than a professional one. We were friends. We had a lot in common, and we enjoyed doing many of the same things together.”
“Did those things include bondage and discipline?” Miller asked.
“Don’t answer that,” Bloomfield instructed Rutherford. “Detective Miller, my client agreed to come down here today as part of his civic duty to help out your investigation. He did not come here to have his integrity questioned or his reputation impugned by someone like you.”
“Miss Bloomberg, I am merely trying to get to the truth of the matter.”
“Bloomfield.”
Miller continued, “I have evidence that suggests your client and the deceased Stephen Collins were involved in a clandestine relationship that included bondage and sadomasochism.”
Rutherford’s eyes widened. He looked shocked and was utterly speechless.
“What is the nature of your evidence?” she demanded.
“Our forensics investigators found a handful of video disks that were apparently made by the deceased in the basement of his home,” Miller explained. “These recordings depict various sadomasochistic acts, and on more than a few, feature your client as a participant.”
Once again, Ellen Bloomfield leaned over to her client and whispered something in his ear. Rutherford replied, and the two exchanged several glances and a few more whispered remarks.
“My client contends these videos were made without his knowledge or consent, and are therefore inadmissible as evidence,” she said.
“Now, just hold on a minute,” Miller said. “Mr. Rutherford hasn’t been charged with a crime.”
Bloomfield was packing up her briefcase. She appeared to be very upset, but tried to hide her feelings. Miller could see that masking her emotions was second nature with the mayor’s head counsel.
“I can see now that this interview was nothing more than a fishing expedition, an attempt to embarrass my client with material that has no relevance whatsoever to your murder investigation,” she stated, sounding like an attorney making her final summation to the court. “When I get back to my office, I intend to file a motion eliminae to exclude this evidence. Clearly, its very existence represents a violation of my client’s constitutional rights, and I’m surprised that Aguilar would even permit you to use them in such an insulting and degrading way.”
“This is my investigation, not his.”
“I’m also going to insist these recordings are destroyed immediately.”
Detective Miller had had enough with Bloomfield. He stood up, walked around the table, and got right in her face. “This evidence was obtained as part of a criminal investigation according to standard departmental protocols. So you do whatever you have to do, but I have no intention of giving them up.”
Rutherford was suddenly out of his chair, and standing toe-to-toe with Miller. Clark moved between them before anything happened.
“You people are all the same,” he said, with a sneer.
“Brad, don’t,” she cautioned her client.
“You have a problem with me because I happen to enjoy something that you could never understand.”
Miller’s features hardened with the look of disgust. “You’re right, I don’t understand. I don’t understand how people like you get their kicks from hurting other people.”
“I didn’t hurt Stephen, and I had nothing to do with his death. I loved him!”
“You call beating a man nearly to death, love?”
Red-faced, Rutherford was on the edge of blowing his top. “What do you call it? What do you macho redneck cops call beating your wife after you’ve returned home from a day on the job? Love?”
Miller stared right into Rutherford’s face. His eyes were on fire.
“You want a piece of me? Come on,” he taunted the police detective. “I could squash you without even breaking a sweat.”
Frank stood his ground, the fingers of his right hand curling into a fist. He wanted to punch Rutherford right in the nose, and for an instant, he was ready to follow through with his fist. But then he thought better of it. He studied Rutherford’s face for a long moment, then looked away.
“Your client has quite a temper,” Miller said to her.
Bloomfield ignored him. “Well, unless you intend on charging my client with a crime, this interview is over.”
“He’s free to go,” he replied. Frank walked over to the interrogation door, and turned. “Oh, and just a friendly piece of advice for your client, Miss Bloomberg. Threatening a police officer is a felony in this state. Perhaps you should remind him before he threatens anyone else.”
“Bloomfield.”
Miller ignored her. He was already walking out the door.
LATE IN THE day, Kate sat at her desk, rubbing her eyes. She was very tired. She had not slept soundly for the last several nights, and blamed her insomnia on John Monroe. In front of her, spread out on the desk, were photos of the crime scenes, forensics reports, and other documents. She had been sorting through the material, and examining each piece, for more than two hours.
Miller walked by and rapped his knuckles on the desk to get her attention. “Go home,” he said.
“I’d just be fretting about it there.”
“Kate, you look exhausted. You should go home and get some rest. We’ll start fresh in the morning.”
“You don’t know what it’s like living with this guy in your head. I need to nail this bastard,” Kate said, determined. “Just five more minutes. I want to look over the crime scene photos one last time.”
“You’ve been looking at those photos for the last two hours. Give it a rest.”
“There’s something here. I can feel it. Something that connects Monroe to these murders.”
He leaned in, his eyes boring into hers. “Look, Kate. You’ve completely lost your objectivity when it comes to John Monroe. Okay, so the guy rattled your cage, got a little too close for comfort . . . that doesn’t make him a killer. If I were a betting man, I’d put it all on Rutherford.”
Kate shook her head. “So then, it’s
just a coincidence Monroe showed up at the porn shop on Market Street when you and I were there?”
“Maybe the guy’s got a police scanner.”
“And what about those crime scene photos?”
“Look, I checked Monroe out myself,” said Miller. “He’s clean. No priors. He’s never even gotten a parking ticket.”
There was a moment, a long moment of silence. Kate stared at him, her expression carefully blank, then looked away.
“Goddammit, I want to see Miller right now,” Aguilar insisted, as he stormed into the room, followed by Lt. Roberts.
All at once, those detectives still pulling duty picked up phones and commenced imaginary conversations, while others started hammering away on their computers. Still others scrambled to open or close file cabinets. The Homicide Bureau had seldom looked this busy late on a Friday afternoon.
Miller was startled by the intrusion. He had even less time to react when Aguilar decided to make an example out of the detective and track Miller down to his desk. Miller never cared much for the assistant chief of police. In fact, he considered Aguilar to be a pompous asshole. He had worked hard to build up the reputation of the Homicide Bureau, and he was very proud of the men he had served with for the last forty years. Aguilar and men like Aguilar were the reasons why average, everyday people mistrusted cops. They knew nothing about duty and honor and service to the city that he loved, and were only interested in advancing their own personal agendas. Most of them were no better than politicians, and he hated politicians even more.
The assistant chief of police shot Miller one of his patented steely looks. “Well, what do you have to say for yourself?”
“About what, sir?”
“Rutherford!”
“I was pursuing a line of investigation, Captain,” replied Miller calmly. “It’s all there in my report.”
“Report? You mean fantasy, don’t you?” Aguilar dressed him down in front of the men. “What on earth made you think that you could bring in one of the city’s most respected men and interrogate him? There was no physical evidence, no motive, no accusations against him. From what I hear, Mr. Rutherford has an airtight alibi. His wife has even endorsed an affidavit stating that he was at home with her and his kids on the night Collins was murdered.”