by Brian Thiem
He crossed La Salle Avenue and walked up the street, stopping near Montclair Pharmacy, where he had a clear view of the bookstore. When working, he often passed through a dozen Bay Area cities a day, but the diversity in Oakland’s neighborhoods always amazed him. In the flatlands of West and East Oakland, poverty, gangs, and drugs flourished. Rap music thumped from cars, interrupted by gunshots or firecrackers in the distance. Steel bars covered windows and doors, and cars sat on cement blocks in front yards. Montclair, five miles away, was a different world. Small houses sold for millions of dollars, and Mercedes and BMWs lined the streets. Faces were mostly white, and of the few blacks, Asians, or Hispanics he saw, none wore baggy jeans halfway down their asses or catcalled the women who strolled along the sidewalk. It was no wonder that people who lived here referred to their residence as Montclair, as if it were a separate city and not merely a district of Oakland.
He dressed to blend in—khakis, a white polo shirt, and a navy blue sweater. No one gave him a second look, other than an occasional woman who gave him a quick up and down glance followed by a smile.
His target exited the bookstore, followed by a woman about her same age and as stylishly dressed. They turned right and walked side-by-side up the hill. He paralleled them on the opposite side of the street, ready to rush ahead and get in position before they reached the parking garage. Instead, they turned right on the next street and disappeared into Jamba Juice a few doors down from the corner. A light wind carried the aroma of grilled meat from the gourmet burger place down the street.
A few minutes later, the women exited the shop carrying plastic cups with straws poking from the top. They strolled back to La Salle and up the hill, sucking on their drinks. He waited thirty seconds after they entered the parking garage and followed. He expected the women would part ways once inside, but instead, they walked together to Carol’s Mercedes. He stopped ten cars away and watched the women hug. His target opened her car door, and the friend turned and walked in his direction. An SUV with a mother and a bunch of kids drove past him searching for a parking space.
Too risky to make his move here. Too many witnesses.
He spun around and hurried to his van. Halfway down the row, the Mercedes started and rolled toward the exit.
He twisted the key, pulled the shifter into drive, and followed. He trailed her onto Moraga Avenue and made the light with her onto Snake Road and up into the hills toward her house. Five minutes later, she pulled into the driveway of the sprawling house tucked among the pines and redwoods on Woodrow Drive. Could he do it? Rush into the driveway and grab her before she closed her garage door?
His heart raced.
The man stopped his van just before her driveway, prepared to jump out.
Her car pulled into the two-car garage. Now or never.
Chapter 22
A few miles from the freeway and business district, in between clusters of ranch-style houses on wide, tree-lined streets, the Lafayette Community Center stretched along a winding road that ran from Lafayette to Moraga. Several old wooden buildings, used for classes ranging from arts and crafts to mother-and-toddler aerobics, ringed the parking lot. Athletic fields for youth soccer and baseball sat behind the buildings, and beyond that rose a hillside covered with large oak trees and grasses dried to a golden brown. The smallest building, located on the far edge of the complex, was where the Alcoholics Anonymous groups met.
Unlike the church basements where AA groups traditionally gathered in their early days and still commonly did on the east coast, this room was light and airy. Ten people sat around a table in the center of the room and forty more sat in rows of chairs behind the table.
The meeting was ten minutes under way when Sinclair came in and took a seat in the back. He crossed his arms and tucked his hands into his armpits so no one would see them shaking. After leaving Oakland, he’d driven straight to the Lafayette Wine and Spirits Shop, just down the street from his apartment. He sat in the parking lot, staring at the displays in the window, unable to go inside yet unable to muster the courage to leave. He wanted to have a drink like any normal person. But he knew that was wishful thinking. Still, another part of him thought it was possible—that he wasn’t really an alcoholic after all. And another part of him didn’t give a shit—even if one drink would lead to a bottle. As he sat there, that “one day at a time” slogan running through his head, he decided to go to a meeting, and afterward, if he still wanted it, the liquor store would be open.
Tonight, the meeting format was speaker discussion. Walt sat at the head of the table speaking in his mellow baritone. He was a fixture at the community center meetings, where everyone knew his story. A Vietnam vet, Walt had gone to college on the GI Bill and eventually got a doctorate in clinical psychology. He grew a successful practice, specializing in post-traumatic stress disorder, and treated combat veterans and victims of childhood and sexual abuse. By the time he turned forty, his life appeared perfect: a charming wife and two preteen sons, a house in Lafayette, and a reputation as one of the most respected therapists in the state. However, he had begun combining his drinking with painkillers and sedatives prescribed by five different physicians, each without the knowledge of the others.
“My drinking and drug use allowed the dark side of my personality to take over,” Walt said. “I felt entitled to do whatever I wanted. I was having an affair with three of my patients, women who came to me for help, when one of them made a complaint to the board. After the investigation, the courts took over. I was convicted of insurance fraud for billing patients’ insurance for services I never performed, sexual offenses, and drug charges for my abuse of prescription drugs. I served sixteen months in prison, lost my license, my house, and every cent I had in the bank.
“I thought my life was over. Although I had preached it for years as a therapist to my patients, I secretly thought AA was for people like all of you. You know—skid row bums.” He paused to let the laughter in the room of well-dressed people subside. “I attended my first AA meeting in prison and learned I wasn’t unique. It didn’t matter if you were a doctor, lawyer, or janitor. The disease affected us all the same way.”
Walt took a sip of coffee from the ceramic mug in front of him and continued. “Amazingly, my wife stayed with me, and when I got out of prison, I moved into a small apartment with her and our two boys. I was on parole and had to register as a sex offender. The only job I knew was one I was no longer licensed to do. I hadn’t worked with my hands in twenty years, but I found a job doing construction work as a carpenter’s apprentice and driving a limo at night, mostly back and forth to the airport. We didn’t have much in a material sense, but I had everything I needed.”
A tear rolled down his cheek and he wiped it away. “You see, the success, the fancy house, and all the material things I had when drinking never brought me happiness. Today I’m grateful for what’s truly important in my life: my family and friends and a sense of serenity I never dreamed possible. Both of my sons graduated from college, one from Berkeley and the other from Stanford, and started their own families. I work for a good man doing simple work. It’s a far cry from listening to patients in a fancy office at two hundred dollars an hour, but it’s honest work and keeps me humble. Most importantly, I haven’t wanted to take a drink in twenty years. And for that, I am grateful.”
When the meeting ended, members began milling about, talking and laughing. Sinclair made a beeline for the door.
“Matthew, hang on a minute.”
Sinclair turned and saw Walt heading toward him. He was a short, wiry man, with snow-white hair and eyes the color of a calm, summer sky. His face and hands were brown and weathered. Although in his midsixties, he moved like a man years younger. He opened his arms to hug Sinclair, but Sinclair turned and extended his hand. He wished these AAers would just shake hands like normal people.
“I saw you on the news tonight. How’re you holding up?”
“I wanted a drink. That’s how I’m holding up.”
“But you didn’t. You came here instead.”
“Yeah.” Sinclair felt tears forming, but he blinked them away. The last time he nearly cried was at a police funeral, but he didn’t feel sad now. He didn’t know what he was feeling.
“It’ll get easier.”
“That’s what you guys say, but it’s getting harder.”
Walt stood there with a warm smile on his face. Inviting him to speak—to open up.
“You wanna get a cup of coffee?” Walt asked.
“I haven’t really slept in two days. I ought to get home.”
Silence again with the same smile.
“Do you have a sponsor or anyone in the program you talk to?” Walt asked.
“I’m not sure I believe in that sponsor stuff.”
“I understand.” Walt took a card from his pocket and handed it to Sinclair. Walt Cooper and a phone number, nothing more.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” Walt said.
Sinclair nodded.
“If you feel like drinking, call me before you pick up,” Walt said.
Sinclair extended his hand to avoid a hug. “I will.”
“And Matthew,” Walt said as Sinclair turned toward the door. “Things will get better. I promise.”
Chapter 23
The man stood on the balcony of the twenty-second-floor apartment at 1200 Lakeshore, taking in the view of Oakland’s downtown and Lake Merritt below him. A necklace of lights surrounded the three-mile shoreline, which included city parks, a jogging path, and high-rise apartments. Although expensive by Oakland standards, the $3,500 rent for the two-bedroom apartment would have been a bargain in Manhattan or even San Francisco. Gertrude Stein’s famous quote about Oakland, “There is no there, there,” seemed flippant and inaccurate from his vantage point high above the crime and despair the city was best known for.
He puffed on the Cohiba Maduro he’d picked up for ten dollars at a downtown cigar shop and reflected on the moment in front of Carol Brooks’s house. Hand on the car door handle, ready to spring out, he had stopped. Caution prevailed. Too risky. Too many unknowns. He had watched as the garage door descended and Carol’s Mercedes disappeared behind it.
When his watch read ten, he ground his cigar out in a crystal ashtray, went inside, and turned on the television.
After a few minutes of world events, the anchor introduced the top local news—the second murder victim in two days found on a bus bench near Children’s Hospital. The man settled into the sofa as news reporter Liz Schueller filled the television screen, her golden hair and brilliant smile captivating every male viewer. Even her mannerisms and speech were perfect. She held a smile for just a few seconds, enough to give her audience a taste before turning serious. Murder was serious business after all.
She appeared so sincere, the ideal blend of sadness and professional detachment. A perfect actor in front of the camera—pretty, poised, yet human. Few people knew the real Liz.
He watched as she reported the names of the victims: Zachary Caldwell and Susan Hammond. Liz’s cop boyfriend must have decided that making their names public would help solve the case.
Sinclair appeared on the television, dressed in a dark suit and a perfectly knotted tie. The man turned up the volume. Sinclair looked his normal, arrogant self as he stared straight ahead, exuding confidence meant to make Oakland residents feel safe and believe Sinclair could protect them and their families from the same fate.
After Sinclair’s fifteen seconds, Liz appeared back on the screen and said the police still did not know the cause of death for either victim. It would require further tests by the coroner, but they had ruled out obvious trauma such as a gunshot, stabbing, or beating. The man knew they must have noticed the cuts on Susan’s wrists. He doubted the coroner’s office had figured out the drugs in both of them yet. Even if they had, the cops probably wouldn’t tell reporters those details. Once Sinclair knew, he’d start connecting the dots.
The TV showed the entrance gate to Blackhawk, where Dr. Caldwell lived, and the front of the office building where Susan and her lawyer-husband worked. The shots panned out to capture the mood and then in for the detail—a little artistry. The male anchor’s deep voice introduced the next story, and the man switched off the news and slipped in a DVD.
He had watched this one many times. It contained dozens of news broadcasts showing Sinclair talking about other murders during the last two years. Each with the same confidence and determination. He seemed to be on camera every time he handled a murder. The story about the hero cop’s fall followed, when the highway patrol arrested Sinclair for drunk driving. Oakland PD suspended him from duty and booted him out of homicide. He watched the segments from the other networks as they uncovered the scandal: Sinclair turned out to be driving from Liz’s apartment when he crashed the police car. At first, they only said he was visiting a “well-known television personality,” but a day later, the other networks mentioned Liz Schueller by name.
The competition within the news business was vicious. The other stations loved trashing Channel 6 and showing the reporter as the seductress of a broken and troubled cop with a past littered with citizen complaints, lawsuits, and shootings. They pretended it was relevant news they couldn’t ignore, but it was all about ratings and the important advertising money that fueled the business.
How it backfired on them was ironic. Channel 6’s viewership actually increased 10 percent following the revelation. People in California had no problem with a cop having a romantic relationship that was rife with conflict of interest, especially when he was a handsome homicide detective with a bunch of medals for heroism and bravery on his chest. Viewers wanted to see more of the woman Sinclair was willing to risk his career and professional reputation for, and Channel 6 put Liz on camera more frequently. She acted her normal professional and poised self on the air, and the public loved her even more for not shrinking away.
Last Friday, Channel 6 had mentioned Sinclair for the first time in months. The man hit the fast-forward button and the DVD jumped to that broadcast. Liz was on the air in front of the Oakland Police Department, finishing a story about a major drug bust. The news anchor cut in. “Liz, we heard some rumors about Matt Sinclair coming back to work. What have you heard?”
In what was surely a perfectly rehearsed exchange, Liz replied, “An arbitrator announced a decision today that restores Sinclair’s rank to sergeant, and effective Monday, he will be leaving crime analysis, where he has worked for the last six months, and return to homicide.”
“Much has been reported about your relationship with Matt recently. Can you tell us how he’s taking the news?” the anchor asked.
Liz glanced down for a beat, showing the perfect amount of rehearsed embarrassment, then smiled and said, “He’s happy to be back, and I join the rest of our viewers in wishing him the best upon his return. The city needs detectives of his caliber and dedication to combat the terrible violence we see here nightly.” One, two, three, the man counted to himself, as a close-up of a beaming Liz filled the entire television screen before it shifted back to the anchor sitting at the desk.
Liz deserved an Academy Award for that performance.
Chapter 24
Sinclair strained against the weight—two forty-five-pound plates on each side of the Olympic bar—and locked out his eighth rep. Arms aching, he was ready to lower it onto the bar rest when he heard a voice from across the department gym. “Not bad for a skinny white dude.”
Sinclair dropped the bar on the metal rests with a loud clang and sat up on the bench as Officer Tokepka, one of a dozen or so Tongan and Samoan officers on the department, walked toward him.
“Your office said you’d be here,” Tokepka said. “You got the one-eighty-sevens at Children’s, right?”
“Yea, you know something?”
“I popped a white dude last night for six-forty-seven F. Had a couple of syringes on him. Said he was a nurse at Children’s and that’s why he had the needles
, but I think he was trying to score some heroin.”
Sinclair stood and stretched his back. “You got a name on him?”
“Lance Keller. I have a copy of the CAR in my locker with his DOB and stuff,” Tokepka said, referring to a consolidated arrest report form.
“What time was this?”
“Beginning of shift—around midnight. I’m sure the jail already released him. They don’t hold people for drunk in public longer than four or five hours. I just needed to get him off the street. White dude walking around West Oakland that time of night is looking to get robbed or killed.”
Sinclair showered and changed and then stopped at the city jail admin office. Keller had been released two hours earlier, but Sinclair got a copy of his consolidated arrest report and walked into the homicide office a few minutes before eight.
Braddock, Jankowski, and Sanchez were already there. A copy of the Oakland Tribune lay in the middle of Sinclair’s desk, the headline reading, Bus Bench Killer Claims Second Victim.
“Catchy, huh?” said Braddock, sipping on her morning coffee.
“You know we’ve rated when they give our killer a nickname,” said Sinclair.
Braddock’s phone rang, so Sinclair grabbed a cup of coffee and strolled to the back of the office. Sanchez was still sucking information from every electronic device at his disposal and entering it into his database but hadn’t discovered any connections. Jankowski was reading the paper.
“Good news,” said Braddock. “I had ACH look into Jenny Fitzgerald’s hospital admission. We know her clothes were collected as evidence by the tech who took photos of her injuries at the hospital. ACH gets a bunch of bogus claims of missing property, so they take any valuables from critical patients and hold them for safekeeping. It seems that two purses came in with her in the ambulance.”
The explanation was simple. Both girls’ handbags were on the bus bench, so either the paramedics grabbed both along with their patient or the officers on the scene put them on the gurney with the patient—Jenny, in this case. Sinclair had done the same thing when he was a street cop. No officer wanted to get blamed for misplacing someone’s personal property and surely didn’t want to do a report and extra paperwork to recover and turn in personal items when it was easier to toss them in the ambulance with a patient.