by Brian Thiem
Even if he could get the locals to look for her, there were hundreds of rustic camps along that part of the Russian River, and Skye would probably be on her way back long before anyone could find her.
Sinclair thanked the Berkeley officer and called Braddock. “How’d you do?” he asked.
“Big waste of time. We talked to two supposed witnesses, but neither really saw anything.”
“I should’ve been out there with you.”
“Jankowski’s keeping me entertained.”
“What’s he bitching about today, the moral decline of the country’s youth or the imminent collapse of the world economy?”
“Only the weather. Says if he wanted to sweat his butt off doing police work, he’d have joined LAPD. We’re going to grab some lunch on the way back. You want to join us?”
Sinclair’s watch read 11:55. “Nah, I had a big breakfast.”
“Jankowski’s waving at me. I’ll put him on.”
Sinclair pulled the phone a few inches from his ear as Jankowski’s booming voice came on the line. “Sinclair, I just got a call from NYPD. I guess I rattled enough cages to get this pushed higher than the precinct captain. This deputy inspector bigwig claimed his cops misunderstood his directive. He only told them he didn’t want anybody screwing with the Arquette family over bullshit or digging into shit that didn’t concern them.”
“Can this deputy inspector make the detective who handled the case call us?”
“He’s on vacation. He’s an old timer and only carries his cell phone on duty because they make him.”
“Sounds like one of our old-timer homicide sergeants,” said Sinclair.
“Fuck you too, Sinclair. I take my phone with me on vacation—I just don’t turn it on. Otherwise, you youngsters bother me all the time.”
“They’re cops. Can’t they find one of their own?”
“The detective’s driving home right now from somewhere in Pennsylvania and’s expected to be home by seven or eight, their time. The inspector ordered someone to sit in front of his house and call us the moment he pulls up.”
Jankowski gave the phone back to Braddock, and Sinclair told her what he learned about Skye.
“We’ll be back in an hour or so,” said Braddock. “I guess we can go back into the reports and see if we missed anything.”
“Or twiddle our thumbs until NYPD calls,” said Sinclair. “Maybe he’ll give us something that points to Olsen or at least give us all his info and maybe a photo.”
“Then Jankowski and I can go to Skye’s house by five and wait for her. If her description of the man who bought the medallions is anything like Olsen, we can show her a photo lineup.”
“Sounds like a plan. Enjoy your lunch and don’t worry about me. I’ll just be here reading reports like a good little building rat.”
Chapter 56
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: Bus Bench Killer Interview
I would surely be interested in interviewing the Bus Bench Killer. Who are you and why do you ask?
Elizabeth “Liz” Schueller
He brought up the next e-mail from his draft folder, pasted it into a reply, and hit the send button.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: RE: Bus Bench Killer Interview
Hello Ms. Schueller:
I am the one you refer to as the Bus Bench Killer. I killed Zachary Caldwell, Susan Hammond, Carol Brooks, and Melissa Mathis. I’d be willing to speak to you on camera and tell you why they needed to die if you are interested.
Best regards,
BBK
Chapter 57
Sinclair grabbed the next report on the stack, looked at the thirty pages stapled together, and flung it across the room. It sailed like a Frisbee until the pages opened up. Then it fluttered and fell to the floor. Sanchez stared at him but said nothing. He’d been reading reports and doing computer searches all morning. Still, no clues jumped out. Sinclair couldn’t fathom how Sanchez sat at his desk all day reading reports and entering data into a computer. Sinclair could manage only a few hours at his desk on the best of days before he needed get out of the office and do something. Today, all he could manage was thirty minutes.
He pulled the stiff shoes onto his feet and took the service elevator to the basement, stopping at the heavy steel door that led to the indoor range. When he heard a lull in the gunfire, he swung open the door, grabbed a pair of earmuffs off the railing, and covered his ears. Two of the three bays were occupied with two officers each. They faced downrange, guns holstered, hands inches away. Sinclair heard a metallic click, and four silhouette targets mounted on metal rotating stands turned to face the officers. They drew their Glocks, brought them smoothly to eye level, and fired two shots each into the life-size depictions of an armed man’s upper torso.
Inside the glass-walled office at the back of the range, Norris leaned toward a microphone. “Come back to the fifteen-yard line. Make ready with one, two-round magazine in your weapon, and another two-round magazine in your ammo pouch.”
Norris gestured to Sinclair, who opened the door and stepped into the long, narrow office. Once inside, he removed his earmuffs.
“Hang on a sec,” Norris said to Sinclair, then pressed the microphone button. “On the turn of the target, you will fire three rounds center mass. You will then change magazines and fire two carefully aimed headshots. This is to simulate a suspect who is wearing body armor and does not go down after successive shots to the torso.”
Norris flipped a switch on the console and the targets turned. The officers fired the first three rounds in three seconds. Their pistol slides locked back and empty magazines dropped to the cement floor as the officers slid in fresh magazines and slammed them home. The final two shots rang out more slowly as the officers took their time to align their sights and press the triggers. One was still aiming when Norris flipped the switch to rotate the targets.
“Score each other’s targets. Possible is fifty. I want to see any targets with less than forty-five holes. Jimmy, I’ll score you.”
The young, black officer who didn’t get his last shot off brought his target into the office. Norris counted the holes, marking each with a pen.
“Forty-two,” said Norris. “Passing is forty, but it’s not good enough to survive on the streets. You missed both head shots.”
“I jerked the first one and was aiming for the second when the target turned,” Jimmy said.
“In the real world, you’d be dead. You need practice. The range hours for next week are posted on the door.”
Sinclair removed his Sig Sauer from his holster, dropped the magazine, ejected the chambered round into his hand, and handed the gun to Norris. Norris disassembled it; inspected the barrel, springs, and firing pin; and then put it back together. He grasped the gun by the barrel and added a succession of weights to a rod that hooked over the trigger until the hammer fell. He did the same for the single-action trigger and wrote numbers into a steno pad.
“Three and a half pounds single-action and nine double,” said Norris. “A little lighter than factory specs, but still okay.”
Sinclair reloaded and holstered his gun. “You mind if I shoot some?”
“Actually, I’d like you to test fire a scenario I’m designing for SWAT training next week,” said Norris.
Sinclair followed him to the third bay where the target stands contained two hostage targets. The paper targets were life-size cartoonish drawings of a light-haired ghoulish man holding a dark-haired woman around the throat with one hand and a gun to her head with the other. The woman shielded the man, leaving only half of his body exposed.
“Put on your ears and engage the one on the right,” said Norris.
Sinclair pulled on his earmuffs, drew his .45, and put two rounds in the ghoul’s head.
“Good,” said Norris. “The body’s the larg
er target, why’d you go for the headshot?”
Sinclair reholstered. “The man’s pointing a gun at the woman and has his finger on the trigger. He wouldn’t die immediately from a body shot and could still shoot. He could even pull the trigger involuntarily if the hand muscles contract. But a bullet in the head will short-circuit the brain.”
“Exactly,” said Norris. “I’ll turn the targets when I run this for SWAT, and they’ll have to figure it out instantly and go for the headshot. If they shoot in the torso, miss the head, or hit the hostage, they fail.”
“Simple enough,” said Sinclair.
Norris slid a sheet of plywood with a square hole cut in the middle in front of the other target. “This simulates the same hostage situation, but inside a house. The hostage-taker’s peering through a window, holding his hostage as a shield in front of him. Instead of a six-inch-wide head to hit, less than half of the hostage-taker’s head is exposed. More than an inch to the right and you hit the hostage. More than an inch to the left and you miss. I’ll have the snipers shoot it with their scoped rifles at a hundred yards and the operators at fifteen yards with handguns.”
Sinclair took several slow breaths, blew out most of the last one, aimed, and slowly pressed the trigger. The bullet creased the hair of the paper hostage.
“Just nicked her ear,” said Norris. “What the hell, a good plastic surgeon can repair it.”
Sinclair fired a second shot, this one hitting the ghoul in his left eye.
“Good shot,” said Norris. “Not easy, huh?”
“I don’t shoot as much as I used to, but the SWAT guys should be able to handle this,” said Sinclair. “But here’s the real solution.”
He aimed two inches left of his last shot and fired three quick rounds.
Norris walked downrange, yelling, “Sarge, you shot my window frame.”
Sinclair slid the bullet-peppered plywood away from the target to reveal three holes in the right side of the hostage-taker’s head. “A window frame won’t stop a bullet, so by ignoring it, I get a six-inch-wide target instead of a two-inch sliver. Easy shot.”
Chapter 58
The man’s phone vibrated on the desk in front of him.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: RE: RE: Bus Bench Killer Interview
Hello,
If you are truly who you say you are, I will gladly interview you and give you the opportunity to tell your side of the story. However, I must be wary. Can you prove to me you are the Bus Bench Killer by providing details of the crimes that only you would know—details that have not been reported?
Sincerely,
Elizabeth “Liz” Schueller
He had anticipated her demand for proof. Liz might be ambitious, but she wasn’t stupid, so he expected she would vet him as an untested source before agreeing to meet. He replied,
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: Bus Bench Killer Interview
Hello Ms. Schueller:
I left a memento—a medallion of a peace sign—with each victim. I shot Ms. Brooks with a 9mm pistol, something the police can verify. I must warn you, however, that should you tell the police about our conversation or conspire with them to set me up, not only will you lose this interview, but you will force me to take other actions.
Best regards,
BBK
Chapter 59
Sinclair stepped into the office. Sanchez looked up from his desk. “That girlfriend of yours called. I think she might have tricked me into saying something.”
“Liz? What did she want?”
“She said she had a source who mentioned the peace medallions and the murder weapon being a nine. She wanted me to confirm it.”
Sinclair looked at his cell and noticed a voicemail from Liz. “Did you?”
“Of course not. I told her distinctly I would not confirm it; however, I told her that if she reported it on the news, it could jeopardize your investigation.”
Sinclair shook his head and chuckled. “Yeah, she got you.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. You actually put her on notice not to use it. She won’t risk getting on homicide’s shit list.”
“Who do you think told her?” asked Sanchez.
“We put out those details to every department in the state, so that leaves a few thousand possibilities.”
“Liz Schueller does have a way of getting men to talk to her.”
That she does, thought Sinclair, as he walked to the window. Staring at the street below, he punched up her voicemail.
Hi Matt, I’m thinking about you. A source told me your victims wore peace sign medallions and the gun used on Carol Brooks was a nine millimeter. I’m trying to determine if my source is credible. Love you.
Sinclair brought up the Channel 6 News website on his computer. Blasted across the screen was: Tonight at 5 and 10. The Bus Bench Killer: A Special Report by Liz Schueller and the Channel 6 News Team.
Chapter 60
The man read the incoming e-mail.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Bus Bench Killer Interview
Your information checks out. Would you like to come to our studio?
Sincerely,
Elizabeth “Liz” Schueller
The man pasted text from the next archived e-mail into a reply.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Bus Bench Killer Interview
Hello Liz . . . I hope it’s okay for me to call you Liz. As you surely understand, I don’t feel comfortable coming to your station. However, I have a location in Oakland that will suffice. You must follow my instructions if you want the interview. Within 30 minutes, you must be at The Bus Bench. Once there, have your camera operator film you doing an introduction to your interview with me. I will be observing. Once I am comfortable you are alone and there is no police surveillance, I will e-mail you further instructions. You have 30 minutes from now.
The man hit send and walked out of his office.
Chapter 61
Sinclair leaned back in his chair, propped his stocking feet on his desk, and studied his notes from the interview with the lawyers Phyllis Mathis and Russell Hammond. He grabbed the phone and dialed Hammond. “How’d you end up getting the referral from Horowitz?” he asked.
“A previous client referred it.”
“Who was that?”
“A man named Darryl Tyson. I represented him on a medical malpractice claim a few years ago. He’d developed a medical condition from parasites while working on a clean water project in Sierra Leone that the Arquette family foundation financed. When he returned to Oakland, he went to Summit Medical Center. They misdiagnosed him and he nearly died.”
“Jane knew Tyson?”
“They met in the Peace Corps in their twenties and stayed friends,” said Hammond.
“Would he know Jane’s father or Samantha’s father?”
“He was quite close to the family from the way he talked.”
“Describe him?”
“Medium height, slightly built African American man in his forties. Very bright. Degrees in engineering and chemistry, speaks English, French, and several other languages fluently.”
As Hammond talked, Sinclair entered Tyson into RMS. No hits. He brought up the DMV screen and entered his information.
“Do you have an address and phone number for him?” Sinclair asked as he clicked on a DMV record showing a man matching the information Hammond provided.
“I’d have to go to my office to get his file, but I’ve been to his apartment several times. He lives in the high rise on Lake Merritt—Twelve Hundred Lakeshore.”
Sinclair hung up. The DMV record on his computer
showed the same address. He ran Tyson in CORPUS, CII, and FBI. He was clean at the local, state, and federal level. DMV showed a year-old Volvo sedan registered to him and a ticket for running a stop sign three years earlier.
He grabbed his phone and started to call Braddock just as she walked in the door. He closed his phone.
“I know who can lead us to Olsen.”
“I thought the chief said—”
“Fuck the chief,” said Sinclair. “The killer’s close—I can feel it.” Sinclair nearly bumped into Jankowski as he headed out the door. Jankowski was coming in with a thick Sunday San Francisco Chronicle under his arm.
Jankowski said, “Thought this would help us pass the time while we waited—”
Braddock cut him off. “Tell Matt we can handle the field work for him.”
“What field work?” asked Jankowski.
“I’m going,” said Sinclair. “You coming?”
“Are you sure you want to do this?” she said.
“Damn straight.” Sinclair pushed through the door and headed down the stairs. “This is the Oakland connection to Olsen.”
Braddock followed. “Let me and Jankowski bring the guy in and you can talk to him.”
“There’s no time.” Sinclair crossed the sidewalk to his car.
“I’m coming too,” said Jankowski, as he hurried to catch up. “Where’re we going?”
“You’re supposed to support me, damn it,” she said to Jankowski.
“Ah, come on, it’s his case,” said Jankowski.
She shook her head in frustration and climbed into the passenger seat of Sinclair’s car.
“Twelve Hundred Lakeshore,” Sinclair shouted to Jankowski, who lumbered down the street to his car.
Sinclair pulled out of the parking space, accelerated through the light at Broadway, and caught the last second of the yellow lights at the next two streets.