However, this inheritance pattern does not apply to autosomal recessive achromatopsia. In my case, and that of other achromats, there's usually no family history of the defect and males and females are equally affected. Furthermore, if I have children I won't pass the defect on except in the unlikely event I mate with another achromat or carrier. All of which is to say that my color blindness can't be definitively attributed to either my mom or my dad.
Why, in this cosmopolitan environment, am I thinking about inheritance patterns, chromosomes, defective genes? Because I have the chilling feeling that Dad, my closest relative on this earth, who speaks so passionately about honesty and how a good loaf of bread doesn't lie, was less than fully truthful about his involvement in the T case when he recounted it to me over lunch.
At home I search not the heavens but the city with my telescope, seeking answers in dim doorways, parked cars, lit-up rooms. San Francisco, they say, belongs to everyone—not just to its residents but also to all the visitors who travel here and come to love this place. City on the Bay, Queen of the Pacific Coast, Luminous City, Jewel of the West. It is also City of Vertigo, of Lust, of Meretricious Charms. Conan Doyle called it a "dream city" with the "glamour of literature." John Steinbeck wrote of it as a "gold and white acropolis rising wave on wave against the blue of the Pacific sky." My favorite description is Oscar Wilde's: "It's an odd thing, but anyone who disappears is said to be seen in San Francisco. It must be a delightful city and possess all the attractions of the next world."
Tonight the Judge is home: I see lights and movement through the French doors that open to his terrace. I wait patiently for him to show himself. Ten minutes, fifteen . . . My eyes grow weary. I pick up a fashion magazine, examine glossy black-and-white photographs of slick-haired, sleek-bodied young men and women modeling underwear. When I peer again through my telescope I'm rewarded by an appearance. The Judge leans upon his terrace balcony looking west toward me.
Does he remember that I live here across the valley? Does it occur to him that just now I may be looking straight into his eyes?
CHAPTER FIVE
I'm standing in a small crowd just outside the vault like doors of the Main Library, due to open at nine a.m. With me are the usual suspects—early birds, scholars, nerds, as well as homeless residents of the Civic Center encampment who need to use the toilets.
Behind us, across the plaza, the dome of City Hall reflects the sun. Through the library doors we can see people moving inside. They don't acknowledge us, don't give a glance as they officiously prepare for us, the sweaty horde, hovering with growing impatience for the opening.
A Chinese intellectual, briefcase and wire-rims, checks his watch and stamps his foot.
"Always late!"
"Op-en! Op-en!" A young troublemaker with Mohawk starts the chant. Others join in. A black guard approaches the doors, stares out nervously.
"Op-en! Op-en!"
Finally, at 9:07, the great doors are unbolted. We of the sweaty horde surge inside.
I'm sitting in the periodicals room before a large black microfilm reader, unspooling a reel of the San Francisco Examiner vintage 1981-82. The T case is a recurring motif that year, as is the name Jonathan Topper Hale, the oft-quoted S.F.P.D. inspector, who promises the public that he and his "crack team" of investigators are "doing everything humanly possible" to solve "these horrific and hitherto intractable crimes."
Persons having knowledge of the quarry, defined as "probably a white male in his thirties who may have a meatpacking or medical background, with a possible additional interest in tattoos and/or tattooing," are urged to phone the T Case Hotline, where all tips, whether attributed or anonymous, will be promptly checked out.
"Interest in tattoos and/or tattooing"—clever that, I think. Not a word about the application of tattoos to the torsos, leaving the reader to surmise that the victims were chosen on account of tattoos already on their bodies. Yet the phrase is sufficiently enticing that if someone actually did know a person capable of both butchering and tattooing, he/she would still be likely to phone said information in.
Above several of the articles appear pictures of Inspector Hale—late forties, brooding, authoritative, canny eyes, black hair, thick eyebrows, matching black mustache. His visage announces: I am one serious cop.
But the more I read about Hale, the more I get a sense he isn't all that popular with colleagues. "Sure, he's a great policeman," one unnamed Department source tells the Examiner, "but he has this weakness—a craving for personal publicity."
Others, speaking of Hale's brilliance, also mention his arrogance. Inspector Hale, I come to learn, is no shrinking violet. But he has his defenders. Over a period of nine weeks three letters appear in the Letters to the Editor column praising "this outstanding law enforcement officer" for his "brilliant performance" and "unselfish devotion to duty." One writer goes so far as to define the inspector as "perhaps the finest of San Francisco's finest, the closest thing we've got here to a cop's cop."
On May 12, 1982, a scandal erupts, diverting attention from the T case investigation, which, in any event, is going nowhere fast. An astute Examiner reporter, one Jim Steele, noticing that the three letters praising Hale were written on the same typewriter, checks out the letter writers' names and finds they're fake. Increasingly suspicious, he secures a document typed by Hale on a machine in his office and has it matched by a typewriter expert to the typing on the letters.
Hale, of course, denies any knowledge of the forgeries, but voluntarily resigns "for the good of the Department." His moral breakdown is attributed by unnamed sources to everything from "work-related stress" to "a warped sense of humor." Hale's attorney, Denis Roquelle, speaks of "the immense tragedy that has overtaken this exemplary officer who is pilloried now because his brilliance has long aroused the envy of the gutless wonders who staff the upper echelons of S.F.P.D."
I gaze at a picture of Hale as he leaves the Hall of Justice for the last time. Proud, unrepentant, features set into a crooked grin, he projects himself as a man above the fray and the petty jealousies that have brought him down.
There is more. I make my way through reels from the Chronicle as well as the Examiner, sniffing around the untidy corners of the case, avoiding coverage of the Robbie Sipple incident, circling it, saving it for last . . . and not because I think it'll taste so very good. Rather I'm apprehensive it will tell me things I'd rather not know. Except that I do want to know those things.
Stop diddling, Kay. Confront your demons!
T VICTIM DROPS DEAD AS "DUMMY COPS" MISLAY EVIDENCE
The story is as brutal as the headline. The excoriated "dummies" are individually named: Patrolmen Jack L. Farrow, William D. Hayes, Enrico S. Puccio, Luis Cruz Vasquez, and Sergeant Lucius D. Waincroft. Adjectives and nouns flow fast and thick: "pathetic, inept, irresponsible, incompetent; dolts, dunces, bunglers, chumps, buffoons."
I wince as I read the accompanying articles. It's hard not to think of these men as dolts. Hardest of all is to imagine Dad among them, casually handling evidence, then abandoning the basement apartment without securing it. One minute he's a hero saving Robbie Sipple's life, the next he's Prince of Fools.
I can't buy it. I ask myself why. Because Dad is the most exacting man I know, rigorously correct, even compulsive, in matters having to do with property, finances, relationships and procedures concerning everything from automobile maintenance to the making of exotic breads. He pays his bills the day he receives them, figures his taxes to the penny, promptly repays loans, conscientiously returns borrowed possessions, keeps his doors locked, his papers in order, teaches me, his child, the virtues of truthfulness and reliability. "The most important thing about a person is personal integrity," he teaches. "In fact," he adds, "it's the only thing."
Am I to believe that this man, who never misplaced anything, never left his house or car door unlocked, never read a set of instructions he didn't follow, never in twenty years as a cop fouled or in any way tainted a crime s
cene, could be party to such bungling? I cannot.
Which leaves me again with the thought that the story he told me yesterday wasn't straight. That something else happened that night at Robbie Sipple's. That Dad, alone or in complicity with others, obstructed justice. That at the very least he had knowledge of such obstruction and for some reason, which I cannot comprehend, preferred to suffer the indignity of being called a dummy rather than tell the truth.
Methodically I photocopy every relevant page of microfilm, not at all certain why I bother. No solid connection yet between Tim's dismemberment and the old T case, but, because of Tim, I've stumbled back into a mystery that for years I put out of mind.
Just before I return the reels to the desk, I search out Mom's obit. There is none, only a death notice:
FARROW, CARLOTTA RYAN, PASSED AWAY SAN FRANCISCO, OCTOBER 9, 1981, AGE 43. BELOVED WIFE OF JACK L. FARROW, LOVING MOTHER OF KAY R. FARROW, CHERISHED SISTER OF TOM RYAN AND ARLENE RYAN O'NEILL. SHE LEAVES BEHIND FEELINGS OF JOY AND LOVE THAT TOUCHED ALL SHE MET, INCLUDING HER NIECES, NEPHEWS AND NUMEROUS STUDENTS AT MARINA MIDDLE SCHOOL TO WHOM SHE TAUGHT MUSIC THROUGH THE YEARS. FRIENDS MAY VISIT FRIDAY, FROM 1 TO 5 P.M., AT TERRY SULLIVAN MORTUARY. FUNERAL ARRANGEMENTS ARE PRIVATE.
Emerging from the library onto Civic Center Plaza, I enter an arena of blinding light. Quickly I slip on shades, but even then the brilliance is nearly unendurable. As I squint and blink my way across the plaza, I feel tears forming in my eyes—whether on account of photophobia or recalling my mother's death I cannot be sure.
From home I phone the Examiner, ask to speak to someone on the crime desk.
"That'd be city," the operator says. She connects me to a Jason Lubow, who identifies himself as a police reporter. I complain that the killing of Timothy Lovsey has barely gotten notice.
"That Polk Gulch thing?"
"That's the one."
"We ran it."
"Six lines."
"We'll run more when there're developments."
"Such as what?" I ask.
"Arrest. Explanation. Something that wraps it up."
"Otherwise it's just another hustler homicide, right?"
"You said it, lady. Not me. But a Gulch hustler—you know, those things happen. Doesn't make for the most sympathetic victim in town."
"What about a tie-in to the T case?"
"What's that?"
Lubow never heard of it; he's only been in San Francisco six years. As I fill him in, I hear the clicking of computer keys. When I'm done he tells me he'll check it out.
"If you don't mind my asking," he asks, "who am I speaking with?"
"A concerned citizen," I tell him, and hang up.
An hour later I get a call from Hilly Lentz. There's traffic in the background, so loud I can barely hear her.
"Where are you?"
"Pay phone. You never got this call, understand?"
"What's going on?"
"Shanley's crapping in his pants."
"Something I did?"
"Your little query about tattoos."
"So tell me—are there tattoos?"
Her wordless breathing is my confirmation.
"What's the big secret?" I ask.
Again she doesn't respond, instead gives me her address.
"I'll be home by six," she says. "Drop by at seven and we'll talk."
She lives on Collingwood near Twentieth in the Castro. It's a nice Edwardian, renovated and well kept up. A guy with a buzz cut, Dalmatian on a leash, emerges as I mount the stoop.
"Need help?" he asks with the demeanor of a landlord.
"Looking for Hilly."
He laughs. "House cop, third floor."
I nod, kneel to meet the dog. I like Dalmatians, they're black and white. But now this one starts nosing at my groin.
"Oscar! Oscar!" Buzz Cut yanks at the leash, pets his pooch, grins. "He's s heavy into crotch worship, dear. Can you blame him?"
"Well, who should I blame?" I ask.
Hilly's waiting for me in her doorway, dressed in a grungy gray S.F.P.D. T-shirt and baggy sweats. She laughs when I describe the encounter on the stoop.
"If Oscar takes after Jerry he's into just about everything," she says.
She shows me around. The flat is spacious, but messy like a grad student's—living room, eat-in kitchen, bedroom, bath. An aerobics class schedule and police duty roster are taped to the refrigerator door. In the half-open closet I catch sight of black leather motorcycle gear. I glance into the bedroom, notice a pair of handcuffs dangling from a bedpost.
"Standard cop-issue." Hilly giggles. "Fantasy facilitator device."
Back in the living room she clears off a place for me on a couch, opens two cans of beer. Just as she hands me one a cat leaps into my lap.
"Meet Puddy. She's an old thing, Puddy is. If she bothers you just brush her away."
I stroke the cat. "What's going on, Hilly?"
She grins. "Shanley says to kiss you off."
"Because I asked about tattoos?"
She gives a weak smile. "I gotta be careful what I say."
"Hey, you invited me here." To set her at ease I disarm myself by placing my camera on the floor. "If we're not going to talk freely, what's the point?"
She exhales.
"Why did you invite me?"
"I like you. You care. Few people do."
A shallow observation, but I let it pass. "Tim Lovsey was my friend."
She nods. "I know. But it's more than that. Your dad was a cop. That makes you part of the family . . . if you know what I mean."
Dysfunctional family, I think.
"Do you know anything about my dad?"
She takes a swig of beer. "Shanley does, says he was involved in the old T case."
"That's right. Yesterday we had lunch. It was the first time I heard his version. I was in art school at the time, so I never got a fix on it. Now I'm starting to. What's the connection? The tattoos the same?"
I gaze into her eyes. I can't be certain but I think they're blue. I don't know why that matters. Blue, brown, hazel—eyes to me are either light or dark.
"One thing you might be interested in—med examiner says Tim tested negative for HIV."
I sink back into the couch. He told me he was negative, got tested regularly, but a side of me wasn't sure. Perhaps if I had been I'd have made a move on him on Angel Island that idyllic afternoon.
"The tattoos?" I ask.
"No tattoos," she says.
"Then why—"
"He was marked."
I push Puddy off, sit straight. "How?"
She tightens her lips. "Police business. I'll get shit-canned if I say more." I wait her out, knowing she wants to tell me. "There was painting," she says finally, "black oil-based paint on his back. Abstract shapes, curves, what the med examiner calls arabesques. Like the old case, but crudely done. And something else. A number. 'Seven.' Like the T killer was starting up again from where he left off in '81."
She lets out her breath. She's crossed the line; too late now to turn back.
"Personally I don't think that's possible," she says. "It's been too long. Why would he stop so long, then resume? And a few other things. Paint instead of tattoos. That suggests this person doesn't have tattooing skills. Also the limbs and head—leaving them for us, making it possible to ID the victim. Finally, why dump them so near the place where Tim hung out. Why do that . . . then leave the torso on the other side of the Bay?"
She's trying to sound dispassionate but the vibrato in her voice gives her away. Listening, I feel we're talking about stuff that has no connection to real life.
"Maybe the heads and limbs of the earlier victims were left in Dumpsters too," I say. "Those times, the trash was hauled. This time a homeless guy happened to be hunting empty soda cans."
She shrugs. "Could be."
"Butchering's a skill as much as tattooing. Isn't it a big coincidence to have two butchers?"
"Definitely." She peers at me. "What about the fiftee
n-year gap?"
"Maybe the killer was in prison."
"That's Shanley's theory. He's checking it out." She smiles craftily, as if we're playing a mind game. "What else?"
"The need to kill quieted down. Then something triggered it again."
"Department shrink suggested that." She shakes her head. "Sounds like detective story crap to me."
"How do you explain it then?"
"Without discounting any of the above, my hunch is a copycat. No great breakthrough, true. But it's what I think."
"My dad's theory too."
"The question is why." Again the crafty smile. "Someone who knows a lot about the T case. . . but not everything. That's the key. How come he knows certain things closely held at the time, yet doesn't know other things the top investigators knew? He has a source. Find the source and maybe we'll find him. That's the theory I'll be working on."
She stands, suggests we go out, grab some food. I watch as she goes to a mirror, checks the gel on her hair, then slips on a leather vest.
As we walk toward Castro she nudges me in the ribs. "I shouldn't be seen with you, but we don't have to worry around here."
There're plenty of gay S.F.P.D. cops, she tells me. And the proportion of lesbians to straight women may even be greater than the proportion of gays among the men. Which is why, she confides, she moved to San Francisco. She's from L.A., member of a law enforcement family. Her father and two of her uncles are cops, one brother's with the Secret Service, the other with the F.B.I.
"Don't know why they went fed. To best the old man, I guess. In a family like ours you'd think I'd be the black sheep. But both brothers are proud of me. Like: 'Sis is great!' As for Pop—he's a little less enthusiastic. I guess he wishes his only daughter were straight."
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