Turns out the older girls hadn’t returned to the foster home after school. That wasn’t unusual behavior for Neisha and Kayla, and it wasn’t reported to the police or anybody else. The foster parents figured the two sisters would be back late at night, and they’d deal with the consequences in the morning. After dinner, the foster parents got a call from the social worker. That’s when everybody grew concerned.
The oldest boy, Damien, hadn’t come home from school, either, and Peter Thill had been seen at his youngest son’s school that afternoon. Bobby was waiting in line with the other kids. As the school buses idled, waiting for all the children to be released from class, Bobby recognized his dad’s car parked across the street.
Bobby’s teacher reported that he’d turned to her, excited. “That’s my dad.” He didn’t hesitate. He ran through the crowd of other kids and across the street. Bobby got into the car and was gone before the teacher figured out what was going on.
Now all four children had gone missing.
After hours of searching without success, the social worker contacted the police around ten o’clock. A missing person report was filed, and the social worker outlined Peter Thill’s history and her concern. The children were at risk, and the police decided that they needed to get a trap and trace warrant.
Few people outside of law enforcement and the courts had ever heard of a trap and trace warrant, but, as technology improved over the past fifteen years, it had become an essential law enforcement tool. Within minutes of the signed warrant, Neisha and Kayla’s cellular phone company had identified their location by pinging a signal off nearby cell phone towers.
The address came back as an abandoned house on Twenty-Eighth Street in Oakland’s Hoover-Foster neighborhood. Police were dispatched to that location.
Four cops arrived at the house. One went around to the back, just in case somebody tried to escape from the rear. One stayed with the squad cars, keeping in contact with dispatch and watching the sides of the house. The remaining two went through the front with a flashlight in one hand and a gun in the other.
The cops didn’t wait for a warrant. They broke through the door. Wood splintered as they came into the dilapidated bungalow. There was a small propane lantern in the corner. It was on, surrounded by garbage and a moldy sleeping bag.
Somebody was there. Maybe it was just squatters, maybe not.
“Police. Police.” The cops moved in tandem through the abandoned living room and cleared it before checking the kitchen in the back and clearing it, too. “Police. Police. Police.” They relayed their status and positions in the house to dispatch, who then relayed the information to those outside the house. “Entering the first bedroom, front.”
One cop swung the door open and shone his light into the front bedroom. The other cop stayed behind. He stood in the living room, watching the doors to the basement and the back bedroom. If somebody came out with a gun, he’d be in a position to take them out.
“Front bedroom clear.”
The two cops switched positions. The one who had been in the front bedroom held watch, while the other cop moved toward the door to the second bedroom. To dispatch he said, “Now entering back bedroom.”
He swung the door open and took a step inside. The cop later said he smelled it before he saw it—a raw, musty odor of blood. A small boy was on the floor in the corner. His throat was slit so deeply that his head was nearly cut all the way off. An older boy was in the far corner, half sitting against the wall, his shirt ripped and darkened, stabbed a dozen times in the chest and stomach.
“We got two down. Two down.” The transcript of the police officer’s search, as relayed to dispatch, captured every moment. “Get an ambulance here. I repeat, two down.”
The cop confirmed that there was no pulse and backed out of the room with as few steps as possible. He didn’t want to disturb the scene. Instead, he walked toward the closet. He took a step back and shone the light inside.
Nothing.
“Going upstairs.” In the distance came the sound of sirens—EMTs and more cops came to secure the scene. The two inside moved up the narrow staircase to the attic. There was no handrail. The old wooden steps creaked with each step. If somebody was waiting, there’d be no surprise. “Police. Police. Police.”
At the top, the beam of the flashlight scanned the room, side to side. The floor was plywood and cardboard. There were four soiled mattresses, a camping stove, and discarded food as well as a pile of empty plastic water bottles. To dispatch: “The attic is clear.” They backed down the steep stairs. Dispatch informed them that the paramedics had arrived and would be entering the house shortly.
The lead cop inside told dispatch to hold off a minute. “Let’s clear the basement.”
Once again positions switched. The lead for the attic now followed behind his partner as they descended the basement steps. The smell of mold and human waste grew strong. “Police. Police. Police,” the first cop shouted as he reached the bottom step. He heard a grunt in the corner. Then there was a whimper. “Police. Get on the ground and get your hands where I can see them.”
The cop crouched down, repeating his instruction over and over. He pointed his flashlight at the sounds, then stopped. He was frozen. “What the . . . ?”
His partner followed, and then he saw it, too.
Two girls were chained to the pipes. They were both naked, duct tape over their eyes. They were panicked, trying to get free, kicking at any sound, real or imagined. Their clothes and cell phones lay in a messy stack nearby.
To dispatch: “Found the girls.” He scanned the rest of the basement with his flashlight. There was a battered chest freezer in the corner. It was unplugged. Its bulk had likely prevented it from being stripped and stolen like everything else in the house.
With a quick movement, he lifted the lid. “Christ almighty.” Inside the chest freezer and packed in ice was the dismembered body of Tanya Neal. To dispatch: “We got another one.”
He closed the freezer lid and scanned the rest of the basement with his flashlight. “Rest of the basement is clear.”
Peter Thill was gone.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
The rest of Saturday and Sunday were a bust. Benji Metina kept calling, but I ignored her phone calls. Nikki and I tried to keep ourselves busy. We cleaned our house. We went to a movie. We walked Augustus and ran a few errands.
We designed each activity to help us avoid news coverage about what had happened to four children whom I was supposed to have protected from harm. I had failed again.
Nikki was worried about me. She knew that, if left alone, I’d drift over to the computer, turn on the television, or check my cell phone for e-mails and updates. She wouldn’t allow it. She called the hospital and rearranged her schedule so that I wouldn’t be left alone.
On Sunday night, we lay next to each other in bed. Nikki snuggled up against me. “It’s not your fault.”
I told her I knew it wasn’t my fault, but as I lay in the darkness, trying to fall asleep, I didn’t feel without fault.
If the judge wasn’t responsible, who was?
Every state and local law enforcement officer in the area was on duty. It was one of the largest manhunts in the history of California. Forty-eight hours after Peter Thill killed his sons and tortured his daughters, he had still not been found.
On Monday morning, I scheduled an emergency hearing about Peter Thill. Although I knew what had happened, nothing was on the record. A judge was limited by the rules to consider only the evidence that had been presented at a trial.
That’s why Sylvia Norgaard filed an emergency motion to reopen the evidence in the termination proceeding. She wanted to submit supplementary reports and, perhaps, recall witnesses to testify. She believed that the new information was important. Norgaard wanted it to be taken into account, but Bob Finley disagreed just as strongly.
If this had been a criminal proceeding, Finley would have been right to disagree. Double jeopardy attached
the moment a jury was empaneled, meaning that the government could not try a defendant more than once for the same crime. After all the evidence was presented, the trial was over. Even if a defendant jumped up on a table, danced a jig, and confessed to the crime after the jury left the room, that information would never be given to them. Once the jury was sent to deliberate guilt, no new evidence would be considered, not even a confession.
Child dependency proceedings, however, were civil. It was merely a family case, no different from a divorce. Although Peter Thill had a constitutional right to due process, many of the protections given to criminal defendants did not apply to him.
Nikki was still asleep when I left. She’d managed to get Monday and Tuesday off, but then she’d be working seven days in a row. I didn’t understand it, but that’s how hospitals were run.
I fiddled with the radio, trying to find some decent music, but it seemed like all the stations had coordinated with one another to have a commercial break at exactly the same time. I turned the radio off and wondered how many reporters would be waiting and how I was going to handle the proceeding itself. Logistically, I needed to decide if I was going to accept written evidence, like affidavits, or take additional live testimony. Then I’d need to decide whether I’d issue an oral ruling or take the matter under advisement, issuing a written order at a later date.
I’d driven this route so many times that I was on autopilot. I wasn’t paying attention. If I had been more aware, I may have seen Peter Thill drive past me. He was going in the opposite direction, headed toward my house in his dark-blue Buick Regal.
My cell phone rang about halfway to work—Jarkowski. When I stopped at a red light, I picked up the phone and answered.
There were no pleasantries.
“Where are you?”
“I’m in my car.” A stream of traffic passed in front of me. “What’s going on?”
“Where’s your wife?”
“Home. She’s sleeping in.”
“Why isn’t she answering her phone?”
Jarkowski’s tone scared me. I didn’t bother asking why or how the police had my wife’s cell phone number. “What’s going on?”
“We’re tracking Thill, talking to anybody who knows him,” he said. “We talked to a guy he used to work with this morning, a dishwasher. He says Thill was saying lots of stuff about your wife, Judge. Like he knew way too much stuff about her. It might be nothing, but I don’t think it’s good now that Thill’s running.”
“Hang on.” The light turned green. I crossed the intersection and pulled into a parking lot. I tapped the new security app installed on my phone. Up popped a menu. I tapped the “Camera One” button, and an image of our backyard appeared on-screen. Nothing to see.
I tapped the “Camera Two” button, and an image of our side yard appeared. Nobody there, either. I tried “Camera Three”—also clear. Finally, I tapped the “Camera Four” button. The front stoop appeared. Nobody was at the door, but in the distance I saw the car across the street. I recognized it right away as the one that had followed me on the day my house was broken into, but I couldn’t tell whether Thill was inside.
I couldn’t tell where he was.
“He’s there!” I shouted at Jarkowski. “He’s at my house right now.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
I don’t remember whether I said anything more or what Jarkowski said in response. I was focused on speed. As I rounded the final corner toward my house, everything came into focus. I saw Thill’s car.
I pressed the gas pedal, accelerating even more. Then I cranked the wheel hard to the right at over eighty miles per hour, hoping he was still inside.
The collision was a quick burst of thunder filled with bent metal, snapped plastic, and broken glass. The impact pushed Thill’s car into the curb, turned it on its side, and then lifted Thill’s car up into mine so that the two vehicles wedged together.
The airbags deployed on impact, blowing out while the right corner of the Range Rover collapsed into itself. I turned my head away. The bag hit the side of my face and felt like a massive hand slapping my ear. My head rang. For a moment, the only sound was a high-pitched bell.
I groped for the door handle, pulled, and fell to the ground.
The coarse street cut through my pants and scraped my knees and hands. I lifted my head. That’s when I saw him. Thill stood in my doorway, looking at me.
The ringing in my head became softer, replaced by the sound of sirens in the distance. Thill must’ve heard them, too, because he turned and disappeared back into the house. I pulled myself up and ran across the street. I stumbled at first but kept going.
I was at the door within seconds, charging into the house. As soon as I crossed the threshold, something knocked me to the ground. My breath left me. I rolled over just as a baseball bat came down, missing my head by an inch and glancing off my shoulder.
I kept rolling, trying to get far enough away to get back on my feet. Thill, however, stayed on me, wildly swinging the bat. As I continued to roll, the far wall got closer. I was almost out of space when Thill tripped on the carpet.
That was my chance.
It was less than a second, but it was enough. As he stumbled, I pulled myself up and ran past him toward the closet. Even with a cloudy head and diminished hearing, I recognized his bark. Thill had put Augustus in the closet. This was my only move.
I opened the door. Augustus bolted out. I’d never trained the dog to attack. He’d never bitten me or anybody else, not even a hint of aggression, but Augustus went at Thill with pure fury.
The dog jumped. His teeth exposed. His eyes wide. Thill took a step back, raising his forearms in defense. Then Augustus bit down. Thill shouted at the dog, kicking at him, but Augustus wasn’t done.
As soon as he landed, Augustus circled back. This time he attacked the leg. I saw Thill raise the bat and I leaped. Instead of striking Augustus, the bat came down flat across my back.
Both Thill and I fell to the floor. Augustus jumped off, barking and growling, then went at Thill’s face. I rolled over, saw the bat, and ripped it out of Thill’s hand. Augustus continued to bite.
I stood up. Augustus had moved from Thill’s head and taken hold of his forearm. When Thill tried to push Augustus away, the dog clamped down harder. Augustus had a solid grip, and he wasn’t going to let go.
“Away. Augustus, enough.”
The dog heard my voice. It broke the trance he’d been in since I had opened the closet door. He released Thill’s arm. As the dog jumped off, I brought the bat down on Thill’s head.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Police came through the front door. Their guns were drawn, but their demeanor changed when they saw Thill on the floor, his head cracked and encircled by a pool of blood. “Is anyone else here?”
I stared at them. I heard the words, but I was unable to speak.
“Can you put the bat down, Judge?”
The bat—it took a few seconds for it to register. I looked down at the baseball bat in my hand, part of it red with blood. I dropped it, and Augustus barked.
“Can you step over to the kitchen, Judge?” The officer’s voice was calm. “Just step over there so we can talk to you. You’re going to be OK.”
I nodded, doing as I was told.
“We’re gonna get some doctors in here to take a look at you.” He pointed at my forehead. “Looks like you got some cuts.”
I lifted my hand. I touched my forehead, then the side of my head. I pulled my hands away and noticed my fingers were red. I went to the sink and began to wash my hands clean.
When I reached for a towel, I saw them—Peter Thill’s tools. Knife, rope, duct tape, rubber gloves, and a package of condoms. He must’ve been in the kitchen when he had heard me crash into his car.
I guessed that Thill went to the door, saw me coming, and grabbed my old baseball bat.
“Nikki.” The daze was gone. I panicked. “Where is Nikki?” I ran out of the kitchen, through the li
ving room, and down the hallway. I pushed past a police officer and ran into our bedroom.
Nikki was on the bed, clutching a pillow across her chest. She was scared but otherwise unharmed.
I sat with her as she told the police what happened.
Nikki had woken up and heard somebody at the front door. She thought that maybe I’d forgotten my cell phone, so she got out of bed to see if I needed any help.
When she got to the living room, however, I wasn’t there. She looked out the front window, and she didn’t see my car. Then she heard Augustus barking at the back door, and that’s when she saw Peter Thill. He was staring at her, hungry for her.
Nikki knew what was going on. She turned and ran back to the bedroom as he broke in. Once inside the bedroom, Nikki managed to lock the door just in time.
In the hallway, she heard Augustus barking and Thill screaming at the dog. It was enough of a delay for her to push the dresser in front of the door, blocking it. Maybe Thill could’ve gotten inside, but he never had an opportunity to try. There was the sound of the cars crashing, and then the fight, and then it was over.
CHAPTER FIFTY
We never went back to that house. I found a temporary rental across town, a three bedroom, if you counted a windowless storage room in the basement as a bedroom. Located a block off Peralta Street, it was available, priced right, and better than staying where we were or living in a hotel.
I rented a truck, and I loaded it with the bed and some essentials. Movers packed the rest, and cleaners took care of our old place when everything was out. I didn’t need to see it. I just needed a phone call to let me know when to mail the landlord a final payment and the keys.
Nikki and I retreated up the coast to avoid the media and unplug for a week. They’d keep asking their questions, but I wasn’t going to be there to answer them. Peter Thill was now gone, and there wasn’t anything more to say.
Good Intentions Page 22