“Do you remember anything different about that day?”
“Yes. Someone got murdered.”
“I mean before the murder.”
“How can anyone remember what happened? It’s all a blur.”
“Understandable.” But no matter what question Casey posed from his cognitive interview checklist, the answer was the same. The man didn’t remember. By all accounts, this method should have worked, but after several fruitless minutes, Casey asked, “Where exactly were you when the shots were fired?”
“Right here. At this counter. But like I said, I only heard them. I didn’t see anything.”
“So you heard the shots?” Casey asked, losing patience as Al’s phone rang. “You’ve got a clear view of the door. How was it you didn’t see who had the gun?”
Rivers shrugged. “It was dark out? I don’t remember.”
Behind him, Casey could hear Al speaking softly into the phone, saying, “Yeah. Got it…Not much longer. Give me a minute to wrap it up here.”
Clearly Al was about to step in. Desperate to get what he needed before that happened, Casey decided the only thing left was to appeal to the clerk’s sense of duty. “Mr. Rivers. A man lost his life out there. Right in front of you. He had two young daughters.”
“I wish I could help, but if there’s nothing else, I have work to do.”
“As do we,” Al said. Surprisingly, he turned his back on them, looking out the plate-glass window. “Lot of drug deals going on in this neighborhood, Mr. Rivers? I expect there’s a lot of violence.”
“Too much,” Rivers replied.
“Like those two punks there across the street right now.” He pointed toward two men, early twenties, standing on the corner. “I’d hate to think they might mistake our visit for, say, a snitchfest.”
“A what?” Rivers asked, his gaze flicking in the direction of the men.
“Snitchfest,” Al said, then walked over to the door, taking hold of the sign that read Closed. He turned it and slapped it against the glass so it faced out to the street. He peered out the window once more, then sauntered to the counter, leaning forward so that his face was mere inches from Rivers’s. “Where one party snitches on another, to report drug dealing out in front of their store.”
“Why would they think that? I didn’t report anything.”
“They don’t know that, do they? So pick which case you want to be involved in. A murder stemming from a robbery that happened eight days ago, or a drug sting that’s gonna go down as soon as I get narcotics out here to set up shop on your doorstep.”
Rivers’s gaze fixed on the street corner, where one of the men seemed to be watching them. “Maybe I do remember seeing a man with a gun.”
Casey poised his pen over the paper. “What was his name?”
“Terrance Pritchett.”
“And where do you know him from?”
“He shops in here sometimes. I’ve seen his name on the welfare debit card.”
“What’s he drive?”
“Silver Toyota pickup.”
“Now, see?” Al smiled. “That’s not so hard, is it?” He turned the sign so that it read Open again, then held the door for Casey. “Let’s go, College Boy.”
Casey waited until they were well up the street before saying anything. “What happened to letting me get the information my way?”
“Like I said, sometimes you gotta deviate from the script.”
“Deviate is one thing. Veiled threats about retribution from drug dealers?”
“Didn’t seem all that veiled to me. Achille’s heel, kid. Besides, it got the information we needed a helluva lot faster than you were getting it.”
“And we’re in a hurry because…?”
“The op center called. Homicide out by the Golden Gate Bridge. Possible Landmark Strangler.” He held up his phone, taunting Casey with it. “Unless, of course, you want me to call them back and reassign it?”
“No.” Casey definitely wanted that case, and he quickened his pace to the car, Al following. “How long have they been holding it?”
“Half an hour, maybe. And technically it’s not ours. Yet. Happened on the trail, so it belongs to the park rangers. They’re asking for our assistance.”
Casey was simply going to have to convince them to turn it over. He unlocked the doors, and they got in.
Al picked up the radio, keying the mic, giving his call sign. “Five-Henry-three, dispatch.”
“Five-Henry-three. Go ahead.”
“We’re en route to Golden Gate Bridge on a one-eight-seven. Park rangers requesting assistance.”
“Ten-four.”
Al looked over at Casey. “And that, College Boy, is why we park out front.”
THREE
Casey maneuvered through the morning commute en route to the Golden Gate Bridge, occasionally blasting his siren, wishing traffic would miraculously disappear. He took one corner a bit sharp, and Al slapped his hand on the dash. “What’s your hurry, Hotshot?”
“You said it’s a possible Landmark Strangler victim.”
“Who will still be dead no matter how fast you drive. Let’s aim to get there in one piece.”
Casey slowed, even though he wanted to do otherwise. This would make the fourth murder in the past four months—all near or around famous San Francisco landmarks. And because of the publicity, it had the city in a panic. Even though whoever solved the case would appear the hero in the public’s eye, Casey wanted it for a different reason. Not only was he the newest investigator in Homicide, he was the youngest, just shy of thirty. He needed this case to prove his worth—show the rest of the department that he deserved to be there, that his promotion wasn’t a sign of favoritism or some lucky break. It was the same reason he’d recently taken the lieutenant’s promotional test—something he hadn’t shared with anyone, not even Al. It wasn’t to promote, but to prove he could do it. To prove he had what it took.
Maybe then it might quiet some of the veteran officers who felt Casey was out of his element, he thought as he parked along the street near the Battery Trail. Al called in their arrival as they walked beneath the pines and eucalyptus down a gravel trail that led toward the bay. Yellow crime-scene tape was strung from tree to tree. The long ends of the bright plastic ribbon whipping about in the gusty wind looked more like party streamers than a barrier to a crime scene. In case there was any confusion—not that anyone expected any—an officer, clipboard in hand, stood guard at the outer perimeter.
Casey and Al stopped to give their names and star numbers, and the officer jotted them down on his crime-scene log, then lifted the tape, allowing them entry. The inner perimeter, also delineated with crime-scene tape, was about twenty-five yards farther in, where another officer stood guard. Casey kept one eye on the gravel path as they walked down to the main crime scene to make sure they didn’t trample on anything important.
The coroner investigator, Kevin Melton, was crouched down by the body. He glanced over at them, nodded in greeting, then turned his attention back to the victim, a woman in her early thirties, wearing a navy-blue-and-black jogging suit. Her blond hair was pulled in a low ponytail at the back of her head, covered in dust, as was the blue ball cap, its rim studded with rhinestones.
Al moved closer, leaning in toward the woman for a better look. “What’s the word?”
“Won’t know until the autopsy,” Melton said. “But if I had to guess? Marks on her neck and petechial rash around the face, at least what you can see through the makeup that’s disturbed…Factor in that she was killed practically under the Golden Gate Bridge and in view of Alcatraz? It sure looks like another Landmark Strangler case. At least on the surface.”
“Just what we need,” Al replied. “Can’t wait to see the headlines.”
Casey tucked his portable radio beneath his arm then opened his portfolio noteb
ook. “Who’s our primary officer?” he asked Melton.
“Park ranger.” He nodded toward the trail, where a group of people stood, among them the ranger and a female SFPD officer.
“I’ll go see what they’ve got,” Casey said.
Al glanced in that direction. “You mean you’ll see if you can sweet-talk them out of the case? I’ll catch up to you in a few.” He went back to conversing with Melton about the state of the body.
Casey snapped his notebook closed then approached the officers. The park ranger looked barely old enough to shave. The patrol officer, a tall woman with long dark hair pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck, was closer to Casey’s age. She looked up as he approached, but her mirrored sunglasses kept him from seeing her expression.
She gave a slight smile. “You must be from Homicide,” she said, holding her hand out.
He shook it. “Casey Kellog.”
“Becca Windsor. I was in the area when the rangers called for assistance. Our primary is Glenn Powers.”
Casey shook hands with the man. “How can we help?” he asked.
“For now,” Glenn said, “some guidance.”
Hiding his disappointment that he wasn’t asking him to take the case outright, he said, “What do you have so far?”
“The couple with the German shepherd found the woman. Mr. and Mrs. Harris. Jogging the opposite direction as our victim just after seven thirty.”
“And the other woman? In the purple running clothes?”
“Victim’s neighbor,” the ranger said. He checked his notes. “Marcie Valentine.”
“She was there when it happened?” Casey asked, figuring if so, no way was it a Strangler case.
“Actually no. They were supposed to be jogging together, but plans were changed at the last minute.”
Casey eyed the neighbor, who was sitting on a bench, not interacting with the others, staring out into the distance. “You’ve taken everyone’s statements?”
“So far.”
“Okay. It’s always a good idea to verify things. How about you and Officer Windsor stand by with the neighbor while I do a quick interview with the couple who reported it? Then we can compare facts.”
“Okay.”
Al joined Casey. “So?”
“Not turning it over to us yet. But we’re taking additional statements. To compare.”
“That’s a start. But if you really want him to reconsider? Offer up a reminder on how much paper work there is.”
He and Al walked up to the group then asked the man with the dog if he wouldn’t mind answering a few questions first.
“Sure,” he said, handing the German shepherd’s leash to his wife.
She cocked her head to the side, raising her brows as she nodded toward Casey and Al.
Her husband shook his head. “I get it,” he said.
“Get what?” Casey asked as they walked to a spot about twenty yards away, in view of the crime scene, but out of hearing of the other witnesses.
“I’m supposed to tell you that my wife thinks she saw the man who attacked the woman. She’s worried that no one’s taking her seriously.”
“Saw him where?” Casey asked.
“Coming from the direction of the dead woman, right before we found her.”
Al reached out and touched Casey’s shoulder. “Finish your interview. I’ll get a description from her.”
Casey turned to a blank page in his notebook. “Where did you see him?”
“I didn’t. But she swears she saw the guy coming from the direction of the dead woman. I mean, anyone coming from that way would have to pass her, but—” Mr. Harris glanced back at his wife, then, in a lower voice, he added, “She tends to be imaginative. I mean, who’s to say if the guy was involved, right?”
“In these cases, every little detail helps. He could be a witness. So what’d you see?”
“Nothing until we practically tripped over the woman. Well, our dog sort of keyed in on her, otherwise we might have just jogged on by. She was behind that large shrub.” He pointed to the bushes near the trail.
“Did you see or hear anything unusual before or after?”
“Me? Nothing. Truth is, I had my mind on a million other things. Running’s a new venture for me. More of a fast walk if you want the truth. Heart attack a few months ago. Doctor’s orders. Frankly, I was worried more about how much farther to the car.”
“Where’re you parked?”
He nodded in the direction of the Golden Gate Bridge. “The dirt lot up there,” he said, pointing in the direction of the overflow parking. “Have to get here early, before the tourists, if you want to park. We got here about six thirty? Quarter to seven?”
“So you were on your return trip?”
“Running toward the bridge from Crissy Field.”
“You see anyone or anything then?”
“Nope. Pretty much deserted except the diehards. No one really until we were on our way back. Usually gets busy after seven. Locals mostly at that hour.”
“And this guy your wife saw? What can you tell me about him?”
“Like I said, not a lot. I didn’t even realize she said anything until she reminded me after we found the woman. And then it was an I-told-you-so thing.”
“Reminded you?”
“Yeah. ‘What if it was that guy I saw?’” he replied, using a high-pitched voice to mimic his wife. Then, apparently realizing how petulant he sounded, he added, “Sorry. But since the heart attack, she’s nagging me all the time about my health. Half the time I tune her out, so if she mentioned something? I don’t remember it.”
Casey gave a sympathetic nod, having heard his father say the same thing about his mother numerous times. “And the lady in purple? The neighbor?”
Harris glanced toward her, shaking his head. “What a way to find out about your friend, huh?”
“Where was she when this happened?”
“Not sure, other than she came running up just a few minutes after we found her.”
“From where?”
He pointed toward the bridge. “Somewhere in the vicinity of the parking lot? She coulda come from anywhere. I wasn’t really paying attention at that point.”
Casey handed the man his card. “If you think of anything else, call.”
“I will.”
A growing crowd gathered at the outside perimeter on both sides of the path, though the CSIs had set up tarps around the body and yellow crime-scene tape strung from tree to tree for a barrier. Even so, a number of onlookers held up cameras or cell phones, recording the scene, probably posting it on social media at that very moment. Casey ignored them, thanked Mr. Harris, and was about to compare notes with the park ranger, when he saw Mrs. Harris jump up from the bench, telling Al, “That’s him! The guy I saw!”
Casey looked that direction, saw a man in a blue-and-red hooded sweat shirt look back over his shoulder then take off at a run.
“Al!” Casey said then tossed his portfolio over.
Al caught it, and Casey raced after the suspect, keying his radio. “Five-Henry-fourteen…code thirty-three. Trail at Golden Gate Bridge.”
“Five-Henry-fourteen. Confirm, code thirty-three?”
“Affirm…” He tried to keep his voice steady, knowing how jolted it sounded when he ran. “Westbound…One-eighty-seven suspect…WMA, late twenties…brown hair…red-and-blue sweat shirt.”
“All units. Clear the air. Code thirty-three.”
Casey heard Officer Windsor behind him. The suspect ran up the path, through the trees then on toward the overflow bridge parking lot. He jumped over a low shrub, almost losing his footing when he slid in the gravel lot. Casey followed, closing the distance slightly. The man reached the street, turned right up the hill.
“Suspect heading up Lincoln…toward bridge parkin
g lot,” Casey radioed.
“Bridge parking lot,” dispatch repeated.
Casey and Windsor reached the lot. Several cars and two tour buses filled the space. No suspect. They split up, taking different routes up to the bridge gift shop, which wasn’t yet open for business. They met on the far side, and Casey turned back toward the parking lot but failed to locate anyone who looked like their suspect, certainly no one out of breath. He peered down to the trail below, but it was empty.
Windsor eyed the pedestrians milling about, some walking up the steps or the ramps toward the gift shop and of course the walkway to the Golden Gate. She looked over at Casey, shaking her head.
Great. They lost him, he thought as two patrol cars pulled up in the lot below, red and blue lights flashing. Casey radioed for them to check the underpass and the streets beyond.
The two units took off, tires screeching.
Becca met him on the walkway that gave them a view of the parking lot for the bridge gift shop.
Casey, trying to catch his breath, looked around, saw a group of tourists walking up from the overflow lot. “Anyone take plate numbers down there?”
“First thing. If he had a car and parked it there, we’ll know.”
“What about up here?”
“It was empty. The locals park below to run on the trail.”
It wasn’t empty now. He made another sweep of the area then said, “Let’s do a last look down by the tour buses.”
Which was when Casey noticed a group of art students near the front of one bus. One young man in particular caught Casey’s attention. Unlike the others bundled up in coats, he was wearing a dark, short-sleeved T-shirt, and he wasn’t carrying a sketchbook. More important, he was breathing hard.
“There!” Casey said.
Casey’s legs felt wooden from the first chase. Even so, he closed the distance. Casey reached out, felt the guy’s shirt slip from his grasp. The suspect lunged forward. Officer Windsor came from the side of the bus and cut him off. He darted around her, past the two buses, then out the other side, looking back at them as he ran into the street.
He never saw the car coming around the corner.
The Last Good Place Page 2