“My son isn’t going to plead insanity.”
“But, Julie—”
“It’s out of the question. It would ruin his future. What else?”
“We need to talk to your boyfriend and your private investigator.”
“I’ll tell them to cooperate. Where are you going now?”
“To talk to the Chief Medical Examiner.”
13/ THAT CHANGES EVERYTHING
Saturday, June 18, 12:15 p.m.
The Chief Medical Examiner of the City and County of San Francisco strokes his trim gray beard. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Daley,” he lies politely.
“Same here, Dr. Beckert,” I reply with comparable feigned sincerity.
Dr. Roderick Beckert has been examining corpses in a cluttered, windowless office in the basement of the Hall of Justice for almost forty years. The dean of big-city coroners is also an emeritus professor of pathology at UCSF. He wrote a widely used treatise on forensic science and is called upon frequently as an expert witness in other jurisdictions. He’s announced his retirement effective at the end of the year.
I look around at the rows of test tubes and the bookcases lined with heavily used medical texts. Framed snapshots of his grandchildren sit atop medical journals stacked neatly on his overburdened credenza. A life-sized model skeleton smiles at me from under a Giants baseball cap.
Good manners are always essential in dealing with Beckert. “Thank you for taking the time to see me.”
“You’re welcome.” He absentmindedly adjusts the sleeves of his starched white lab coat. “I was afraid I wasn’t going to have an opportunity to work with you on another case.”
I sense your profound disappointment. “Are you really going to retire?”
“Yes.” He looks at the photos of his grandkids. “I’ve spent a lot of time with dead bodies over the years. I’d like to spend more time with the living.”
“They grow up fast,” I say.
“Yes, they do. Are you really going back to the PD’s Office, Mike?”
We’ve been on opposite sides of a dozen cases over the years. It’s the first time he’s ever addressed me by my first name. “I don’t know,” I tell him honestly. "My career plans seem to be a hot topic around here.”
His brown eyes twinkle. “Most of the people in this building are horrendously overworked and ridiculously underpaid. Gossip is the only thing they can’t take away from us.” The sincerity in his voice is genuine when he adds, “You were a good PD.”
“Thanks.”
“I mean it. I haven’t always agreed with your tactics, but the system needs people like you and Rosie. You keep Nicole honest.”
Now I know he’s serious about retiring. “Thanks, Dr. Beckert.”
He gives me a grandfatherly smile. “From now on, it’s Rod.”
Go figure. “Thanks, Rod.”
“Now, what can I do for you?”
“I understand you’ve completed the Fairchild autopsy.”
“I’m still waiting on some lab results, but I don’t think they will alter my conclusions.”
“And?”
“You know I’m supposed to tell you to read my report.”
Some things never change. “For old times’ sake, I thought you might be willing to share the highlights, Rod.”
“Judge Fairchild died of a single blow to the side of his skull by a heavy blunt object.”
“Such as a hammer?”
“Such as the one your client was holding when the police arrived. The judge died in the laundry room just inside the door leading to his garage. There were no defensive wounds. He didn’t draw his weapon. This indicates he was attacked by somebody he knew—such as his son.”
“Or the killer was able to sneak up on him,” I suggest.
“That would have been very difficult, Mike. It’s a tight space.”
“But not impossible.”
“I’m going to miss dealing with defense lawyers.”
“What about time of death?” I ask.
“I was called to Judge Fairchild’s house quickly enough to take very detailed measurements of body temperature, lividity, rigor mortis, and the state of digestion of the food in his stomach. This allowed me to make a very precise estimate.”
“Which is?”
“Between eleven forty-five p.m. and twelve thirty a.m.”
Bingo.
“Why are you smiling?” he asks.
“That changes everything,” I say. “Bobby wasn’t there.”
“You might want to talk to Inspector Johnson again before you jump to any hasty conclusions.”
14/ NO, IT DOESN’T
Saturday, June 18, 12:42 p.m.
“Dr. Beckert put the time of death between eleven forty-five and twelve thirty,” I say to Roosevelt. “That changes everything.”
He’s sitting at his desk with his arms folded. “No, it doesn’t,” he replies.
I’m seated in a cracked swivel chair in the cluttered bullpen area on the fourth floor of the Hall that houses San Francisco’s sixteen homicide cops. The aroma of stale coffee wafts through the thirty-by-thirty- foot space that’s slightly roomier than their old digs downstairs. The metal desks are arranged in pairs and buried in stacks of papers and black binders. There are no dividers or cubicles. Homicide cops like to talk to each other.
“This case is over, Roosevelt.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“How do you figure?”
“I can’t talk about it.”
Either he knows more than he’s letting on or he’s bluffing. It’s more likely to be the former, so I push harder. “Are you saying Beckert is wrong?”
“He hasn’t been wrong in forty years.”
“Bobby didn’t get home until two o’clock. He couldn’t have done it. End of story.”
He wipes his wire-rimmed bifocals with a small cloth, even though his glasses were spotless. I’ve seen this gesture countless times. He’s taking an extra moment to choose his words. “You need to talk to your client,” he says.
“About what?”
“Telling the truth. There’s more evidence—a lot more.”
“Come on, Roosevelt.”
He lowers his voice. “You aren’t doing him any favors by letting him lie. I can assure you that there is no way the charges will be dropped between now and the prelim.”
“Can you place Bobby at the scene before two o’clock?”
“I can’t talk about it now. You need to sit down with your client and find out what really happened. It’s in his best interests—and your daughter’s.”
# # #
Pete calls my cell as I’m walking down Bryant Street toward Rosie’s car. “I heard things didn’t go so well at the arraignment,” he says.
“You got that right. No bail. They’re trying to turn this into a death penalty case.”
“That’s crap, Mick. Ward is playing to the media.”
“And doing it very well. Not to mention the fact that our client’s mother is profoundly pissed off at us.”
“Comes with the territory, Mick. You got any good news?”
“Maybe. Beckert put the time of death between eleven forty-five and twelve thirty.”
“That’s great,” he says. “Bobby wasn’t there. We can go home.”
“Roosevelt said they have other evidence.”
“Did he happen to mention what it is?”
“He isn’t talking.”
“Do we have any reason to disbelieve our client?”
“Not yet.”
“If Bobby is lying, so is Grace.”
“I’m well aware of that, Pete.”
“I take it you want to continue the investigation?”
“Absolutely.”
“In that case, how soon can you get over here?”
“Twenty minutes. Why?”
“I’ve persuaded the cops to let us take a look inside Judge Fairchild’s house.”
15/ I THOUGHT ROOSEVELT TOLD YOU
Saturday, June 18, 1:27 p.m.
Officer Philip Dito is an imposing veteran patrolman who has worked out of Park Station for almost three decades. He’s standing ramrod straight just inside the front door of Judge Fairchild’s remodeled Victorian. “Roosevelt said I could show you around,” he says in clipped police dialect. “If you touch anything, I will kill you instantly.”
I believe him. I played football with Phil at St. Ignatius. I was a back-up running back and he was an undersized linebacker who made All-Conference on tenacity and guts. Those qualities came in handy dealing with his six older brothers. They were even more helpful during his two tours of duty in Vietnam. The leather-faced vet is the living embodiment of a competent, professional cop. Then again, he was trained by one of the best—my father.
“Were you the first officer here?” I ask.
“Yes.”
Pete and I put on the obligatory shoe coverings and rubber gloves, then Phil ushers us through the narrow foyer and down the path carefully laid out by the evidence techs, who are still at work. Judge Fairchild recently moved in and may not have been planning to stay here for long, judging by the utilitarian furnishings. Unpacked boxes are piled on the dining room table. The bare walls are freshly painted. The window coverings are more functional than decorative. There are no family photos.
We walk carefully around an overturned table and coat rack that block our path. "I take it these items were already knocked over when you arrived?” I say.
“Yes. For the record, our evidence techs found your client’s prints on both of them.”
“Those prints could be months old.”
“I know.”
“Did you find anybody else’s prints?” I ask.
“Too soon to tell.”
“Is anything missing?”
“Not as far as we can tell.”
“Was anything else vandalized?”
“Nope. No signs of forced entry.”
“The perp could have stolen a key or jimmied the lock.”
“I’ll let you lawyers argue about that.”
“What about the security alarm?”
“Judge Fairchild’s younger son told us he turned it off when he got home at six o’clock last night. He said he forgot to turn it on when he left to go to a friend’s house at eight. We confirmed the timing with the security company.”
That much of Sean’s story checks out. It also explains why the intruder—if there was one—didn’t set off the alarm. “It means somebody could have broken into the house any time after eight o’clock without triggering the alarm.”
“We’re well aware of that, Mike.”
“Did you talk to Sean’s friend?”
“Yes. A young man named Kerry Mullins confirmed that Sean arrived at his house at eight fifteen last night. He was there until Judge Fairchild’s wife came over to pick him up at three o’clock this morning.”
“Any chance he may have been covering for Sean?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t talk to him.”
I will. “Would you mind showing us where you found the body?”
He walks us around the coat rack and stops at the doorway to a small laundry room wedged between the stairway and the garage. There is barely enough space for a blood-spattered washer and dryer, a sink, and a built-in shelving unit jammed with laundry supplies and small tools. He points at the chalk outline on the gray linoleum floor that’s covered in dried blood. “Right there.”
Pete leans across the yellow crime scene tape. “Mind if I take a closer look?” he asks.
“Sorry. That’s as close as you can get.”
Pete takes it in stride. “Was the garage door open or closed when you got here?” he asks.
“Closed.”
“What about the door leading from the garage into the laundry room?”
“The body was propped up against the door. It kept it from closing.” Dito says the judge parked his Jag and probably closed the garage door using the remote. "It looks like he was attacked as he entered this laundry room.”
Pete takes another long look around cramped, blood-stained room. “Pretty tight space,” he observes.
Dito nods. “No place to hide.”
Pete looks at the corner of the room. “The perp could have hidden behind the door.”
“That would have been really tight,” Dito observes.
“But not impossible,” Pete says. “The perp could have nailed the judge as he was coming in from the garage.”
Dito shakes his head. “The judge would have seen it coming"
“Not if the lights were off. He probably never knew what hit him.
That would also explain the lack of defensive wounds.”
It’s always helpful to have an ex-cop at the scene.
Dito isn’t convinced. “I’ll let the lawyers argue about that, too. We found your client’s bloody fingerprints on the washer. We found his shoe prints in the blood on the floor.”
“He admitted that he tried to help his father,” Pete says. He scans the scene again. “There’s something missing. If Bobby attacked his father, you would have found blood on his clothes.”
“We did,” Dito says. “I thought Roosevelt told you.”
Uh oh. “Told us what?” I ask.
He points at the washer. “We found your client’s clothes in there. He had run them through the wash cycle, but we were still able to determine that they were soaked in blood.”
16/ DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW BAD THIS LOOKS?
Saturday, June 18, 2:18 p.m.
“Do you have any idea how bad this looks?” I say.
Bobby is hunkered down in an uncomfortable chair in the consultation room. His voice fills with contrition. “I’m sorry, Mike. I wasn’t thinking.”
Evidently not. “They’re going to say you were trying to destroy evidence when you put your clothes into the washer.”
“I wasn’t.”
“It still looks terrible.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you do it?”
He tries to collect himself. “I got blood on my clothes when I tried to help my father. I put everything in the washer while I was waiting for the cops.”
“Your father was on the floor bleeding and you were washing your clothes?”
“It was making me sick.”
“I’ve been doing this for a long time, Bobby.”
“It’s the truth, Mike.”
“You aren’t making things any easier.”
“I’m really sorry, Mike.” The remorse in his voice sounds genuine.
“Bobby,” I say, “the people working on this case are very good. They’re using the best homicide cops and the top forensics people. If there’s anything else at your father’s house, they’re going to find it—and use it against us.”
“There’s nothing else, Mike. I swear to God.”
# # #
Rosie makes no attempt to hide her exasperation. “Does Bobby appreciate how serious this is?”
I press my cell phone tightly to my ear. “He gets it.”
“I sure as hell hope so. Do you believe him?”
“I think so.”
She doesn’t sugarcoat her feelings. “If he’s lying, we’re dead.”
“Thanks for bringing that to my attention.” I hit the "Off " button and take a moment to get my bearings in the empty hallway in the basement of the Glamour Slammer. My phone vibrates again a moment later.
“How soon can you get back to Cole Valley?” Pete asks.
“Twenty minutes. Why?”
“I found the neighbor who heard Bobby fighting with his father yesterday morning.”
17/ HE COULD DO BETTER THAN A GIRL FROM THE BARRIO
Saturday, June 18, 3:17 p.m.
“This is a quiet neighborhood,” the retired teacher says. She’s tugging absentmindedly at the gold chain that holds her reading glasses. “Nothing like this has ever happened.”
Evelyn Osborne taught first grade at nearby Grattan Eleme
ntary School for four decades. Her sensible shoes and polka-dot housedress evoke a simpler era long before the Summer of Love.
“Thank you for taking the time to see us, Mrs. Osborne,” I tell her. I haven’t slept in thirty hours and my head is splitting. “I know it’s been a difficult day for you.”
“It has, Mr. Daley.”
“It’s Mike.”
There is no reciprocal invitation to address her by her first name.
Pete and I are standing on the sidewalk in front of the neatly tended white bungalow where Mrs. Osborne lives by herself. A warm afternoon sun is shining down on the mature oak trees that form a canopy over the street. Except for the yellow crime scene tape surrounding Judge Fairchild’s house next door, a sense of normalcy is returning to Belvedere Street.
“How long have you lived here?” I ask.
“Forty-seven years. We were here before the hippies. Back then, working class people could afford houses in Cole Valley. My husband taught at Lincoln High School.” She gets a faraway look in her eyes. “It’s a lovely neighborhood.”
“When did your husband pass away?”
“Five years ago.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“So am I.”
I give her a moment to get her bearings. “Mrs. Osborne,” I say, “how well did you know Judge Fairchild?”
“Not that well. He moved in next door a few months ago after he and his wife separated. He was quiet and he kept to himself. He sent the boys over to help me from time to time.”
“I understand things got pretty tense during the Savage case.”
“A police car was parked in front of his house for a while. Things calmed down after the trial ended. At my age, there isn’t much that frightens me anymore.”
“Have you noticed anything unusual in Judge Fairchild’s behavior recently?”
“I didn’t see him much. He worked hard. He always had a smile and a kind word.”
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