Be Mine

by Rick Mofina

  A long moment of silence passed.

  Davis radioed a nearby unit to sound his siren loud by giving it three yelps.

  “Mr. Yarrow, this is Sergeant Davis of the San Francisco police ...” Davis began again. He repeated this request four times over the next ten minutes, informing Yarrow to use the phone that police had placed by his door if he wanted to communicate privately. Nothing happened.

  Horn checked with his sharpshooters. None reported any movement, none had a clear shot.

  After half an hour had passed, Horn made a decision.

  “Throw in some chemicals, flash-bang, then assault and extraction. You time it, Dave.”

  Davis alerted his team, who took their positions. Sixty seconds later the pop-pop and shattering glass sounds of tear gas canisters echoed down Lyndstrum’s street. White clouds billowed from the upper floor, followed by a deafening crack-crack and lightning flashes of stun grenades as the tactical team rushed the rear entrance and kicked in the door to Yarrow’s apartment.

  Flashlight beams and red-line laser sights pierced the acrid fog. Darth Vader breathing of the heavily armed and gas-masked squad filled the small apartment in its pursuit of an ex-cop turned cop killer. The living room: empty. Bedroom number one: empty. Kitchen: empty. Halls: empty. Closets: empty. The ceiling, floors, and walls were tapped for body mass. Empty. Bedroom number two: empty.

  Bathroom. Bingo.

  Islands of bloodied pulpy brain matter adhered to the walls, from which ribbons of blood cascaded down the tiles to the tub where the corpse of a man was crumpled inside. His face was a wide-eyed death mask. A .40-caliber Berretta was in the tub by his right leg. No visible entrance wound. The mother must’ve swallowed a round, because the back of his head was gone, the team figured, as Davis called it in to Horn.

  After Tac secured the Lyndstrum building, garage, and yard, and after the air had cleared in Yarrow’s apartment, Horn turned it over to Homicide. Several marked units cordoned off the property. Sydowski and Turgeon slipped on shoe covers, pulled on gloves, then stepped inside.

  Sydowski went to the tub and began inspecting the brain matter up close for any traces of a spent bullet. It was too messy for him to determine if the round was in the wall, or in Yarrow. He saw a shell casing in the tub.

  Turgeon was at Yarrow’s computer where she found a half-composed letter to Molly Wilson.

  Molly:

  I have no right to ask your forgiveness for all the pain I’ve caused. But as I look back upon my life and all my failures, your forgiveness is the only thing in this world I have left before I

  “Better have a look at this,” Turgeon said from the computer.

  Squinting at the screen, Sydowski slipped on his glasses.

  “That’s it?” he asked.

  “Yes, it ends like that. Wonder why.”

  “Maybe he couldn’t find the words.” Sydowski indicated the bathroom. “Actions speak louder.”

  As a seasoned investigator, Turgeon knew that not every suicide note was completed, or coherent. “Yeah, maybe.”

  Sydowski took out his small camera and photographed the screen, as he’d done with Yarrow’s corpse in the tub. “Linda, can you check the time this note was created?”

  “I’ll print it first.”

  After they’d secured a hard copy, Turgeon displayed the time the file was created. A few hours ago. “That would be after he assaulted Molly.”

  Sydowski moved from room to room, taking stock of Yarrow’s apartment. Orderly and clean. Bare walls, except for one large landscape of the Pacific coast. On a bookshelf he saw a framed photograph. It was Yarrow and Molly Wilson, taken years ago. They looked like kids. Sydowski stared into it for a long, sad time. Nothing in their bright faces foretold the monumental tragedy that would eclipse them.

  “Jesus,” Turgeon said. “Jesus.”

  Sydowski popped a Tums into his mouth.

  “What do you think, Walt?”

  He removed his glasses, folded them, slipped them into his pocket.

  “We’ll get Crime Scene to scour the place, then wait for the medical examiner to pry out the round from Yarrow, so we can compare it to the rounds from Cliff and Ray. Then we’ll clear this thing.”

  SEVENTY-ONE

  “Fingerprints and dental records confirm the victim’s identity as Frank Gregory Yarrow,” Julius Seaver, the medical examiner, said.

  Sydowski and Turgeon were in Seaver’s office where he was going over his preliminary findings of the autopsy he’d done earlier that morning.

  Cause of death was from a single gunshot wound to the head. The round recovered was a .40 caliber. It looked like an SXT Talon. Ballistics would conduct further tests. No other apparent trauma or injuries.

  Sydowski and Turgeon then delivered the recovered bullet to ballistics, which already had the Beretta and the spent casing. Then they waited at Nick’s Diner where Sydowski stared at the television above the counter and picked at his BLT. Turgeon chewed on a carrot muffin and looked glumly into the street.

  “You’re thinking hard on something. What is it?” Turgeon asked.

  “We’ve got a loose end somewhere, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

  “Like what? The case is a slam dunk. We’re going through formalities.”

  “I don’t know. Some little thing I missed.”

  Sydowski’s cell phone rang.

  “Walt, it’s Chico in Ballistics.”

  Sydowski took out his notebook.

  “The kill-shot round from Yarrow is a .40-cal SXT Talon.”

  “We figured.”

  “Just like the rounds from Hooper and Beamon, .40-cal SXT Talons. Comparing all of them, by the twists and lands, I’d swear in court that all were fired from the same weapon, the .40-cal Beretta recovered from Yarrow. All of the recovered bullets came from the same gun.”

  “Did you image the casing from Yarrow, run it through the data banks?”

  “Yes. Nothing. Nothing lights up in any database.”

  “What about the gun, Chico?”

  “Untraceable. ATF gave it a priority. You must’ve scared them. They moved like greased lightning. They were thorough. It’s a .40-cal Beretta, exactly what we use, but widely available to the public. It doesn’t light up anywhere. It coulda been a throw-down, Yarrow was an ex-cop.”

  “Don’t call him any kind of a cop.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yes, thanks, Chico.”

  Sydowski slipped on his glasses, then called his lieutenant and told him.

  “According to Chico, it all fits for Yarrow.”

  “Ident called. Yarrow’s prints alone on the Beretta,” Gonzales said. “Any surprises from the autopsy?”

  “Nope,” he said. “I’ll call Molly, let her know it’s all over.”

  Back in the homicide detail, Sydowski stared at the empty desks that belonged to Hooper and Beamon and rocked pensively in Hooper’s old chair, taking stock of himself.

  Over twenty years with the squad. Maybe the time had come for him to punch out, spend more time with his old man. Was he really ready to hang it up? Being a homicide detective was who he was.

  Sydowski smoothed his hand across the desktop. This case hurt. Had thrown him badly. He never really had a handle on it. Was he losing his edge? There was a loose end but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He sighed, went to his desk, cleaned his bifocals, and examined the case files again.

  Maybe the loose end that was gnawing at him would reveal itself, so he could put it to rest, he hoped, going to Seaver’s autopsy report on Yarrow.

  There was gunpowder residue on Yarrow’s hand and shirt. Sydowski reached for the reports on the Beretta. He snapped pages. The reports confirmed that Yarrow’s prints were on the gun. Blood and tissue from blow-back were on the muzzle. The reports also showed significant amounts of residue and soot inside Yarrow’s mouth and on his tongue. Sydowski read the observation that Yarrow placed his gun in his mouth and closed his mouth around it.


  But what if the Beretta was shoved into his mouth and he grabbed at it to resist when it was fired? Residue and prints would still be present.

  Come on. Drop it, Sydowski rebuked himself, removed his glasses. It was a suicide. Yarrow had twisted the wreckage of his life with his fantasies about Molly. Stalked her, Hooper, Beamon. It was all there. The physical stuff, the bullets, his note, his history.

  Something continued niggling at Sydowski and he’d be damned if he knew what it was. He leaned back in his chair and let his eyes travel around the room, trying hard not to let this thing distract him until he glimpsed the receptionist working at her desk. A shaft of sun lit on her and then it hit Sydowski.

  His loose end.

  He went back to the files on Hooper’s homicide. How could he have missed this? He flipped through Hooper’s credit card receipts. Then through the inventory of items found at his apartment, his desk, his locker, his car.

  “It’s not there,” he said aloud.

  He did the same for Beamon, then Yarrow.

  “It’s not anywhere.”

  He made a phone call.

  “Molly? Sorry, it’s Sydowski again. One quick question.”

  “What is it?”

  “It seems Cliff’s credit card records show that a few weeks ago he bought a ring.”

  “Ray had said Cliff had planned to propose to me.”

  “Yes.” Sydowski listened for a reaction. Hearing none, he resumed. “By any chance have you seen the ring or heard anything about it?”

  “No.” She cleared her throat. “Why? I mean, you know as well as I do he never got the chance to propose. I never got the ring. I’d always assumed you had it for evidence, or something. Why are you asking me now?”

  “Because the ring appears to be missing.”

  SEVENTY-TWO

  At her apartment Molly didn’t have time to sort out her feelings. She was too busy clawing her way back to normal.

  “Go with the flow,” the shrink had advised after her little visit this morning.

  Now Molly was scrubbing her bathtub just as she’d done after Hoop’s death. A normal reaction, the shrink had said. “People try to wash the bad away.” Exhausting herself physically had helped her cope. So did her closest friends who’d called or dropped by. She loved them for it but kept their visits short, as she’d likely do with this one.

  Her apartment buzzer sounded twice more before she got to it.

  “Who is it?” she said into her intercom.

  “Simon.”

  Simon? Oh, shoot, she’d forgotten he’d called.

  “I said I was coming over, remember?”

  “Yes. Simon, I’m sorry but I’ve changed my mind. It’s all so soon and I’ve got a lot to do.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m kind of busy with something. I’m really sorry.”

  “But on the phone you said you’d like to get out. I’ve got a surprise I know you’ll love.”

  She reconsidered as he coaxed her. “Come on. It’s a gorgeous day.”

  Smiling, she wavered. He’d been so good to her during this awful time. Sweet. Genuinely concerned. Considerate, actually.

  “What did you have in mind?” she asked him.

  “A drive along the coast and a few things I’d like to keep secret for just a bit longer.”

  Sydowski was supposed to call her back about the ring business, but she couldn’t bear to dwell on that. Besides, it was a beautiful day and she hadn’t been outside as much as she’d like. Why not go have some fun?

  Go with the flow.

  “All right. Wait there. I’ll be down in five minutes.” Molly changed into a fresh top and jeans, grabbed her bag, then went down to the street where Lepp opened the passenger door to a new silver Mercedes 450 SL.

  “Hi, Simon. I’m sorry for waffling. It’s been hard.”

  “No apologies necessary. The worst is over now.”

  “Nice car.”

  “Got it just for us.”

  He shut her door and got behind the wheel, fearful he was going to explode as he slipped on his dark glasses. He almost grinned. This was such a glorious day.

  Every obstacle had been removed.

  SEVENTY-THREE

  Tom’s line rang at his desk in the newsroom.

  “Reed.”

  “It’s Tammy out front. You’ve got a visitor. Lois Hirt.”

  “Lois?” His street sources never came to the Star.

  “Want me to send her to you?”

  “No. I’ll come out. Thanks.”

  Lois was wearing faded jeans, a peach top and jacket. She looked well. He led her to a meeting room where he offered her a cushioned chair.

  “Would you like coffee, tea, soda?”

  “I’m fine, Tom.”

  He shut the door.

  “Lois, I tried calling you through Hector. I left messages. He told me about your friend, Gloria Carter. Her overdose. I’m so sorry.”

  Lois nodded.

  “You look good, Lois.”

  “Thank you. I’m going to take things one day at a time. Working at getting healthy.” She twisted the straps on her purse. “This is weird, but Gloria’s death and my coming here, it’s sort of all related to you.”

  “How so?”

  “The reason I never got back to you, when you asked me to help you find the person who called OCC, is that, well, it was Gloria.”

  “It was Gloria?”

  “She was the one I told you about. The one who was approached to make the tip call about Hooper with OCC. I wasn’t certain at first. She’d talked about it at a party, then disappeared. When I found her, she was sick.” Lois pulled a sealed letter-sized envelope from her purse and passed it to Tom.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s a note. It was in Gloria’s wallet. I went through her things,” Lois said, “I think it’s the note the guy made her read into the phone. The guy you were looking for.”

  Tom stared at the envelope without opening it, then sighed, feeling a wave of exhaustion wash over him. The Yarrow story was done.

  “Look, thanks.” He tucked the envelope in his pocket. “The story’s finished. It’s over. Frank Yarrow was ‘the guy.’ He was an ex-cop. He’s dead. He left a suicide note. Did you see our stories today?”

  “Yes, but I’d promised to help. I wanted to keep my promise.”

  “I understand.” He patted her hand, letting a moment pass.

  “I feel I should have done more to save Gloria,” she said.

  “You had no control over that. You have to take care of yourself now.”

  Lois nodded, collected herself, then stood.

  “If you’re still looking for a job,” Tom said, “there are some openings in our mailroom. It’s physical shift work but it pays well. I can talk to Human Resources if you want?”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Can I reach you through Hector?”

  “Yes.”

  They hugged. Then Tom got a fresh coffee from the kitchen and returned to his desk feeling melancholy. Hardly anyone was around the metro section today. He was nearly done with his follow-up story on Yarrow’s history. Nothing else happening in town. A small news hole. A real dead day.

  He felt the envelope from Lois sticking him. What the hell? Maybe he could use it. He found his scissors and slit the top, which revealed a small sheet of paper folded into quarters. The page struck him as familiar. A telephone number was written on the top. It was OCC’s number, followed by a short handwritten message, neatly printed in block letters.

  HEY, OCC, YOU BETTER LISTEN TO THE WORD DOWN HERE ON THE STREET. HOOPER HAS BEEN SHAKING PEOPLE DOWN, ROBBING DEALERS, POCKETING THEIR CASH, MAKING ENEMIES BIG TIME. WHAT HE GOT WAS PAYBACK.

  Something cold spasmed in the pit of Tom’s stomach.

  He turned the sheet over. Nothing on the reverse. This page was from a reporter’s notebook. Torn from the wire spirals. A four-by-eight-inch sheet, blue-lined with Pitman-style spacing. The
exact kind used by Star reporters. Bundles of them were in the supply cupboard. But this page had a blue tint, and only a couple of Star reporters preferred blue tint.

  His pulse increased.

  Every reporter had a unique note-taking style, as distinct as a voice. He recognized the neat block letters of this note. His breathing quickened. He raised his head. The newsroom was nearly empty. He swallowed and walked to Simon Lepp’s desk.

  Used notebooks were stacked in neat towers on the right of Lepp’s terminal. Tom set the OCC note down, then opened a notebook at random. Blue tint pages. Neat block letters. Identical to the OCC note. He opened another one. Blue pages. Block letters. Christ. The last line of the note screamed at him.

  WHAT HE GOT WAS PAYBACK.

  Tom felt a hand on his shoulder. “What do you think you’re doing?” It was Della Thompson.

  “Del, where’s Simon?”

  “I told you, he’s off today.”

  “Off?”

  “Said he was going to drop by Molly’s place. Tom! What is it? Tom!”

  He hurried to his desk and began jabbing numbers on his phone.

  SEVENTY-FOUR

  Bothered by the missing ring, Sydowski contacted Turgeon on her cell phone as she was driving into work.

  “Don’t you remember me telling you?” she said. “I had called the jewelry store where Hooper bought it, to see if they were holding it.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing came up. The manager was going to check in case it was a custom order and get back to me. But I never heard from him. Then Ray happened, then Yarrow happened, and--”

  “Call him again right now. Push the store for an answer.”

  Sydowski popped a Tums into his mouth. Grinding on it, he hoped that the ring hadn’t disappeared from the scene. He combed the files again in case a note was misplaced. Turgeon called back.

  “It’s not with the jeweler. The manager checked, then put me on the line with the clerk who sold Hooper the ring. She insists Hooper took it, even has a signed receipt.”