“And Tara?”
“Her mortal wound was distorted by soaking in the water. As for the chest gashes, six of the MEs and I agree. Those little stab wounds are serial killer gibberish.”
Sonia said, “A game he’s playing? He’s just horsing around?”
“Right,” said Claire. “The stabs or gashes or puncture wounds were applied both ante and post mortem. Killer didn’t care if the victims were alive or dead. He’s just screwing with the cops and the Forensics crew or playing mumblety-peg.”
“Any thoughts on why?” asked Alvarez.
“Nothing consistent. Three negatives all different. One hypothesized that the victim got a stab wound for each emotional wound she inflicted on the killer. Nothing to back that up. Another thought was that the killer was marking how many seconds it took the victim to die once her throat was slashed. Possible. Uh. The third opposing thought was that the killer was stabbing to the beat of a favorite song.
“To me,” Claire said, “that falls under the heading of ‘pathological gibberish.’”
After the call ended, Alvarez tipped her chair back so that she was looking at the ceiling with her large, black, unblinking eyes.
“What you thinking, Alvarez?”
“Long version or short?”
“You choose.”
“Okay,” she said, “my thoughts on Lucas are that this man is not a cool customer. He’s volatile. Highly emotional. Agree?”
“Agreed.”
“If he’s a psychopath, maybe he could fake it, but no matter what, he couldn’t have been in Sacramento and in Sunset Park Prep’s parking lot at the same time.”
“His alibi and corroboration by his ex-wife that he left his house and drove to Sacramento, arriving by nine, are why we didn’t charge him with Fogarty.”
Alvarez said, “Maybe the ex stretched the time of his arrival, but still, I don’t think Lucas killed Misty. He loves this girl and he’s carving on her chest? I’ve seen sicker stuff that I will never ever unsee. But mutilating Misty’s chest does not compute.”
“Gotcha. But since we’re not charging him with the Fogarty murder, how does this help us?”
“I don’t know yet,” said Alvarez. “But we have to make sure that it doesn’t hurt us. If the same person killed Tara, Misty, and Wendy, and Lucas didn’t kill Misty, there’s a chance he didn’t kill Tara or Lorrie, either. That’s why I chose the long version.”
Sonia Alvarez smiled with her mouth but not with her eyes.
She looked sad and Conklin didn’t know why. She hadn’t gotten emotional even when they’d gone through Misty’s car, bagging all of her little personal items they’d pulled from the glove box, her scarf smelling of flowers, her life’s blood drained onto the car seat.
Alvarez had handled it like the pro he recognized she was.
So what was getting to her? She took a sip of her cold coffee to give herself pause.
“Sonia?”
“Okay. So, I’m driving home last night listening to the car radio. Clearing my brain. And this old song comes on from I think the seventies. I only know it from riding with my parents and they’re tuning into the oldies but goodies station and singing along.”
He smiled. “Gotcha. What song?”
“‘Cat’s in the Cradle.’”
“Harry Chapin,” Rich said, singing, “‘Cat’s in the cradle and the silver spoon.’”
“That’s it,” said Alvarez. “‘Little boy blue and the man in the moon.’”
She rocked Lindsay’s desk chair forward so that the feet hit the floor and said, “So, you know. This is a sad song about a little boy wanting to be like his dad. But dad’s got work and he’s away all the time, making promises to his kid about being together soon, then breaking the promises. And the little boy who loves his father wants to be like his father when he grows up. That’s what he says. He wants to be like his dad.”
“Oh, my God,” said Richie leaping ahead.
“The kid grows up, gets married, has kids. Dad is retired and wants to be with his son. And son has no time to be with his father. And father says—”
Conklin said, “His son grew up just like him.”
Alvarez said, “I just started crying. Me! Vice. Narcotics. I’ve seen it all. No real problems with my parents. So was my tearing up from empathy? Or sentimentality, remembering my father singing that song in the car? Then I started really listening to the lyrics.”
“I’m wondering where Evan was when Lucas was growing up. Did Lucas want to be like his father—who probably killed his wife and child? Was Luke the little boy blue? Evan, the man in the moon? According to a source of Joe’s, he’s been under investigation for decades for multiple murders across the country. What did Lucas know consciously or in a very guarded place, deep in his brain?”
“It’s a powerful thought, Sonia.”
Alvarez nodded, then said, “But wait. There’s more.”
“Keep going. I’m your captive audience.”
Chapter 72
The squad room was in typical morning activity mode.
Cops were working the phones, escorting subjects through to Interviews 1 and 2, guys shouting to each other across the aisle, Brenda answering all of her phones. Traffic to and from the break room kept up a pretty constant stream past Conklin and Alvarez’s desk.
But Conklin and Alvarez were in their own bubble.
Alvarez said, “I turned the car around and came back here.”
“Hunh?”
“Night shift didn’t know me, but I said I was working with you. Then, I sat down and pulled up the video.”
“Which one?”
“This one.”
She cued up the Sunset Park Prep parking lot tape on her desktop computer, turned the monitor so Rich could see it, too. This was a copy of the ten minutes of Misty waiting. She was there, standing in front of her car, looking in the camera’s direction.
“Here we go, Rich. A guy shows up all in black who may have been Lucas or may have been stranger danger.”
The two watched the image of the man in black stick to the side of the lot where it was darkest. A chain-link fence divided the parking lot from the rough-mown field behind a gas station on the other side of the fence. A tree with its roots in the field lowered its many branches over the fence, throwing moon shadow into the parking lot at about eight o’clock that night.
Alvarez said, “I still believe what I did when Director Hallows showed us this footage. As the suspect comes closer, we see in Misty’s body language that she knows it isn’t Lucas. So then—”
“She gets in the car and turns on the headlights,” said Conklin. “She’s ready to pull out of the lot when this psycho gets into the back seat, reaches over, and slaughters her like a pig.”
“Yup,” said Alvarez. “Now watch this. It’s dark, but the headlights and floodlight affixed over the camera are on, and that’s both good and bad for us. We can see the lot, but the dude in dull black clothing looks even darker by contrast as he exits the car and leaves.”
“Yes. I see that.”
“Watch this closely, Rich. The unidentified subject stays close to the fence, passes under the tree branches—more cover, right? And then he does this with his hand.”
She pointed to the computer monitor.
Rich said, “Pushed back some leaves or something? Or maybe touched his hat. Making sure he still has it on?”
“Could be. But let me roll this back. Look at it again.”
Alvarez backed up the video, hit Forward again, and then hit Pause.
Rich said, “Is that the best picture we can get?”
“Unfortunately, this is enhanced. Now, look here,” she said. “Could that motion when the killer lifts his hand, could that be him whipping something over the fence?”
“Oh, Christ,” said Conklin. “The murder weapon? You could be right. Call Brady. Number one on speed dial.”
Chapter 73
Cindy and Jonny Samuels stood in the street out
side the yellow tape still roping off Sunset Park Prep.
Adjacent to the parking lot where Misty Fogarty was killed was a vacant lot behind an old gas station. The field was overgrown with tall weeds reaching up through stacks of old tires and rusted-out chassis.
In the last few hours, the field had been transformed. Tall stakes had been planted every four feet in a grid. CSU was covering the area, ten CSIs and techs in a line, arm’s length apart, passed metal detectors across the ground. They also concentrated their attention along the chain-link fence dividing the two properties.
Cindy scanned the school parking lot. Clapper was in center field giving Hallows the business. Brady stood with his enormous arms crossed, watching through the fence, clearly perturbed. And she saw Richie, talking to a woman she assumed was his new partner, Sonia Alvarez, whom she hadn’t yet met. She admired the horseshoe charm Alvarez wore around her neck. Everyone working this case could use a bit of luck.
Rich was on speed dial so she handed off her police scanner to Samuels and phoned her boyfriend.
“Pick up, Richie. Pick up.”
She watched him pull his phone from his back pocket, see who was calling, and answer.
“Yeah, hi, Cin. I’m working right now.”
“I can see you.”
“Where are you?”
“Turn your face sixty degrees and look for the tall guy out on the street. I’m standing next to him.”
“Oh. Okay. I see you.”
“Rich, I got the bulletin off the scanner. So I’m here, but you didn’t tip me off. Okay to interview you? Just tell me what’s going on? Wait. Let’s do it this way.”
“What way?”
“I’m going to make a guess. If I’m right, say, “‘Love you, too.’ If I’m wrong, say something else and I’ll take another guess.”
“I love you, too.”
“Wait, damn it. Let me guess.”
She heard Rich say to Alvarez, “Cindy.”
Cindy said, “CSU is doing a search for the murder weapon.”
Rich was looking toward the fence, seeing the grid breaking up, techs in hazmat suits converging on a perimeter about twenty feet in circumference around an old oak tree.
One of the searchers was holding up something that seemed to have a little shine on it, calling out, “Got it!”
Cindy disengaged the call before Rich could say, “I love you, too,” but she knew she was right.
She heard Brady call Rich and Alvarez over, and Samuels aimed his long lens toward the CSU.
Cindy asked Samuels, “Did you get it?”
Samuels showed her the small viewfinder at the back of his camera and enlarged the image. She saw it. A gloved hand was holding what looked to be a closed straight-edge razor.
It looked like every straight razor Cindy had ever seen. The blade was four inches long; the hand holding it in the air provided scale.
“You like?” Samuels said to Cindy.
“Do I? Oh my God. Pulitzer,” she said. “Send the photo to Tyler. I’ll start writing in the car.”
Chapter 74
Yuki Castellano and Newt Gardner sat in the waiting area outside Judge John Passarelli’s chambers.
Gardner said, “Your nerves getting to you?”
“My nerves are fine,” said Yuki. “But, you’re sweating, Newt.” She swiped her index finger under her nose. He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at his face. She’d gotten to him.
He said, “Really. So, calling a meeting with the judge a half hour before the trial starts means ‘No problemo,’ huh? I can’t wait to hear what you’ve pulled out of your, uh, hat.”
Gardner shot his right cuff and looked at his watch. “This is nuts, even for you. Jurors are assembled. I’m ready. Why aren’t you?”
“Because we’re going to charge Burke with an additional count of murder one.”
“Give me a break. You have nothing on Burke but guesswork. Pin the tail on the donkey. This case should have been thrown out and you know it. Parisi’s having a fit about bad press. Okay with me. This is what I call a dream case.”
Yuki smiled. “Dream on, counselor.”
Gardner scoffed, and the door to Passarelli’s chambers opened. Judge Passarelli invited the two attorneys into his office and they grouped around the table near the window. Greetings were exchanged. Yuki put her briefcase on the floor next to her chair, extracted a folder, and placed it in front of her.
Judge Passarelli said, “Ms. Castellano, it’s your meeting.”
“Your Honor. Mr. Gardner. Evidence came to light on Friday afternoon that appears to be the murder weapon used in the killing of Melissa Fogarty, Lucas Burke’s girlfriend. This item, a straight razor, was processed at our crime lab immediately. Last night at nine, I received this report.”
Yuki passed copies of the report to Judge Passarelli and Gardner.
Gardner said, “Judge, this is all news to me.”
Yuki said, “The report goes into this in depth. But the bottom line is that a straight razor was found with Melissa Fogarty’s blood on the blade and Lucas Burke’s fingerprints on the handle. It was found in the weeds fifty feet and over a chain-link fence from the crime scene. Your Honor, we didn’t charge Mr. Burke with Ms. Fogarty’s murder earlier because we had no evidence until now.”
“Wait, wait,” said Gardner. “The evidence just showed up on Friday. Prints and blood? A little convenient isn’t it, Ms. Castellano? By chance could this razor have been planted by the police?”
“Under close re-examination of the video shot by the parking lot surveillance camera,” Yuki said, “the killer was seen disposing of this evidence.”
Judge Passarelli said, “You’re adding Fogarty’s murder to the charges?”
“That’s right, Your Honor. I’m asking for a continuance so that Mr. Gardner and I can gather our witnesses and recast our cases, taking the new evidence into consideration.”
“Mr. Gardner?” said the judge.
“My client continues to be held without bail, Your Honor. I’m not opposed to a continuance, but I ask you to consider bail at this time.”
“Your Honor, we’re going to charge Lucas Burke with another charge of capital murder. The people maintain that Burke’s a danger to the public and a flight risk, now more than ever.”
“Agreed. As for the continuance, will two months from now work for the both of you?”
“Yes, judge,” Yuki said.
Gardner said, “I want to meet with Ms. Castellano to view the video she cited. You available this afternoon, Yuki?”
“I have time between two and four.”
The appointment was agreed upon, the judge was thanked, and the prosecutor and defense attorney left chambers together, peeling off in different directions as soon as their feet touched the marble-floored corridor. “I’ll see you later, Newt,” Yuki said to Gardner over her shoulder.
Gardner said, “I’ll be there at two and I’ll bring my skepticism with me.”
Yuki said, “Hah. Good one.”
She took the elevator to the fourth floor, walked into the Homicide squad room, waved at Brenda as she passed, and took the center aisle to her husband’s office.
Brady said, “All good?”
“Yes. Give me a hug.”
He squeezed her until, laughing, she begged him to stop.
“See you later,” she said.
She left Brady, gave Lindsay a high five as she passed her desk, then went downstairs to brief Red Dog on her meeting with the judge.
TWO MONTHS LATER
Chapter 75
Court had been called into session.
Judge Passarelli had instructed the jury, “Don’t read the paper or watch TV, I mean it. Don’t discuss the case with anyone, not spouses nor blood relatives, nor strangers on a train. That goes for comparing notes with your fellow jurors or talking to yourself out loud when you’re washing your hands or in your sleep or under any circumstance whatsoever until you’re in the jury room to deliberate. The
n you can and should talk to your fellow jurors until you’ve arrived at a verdict. Okay? Very good.”
All but one of the jurors had smiled. They liked the judge as much as Yuki did.
The gallery was packed and it murmured like a beehive. Press was allowed, but not cameras. Yuki turned her head to face the rear and saw Cindy in the last row, on the aisle. Since Cindy had rung the bell on this case since before baby Lorrie Burke had even been found on the beach, Yuki hoped her friend would get the story she’d earned. A guard opened the door and Brady slipped inside the courtroom and stood next to Cindy. He gave Yuki a thumbs-up.
She nodded and turned back to the courtroom and her cocounsel, Nick Gaines, sitting to her left.
Gaines was Yuki’s second chair. He had just returned to the DA after several years in a start-up law firm. He was a great number two. Organized, supportive, and funny, and Yuki was very happy to have him back. It worked both ways. Nick liked being on the prosecution side and was excited to have accidentally timed his return with a chance to work with his former mentor on the case of the decade.
The high and low points of this trial would be reported not only in the United States; the Lucas Burke case had also attracted the avid attention of the international press. The outcome of this trial would stick to the San Francisco DA for years, win or lose.
Adrenaline shock waves were coming more frequently as the business of the court was concluded and the moment was coming when the judge would say “Ms. Castellano, you’re up.”
Yuki turned her head forty-five degrees to the right to check out the defense table. At that precise moment, Newt Gardner turned his face to hers. He was ready for his close-up: head freshly shaven, shirt as stiff as marble, and his suit was fine and smart. Handmade, a classic navy blue.
Gardner smiled and tipped his head in greeting. Yuki nodded back. There was no point in taking anything Gardner said or did personally. Yuki’s phrase for the day was “Steady, girl. You’ve got this.”
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