This time of night, in this decrepit neighborhood, no one was around, only a couple of scum-bums huddled over a blazing trash can. Abandoned warehouses, daytime businesses with shorted-out electrical signs: CHECKS CASHED TODAY… METAL WORKS… EARL KING, CITY’S MOST TRUSTED BAIL BONDSMAN.
His eyes drifted across the street, toward Seventh, to the dilapidated shell of an abandoned residential hotel: 303. He had carefully staked the place out over the past three weeks. Half the apartments were vacant, the other half the nightly resting place for homeless bums with nowhere else to go.
Spitting onto the trash-littered street, he threw a black Adidas sport bag over his shoulder and headed around the block onto Sixth and Townsend. He crossed the dingy street toward a boarded-up warehouse marked only by a scratched-out sign: AGUELLO’S… COMIDAS ESPANOL.
Making sure he was alone, the killer pushed in the paint-chipped metal door, then he ducked inside. His heart was starting to pump pretty good now. He was addicted to the feeling, actually.
A foul odor met him in the lobby, a firetrap that was littered with old newspapers and oily corrugated boxes. He hit the stairs, hoping not to run into any of the homeless scum camped out in the halls.
He climbed all the way to five, where he quickly made his way to the end of the hall. He pushed through a grating and stepped out onto the fire escape. From there, it was only a quick flight up to the roof.
Up here, the desolate streets gave way to the luminous aura of the city’s skyline. His position was in the shadow of the Bay Bridge, which loomed over him like a hulking ship. He rested the black sport bag on an air-conditioning vent, unzipped it, and carefully removed the parts of a customized PSG-1 sniper rifle.
At the church, I needed maximum saturation. Here I only get one shot.
As traffic rumbled over him on the Bay Bridge freeway, he screwed the long barrel of the rifle to the shaft and locked it in place. Handling guns was like handling a fork and knife to him. He could do this in his sleep.
He fastened on the infrared sight. He squinted through it, amber-colored shapes coming into focus.
He was so much smarter than them. While they were looking for white vans and silly-ass symbols, he was here, about to blow the lid wide open. Tonight, they would finally begin to understand.
His heart slowed as he aimed across the street, at the rear of the transient hotel marked 303. On the fourth floor, a dimly lit apartment shone through the window.
This was it. The moment of truth.
He calmed his breath to a whisper and licked his dry lips. He aimed at a picture in his mind he had held for so long. He feathered the sight.
Then, when it was just right, he squeezed.
Click…
This time he wouldn’t even have to sign it. They’d know from the shot. From the target.
Tomorrow, every person in San Francisco would know his name.
Chimera.
Part Two
JUSTICE WILL BE SERVED
Chapter 26
I KNOCKED on Stu Kirkwood’s glass office door, interrupting his morning coffee and bagel. I tossed the surveillance shot of the biker wearing the lion with the tail of a snake in front of him. “I need to know what this is. I need it ASAP, Stu.”
I followed the shot up with two other versions of the same image: the decal on the rear of the white van and a Polaroid of the basement wall where Estelle Chipman had been killed. Lion, goat, tail of a snake or lizard.
Kirkwood stiffened. “I don’t have any idea,” he looked up and said.
“This is our killer, Stu. So how do we find him? I thought this was your specialty.”
“I told you, gay bashing’s more my bag. We could e-mail the pictures to Quantico.”
“Okay.” I nodded. “How long will it take?”
Kirkwood straightened up. “I know a chief researcher down there I took a seminar with. Let me put in the call.”
“Do it quick, Stu, then finish your bagel. And let me know as soon as you get something back. The minute you hear something.”
Upstairs, I nudged Jacobi and Cappy into my office. I slid Kirkwood’s Templar file and a copy of the biker photo across my desk. “You recognize the artist, guys?”
Cappy studied the photo and glanced up. “You’re thinking these dust mites have something to do with the case?”
“I want to know where these guys are,” I said. “And I want you to be careful. This crew’s been implicated in stuff that makes La Salle Heights seem like a paintball outing. Weapons traffic, aggravated violence, murder for hire. According to the file, they operate out of a bar over in Vallejo called the Blue Parrot. I don’t want you busting in there like you’re razzing a pimp down on Geary. And remember, it’s not our jurisdiction.”
“We hear you, Loo,” Cappy said. “No thumping. Just a little R and R. It’ll be nice to spend the day out of town.” He picked up the file and tapped Jacobi on the shoulder. “Your clubs in the trunk?”
“Guys. Careful,” I reminded them. “Our killer’s a shooter.”
After they left, I leafed through a handful of messages and opened the morning Chronicle on my desk. There was a headline, with Cindy’s attribution, reading, “POLICE WIDEN CHURCH SHOOTING PROBE, OAKLAND WOMAN’S DEATH THOUGHT TO BE BROUGHT IN.”
Quoting “sources close to the investigation” and “unnamed police contacts,” she outlined the possibility that we had widened our investigation, citing the murder in Oakland. I had given her the green light to go that far.
I speed-dialed Cindy. “This is Source Close to the Investigation calling,” I said.
“No way. You’re Unnamed Contact. Source Close to the Investigation is Jacobi.”
“Oh, shit.” I chuckled.
“I’m glad you have your sense of humor. Listen, I have something important I need to show you. Are you going to Tasha Catchings’s funeral?”
I looked at my watch. It was scheduled in less than an hour. “Yeah. I’ll be there.”
“Look for me,” Cindy said.
Chapter 27
A BITING DRIZZLE was coming down as I arrived at the La Salle Heights Church.
Hundreds of black-clad mourners were jammed into the bullet-scarred church. A canvas was draped over the gaping hole where the stained-glass window had been. It flapped like a somber flag whipped by the breeze.
Mayor Fernandez was there, along with other important faces I recognized from city government. Vernon Jones, the activist, was stationed an arm’s length from the family. Chief Mercer was there, too. This little girl was getting the biggest funeral the city had seen in years. It made her death seem even sadder.
Standing in the rear of the chapel, in a short black suit, I spotted Cindy. We both nodded as we caught each other’s eye.
I took a seat near Mercer among a delegation from the department. Soon, the famous La Salle Heights choir began a haunting rendition of “I’ll Fly Away.” There is nothing more stirring than uplifting hymns resonating through a filled church. I have my own private credo, and it starts not far from what I’ve seen on the streets: Nothing in life ever breaks down simply into good or bad, judgment or redemption. But when the swell of voices lifted up the church, it didn’t seem wrong to privately ask for mercy to shine down on this innocent soul.
After the choir finished, Aaron Winslow stepped up to a microphone. He looked very elegant in a black suit. He spoke about Tasha Catchings as someone who had known her most of her life could: her little-girl’s giggle; the poise she showed being the youngest in the choir; how she wanted to be a diva, or an architect who would rebuild this neighborhood; how, now, only the angels would get to hear her beautiful voice.
He didn’t speak like some gentle minister exhorting people to turn the other cheek. He kept it hopeful, very emotional, but real. I couldn’t watch him without thinking that this handsome man had been on the battlefields of Desert Storm, and that only the other day he had put his life at risk to protect his children.
He said, his voice soft bu
t powerful, that he could not forgive, and he could not help but judge. “Only saints don’t judge,” he said, “and believe me, I’m no saint. I’m like all of you, just someone who has grown tired of having to make peace with injustice.” He looked toward Chief Mercer. “Find the killer. Let judgment be in the courts. This isn’t about politics, or faith, or even race. It’s about the right to be free from hate. I am convinced that the world doesn’t break in the face of its worst possible deed. The world mends itself.”
People rose up, and they clapped and they cried. I stood with them. My eyes were wet. Aaron Winslow brought such dignity to these proceedings. It was over within an hour. No blazing sermons, only a smattering of amens. But a sadness none of us would ever forget.
Tasha’s mother looked so strong as she followed the casket out, her young daughter being carried to her final rest.
I walked out to a chorus of “Will the Circle Be Unbroken,” feeling numb, and broken.
Chapter 28
OUTSIDE, I WAITED FOR CINDY, and I watched Aaron Winslow mingle among mourners and weeping schoolmates. There was something about him I liked. He seemed genuine to me and he definitely had a passion for his work, and these people.
“Now, there’s a man I could share a foxhole with,” said Cindy, coming up to me.
“And just how do you mean that?” I asked.
“I’m not sure…. All I can say is I came out here yesterday to talk with him, and I left with the hairs on my arms standing up at attention. I felt like I was interviewing Denzel Washington, or maybe that new guy on NYPD Blue.”
“You know, ministers aren’t the same as priests,” I said.
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning it’s okay to go in foxholes with them. Just to get out of the line of fire, of course.”
“Of course.” She nodded. Then she mimicked an exploding mortar shot, “Pow!”
“He is impressive. His speech made me cry. Is that what you meant to show me?”
“No,” she said with a sigh, coming back to the matter at hand. She dug in her black shoulder bag and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “I know you told me to butt out…. I guess I’ve just gotten used to covering your ass.”
“Right,” I said. “So what do you have for me? We’re a team, right?”
As I unfolded the paper, to my shock I found myself staring at the same lion, goat, and snake rendering I had just given Kirkwood to identify. Professional restraint couldn’t keep my eyes from opening wide. “Where did you get this?”
“You know what you’re looking at, Lindsay.”
“My guess is that it’s not Tyco’s new toy craze.”
She didn’t laugh. “What it is, is a hate group symbol. A white supremacist thing. A colleague at the paper did research on these groups. I couldn’t help looking into it after our meeting the other night. This is used by a small, elite group. That’s why it was hard to find out about.”
I stared at the image that I had seen over and over again since Tasha Catchings had been killed. “This thing has a name, doesn’t it?”
“It’s called a chimera, Lindsay. It’s from Greek mythology. According to my source, the lion represents courage, the body of the goat stubbornness and will, and the serpent’s tail stealth and cunning. It means that whatever you do to crush it, it will always prevail.”
I stared at the symbol, the chimera, the bile roiling in my gut. “Not this time.”
“I haven’t run with it,” Cindy said. “But it’s out there. Everybody thinks these murders are connected. This symbol is the key, right? Let me give you a second definition I found: ‘a grotesque product of the imagination.’ That fits, right?”
I found myself nodding. Back to square one. Hate groups. Maybe even the Templars. Once Mercer found out, we’d be busting the doors down on every hate group we could find. But how the hell could the killer be black? It didn’t make sense to me.
“You’re not mad at me, are you?” Cindy asked.
I shook my head. “Of course I’m not mad. So that source of yours, did he tell you just how they killed this chimera back then?”
“He said they called in some big hero who rode a winged horse and cut off its head. Nice to have dudes, or dudesses, like that around in a pinch, huh?” She looked at me seriously. “You have a winged horse, Lindsay?”
“No.” I shook my head again. “I’ve got a Border collie.”
Chapter 29
CLAIRE MET ME in the lobby of the Hall just as I returned with a salad. “Where you heading?” I asked.
She kept my eye coyly, dressed in an attractive purple coatdress, a Tumi leather briefcase slung over her shoulder. “Actually, I was coming to see you.”
Claire had a look on her face that I had learned to recognize. You wouldn’t call it smugness or self-importance; Claire didn’t run that way. It was more of a twinkle that read, I found something. Or more like, Sometimes I even amaze myself.
“You had lunch?” I asked.
She snickered. “Lunch? Who has time for lunch? Since ten-thirty, I’ve been under a microscope across the bay covering for you.” She peeked into my bag and caught a glimpse of my curried-chicken salad. “That looks tempting.”
I pulled it back. “That depends. On what you came up with.”
She pushed me into the elevator.
“I had to promise Teitleman parterre box seats to the symphony to calm him down,” Claire said as we got to my office. “You can consider it Edmund’s treat.” Edmund was her husband, who for the past six years had played kettle drums for the San Francisco Symphony.
“I’ll send him a note,” I said as we sat around my desk. “Maybe I can get Giants tickets.” I set out my lunch.
“You mind?” she asked, dangling a plastic fork over the salad. “Saving your ass is tiring work.”
I pulled the container away. “Like I said. Depends on what you have.”
Without hesitating, Claire speared a piece of chicken. “Didn’t make sense, did it, why a black man would be acting out hate crimes against his own race?”
“All right,” I said, pushing the container her way. “What did you find out?”
She nodded. “Mostly, it was pretty much like you told me. None of the normal abrasions or lacerations you would connect with forced submission. But then there were those unusual dermal specimens from under the subject’s nails. So we scoped it. They did reveal a hyperpigmented skin type. As the report said, ‘normally consistent with a non-Caucasian.’ Samples are out being histopathologied as we speak.”
“So what are you saying?” I pressed. “The person who killed that woman was black?”
Claire leaned over, lifting the last piece of chicken out from under my fork. “At first blush, I could see how someone might feel that way. If not African American, then a dark Latino, or Asian. Teitleman was inclined to agree, until I asked him to perform one last test.
“I ever tell you”—she mooned her wide brown eyes—“I did my residency at Moffitt in dermapathology?”
“No, Claire.” I found myself shaking my head and smiling. She was so good at what she did.
She shrugged. “No, huh? I don’t know how we overlooked that. Anyway, basically, what a lab is going to be looking for is whether that hyperpigmentation is intracellular, as in melanocytes, which are the dark, pigmented cells that are much more concentrated in non-Caucasians, or intercellular… in the tissue, more on the surface of the skin.”
“English, Claire. Is the subject white or black?”
“Melanocytes,” she continued as if I hadn’t asked, “are the dark skin cells concentrated in people of color.” She pushed up her sleeve. “You’re looking at Melanocyte Central here. Trouble is, the sampling found under the Chipman lady’s nails didn’t have a one. All that pigment was intercellular… surface coloration. On top of that, it was a bluish hue, atypical for naturally occurring melanin. Any self-respecting dermapathologist would’ve caught that.”
“Caught what, Claire?” I asked, fixing on
her smug grin.
“Caught that it wasn’t a black man who did that terrible thing,” she said emphatically, “but a white man with some topical pigmentation. Ink, Lindsay. What that poor woman dug her nails into was the killer’s tattoo.”
Chapter 30
AFTER CLAIRE LEFT, I was buoyed by her discovery. This was good stuff. Karen knocked and handed me a manila folder. “From Simone Clark.” It was the file from personnel I had requested. Edward R. Chipman.
I slid the file out of the envelope and began to read.
Chipman had been a career street patrolman out of Central who retired in 1994 with the rank of sergeant. He had twice received a Captain’s Commendation for bravery on the job.
I stopped at his photo. A narrow, chiseled face with one of those bushy Afros popular in the sixties. It was probably taken the day he joined the force. I looked through the rest of the contents. What would make someone want to kill this man’s widow? There wasn’t a single censure on his record. For excessive force or anything else. In his thirty-year career, the officer never fired his gun. He was part of the Police Outreach Unit in the Potrero Hill projects and a member of a minority action group called the Officers for Justice, which lobbied for and promoted the interests of black officers. Chipman, like most cops, had one of those proud, uneventful careers, never in trouble, never under review, never in the public’s eye. Nothing in there drew the slightest connection to Tasha Catchings or to her uncle, Kevin Smith.
Had I read more into the whole thing than was there? Was this even a serial thing? My antennae were crackling. I know there’s something. C’mon, Lindsay.
Suddenly, I was hammered back to reality by Lorraine Stafford knocking at my door. “You got a minute, Lieutenant?”
I asked her in. The stolen vehicle, she informed me, belonged to a Ronald Stasic. He taught anthropology at a community college down in Mountain View. “Apparently the van was stolen from the parking lot outside where he works. The reason it was late being reported missing was that he went to Seattle for a night. Job interview.”
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