23rd Midnight, page 4
part #23 of Women's Murder Club Series
“Copy that, Lieu. See you tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 10
EARLY MONDAY MORNING I was still dreaming. A mission was about to go down. We were in a corridor that was lined with SWAT units, ready to take on whatever we found behind a door.
I was wearing tactical gear, a loaded semiautomatic in my hand. Rich was standing beside me, his gun drawn, too. Behind the door was the answer to—everything.
“Get ready,” I said to Conklin.
I’d raised my leg and was ready to kick down the door when a body landed on me.
The dream shattered and I saw that Julie had landed on me again and this time there was an old dog involved.
“Hold it,” I said. “Julie, you’re too big to jump on me.”
“I am?”
“Here’s what to do. Let me see your arm.”
Martha was digging under the blankets and Julie edged toward me, leading with her wrist. I put my hand around her slim forearm and shook it gently.
“See? Shake my arm and say, ‘Mom’?”
She shook my arm and said, “Mom.”
I said, “Hi, hon. Are you getting ready for school?”
She said, “Me and Daddy are taking Martha out for her walk. And then we’re going to hug you goodbye.”
“Got it. Dad’s putting you on the school bus.”
“Come on, Mommmm. You know.”
I shook off my troubled sleep with a sharp memory and pang of remorse. Joe and Julie were flying to New York today for spring break, a plan that had been in play for several months and still worried me. But Julie hadn’t seen her only grandmother in too long and really wanted to see New York.
Joe called Julie. She and Martha zoomed out of the bedroom.
I yelled out, “Wait a minute. Wait for me!”
I jumped out of bed, found a T-shirt on a chair, dug for clean sweatpants, put on a pair of running shoes, no socks, no makeup, no worries. I caught my family at the elevator. Julie hugged my waist and Martha had a few kind whines for me.
This was a new record; from bed to elevator in under three minutes, but time with Julie and Joe before they flew away was priceless.
Out on the street, I asked Joe, “What time’s your flight?”
“Linds,” Joe said, “I hired a car to take us to SFO.”
“But, why? I can take you.”
“You have an appointment, Linds. You’re going to be late.”
CHAPTER 11
CLEARLY I’D LOST all track of time and after a peppy walk, weepy goodbye hugs, promises to call every single day, I took Martha home and handed her off to our lifesaver of a nanny, Mrs. Gloria Rose who lived across the hall.
I threw on some work clothes and drove to Dr. Sid Greene’s office for my final therapy session.
My therapy had been a review-board decision because of my involvement in a fatal incident. I was not held responsible but I was ordered to see a psychiatrist who worked with law enforcement. I felt strongly that my work with Dr. Greene had been worth the time, but I was relieved that in another hour it would be over.
I parked at mid-block across from Dr. Greene’s two-story office building. I buzzed the downstairs bell. There was an answering buzz, and I went in, climbed two flights of stairs, and entered Dr. Greene’s waiting room. I stared at the door to his inner office and, as in my waking dream this morning, I sensed that the answers to everything were right behind it.
As if cued, the door opened and Dr. Greene greeted me, saying, “Lindsay, come on in.”
Dr. Greene was a man in his sixties, round-faced with an easy smile and good reputation inside the Hall of Justice. I liked him but wouldn’t miss these weekly high dives into my feelings. I had prepared myself for his summary and mine of what we had accomplished these last months, followed by a goodbye-and-good-luck handshake.
The room was pleasant, about ten by twenty, beige carpet, windows on two white walls, and between the two windows three abstract paintings that I couldn’t fathom.
I took my customary seat across from Dr. Greene, who began the session by asking me to tell him about my week. And I did—the good, the bad, and Saturday, all culminating in what felt like the breaking of a dam.
“Whoever killed Ralph Hammer is, by the look of his work, an unusual killer, an overachiever. Hammer was opinionated, vocal, a thief, and perhaps a hoarder and I don’t know what else. I’m interested in the case, but it’s not mine. And I have no control over what happens with it or on any case on a given day.
“You know, Dr. Greene, I work with great people. We have an ethical and legal code that’s honorable and yet we’re not writing traffic tickets. Death is always involved. I can’t count the numbers of homicides I’ve tried to solve. I’m feeling overwhelmed right now by Hammer’s brutal death and about the individual who killed him. This case has really gotten to me and … and I don’t remember one that hasn’t.”
Dr. Greene leaned toward me, his hands on his knees.
“Let me ask you this, Lindsay. Are you ready to retire and do some other kind of work? Inside police work, administration, for instance.”
After a long pause, I said, “I had a job like that once. I had the corner office and the title, and I knew how to do the job. I supervised most of the same cops I work with now. After a few years as lieutenant, I stepped down. I wanted to work the actual cases and at the same time I didn’t enjoy giving orders to people who took chances that I didn’t take.”
“You’re conscientious,” he said. “This is why you take it all to heart. The cases. The deaths. The lack of control even though you’re following orders.”
I nodded my agreement and added that my blood pressure was up and I was having trouble sleeping. That I had a medical condition, aplastic anemia, that would take me down if this level of stress continued. I added, “And now, there’s more at stake than ever before.”
“Julie.”
I nodded. “She’s getting a half a mother on a good day. If it weren’t for Joe and our nanny, I couldn’t work.”
“Are you ready to quit your job, Lindsay?”
“How do I know if I’m going through a bad patch or hitting the wall?”
He didn’t answer, just kept up steady eye contact with me from his seat eight feet away.
Finally, he said, “Think about both sides of that question. Let’s talk again next week.”
“Dr. Greene. This was supposed to be our last session.”
“In my opinion, there’s more for us to do,” he said. “You can stop, of course, but I think we should keep going for a while longer.”
I scoffed, flipped my hands, looked at the clock on the wall, and then at the good doctor’s face. I cast my eyes to the paintings between us and said, “If I figure out the art, will that mean that I’m done?”
“We can talk about that once you’ve done it,” he said.
“Another month,” I said.
“Good,” he said. We shook hands and we both smiled.
Then, I left Dr. Greene’s office and drove to the Hall of Justice hoping for a boring day.
CHAPTER 12
YUKI SAT BEHIND the prosecution table and watched Sergeant Philip Birney swear to tell the whole truth so help him, God. An experienced sergeant with fifteen spotless years on the job, he was the first officer at the crime scene and now he was Yuki’s star witness.
But this morning, Birney looked anxious. Stage fright happened, but, please God, not today, not Birney. Yuki had to win this case for the victim and for the People of San Francisco. The public was counting on her and she wouldn’t let them down.
Judge Karen Froman asked Yuki if she was ready. Was she? Nick Gaines, her second chair, said under his breath, “Batter up.” Sergeant Birney was in uniform. Otherwise, he appeared to be an unremarkable forty-year-old man of average height and weight, brown hair and brown eyes—that were gazing at nothing.
Yuki got to her feet, straightened her suit jacket as she crossed the well of the small unadorned courtroom and stopped just short of the witness stand.
Yuki greeted Birney sharply and got his attention.
“Sergeant Birney. What brought you to Alamo Square on the day in question?”
Birney sighed, and after a long moment, began.
“A 911 caller, Ms. Carol Linnert. She lives next door to the house owned by Lewis and Barbara Sullivan. Ms. Linnert tells the operator that she heard screaming. She’s hard of hearing, couldn’t be sure but she thinks it’s Barbara Sullivan.
Yuki said, “And what happened after you and your partner arrived at the Sullivan house?”
Birney coughed into his fist, cleared his throat, and said, “Okay. First thing I notice is there’s no car in the driveway. The front yard is clipped and the actual house is painted and well-kept. Martin Brodsky, he’s my partner. He and I go to the front door and knock. No answer. No sounds. I tell him to cover the back of the house.”
Birney took another long pause, looked down at his hands.
“Sergeant Birney?”
Birney said, “Sorry. So, I’m alone at the front door. Seems no one is at home. Then I hear a sound. Like an animal, in pain. I try the door and it’s unlocked, so I go in. I announce again. ‘SFPD. Is anyone here?’ Still, no answer. So, I call my partner on the two-way and ask him to find Ms. Linnert while I check out the rest of the house. I see a man’s coat hanging from a hook in the foyer. Kids’ toys are in the living room. Ahhh, catcher’s mitt. A video game still running on the player. The place looks recently vacated and I feel that the homeowners are coming back soon. I hear the sound again. So, I run down to the basement.”
Birney seemed wracked by the memory. His face had tightened and he seemed lost. Yuki had an impulse to walk to the stand and grab Birney by the shoulders. Shake him alert. The audience shifted in their seats. Whispers echoed. A ringing phone played a tune.
This annoyed Judge Froman, an attractive blond-haired jurist, mother of five, who’d been addressed as Your Honor for half her life. Now she banged her gavel and demanded quiet. “Phones off. No talking while court is in session. Don’t make me say this again.”
Birney cleared his throat and looking up at the judge said, “I’m not usually like this. My old dog died last night. Sarge was seventeen.”
The Judge said, “Do you need a break?”
“I’d rather just go on,” Birney said. “My memory of the events is clear. If Your Honor doesn’t mind.”
“All right. Go ahead, then.”
Birney picked up where he’d left off.
“There’s a laundry room downstairs and upon entering I see a Caucasian female, about forty, maybe a hundred fifteen pounds, lying on the floor, her wrists chained to the base of a utility sink.”
Birney was focusing now, speaking directly to the jury.
“Her clothes are shredded. Buttons are torn off, pants, ripped open, pulled below her knees, no panties. She’s gagged and her ankles are taped to weights. She’s bleeding profusely from numerous cuts and gouges. It looks like her left eye is half-popped-out. Blood is pooling around her head.
“I call her name,” Birney said. “She doesn’t respond, but I hear her wheezy breathing. Soft. Irregular. I radio my partner and tell him we need an ambulance and detectives. I identify myself to the woman. I tell her help is on the way. I ask her who did this, and where is her family and she still doesn’t answer. I want to comfort her but I can’t risk contaminating the scene. I take pictures from the doorway and zoom in on the implements near her. Pretty soon, I hear sirens.”
Yuki asked, “Can you list and describe these implements?”
Birney swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand and flipped to a page in his evidence log.
He read, “Bicycle chain and lock. Bolt cutter. There’s a twenty-four-inch tire iron, a long, serrated bread knife, a coil of nylon marine line. Yellow. Uhh, two twenty-pound free weights and a partial roll of Gorilla Tape. This is the tape that was used to keep the gag in her mouth. And to affix her ankles to the weights.”
He put down the notebook and added, “One more thing. There’s a bloody handprint on the wallpaper near the door and writing that looks like it was made with a bloody finger. It says, ‘I love you.’ I took some shots of that.”
Yuki entered the photos into evidence and passed them to the jury foreman, George Campbell, a retired high-school science teacher. Birney had come through. She’d been moved by how he had managed to overcome his grief and deliver honest, emotional testimony that also affected the jury.
She put one last question to her witness. “Can you confirm the identity of the woman you found in the basement?”
“Barbara Sullivan.”
Yuki thanked him and said to Judge Froman, “We have no more questions for Sergeant Birney, Your Honor.”
CHAPTER 13
ATTORNEY MAURICE SWITZER, counsel for defendant Lewis Sullivan, stood and said, “The defense has no questions at this time.”
Yuki glanced at the counsel table across the aisle. Lewis Sullivan looked straight ahead. He had replaced his bulldog attorney, Cal Talbot, with Mo Switzer just days before trial commenced. Switzer was charming, low-key, and could present a sympathetic face to the jurors before pulling a winning closing statement out of his hat. If the jurors liked Mo as much as she did, his personality alone could tilt the verdict.
Cindy watched from her preferred seat at the back of the courtroom. The charge of attempted murder against the husband and the apparent near-death spousal abuse had the ingredients of a big headline story.
Yuki asked that her next witness be called.
Officer Martin Brodsky, wearing his blues and a smart, stylish haircut came through the courtroom doors. He walked up the aisle to the witness stand and was sworn in.
Brodsky was thirty years old, good-looking, a bit cocky, and Yuki thought he was something of a risk. Birney, however, liked him, saying, “Marty’s good police. And he has a sharp eye for detail.”
Yuki took a stance in the well that gave her a clear view of both the witness and the jury box.
She said, “Officer Brodsky, did you respond with Sergeant Birney to the Sullivan house?”
“Yes, I sure did.”
“When did you see Mrs. Sullivan for the first time?”
“I saw her when the EMTs brought her out on a stretcher. She was totally messed up. Injured and unconscious.”
At Yuki’s prompting, Brodsky testified that the ambulance drove off with the victim, that he and two investigators interviewed the Sullivans’ neighbors, including Carol Linnert, the 911 caller who had identified the victim as Barbara Sullivan.
Brodsky also testified that another neighbor, Peter Hayes, had seen the husband drive off with the couple’s two boys, ages seven and eleven, and that Hayes told him where the kids liked to go for lunch.
Yuki asked Brodsky if by “the husband,” he was referring to the defendant, Lewis Sullivan. Brodsky said he was and explained what happened next.
“There’s an Arby’s a half mile from the Sullivan house,” said Brodsky. “My partner and I drove there. We found the husband, Mr. Sullivan, having lunch with the boys, Kevin and Stephen.
“Soon as Mr. Sullivan sees us coming in, he gets out of shape, threatens to call his lawyer. I say, ‘Be our guest.’ Then, as I’m getting him out of his seat, he says, ‘Can I talk to you for a minute?’ I say, ‘For your own good, come quietly. I’ll get someone here to bring your sons, da-da-da-da-dah.’”
“And then what happened?”
“He punches out at me and Phil and I throw him to the floor. Food flies everywhere. Kids are screaming and crying. Backup team enters the restaurant. Phil and I take Sullivan and backup takes the kids and we all drive to the Hall. We book Sullivan for assault, attempted murder, and endangering the welfare of minors and wait with them until CPS arrives.”
Brodsky’s testimony was clear, straightforward, unimpeachable.
Yuki asked, “Were you ever dispatched to the Sullivan house before on a domestic dispute call?”
Before Brodsky could answer, Switzer objected.
Yuki said to Judge Froman, “Your Honor, prior offenses go to a pattern of behavior.”
“Sustained. Answer the question, Officer Brodsky.”
“No, Your Honor. I’ve never been to the Sullivan house before.”
“I have no other questions. Thank you, Officer Brodsky.”
Again, Switzer had no questions for Yuki’s witness, but reserved his right to recall Brodsky at a later time.
CHAPTER 14
IT WAS EARLY Tuesday morning.
After my appointment with Dr. Greene, I drifted through Monday, clocked minimal hours at work, missed my call to Joe and Julie.
I was walking Martha when Julie called from New York, where it was half past ten.
“I had a bagel. With a schmear,” she hooted.
“That’s cream cheese, right?”
“With everything.”
Joe got on the line saying, “How are you, Linds? We’re fine. Grandma showed Julie my old baby pictures. Julie doesn’t believe that I was that baby.”
He laughed and I could hear Julie giggling in the background. Rather than bring Joe down to my planet, I told him, “I’ve been busy, but I’ll catch you up when we speak tonight.”
We exchanged coast-to-coast kisses and had just clicked off when Gloria Rose called out, “Here I am.” Martha began some fancy woofing and dancing, and I handed her leash to Mrs. Rose.
Fifteen minutes later, after navigating the morning rush, I parked in the shade of the overpass on Harriet Street. I walked the long block to the Hall’s main entrance, showed my badge, passed my gun alongside the metal detector, then took the four flights of fire stairs to the Homicide division.
There’s a hinged wooden gate about three feet high just inside the doorway, and just beyond it is the front desk and our gatekeeper. That’s retired court officer Bobby Nussbaum. Bob’s job is to field incoming calls and block walk-ins and random intruders.
