23rd Midnight, page 6
part #23 of Women's Murder Club Series
This time Gene Hallows, who replaced Clapper as head of forensics, joined him.
They worked as a unit, Clapper getting a grip under the dead woman’s arms, while Hallows grasped her ankles. Together, they lifted the mother, the baby still strapped to her, and carried them up to dry land.
I was close by and saw that even waterlogged and wave-tossed, the woman had been beautiful. Now, water sluiced from her clothes. Her coat was open, exposing her red and white sweater, her dark gray pants. Without anyone to support her arms, they fell from her sides and hung below her torso. Seawater dripped from her fingers and her long dark hair. One of her boots had come off and her bare foot looked swollen and all too human.
But it was the baby’s face that just killed me. I couldn’t look away. She was just about a year old and I had a clear image in mind of Julie at that age. Impish. Feisty. Giggly. In those ways, Julie hadn’t changed, but she had grown. Now, she was nearly five, could do new things every day, things that this little girl …
I watched as Clapper and Hallows placed the bodies on a sheet-lined gurney and with Claire and her team slid the gurney inside the van. With Claire’s okay, I gowned and gloved up and I climbed through the rear doors and stood aside as a tech wrapped the bodies.
CSI had taken their photos on the beach. Claire would take photos in the morgue and both sets would be sent to Brady. Before the day was over, we would have a file on the unknown victims and our work would begin.
Claire said, “Linds. We have to go.”
“Sure. I’ll see you later.”
“Give me the rest of the day to do the external exams.”
We reached out to each other and even in that cramped space managed to hug. Then I climbed back out of the van.
Brady called to me. I discarded my wardrobe covering and got into the squad car beside him. On the road again, he conspicuously turned off the radio, but I had nothing to say.
He said, “Lindsay. Listen to me. I know how you feel and that’s as it should be. But I want you to get mad. Can you do that? For that woman. For her baby? For me? I’ve known you since I came out here. You’ve closed more cases than me. You hold the record. I’m not saying get crazy mad. Get smart mad. The victims need you and this case is yours.”
“Brady. Claire hasn’t pronounced them homicides.”
“Let me rephrase. If someone killed this woman and her child, we must get him. And I’ll say it again. It’s your case.”
Got it.
Back in the squad room, I followed Brady to his office. When he snapped his head around and saw me, I saw that he was in pain. I expected him to bark, “What?”
I pressed on.
“Brady. I sent you a video of Ralph Hammer’s murder. You have to see it now.”
CHAPTER 21
CAPPY AND CHI were running late for our 6:00 p.m. task force meeting for Team Blackout, so, we three went to the empty corner office and started without them. Alvarez drew a timeline on the whiteboard; Conklin and I taped up the morgue photos of Ralph Hammer. We’d dragged chairs up to the well-used metal table and were ready to work when the door swung open and Cappy came in alone.
“Chi’s wrapping up a few things. Be just a minute,” he said and he dropped his 270 pounds into the seat next to Alvarez. Cappy McNeil is a storied homicide detective who even worked the Zodiac Killer case—he has an extensive network of CIs throughout the Bay Area and a great partner in Paul Chi. Chi has half the years on the job that Cappy has but is tireless and brings his Mensa-grade brain to our unit.
In partnership with Marin County PD, O’Neil and Chi had spent their day in Sausalito, tossing Ralph Hammer’s apartment, looking for something, anything that might have gotten the guy killed. I couldn’t read Cappy’s expression. He looked worn out and as wired as the rest of us.
He began his debrief.
“Hammer was renting an apartment over a garage outside Mill Valley. He had full use of the garage, which was a dump. Half the space was floor-to-ceiling bags of found items which we inventoried: canned goods, old magazines, bubble wrap and T-shirts with the tags still on. The other half of the garage was for his car.
“Upstairs in the apartment we found more bags of junk, piles of screenplays on the floor, and we turned his computer over to the local PD. His landlord stated and I quote,” Cappy flipped open his notebook and read, “‘Ralph sleeps all day, is out most nights, hasn’t brought home any girls or friends. Thinks Hammer’s a part-time bartender and a wannabe writer.’”
Cappy summed up by saying that he and Chi found no evidence pointing to why someone would have killed Ralph Hammer.
“But,” Cappy said, impishly, “our friend, Chris Fama, gave us something. It’s either a big fat zero or a red-hot clue.”
Alvarez said, “Ten bucks says it’s a clue.”
If only. Even a small break would send me to the moon.
The door opened again and Chi came into the room, wearing a coat and tie, high-shined shoes, good haircut. He apologized for being late, then, picked up where Cappy had left us hanging.
He said, “Just got off the phone with Fama. A copy of Cindy’s book was found in Hammer’s car where Blackout popped him.”
Conklin said, “Whoa.”
Chi said, “Keep your expectations in check. There are a lot of brunettes in this state, and only one who washed up on Baker Beach.”
CHAPTER 22
CLAIRE WAS WAITING for me in the doorway between reception and her offices. Something was up. She was scowling and had crossed her arms over her chest.
I said, “You look like you want to punch someone.”
“Back at ya, babe,” she said.
“Point taken.”
Yeah, I was mad. Team Blackout had four open homicides, a mystery video of one, but no leads to the killer. And the worst of it was how much the unnamed woman and her baby brought to mind another young woman found on China Beach and her child found on Baker Beach. Coincidence? Or a connection?
“I’ll be quick,” I said. “I need your read on Jane Doe.”
Claire relaxed her scowl and handed me a sealed packet of protective gear. I gowned and gloved up and followed her down the corridor.
She said, “You do understand that I haven’t done the internal autopsies.”
“Got it,” I said.
Meaning, Claire would be giving me an off-the-record first look without her final conclusions. She strong-armed a pair of swinging doors and a cold breeze blew at my face as we entered the autopsy suite. Directly across the room was a wall of metal drawers. Claire went to one, pulled the handle and slid out a body covered with a blue cotton drape and lying on a stainless-steel tray.
Claire drew down the drape, revealing the nude remains of the woman who’d washed up on the sand this morning. I felt a fresh blow to my heart and couldn’t turn away.
“Here’s what I know. Jane and Baby Doe were in the water for about a day. Jane was a healthy, well-nourished Caucasian female, mid-twenties,” Claire said. “She has an old appendix scar and abrasions on the side of her left foot and knee. Those injuries are postmortem and were probably sustained when she was dumped out of a vehicle.”
“How’d she die?”
“Not there yet, Linds,” she said. “I know you’re thinking that we’ve seen this before. But unlike their doppelgangers, Jane’s neck wasn’t slashed.”
“What then?”
Claire threw a sigh.
“Look here. Discoloration at the sides of her neck and swelling at the back. The perp held a strong young mother, probably fighting back as best she could, long enough to kill. Whoever did this was strong.”
“Shit,” I said, picturing it.
Claire put a gloved hand on my arm and kept talking.
“There was no sign of sexual activity. And she was wearing these.”
She held up a plastic bag containing a wedding band and an engagement ring with a large diamond solitaire.
“No robbery. These’ll go to the lab tonight along with their clothes and the baby carrier,” Claire said. Her phone buzzed and she pulled it from her pocket, tapped a message. Paused. Typed again.
“It’s Edmund,” she said, texting her husband. “I’m late.”
I said, “Another minute, Claire. Marin’s M.E. found a copy of Cindy’s book in Ralph Hammer’s car.
“It’s a long shot, but I asked Hallows to run it for any prints not belonging to Hammer. I asked pretty please.”
Claire looked at her watch, then at me. She said, “You want to know about the baby.”
“Yes.”
She lowered her chin and muttered, unh, unh. Dead kids come with the territory, but a mother of four, Claire always took young victims hard. I was right there with her.
“I don’t have much else, Linds. The X-rays show no broken bones on either victim. Baby Doe was smothered. This is not unique, not a signature. Babies are killed this way. I’ll show you the body tomorrow. Okay?”
I nodded, yes. I thanked Claire again and left her offices. I had just reached the Hall’s back door when Brady phoned me.
“I have to run out,” he said. “We got a hit from Missing Persons. Jane Doe’s name is Catherine Fleet. Her baby is Josephina. The Fleet family lives in Russian Hill. The husband, Brad Fleet, is in Interview One with Conklin and Alvarez. They’re waiting on you,” Brady said. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”
CHAPTER 23
I STOOD AT the glass in the observation room abutting Interview One. Conklin was questioning Brad Fleet, a fit man in his thirties with prematurely gray hair, wearing a rumpled tan suit. Even without sound, Catherine Fleet’s bereaved husband appeared devastated.
I dialed up the audio and quickly got the gist. Fleet had no idea what had happened to his wife and child, and pleaded with Conklin, “Whatever you need from me. Whatever you can do …”
That was my cue. I knocked on the door and Alvarez opened it wide, showing me in. I said, “I’m Lindsay. Sergeant Boxer, Mr. Fleet. Very sorry for your loss.”
He nodded his acknowledgment and said, “I still. Can’t believe this is real. I just can’t.”
I took the chair beside Fleet, who threw a long sigh before lifting his eyes to mine.
Conklin said, “Mr. Fleet. If you could tell Sergeant Boxer what you told us about the last time you saw Catherine and Josie.”
Fleet nodded, but he didn’t speak. I let the silence play out. Finally, he said, “Yesterday morning. I didn’t even say goodbye.” He whimpered, then said, “Are you sure it’s them. I haven’t seen their …” He took out his phone, showed me a picture of his wife and child. Vibrant. Laughing. Alive.
“It appears to be them. I’m very sorry,” I said. “Then, what can you tell me about yesterday morning?”
Fleet spoke haltingly as he recalled his last living memory of his wife and baby.
“Like I said, it was a Monday. Cath gets up like always and takes the baby out for a walk in Ina Coolbrith Park. Every day they come back to say goodbye before I leave for work. Yesterday, they didn’t. I had a strategy meeting …”
Fleet’s face crumpled and his tears spilled from his eyes.
Conklin got a box of tissues from the supply cabinet and I told Fleet to take his time. I pulled the interview form over to my patch of the table and skimmed it.
Conklin had underlined Fleet’s address and I knew why. They lived on Leavenworth, only a short distance from where Jacob Johnston’s body was found on Taylor Street. I listened to Fleet and visualized Catherine on the last day of her life. I saw her layering on the clothes she had died in, strapping Josephina into the baby carrier. I thought if her habits were as regular as her husband said, her killer may have known her movements. I thought about Fleet saying he expected to see his wife and child before leaving the house, and when he didn’t, he drove to work. Strategy meeting.
I asked, “Did you call her when you got to the office?”
“I had an early meeting. She goes for long walks, maybe stops to look at seabirds or something. I only worried when I got home at dinnertime and she wasn’t there. That’s when I called the police.”
Alvarez said, “Mr. Fleet. I have to ask. How were you and Catherine getting along? You were married for, what, three years?”
“What are you asking? I loved Cath. I loved Josie. They were everything to me. We didn’t fight. We didn’t have affairs. This was real love. Do you hear me? Why did this happen?”
He dropped his head to the table and cried into his jacket sleeves. I reached over and touched his shoulder.
“We’re on your side, Mr. Fleet. We’re with you. The whole SFPD wants to find whoever is responsible for this.”
Fleet cried harder, then lifted his head. With his voice breaking at times, he told this story; he and Catherine worked at the same advertising firm, Ennis, Neiman and Bright. They’d met there, fallen in love.
He said, “Cath and I didn’t work in the same department, but she was all business and really smart. And tough. But as I told Missing Persons, Catherine decided to take a break from work for a while when Josie was born, because she wanted to stay home with her. The police asked me, ‘How do you know she didn’t just take off with the baby?’ For God’s sake, people. I wish she had.”
I asked, “Who can verify your movements yesterday?”
I passed a pad and pen to Fleet who scrawled some names and passed the list back to me, asking angrily, “Now what?”
I said, “There are a few more things we have to go over with you, Mr. Fleet. I’ll be right back.”
CHAPTER 24
I UNLOCKED THE empty corner office where we’d been meeting, pulled two photos down from the whiteboard, and returned to Interview One.
Fleet stared at me with bloodshot eyes.
“Mr. Fleet. I’m going to show you pictures of two deceased individuals. Tell me if you know them.”
Fleet pushed back his chair, moving away from something he didn’t want to see. I flipped Hammer’s photo over first and watched Fleet take a look, then shake his head, no.
“Never saw him. Did Catherine know him?”
I said, “We don’t know. Do you recognize this man?” I turned over the photo of Jacob Johnston. Fleet saw the bullet hole in the center of the dead man’s forehead. He blanched, closed his eyes, then, some latent memory clicked in. He reached for the picture and pulled it toward him.
“I-I-I know him to say hello,” he said. “He lives in our neighborhood. I’ve seen him out running. Who is—was he? What does he have to do …?”
I said, “This is Jacob Johnston. He lived on Taylor, a couple of blocks over from your home on Leavenworth. His body was found not far from the entrance to Ina Coolbrith Park. That’s where Catherine goes for her walk, isn’t it?”
“I don’t get it. I don’t get it. You think they were together? I would have known.”
Fleet stared at me, at Conklin, back to me. “You people are crazy. Crazy.”
I assured Fleet that we weren’t suggesting that Catherine and this man were a couple or that she knew Johnston at all. We were just getting started. Putting pieces on the table. And I got down to it. I asked Fleet if his wife kept a journal, wrote a blog, had a Facebook page. Fleet answered no, no, no.
I wanted to ask, Do you have any ideas at all? But his shock was real. He couldn’t get past the blinding truth that his wife and child were dead.
Pushing forward, I said, “If you have no objections, I’d like Inspectors Conklin and Alvarez to drive you home, take a look around your house, bring back any appointment logs or diaries Catherine may have kept …”
“I just told you she didn’t have anything like that.”
“She had a cell phone? A laptop?” I asked.
He nodded yes.
“We need to go through those, Mr. Fleet. See if she’d gotten any threats or had any admirers.”
“And if I don’t want her things tampered with?”
“You want us to find out who did this, don’t you?” I said.
He nodded, and I asked if he was ready to go now. If he refused, given the hour, it might be another day before I could get a search warrant.
“Yes. Fine,” said Fleet.
While my partners drove Brad Fleet to his empty home, I returned to my desk and made notes for the files. I was so absorbed I was startled when Brady dragged out Conklin’s chair, sat down hard, and asked me, “Do you like Fleet for the murders?”
“Too soon to say, but my sense is no. I’ll check out his alibi when his office opens tomorrow.”
“What’s bothering you the most, Boxer?”
“That it’s too familiar. And that I haven’t got a clue.”
Brady said, “I’m putting every available body on canvassing the neighborhood and 24/7 surveillance on Brad Fleet. It’s day one, Lindsay. We’re just getting started.”
I was driving home to my dog when I heard laughter inside my head. It was Evan Burke, psychopath of note, his disembodied guffaws coming to me from his solitary cell in San Quentin.
Today’s events would have been his idea of a really good time.
CHAPTER 25
YUKI AND HER associate, Nick Gaines, were well aware that District Attorney Leonard Parisi was in the gallery. A large man, nicknamed Red Dog for his hair color and pit-bull personality, Parisi had been as invested in the Sullivan case as the press were since day one.
Parisi had agreed to an interview with 60 Minutes at the conclusion of this trial, and today he wanted to watch the proceedings for himself. “No pressure,” he’d said, but Nick and Yuki found it impossible to ignore his looming presence four rows back from the counsel table.
The Honorable Judge Karen Froman entered the courtroom through the door behind the bench. The jury was seated, the bailiff read the decree, and there was order in the court.
