23rd Midnight, page 9
part #23 of Women's Murder Club Series
LOOKING SHELL-SHOCKED AND sleep-deprived, Cindy sat beside me in Alvarez’s desk chair. I taped her with my phone as she described Hammer’s appearance as well as the tone and content of his verbal attack on her.
“He looked to be in his thirties. He dressed in well-worn casuals: khakis, a black leather bomber jacket, and glasses. Thick ones. He looked, ummm, artistic.
“He seemed friendly at first,” she said. “His opening line was, ‘I come in peace.’ But then he launched into a tirade, not peaceful at all. He said that I was a ‘man-hater.’ Me?”
I asked, “How’d he get that?”
“I advised women to be on guard with men they don’t know. I was referencing Evan Burke. He stabbed the air with his finger to make his points. So, he was quite aggressive. And he said that my book ‘rewarded an unrepentant killer.’ That pissed him off. About then, he was hustled out by security and you guys. He had a limp. Left leg.”
I hadn’t noticed a limp. Cindy’s memory of Hammer was impressive. He’d been standing thirty yards away from her. We ordered pizza and went on to watch surveillance video. First, Book Passage, then Vroman’s. We were looking for similarities, anomalies, a suspicious someone who after leaving Book Passage killed Ralph Hammer. We were looking for the same person who after leaving Vroman’s killed a female jogger in the park, the woman Lieutenant Rick Martinez identified as twenty-eight-year-old Beth Welky. Would we recognize a serial killer in the crowds? It was unlikely, but still within the realm of possibility.
We rolled the video tape.
Both stores were crowded, and there was both too much and too little to see. But going back and forth throughout the next three hours, one person stood out. At Book Passage, a man stood to the left and a few yards behind Ralph Hammer, as if watching him. Someone who appeared to be that same man also left Vroman’s with Marge, the woman who had told Cindy she was insensitive for writing about Burke’s victims.
Rich said, “What about this guy? He’s the only one I see who’s at both locations.”
Conklin isolated the image of the man who may have been Marge’s companion and was also at Book Passage standing behind Hammer. Cindy hadn’t noticed him and neither had I. Now, I assessed him. He was maybe forty, five ten, brown hair, lightweight tweed jacket and brown trousers. His clothing was loose, disguising his frame.
A sprint through the DMV database came up with his name, address, and phone number. He lived in a one-family house on Page Street in the Lower Haight, San Francisco, California. No points on his license.
I said, “I didn’t imagine Blackout looking like this. We just keep digging.”
CHAPTER 35
CAPPY ENTERED OUR war room with Chi right behind him. He peered at Conklin’s monitor and at the man who’d been matched by the software.
He said, “Man looks like a baked potato.”
I agreed. “Excellent look for a serial killer. How’d it go at the ad agency?” I asked.
Chi answered in four words: “Fleet’s alibi checks out.”
Cappy added, “He signed in at the front desk at eight fifty-seven a.m. and signed out at seven ten p.m. We spoke to fifteen people from top boss to the mailroom guy and Fleet’s assistant. They all confirmed that our man was at work on Monday and in meetings all day. Doesn’t seem possible he could’ve killed Catherine and Josie Monday morning, dumped their bodies, changed his clothes, and still gotten to work on time.
“Plus,” Cappy added, “He couldn’t have killed them over the weekend either. We spoke to the Fleets’ neighbors. Brad was seen with Catherine and Josie, bringing home pizza on Sunday night.
“But here’s the clincher. We talked to a Mrs. Krauss who was friends with the Fleets. She was walking her dog Monday morning and spoke to Catherine as she was walking on Macondray Lane. The baby was crying, but mother stopped to pet the dog.”
I said, “Good job, you guys. Ninety-nine-point-nine percent certainty, Brad didn’t do it.”
I crossed Brad Fleet off our list and filled Chi and Cappy in on the lady in red. I divvied up the assignments, leaving Cappy and Chi to bring a man named Marvin Bender in for questioning, and wrapped up the meeting.
“We’ll continue to meet at six every evening unless we’re in the field,” I said. “Cindy, you’re on book-tour leave from the Chronicle. Please work from here for now.”
“Okay, Linds. By the way, I’m booked to do a signing in Vegas this Friday.”
“Take a pass,” I said automatically. Then again, I know Cindy.
“It’s a very good store,” she said. “And I’m committed to this tour. Look, I understand your reasoning, but I’ve dealt with killers before, you know. I’ll have security—”
Conklin said, “Cindy, no. Our cops can’t protect you in Vegas.”
“The store has security,” she said, miffed.
“To be discussed,” said Richie. “In private.”
CHAPTER 36
SERGEANTS CAPPY O’NEIL and Paul Chi waited in an unmarked car outside a grubby apartment building on Page Street in the Lower Haight. Marvin Bender, senior sales rep at J&P Pharmaceuticals, appeared to be home. Lights were on inside his third-floor rental and his dusty Ford sedan was parked at the curb.
Chi and O’Neil had decided that if Bender didn’t leave home in five minutes, they would buzz up, identify themselves, and tell Bender they needed a few minutes of his time. They had no warrant, no probable cause to arrest the man, but Chi had called for backup in the event that they needed eyes on Bender’s car if he was uncooperative.
The front door opened and Bender, wearing brown trousers and a backpack over his unremarkable sport jacket, exited 231 Page Street and locked the door. He didn’t look around, just came down the front steps into a hazy morning in this gray neighborhood at the tail end of the morning rush.
O’Neil and Chi got out of their SFPD unmarked car and met up with Bender as he reached his vehicle. Cappy had his jacket open, showing his Glock parked in his shoulder holster and his badge hanging to mid-tie from a chain around his neck.
Bender stopped at his car door with his key in his hand. Cappy introduced himself and his partner and said, “Mr. Bender, we’d like you to accompany us to the Hall of Justice. You’re not in any trouble, but you may be able to assist us in a homicide investigation.”
Bender said, “What? Me? You have the wrong guy. Wait, is Blauner complaining about my garbage cans again? I’ll deal with them later. I’m late for work.”
“We’re being polite, Mr. Bender,” Cappy said. “If you don’t cooperate, we’ll get a search warrant this afternoon. We’ll stop by your office and not just bring you to the Hall, we’ll search your premises, impound your car and your devices while we detain you as a material witness.”
“You’re nuts. I’m a salesman. I don’t know any criminals and no dead people, either.”
“Listen to me, Mr. Bender,” said Chi. “Your refusal to cooperate is going to turn a simple conversation to a probable arrest on suspicion of homicide.”
“No, you’ve got nothing and you’re bluffing. But thanks for the advice.”
Bender called Chi a few choice names, unloaded some expletives about cops in general, then pushed past the detectives and opened his driver’s side door. He shrugged out of his backpack and tossed it into the passenger seat, slid inside, slammed his door hard and put the car in drive. By the time the engine turned over, Chi had pulled the SFPD unmarked car around so that it was parked crosswise in front of Bender’s front end.
Bender showed little concern for his ride. He stepped on the gas and plowed hood first into the squad car, crushing the passenger-side door. Bender shifted into reverse as a backup cruiser responding to Chi’s radio call, blocked the gray sedan from behind, squeezing it hard against Chi’s car so that Bender couldn’t move his car at all.
Just to be sure, Cappy, who’d been watching this automotive cha-cha, pulled his Glock and shot out two of Bender’s tires. Then he leaned into Bender’s window.
“That’s it, Mr. Bender. You’re under arrest. The cops coming toward us on foot? They’re going to give you a free ride to the Hall.”
CHAPTER 37
CINDY HAD PROMISED Lindsay she’d work from the squad room, but she needed information she could only get from her office at the Chronicle. Her desk faced a glass wall with its view of the bustling City Room but her eyes were on her computer. She’d sped through news feeds searching for recent unsolved homicides and found only one that sang out Murder by Blackout.
That one was the Pasadena victim, Beth Welky. The twenty-eight-year-old from Seattle had been killed during or after Cindy’s reading at Vroman’s Wednesday, two days ago, but no connection had been drawn from Welky’s death to the unsolved murders in San Francisco and Marin County.
There was a story here circling around her, but Cindy couldn’t spend more time on this right now. Her flight to Vegas was departing soon and she had to go. She emailed her editor and publisher, Henry Tyler, and repacked her devices and her scanner. She was headed out the door when she noticed a plain white envelope in the inbox used for interoffice memos.
Cindy plucked the envelope from the tray. Her name was typed in capital letters and there was no return address. Probably an anonymous tipster had dropped it off at reception. She slipped the envelope into her bag to read in the car, but the need to know won her over. She retrieved the envelope, slit it with a nail file, then dumped out the contents—a flimsy paper ribbon, a receipt from the San Quentin commissary for three cups of ramen noodles, a box of mac and cheese, and a six-pack of Coke. On the reverse side, penned in small block letters, was a note addressed to her.
Cindy skimmed it, then started over from the top.
Dear Cindy,
I heard you had a wall-to-wall crowd in Pasadena. Good for you. I wanted you to hear this first from me. You’ve only got half the story. I’m writing a book of my own. The Last Face You’ll See: The Life of Evan Burke. The book is loaded with surprises, things I’ve never told you and I really think you’ll be impressed. In particular, the book’s ending is a real killer—and you’re part of the ending.
Love, Evan
CHAPTER 38
CAPPY PHONED ME as he and Chi were leaving the Lower Haight.
“We picked Bender up outside his apartment,” Cappy said. “Told him he needed to assist us with a couple of homicides. He was highly PO’d, gave us a boatload of crap and tried to evade us. Did some damage to our car. We cuffed him and stashed him in the back of a cruiser. We’re about ten minutes out.”
Ten minutes crawled by followed by another twenty until Alvarez and I stood behind the glass watching Cappy and Chi interviewing Marvin Bender. The subject wore old cheap clothes and a sour attitude. He bitched for several minutes about the outrage and that he would sue us for false arrest.
Then Bender demanded coffee. Cappy said, “In a bone china cup? With heavy cream and a biscuit? Earn the damned coffee, Bender.”
“You’re a putz, you know that?”
Cappy said, “Are you done now? Or do you want to chill in holding while we get an estimate on repairs on the PD’s car and fill out a formal arrest form. Now we have you on felony reckless evading and vehicular assault on a police officer. Mandatory prison sentence. I wonder why you tried so hard to get away. And I will find out.”
“How many times have I got to say it? I know nothing about any homicides. This is police harassment and you should know this, you jerk-off: my brother is a great attorney.”
Chi cracked a smile. He had a short stack of papers facedown in front of him. He said to Bender, “I’m going to show you some pictures.”
He flipped over a printout of a moment from the Book Passage surveillance footage. It was a shot of the audience during Cindy’s speech. In this photo, Ralph Hammer was standing behind the folding chairs, his finger stabbing the air as he made a point. Behind him and a few yards to his right was Marvin Bender, just looking on.
Chi took a pen and circled Hammer’s head, asking, “Do you know this man?”
“No. Who is he?”
“Ralph Hammer. Do you remember this?”
Chi flipped over another screenshot, this one of me, Rich, and an armed security guard moving Hammer out of the store.
“I remember now. But I don’t know the guy.”
Chi flipped over the third photo, this one from Vroman’s surveillance tape. “Marge” was standing and had a look of disgust on her face. Bender was sitting beside her.
Chi said, “Mr. Bender, is this you?”
“Yes. I went to Vroman’s with Marge Warner.” He tapped her image with his forefinger. “We belong to an online book club.”
“Talk to me about Ms. Warner, the woman you drove six hours to meet.”
“I’m sure you’ve already vetted her.”
Cappy and Chi waited until Bender said, “I only met her this one time at Vroman’s. We’d gotten advance reading copies of You Never Knew Me. She wanted to go to the signing, and I knew she was going to be critical. She’s pretty negative as a rule. She told me she owns a boutique called Dress Express in Pasadena and that she’s married with children. That’s it. That’s all I know. Personally, I liked the book. I’m working on a true-crime book myself. Maybe you’ll give me some help with it.”
Chi flipped over the last picture and showed it to Bender.
“Do I know her, you’re asking?”
“Yes.”
“No,” Bender said, looking at the photo of the woman in the red tracksuit, sprawled out on a path in the Fuller Theological Seminary campus. “Who is she?”
Chi collected all the photos and said, “Mr. Bender, you were seen leaving Vroman’s with Marge Warner around six. Where did you go?”
“I walked her to her car. Then I got in mine and drove home.”
“You must have been tired after driving twelve hours round trip. What did you do when you got home? Around midnight?”
“I ate a bowl of Dinty Moore stew, washed it down with a Sam Adams, and watched a film on TV. Mr. Brooks. Kevin Costner plays the Thumbprint Killer. I love that film. I had another beer, then I went to bed. Alone.”
Chi said, “Here’s what I’m thinking. You were within walking distance of the murders of Ralph Hammer—”
“Me and a few hundred other people.”
“No, see,” said Cappy. “You were the only person who went to both bookstores. Where did you go after the Book Passage reading?”
“I don’t have a life, chief. I went home.”
“Anyone see you? A neighbor, for instance?”
“I don’t know Ralph Hammer.”
“He’s dead,” said Cappy.
“I don’t know nothing about none of this. You’ve got nothing, nothing on me. It’s not against the law to go to book signings, is it?”
“We’re arresting you for vehicular assault on a police officer with a deadly weapon—”
“What? What are you talking about—?”
Chi read Bender his rights, then said, “Destruction of municipal property, felony reckless evading, assault on me with a deadly weapon and incidentally, suspicion of murder. You get one phone call. I suggest you call your brother, the lawyer.”
Back at my desk beside Sonia Alvarez I said, “My gut says he’s not the guy.”
“No,” said Alvarez. “He didn’t blink. But he plowed into a police car. What’s with this guy?”
“He’s guilty of something. Something else. And he’s a hard-wired malcontent in my humble opinion.”
“I’ll help Chi and Cappy do background checks.”
“Good. Thanks, Sonia.”
I turned on my computer, checked my email, ran my eyes down the list. While we’d been listening to Bender, I’d gotten another message from Blackout. My heart started galloping before I could focus on the subject line: “Blackout to Boxer.”
“What’s wrong?” Alvarez asked me. She came around the desk and looked over my shoulder as I opened the email. She read out loud, “Heads up, Boxer. I’m working on an idea for a new video. I think it’s going to be a masterpiece.”
CHAPTER 39
DR. SAMUEL HOYT, Lewis Sullivan’s psychiatrist, was on the stand, testifying for the defense. For several minutes he had explained to the court that he had been treating Mr. Sullivan for paranoid tendencies and explosive anger disorder.
Attorney Maurice Switzer asked, “Dr. Hoyt, is it possible that Mr. Sullivan was in an altered state when he inflicted injuries on his wife?”
“I wasn’t there, and I haven’t seen Mr. Sullivan since that incident or series of incidents. However, when in the middle of a rage, he could be irrational, another way of saying ‘altered state.’”
“Is it fair to say that if angry, if irrational, he might not have known what he was doing?”
“That’s possible.”
Switzer said, “Thank you,” and turned Dr. Hoyt over to Yuki for cross-examination.
Yuki said, “Dr. Hoyt, does Mr. Sullivan know right from wrong?”
Dr. Hoyt said, “Yes, with exceptions.”
“I’ll ask that a different way. Does Mr. Sullivan know that tying someone down, beating that person with fists and kicking that person with work boots, making twenty cuts in her torso and extremities with a serrated knife, stomping on that person’s head to the effect that the skull was fractured and an eye popped out of the socket—would he know that these actions are ‘wrong,’ doctor?”
Hoyt said, “Mr. Sullivan would have known that what he’d done was wrong, and still, he’s easily provoked and easily angered and when angry, he loses control.”
“So even if he’s feeling paranoid and angry and out of control, you agree he knows right from wrong. He’s legally sane, correct?”
“That is correct.”
“Is it likely that Mr. Sullivan could be in this angry, paranoid, or so-called altered state for three days without cessation?”
