A Killing in China Basin

TWO


Raveneau was often restless when he was on-call. He ate a late dinner sitting at the bar of a pizza place close to where he lived, and then drove out Fulton Street to the ocean and up the Great Highway past the Cliff House to the Guadalcanal Memorial in the broad lot at the base of Fort Meyers.

He came here occasionally, not as much any more, but it did something for him still, and tonight he remembered the fever and fear after 9/11 and the invasion of Afghanistan when his son, his only child, Chris, eager to get to the front lines of the newly coined War on Terror, became a Marine. Chris had died eight years ago in a firefight in Fallujah, Iraq.

Raveneau parked and walked out to the shrapnel-scarred bow section of the USS San Francisco and the plaque reading,

This memorial to Rear Admiral Daniel Judson Callaghan, USN and his officers and men who gave their lives for our country while fighting on board the USS ‘San Francisco’ in the battle of Guadalcanal on the night of 12–13 November 1942 was formed from the bridge of their ship and here mounted on the Great Circle Course to Guadalcanal by the grateful people of San Francisco on 12 November 1950.



Raveneau’s father, who was also gone, brought him here at age five and had him run his fingers over the names inscribed until they came to rest on Benjamin Tomlinson. Tomlinson, like Raveneau’s father, had also served on the USS San Francisco, but unlike his dad, Tomlinson was killed in the battle at Guadalcanal.

‘I gave you his first name because he was the kind of man I want you to be.’

After the service for Chris, his dad had suggested coming here, and once here, touched the etched granite and said, ‘All I can say to you is that after this war ends and the reasons for going into it and the men who took us there are forgotten, and they will be, remember that Chris went there for us. Never forget that. In his heart he was there for us. Always hold that, son. It will help you.’

Raveneau touched the cold steel bow. Chill air blew in off a dark ocean. Clouds at horizon left the sky there starless. He listened to waves break against the rocks below and then headed back to his car. As he unlocked the door, his cell phone rang.

The communications dispatcher’s clear dispassionate voice asked, ‘Inspector Raveneau?’

‘This is Raveneau.’

Raveneau reached for the black leather notebook. He wrote the address of a building in China Basin. The dispatcher would also text it to him, but this was his drill. This was how he started a case. He confirmed now that the responding officers were holding the man who’d flagged down their patrol car on Third Street, and asked what he always did, ‘How do we know it’s a homicide?’

‘The responding officers reported that her ankles and wrists were bound with plastic ties and that there are ligature marks at her neck. The medical examiner has asked that we call homicide. Will you be responding, Inspector?’

‘I will, and I’ll call Inspector la Rosa. You don’t have to call her.’

He woke la Rosa who was momentarily confused, then aware that after a slow week when she’d taken teasing for being on-call at Homicide for the first time and not catching one, it was happening now. The cop in her adjusted rapidly.

‘I can pick you up at the Hall or meet you at the scene,’ Raveneau said, but knew already what her answer would be. Elizabeth la Rosa was ambitious, independent, and intent on making her mark. She had an angel in the brass and didn’t need an aging homicide inspector on what she thought was the tail-end of a career to watch over her. La Rosa wanted to wade into the fray.

‘I’ll meet you there,’ she said. ‘I’m out the door.’