A Killing in China Basin

FIVE


When the homicide detail moved from Room 450 on the fourth floor to Room 561 on the fifth floor, the difference was more than just moving up a floor in the gray monolith of the Hall of Justice. In the old office, the window behind Raveneau’s desk looked northeast over the roof of the morgue, past the county jail, better known as the glass palace, and into the city. Tall cabinets holding case files and nicknamed ‘the towers’ had loomed over the cramped quarters, but up here the homicide inspectors had a large open room and a row of windows looking southeast toward China Basin. They had a row of computers and new high-tech equipment.

Raveneau’s desk backed up to la Rosa’s. Nearby was a coat stand, a concept that would have been comic in the closed quarters of the former office. From his desk he watched the dark water of the bay lighten with dawn and the outline of the hills across the bay haloed in crimson light as the sun rose. The door to the homicide office opened and Lieutenant Becker waved at him. Raveneau stood to go talk to him before Becker got too busy.

‘Do you remember a shoot-out between two yuppies in the parking lot of an apartment complex out near Golden Gate Park in 2000?’

Raveneau paused to give Becker a chance to remember the case before continuing.

‘They were friends, Cody Stoltz and John Reinert. The shooting was after an argument about John Reinert’s wife, Erin. Stoltz had an affair with her that Reinert found out about. That led to a confrontation in a parking lot below the Reinerts’ apartment and then a shooting that Erin Reinert witnessed from the apartment’s kitchen window. She disappeared; moved away somewhere after Stoltz took a plea deal. He did five for voluntary manslaughter.’

‘The letter writer?’

Raveneau nodded.

‘What about him?’

‘Ted Whitacre thinks Stoltz is following him and after revenge. I saw him yesterday morning. He asked me to knock on Stoltz’s door and let him know we know he’s been tailing Whitacre.’

‘That’s not how we do it.’

‘Maybe not, but I’m going to let him know Whitacre saw him.’

Becker said nothing but shook his head.

‘What do you remember about the Reinert killing? I’m looking for what’s not in the file.’

Raveneau knew Becker wouldn’t really have any problem with him visiting Stoltz. He wasn’t going to endorse it, but underneath he was still one of them. Becker knew what a gentle reminder a homicide inspector’s knock on the door could be for a guy who’d already done time for murder. Cloud computing or whatever it was he was working on now would look a lot better to Stoltz after a conversation.

Becker answered, ‘I was there when Bates and Whitacre brought Stoltz in. Stoltz was so shocked at what he’d done that in his head I think he tried to turn it into an accidental shooting. He came up with a story of how he wasn’t the shooter at all. He needed to transfer it to someone else and created a fictional mugger.’

‘I read the interview notes on the mugger. Were you there? Did you listen in?’

‘Yeah, I did.’

‘Tell me about the mugger.’

‘Stoltz claimed that in the middle of his confrontation with Reinert a man with a gun showed up and robbed them. Backed them up at gunpoint and got into Stoltz’s glove compartment where he found Stoltz’s gun. He took their wallets and then shot John Reinert with Stoltz’s gun instead of his own when Reinert tried to prevent him from getting away. Then dropped Stoltz’s gun and ran with Stoltz chasing him.’

‘Chased him instead of helping Reinert?’

The lieutenant stared at him and asked, ‘What are we doing here? You read the file so you know this already.’

‘What was he like?’

‘Nervous but trying to pull it off. He claimed he chased the mugger because he knew instantly that Reinert was dead.’

‘How did he know?’

Becker shrugged. ‘He just knew. Maybe he sensed it because he’s so bright.’

‘You remember that?’

Becker nodded and Raveneau thought about Reinert dying. It wasn’t instant. It took him ten to fifteen minutes more to die. A patrol unit picked up Stoltz two miles away walking down Divisadero Street.

‘What did you think of the case Whitacre and Bates made?’

‘It was solid. They got the right man. Where are you on this China Basin murder?’

‘Nowhere yet.’

He left Becker and called the realtor who was trying to lease the building where their China Basin victim died. Yesterday, the realtor was cooperative. This morning he sounded self important as he launched into the city supervisors and the Port Authority, and how he wished he’d never left LA where they knew how to do business. When he finished, Raveneau offered, ‘Maybe you should move back there.’

‘Believe me, Inspector, I’m thinking about it. About your other questions, let me talk to my attorney and get back to you on who I’ve showed the building to. I’m not sure it’s ethical to provide a list. Some of these clients aren’t going to like a call from the police, let alone a homicide detective. You have to understand that if a prostitute breaks into the building at night there’s not much we can do. We’ve got a ten foot fence up with razor wire on top and “No Trespassing” signs posted everywhere.’

Raveneau learned now what he’d suspected last night, that the ‘For Lease’ sign was up only to demonstrate to the Port Authority and the city that the owners were serious about utilizing the property. That it had no power and smelled of rat droppings and human urine, and that the homeless, runaways, and drug users treated it as a hostel, or that prostitutes in the area were familiar with the building but avoided it because it wasn’t clean enough, that didn’t matter. The investors were playing a longer game that required a certain kind of negotiation with the Port Authority.

Raveneau was still on the phone with the realtor when Lieutenant Becker came to get him.

‘You’ve got a walk-in. There’s a man named Carl Heilbron in the second interview room. He says he’s here to see you and la Rosa about your China Basin victim. He claims to have information and knows you and la Rosa are assigned the case.’

‘When did he get here?’

‘Five minutes ago.’

Raveneau followed Becker to the interview room where they’d parked the guy. He looked like he was in his early thirties with long pencil-thin sideburns and short hair. Black shirt, canvas pants, lime-green tennis shoes, an ornate red tattoo on his right forearm, dressed like an artist but doing auto body work. A Diet Coke sat on the table in front of him and he stared at his right hand resting on the table near the Coke as if it was a phone and he was waiting for it to ring. Physical energy and nervousness emanated from him. He glanced up at the glass several times and brought the hand on the table down to his knee as his knee jiggled, then looked abruptly up at the glass again and smiled, as if spotting Raveneau and Becker standing there.

‘Looks like a nice normal guy,’ Becker said.

‘Let’s keep him in there while I find la Rosa.’