Six CSIs were processing the scene inside the house as Conklin and I met with Lieutenant Todd Traina of the Palo Alto Police Department.
Of course, Conklin and I wanted to work this crime. Not only had we been first on the scene, but we were also involved with Shirley, her murdered husband, and the mysterious wrinkle of a second dead Michael Chan, killed in the crash of WW 888.
Bottom line, we were thoroughly briefed and highly motivated.
But this hideous crime had happened in Palo Alto, not our turf. The best we could hope for was a free exchange of information between our department and the Palo Alto PD.
Conklin, Lieutenant Traina, and I stood under a tree on the parched grass between the sidewalk and the street, and we told the lieutenant how we’d happened upon a fresh murder scene in Professorville.
I said to the young lieutenant, “We wanted more time with Mrs. Chan. We hoped she might have remembered something that would help us with her husband’s murder. We knocked. Brett Chan answered the door.”
After describing the little boy’s heartbreaking appearance, I gave Lieutenant Traina my take on the crime scene.
“Looks to me like Mrs. Chan knew the shooter,” I said. “There was no forced entry and she was making coffee for two when she was shot in the forehead at close range. I saw no sign of a robbery—just a well-executed hit.”
Traina took notes and said, “Uh-huh. Please go on.”
Conklin said, “Haley, she’s five. She was eating her breakfast when a lady with ‘striped’ hair came in through the outside kitchen door. According to Haley, Mommy told her to get dressed for school. When she went back toward the kitchen, she heard ‘big bangs,’ so she ran to her room and hid.”
Traina asked, “Striped hair? What’s that mean to you?”
I said, “Like brown hair with blond streaks.”
“Hunh. Did she know this lady?”
“Never saw her before,” Conklin said.
“And the little boy? Brett?”
“He was in the shower when this went down,” I said.
I told Lieutenant Traina we would share information and he said he’d do the same, “Sure thing.”
We exchanged cards and were getting into our car as Child Protective Services arrived.
Why had Michael and Shirley Chan—two college professors—been targeted hits? And what, if anything, could this tell us about the dead man with Michael Chan’s name and address who’d been on WW 888 from Beijing?
Was there a connection?
Someone had to know.
CHAPTER 34
THE BEAUTIFUL AND expansive Stanford University campus is accessed by broad palm tree–lined avenues and dotted with hundreds of other varieties of trees. The handsome buildings are predominantly Mediterranean and Spanish-style sandstone with red-tile roofs. Just lovely.
We had an appointment with the history department chair, Michael Chan’s former boss, Eugene Levy. Levy was short, bearded, wearing thick eyeglasses. He got up from behind his desk, shook our hands, asked us to have seats, and closed his door.
Levy said, “What a tragedy. I only knew Michael professionally, but for more than eight years. I liked him. He was reliable. Conscientious. Knew his stuff cold. Although, in light of how he died, maybe I didn’t know him at all.”
Levy had prepared a list of several of Chan’s colleagues and students, in alphabetical order with phone numbers. He’d starred the names of a few people he thought had personal relationships with Chan.
“I’m just sick about this. The whole school is rocked. You’ll let me know if I can help further?”
I told Levy we would do that. After leaving his office, Conklin and I interviewed two dozen people over the rest of the morning, ending late in the afternoon.
We asked the standard questions: How well did you know Michael Chan? Had he been acting strangely? Did he have any enemies? Can you think of a reason why someone might have killed him last week in a five-star San Francisco hotel?
Not one person offered a shadow of a clue.
By five in the afternoon, we were no closer to cracking open a door into Michael Chan’s death than we had been four days ago. We were heading for the car when a breathless voice called out, “Officers.”
A brawny twenty-something young man in shorts and a school T-shirt was jogging up the walkway behind us. When he caught up, he stopped and introduced himself as Stiles Paul Titherington, assistant football coach. According to Levy’s list, he was a friend of Michael Chan.
He said, “Got your message. Yeah, Michael and I were tight.”
The man was bouncing on his feet, seemed hot to tell us what he knew.
“OK, I don’t know who the hell killed him, but I can tell you this: he was having an affair, like made-in-Hollywood in-love. Michael was not, like, an emotional guy and suddenly, he meets this woman, and she’s the meaning of life.”
Titherington went on to say that Michael hadn’t been planning to leave Shirley and that apparently Alison was also married with children.