The first units on the scene had taped off a small perimeter, and Conklin and I took charge of it as we waited for the red carpet to be rolled out for Moran and Stevens—or anyone in Central’s Homicide Unit.
When my patience ran out, I radioed Central dispatch to report, “No investigators are on the scene. It’s raining. CSI has to get here fast.”
We waited a total of two hours and fifteen minutes, and because I had called it in, the ME’s van and CSI mobile arrived.
It’s basic crime scene procedure that homicide investigators have to see the scene before the body is moved, so we all waited. When they finally showed, I greeted Garth Stevens at the door to his vehicle.
I said, “I took crowd photos and called CSI.”
He said, “I guess you’re going to win the Wonder Woman of the Year award.”
“What’s wrong with you?” I asked him.
He opened his car door, and I stepped away and watched him and Moran mosey over to the dead body. No rush. The shooter was long gone and so were the witnesses. Stevens had all the time in the world.
I was raging as I drove Conklin home and then lay awake most of the night, aggravated to obsession because of those two freakin’ cops from Central. When I woke up this morning, I was still obsessing and I had a throbbing headache. I left Joe asleep in bed, and I took care of the best baby girl in the whole wide world until Joe was on his feet.
Then I gulped aspirin with unadulterated caffeine and flew out the front door like Wonder Woman.
So I was in a state of high anxiety as I sat across from Conklin at our ancient gray desks. I downloaded the photos from my phone and spun my monitor around so Conklin could see my nighttime panorama of the crowd, banked three deep opposite the Geary Street crime scene.
The next shots on my chip were of the dead woman, ID’d by Millie as Lou, currently known as Lou Doe. She was slumped against a brick wall, two bullet holes punched through her poncho, glistening in the rain.
I switched back to the crowd shots.
“Maybe someone saw something and will say something,” I said, looking at the spectators’ faces.
“Push in on the faces,” Conklin said.
I zoomed in on the onlookers, whose faces had been caught in midexpression by my flash. Many of their eyes were shaded by their umbrellas or raincoat hoods. I’d sent this bleak lineup to CSI last night. Maybe facial recognition software would hit on a known criminal.
Wouldn’t that be amazing?
World peace would also be amazing, but I had no control over that.
I said to my partner, “I’m going to take this to Brady. Again.”
“Look,” he said. “In case there’s any doubt in your mind, I want you to go after Stevens and Moran. I’m with you all the way.”
“I didn’t doubt that for a second,” I said.
CHAPTER 50
I LOOKED ACROSS the squad room, over the heads of Homicide cops at their desks, to Brady’s glass-walled corner office. A visitor sat across from him with his back to me.
“Who’s he with?” I asked Conklin. “Wait. It’s Jacobi. That’s even better.”
“Wait until he’s gone, why don’t you?”
“I’m walking the plank,” I said. “I can’t help myself.”
“I’ll come, too,” said Conklin.
I said, “You should probably stay here and man the lifeboat.”
“Watch yourself,” said Conklin.
I knew full well that if Brady got involved in Central’s string of unsolved homicides, there could be an interdepartmental squabble that would be unpleasant for him.
I hated to put pressure on Brady, but I had to do something about a very bad situation that was getting worse. I’d already crossed Central’s line in the sand and had dragged my partner over it, too. With good reason.
A spree killer was executing people unimpeded, and no one seemed eager, willing, or able to stop him from killing again.
How did an interdepartmental squabble stack up to that?
I walked down the bull pen’s center aisle and knocked on Brady’s glass door. I didn’t wait for an invitation. Jacobi stood up when I entered the small office, saying, “Hey, Boxer. How ya doing? I’m just leaving.”
“Please stay,” I said. “I want to talk with you both.”
Jacobi sat back down. I was washed over with love for him, for all the years on stakeouts together, the night when we’d both almost died of gunshot wounds in an alley, the days when he’d reported to me and we’d exchanged offices and I’d reported to him. I remembered a perfectly beachy day when he’d stood in for my father and given me away to Joe.
My feelings for Brady were also strong. We’d stood shoulder to shoulder under fire, and I’d witnessed his remarkable bravery and strong leadership many times. When we weren’t on duty, he was Yuki’s husband and my good friend.
But in this situation that I’d created there was a chain of command. And between the three of us, I was the lowest link.
I took the chair closest to the door and said, “Sorry to crash your meeting, but there was another homeless killing last night.”
“That woman on Geary,” said Jacobi. “What do you know about it?”
Brady sighed, leaned back in his chair.
“Go ahead, Boxer. Tell him.”
I said, “Let me back up a little ways, Jacobi. Chief.”
I started with Millie Cushing, the woman who had tagged me outside the Hall a few weeks ago to tell me about the murder of a homeless man near Walton Square. I followed that up with a brief rundown of the shooting of another vagrant on Pier 45.
“It took Central’s investigators, Stevens and Moran, nearly two hours to arrive. During that time the scene was corrupted by passersby and witnesses evaporated. I’ve checked. There are no suspects on either the Walton Square or the Pier 45 killing. My CI believes that there is a serial killer putting down the homeless. I agree with her.”
Jacobi said, “She’s homeless, too?”
I said, “That’s right,” and went on.
“Conklin and I went to the Geary Street scene, and as before we had to take charge.
“It’s a pattern, Chief. This is the third homeless killing that we know about, and my CI says there are more. She says that cops stroll in after the scene degrades, and witnesses and suspects have taken off without a trace. I say it looks like this killer is on a roll.”
I took a breath. Jacobi was looking at me fondly, but Brady was annoyed and he showed it.
“Boxer. Are you done?”
“That was the short version,” I said.
“I’m not going to Lieutenant Levant to complain that it took his guys two hours to arrive at a crime scene,” Brady said. “No good will come of it, I promise you that.”
Jacobi said, “Is that what you want to do, Boxer, go to Levant? How about if Levant complains to Brady that you’re interfering in his crime scenes? How would that play out?”
“We have to do something,” I said, louder than I intended.
Brady said, “Jesus Christ.”
“Drop it, Lindsay,” Jacobi said. “I know that that’s not what you want to hear, but listen to yourself. Levant is going to call this politics, and it will sure look like it.”
“Are you kidding, Jacobi? You think I’m political? Me?”
“No. I said how it’s going to look.”
I couldn’t stop myself now. “So you’re saying I should drop this and mind my own business?”
Jacobi said, “I’m sorry to come down on you like this, but we’re your friends. Think what Levant is going to say and do.”
Then he stood up and said to Brady, “This is Lindsay when she gets her stubborn on.” He turned to me. “Not to pile on, Boxer, but you look pale. Are you okay?”
I glared at him. “I feel fucking wonderful. Can’t you tell?” I took a deep breath. “I’m going to file a report with Internal Affairs.”
Brenda Fregosi, our squad’s assistant, was outside Brady’s door, either to see what the hell was going on or to bring news to Brady. Either way I was blocking Jacobi’s exit. I left the office. Nobody tried to stop me.
CHAPTER 51