Hire a Hangman (2 page)

But a doctor with a Jaguar, killed on posh Russian Hill, was a headline grabber, guaranteed. Meaning that, yes, a lieutenant must be called—Lieutenant Hastings, on this duty tour.

Meaning that, since the time was almost eleven o’clock, Hastings’s bedtime, the call might better be made now, while Hastings was still awake.

10:55
PM

Hastings was brushing his teeth when the phone began to ring. As Ann quickly picked up the extension in the living room, Hastings rinsed the toothbrush, rinsed his mouth, put the toothbrush in the rack beside Ann’s. They shared one rack; Ann’s two sons shared another rack. As he turned off the water, Hastings heard Ann’s voice, amiably chatting. Conclusion: Canelli was on the line. Of Homicide’s rank-and-file inspectors, Canelli was Ann’s favorite. It was probably her inherent sympathy for the underdog. A chronic, amiable bumbler who tipped the scales at two-forty, not all of it muscle, Canelli was the only detective in squad-room memory who constantly got his feelings hurt. Almost always, the wounds were self-inflicted.

“It’s Canelli,” Ann said.

“I know.” He took the phone, kissed her on the cheek, patted her buttock. “Go to sleep. I’ll lock up.”

She patted him in return, smiled, waved good night.

11:20
PM

Hastings suppressed a smile as he watched Canelli park his unmarked car in a driveway directly across from the murder scene. Because Hastings lived within a mile of the scene, it had been predictable that he would arrive at the Green Street address before Canelli, who’d come across town. Just as predictably, Canelli’s broad, swarthy face registered mild consternation when he saw Hastings. His soft brown eyes were earnest, his voice solicitous:

“Oh, hi, Lieutenant. I guess I should’ve—I mean, I figured that if it got to be twelve, one o’clock, whatever, before I got things sorted out and called you, then I figured—” Once more he broke off, plainly irked with himself.

“I’m glad you didn’t wake me up.” Hastings spoke slowly, deliberately. He was a tall, heavily built man. His face was solidly squared off, matching the pattern of his movements and the measured economy of his speech. He wore a light poplin jacket, corduroy slacks, and running shoes. As he spoke, he turned his attention to the crime scene. The body lay on the sidewalk, in the approximate middle of the block. A small, docile cluster of perhaps a dozen onlookers stood behind the yellow tapes, some of them talking, most of them simply staring. With their spotlights trained on the victim and their doors standing open, two black-and-white units were parked in adjoining driveways. Two uniformed officers stood at the yellow tapes, their eyes on the onlookers. A third officer stood leaning against one of the black-and-white units, monitoring the radio. As Hastings surveyed the scene, Canelli came to stand beside him, awaiting orders.

“Who called it in?” Hastings asked.

“Bob Miller. The one on the radio.”

“Where do I know him from?”

“Softball. He’s a hell of a slow-ball pitcher. A real ace. Nice guy, too. Real—you know—easygoing.”

“I’ll talk to him, see what he’s got. The other two, I want them to take their units to either end, here”—Hastings gestured up and down the hill—“get this block sealed off. You monitor the radio.”

“Yessir.” Canelli turned away, gave the orders, then returned to his unmarked car, and the radio. As the two squad cars pulled out of their parking places and went to opposite ends of the block, Hastings clipped his badge on his jacket, ducked under the tape, and gestured for Miller to join him as he stood looking down at the body. With the two squad cars gone, the body lay in the dim light of a streetlamp.

“Here, Lieutenant.” Miller took a four-cell flashlight from his equipment belt and handed it to Hastings.

“Thanks.” The flashlight circle revealed the face and head of a middle-aged man: regular features, stylish rimless aviator glasses, medium-long, medium-mod brown hair graying at the temples. The face had settled into peace; the eyes were open, rolled upward. The victim lay flat on his back, right arm crossed over the body at the waist, left arm flung wide. Beside the open left hand, a ring of keys lay on the sidewalk. The right hand was tightly closed. The body was angled so that the right foot hung off the curb. The torso was almost completely blood-soaked. Because of the steepness of the hill, the blood had run in three long rivulets down the sidewalk. Two of the rivulets ended about five feet from the body. The third rivulet, the center one, continued for several feet more. The blood was still viscous, just beginning to congeal. Probing, the pale yellow cone of light illuminated a tweed sport jacket, gray flannel trousers, brown loafers, argyle socks, a white button-down shirt, and an old school tie. Added up—the hair styling, the tweeds, the flannels, and the argyles—the effect was Brooks Brothers casual.

Hastings straightened, handed back the flashlight, and gestured for Miller to come close enough to let them talk without being overheard by the onlookers.

“So how’s it look? Anything?”

“There’re two eyewitnesses,” Miller said. “And their stories are pretty consistent.” He pointed across the street. “One of them was delivering a pizza. That’s him, in that Honda, there.” Miller pointed to a white sedan illegally parked parallel to the curb on the far side of the street. As in most of Russian Hill, parking in the eleven-hundred block of Green Street was desperate. Because the hill was so steep, parking was perpendicular to the curb. Because the street was so narrow, parking was permitted only on the south side. Because they would have had to be blasted out of solid rock, there were no garages on the north side of the street. The upper half of Green Street’s south side was a stepped series of towering retaining walls, leaving only four garages for the entire eleven-hundred block. All of the buildings were more than fifty years old, almost all of them small apartment buildings. Like much of San Francisco’s premium real estate, they clung to the hills that offered the best views. And the views from Russian Hill were superb.

“The other witness lives right here.” Miller pointed to a narrow, three-story building that had been built over a double garage. “His name is Bruce Taylor, and he lives on the second floor. There’re three flats in the building. Taylor was putting out the garbage.” Miller gestured to a trash container and two plastic garbage bags. “He saw it happen. He tried to help the victim, but it was too late. And by that time, according to the way I get the story, the perpetrator had disappeared. So then Taylor went inside his house and called nine-one-one.”

“And you and your partner were the first ones on the scene?”

“Right. We were only three blocks away when we got the call. If Taylor’s telling the truth, which I think he is, he called nine-one-one maybe two, three minutes after the shots were fired.”

“So you were on the scene within five minutes.”

“Give or take a minute. No more.”

“Did you talk to both of them—Taylor and the pizza guy?”

“Yessir. His name is Jeff Sheppard.”

“And?”

Miller pointed across the street to another three-story building, this one without a garage. “The victim came out of that building. The number is eleven-forty-eight. He crossed the street diagonally, uphill.” As Hastings followed Miller’s moving forefinger with his eyes, the finger traced a path across the street, coming toward them. “He got on the sidewalk here, at about Bruce Taylor’s garage. Then”—the finger continued to move—“then he started walking uphill.” Now the finger was pointing to a tree about ten feet uphill from the body. “At that point, as I understand it, the perpetrator stepped out from behind that tree, there. They were just a few feet apart. Five feet, maybe.”

“Did he fall in his tracks?” Hastings asked.

“That’s my impression, Lieutenant.”

“Do both witnesses’ stories agree?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“How do you rate the witnesses?”

Miller shrugged. “Compared to what?” He hesitated. Then, explaining: “This is only the second homicide I’ve ever caught.”

“Okay—so what’d the assailant do?”

“Apparently he went to the body and stood over it for a few seconds, looking down. Then he walked down to Hyde Street”—Miller gestured downhill—“and turned left on Hyde.”

“Walked?”

Emphatically, Miller nodded. “Walked. Definitely walked. He didn’t run.”

“Did either Taylor or Sheppard try to follow the guy?”

Miller shook his head. “Taylor went to the victim, to see if he could help, like I said. And Sheppard, who’d parked by that time, he stayed in his car. Which was smart, of course.”

“It would’ve been nice,” Hastings said ruefully, “if he’d followed the guy in his car.”

“Yeah. Well …” Miller shrugged again. “What can you do? At least he’s willing to talk to us. There’s that.”

“Yes,” Hastings agreed, his voice resigned. “Yes, there’s that.”

11:27
PM

Because the shop windows and the cars parked at curbside and the garbage pails set on the sidewalk moved and changed and appeared and disappeared, she realized she was walking. But there was no sensation, no contact, no conscious movement. Even if the sky tilted and the earth shifted, there would be no sensation. Only the night had meaning, only darkness had substance. From darkness come to darkness returned. Was it a poem? Was it the truth?

Could she remember?

Yes, always she would remember.

The eyes, dead, rolled up in their sockets. The bloodstain, blossoming as she’d watched. Always, she would remember. Always.

So that now, finally, she could rest.

Finally it was finished. Finally the pain had been numbed. As darkness had returned to darkness, so death would return to death.

11:32
PM

The door swung open to reveal a tall, slim, balding man dressed in faded blue jeans, scuffed white running shoes, and a sweatshirt imprinted with a Porsche logo.

“Mr. Taylor?”

“Right.” Taylor nodded—a small, semi-spastic inclination of his narrow head. Taylor was probably still in his thirties. His face was delicately drawn, hollow-eyed and hollow-cheeked, an invalid’s face. His small mouth was permanently pursed, a worrier’s mouth. His round hazel eyes, blinking, were vulnerable as they fixed on the gold badge pinned to the breast of Hastings’s jacket.

His voice, too, was vulnerable: “Have you—is—” Shaking his head, he broke off. Then he stepped back, gesturing for Hastings to come inside.

Like the Russian Hill neighborhood, Bruce Taylor’s flat was elegant: antiques that were obviously authentic, paintings that were obviously originals. Abruptly showing Hastings to a damask settee, Taylor sat facing him across a small wooden table. A heavy cut-glass tumbler, half-filled, stood on the table. For a moment Taylor sat rigidly, staring down at the tumbler. Then: “I’m—I’m having a drink. Would you—” With an obvious effort, he raised his eyes. “Would you like one—a drink?”

“No, thanks.”

“Ah …” As if he’d received a rebuke, Taylor first nodded, then sharply shook his head, suggesting that he couldn’t control his own impatience with himself. “I—I’m sorry. But the truth is …” Shakily he gestured to the window that overlooked Green Street. He frowned, licked his lips, then looked directly into Hastings’s eyes as he said, “The truth is, this thing—it’s gotten to me. I mean, I’m thirty-seven, and I’ve never seen a body. Not—not even in a funeral home. I …” Shaking his head again, this time helplessly, forlornly, Taylor reached for the tumbler, drank half of the dark amber fluid, and replaced the tumbler on the table. “I mean, Jesus, you see someone like that, dead, and—” As if confused, he broke off. His eyes were still cast down, fixed on the tumbler.

“It’s not easy,” Hastings said. “It’s never easy. Believe me.”

Taylor nodded, his head bobbing loosely. Then, making a visible effort to collect himself, he said, “I suppose you’re here—I suppose you want to—to find out about it—about what happened.”

“That’s right, Mr. Taylor. I’m sorry to make you go over it again so soon. But there’re only two eyewitnesses, at least so far. So we’ve got to know what you know. Now. Right now.”

“Yes …” Uncertainly, Taylor nodded. “Yes, I—I understand.”

“So start at the beginning.” Hastings spoke quietly, dispassionately. Whatever distress Taylor was suffering, the problem didn’t concern Hastings. Not here. Not now.

“Well, I—I was taking the garbage out. The garbage can is in the garage. And there were a couple of bags of clippings in the garden. So I opened the garage door, and I put the can outside, on the sidewalk. It’s still there.”

Hastings nodded. “Yes, I saw it.”

Quickly, Taylor gulped at the drink. “As I was putting the can out, I saw him coming toward me, from across the street.”

“The victim, you mean.”

Spasmodically, Taylor nodded.

“He was coming from”—Hastings glanced at his notebook, open on his knee—“from eleven-forty-eight. Is that correct?”

Taylor waved a fretful hand. “I suppose that’s the number. Anyhow, it’s diagonally across the street, downhill.”

“Did he live in that house, do you know?”

“I don’t think he lives—lived—there. But I’ve seen him there several times. He has a—” Taylor broke off, stole a speculative glance at his interrogator. Hastings recognized that look, and knew its meaning. Taylor was deciding what to tell him—and what not to tell him.

“There’s a woman who lives there. They—I’ve seen them together, several times.”

Watching Taylor carefully, listening to his inflection as he pronounced
woman,
Hastings decided that Taylor was probably a homosexual.

“Do you know the woman’s name, Mr. Taylor?”

“No. I—she’s only lived there for a few months. But you shouldn’t have any trouble locating her. That building’s like this one. Three flats. Besides, after the—the shooting, she came outside. She talked to one of the policemen.”

“Describe this woman.”

“Well, she’s in her thirties, probably. Good-looking, I guess you’d say—” It was a grudging admission. Yes, almost certainly Taylor was gay.

“Dark hair? Light hair?”

“Dark hair. Lots of dark hair. And she drives one of those new little sports cars.” He frowned. “It’s Japanese. Red. Two-passenger.” The frown remained.