Muller, Marcia - [11] Trophies and Dead Things(v1.0)(html) (51 page)

And then the police arrived,"
I
said to Hank.

We were sitting at the round oak
table in All Souls' kitchen—a place where we'd sat for many an hour
over the years, rehashing aspects of his cases or mine, drinking wine
or coffee, chatting or talking seriously. Tonight the conversation was
of the serious variety. I'd called his flat as soon as I'd left the
crime scene, but reached only his answering machine; I'd then called
the co-op and found he was working late again. Now that I'd told him
all I could about Grant's murder, a lethargy was descending on me. I
felt as if I'd been without sleep for days.

He asked, "Who's the
investigating officer?"

"Leo McFate. You remember him—the
one when I was on that case for Willie—"

"I remember. An asshole. I
thought he'd transferred to the Intelligence Division."

"He did, but he's back on
Homicide now. Better he had stayed in Intelligence—he's a sneaky
bastard, and that's a sneaky detail." The Intelligence Division of the
SFPD had come under criticism for
spying on environmental, gay, and peace organizations that in no way
posed a threat to civil order or the public safety. In the sixties
operatives infiltrated meetings of civil-rights workers and antiwar
demonstrations;
a
year
ago it had been revealed that—despite a
1975 Police Commission ruling against such activity— during the 1984
Democratic Convention the division had spied on such diverse groups as
Solidarity with the People of El Salvador, the National Lawyers Guild,
and an independent taxi drivers' association that had threatened to
strike just as the delegates began to arrive in the city. To me, it
seemed a part of the department that McFate was especially well suited
to.

Hank said, "I'm surprised he
isn't up in Sacramento by now, doing something 'important.'" McFate was
a social climber with political aspirations.

"Yes, and I'm of two minds about
whether I'd want him there destroying the state, or down here annoying
me."

"I don't suppose he let you stick
around Grant's very long."

"He got me out of there as fast
as he could. Took a statement, told me to come down to the Hall and
sign it first thing tomorrow. He didn't seem particularly interested in
Grant's connection with Hilderly, or that Hilderly was one of the
sniper's victims. In fact, when I offered to share anything that I
might turn up in the course of dealing with the other heirs, he told me
that wouldn't be necessary."

"What's his problem, anyway?"

I smiled. "Well, part of it stems
from the fact that a while back he came on to me and I rebuffed him.
But the real problem is that—even though he's seen around town with
some of our most eligible women—underneath he doesn't like or trust any
of us."

Hank grunted
disapprovingly—whether at the concept of McFate coming on to me or at
that of a man who didn't like women, I couldn't tell.
 

I said, "I'm curious about
Hilderly's estate. What happens to Grant's share, since he didn't live
to sign that waiver?"

"There was a clause in the
original will to the effect that if any of the beneficiaries didn't
survive until the final distribution of the assets, his share would be
divided among the remaining beneficiaries. Fortunately, Hilderly copied
it in the holograph, so Grant's share won't be paid into his own
estate."

"Which is probably substantial,
anyway. I hope he left something to Angela Curtis. Even though she
loved him, it couldn't have been easy putting up with him. She deserves
recompense."

"You really disliked him, didn't
you?"

"He wasn't at all likable. Those
fetishes—" I broke off into a shudder and then a yawn.

Hank looked at his watch. "Almost
one-thirty. You want some more wine?"

"Half a glass. I'm still too
wired
to sleep." I stared out the window at the lights of downtown as Hank
went to the fridge and poured from the jug. "Hank, what about these
snipings and Grant's murder? Even the sniper striking at your house was
too coincidental for my taste, and now one of Hilderly's heirs has been
bludgeoned to death."

"That's the problem, though." He
returned to the table and set down our glasses. "Ballistics show the
snipings were all done with the same gun. And Grant's murder wasn't a
shooting. In fact, it sounds like a crime of passion, not at all
premeditated."

"I know. I could tell McFate was
looking at Angela Curtis for it, but I doubt he'll even try to build a
case. There were no traces of blood on her, and if she'd done it, she'd
have been covered with it."

"You said it looked as if Grant
was killed a while before you got there. She could have showered and
changed her clothes."

"And then waited for me, since
she knew I was due at nine, and faked hysteria." For a
moment I reviewed the scene when I'd arrived at Grant's. "No, I don't
think so. Her emotional reactions seemed genuine. For her sake, I hope
somebody remembers her from the movie theater."

We sipped wine in silence for a
few minutes. I was still thinking about the snipings. Something was
eluding me there—some connection I should have made. But I couldn't
force it. It would come together in its own good time or not at all.

After a bit Hank stirred and took
our empty glasses to the sink. "Better get going, huh? It's already
well into tomorrow, and I've got a full schedule."

I stood, stretched. "Me, too—I've
got to be in Berkeley at nine, which means going to the Hall to sign my
statement by seven-thirty, latest."

"What're you doing in
Berkeley?"

"Talking with the man who edited
the magazine Hilderly worked for. I'm hoping he can give me some
insight into Perry's past, his connection with Grant."

"Shar, you've
already located the heirs—"

 "I thought we agreed
that I'd pursue this
until we were certain Hilderly wasn't under duress or unduly influenced
when he wrote the holograph. Besides, the Hilderly angle is one that
McFate seems determined to ignore in investigating Grant's murder."

Hank hesitated, then nodded.
"Keep on it a while longer, then." As we went down the hall and I
picked up my jacket from where I'd left it on Ted's chair, he added,
"You always get so personally involved in your cases."

"And you don't?"

"Good point. Just be careful.
Don't tread on any sensitive toes at the Hall. You've got a license to
protect, and I'd miss having you around here."

As we started down the front
steps I smiled up at Hank. "I will tread as lightly as Ralph and
Alice—without leaving half the trail of destruction."

I didn't sleep well or long, due to recurring nightmares in which
feathers and bone and blood spatters figured prominently. By
seven-twenty I was at the Hall of Justice and had affixed my signature
to a typed statement about Grant's murder. Leo McFate was nowhere to be
seen; the officer with whom I dealt said he'd been there all night and
had gone to the Intelligence Division—his old stomping grounds—only
minutes before my arrival. Greg was in his cubicle, however, sifting
through a mound of paperwork. I went over there and tapped on the
glass. He looked up and motioned for me to enter.

"You're here early," he said as I sank onto his visitor's chair.

"I could say the same for you."

"Been here since six. Pressure's coming down about these snipings. I
hear you had quite an evening."

"McFate's already reported on the Grant case?"

He nodded. "And did a fair amount of grumbling about how my former lady
friend had managed to foul up one of his crime scenes."

My face became hot with anger. "Damn him!"

"Consider the source." Greg harbored no more goodwill toward McFate
than I did.

"I'd rather not." I dug in my bag, where earlier I'd placed the pouch
containing the gun I'd found at Hilderly's flat. Greg raised his
eyebrows when I set it on his desk blotter. Quickly I explained how I'd
come to have it. "Could you ask the lab to bring out that serial
number?"

"Why?"

"Knowing its history might shed some light on why Grant was murdered.
Or even why Hilderly was killed."

Greg looked doubtful, but he merely nodded. "Okay, I'll send it down. I
can't tell them to place priority on it, though."

"I don't expect you to. Another thing: may I take a second look at
those files on the snipings?"

"Again, why?"

"I have a feeling there's something I missed the other day."

His gaze suddenly turned inward, reminiscent. "You remember when we
first met, and I accused you in my sexist way of relying on woman's
intuition?"

I nodded.

"You were fiddling with a hair ribbon you'd had on, and without
noticing what you were doing, you twisted it into a little noose."

"That's right. I'd completely forgotten."

"Well, over the years I've come to realize it's just plain good
investigator's instincts you rely on. And I've come to trust them, too.
You're welcome to the files."

He picked up the phone receiver and asked that the files be brought in,
then made arrangements to have the gun sent to the lab. "You can use my
desk again," he added when he hung up. "I'm due in a meeting in fifteen
minutes and probably won't be back until afternoon. If there's anything
you need to tell me, call me then."

I watched him leave the cubicle, thinking that he looked not all that
different from the man who had made me want to hang him in the old
days. But underneath he had changed — become more mellow, plus a good
bit sadder and more cynical.

Well, hadn't we all? I thought as I moved around the desk and took his
chair.

When a clerk brought the files in, I began going over them in a great
deal more detail than I had earlier in the week. This time I paid
particular attention to the other three sniping victims.

The first victim — the restaurant employee — was Bob Smith. A common
name — perhaps false. I noted it on my legal pad, put a question mark
beside it. Smith's employment record was spotty: for the nine months
prior to his
death he'd worked
in food
preparation at a small pizza restaurant on Market Street; in the
fifteen years before that he'd sporadically held various food-service
jobs in Seattle, Portland, Salt Lake City, and Phoenix. His only
long-term employment—from 1967 to 1973—was with American Consolidated
Services of Fort Worth, Texas. I made a note to find out more about the
company. Smith had lived alone in a rooming house in the Outer Mission;
from police talks with the landlord and other tenants, the picture that
emerged of him was of a loner, a drifter, a man without family and
friends. Whatever I'd sensed I'd missed in the files did not have to do
with him.

The second victim was a nurse,
Mary Davis, birth name Johnson. Another common name. Davis had worked
at Children's Hospital in Laurel Heights less than two months before
she was shot while walking to her car on a quiet side street near the
crisis clinic where she'd been on night duty. Before that she'd done
psychiatric nursing at Letterman Army Hospital in the Presidio, and
S.F. General, There was an eight-year period of unemployment after her
1975 marriage, and in 1983 she'd attended City College for additional
training in the psychiatric nursing field. Before her marriage she'd
been with the American Red Cross from 1968 to 1974. Davis's family and
friends described her as a devoted wife and mother, good neighbor, and
active volunteer for an organization providing counseling for AIDS
patients.

I noted down several details
about Davis, feeling an idea begin to take shape.

The third sniping victim, John
Owens, was a veteran living on disability pay in a small home near the
beach in the Outer Sunset. His wife and friends described him as the
designated neighborhood repairman: he had a shop in his garage and was
a genius with balky machinery. The fact that he was confined to a
wheelchair due to injuries suffered in shelling near Saigon in 1972
didn't affect his ability to fix practically anything—
 

Vietnam again.

Hilderly had been there. So had
Hank and Willie. And John Owens. All roughly within the same time
frame. I checked my notes on Mary Davis: American Red Cross, 1968 to
1973. Had she also been over there? Bob Smith, too, maybe?

Embittered war protester knocking
off veterans eighteen or so years after they'd fought their war? No. It
sounded too much like the plot of a bad made-for-TV movie. Besides,
Hilderly and Davis hadn't been in the military. And Hank wasn't what
you'd call your typical vet. For that matter, neither was Willie.

I wished Greg were there so we
could talk it over; he was good at sorting out the possibilities from
the improbables. But he wouldn't be back until afternoon, and I had to
be in Berkeley in less than an hour.

What I needed was more
information. I picked up Greg's phone receiver and called Hank's flat;
only the machine answered. The same was true at Willie's house. I got
the number of his main store on Market Street from directory
assistance. Willie wasn't there, either, but I finally tracked him down
at the Daly City store, in conference with its manager.

I asked, "When will you be free?"

"Christ, McCone, I don't know.
I've got a full schedule today, going round to the stores."