The Fourth Motive (2 page)

“Was she…?”

“No,” Wendt reassured him. “As far as we can tell, Paige was not sexually assaulted.
But she was definitely attacked and terrorized.”

“What do you mean by ‘terrorized’?” The Judge looked up; his emotional moment had
passed. He was all business now and sought the facts of the case.

Wendt wasn’t surprised. Like most cops in the San Francisco Bay Area, he knew the
Judge’s reputation well. A figure of legal prominence since the mid-Fifties, Callen’s
exploits as a Municipal and Superior Court Judge were as legendary as the fiery man
himself.

“Iron Gene” Callen was a controversial and colorful character in the history of the
notoriously tolerant criminal justice system of the San Francisco Bay. A staunchly
law-and-order magistrate and fierce champion of the death penalty, Callen had made
his name during the turbulent Sixties. He was well known throughout San Francisco
Bay Area jurisprudence for his tendency toward maximum sentences when dropping the
gavel. Criminals who had the misfortune of finding themselves before Judge Callen
could count on the full weight of whatever the law allowed him to penalize them with.
This made him popular with cops, prosecutors, and victims, but reviled by defense
attorneys, criminal-rights advocates, and quite often the press.

The Judge’s clout wasn’t entirely in the legal arena, either. Callen’s early inroads
into Alameda real estate had earned him both great wealth and a formidable reputation
as a shrewd businessman. Only his lifelong disdain for politics prevented him from
rising to what many believed was his true calling: a seat on the California legislature.
He’d been personally asked to run for political office first by Governor Reagan, and
again by President Reagan.

Judge Callen’s flame had diminished somewhat with the death of his wife several years
ago, and his retirement from the Bench, not surprisingly, came shortly thereafter.
Their only child, Paige, was his pride and joy. Paige had followed in her father’s
legal footsteps and obtained her law degree from Berkeley’s Boalt Hall. Through Judge
Callen’s clout but without Paige’s knowledge, she was hired as a deputy district attorney
for the County of Alameda straight out of law school. Though not yet twenty-nine years
old, Paige had been assigned to the City of Alameda municipal courthouse for a little
over three years of the five she’d been a deputy DA.

“This is what we know,” Wendt began. Callen folded his hands over his cane.

“Apparently, your daughter was on the beach for her morning jog,” Wendt said. “Same
route she takes every day.”

“A habit instilled during our morning walks when she was a child,” Callen said. “Go
on.”

“Paige was running when struck from behind by an unknown assailant. She was listening
to music. She didn’t hear him approach due to her headphones. The guy was wearing
a hood and ski mask. She could tell he was Caucasian and thinks he’s at least twenty-five
or thirty years old. He knew her name and implied Paige should know him.”

“Accomplices?”

“Paige didn’t see one. Doesn’t mean there weren’t any. He pushed her face in the sand,
and she believed she was going to be suffocated.”

The Judge’s face became taut, but inside him a fury began to build. He remained outwardly
composed. “Continue.”

“The suspect struck her with the barrel of a revolver. He made a point of showing
her the gun. Then he aimed it at her head and said, ‘Goodbye’, or something similarly
final. He wanted Paige to believe she was going to be killed.”

Hard lines formed around Callen’s mouth. In a hoarse but calm voice, he asked, “Why
isn’t she dead, Sergeant?”

“It was a paintball gun, Your Honor.”

“A paint gun?”

Wendt shook his head. “This type of paint gun isn’t used to paint a house or car.
It’s an air gun manufactured to look and handle like a real gun, but instead uses
compressed air to fire a ball of dye intended to mark its target. Survivalist types
and gun nuts use them in simulated war games. Our departmental SWAT team sometimes
uses them in training. They’re not uncommon, and can be acquired at many sporting
goods stores.”

“That’s the orange gunk I saw on Paige’s face?”

“Right.”

“I don’t get it,” Callen said. “Why would someone assault Paige, choke her, hit her,
and then shoot her with a harmless ball of paint?”

Wendt paused, choosing his words carefully. “Your Honor,” he started, “remember when
I used the word ‘terrorized’ a moment ago? These paintball guns look exactly like
a real gun. For all Paige knew, she was about to be executed. That’s what I meant
by ‘terrorized’. It was deliberate. He was trying to make her think she was going
to die.”

Most of the color left the Judge’s face. He reached down with none-too-steady hands
and took a sip of coffee.

“I want this man found,” he said.

“We do, too. It looks pretty bad for the cops in this town if our own deputy DA is
assaulted and the crook gets away with it. But we don’t have much to go on. There
are no witnesses and no physical evidence. We don’t even have a motive.”

“What about the criminals she’s prosecuted?” Callen asked. “Isn’t that the logical
and obvious place to start?

“In theory, Your Honor, I would agree. But reality is a different story. Paige has
been a deputy DA, here and in Oakland, for over five years. She’s prosecuted hundreds
of cases. You want me to go through every case she’s ever handled in Alameda Superior
Court? Even if I had the manpower to do that, which I don’t, how do we know when we
find him? Besides, we don’t even know if the attack is linked to her job. It could
be anyone from an ex-boyfriend to a random creep who spotted her and took a fancy.
Unless we can narrow the scope of the suspect pool, the possibilities are endless.”

“So you’re going to do nothing? Is that it?” This time it took greater effort for
the Judge to maintain his impassive demeanor.

“Hell no, Your Honor. I’m going to do everything I can to nail this bastard. But you’ve
got to be prepared for the worst.”

“What do you mean, ‘the worst’? I don’t like the sound of that.”

Wendt let out a slow breath and sat back in his chair. “What I meant is that our best
chance to get this guy is probably going to be in the act. If he tries again and if
we’re ready for him.”

“And if you’re not?” Callen demanded.

“He may never try again,” Wendt offered. “This might have been a one-time deal. Or
maybe we’ll get a break and it’ll turn out to be an ex-boyfriend or someone else from
her past. All I’m saying is there aren’t any certainties. We’ll do the usual investigative
stuff and interview Paige’s neighbors and co-workers. We’ll check the local sporting
goods stores for recent paintball gun purchases. But I don’t want you to get your
hopes up. We don’t have much at this point.”

“I know how police investigations are conducted, Sergeant,” Callen said sternly, his
eyes flashing, “and I’m more than aware of their limitations.”

“I didn’t mean to imply you didn’t,” Wendt said.

Callen cooled his stare. Like Wendt, he sat back in his chair.

“I’m not trying to argue with you, Sergeant,” he said, deliberately softening his
features and tone to conceal the plans he was already hatching to take matters into
his own hands. “I’m just an old man trying to protect his only child. I’m confident
your department will do everything within the law to bring justice to bear.”

In truth, the Judge wasn’t confident. A lifetime of watching criminals escape justice
on a daily basis had left him with no illusions about what the police could do to
protect his daughter.

Wendt was immediately on guard. He knew Judge Callen’s reputation too well to swallow
the sudden switch from challenge to condescension, and he could see the plotting lights
in the older man’s eyes when he spoke. The detective sergeant sympathized; if someone
threatened one of his kids, he’d do anything he could, the law be damned, to keep
them safe. But he had a job to do, and keeping the victim’s father from interfering
in a felony investigation was part of it.

“I know what you’re thinking, Your Honor,” he said. “You need to leave this to us.
You understand that, don’t you?”

“I understand perfectly.” The Judge stood up. “Don’t let me keep you from your work,
Sergeant. Thank you for explaining the status of the case to me.”

Wendt stood also. “I’m sorry for what happened to your daughter. Know that we’ll be
giving this case top priority. If there is anything I can do for you–”

“Actually, there is,” the Judge cut him off. “I’d like to be kept apprised of the
investigation as it progresses. Say, a daily phone call?”

Wendt knew he didn’t have the power to refuse the Judge’s request. He was more than
aware his police chief and Callen were thick as thieves, and even if he were to decline
to reveal the details of the investigation, the well-connected old judge could easily
obtain the information from any number of other sources within the department. At
least if the daily report to Callen was coming from him, Wendt could edit the information
as needed.

“Of course. Call me anytime.” He handed the Judge one of his business cards.

Judge Callen started for the door. With some effort, he pivoted on his cane and turned
back to the Alameda detective.

“I have one more question, if you don’t mind?”

“Not at all,” Wendt replied warily.

“Do you believe, professionally or personally, that the attack on my daughter today
is a ‘one-time deal’ as you said?”

Wendt studied his fingernails for a moment before answering.

“No, Your Honor. He’ll be back.”

“I thought the same. Good day, Sergeant.”

 

   

CHAPTER 3

 

 

Ray Cowell cursed loudly and slammed his fist into the dashboard of his Hyundai sedan
as the flashing blue lights of an Alameda police motorcycle reflected in his rearview
mirror. He braked sharply and checked his speedometer, which read an unpleasant forty-four
miles per hour. Ray pulled to the curb and eased his car to a halt.

The motorcycle, a big Harley-Davidson, pulled in behind his car and its rider dismounted.
Ray glanced nervously at the gym bag sitting innocently on the passenger seat next
to him. The motorcycle officer, a broad-shouldered Caucasian with a light complexion,
was almost at his door.

“Good morning, sir. May I see your driver’s license and registration, please?”

Reaching for his wallet, Ray replied, “Certainly, Officer. Did I do something wrong?”

Accepting the license, the cop ignored Ray’s question until he had ensured the image
adorning the document matched the face of the car’s driver.

“I stopped you for speeding, Sir. Do you know how fast you were going?”

“I was only doing twenty-five, Officer. That’s the speed limit here on Lincoln Avenue.
I know because I take this route every day to work.”

“Sir, I clocked you on radar at over forty miles per hour. I’m going to have to issue
you a citation. Please wait here.”

Ray felt his blood begin to boil. As the motorcycle cop turned to walk back to his
bike to write the ticket, Ray got out of his car.

“Hey, Officer, wait a minute…–”

The cop whirled to face Ray with a speed that startled him.

“Sir, I told you to remain in your vehicle. It’s for your own safety and mine.”

The cop strode from Ray to his Harley, opened the saddlebag, and brought out a black
leather citation book. He began to write.

“Officer,” Ray called out, his voice rising. “I wasn’t speeding. This is total bullshit.
Why don’t you fill your quota with somebody who deserves a ticket? You only pulled
me over because I’m a white guy and have the money to pay the fine. Why don’t you
hassle one of the niggers or Mexicans? Why are you picking on me?”

The cop ignored the racist jab and continued scrawling his citation. Ray wouldn’t
let it go.

“That’s right. You heard me. I know how gutless you cops are. Too afraid to pull over
a nigger or a car full of Mexicans, so you hammer the law-abiding taxpayer. You only
pulled me over because I’m white,” he repeated.

“That’s odd,” the cop replied sarcastically. “My radar gun must be malfunctioning.
I had it set on ‘Asian’.” He made an elaborate gesture of picking up his radar gun
and examining it. “My mistake; the radar gun is working fine.” He looked directly
at Ray. “It was set on ‘Asshole’.”

Ray fumed. He took several steps towards the officer. The cop set the radar gun and
his citation book down on the motorcycle seat.

“I already told you to remain in your car.”

“It’s a free country. I’ll stand wherever I want.” Ray’s entire body was pulsing with
fury. He folded his arms and glared at the cop.

The Alameda cop strode forcefully up to Ray. Ray suddenly noticed that while the cop
was about his height of five-foot-ten-inches, he was at least thirty pounds heavier
than Ray’s one hundred and fifty-five pounds. Most of it looked like muscle.

“You’re right; it’s a free country,” the cop said, “and you can stand wherever you
want. But if you take one more step closer to me, you’re going to be enjoying your
freedom in the hospital. And then jail. Do I make myself clear?”

Ray was trembling with rage but held his tongue. The last thing he needed was to get
arrested. It had been such a good day until now, and he didn’t want to ruin it with
his temper. His temper was always getting the best of him; that’s what his ex-girlfriend
Maritay used to say.

“I’m sorry, Officer,” Ray said, his tone calmer. “I’m upset. I think you’re making
a mistake on my speed. I just went to court last month on another bogus ticket one
of your buddies gave me.”