by Martin Brown
Chapter Sixteen
Only moments after Rob slipped the cell phone back into his pocket, he could hear the sirens echoing through Sausalito as emergency vehicles began their journey from the bayside flats up into the hills.
There was, of course, no real cause for the sound and light show. Its only possible benefit was to remind taxpayers that their police and emergency service team were busy serving the public. The cacophony of howling dogs set off by the high-pitched noise only added to the community’s sense of curiosity and excitement.
In less than a minute, half of the town was staring out windows to see what was causing the fuss. Two minutes later, the sirens whined to a halt in front of Warren’s humble cottage.
Rob greeted Chief Hans Petersen, Patrol Officer Steve Hansen, and three members of the city's fire and rescue squad with handshakes all around. There was a strained professional posture Rob and Petersen struck whenever in each other’s presence. Rob was continually expecting Petersen's team to stumble, and Petersen was hoping to give a longstanding critic of his work no new ammunition.
“Warren’s weekly column was due at the paper no later than noon today," Rob began, knowing of the long and close relationship that Bradley had with Petersen and his officers.
"Last night, he called and left a message assuring me that he’d have his column in on time. I tried reaching him by phone several times this afternoon when the column did not appear. After I sent the Sausalito edition to the printer, I thought I’d drive up here before heading home for the night, to check up on him. I found him out here on the back porch swing.”
Petersen sauntered over to where, from a distance, Warren looked like he was comfortably enjoying the evening lights coming on across the bay.
“Well, look at that! Give him a glass of Chardonnay and a plate of that dilled salmon he liked to make, and you would think he was just out here enjoying the view and taking in the evening air,” Petersen said, as he circled the swing slowly.
Pompous ass! Rob thought.
“Well that’s the end of those gourmet luncheons he brought us once a month,” Hansen said while crouching down to study Warren’s frozen face. It seemed grayer than it had appeared to Rob when he first arrived, but perhaps that was just a result of the fading daylight.
“How come Bradley never brought us any lunches? All we got was those damn pancakes for our annual benefit breakfast,” EMT officer Dave Nichols asked.
“Because you couldn’t tell him what was going on around town,” Hansen sneered.
“Okay, knock off the bullshit, we’ve got work to do,” Petersen barked.
“What now?” Rob asked, thinking about going home. Although sitting down to dinner seemed pointless since his appetite had vanished.
Petersen shrugged. “Given the fact that the body is colder than Santa's elves on Christmas Eve, I think it’s time we get a call in to the county coroner.”
Hansen went back to his squad car to call dispatch. A few minutes later, he walked back to the group, shaking his head. “There’s been a crash up in Novato on 101—two fatalities. The coroner is up there now. Dispatch requested that we take the body up to the morgue since we’re dealing with a pretty clear case of death by natural causes.”
“Okay, boys,” Nichols said to the two other members of his emergency rescue team, “Let’s get Mr. Bradley on a stretcher and roll him out of here.”
“Beats bagging and tagging, which is what you get when the coroner’s people show up,” Petersen said quietly to Rob, patting him on the shoulder.
Rob smiled and thought, for all Petersen knows Warren and I were longtime friends and colleagues. Assuming the same as Petersen—that Rob viewed Warren as a fallen comrade—Nichols wanted to remove the body in the most respectful manner possible. He came up behind the body and slid his hands under Warren’s armpits and linked them together in the center of his chest.
“Grab both his feet,” Nichols directed one of his crew. “We’re going to lift him up and over the back of this swing.” He then turned to Petersen and Hansen and said, “I’m going to need you guys to back us up. Get on either side of the body and bring the swing forward while we lift him up and out. Depending on how long he’s been out here—I guess more than twelve hours—the amount of rigor mortis that has set in won’t make this any easier.”
Rob’s throat tightened as he wondered just how gruesome this was going to get. His feet were ready to walk away, but his mind told him to stay. He was no crime reporter, but Rob wasn’t the kind of journalist who only wrote a once-weekly gardening column, and he certainly didn’t want to appear as such.
Just a couple of steps behind the swing, the stretcher was set up—flat, and in a lifted and locked position; Nichols took a deep breath and gave a pull. Warren was no more than five-foot eight-inches and probably one hundred and seventy pounds. Still, a body that’s been sitting for that long is not easy to lift.
After a couple of tries, Nichols and his partner, Hal Michaels, decided on plan B.
“Let’s lower the gurney and bring it around to the front of the swing. We’ll move the body forward. At least that way, gravity will be on our side.”
It was easier, particularly when they decided not to be overly concerned that the body would take a couple of bangs between sliding off the porch swing and onto the gurney. Petersen stepped in and raised the rail on the outer side of the gurney, fearful of what Rob might write if Warren’s body rolled forward off the stretcher and onto the porch.
By now, twilight had turned into night. It was awkward and unnerving for Rob to watch what he realized was no easy feat. In spite of all their best efforts, Warren's body nearly missed the stretcher, but Petersen and Hansen were prepared to stop it from doing that. The commotion caused both of Warren’s arms to fall free of his jacket’s pockets. The EMT officers were too busy steadying the body on the stretcher and preparing to strap it down to notice the curious sight that caused Petersen to bark out, “What the hell?” while he was in the middle of rhapsodizing to Rob over his two favorite Warren Bradley dishes.
Petersen pulled a flashlight out of Hansen’s equipment belt, who turned to see what had captured his boss’s attention. The flashlight illuminated the bottom of Warren’s right sleeve. It hung there, several inches below Warren’s arm as if he were a child in an oversized coat.
Now that Petersen had everyone’s attention, he walked around the stretcher. On the opposite side of the gurney he ran the flashlight up to look inside Warren’s left jacket sleeve.
“Okay, everyone freeze,” Petersen declared. “We’re standing in the middle of a crime scene. I’m sure we’ve already contaminated it, so let’s step away from the body and give this a little thought.”
“What are you talking about, Chief?” Nichols asked.
“Let me put it to you directly: when people die of natural causes, they get to keep both their hands—something Mr. Bradley here has lost.”
After slipping on a pair of blue nitrile gloves, Petersen pushed up Bradley's sleeves.
Rob could not believe what he was seeing, but it was true. Both of Warren Bradley’s hands were missing.
Over the next few hours, all the usual things that happen at a crime scene occurred.
While the thought briefly occurred to Petersen to put the body back on the porch swing as close to the pose it was in when they arrived on the scene, that seemed impractical, particularly considering Rob was standing nearby watching their every move.
Why me, God? Petersen thought. His retirement was scheduled for late October, less than six months away.
More Sausalito police cars arrived, as well as two from the sheriff’s department. One carried Eddie Austin.
Finally, a little after ten, the coroner arrived. Several times Petersen explained how the missing hands had gone unnoticed until the body was placed onto the stretcher. Each time he retold the story it was received with a shake of the head and a look of surprise from both Eddie and the coroner.
Shortly
after eleven, Bradley’s body was finally on its way to the morgue, and his small cottage was wrapped with yellow CRIME SCENE tape.
In the thick brush below Bradley’s home, a coyote wandering through the canyon came upon Warren’s missing hands. The animal had been attracted by the subtle scent of sausage and porcini ragu with just a hint of a mixed fruit cobbler. In little time this lean, hungry beast devoured all but a few scraps of critical evidence and then moved on.
Those spare bits of flesh and bone—all that remained of the famous chef’s two talented hands—were carried off at daybreak by a vulture patrolling the hills of Sausalito searching for unexpected treats.
Chapter Seventeen
That night, Rob and Karin slept only four hours, having stayed up until two in the morning discussing the bizarre details of Warren Bradley’s murder.
In the hope that the fresh air might revive his tired mind, Rob walked down to his office, located in an old Victorian on Princess Street, just three blocks beyond the hub of the city's tourist center.
Rob steeled himself for what he knew would be the first of several long days. It was Wednesday, and The Sausalito Standard would arrive in homes in a few hours. What would be missing from this edition was likely destined to be this year’s biggest story.
“Damn it,” Rob repeatedly mumbled to himself with his hands shoved into the pockets of a light tweed sports jacket. He remained oblivious to the birds chirping their greeting to a lovely blue morning and the sun rising over the hills of the East Bay. Among other things, Bradley’s killer was undoubtedly guilty of lousy timing. Rob knew, however, that this was the unavoidable reality in publishing a weekly newspaper, particularly in an age of instant communication. Just as it is with any endeavor, luck and timing play a significant role.
Having been the person who discovered Bradley’s body, this simple reality was particularly painful. The Sausalito Standard’s lead story this week was: “Parks and Recreation Commission Reviews Plans for Proposed Improvements to Dunphy Park.”
Not nearly the conversation starter he would have had with a headline like: “Sausalito Columnist Warren Bradley Found Murdered.”
Rob knew, however, he had to focus on getting out the rest of The Standard’s other weekly editions. At the same time, he couldn’t help but wonder when the county’s daily newspaper, The Independent, would send a reporter to cover Bradley’s murder.
There was, however, a silver lining. The dailies, the local TV anchors, and radio newscasters no doubt would be all over the Bradley story for the next twenty-four hours. Afterward, there would be another dramatic story to cover: A body found floating in the bay; a politician found with someone else’s spouse, money, or both; perhaps a bank heist, or a traffic pile up on the Richardson Bridge.
By next week’s local edition of The Standard, he’d be the only reporter covering the Bradley murder investigation—
And that story would continue to hold his local readers’ attention, at least until it was brought to a resolution.
Depending on how the investigation unfolded, Bradley’s slaying could be The Standard’s top story for weeks to come, and local readers would be waiting anxiously for their community weekly to arrive with the only detailed and ongoing coverage of this story.
When Rob dragged his tired body and frazzled mind up the long narrow steps to his offices on the Victorian’s second floor, Holly was already there waiting breathlessly for him.
“Good God you’re here early.”
“I called Karin. She told me you were already on your way down here. I tried your cell when I heard about Warren, but you didn’t pick up. Karin told me you were there—and that you saw the body! How cool is that? Pretty gruesome, huh?”
“Who told you Bradley was killed?”
“One of my neighbors. I ran into her as I was going across the street to pick up some bread and eggs to make for my breakfast. She’d heard it from two cops on Bridgeway. She passes them every morning on their way down to Café Divino for their morning lattes and bagels.” Holly’s brown eyes were twinkling, and her short black curly hair bounced up and down as she talked. She was as excited as a kid on the first day of summer vacation.
Rob knew she’d never been a fan of Warren’s. Every time she mentioned his name, it came with a descriptive, most often, “that mean, sneaky little man.” Nor had she ever been a fan of his column. But to Holly and Rob—and most likely nearly all longtime residents—the mystery surrounding Warren’s death would quickly turn the gossiping gourmet into the community’s top celebrity.
One of The Standard’s two phone lines began to ring. Seconds later, the other started. Rob’s cell phone started to vibrate, and then Holly’s cell phone went off as well.
“It's going to be a long day,” Holly said as she rushed to answer one of the calls.
In the first couple of hours, their phones never ceased. The one voice Rob was happy to hear was that of Eddie Austin.
“So you’ve been assigned to the case?”
Eddie snorted. “Duh, yeah.”
“Can you stop up at the office?”
“Yep. In fact, I’m two minutes away. I’ve got a few questions for you. Right now, you’re my number one suspect.”
Rob’s throat went dry. “Me?”
“Sure, buddy! You had motive and opportunity. Bradley wrote a lousy column, and you wanted to get rid of him. It happens all the time in your business. You dirty rat!”
“Very funny,” Rob mumbled. “I'm a lot of things, but a killer is not one of them.”
“Relax! It’s just a working theory. It’s not like we’re ready to issue a warrant for your arrest,” Eddie laughed before clicking off.
Although Rob and Eddie grew up just blocks apart and saw each other regularly throughout their time at Bayside Elementary School, it wasn’t until they both won spots on Tam High’s junior varsity basketball team that they became inseparable.
Their parents always laughed about the fact that they had mirror image families. Rob had a sister, Lisa, who was two years his junior. Eddie had an older sister— Andrea, who was two years his senior.
They were born one week apart, with Eddie being the older with a late July birthday. Although they went their separate ways at San Francisco State—Rob into journalism and Eddie into criminal justice—the two stayed very close. In fact, Eddie served as Rob’s best man when he married Karin, and Rob was Eddie’s best man when he married Sharon.
Eddie’s parents, like Rob’s, chose a different place than Sausalito to retire. Rob’s parents headed south to San Diego, whereas Eddie’s parents headed north, retiring in Spokane, Washington, where Eddie’s mom had grown up.
Usually, at the end of a long workweek, they’d meet for beers at the town’s neighborhood dive bar, Smitty’s. There, Eddie and Rob, often with Holly joining them, would joke about some of the “small-minded nitwits” who too often dominated their hometown’s daily chatter.
Local politics alone provided them, and the town as a whole, with their theater of the absurd. For decades, the town’s city council had been a source of jokes and wonderment throughout the county. Fights broke out regularly among councilmembers, often during public meetings. Actual physical injuries were rare, but feuds were frequent and could last a decade or longer. After one of these fights, Rob, in a Standard editorial, labeled Sausalito “Baghdad by the Bay,” which became an oft-repeated joke that generated laughs for months afterward.
Most assumed that at least three or four of the city’s five councilmembers were taking money or other favors in exchange for their votes. One development project, for a small bed and breakfast establishment, for example, would sail through the planning process and win council approval, to be followed six months later with an all but identical project being killed in committee.
It became common knowledge that a project, which could be anything from opening a new tourist trinket shop to the building of a mega hillside home, would fare better in the hands of one of the council majority’s f
avored architects, attorneys, or real estate agents. This and more helped to reinforce Sausalito’s reputation as “the meanest little town in the west.”
But, for all the in-fighting, nasty gossip, adulterous affairs, viciously thrown insults, and occasionally thrown punches, murder was a rare occurrence in Sausalito.
Most of Eddie’s homicides came from the few pockets of poverty and crime in the county. In the towns The Standard covered—Sausalito, Belvedere, Tiburon, Mill Valley, Larkspur, Corte Madera, Kentfield, and Ross—people might have expressed a desire to kill their neighbors, but acting on that impulse was extremely rare. The last homicide investigation in Sausalito was several years earlier. It ended quickly when a jealous lover confessed to what she described as “a crime of passion.” She ran over her adulterous husband in the family’s steep driveway, which she first claimed to be “a tragic accident.”
Eddie was still chuckling to himself as he entered The Standard’s offices.
Despite the deadline to prep tomorrow’s edition of the Mill Valley paper, which was due at the printers by four that afternoon, Rob and Holly were eager to hear any news Eddie might bring.
“I’ll tell you two, right up front—this case is going to take a while,” Eddie claimed with certainty.
Rob was pleased to hear that, hoping the Bradley case would boost readership for weeks to come. “If you’re right about that,” Rob began with a smile, “then the Ladies of Liberty—also known as the nearly deaf and almost dead—are going to go wild. Warren was their poster boy! They’ll be organizing protests outside of Sausalito police headquarters, demanding answers. More importantly, demanding an arrest.”
