by Martin Brown
“Like I care,” Eddie retorted with a laugh. “The sheriff’s offices are in Marin City, and up in San Rafael. Your fair ladies won’t be showing up in either of those locations anytime soon. Come on, admit it, Rob. A headache for Chief Petersen is usually entertainment for you.”
Holly’s eyes opened wide. “Don’t those clowns have some clues as to who may have killed that nasty old gossipmonger?”
“Hey, watch that, Holly. I’m working the Bradley case too. I'm on loan from the sheriff's office to the Sausalito PD until they can clear this case. Right now, I’m included in that group of 'clowns' without clues.” At the thought of working closely with the Sausalito PD, Eddie shook his head. “To be honest, there’s not a hell of a lot of evidence at the murder scene and it certainly is an oddball case! The twist of Bradley’s missing hands, if nothing else, are going to make this an ongoing story.
“Rob finds old walrus puss on his porch swing, enjoying a bit of fresh air. The only thing wrong is that he’s cold as ice. The guy is seventy-two, perhaps a little on the young side for a fatal stroke or heart attack, but certainly nothing out of the ordinary. Petersen and the EMT boys can’t get the county coroner, so they’re happy to take him up to the morgue and get back to their coffee maker, donuts, and computer games. Then we hit a snag—the nicely dressed gentleman’s two arms end just above his wrists. No hands. So, where are the hands?”
Rob and Holly, transfixed by Eddie's retelling of the facts, merely shook their heads and shrugged their shoulders.
“We can’t find any hands, and we’ve got four of Sausalito’s finest—I use that term loosely—looking for them. As we speak, they’re walking through that thick brush under Bradley’s house.”
“I’d be happy to lend you a hand, but my day job keeps me pretty busy,” Holly said with a smile.
“Somehow, Holly, I knew you couldn’t resist saying that,” Eddie declared.
“Why was there no blood?" Holly asked. "I’ve got to figure that getting your hands whacked off would cause a bloody mess.”
“The theory we’re working on now is that Bradley was suffocated, most likely with a pillow, shortly after midnight,” Eddie explained. “In all likelihood, the killer spent twenty, or thirty minutes, rummaging through his place looking for something, then wiped the whole place clean of any prints. Our working theory is after he did all that, he decided to take Bradley’s hands as a souvenir. Or maybe, he didn’t want us to have his victim’s fingerprints. I already checked and found there are no prints for Bradley on file. Now, remember, Rob, all this happened approximately nineteen hours before you went to check on him. But, as far as blood, Holly, dead people don’t bleed.”
“Of course!” Holly said pushing Rob’s arm with her elbow. “I should have known that from all the murder mysteries I read.”
“When the heart stops pumping, the blood that flows out of us quits soon after. It's not much time before it turns into a thick goop and stays inside the arteries and veins. You can get some leakage, depending on gravity and the position of the body, but that’s about it. In all likelihood, Bradley’s hands were cut off thirty minutes or longer after he died. And in Bradley’s house, the gourmet chef that he was, there were several utensils that could've done the job. Most likely it was…” Eddie paused and flipped open his notepad, “...a Victorinox Forschner Rosewood meat cleaver, which we assume the killer found where he left it, sitting on the kitchen counter. It looked spotless, but it was one of many items we bagged for the lab team to take a closer look at.”
“Eww! Kind of like scalping him, only different!” Holly’s eyes opened wide.
She sat down at her computer. In a moment, her screen filled with the cleaver maker’s product description, which she enthusiastically read aloud: “‘A high carbon stainless steel blade made to the highest standards by expertly trained Swiss craftsmen. This product is ideal for cutting through joints and bones.’ Double eww!”
“You’re enjoying this a little too much,” Rob muttered. But from his grin, he seemed just as amused as annoyed.
“I’ll tell you this much,” Eddie continued, “This killer was no amateur. A whack job, for sure, but not a sloppy one. If his only aim was to kill Bradley, suffocation potentially leaves no telltale signs. Unless there was a struggle, there’s a reasonable chance he would have gotten away with it. The house shows no sign of a fight and no sign of forced entry. That being said, the hands were taken as souvenirs. Or, perhaps in a brief death struggle, Bradley scratched the arms of his assailant. Skin or fiber evidence can be hard to completely clean out from under fingernails, so you could argue that the killer wanted to walk away with what might have been critical evidence.”
“Maybe the hands were taken as a cult thing, or maybe it’s a warning,” Holly reasoned.
Rob and Eddie exchanged glances. They could tell Holly loved playing the role of junior detective.
“Or maybe someone was angry enough about some of the columns Bradley wrote that they cut off his hands as an act of revenge,” Holly continued. “Those hands of Bradley's could be hanging as souvenirs in someone's home at this very moment, right here in Sausalito," she added with an obvious sense of growing excitement.
“Let’s not forget that the killer took the time to make his victim quite presentable. He propped him up on the porch swing like a department store mannequin,” Eddie replied. “So unless the killer had someone else there to help, we’re dealing with an individual with a respectable degree of strength.”
“Wow. This is going to stir up some crazy stuff,” Rob declared with obvious excitement. “Just imagine, Holly, the increased ad sales for the paper if this case remains unsolved for weeks! This might turn out to be the best thing that blabbermouth ever did for this newspaper!”
“You’re right, Rob” Holly admitted with a mischievous grin. “But you probably don’t want to put that thought into print.”
Chapter Eighteen
It was increasingly difficult for Rob to keep his focus on news stories such as “Remodeled Children’s Section of the Mill Valley Library Announced,” or “Ross Common Landscaping Budget Dispute Enters Second Month.”
As he anticipated, Sausalito was in a twist over the Bradley murder.
By Friday afternoon, less than seventy-two hours after the discovery of Warren’s body, Alma sent a letter to The Standard, co-signed by each member of the Ladies of Liberty, demanding increased funding for the Bradley investigation.
“One of our community’s most distinguished citizens has been cut down in his prime,” she wrote. “We are bereft at the loss of a charming and gifted neighbor. Can we honestly believe that any of us are safe in our homes while this deranged killer remains at large? Dark and menacing forces must not be allowed to envelop our peaceful corner of a troubled world!”
Borrowing from Shakespeare, Alma concluded, “This case of murder most foul must be guided to a swift and satisfactory conclusion by the joint efforts of our police and civic leaders! Their actions now will reassure us, or deprive us, of the confidence and trust we have placed in them.”
“Wow,” Holly said to Rob while reading over his shoulder. “‘Cut down in his prime?’ He was over seventy! Maybe she meant prime in tortoise years. We’ve got no shortage of reader comments for the letters section this week. Half of our writers want to know why the cops haven’t arrested Grant Randolph.”
“I’ve probably got to go with a couple of them," Rob said. "But I don’t want to add to the hysteria by running a page worth of letters calling for Randolph’s arrest. The thing that worries me, even more, is right now we don’t have much of a story beyond what the dailies have covered over the past two days.”
Just about everyone in Sausalito—except the police—had a theory about Bradley’s slaying.
Eddie had theories as well. But because his job was to deal in fact, not mere supposition, he found himself on a frustrating ride that, at least to this point, was taking him nowhere.
As was their custom, every
Friday after work, he, Rob, and Holly ended their week with a drink at Smitty’s. Together, they’d have a couple of drinks and toast the start of the coming weekend.
They weren’t in much danger of being overheard. It was a quiet time of day inside the poorly lit bar, which catered on late weekday afternoons mostly to ancient mariners and longtime Sausalito residents who preferred to share a drink in the company of familiar faces as opposed to the myriad of day visitors who patronized the few bars on Bridgeway. In every sense, Smitty's lived up to its reputation as a neighborhood dive bar, and its patrons liked it that way.
While Smitty’s was half empty in the late afternoon, in another four hours, it would be packed and pulsing to old-fashioned rock ‘n roll blaring from a jukebox. The place had the permanent scent of beer, sweat, cheap perfume, and aftershave.
Noting that Rob was already there but alone, Eddie asked, "Where's your partner in crime?"
"Told me she had a date and rushed out the door at four-thirty. I never complain when she wants out a little early on a Friday. Most days she's already at her desk working before I get into the office around eight."
"She's a keeper, Rob," Eddie said, lifting his Guinness beer in salute.
“Any progress with the Bradley case?” Rob asked as he raised his Guinness as well and tapped Eddie's.
“Not much. Some plausible theories about the time and sequence of the murder, but killer and motive, all pretty slim at this point.” Shaking his head, Eddie grimaced in frustration.
“I’d love to come up with something more than what the dailies had over the last week.”
As Rob anticipated, for the San Francisco media the story had already lost its allure. If not for the gruesome detail that the victim was missing both his hands, it would have died in less than twenty-four hours. But now, with nothing new to report, the story was sitting quietly on the back burner, awaiting an arrest.
After a long, thoughtful pause, Eddie said, “We’ve got some interesting pieces, but we don’t know at this point how they fit into the bigger picture.”
“Like what?”
"It might not be of help, but it's certainly of interest. Bradley had at least two guests the night he died. One was Ray Sirica.”
“Whoa! That’s Randolph’s pal! You know, the one who wrote that great letter to The Standard complaining about Bradley. I loved it when he called Warren out as ‘the gossiping gourmet.’ It certainly gave Holly and me a good laugh.”
“That’s the guy,” Eddie said. “I can only imagine the stir that letter would have continued to cause if Bradley had not been dispatched to that great culinary institute in the sky.”
“So, who spotted Ray Sirica?”
“Around six-forty-five on Monday evening, one of Bradley’s neighbors was walking his dog. He recognized Ray as he drove by, and he followed the car down to the end of Prospect as it pulled into Bradley’s carport.”
“How did you hear about this?"
“I worked the neighbors for anything of interest. You never know when someone sees something that they think is nothing but it turns out to be something; or, they want to keep a low profile, so they get nervous about calling in a tip, which is often the case in a murder investigation.”
“You think it might be a break in the case?” Rob asked eagerly.
“No, news hawk, but it’s something. When you don’t have much to go on, you’re happy to follow any scrap of information that's thrown your way.”
“Having been there the night of the murder, did Sirica come forward to the police?”
“No. I went looking for him. I spoke with him Thursday afternoon at his home. He seemed a little uneasy. But I could see why. He goes up to plead with Bradley, as he explained, in the hope of getting Grant Randolph out of his crosshairs. You know, the old ‘can’t you find anyone else to write about.’ The next thing Sirica knows, Bradley is found murdered.”
“But you think there’s no chance Sirica is your guy?”
“The timing is way off. A neighbor who was putting out the trash around nine-thirty that night saw the lights on at Bradley’s place. A door or window must have been open because he’s confident he heard voices and the sound of Bradley laughing. One more reason—Sirica’s story holds up that he spoke to Warren for ten minutes, got nowhere, and left. It seems pretty doubtful that Warren invited Sirica to stay for dinner and the two shared a lovely evening together. So, this begs the question: Who was Sausalito’s gossiping gourmet entertaining the night he died?"
“I agree with you. It’s unlikely it was Sirica," Rob said with a short laugh. "Does Sirica suspect his buddy, Randolph?”
“He didn’t say, but by the way he flinched when I spoke of Randolph, I think it’s pretty likely the thought has crossed Sirica’s mind. Then again, half the pinheads in town think Randolph killed Bradley, particularly after the public confrontation they had at Sausalito's nutty night at the opera.”
“Trust me; if Karin and I knew that confrontation was going to happen, we would have gone in spite of the music.”
Eddie snorted. “You and me both! By the way, and keep this to yourself for now, I learned from Sirica that Randolph and his wife flew to New York City Wednesday morning, hours after you discovered Warren’s body.”
“Wow, wait until Alma and her pals hear about that.”
“I don’t think that will take too long to get out there. News, good or bad, travels pretty fast in this town, with or without the help of your newspaper’s late columnist.”
“Well, they’re not going to like hearing Grant Randolph slipped out of town.”
“That’s fine with me. While Alma’s brigade is out there chasing shadows, I’ve got to stay focused on the facts of this case.”
“What else?” Rob asked with a hint of desperation in his voice.
“Right now, I—and our friends at the Sausalito PD—have little more than that. It’s not all that surprising. Bradley’s house is at the very end of a poorly lit street and the sight lines into his place stink, making it more difficult than usual to get information out of Sausalito's usually nosey neighbors.” Eddie leaned in. “There is one other thing, however. The Marin County Medical Examiner, Max Brownstein, suspects death by suffocation, and it’s highly probable the old boy never knew what hit him. Most often, when a person has a pillow held over their face, there will be signs of a struggle, such as bruising to the victim’s cheeks and mouth, perhaps even a broken nose, if the killer has to apply enough pressure to subdue a struggling victim. Most commonly, there is DNA in the form of skin and hair from the killer under the victim’s fingernails—evidence we obviously lack with Warren’s hands having vanished. Additionally, Bradley’s face doesn’t show any bruising, which means he was sound asleep, drunk, or most likely both, when he was murdered.”
“What will you do about Randolph?”
“For now, we’ll keep him on our radar. In the old west, a dispute like the one he had with Bradley might have ended in a gunfight. Today, it ends when both parties grow tired of exchanging insults. Or they get tired of paying their attorneys to exchange insults for them.”
Rob was still hoping for a different angle for the coming week's coverage of Bradley’s slaying. To loosen Eddie’s tongue a little more, Rob said, “Let me get you another beer.”
Eddie happily agreed.
When two more beers were delivered, Rob toasted, “To murder most foul!”
Eddie nodded and smiled. “Even minus the victim’s hands, these aren’t usual circumstances we’re dealing with. No facial wounds or contusions, that’s also pretty surprising. But there was a notably elevated blood alcohol level in Warren’s body; enough to indicate that he had drunk a good amount shortly before his death. Of course, the two empty bottles of Chianti on the kitchen counter pretty much told us that. It’s possible that the suffocation was forceful enough and the victim was in a deep enough sleep that it was over pretty quickly. Let me put it this way, if Warren did become aware he was being suffocated, it was like
ly in the last few moments of his life.”
“Could there have been any fibers from the bedding inside his mouth or nostrils?” Rob asked.
“A swab for fibers inside the nose or mouth is pretty inconclusive. Most mornings, all of us have a fair number of fibers on our lips, noses, and mouths from our bedding. We just are unaware of that. Obviously if there was a real struggle there would have been more fibers, but, just as the lack of bruising to the face reveals, it appears as though there was little if any struggle. Given Warren’s age and his level of intoxication that’s all plausible.”
“So, right now you're saying every road leads to a dead end?”
“Not at all. But in the absence of the kind of physical evidence that would make this an easier crime to solve, a good investigator has to start constructing scenarios based on plausible theories. Call it the Sherlock Holmes method. What's at the murder scene that we’re not considering at the moment?”
“Are you boys discussing murder without me?”
Both Eddie and Rob turned around to find Holly standing behind them. She was holding her usual drink—a vodka martini.
“I'm surprised to see you here," Rob said. "I thought you had a hot date."
"So did I, but the jerk called me just as I got to the bar at Poggio's to say that he couldn't make it. What's a girl to do? So I thought I'd come over here and see what you two were talking about."
Holly grabbed a chair from the empty table behind her and sat down. "Are you chatting about our dearly departed gossiping gourmet? I hope so! I need something to cheer me up."
“What is it with you and murder?” Rob asked.
“Look, I’ve read Sue Grafton from A to Y! Maybe I’ll have something to contribute here,” Holly said as she took a dainty sip followed by a less dainty gulp of her martini and then leaned in conspiratorially. “So, are you closing the circle, tightening the noose, and preparing to check Warren’s killer into the gray bar hotel?”
