The Silenced Women

by Frederick Weisel

  “I never dug in like that. The research shit. Not to that extent.”

  “Not the academic stuff. But the deep-in-the-weeds thing. That’s who you are. And I know you. You can’t help thinking something’s coming out of all that work, can you?”

  “We’ll see if any of us survives the shitstorm that’s coming if we catch another homicide up in the park.”

  Coyle took his coffee and stood. “You staying?”

  “Yeah. The nurse said Steve won’t sleep much. I want to see if he remembers anything else… You okay?”

  “I just wanted to thank you, Eddie, for letting me do more of the field stuff—interviewing the roommates and Jessica Alvarez.” Coyle heard himself stumbling over the words and realized he had never before directly addressed his assignments with Eddie.

  Mahler saluted him with his coffee cup. “No problem. But now you’re out there, don’t let down your guard.”

  Mahler watched Coyle walk into the corridor and saw his right hand lightly touch the spot on his belt where his gun was strapped.

  (ii)

  (THURSDAY, 3:07 A.M.)

  Returning from the break room to the VCI office, Eden remembered her laptop was still open to the last file she read—a Google search on Eddie Mahler. A few minutes earlier, the office had been empty. Now Rivas was there, walking past her desk and glancing at her laptop screen. She watched until he looked up and met her eyes.

  Rivas smiled. “Find what you’re looking for?”

  Eden’s face reddened. She walked back to her desk. “I’m not sure what I was looking for. Just trying to understand what makes him tick, I guess.”

  Rivas sat next to her. “Probably won’t be in any online search.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I think the two of us are pretty far apart right now.” Eden closed the laptop.

  “We’ve all got stories, Eden,” Rivas said. “You work here, you might as well know Eddie’s.”

  “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “You’re a forensic psychologist and a cop. Makes you curious.” Rivas leaned back in his chair. “Eddie’s father was a big-shot defense lawyer in San Francisco back in the seventies and eighties. You might have heard of him—James David Mahler.”

  “Oh, yeah. I read about him in college. Handled some famous case, right?”

  “Eventually, but he started small. Made his bones defending little guys. Then he’s named public defender for a homeless man named Michael Becker accused of killing a Swedish tourist who wandered into the Tenderloin at night. Eddie’s father proves the lead homicide investigator fabricated evidence. It’s a huge deal. National news.”

  “Didn’t it expose corruption in the SFPD?”

  “That’s right. It’s a whole political thing. After that, James David becomes a high-profile attorney, specializing in cases of the downtrodden versus law enforcement. In another big case, he defends two African Americans accused of killing a police officer.”

  “He was, like, a fixture in San Francisco, wasn’t he? Did Eddie grow up there?”

  “No. With his public exposure, Eddie’s dad doesn’t want his family in the city. So Eddie lives in Santa Rosa with his mother and his older sister, Diane. Mother dies when the children are young. They essentially grow up parentless. The kids resent their father for abandoning them. Both of them act out. Diane was one of the top middle-distance runners in the county, but she hooks up with some lowlife and starts shooting heroin. Eddie gets into fast cars, some weed.”

  “One happy family.”

  “Money and prestige don’t always protect you, Eden. Anyway, one night Eddie’s stopped for speeding, mouths off to the cop. The cop shoves his head onto the car hood, breaks Eddie’s nose. He knows that if he tells his father, his old man will bust the cop and sue the department. If Eddie hates the cop, he hates his father more. Eddie doesn’t say anything, but he never forgets that moment, the way the cop treated him. The officer’s anger and the anger it planted in Eddie.”

  “And he still became a cop?”

  “I’ll get to that. After high school, Eddie goes back East to Princeton. Start of his second year, Diane relapses. OD’s on smack and dies. Back in town, Eddie meets the cop who first arrested Diane when she was sixteen. They spend some time together while Eddie’s dealing with his grief. Turns out this cop kept track of Diane after that arrest. Got her into Narcotics Anonymous, arranged for sober-living housing, made sure she stayed with the program. When she disappeared from the housing, the cop went looking for her in the neighborhood, talked to people, block after block. Eventually found her body behind an empty garage downtown.”

  “What happened to Eddie?”

  “Finishes Princeton. Goes into the Army, picks the Rangers—mainly to piss off his father. When his tour ends, he comes back here. Joins the department, works the streets in a uniform—which is obviously his old man’s worst nightmare. He marries a beautiful young woman, VP of marketing at a winery. After two years, she can’t decide if it’s worse when he doesn’t talk about his work or when he does. Eddie makes detective, spends a year in Narcotics, but I think it had too many memories of Diane. Gets reassigned to VCI. After three years he heads the unit.”

  “So it’s all about his father?”

  “You’re the psychologist. You tell me. I’m just a tired, old cop who’s wasted his life trying to understand why one dirtbag in this town thinks it’s a good idea to stab another dirtbag. I’ve also raised two boys, but that makes me more a philosopher than a psychologist.” Rivas shook his head.

  “From my time being around Eddie,” Rivas continued, “I think what’s inside him is something else. Eddie sees two sides of law enforcement. He sees guys who work in the community, like the cop who arrested and then tried to help Diane. Then there are the head-bangers, like the one who slammed Eddie into his car when he was a kid. Eddie’s all the time trying to work it out, how to do the job. That last kind of cop makes him skeptical of force, critical of some tactics. And it makes him, let’s say, unpopular among some fellow officers.”

  “Which probably has repercussions for him.”

  “You bet. Fast-forward to the Foss and Hart homicides in the park two years ago. Big cases for this town. We worked the Foss killing as hard and fast as any I’ve seen. And we were close with Partridge.”

  “Tom Woodhouse told me the DA declined to indict. Then after the Hart murder, the DA and the chief blamed VCI, and Lieutenant Mahler, in particular, for not holding Partridge.”

  “Yeah. It was the usual thing. Once Susan Hart’s killed, everyone’s looking for a goat. People in the department who don’t like Eddie decide it’s time to score some points. Hart’s father reads one of the press stories. Eddie shows up at the funeral, and he’s asked to leave by two of the victim’s uncles.”

  “It’s like a public humiliation.”

  “Big-time. Worst part was Eddie starts to actually believe it’s his fault. He didn’t do enough, fast enough. Eddie goes to a dark place for a while. Starts drinking at lunch. Breaks up with his girlfriend, Kate Langley. Gets migraines. Makes even more enemies in the department.”

  “So why’s he stay?”

  “He’s good at what he does. Listen, Martin and I would follow Eddie anywhere. Someone in my family is in trouble or, God forbid, killed, the only person I want to investigate is Eddie.”

  “Yeah, I get that.”

  Rivas stood and stretched. He looked at Eden. “So, now you’ve heard it, you like that story? Not a lot of laughs, is it?”

  “No. No, it’s not. But thank you for telling me.” Eden quietly opened her laptop to stare at the empty screen. As Rivas walked away, she said, “By the way, whatever happened to that cop, the one who helped Eddie’s sister, Diane?”

  Rivas stopped at his desk. “Became a detective here, retired now.” He turned to face Eden. “I think you met him—Tommy Woodhouse.”


  Chapter Twenty-Four

  (i)

  (THURSDAY, 5:58 A.M.)

  Mahler looked out the window of the VCI room and watched the scene in front of the police station. The sky was dark and wet with fog. A streetlamp made a pool of light beneath the window. A white sedan drove past, then a Safeway truck. On the sidewalk a homeless man walked a bicycle, black trash bags tied to the frame and handlebars with bungee cords.

  Rivas joined Mahler beside the window. He held out a newspaper. “You see this?”

  The headline read “Investigators Stalled in Park Homicide.” The first three paragraphs quoted Police Chief Truro, who admitted his department had no suspects in the homicide of Elise Durand but was following several leads. The story went on to say the police were concerned about the potential for a second homicide seventy-two hours after the first killing, as happened two years ago. Extra patrols were assigned to the park.

  Rivas waited for Mahler to finish reading. “That part about several leads come from you?”

  “I send him reports every couple hours,” Mahler shrugged. “We haven’t talked.”

  “Word is, he wants to take you off the case.”

  “I’ll bet.” Mahler turned and looked at Eden. “The victim’s mother is coming in at nine thirty to ID the body. We’ll talk to her then.”

  Eden nodded. “What about Bennett? Is he no longer a suspect?”

  “He’s not our guy.”

  “Based on what?” Eden asked.

  “Intuition. I don’t see the guy having the state of mind to transport the victim’s body to the park. The DA could charge him with obstruction, but as far as this case is concerned, we’re back to square one.”

  Rivas sat at his desk in front of an open laptop. “Yeah, the techs didn’t find any blood in Bennett’s car trunk. But the first report came in on Elise Durand’s car. Victim’s prints, plus one other set we’re trying to track down. Clothes, pills. Oh, and a bag of dog biscuits.”

  “Did our victim own a dog?” Mahler asked.

  “Not that we know of,” Coyle answered without looking up.

  Mahler watched two cars drive east, then saw a car approach from the opposite direction. It pulled over in front of the police building. The car idled in the No Parking zone.

  “The DA’s investigator, Paul Eckels, emailed me some early stuff on Frames’s accident,” Rivas said. “They recovered his Glock. One round missing. Also found a canister of pepper spray Frames used on the dogs. No prints on the trunk of the car or on the lock outside the parking lot. Eckels says this doesn’t look like a random thing. Someone went after Frames. He figures they might try again.”

  Mahler looked at the street. “Eckels is a smart guy. He’s probably right. Someone connected to this homicide is coming after us.” A pickup drove into view and maneuvered around the idling car.

  Coyle turned in his seat to face Mahler. “Eddie, I went through the victim’s computers. On her office hard drive, I found traces of files that had been deleted but not wiped clean. All from one folder. I’m trying to see if they can be recovered from the cloud. The home laptop had art files for a company called DivingBell. Craig Lerner says it’s not one of his clients, so the work must have been a freelance project that the victim was working on. DivingBell’s a startup in San Francisco. Something to do with search engines. Benjamin Thackrey’s not involved, according to their website and filings.”

  “Call them,” Mahler said. “See if they know Thackrey and what our victim was working on.”

  Eden pointed to the whiteboard. “Whatever happened with the DMV search for that vintage Mercedes on the park’s security film?”

  “Working on it,” Coyle said. “Patrol found two owners of that model in the Bay Area. Ruled out one. The other’s an individual named Victor Banerjee. We’re looking at him and trying to get an address.”

  Mahler watched the idling car. The headlights were on, the windows closed. A small vapor stream came out of the exhaust. By the light of the streetlamp, Mahler could see the car was silver, and by body shape and the taillights, he knew it to be a Jaguar.

  Without turning from the window, Mahler said, “Eden, Steve has a pair of binoculars in his top drawer. Could you bring those over here?”

  “By the way, Eddie,” Coyle said, “I’m getting some strange messages on my computer. The guys in IT think we’ve been hacked. I’ll let you know.” He scrolled through a file. “I also called Los Altos PD and asked them to check Thackrey’s residence there—place was empty.”

  “What’s the make on his vehicle?”

  “Jaguar. 2018.”

  Eden handed Mahler the binoculars, and he focused the lens on the car windows. A figure was visible in the driver’s seat. Mahler moved the lenses back to the license plate. “What’s the number on that registration?”

  Coyle leaned close to his screen. “7KRJ508.”

  Mahler refocused the lenses. The trunk lid cast a shadow over the plate face.

  Rivas joined Mahler and Eden at the window. “You want to go down?”

  “Yeah, the two of us.” Mahler put down the binoculars and turned to Eden. “The car moves before we get there, call patrol, and have them pull it over. Assume the driver’s armed.”

  In the first-floor lobby, Mahler slowed Rivas with a hand on his arm. “Take the passenger side.”

  They approached the car from behind. On the driver’s side, Mahler held his Sig Sauer behind his thigh. Badge in his other hand, he tapped on the window. “Santa Rosa Police,” he yelled.

  The window came down partway, and the driver’s face turned toward him. Mahler waved the badge and registered: White male, early thirties, business suit.

  “Santa Rosa Police,” Mahler repeated. “Put your hands on the steering wheel.”

  The driver spoke into a cell phone. “Hold on. Something’s happening.” He put his hands, still gripping the phone, on top of the wheel.

  Peering inside, Mahler checked the passenger seat, and back seat, and saw they were empty.

  “What’s your name?” Mahler shouted.

  “What is this?” the driver said. “I just pulled over to take a call.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “John Ledger. What’s this about?”

  “Is this your car?”

  “Yes. No, my wife’s. Diana Ledger.”

  Mahler opened the car door. “Keep your hands where I can see them, and step out of the car.”

  As Ledger turned and stood on the street, he saw Mahler’s gun. “Oh, man, wow. Look, I really just stopped to answer my phone. I don’t know what—”

  Rivas came around the back of the car to where Ledger stood with his hands raised, the phone still in one hand. Rivas put his Sig in his holster and patted Ledger for weapons.

  A tinny voice came out of the phone in Ledger’s hand. “John? John? Are you there? I can’t hear you.”

  Ledger looked back and forth from Mahler to Rivas.

  Mahler holstered his gun and waved for Ledger to lower his hands. “Let me see your license.”

  The license identified the driver as John Ledger, with an address in Santa Rosa. The plate number was different from the number registered to Benjamin Thackrey in the DMV database. Mahler returned it to Ledger. “You know this is a No Parking zone?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “But what? You thought it doesn’t apply to people who are busy?”

  “No, it’s just that it’s…early.”

  Mahler shook his head and turned to follow Rivas around the back of the car.

  “That’s it?” Ledger called after him. “You’re not going to apologize?”

  Mahler walked silently away. No, he thought, at least this once he wasn’t sorry.

  (ii)

  (THURSDAY, 9:44 A.M.)

  Mahler quietly greeted Carol Durand as he an
d Eden entered the interview room. She sat stiffly behind the table and looked toward Mahler without meeting his eyes. Despite her stillness, something was alive in her presence, as if whatever made her rigid was vibrating inside.

  Mahler introduced himself and Eden. “Thank you for coming all this way, Ms. Durand. Did you have any trouble finding a place to stay?”

  Durand shook her head.

  Mahler waited a beat to see if she would speak. “I understand you’ve had a chance to identify your daughter…Elise.”

  “My ex-husband gave her that name,” Durand said softly. “After the Beethoven piece. Sebastien only cared about one thing: music. He thought if he named his daughter Elise, he would care about her.”

  “It’s a pretty name,” Eden said.

  “When she was a little girl, she’d hum ‘Für Elise’ to herself. Over and over, because she knew it drove me crazy. When she grew older, she hated people bringing up the song—as if she’d never thought of it and they were the first to tell her. Sometimes, when we’d meet someone, a new teacher or a parent of another child, and they’d say something about the song, Elise would pretend she didn’t know what they were talking about.”

  Mahler leaned forward. “When was the last time you spoke to her?”

  “She called two weekends ago. She mostly talked about her job. Said they really liked her.”

  “Did she say if she was having any problems?”

  “Problems?”

  “Outside her job. With friends or a boyfriend?”

  “My daughter always had problems, Mr. Mahler. Elise was bipolar. After Sebastien left, she was a handful. She ran around the house, playing one game after another. At parties, she scared the other children and wasn’t invited back.”

  Eden opened her notepad. “What about recently? Did she talk about any difficulties in her life the past few weeks?”

  “No, as long as she remembered to take her medicine, she didn’t have any trouble.”

  “What was her mood in that phone call? Did she sound worried?”

  “She was excited and talked too fast. She had medicine for that, too. When she was a little girl and got too excited, she’d sit in one place to calm herself down. She’d rock back and forth and say the same thing a hundred times. Anything that rhymed. ‘In an old house in Paris that was covered in vines lived twelve little girls in two straight lines.’ Again and again, until you wanted to scream.”