Crime Scene

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Nine weeks later, on a balmy Tuesday afternoon, I met Nate Schickman in the lobby of Boalt Hall, the main law school building.

  He was in uniform. I was not, though I’d put on a decent shirt. No jacket: spring had arrived on campus, overnight. When I was a student, my friends and I had a term for it—that moment when you looked up and noticed that the mud had unfolded into grass, and girls went out in tank tops and shorts. We called it The Day.

  The Institute for Wrongful Convictions operated out of room 373, also the office of Yount Professor of Law and Criminal Justice Michelle George Berkowitz.

  The door was ajar. Schickman rapped the frame.

  “Come in.”

  I saw Michelle Berkowitz and thought: assumptions.

  She was a petite black woman with regal cheekbones and sculpted eyebrows. Tight braids lined her scalp, blossoming into an auburn cloud at the base of her neck. Stacks of photocopies, forms, folders, textbooks, journals—the stuff of appeals-in-progress—cluttered the floor and bookcases. The desk itself was clean, save a laptop whose wallpaper showed her with a white man and a grinning braces-faced girl of about eleven, the trio mugging in leis.

  She told us to sit.

  “Thanks for agreeing to meet,” I said.

  “How could I not?” She spoke with a Caribbean lilt. “The curiosity was overpowering. You must realize how rare it is to be approached by the police. In fact, it’s never happened in the eleven years I’ve run this clinic.”

  “First time for everything,” Schickman said.

  “Mm.” An inscrutable smile. “Let’s begin with the same question I would ask Mr. Triplett himself: what’s your goal?”

  “To clear his name,” I said.

  “Yes,” she said. “But to what end?”

  Schickman glanced at me. I won’t say we’d been expecting a hero’s welcome, but her leeriness caught us off guard.

  “Legally, your options are limited,” she said. “He’s no longer incarcerated. We could pursue a pardon, but in this instance any potential practical benefits are, in my view, outweighed by the potential costs. So the question then becomes one of personal or psychological benefit. From what you’ve described to me, he’s living quite contentedly.”

  Schickman laced his fingers in his lap, as if to belt himself in the chair.

  “Maybe you can help us understand the costs,” I said.

  “Set aside, for the moment, the toll on Mr. Triplett, which may be significant,” she said. “There’s also a significant cost to me, and by extension to the men and women who are wrongly incarcerated, at this very moment. While we sit here chatting, their lives are slipping away. If I agree to take on Mr. Triplett’s case, I’m depriving those people of our clinic’s time, money, and resources. Does that seem fair to you?”

  “He deserves to be able to hold his head up,” I said.

  “Can’t he do that already?”

  I said, “Could you?”

  Berkowitz smiled again, a touch more appreciatively. “You must forgive my skepticism. As I said, I’ve never been approached by law enforcement.”

  “We’re here now,” Schickman said. “That counts for something.”

  “It does. Although, at the risk of being cynical, I could point out that, if Mr. Triplett were to be granted a pardon, the police officers who stand to be embarrassed are not presently employed by either of your departments. Whereas I have a roomful of pending cases that do create problems for active officers, some of whom are in your departments.”

  “We’re not running cover,” Schickman said.

  “I believe that your intentions are sincere,” she said. “But let’s be honest with each other, shall we? I’ve known Chief Ames a long time. Don’t tell me he isn’t happy to score a few points.”

  Schickman smiled neutrally. “Our duty is to the public, ma’am.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.”

  “But, look,” he said, “you don’t want it, we respect that.”

  “I didn’t say I don’t want it,” she said. “Other aspects of the case make it attractive, vis-à-vis precedent. The juvenile angle. Mental health. There’s value in revisiting it. It’s more a question of timing. And I’d like to emphasize that I meant what I said, about the cost to Mr. Triplett. It’s not a quick process. It could take years. He’ll be forced to revisit a traumatic experience. Even with your superiors on board there will be pushback, I guarantee.”

  I elected not to mention the fact that my superior wasn’t on board. If he knew I was sitting here, he’d hit the roof.

  “Pushback from the prosecutor,” Schickman said.

  “Certainly,” Berkowitz said. “The victim’s family, too.”

  “We’re bringing them the real killer.”

  She shook her head. “They won’t look at it that way. I’ve seen it happen, in cases far stronger than this. To them, we are ripping off a scab. Nor can I control how people react toward Mr. Triplett once the information becomes public.”

  She turned to me. “When we first spoke on the phone, you described him as shy.”

  “He is,” I said.

  “Well, yes, I should say so. I spoke to his sister, as you suggested, but so far he hasn’t returned my calls. So I’d ask you to consider carefully whether he’s equipped, emotionally, to handle the backlash. People will rush to reconvict him. In the press. On social media. They won’t show thoughtful restraint. He needs to be made aware of the risks.”

  “I’ll talk to him again,” I said.

  “Please do. And have him call me.”

  “Say we do move,” Schickman said. “Can you ballpark our chance of success?”

  She yawed her head. “I try not to make predictions.”

  “With respect, Professor,” I said, “this is a two-way street. He is shy, and if he senses that you don’t believe him, or that you’re not invested, or that you expect to fail, how are we supposed to win him over?”

  “Fair enough,” she said. “I’m going to say ‘possible.’ ”

  “Better than impossible,” Schickman said.

  She chuckled, took a pen and a pad from her desk drawer. “These are the names of two individuals in the clinic who I feel would be best suited to handle the case. It might make more sense for them to speak with Mr. Triplett, rather than me.”

  She tore the page off and held it out it for Schickman.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  She nodded. Back to me: “I remember you. From your playing days.”

  Schickman raised his eyebrows. I guess he’d never bothered googling me.

  “My husband is a basketball maniac,” she said. “He was in the crowd the night you got hurt.”

  “I’m sorry he had to see that,” I said.

  “I’m sorry it happened,” she said.

  “Don’t be,” I said, rising. “I’m not.”

  CHAPTER 43

  When Marlborough Ming heard what I had to say about the death of Nicholas Linstad, he responded, “Ah, screw you.”

  I told him I’d take that as a compliment.

  The following Tuesday we convened at 2338 Le Conte Avenue, the four-story multi-unit adjacent to Linstad’s former duplex. Joining us was the superintendent, a lanky, easygoing Albanian. He led us to the base of the giant redwood that dominated the building’s backyard. He’d gone to the trouble of hauling up from the basement a thirty-six-foot extension ladder—in turn saving me the trouble of renting one, along with a truck to transport it. He’d also brought his toolbox. Ming had brought his mouth and a bulging bag of pastries.

  We propped the ladder against the tree and the manager racked it out to thirty feet. I paused, one sneaker on the lowest rung. The top looked ridiculously far away.

  “Okay there, buddy?” the super asked.

  “You should make him sign a waiver,” Ming said.

  I started up before the super could see the wisdom in this advice.

  The bark of a California redwood is thick, spongy, hairy, and furrowed, to the touch more
like fur than plant matter. Entire ecosystems occupy its crevices; its mass creates a microclimate. Within a few short feet I had entered an unknown dimension, hidden in plain sight, just beyond the tip of my nose. Hectic insects. Spiky leaves tickling my face and neck.

  About two-thirds of the way up, I twisted around. I was standing a bit below the duplex’s second-story exterior landing.

  I glanced down.

  The super, securing the base of the ladder, gave me a thumbs-up.

  “Don’t fall, stupid,” Ming called.

  My search zone was a band of bark six to eight feet high, that portion of the tree in line with the landing. Starting at the bottom, I moved from left to right, examining one square foot at a time, using my penlight to investigate the hollows, inserting the tip of a screwdriver, feeling for variations in the surface of the wood. When I got to the rightmost edge of the band, I shuttled back like a typewriter carriage, climbed a rung, and began again.

  It was tedious, uncomfortable work. Gnats swarmed my eyes, ears, upper lip, forearms, neck. Although I did my best to avoid damaging the tree, inevitably bits and pieces flaked off, red threads that found their way into my sinuses. Pouring sweat, fighting vertigo, I rubbed my face against my shoulder. I really did not want to sneeze, mostly due to the potential for humiliation. I imagined Zaragoza and Shupfer struggling to keep a straight face as they explained to my parents how I’d come to lose balance and break my neck. I imagined Moffett typing up the intake report, unable to stop giggling. Where on the form did you check the box for “dumbass”? Just thinking about it prompted a nervous burst of laughter.

  The ladder rocked.

  I clung to the rails, held still.

  “I think he gonna piss himself,” Ming said.

  After half an hour, the super went inside to handle some tasks. Seizing on the chance for a break, I descended. My back ached, my throat was parched, and my knee felt like tissue paper. I accepted a cranberry-orange scone from Ming and uncapped a bottle of water.

  I said, offhandedly, “What I really need is a metal detector.”

  “What a coincidence,” Ming said. “I got one in my butthole.”

  I stared up at the canopy. “How’d you know when it was time for you to get out?”

  Ming shrugged. “When you start spending days off climbing trees.”

  I laughed.

  “You ready to give up,” he said, “I have a job for you at the bakery. Sweeping.”

  I drained the water. “Not yet.” Stepped on the bottom rung. “Spot me.”

  I’d been at it for fifteen minutes when, behind me, a woman’s voice rang out.

  “What do you think you’re doing.”

  I risked a glance over my shoulder. She was back: the crotchety neighbor I’d spoken to on my previous visit. She was standing on the landing—her landing—wearing a sleeveless floral dress, a floppy straw hat, and a necklace made of knuckles of pink stone. She had her hands on her hips and was gawking at me in furious disbelief.

  I blinked at her across thirty feet of open air. We were almost exactly eye level. I doubt she recognized me. Months had elapsed since our last encounter, and I was in street clothes, my face speckled with dirt and redwood bark.

  I tried to smile. “Hi there.”

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she shouted. “Get down from there.”

  “I’ll just be a sec,” I said.

  I turned my back on her, climbed another rung, began a new sweep.

  “You can’t do that.”

  I called down to Ming. “Little help, please?”

  “You’re hurting it.”

  To my dismay, Ming released his grip on the ladder and trotted over to the fence separating the two properties, standing on a rock to address her.

  “Hey lady,” he said. “Chill out.”

  Somebody give this man the Nobel Peace Prize.

  “Do you see what he’s doing? Are you witnessing this?”

  “Yeah, I see.”

  “He is raping the tree.”

  “Hey, lady, please. You giving me a headache.”

  “Silence is a form of consent. I do not consent.”

  The super poked his head out, saw what was happening, sighed volubly.

  Meanwhile Ming had fetched the bakery bag and thrust an arm over the fence, waving the pastries at her. “Have a croissant.”

  The super said, “Ms. Parker, these men come from the police.”

  An ominous lull.

  “Rape.” Her voice had risen steeply in pitch and volume. “State, sponsored, rape.”

  “Lady,” Ming said, “you need a dictionary.”

  The next short while felt like an eternity, as I continued to search the bark and she continued to torch me as a prime example of the worst of white male privilege. Curtains began shifting in neighboring windows, sleepy faces peering out, concerned and confused. In retrospect I’m amazed we didn’t attract more attention. Although I’m not sure what anyone could’ve done, other than call the cops (ha!) or kick the ladder out from under me.

  At one point a young man with a backpack wandered up the duplex driveway. He looked at the shrieking lady, at me, at her, adjusted his glasses, and departed.

  At last she spun on her heel and stormed inside her apartment. A moment of silence.

  Ming said, “Oh come on, lady.”

  “It is ten fifty-eight in the morning on the twentieth of March…”

  She was recording me with her phone.

  “When I arrived on the scene,” she said, “the assault was already in progress.”

  I resumed my search.

  Impressively, she never stopped talking, though she soon ran out of ways to describe my crimes and shifted to invoking theories of power and control, darting back inside her house to retrieve a copy of a Judith Butler reader.

  Nearing the top of the search area, I slid the screwdriver between two ridges of bark and watched the shank sink several inches deep, the blade landing on a bumpy patch. By then I’d gotten accustomed to a certain texture, a responsiveness in the surface of the wood.

  This was different.

  I began prying at the bark with my fingers, stripping away chunks and tossing them aside. I’ll admit it did feel a tad invasive.

  Having tunneled down to bare wood, I beheld a partially healed fissure, at its center a sunken gray smudge. I worked the tip of the screwdriver into the crack.

  “The male tool becomes an inflictor of forcible penetration,” the woman said.

  I tried unsuccessfully to pry the object loose. The trouble was the length of my limbs: I had crappy leverage. I was swaying all over the place, my palms slick, my shoes failing to keep their grip.

  Ming called, “Fool, come down.”

  I did. “Definitely something,” I said, stepping off the ladder. “I can’t get it out.”

  He took the screwdriver from me, clamped it between his teeth, and scampered up, heedless of the wobbling.

  “And so violation multiplies,” the woman said, “rape becoming gang rape.”

  It took Ming all of ninety seconds to extract the object. He came down and lovingly displayed it in the palm of his hand.

  He said, “Check out this little motherfucker.”

  “This little motherfucker” was the mutilated remnant of a bullet.

  Caliber indeterminate. Full metal jacket.

  I faced the duplex landing. The woman was still there, still ranting, though I’d begun to mentally edit her out.

  I said, “Rennert’s disturbed by what he’s learned from Julian Triplett over the years. He pieces together what really happened—maybe not with a hundred percent conviction, but enough to wonder. He feels betrayed. Linstad was like a son to him. He decides to confront him about it. He’s concerned for his own safety, so he takes the gun along. Or maybe he meant to scare him. Rennert was prone to grandiose gestures, we’ve seen evidence of that. They get drunk, words are exchanged—”

  “Bang bang,” Ming said.

  “
They’re fighting,” I said. “It goes off by accident.”

  “Don’t be stupid, stupid,” Ming said.

  I looked at him.

  “No sign of struggle,” he said. “No holes in the walls. No holes in the windows.”

  “So?”

  “So,” he said, “how’s he hit the tree?”

  I traced the imaginary path of the bullet. “Through the open doorway.”

  “Who opened it.”

  I let the scene play in my mind.

  A big body, crashing onto the landing.

  Slamming into the banister, jarring it loose.

  Slipping on the wet wood. Tumbling down the stairs.

  “Linstad,” I said. “He was trying to get away.”

  I looked at Ming. “Rennert shot at him as he ran.”

  Ming smiled dreamily. “In the back, I think.”

  Midnight; rain; blood everywhere. I could understand why Rennert mistakenly thought his shot had been fatal.

  “Never forget,” the woman yelled.

  “You gonna tell his daughter?” Ming asked.

  Let me know what you find.

  I shook my head.

  Ming cackled. He dropped the bullet fragment in his breast pocket. “For a stupid guy, you pretty smart.”

  CHAPTER 44

  In July, our team threw a party to celebrate Moffett’s promotion to sergeant. Sully baked a carrot cake. Carmen Woolsey brought five-layer Mexican dip. Even Shupfer got into the act, slopping down a Costco bag of caramel corn.

  A strong showing, considering that, until quite recently, none of us—not me, not Zaragoza, not even Dani Botero—had any idea Moffett had taken the exam, let alone passed. Let alone gotten the highest score in four years.

  “Ninety-six,” Vitti said. He juked and jived, proud as if it were his own son. He’d known, of course.

  The man of the hour held court at his cubicle, bumping fists and toasting with ginger ale beside a glittery sign: CONGRAD BRAD! He was to oversee graveyard shift, and we’d scheduled the festivities for the five p.m. changeover, enabling members of both teams to attend. The outgoing sergeant was there, as was Lindsey Bagoyo. In two weeks’ time, she would be joining us to fill the vacancy.