“The other witness lives right here.” Miller pointed to a narrow, three-story building that had been built over a double garage. “His name is Bruce Taylor, and he lives on the second floor. There’re three flats in the building. Taylor was putting out the garbage.” Miller gestured to a trash container and two plastic garbage bags. “He saw it happen. He tried to help the victim, but it was too late. And by that time, according to the way I get the story, the perpetrator had disappeared. So then Taylor went inside his house and called nine-one-one.”
“And you and your partner were the first ones on the scene?”
“Right. We were only three blocks away when we got the call. If Taylor’s telling the truth, which I think he is, he called nine-one-one maybe two, three minutes after the shots were fired.”
“So you were on the scene within five minutes.”
“Give or take a minute. No more.”
“Did you talk to both of them—Taylor and the pizza guy?”
“Yessir. His name is Jeff Sheppard.”
“And?”
Miller pointed across the street to another three-story building, this one without a garage. “The victim came out of that building. The number is eleven-forty-eight. He crossed the street diagonally, uphill.” As Hastings followed Miller’s moving forefinger with his eyes, the finger traced a path across the street, coming toward them. “He got on the sidewalk here, at about Bruce Taylor’s garage. Then”—the finger continued to move—“then he started walking uphill.” Now the finger was pointing to a tree about ten feet uphill from the body. “At that point, as I understand it, the perpetrator stepped out from behind that tree, there. They were just a few feet apart. Five feet, maybe.”
“Did he fall in his tracks?” Hastings asked.
“That’s my impression, Lieutenant.”
“Do both witnesses’ stories agree?”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“How do you rate the witnesses?”
Miller shrugged. “Compared to what?” He hesitated. Then, explaining: “This is only the second homicide I’ve ever caught.”
“Okay—so what’d the assailant do?”
“Apparently he went to the body and stood over it for a few seconds, looking down. Then he walked down to Hyde Street”—Miller gestured downhill—“and turned left on Hyde.”
“Walked?”
Emphatically, Miller nodded. “Walked. Definitely walked. He didn’t run.”
“Did either Taylor or Sheppard try to follow the guy?”
Miller shook his head. “Taylor went to the victim, to see if he could help, like I said. And Sheppard, who’d parked by that time, he stayed in his car. Which was smart, of course.”
“It would’ve been nice,” Hastings said ruefully, “if he’d followed the guy in his car.”
“Yeah. Well …” Miller shrugged again. “What can you do? At least he’s willing to talk to us. There’s that.”
“Yes,” Hastings agreed, his voice resigned. “Yes, there’s that.”
11:27 PM
Because the shop windows and the cars parked at curbside and the garbage pails set on the sidewalk moved and changed and appeared and disappeared, she realized she was walking. But there was no sensation, no contact, no conscious movement. Even if the sky tilted and the earth shifted, there would be no sensation. Only the night had meaning, only darkness had substance. From darkness come to darkness returned. Was it a poem? Was it the truth?
Could she remember?
Yes, always she would remember.
The eyes, dead, rolled up in their sockets. The bloodstain, blossoming as she’d watched. Always, she would remember. Always.
So that now, finally, she could rest.
Finally it was finished. Finally the pain had been numbed. As darkness had returned to darkness, so death would return to death.
11:32 PM
The door swung open to reveal a tall, slim, balding man dressed in faded blue jeans, scuffed white running shoes, and a sweatshirt imprinted with a Porsche logo.
“Mr. Taylor?”
“Right.” Taylor nodded—a small, semi-spastic inclination of his narrow head. Taylor was probably still in his thirties. His face was delicately drawn, hollow-eyed and hollow-cheeked, an invalid’s face. His small mouth was permanently pursed, a worrier’s mouth. His round hazel eyes, blinking, were vulnerable as they fixed on the gold badge pinned to the breast of Hastings’s jacket.
His voice, too, was vulnerable: “Have you—is—” Shaking his head, he broke off. Then he stepped back, gesturing for Hastings to come inside.
Like the Russian Hill neighborhood, Bruce Taylor’s flat was elegant: antiques that were obviously authentic, paintings that were obviously originals. Abruptly showing Hastings to a damask settee, Taylor sat facing him across a small wooden table. A heavy cut-glass tumbler, half-filled, stood on the table. For a moment Taylor sat rigidly, staring down at the tumbler. Then: “I’m—I’m having a drink. Would you—” With an obvious effort, he raised his eyes. “Would you like one—a drink?”
“No, thanks.”
“Ah …” As if he’d received a rebuke, Taylor first nodded, then sharply shook his head, suggesting that he couldn’t control his own impatience with himself. “I—I’m sorry. But the truth is …” Shakily he gestured to the window that overlooked Green Street. He frowned, licked his lips, then looked directly into Hastings’s eyes as he said, “The truth is, this thing—it’s gotten to me. I mean, I’m thirty-seven, and I’ve never seen a body. Not—not even in a funeral home. I …” Shaking his head again, this time helplessly, forlornly, Taylor reached for the tumbler, drank half of the dark amber fluid, and replaced the tumbler on the table. “I mean, Jesus, you see someone like that, dead, and—” As if confused, he broke off. His eyes were still cast down, fixed on the tumbler.
“It’s not easy,” Hastings said. “It’s never easy. Believe me.”
Taylor nodded, his head bobbing loosely. Then, making a visible effort to collect himself, he said, “I suppose you’re here—I suppose you want to—to find out about it—about what happened.”
“That’s right, Mr. Taylor. I’m sorry to make you go over it again so soon. But there’re only two eyewitnesses, at least so far. So we’ve got to know what you know. Now. Right now.”
“Yes …” Uncertainly, Taylor nodded. “Yes, I—I understand.”
“So start at the beginning.” Hastings spoke quietly, dispassionately. Whatever distress Taylor was suffering, the problem didn’t concern Hastings. Not here. Not now.
“Well, I—I was taking the garbage out. The garbage can is in the garage. And there were a couple of bags of clippings in the garden. So I opened the garage door, and I put the can outside, on the sidewalk. It’s still there.”
Hastings nodded. “Yes, I saw it.”
Quickly, Taylor gulped at the drink. “As I was putting the can out, I saw him coming toward me, from across the street.”
“The victim, you mean.”
Spasmodically, Taylor nodded.
“He was coming from”—Hastings glanced at his notebook, open on his knee—“from eleven-forty-eight. Is that correct?”
Taylor waved a fretful hand. “I suppose that’s the number. Anyhow, it’s diagonally across the street, downhill.”
“Did he live in that house, do you know?”
“I don’t think he lives—lived—there. But I’ve seen him there several times. He has a—” Taylor broke off, stole a speculative glance at his interrogator. Hastings recognized that look, and knew its meaning. Taylor was deciding what to tell him—and what not to tell him.
“There’s a woman who lives there. They—I’ve seen them together, several times.”
Watching Taylor carefully, listening to his inflection as he pronounced woman, Hastings decided that Taylor was probably a homosexual.
“Do you know the woman’s name, Mr. Taylor?”
“No. I—she’s only lived there for a few months. But you shouldn’t have any tr
ouble locating her. That building’s like this one. Three flats. Besides, after the—the shooting, she came outside. She talked to one of the policemen.”
“Describe this woman.”
“Well, she’s in her thirties, probably. Good-looking, I guess you’d say—” It was a grudging admission. Yes, almost certainly Taylor was gay.
“Dark hair? Light hair?”
“Dark hair. Lots of dark hair. And she drives one of those new little sports cars.” He frowned. “It’s Japanese. Red. Two-passenger.” The frown remained.
“A Miata?”
Promptly, Taylor nodded. “Right. A Miata.”
“All right. Good.” As he said it, Hastings heard the sound of an engine coming up the hill, and voices slightly raised. The coroners had arrived. Or the lab crew. Or both.
“So what happened then?” Hastings asked. “After you took the garbage out, and you saw the victim walking across the street toward you, what happened? Did you speak? Nod?”
“No. We didn’t—that wouldn’t—I mean, we weren’t really acquainted, you understand. I’d just noticed him, that’s all.”
“What happened next?” Mindful of the personnel on the street below waiting for his orders, Hastings spoke briskly.
“Well, I—after I saw him, like I said, I went back inside the garage, for the clippings. I got them, one in each hand, and I was trying to get both bags out, between my car and the bikes that the goddam neighbors leave in the garage, when I heard the shots.”
“How many shots?”
“There were three. One, and then a slight pause, and then two more.”
“What’d you do when you heard the shots?”
“Well, I—” Taylor drained his glass, then waved a hand in a short, delicate arc. “Well, I—I just continued, just took the bags out. I—at the time, you see, I didn’t think they were shots. I thought it was a car backfiring. So when I finally got the trash bags around the bikes, I took them outside and stacked them beside the garbage can. And then, God, I saw him. It was—I can’t tell you—it was horrible. Just horrible. I’ll have nightmares. I—” He shuddered. “I know I’ll have nightmares.”
“What about the assailant? Did you see him?”
“Well, I—I guess so. I mean, there was someone walking away, down the hill.”
“Did you get a look at him, at his face?”
“No. His back was to me.”
“Was he running?”
“No. Walking.” As if he were baffled, Taylor shook his head. “Just walking, down to Hyde Street.”
“How was he dressed?”
Taylor frowned. “Just—you know—just a jacket, it looked like. A windbreaker. And slacks.” He eyed Hastings. “Pretty much like you’re dressed, I’d say.”
“Bareheaded?”
Another frown. “No. I think he had a hat. Or rather a cap. Maybe it had a visor, but I’m not sure. I mean, there’s not much light, you know. These streetlights, they’re not much, on this block. We’re supposed to be getting sodium-vapor streetlights. But some people think they’re too bright, too garish. Not me, though. I always wanted the new lights. And this proves I was right. I mean—” He drew a deep, ragged breath. “I mean, if there’d been more light, this might not’ve happened.”
“What about a gun?” As he spoke, Hastings rose to his feet. Down on the street, men were waiting. City employees, some on time and a half. “Did you see a gun?”
Decisively, Taylor shook his head. “No. No gun. God, if I’d seen a gun …” Shuddering, he gently stroked the side of his face with an unsteady hand, as if to comfort himself.
“What about the victim? You went to him, I understand. Did he say anything to you?”
“God, no. He—he was past that. All he was doing was twitching. His hands, and his feet too, they were—” As if the memory of the moment had numbed him, Taylor suddenly broke off. Hastings rose, thanked him, and quietly left the apartment. Before he reached the bottom of the stairs, he heard Taylor bolting the door.
12:10 AM
As Hastings walked toward the body, he saw Canelli and the pizza deliveryman standing together beside the deliveryman’s car. Hastings beckoned and waited for Canelli to join him.
“So how’d it go?” Hastings asked. “Is he cooperating?”
“Yeah.” Canelli nodded. “He’s an eager beaver. You know, a cop fan. He’s only nineteen. Nice kid.”
“Okay …”Hastings gestured to the body. “You get the techs started, your responsibility. Clear?”
Canelli lifted his chin, squared his shoulders. This, he knew, was a significant moment. “Yessir, that’s clear. Thank you.”
Hastings pointed to the building across the street. “I’m going over there, see what I can find out.”
“Yeah.” Canelli nodded. “Sheppard—the pizza guy—he said it looked like the victim came from there, one of those buildings across the street. But he couldn’t see which building, not from his angle.”
“I know which one it is.” Hastings looked at the victim and at the waiting technicians. “You get things going here. Tell Bruce Taylor and the pizza guy to stay available. You know, the usual.”
“Shall I do the whole thing?” Canelli asked. “Sign the body off? Everything?” He spoke hesitantly; his soft brown eyes were hopeful. It had been months since Hastings had let him do it all: supervise the technicians, consult with the medical examiner, decide when the body could be moved, conduct a search of the victim’s person, finally sign off the body for release to the coroner for autopsy. If the job wasn’t done properly—the whole job, down to the most minute detail—then the vital first link in the chain of evidence would be compromised. And, always, it was that link that the defense lawyers tested first.
“Yeah,” Hastings said. “Go ahead.” He gestured to the building across the street. “I’ll be over there. At eleven-forty-eight.”
12:20 AM
As she watched, she was aware that her perceptions had skewed. After two hours, frozen here at this window, helpless, the scene had become surreal, a manic animation of flashing lights, official vans and station wagons, police cars, the monotonous, monosyllabic sputter of the police radios, the eerily immobile figures simply standing there, waiting for the ritual to begin, inscrutably alert for their subliminal cues. All of it centering on the figure lying dead on the cold concrete sidewalk—the figure none of them looked at directly.
They were waiting. Watching. Expecting some secret signal, some significant presence, some nameless, faceless authority—the same presence that she awaited.
All of it focused on the inert shape illuminated by two floodlights that had just been set up, each one on its own tripod, shades of a Hollywood set.
Brice.
Dead.
Three hours ago, they’d made love: a complex, urgent, intense coupling, herself receiving him, her essence enveloping his essence. Lovers. Antagonists. Explorers of sensation’s limits, rivals for the prize.
And now he was an amorphous shape lying on the sidewalk. In the two hours of her vigil, the shape had become flat on the bottom, as if Brice’s clothing covered a gelatinous sack of thick, viscous liquid that resembled a …
One of the plainclothesmen—the tall, muscular one with a large golden badge pinned to his poplin jacket—was coming down the staircase of the building across the street. She saw him walk toward the other plainclothesman. The second detective was a large, lumpy man with a swarthy face, whose manner marked him a subordinate. Now the two detectives were talking together, the swarthy one nodding anxiously, the first detective gesticulating, obviously giving orders. The first detective was bareheaded. His hair was thick and dark, his manner calm, self-sufficient.
Now, suddenly, the tall detective turned, raised his head, looked directly toward her.
Then, yes, he began crossing the street. Standing now on the sidewalk directly beneath her window, he was looking up at her, his head tilted. The moment held; a confirmation passed between them. Then, a measured greetin
g; he nodded. Gravely she returned the greeting. Then she turned away from the window, walked out into the hallway, stood at the head of the stairs. Waited. When the buzzer sounded, she pressed the button in return. He came in, closed the door, carefully tested it. Then: “I’m Lieutenant Hastings. Homicide. I understand you can help us.” Looking up at her, he gestured behind him, toward the street. Toward Brice—the viscous, gelatinous husk of Brice.
“Yes. I—I guess I can. Come up.”
“Thanks.”
She stepped back from the upstairs landing, waited for him to join her. Then: “I’m Carla Pfiefer.”
“How do you do.” The detective looked expectantly through the living room doorway. “Can we—?”
“Yes. Certainly.” Conscious of an overwhelming weariness, a sudden heaviness of her legs, she led him into the living room. Choosing a chair that let her keep her back to the street, she gestured for him to sit facing her. As she waited for him to speak, she could hear the continuing mutter of the police radios.
With a small spiral-bound notebook opened expectantly on his knee, ballpoint pen poised, Hastings said, “I understand that you know the—the victim.”
“Yes, I knew him.” As she said it, she could see satisfaction registering on the detective’s face. Seen up close, he was an attractive man: a squared-off face, a generous mouth, thick brown hair graying at the temples, calm brown eyes. His voice, too, was calm: “What’s his name?”
“His name is—” Her voice caught. God, this was where it started. Here. Now. With her very next words: “His name was Hanchett. Brice Hanchett.”
“He was a friend of yours.” It was a statement, not a question. The neighbors, then, had been talking. Always, it was the neighbors.
Hire a Hangman Page 2
