Newhouse typed in the employee’s information. “Yep, got him here. Sergeant Mark Wallace.” She turned the screen to show the photo displayed on the screen. “This look like the guy you’re interested in?”
The man’s face was unmistakable—he was a bit thinner now, but the pinched expression and tight jaw gave him a presence that could only be described as “cruel.”
“That’s the one,” Paula said.
Newhouse swung the screen around. “Now quid pro quo, why you looking at him?”
“He’s an associate of a man connected to a couple of homicides,” John said.
“Associate of—connected to? Pretty thin to go around poking at another law enforcement officer.”
“He picked up our suspect from prison and drove him to a meth house connected with the Aryan Brotherhood,” John said.
“Go on.”
“We think he’s the sheriff’s deputy we caught on tape with Larry Burger a few hours before Burger was found beaten to death.”
“Anything else?”
“That’s all. I want to know if there is any connection between Wallace and our suspect. Something to explain why a sheriff’s sergeant would be so willing to pal around with a freshly released prison inmate.” John decided to keep Wallace’s possible role in the McDaniel shooting to himself at this point. An allegation like that would draw in the detectives or internal affairs and spook Wallace altogether.
“Who’s your suspect?”
John paused a moment. “Charles Sherman.”
Newhouse pushed back from her desk. “That Sherman? The one who’s been all over the news?”
John nodded.
“I need to turn this over to internal affairs.”
“Connie, I’m asking you to hold off for a bit. Let us put a case together.”
“What do you need?”
“Give us two days to wrap this up, and I’ll make sure you know when we have anything solid on Wallace.”
Newhouse shook her head. She scrolled into Wallace’s information. “Huh.”
“What?”
“When did Sherman go down for that task force bullshit?”
“About three years ago.”
“Wallace transferred to Sac County three years ago. His prior work history includes sergeant in the Solano County Sheriff’s Department. Also SSPNET task force supervisor.”
“Son of a bitch,” Paula said.
“He must have gotten out of Dodge before the task force blew up,” John added.
“That’s our connection,” Paula said. She was excited now. Her foot started to bounce.
THIRTY-TWO
The moment they returned to the detective bureau, John grabbed the envelope from his desk, the one they’d picked up with Sherman’s prison records. With the winds changing after Sherman’s release, prison records seemed irrelevant, so he tossed them back in a drawer. He tore the envelope open and scanned through the prison movement records. While Sherman was continuously housed at the prison for the better part of a year, and at Folsom Prison a year before that, the detailed movement history recorded every cell change, assignment to the PSU, and court appearance.
“Paula, call the court clerk in department 140 and see if they can provide a list of all court dates for Sherman in the last year. He’s got at least a dozen in the prison records.”
Paula dialed the main superior court information line.
John looked through the prison records and made note of the date of each court pickup. Every single transport was released to the custody of the Sacramento County Sheriff’s Department. The last two dates on the list stood out. John knew these dates. The same dates as the Larry Burger and Bobby Wing killings.
“Son of a bitch,” John said while he leaned back in his chair. He flipped to a page where the prison staff had attached visiting and correspondence approvals on file. The visiting record was almost empty. Three visits by his attorney, and one other visit, over a year ago: Mark Wallace.
Wallace wasn’t among those listed for approved correspondence. None of his former SSPNET colleagues were there either. Crime partners were usually prohibited from writing one another while inside. That didn’t explain how Sherman’s letter ended up with McDaniel.
None of the five names listed on the approved correspondence looked familiar at all. John ran his finger down the list of outgoing mail sent by Sherman, and one address kept reappearing, every two weeks like clockwork. And usually, within four days, a letter from that address would come in addressed to Sherman.
Paula hung up. “We got us a situation. According to the court, there is no record of any appearance by Charles Sherman in department 140. You sure they got that right?”
John flipped the pages over and tapped on the printout. “Yeah, it says 140. Hang on.” John flipped through the bundle of papers. “Here is a minute order from the superior court, county of Sacramento, issued from department 140, ordering Sherman to appear for court proceedings.”
“He never appeared in any department 140 proceeding. It’s fake.”
“Sherman went out for nonexistent court dates the same days Burger and Wing were killed.”
“We got him! His DNA was at the crime scenes, and now his alibi is shot to shit!”
Heads turned in the detective bureau.
“Easy now. The court dates were faked, but we need more to give DA Clarke a reason to back off.”
Paula tossed a pencil across the bureau. “Dammit. No alibi and his DNA at the crime scene; what more could she want? The DA’s never shied away from a case with less than that.”
John’s phone rang.
“Penley.”
He listened and signed off with a curt, “No, sit tight and let me know if he moves.”
“I asked a patrol unit to cruise past Wallace’s place every fifteen minutes, and they just spotted him leaving. He was dressed for work—in a sheriff’s uniform.”
“Sherman?” she asked.
“Wallace is alone. I asked the unit to watch the place and call us if Sherman makes a move.”
Paula’s cell sounded. She recognized the number on the screen. “Dammit. It’s Mrs. Conner, my neighbor.” She jammed her finger on the okay button and started in. “Mrs. Conner, I don’t have time for this right now.”
The blush of anger drained from her face. She disconnected the call without responding.
“What’s she need?”
“The fire department. My house. She called to tell me my house was on fire.”
THIRTY-THREE
Wisps of acrid steam wafted from the front door. Two fire trucks clogged the street, and while the flames had died out, the crews poured water on hot spots that smoldered inside. Water coursed out of Paula’s front door, down the steps, and trailed to the street, leaving ash and charred bits behind.
Paula stood as close as the fire crews permitted on the sidewalk, helpless as strangers tromped in and out of her home. John knew how she felt, the place she dumped all her overtime checks into had been violated; all the time she’d spent restoring and refinishing was wasted. When a smoldering sofa landed on the front lawn with an unceremonious thump, she looked like she wanted to throw up.
John gave her some space while he talked with the fire captain, who manned the first truck on the scene. John knew his partner had a deep, personal connection to this place. It was an expression and an extension of herself. The damage had been done to more than plaster, wood, and paint; it was a rip in her soul.
He joined Paula on the sidewalk a few minutes later and stepped through a river of wastewater pumping from her home.
“Your neighbor called nine-one-one when she saw smoke coming under the front door.”
Paula remained silent.
“By the time the fire department got here, the flames were starting to build, and the smoke alarms were going off. The fire damage was limited to the living room.”
“They say what started it?”
“Not yet; they have a fire marshal in there now. It beg
an on the sofa,” John said.
“You know this was Sherman, right?”
“Maybe he thought you were home.”
“He knew—somehow he knew how important this place was to me. Sherman did this because he knew how much it would hurt.”
A man in a fire department uniform came outside and looked at the smoldering remains of the sofa in the yard. He pulled up a cushion and tossed it aside. The bottom fabric was black, charred, and fell out in clumps. He pulled off his gloves and took a small digital camera from his turnout coat, snapping a series of photos.
The fire marshal said something to a group of firemen nearby, and one of them paused rolling up a three-inch fire hose and pointed at Paula.
The fire marshal came over to them. “I understand you’re the property owners.”
“I am,” Paula said.
“As a fire marshal, it’s my responsibility to determine the cause and origin of a fire like you’ve had here.”
“When can I get inside?” Paula asked.
“We’ll get to that in a moment. Were you on the premises when the fire started?”
“No.”
“Do you smoke?”
“No. Why?”
“There are cigarette burns on the sofa cushions.”
“I don’t smoke, and there were no burn marks on the sofa when I left this morning.”
“What time was that?”
“Six forty-five.”
“Who has keys to the place, other than yourself?”
“Why?”
“The doors were locked when we arrived. A fire like that can smolder for hours before it catches hold. You certain that you, or someone you know, didn’t leave a cigarette unattended?”
“I’m sure. There was no one here when I locked up.”
“You have insurance coverage for the place?”
“Of course.”
“I’ve got to ask, are you behind on mortgage payments or anything?”
“You think I torched my own place?”
John held his arm out in front of Paula, in case she grabbed the fire marshal by the jacket collar. He didn’t need to though, because she was preoccupied with the damage to her home.
“We think we know who started it,” John said.
“Yeah?” the fire marshal questioned.
John showed his ID. “A murder suspect has threatened Detective Newberry. In fact, he said she was gonna ‘burn.’ His words.”
“No shit?” the fire marshal said.
“No shit,” John answered.
“Let me show you something.” He took them to the sofa, and the smell of hot, fetid water and burnt fabric was worse the closer they got to the house.
The fire marshal kicked the cushion with the toe of his boot. “Did the cushion have this rip on the bottom?”
“No. The sofa was reupholstered less than six months ago.”
“The cushion was sliced open, and the stuffing pulled out. Everything points to a cigarette or two left burning in a pile of the stuffing.”
“Like a slow-burning fuse?” John asked.
“Exactly,” the fire marshal said.
“Why not burn the place like in the movies? Dump a gallon of gasoline down the hallway and toss a match?” Paula said.
“This is much more controlled and gives someone time to get out before it goes up. It will light, given time and fuel. We caught this one early. These old homes go up quick once the fire gets established.”
“Aren’t sofas, fabrics, and stuffing materials supposed to be fireproof?” John asked.
“Fire resistant. But when that pile of paper on the sofa ignited—boom.”
“Paper? What paper?” Paula said.
The marshal shrugged. “Looked like files, paper work, office stuff.”
“I didn’t have any files in the living room.”
“Don’t know what to tell you.”
“Let me take a look,” she said.
The fire marshal looked over his shoulder. The mop-up was done inside, so he led the detectives to the doorway, now shattered from being forced open by the first responders. The smoke smell was overpowering and came with a humid stench of burnt woodwork and lacquer.
A scorched outline on the wooden floor marked where the sofa was before it burnt. Next to the blackened wood wainscoting, a nest of charred papers, held together by memory more than structure, lay on the floor.
Paula touched a page, and it crumbled under her finger. Some of the pages weren’t completely consumed. Words, fragments of sentences and bold headings remained behind. She bent to get a closer look at the remains.
“These are the internal affairs files on the SSPNET case,” she said.
“What are they doing here? Those were on your desk back at the office. You didn’t take them out, did you?”
“Hell no. I know better than that. These damn things are confidential.”
“Who could have gotten them here without anyone noticing?” John said.
“Sherman has someone on the inside.”
Nothing like a collection of emergency vehicles parked along a residential street to bring out the curious and morbid, some getting a head start on the neighborhood gossip and others trying to leverage something for themselves. Among the crowd were ambulance chasers of the new economy: contractors with business cards.
Paula spotted her neighbor Mrs. Conner in the throng of bystanders. Paula went back outside and joined her in watching the firemen dump another load of smoldering material on the lawn.
“I’m sorry I was short with you on the phone,” Paula said.
“Not to worry, dear. I thought you should know.”
“Thanks for calling the fire department. It sounds like if they hadn’t arrived when they did, it would have been much worse.”
Mrs. Conner scrunched up her mouth, lips pulled tight over ill-fitting dentures. “Did they find him?”
“Who?”
“It’s none of my business. I should leave you alone; you have enough to worry about.”
Paula placed her hand on the woman’s arm, not restraining her, but with a touch that urged her to keep talking.
“Your man friend,” she responded in a hushed tone, one that implied disapproval of Paula’s lifestyle.
“Who are you talking about? Him?” Paula pointed at John, who was still talking with the fire marshal.
“No, it wasn’t him. I haven’t seen this particular caller before, but he must be a special friend to have his own key to your front door.”
Paula got a chill up her spine. “You saw someone with a key?”
Mrs. Conner nodded.
“This man you saw, have you seen him before?” Paula asked.
Mrs. Conner looked hurt. “Paula, I don’t judge you on who you choose to be with, nor can I keep track of your social life.”
In truth, the widow probably could recite all the dates and times that Paula had brought someone home. Paula saw her parked in a rocker in the front room of her home watching the goings-on around the neighborhood all day long.
“This is important, Mrs. Conner. I didn’t expect any company today. What can you tell me about this man?”
The description fit Charles Sherman, right down to the bruises still lingering on his neck.
THIRTY-FOUR
“It was Sherman. He was in my house,” Paula said. This was a new level of violation. It was personal and intimate, and John knew the pain this intrusion would inflict.
“And he locked up when he left. How thoughtful. That’d be the last thing on my mind if I were setting out to torch a place,” John said.
“He wanted to burn my place, just like the note we found in his prison cell said.”
“I thought he meant burn you, like make the DA think you’re a bad witness,” John added.
“He’s doing a good job at that too. Lucky for me, I have a nosey neighbor. Still, the water and smoke damage are going to kick my ass.”
They walked through her home after the fire. All the work
and sweat she poured into the place—stolen.
John squatted over the burned pile of internal affairs files. “Why do this? What was the point? The DA wasn’t going to go for a retrial, so what is this all about?”
“It could be a message. ‘You burn me—I burn you.’”
John’s cell phone rang and he took the call, listening and responding, “I’ll be right there.”
“What’s up?” Paula asked. She began sorting things beyond salvage into a pile.
“Dr. Kelly wants to go over something on Burger. I can run over; you have your hands full here.”
“I’m coming with you. This can wait. Smoke-damaged drapes are the least of my worries right now.”
Paula closed the front door and went to lock it until she saw the splintered doorframe from the fire department’s entry. She closed the door as best as she could and saw Mrs. Conner peering through the blinds next door. Better than any dead bolt on the market.
They rode to the coroner’s office and found Dr. Kelly in the homicide suite, an enclosed room set aside for the autopsies of those who’d died at the hands of another. Larry Burger was partially covered by a single sheet, leaving his head, neck, and chest exposed.
Dr. Kelly was jotting notes while an assistant was suturing Burger’s chest closed.
“Any surprises for us, Doc?” John said.
Dr. Kelly sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?”
“That’d be us. House fire. I’m surprised you can pick up anything working around this all day.”
“You get used to certain odors: decomp, formalin, stomach contents. But you reek. Meth lab?”
“My house,” Paula said.
Dr. Kelly stopped writing and looked up. “Oh, damn, Paula. I’m sorry. What happened?”
“An asshole happened.” She shook her head, changing channels. “How about Burger here?”
“It is what it looks like. Blunt-force trauma. The X-rays show multiple cranial depression fractures. Multiple brain hemorrhages.”
“So the plastic bag down his throat wasn’t what killed him?” Paula said.
“The head trauma was fatal, but the petechia in his eyes indicate a lack of oxygen too. The hemorrhage would have killed him eventually, but asphyxiation is the COD. His stomach contained a handful of the pills from the bag that hadn’t completely dissolved.”
Bury the Past Page 14
