A bewhiskered man wearing a filthy khaki jacket and equally dirty green-and-white-checkered golf pants made his way down the hall, coming toward him, placing each foot in front of the other equidistance, murmuring numbers to himself. After a moment, Simon realized the man was counting steps, making certain not to step on the black tiles and only stepping on the white ones. Even with twenty feet between them, the man stank—the perpetual stench of homelessness. Each city’s homeless had a particular odor. New York’s stank of the subway—engine grease and urine. In San Francisco, the pungent odor that surrounded the homeless had a different scent—urine and pine. Probably because so many hung out in Golden Gate Park, and despite what had happened to Cann, that wasn’t likely to change.
The man drew closer and Simon wanted to pull back, away from the increasing wave of stench, but the slats of the bench kept him trapped. When the man reached Simon, he stopped walking. Stopped counting. As if waiting for something. But what?
At first, Simon thought the guy had made him for a cop. That he was going to ask him a question. Maybe even share something about Cann. But then...
Oh, hell.
Simon lifted his foot from the white tile.
“Forty-two,” the man murmured as he stepped on the tile, then continued walking and counting, reaching fifty before opening the outer door and leaving the building.
After the man left, Simon stood to stretch his legs and scanned a large bulletin board on the wall. It was covered with flyers announcing everything from AA meetings to pleas for volunteers to an upcoming fundraising gala to benefit the mentally ill. The price of admission? Four hundred dollars a plate. It was being put on by the San Francisco Golf Club and Simon had seen the same flyer before—at work. The event would be attended by some of the city’s wealthiest philanthropists and politicians, and Commander Stevens had mentioned that with all the bad PR the police had been receiving lately, the mayor wanted a few officers to sit at his table. Free of charge, of course, but Simon still wondered how many volunteers Stevens had managed to line up. Most cops Simon knew, Simon included, would hate putting on a monkey suit and rubbing elbows with a bunch of socialites, even if it was for a good cause. But because Simon wanted Stevens and the mayor on his side come hiring time, because he wanted that captain position, he’d volunteered anyway.
Still, something about seeing the fundraising flyer here—in a homeless shelter, for God’s sake—bothered him. It didn’t take a genius to figure out why. Hell, the residents who stayed here could probably live a year on the cost of one night’s admission to the gala. Even worse, most of the money raised wouldn’t go directly to places like this shelter, but toward providing a bunch of rich people a gourmet meal and a night’s entertainment.
It just seemed wrong somehow. But, he reminded himself, it was a good cause and the homeless would benefit to some degree. It wouldn’t make a bit of difference in the grand scheme of things, of course, but—
The door next to the bulletin board opened and a pretty Asian woman who looked to be in her mid-twenties stepped out. Wearing a skirt and an ivory blazer, she looked as overdressed in these surroundings as Simon did in his slacks, button-down shirt and suit jacket. She smiled, nodded at Simon, then walked away.
The receptionist he’d spoken to earlier poked her head out of the office. “She’s ready to see you, Detective.” She beckoned him in and Simon put thoughts of the fundraising gala out of his mind. He walked into the receptionist’s office, which served as an intake room for those wishing to stay at the shelter. In the corner, a silver-haired man in a pale blue polo shirt watched as a younger man, dressed more casually in jeans and a graphic T-shirt, spoke to a stooped-over woman of indeterminate age and swimming in a tattered, faded sweater. The man in the polo shirt looked familiar, but Simon couldn’t place him before the receptionist drew him to another closed door, knocked, opened it for Simon and waved him inside.
Despite the shabby walls and chipped trim, the space seemed homey, softly lit. He’d noticed earlier, while sitting in the foyer, that the scarred vinyl floor appeared well kept, and no cobwebs or dust bunnies were in sight. Indoor plants covered most surfaces. To those without one, this place must feel like a home, even if it was just a temporary one. But to Cann, this would never be home again.
Seated at a cluttered desk sat a woman, probably early fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and glasses. Pictures of kids sat haphazardly with files on the desk and a diploma from Harvard hung on the wall. The shelter director. Probably some trust-fund baby do-gooder, he thought, then mentally winced.
It was exactly what he’d thought about Lana when he’d first met her.
Only the do-gooder part had been accurate.
After a moment, the woman looked up and gave him a tired smile.
“Ms. Scott?” he confirmed.
“Please call me Elaina. What can I do for you, Detective?” she asked.
“I’m Special Agent Simon Granger, but the title of Detective works, too. I’m with the Department of Justice, and I’m here about Mr. Louis Cann. I understand he stayed here this past month?” At her silent invitation, he sat in the chair next to her desk.
“Yes, but I already gave the local police a statement, and the officers interviewed the residents who were staying here at the time. They all had alibis at the time of the murder, as did my entire staff. Furthermore, none of us had seen Mr. Cann that day or had information about who might have attacked him. Given that, I’m curious why you’re here. And why DOJ is involved in the murder of a homeless man.”
“I’m afraid I can’t talk details, but rest assured I’m trying to find the person or persons responsible. As you indicated, the residents that happened to be here for questioning have been cleared. There’s no evidence that any of them had a vendetta against Louis Cann. But a lot of people come in and out of this shelter. I’m wondering how often Cann stayed here in the past year. If he had run-ins with past residents. A grudge can last quite a long time. Maybe you’d be willing to give me your roster from the past few months along with the registration documents of those occupants? It’ll increase the scope of our investigation. Give us more to look into.”
Scott picked up a pen and tapped it against the surface of her desk. “You mean it’ll give you more water to cast your net into. Sounds like a fishing expedition, Detective.”
That may be, Simon thought, but at least he was willing to fish. The news was plastered with accusations that the police didn’t care about the homeless or, more specifically, the mentally ill, yet here he was, doing his best to find Cann’s killer.
But he was also inferring that another homeless person might be the murderer, he realized. Suspecting she might take offense to that—as unwarranted as that offense might be—he said, “Look, the roster would help. But I’m not limiting my investigation to past residents. I also plan to talk to park employees and past employees of this shelter who might have associated with Cann.”
Jesus, he thought. That probably sounded even worse to her. Like he was accusing her previous coworkers of murder. But so what? Investigative work was about following every lead, regardless of whose feelings might get hurt in the process. Basic civility was one thing, but he couldn’t worry that his questions would be taken the wrong way. That kind of political tiptoeing would be more important when he was back in management, but right now, he had to keep his mind focused on what was best for the investigation. “Listen,” he began, but Scott shook her head.
“I’m sorry, but unless you have a subpoena, I’m afraid I can’t give you a roster or documentation on the shelter’s residents. Unless the resident signs a release, those records are confidential. And as I’m sure you can guess, no one signs a release.”
Right, Simon thought, then tried again. “I apologize if my requests seem clumsy, but I’m trying to find a killer and that means potentially keeping your past and future residents out of harm’s way. Doesn’t that count for something?”
“Of course it does, but—”
/>
“Besides,” Simon continued, “we both know that under the law, confidentiality is waived in certain circumstances.”
“Yes, I do know that. But this isn’t a situation where a client is threatening suicide, has threatened to harm a third party or where child abuse has been disclosed. Now, I’m sorry, but I really can’t see how I can be of more help. And before you go hunting down that subpoena, I will say any information I’d have on Mr. Cann would be minimal. Dare I say even useless to you? But do what you feel you need to. Most of the residents the police talked to have already moved on, but I believe there are one or two left who knew Mr. Cann. You’re obviously free to inquire whether any of them is willing to talk with you.”
Simon’s mind automatically rebelled at that suggestion. “Given the statements I’ve already reviewed, and unless they’ve suddenly stopped drinking, taking drugs or hallucinating, the chances of me getting anything useful from them isn’t exactly high, now is it?”
Elaina Scott’s brow furrowed but she said nothing.
“I don’t mean to be insulting, but I’m trying to call things the way I see them. You know as well as I do that your...residents...often don’t make the most reliable of witnesses. Most of them are...” He hesitated, trying to be polite, but Scott tsked anyway.
“Crazy? Pathetic?” she guessed.
Simon shrugged. “Mentally challenged,” he said.
“That’s correct. But mental challenges don’t make them pariahs or murderers, Detective.”
“But it does make them extremely inaccurate reporters,” Simon said. He stood. “And the truth is, I can’t solve Mr. Cann’s murder without more than I have now. If I’m fishing in the dark, it’s because I have to. In a murder investigation, we often rely on people who were close, either emotionally or physically, to the victim, and that includes people the murder victims lived with.”
“Does it also include cops who should have been protecting the murder victim rather than killing him? Or are they subject to some kind of immunity?”
Her loaded comment surprised him, but he was careful not to let it show on his face. He simply stared at the woman and she eventually smiled, but it was a smile hardened by suspicion and experience.
“I work on the streets, Detective. I hear plenty. Mr. Cann’s murder is still a topic of conversation around here. I’ve heard the rumors that a cop has been implicated. Yet here you are, focusing your attention on residents of this shelter. On people who’ve worked here.”
“Because I’m looking to find the truth. No matter what that truth is. You can bet I take accusations of a cop’s involvement in Louis Cann’s murder very seriously. And yes, despite what I said about inaccurate reporters, I’d like to speak to your current residents about Mr. Cann if they’re willing to speak with me, whether they were interviewed by SFPD before or not. Before I do that, however, do you know anything that can help me?”
She appeared startled by the way he’d turned the tables on her. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. Something. Anything that will give me more insight into who Mr. Cann was. Whom he associated with.”
“He was a loner, Detective. He kept to himself. That’s how he preferred it.”
“Right.” Simon swiped his hands over his face, then sighed. “Too bad. It’s a little difficult to find out who murdered a man who apparently never associated with anyone else.” Simon remembered Cann’s Semper Fi tattoo and again wondered what had brought the man to the point where he’d been living on the streets. “Funny how Mr. Cann managed to spend four years in the military surrounded by people only to get out and, by everyone’s account, never talk to another living soul again.”
“That’s not uncommon for a man who served in battle, Detective.”
“What do you mean? How did a former marine come to be in a homeless shelter, Ms. Scott?”
She visibly hesitated. But after assessing Simon for a minute, she seemed to come to a decision. She sat forward. “I’m not a medical doctor. I’m afraid you just missed her. She left my office before you came in. But my best guess? You’ve heard of post-traumatic stress disorder?” When he tipped his head, she continued. “We have many former military personnel come through here, Detective. The local clinics can’t recruit volunteers to provide counseling fast enough. PTSD is a severe illness and is cropping up more and more among our returning military. It affects some of these young men and women so severely they can no longer function in society. I suspect if you go through Mr. Cann’s military records, you’ll find a diagnosis of PTSD.”
“I’ve asked for those records, but getting that kind of thing isn’t easy, especially when that person is already dead. Next of kin tends to fight us on exposing skeletons they’d rather keep buried. Too bad Cann’s family didn’t do more to help him while he was alive.”
Scott just smiled sadly and shook her head. “It’s not that simple, Detective. I wish it were. Truth is, many homeless people have loving families who’ve tried to make a difference and simply can’t.”
Maybe, Simon thought. He’d certainly heard that line before. But he couldn’t help thinking that if someone he cared about suddenly became homeless, he would make damn sure he didn’t stay that way. “The doctor who was here before me. She’s a psychiatrist?”
Scott shook her head. “A family practitioner that minored in psychology. But she just started pro bono volunteer work at a mental health crisis clinic. She stopped by to introduce herself to me and put up a flyer.”
“Right. Another flyer,” Simon murmured. “Any chance Cann saw her? Or any other counselor that you know of?”
“No. Like I said, this is the first time I’ve seen her. And Mr. Cann never mentioned seeing a counselor or dropping in at a clinic.” Scott sighed. “The truth is, I know almost next to nothing about Mr. Cann, Detective, and he didn’t keep me appraised of his comings and goings. We provide food and shelter here when we can. In order to meet our requirements, our residents have to provide basic information and follow some rules designed to keep everyone safe. Other than that...” Scott shrugged.
Right. Other than that, he had exactly what he’d had before—a big fat zero. “Is there anything else you can tell me about Cann?”
“Just that he didn’t deserve to die.”
“I agree with you.” When she just continued to look at him, he asked, “You don’t believe me?”
“I believe you’re a dedicated cop. You want to do your job and do it well. But you have obvious biases against the mentally ill. I sensed you withdraw even as I used the word PTSD. But it doesn’t matter. I want the person who killed Mr. Cann found as much as you do. Probably even more so. I promise that if anyone does turn up with new information, we will contact you right away. Now, are you ready to see if any of our current residents will talk with you?”
He sighed.
Strike one.
More and more, he thought, this was a ball game he hated playing. But for now, at least, he was playing.
“Yes, Ms. Scott. I’d appreciate your assistance with that.”
* * *
THE NEXT DAY, BACK AT SIG headquarters, Simon glowered at the man in front of him.
Liam “Mac” McKenzie, SIG’s lead detective, stared back without flinching. “I see you’re not thrilled with the idea, but my hands are tied. Elaina Scott was crystal clear in her opinion that you shouldn’t be handling the Cann murder. She said your obvious dislike for the homeless, and in particular, the ‘mentally challenged,’ was quite apparent.”
Damn her, Simon thought. When he’d interviewed the few Welcome Home residents who’d been willing to talk to him yesterday, the interactions had gone smoothly. They hadn’t provided anything useful, but he’d been respectful and professional, just as he always tried to be. Scott must have still been pissed by the conversation they’d had in her office. Or maybe she just hadn’t believed him when he’d said he took accusations of a cop’s involvement in Cann’s murder seriously. “Come on, Mac. Since when does a bullshit
complaint like this warrant pulling me off of a case?”
“I never said you were off the case. I said I want you to get some help. With the case and...off of it. DeMarco will assist. You’ve both been handling some tough cases lately with no time off to speak of. Consider the partnership a chance for a well-earned break.”
“And while DeMarco’s assisting, my well-earned break is going to consist of spilling my guts to some stranger?”
Mac sighed. “It’s called grief counseling. You need it.”
“That’s your opinion.”
“As well as Commander Stevens’s. Why do you think it was so obvious to Ms. Scott that you’re uncomfortable with mental health issues? Anyone who has them and anyone who talks about them?”
“Not everything is about Lana, damn it.”
“In this particular case, it is. It’s about Lana. It’s about you. Are you really surprised? We’ve been at you to get some help. There’s a reason we’re all worried about you.”
“Like?”
“Like it’s been over six months, yet you still leave the room if someone even mentions Lana’s name.”
Of course he did, Simon thought. Despite managing to visit her grave site the other day, hearing Lana’s name immediately caused a flood of memories to swirl through his mind. The last time they’d made love. The last time they’d laughed together. And the last time they’d argued just before she’d died. Yeah, they had been broken up before she’d been killed, but it wasn’t what he’d wanted. He’d still cared. Lana had still mattered. His insides felt like they were being squeezed in a vise, but he carefully kept his expression clear and his voice neutral.
“What’s there to talk about, Mac? Lana and I dated for a while, and dealing with her death’s been tough.” He shrugged. “Life goes on.”
“Who do you think you’re talking to, man? Lana didn’t just die. She was murdered. Violently. Yet you can’t seem to acknowledge that, can you?”
He glanced away, shoving the ache rising from his chest back down where it belonged, to the deep, dark place behind his ribs. He narrowed his gaze on the paper-filled trash can two feet in front of him. “Dead’s dead. What the hell difference does it make how she died? Elaina Scott’s accusations aside, tell me one thing I’ve messed up on the job. If you can’t, then I don’t need to see a damn shrink.”
Shades of Passion Page 2
